I mumble on...

I've been remiss in my blogging, and it pains me. I am fast approaching the year's anniversary of my existence in the blogosphere, and words fail me. It's funny how we await word sometimes, with impatience and expectation.

Sometimes the words just gush out, and I'm on a train or driving my car, and the words evaporate before they can be captured properly. So much that I could have said that is good just disappears, and gets forgotten. I worry sometimes at the brainwaves and inspirational ideas that have missed their shot by a twist of fate to be when I am unable to save them. Like doomed sperms, they writhe, unfulfilled, full of the potential of life, yet never to be anything more than failed half-lives.

Incidentally, whilst we're on the subject, "sperm" is a disgusting word that I have never liked - phonetically, it is unsettling, and stark in its monosyllabic self.

My favourite word at the moment is "machinal". I'm reading Sophie Treadwell's play of the same name at the moment, and I'm fascinated at the variations of pronunciation that can change the feeling of the term. It is supposed to be mouthed thus: "mock-en-al", but I have always preferred the faux-french "ma-shin-al". Even with this latter approach, variance in syllabic emphasis can create nuances that delight the vocal chords... "MA-shin-al", "ma-SHIN-al", "ma-shin-AL"... wonderful...

***

"There's this girl I like, and I think that maybe she likes me, and I want to kiss her, but my lips are rough, and my hands rougher, and I'm afraid she'll melt away from me..."

***

It's strange when you find yourself falling for someone, and maybe it's not really "them" that you're falling in love with, but the idea of them, then the generated fantasy of them. What, or rather, who they actually are falls away into irrelevance, and all you want is your version of them.

I've forgone who she is, or might actually be... but that makes me want here even, ever more...