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Here I go again, I’m saying to myself. Here I go again, writing a piece that will be filled with endless clichés, with stupendous claims, and with that continuously present feeling that you have not really written anything at all.
But then, as I’ve done every time I’ve thought that, I catch myself. I catch the tail of that mysterious creature, that black-eyed monster that sits whispering heartless nothings in my ear. And I shut it in a cardboard box. I’d put it in something stronger, but I have nothing else. For now.
So it escapes, and runs into my mind again, jumping up and down like those mythical elves in my mind, those who translate in and out, in and out, the words that make some sense between people but which generally make less sense after going in and out of people.
I want to try, you know, to build a box out of words. I think words can be stronger, if they are held together with the glue of meaning, the substance of delirious incantations.
Here in France, though I don’t know all the words yet, I can often smell the sense of meaning. The aromas float around, swirling through and about me, a hint of Portuguese, a moment of Spanish, an overheard conversation in Polish, even a stolen breath of Mandarin. But, of course, the overwhelming totality of the word-glue-sea is French, and it is a sea into which I am trying to enter. Swimming is hard, particularly when the glue-aromas are so strong. Floating is easy, of course, but to swim into the depths, to navigate the currents, and perhaps even to arrive on distant shores, I will need much practise.
But, this is truly the perfect environment, the ultimate enclosure, the superior blend, right? If I am going to swim – and I will continue to believe that I will, if I can keep that cardboard box intact – then I must logically begin with the doggy paddle, with the ‘keep-me-floating-for-days’ step.
So excuse me. I must practise.
