KW 3: Words and Warm Milk
And my flesh is become word, and dwells among them.
For whereas I once had a head full of thoughts, I now have, in its place, a threadbare and holey burlap sack swarming inside and out with massless, tickling word-butterflies and word-moths, fluttering and grazing and alighting on me like stray eyelashes before flitting away to land elsewhere or not at all. And come the Morphos (morphemes) on their iridescent blue wings, and come the Polyphemus (phonemes) with their lidless purplish eyespots. But the caterpillar graphemes cling to surfaces, as graphemes must, wriggling willy-nilly between Latin and Cyrillic shapes before my bleary eyes. And when I turn away from the creation of my secret language to study once again from the Testament, my head is a shivering carpet of golden Monarchs on a hollow skull, unfurling their wings like the ornaments of a coronet. And then a boat drops me off at the island with my head like a bag of moths or a carpet of Monarchs and I must spend a couple of hours paying great attention to more words and choose mine carefully, and adding more to the list of words to be translated into my secret language, and practicing the ones I’ve already translated in sotto voce.
In other words, I’ve been spending a lot of time with words. I can hardly speak English anymore.
One of Don Miguel Ruiz’s so-called Four Agreements is to be “impeccable with your word.” Which sounds like he means that you should hold to your promises, but when you retrace the definitions he lays out for “impeccable” “sin” and “word”, you realize that what he is really saying is that one should never speak or act against oneself. The duty to be true.
Why did I even write the previous paragraph? I don’t know. What I do know is that Jonathan smokes his weed, and spices his blood with it, and passes it along to me venously. I’ll have to remember to encourage that. Helps expand the mind, broaden perception. Helps tease apart the skeins of words.
Was I declared a priest in Elysium? I don’t remember. Was I ever not a priest? Did I not baptize myself in Chesapeake Bay or was that my anointing?
Josephine said Duty is a cold, constant mistress, but I know a hot one, just as constant. Hunger, you fitful sleeper, you insomniac bedfellow. You keep me awake with your restlessness but I forgive you every time. Didn’t I just go to Ecclesia and find you some warm milk? Didn’t I feed you your warm milk not an hour ago? Yet you complain so soon? Was it not enough? Not young enough? Not old enough? Too pickled, too bland? Lacking estrogen, lacking iron? Do you want it swarthy, want it sweet, want it smoked with nicotine? Will you always be so picky, so demanding?
It’s alright. I understand.
We do like our warm milk.