Finding The Words

I’ve been having trouble finding the words. Where do I normally find them? On the street, in my dreams, on the street of dreams. From the mouths of strangers. Whispers from those I love. Written in sand on the beach, the waves coming in, a hungry seagull watches me eating the leg of a chicken. Are seagulls carnivorous ?

Dr. Google advises me “Seagulls eat fish, rodents, mollusks, and insects. Most seagulls are obligate carnivores, sometimes supplementing their diets with bits of plant matter.” So not much different than us. With the exception of rodents and insects, but my Western bias is showing. And what do you do when your bias is showing? Consult a fashion advisor.

They prefer to cut on the bias; a “Bias cut means to 'be cut on the grain'. Rather than following the straight line of the weave, the bias cut places the pattern at a 45° angle on the woven fabric. At this angle, the 'warp' and 'weft' threads give the fabric more of an elastic 'stretch.” So if your bias is showing, perhaps a pronoun check is called for. The warp and weft of Wyatt Earp. They, thy and thighs- which of these three is preferred by the hungry seagull?

Neil Sedaka wrote a song called The Hungry Years. I have been listening to Susannah McCorkle sing this song lately. Have I told you lately that I love you? Have I told all the girls I loved before that I love you? My love for you is immense, like the ocean, is deep and dark and mysterious. Sailors have been lost when searching for that love, the longing, the latitude, the attitude is everything, especially at this altitude, where the air is thin, and the water is heavy, and tears are not cheap. No, tears come with a price. Always with a price in this transactional world. Inflation in the price of love could drive us into a depression, which is nothing more than a hole. We have heard of a hole in the ground, but who has heard of a hole in the ocean? Would the water just rush in? Where fools fear angels treading water? And if this is true in the ocean, why is the land any different? Does dirt rush in to fill a hole in the ground? Does blood rush in to fill a hole in our hearts? Do brains rush in to fill a hole in our head? What is the precise formula for the relationship between holes in the ground and wolves in our hearts?

I meant to type holes there, as in holes in our hearts, but isn’t wolves in our hearts a better image? Isn’t a wolf more descriptive of the hunger, the never ending hunger, the absolute impossibility of being satisfied? Are we doomed to desire? And if desire is our doom, is it really so bad?

This trouble I have had in finding the words is not my problem exclusively. It could be said to be universal. I see that there are a few weather words hiding in the puzzle, words that weathered the storms we are living in. Words like Smoke. Worlds like Fire. Worth like Heavy Water. Worse than Dust.

I was cleaning the house, and by house I mean apartment, but to be more accurate perhaps I should amend that to cleaning our home. Anyway, I did not find any words, but I did notice sand and dirt on the living room floor, water from melting ice in the freezer, now puddling up on the kitchen floor. I grab a towel and see a buildup of dirt under the moulding. Not mould, but plain old “schmatte”, which when combined with water becomes muck. And that was just before bed. The dust that I was referring to was earlier in the day. The bright light from the last gasp of summer revealed dust on the bourbon bottles.

What has my world come to that I now have to contend with dust on my bottles of my bourbon? Port or liqueur would have been understandable, but bourbon? Never in my life has there been dust on the bourbon.

But since the diagnosis, and long after the treatment, I have been dry and sober. Also more thoughtful, more understanding, more scared and scarred and desperate to remain positive, so positive that I failed to see the dust as it accumulated on the bourbon. The bourbon sadly forgotten, sadly neglected, sadly safe from my thirst or depression, or my endless need to fill a hole. And once again, we are back to holes.

Is this where we will find the words? In holes? In the depressions, the cleft, the rift, the warp and weft? I search my phone for answers. In my notes I find this poem:

Her pink mink merkin flashed me

As she rode by on her high horse.

Her misuse of pronouns was an embarrassment.

Of course she rode a high horse.

She/her she/ her - whatever!

She should have left a damned note.

My thoughts are frozen…..

“My mother the car”

Thawed memories,

The film strips,

An old mimeograph,

Sal Mineo in a rubber suit.

Is my search for words an “old man” project?

“Old-people projects keep old people old. You’re no longer old when you’re dead.” 

John McPhee

Well, that’s a bit bleak. Unless we read old as alive.

Alive people keep alive people alive. You’re no longer alive when you’re dead.

Dennis Mills

I guess I did find my word. Alive.

Not bad considering the alternative.