Speaking Without Words
“…thought it a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.”
This may be the oddest superpower for a writer to wish for. Surely words are the cornerstone of consciousness, civilisation, thought, good pizza, everything you can imagine, which in turn need words to articulate them.
Right there we have the crux of the problem: on the path between the images in my head and the words that emerge from my mouth there is a skid pan, a vortex which spins and mangles and distorts my meaning. And then there is the secret tunnel, known only to the snide and snarky parts of my brain, a closely guarded secret for the flippant and the dismissive, which can avoid all cortex quality control and emerge like bullets to shoot myself in the foot.
Worse yet are those that need me to listen to their chatter. I so rarely care, and yet it is such an important part of our social dynamics for people to share. So intent are they in speaking they can’t pierce the gauzy veil of my politeness and see the blank eyes of “I don’t give a shit.”
Once, briefly, I had the perfect friendship. We never needed to speak. A look, a smile, a hand brushed over the shoulder conveyed all the worlds of meaning that others could spew world killing tons of carbon dioxide over. Perhaps the beauty of that friendship condemned it to such a short half life, for it trumped and trampled over every other human interaction. There is no trace of it now.
Give me that power: to communicate without words. To pass my thoughts to others and to take theirs; as they are intended, without the faulty packaging of words, and the contaminating intervention of language. And give me silence.
If you are interested in more of my writing please check out my book:Image and Other Stories
The challenges of maintaining a professional writing career while being a good mother for two special needs sons.
a journal of poetry, flash fiction, and art
A collective of creatives bound by a single motto: There's nothing in the rulebook that says a giraffe can't play football!
The Sound of Horror
Literature that Burns like Wildfire.
the EHS blog
Musings by speculative fiction author Karen Miller
"There was a weight in the early autumn air. Though they were both persistent in their presence, it was neither the oppressive heat nor the dense humidity that animated the atmosphere this day. The air was fattened, rather, with promises of things to come. Bad things."
The Writing of Arthur Klepchukov
Feed The Fear
Towards a catalogue of London’s inter-dimensional gateways
Editor, Author, Priestess of Words
limericks lewdness religion god poetry sex drugs
Mystery. Horror. Comedy. Oddities.
Floating thoughts, A place where my beautifully weird thoughts floating around in my mind are posted.
places, spaces and people in my amazingly bright life...