L'Affaire des Mots ... Wishin' and Hopin' ... and It's Only Words ....

It seems that occasionally the blog takes on the aspect of a confessional, as some of us bare our souls ... not to mention our dependencies ... in this shared space. Recently Nicki owned up to a hard-fought battle against a former addiction to collecting and collectibles (see The Thrill of the Hunt: Confessions of a Collector, posted April 12, 2008), appended with my own mea culpa comment in partial expiation of my sometimes trying penchant for acquiring and hoarding books. Several of us have acknowledged before our peers that we are, if not truly compulsive, at least voracious readers ... eeeek!

So it is in the spirit of Spring, the season of rebirth and renewal, that I feel I must acknowledge a concomitant, overwhelming lifelong passion and obsession ... indeed, an interminable and eternal affair, if you will, which has sometimes left me with tears running down my face, or has lifted me to the heights of ecstasy, inspiration and exhilaration. Yahn, bless him (again), has been quite tolerant during our marriage of my frequent abandonment of him (at least mentally if not physically speaking), sometimes for hours or days at a time, as I heedlessly fling myself into the embrace of this occasionally all-encompassing, all-involving, but fortunately not illicit l'affaire des mots ... an affair with ... words.

I love words. I adore them. I love to devour them in huge bunches and conglomerations, sometimes unconsciously caressing them with my hand as my eyes move down the page. I thrill at contemplating them individually, or toying with the myriad ways they can be strung together, and then broken apart, and reconstituted in new ways to articulate different thoughts and interpretations. I love to study all their meanings, their synonyms, their antonyms, their propensities for rhyming and frequently humorous usage. I am in awe of their power ... to move us, to tempt us, to persuade us ... for good or ill. I love to say them ... to play with them ... to feel them swell as they form in the back of my throat and savor them as they roll over my tongue and burst through my lips. (Yes, it is assuredly always very good for me....)

Words can make a day or break a heart. They can soothe and calm a child, or rile and rouse the ignorant rabble in a crowd. They can save a life or a soul or a mind which may be teetering on the brink of disaster. Words encourage us to aspire, to dream of accomplishments we might once have considered beyond the reach of our hidden yearnings and desires. They can inspire us to keep going when hope is almost lost, or to reevaluate our thoughts and beliefs and set a new life course when the old formulas no longer work. They are with us, infinitely portable when carried in the mind, used by us, employed as part of our daily life and interaction with others ... though I sometimes wonder how much thought we give to the words we choose and the meaning of the words we hear.

I often think that without words ... without the ability to convey our thoughts in print or in speech or both ... we would be reduced to the level of Frankenstein's monster and his bride, gutturally grunting at each other through unintelligible, insensible sounds. But then I reflect that the kindred couple likely understood their conversations together very well ... or, if they did not initially, they soon would have found the right combinations of mumbles and squeaks and groans to embody and express their thoughts and feelings to one another ... because, to use one of my beloved word plays, it is a monstrous imperative that we communicate. Those without speech and/or without the ability to hear invented sign language so they could talk through their hands. Cavemen who had no written language left pictograms on cave walls to tell others of their exploits ... and in whatever language they developed among themselves, they passed down the oral traditions and stories of their clans.



Of course, the tradition of storytelling around campfires and in huts, passing stories from generation to generation, precedes the written word. But whether written or uttered aloud, words have the power to charm, the facility to educate and enlighten, to lift us beyond darkness or the sometimes quotidian drabness of everyday life. Words are used to entertain us, to bring us together by weaving common threads of experience, to impart and instill empathy and sympathy for those in different circumstances, to set down history and signposts and cautions for those who come after us. Sometimes words, and how we use them, can literally save or preserve our lives, as illustrated in the tale of the storyteller Scheherazade (see And Then Scheherazade TOTALLY Lost Her Head..., posted November 29, 2007). Conversely, words used by the venal and the evil can be among the most devastating weapons in undermining our society, our world, our lives and our collective future.

