Hello,
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me…
Is there anyone at home?
–Pink Floyd/Comfortably Numb
The other day on Twitter, I was threatening to go on a word diet. Joking, mostly–not threatening. Threatening would imply some actual intent to follow through. I could probably follow through in some ways, I guess.
It would be silly though. It’s a totally empty threat.
For one thing, no one would care if I curtailed my reading, writing and speaking. This is a big demotivator. My wrists and hands would thank me– writing and reading while holding an iPad on my lap, curled up on the couch is not an ergonomically friendly way to do either. No one cares outside my physical body. Write, talk? Dont? Meh. It just doesn’t matter.
Oh, right reading. Well, I would care if I cut down on my reading. I would care a lot.
Curtailing my speech? Well. I don’t think I could really cut down on that much more. It don’t talk much as it is. I’m catching a cold, maybe I’ll get laryngitis again. That led to a whole week of silence last time.
It was sort of peaceful, not talking….
Maybe it would be more peaceful if I cut back on all of my words. Especially the ones on the running commentary in my brain. I work on it. It’s…better. Still. Tiresome. Cutting back on the words in my brain requires constant focus and presence. Annoying things like being present in the moment. It’s kind of a challenge. I like to be in the ether a lot. Still, I do try. Every day.
Work in progress. Maybe I need a construction sign.
And an analyst.
My brain is still spinning around on “the Goldfinch” more than it really needs to. I told it to shut up, but it doesn’t appear to be listening to me. At least it shuts down at night. I’ve been having peculiar dreams though. Maybe more peculiar than usual, though that’s a pretty high bar. Did I tell you about the dream about the guy at the airport flaying little kids? No?
That’s an oldie. Not a goodie. It revisits from time to time and it’s terrifying. Without going into detail, in the dream I am ethically complicit in little kids being skinned alive while they’re being raped.
Being raped, while being skinned alive as entertainment.
Yeah.
It’s not a good dream.
It comes back every so often, just when I think I’ve gotten rid of it for good. It’s terrifying every time. It feels real, and that is not a real you want to feel.
What was that about an analyst?
Here’s the question, though: why is it that I’m even entertaining the idea of cutting back on words? Was it thinking about cutting back on words that brought the dream back? Or was that coincidental? And which words do I think are the most problematic, word in or words out? And why?
Y’all are going to answer that for me, right?
No, no one ever talks back to the blog. Sad thing.
Is there anybody out there?
If so, please let me know how ironic it is that I’m writing a bunch of words about cutting back on the number of words I use.
I’ll be over here in my corner, backing my head against my desk. Lightly, but firmly.
Happy birthday to all those having birthdays