Words, only words

I’ve been thinking about,

words,

a lot,

lately.

Words,

are important to me,

vital,

in fact,

at times,

my buoy,

a life line,

usually,

when,

my actions,

my motives,

fail,

my words,

come through.

I know, I know,

talk is cheap,

and,

a picture is worth a thousand words,

I always thought that a gross under-estimation- pictures can be War and Peace size novels

I’ve thought in my,

ego inflated youth,

that I had a way,

with words,

that I could talk my way,

into,

and,

out of,

lots.

I’m not the best talker,

the smoothest talker,

but,

I think,

I can be engaging,

adept at the art of conversation,

and,

I love words.

I speak two languages,

no merit there,

I was born into,

a bilingual,

family,

home,

clan.

Some people work,

hard,

to learn,

another tongue,

I didn’t,

they were both around,

always.

I like to think,

I speak them both,

well,

with fluency,

and,

ease,

and,

a love for their,

history and permutations,

and,

vernaculars.

I love them both,

they are both,

in my blood,

in my soul.

I am neither,

French speaking,

nor,

English speaking,

but,

both,

a hybrid,

a Metis,

as my friend the anarchist would say,

I mean no disrespect the ‘real’ Metis, it is meant more as an explanation of someone, who, like me- is both and neither:-)

Sadly,

my written French,

is mechanically and grammatically,

challenged,

my grandmaman would be disappointed

my efforts at written English,

have been greater.

I love the written word,

books,

songs,

jingles, even,

a good, clever turn of phrase,

clear concision,

they impress,

delight,

me,

feed my thoughts,

lighten my heart.

I get excited,

about a perfect lyric.

I mean,

one,

that appears simple,

with a straightforward,

meaning,

and,

yet,

when you listen,

again,

sneaks up on you,

with layers of meaning,

a Cohen lyric,

or a Lightfoot refrain,

cadenced,

perfection,

that matches the music,

the two,

married,

the lovely,

music,

you want to sing along,

you must,

you are compelled to,

as if it was about you,

as if someone had reached,

into your guts,

your head,

your heart,

and,

sometimes even your loins.

That’s what words do,

to me,

are to me,

mean to me.

Words are never,

only words,

to me.

Later girls,

the rambling, babbling butch

BB

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by

Bookish Butch

I am a bookish butch in my very early fifties. I live in Montréal and always have. I used to run a small used bookstore. Reading keeps me sane. My latest jiggie is photography, book project in the works, living the dream

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