Storytelling has been common to every culture throughout time ... although more frequently than we would like to think, stories have been used not to pass along verities, but to mislead and deceive, sometimes with disastrous and far-reaching consequences. It is said that there can be much truth in a story labeled as fiction, and much falsehood in a story that proclaims itself to be factual. In today's media-saturated age, it becomes more and more important that we must all be able to read, and analyze, and research ... to sort through and distinguish facts from fabrications. Japanese director Akiro Kurosawa made his reputation in the West by turning linear story-telling on its ear in his film Rashomon, a complex story of four people involved in a murder who all relate four differing versions of the occurrence ... filtered and distorted to suit their own self interests. Kurosawa cleverly did not resolve the conflicting stories within the narrative of the film, leaving viewers to draw their own conclusions ... to be required to think ... and indeed, it seems that stories that appeal to generation after generation have no specific resolution, like the recently blog-mentioned The Lady or the Tiger. Nevertheless, as Daniel Patrick Moynihan wisely said: Everyone is entitled to his opinion, but not to his own facts.

Cave painting at Lascaux, France




On April 5, 2008 I published the post The Times of Our Lives: 1968 ... the Times ... and We ... Were a'Changin'.... Throughout that post there were references (and lyrics) to certain songs of that era. One of the songs from that year which occurred to me while I was writing, but was not used in the post, was composed and recorded by the Bee Gees ... a song called Words which says, in part:

Talk in everlasting words
And dedicate them all to me
And I will give you all my life
I'm here if you should call to me

You think that I don't even mean
A single word I say....

It's only words,
And words are all I have
To take your heart away.

I always liked that song, as well as some others written by the Bee Gees, despite their reputation in some circles as musical lightweights. The song invariably reminds me of Edmond Rostand's 1897 tale Cyrano de Bergerac, who ultimately (but unfortuntately as he lay dying) won the heart of the fair Roxane, after Cyrano's sentiments were originally and effectively employed on behalf of another. My literary digression notwithstanding, the words of Words struck a chord in my mind (must not go too over the top metaphorically here) while I was writing the 1968 post, and have continued to reverberate (grin) insistently in recent days.

When I think about Words ... and words ... I also cannot help but reflect just how crucially they, and the ways they are used, affect our lives. I recall the words of our teacher, Darryl Morris, as he lectured us in Journalism class about the power and wonder of words ... how the choice of each word and/or combinations of words may paint a positive or negative picture of the information being conveyed and may affect the perception of those who read and hear those words. As Darryl taught us, a major and defining tenet of journalism (at least in those days) was that a reporter should strive for pure objectivity in writing. Indeed, the Holy Grail of aspiration of a journalist was the ability to simply relate the news, the facts, and remain objective and detached in the reporting. Opinions were left to the editorial page, and were clearly labeled as such.

My first writing assignment in college (Freshman English Composition) was to write two one-page descriptions of people I knew ... one of a person I liked and wanted to praise and present in a positive manner ... and another of someone I disliked and desired to portray in a harsh, unflattering light. I reflected on Darryl's warnings about the effect of words deliberately slanted to persuade a reader to one point of view or another ... and then, with the ultimate purpose of the assignment in mind, I took one of my tangents and decided that it would be interesting to write both descriptive pages about the same person, using the selection and deployment of words to alter the perception of that one person from one characterization to the next. I discussed it with my instructor, who seemed excited about the idea, told me no one in any of his classes had taken that approach, and cleared me to proceed.

And so I wrote about a girl with beautiful black hair tinged with lustrous, almost ethereal blue highlights that shimmered seductively ... setting off her glowing skin, the color of warm, sunlit honey ... with long-lashed aquamarine eyes set above full lips and a welcoming smile ... whose grace of movement caught the attention of all around her and drew them into her shining orbit. And then, I wrote of the same girl ... with dull, stringy black hair which leeched the color out of her sallow skin and turned her eyes to refractive, opaque windows hiding an unknown soul, perhaps hinted at in her tight-lipped forced smile ... whose posture and carriage seemed calculated to lure but entrap.... Okay. Same girl. But ... you tell me ... who (!) would you choose for a friend, or want to know better?

