“Grief is a god, writes the poet Alice Notley, ‘as in possession.’ I experience this; at moments it takes me over. In the daily questions I can no longer ask. The silences I cannot break. The divisions I can never cross. Original, utter loss.”
Ashe Vernon said, “You are a language I am no longer fluent in but still remember how to read.” and Anne Sexton said, “I like you; your eyes are full of language.” and Salma Deera said, “My love translated sounds like a dead language.” and Czesław Miłosz said, “Language is the only homeland.” and Alice Notely said, “I can’t translate myself into language anymore.” and Hishaam Siddiqi said “One day I woke up and we no longer spoke the same language. I haven’t heard from you since.” and Jane Austen said, “and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.” and Henry James said, “She is written in a foreign tongue.” and I am in awe of language.
I have always loved words. I mean that in the way my mom says it to her friends after I write a good essay or give some type of compelling presentation. I mean it as a girl who got into theatre in middle school because storytelling through monologues and song lyrics is one of the most beautiful things I can think of. I mean it in the self-deprecating way I will tell people that “I just like the sound of my own voice” when they make comments about how much I talk. There is a Michael Ondaatje quote that goes: “she had always wanted words, she loved them, grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.” That, I think perhaps sums it up better than I ever could. Isn’t it amazing that one of the most innate human experiences can be the thing that brings us reason? In a cover letter, written to go before a resume submitted for a job application, Robert Pirosh wrote about his decision to leave his old job and life in New York and travel abroad to study in Europe. He concluded with this, “I have just returned and I still like words. May I have a few with you?” This is the thing that brings me reason. Words, exhausting and intimate and terrifying as they are, the opportunity to speak and be spoken to, the chance to write and read and share words provide purpose unlike any other I have ever known. It becomes all too easy at times to resign myself to the idea that “I can’t translate myself into language any longer.” (Alice Notley). I am envious of those who can translate themselves into music or beautiful poems, but I often find myself returning to read diaries and love letters, speeches, and intimate accounts of life events, real people sharing words of life and purpose, and daily recounts of the mundane that are so personal even despite their simplicity that they must be expressed. I have always wanted words, here I hope to share some.
