Words.

A friend of mine suggested I blog about words. Wow. It’s really hard. It is a much more difficult task than one would think. How do I write about my truest love? As smarmy and French as it sounds, words are my raison d’être; writing them on paper is my passion; morphemes are my motivation to continue breathing. The method in which language evolves, the cultural implications, the global impact of hybridism, are all incredibly fascinating to me. Metalinguistics, semantics, syntax, phonetics, phonology--- I’m getting a bit aroused. I’ll be the first to admit that I am a word wonk, through and through. "And then, just to show them, I'll sail to Ka-Troo And Bring Back an It-Kutch a Preep and a Proo A Nerkle a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!" Theodore Geisel makes me hot.

I study idiolects, even my own. Those phrases and words frequent in speech, punctuating normal conversations, are curious. They are exceedingly expressive, but we have to listen closely--- to the manner in which the speaker stresses this word or that one, to the pauses between certain sentences, to the speaker’s choice to enunciate syllables or slur through them--- everyone creates jargon within vernacular within dialect within language. The nuances of verbalism shine like neon; a high-spirited conversation is a photograph of city light trails with my ears set at a slow shutter speed to catch all fractions. Words… miraculous. Contrarily, physical expression is not instinctive to me; I’ve known this since I was a child. While others may touch a forearm during conversation, place a palm on a shoulder when walking through a doorway, slap a knee during raucous laughter, I sit stunned in instantaneous analysis:

‘Why did that person touch me? Does she do that with everyone?’
‘Is he being polite or is he being weird?’
‘Is this touching thing what normal people do? Am I socially inept or is she particularly friendly?’
‘Is this necessary? Can’t he just make his face move and use his words to exhibit emotion?’

It’s not as if I cringe or flinch or run away screaming. I don’t have aphephobia, the origin stemming from the Greek roots meaning “touch” and “ACK!” And, it’s not as if I don’t like it; I enjoy when my friends are affectionate. It is just not my chosen form of expression. I like words. It’s similar to learning methods: some learn best by reading and then applying, others by listening, others by doing. None of them is wrong or inferior, just different. While a friend may reach for my hand to share an intimate moment, I’m more inclined to say something such as, “I like you more than toast,” or, “This hour right here, one of my favorites of all of my hours,” or, with rarity, “I love you, my friend,” which is said with pureness and without pretense.

Whenever someone has a passion for something, as I do for words, it has the capability to cause conflict with other aspects of life. Relationships with humans come to mind. Most have referred to my writing as “my mistress,” which I do not like. It sounds tawdry. It’s disrespectful. Words are not gimcrackery. Writing is not a cheap whore gussied up with fallal and gewgaw, all for me to have it off. I consider words… the writing of words… words… my inamorata. And, the reason I choose the feminine rather than masculine version, inamorato, is because I have always thought words inherently female and numbers intrinsically male. Obviously, it is devoid of truth and has a stereotype stank to it, but that’s how I have approached my studies, whether literature or trigonometry. Whatever. We all have oddities. In relationships with humans, I have some trust issues. Shocking, I know. Somehow, always, they disappoint. Though we tell ourselves not to have expectations of others, we somehow, always, do. Now definitely, the rewards of interaction are worth the efforts, despite the times we are saddened and disenchanted. There is fluidity to relationships--- they are tensile and pliable, similar to the gentle chaotic flow of wax blobs in lava lamps. And, I do enjoy relationships. I like romance; I like friendship; I’m even glad for some of the kinfolk. Words, though, are timeless; they have placid permanence, accompanying me through the whole of life. And, if the relationship between words and me is not going well, it is entirely my inadequacy. The words remain flawless.

One may speculate as to if I have a disorder. Am I obsessed? Do I suffer from logomania and/or graphomania? I feel secure in stating that, despite other psychological issues, I do not have a pathological compulsion with either words or writing. But, there are certain actions in my day that are habitual (it is so different), including but not limited to: relieving my bladder, partaking in hygiene practices, listening to music, playing with my animals, and writing. While others may spend a few hours watching television or shopping or partaking in sports, I play with words. I juggle them and twist them and twirl them and throw them into the air to see how they land. Each one is unparalleled, similar to the snowflakes I catch with my tongue, but instead enticed within the whimsical webbing of Wernicke’s area. My entire life is whirling lexical rapture. Truthfully, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am content with words, overjoyed with words, impassioned by words… my inamorata.