This summer it will be 45 years since I wrote those pages ... yet they come more and more to mind as I listen to the carefully twisted rhetoric and read the slanted writing from and about the current crop of Presidential candidates, and concerning important issues of these times. It seems we no longer have many journalists who stand for objectivity, but we are positively besieged by charlatans with agendas, and by commentators and columnists run amok spouting "opinions" which would have properly been labeled libel or slander not too many years ago. We are inundated with knee-jerk slogans and manufactured "issues" to distract us from the truly critical problems we face for the future. I had a recent e-mail from my friend Jim Spradley, Sr., who "signed off" with the lines Walter Cronkite used to end his news broadcasts, and it literally caused a stab of pain as I contemplated what the profession of "journalism" has become since we graduated from CHS. But I digress....

On February 11, 2008 I posted Valentines ... Words of Love ... and The Butterfly Lovers..., wherein I spoke of the importance of words exchanged by lovers. I posited that it didn't particularly matter what one said, or the degree of one's linguistic skills ... the important thing was the sharing of words and feelings. I likewise believe that friendship is dependent on words between friends ... words to bring laughter, words to show support and sympathy, words to recall shared experiences and occasions, words of caring and concern ... the scripts and scenarios of our lives and times.

The writer Reynolds Price wrote: A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo sapiens -- second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter. Many survive without love or home; almost none in silence....

And so it is with the blog. Nicki and I have recently discussed how the blog seems to be in another of its "slumps" ... that many of you out there are reading, but are not commenting, despite repeated entreaties to join us, to share your stories and thoughts of your own high school experiences, and your lives since we graduated. We love that you read us, apparently on a regular basis ... but we really, truly want to hear from you, in your own words, from your own memory. Your experiences, inside and beyond Childress High School, were and are unique. None of us has had exactly your experience, although as frequently acknowledged, we do share commonalities of history and circumstance.

Some of us were friends in high school, and are fortunate to remain so today. Some of us have in the past few years rekindled friendships long dormant after graduation. But one of the greatest blessings Nicki and I have shared since she inaugurated the blog is that we have come to know some of you better than we did then, and to delight in a "new" gift of friendship these long years later. As we have remarked, Nicki and I have become close friends in our work together on the blog, in the exchange of words and ideas between us. We have many wonderful conversations, over the phone, or through e-mail, on the blog and over brunch or dinner, and I believe we both cherish our relationship. Nevertheless, we are greedy people ... we still want to hear from you ... your words, your thoughts, your life experiences and perspectives. Imagine yourself around a glowing campfire, perhaps deep in a cave surrounded by pressing darkness, take a deep breath, begin....

And, we are only human in wanting to hear if you like something we write, or if some post brings back a memory or generates a thought. You don't have to write volumes ... it doesn't take more than a short comment ... "I enjoyed this" ... or even "Thanks". If we have not touched on something of interest to you, then perhaps you could say "I wish you'd write about" ... or "do you remember" ... whatever. Our knowledge is limited regarding subjects you might care to explore ... the things that would stoke your soul and light your fire, as it were.

We want to hear about your participation in sports or activities, as Joe Don and Clara and Linda Kay and Jim have written, but surely there are more stories to tell ... or about your work experiences in or since high school ... or about places you have traveled and your impressions, as Raenell related ... about so many things known only to you. We want to grow and sustain the blog ... we want it to continue to be something you look forward to and enjoy reading, even when perhaps it has no specific relation or relevance to you or your life experiences.

Plainly, and plaintively ... we need you, your voices, your stories, and your suggestions. We are here, a mouse-click away ... wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin', as Dusty Springfield sang in 1964 ... just do it ... please.... The metaphoric campfire beckons. It's only words ... and sometimes words are all we have ... sometimes they are everything....

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