Come In, Number Five, your time is up! Hear the terrible and tragic cry
of the grammar nazi. Feel pity for the nitpicking OC attentions of your
inner copy-editor. C'mon, you know you have one in there.
Reach
out and touch someone in the head. There'll come a time, don't know
where, don't know when -- perhaps when Kurzweil's Singularity comes
around -- which, in my ever-so-jumbled opinion, will be a couple of
centuries after The Rapture of the Christians -- a time when we're able
to transmit thoughts, emotions, sensations and memories direct from one
sentient brain to another, but for now... for now we're stuck with
words. Words written or words spoken. Words used carelessly and words
use in malice. Words misused and abused and deliberately or otherwise
misunderstood. But all we can do is paint the best word pictures we can
and hope the some glimmer of the meaning we intend pierces through the
ego fog and tickles the palate of some other. Sometimes that means
ignoring the usual meaning of the words themselves and enjoying their
song, their sound, the music they make devoid of the overlays of
conventional comprehension. Maybe that's the best way to make use of
words, the way that stays truest to the sensations and memories and
evocations we're trying to transmit between us. It's a challenging task,
and one many feel called to, but few respond with full commitment.
Wake up. Time to write.
###
Well it's nine o' clock on a Saturday,
The regular words shuffle in.
They've all come along for a memory.
Let's dispose of them in the bin.
Singin' La la la ladiddaaa, la la ladiddaaa da da da da...
