Where are the Words?

by jlolb

Where are the words–the words that used to come so easily to these pages day after day?  Many times, I consider posting and then I sit here watching the black bar blink across the white pixeled background.

Where are the words.  I know I can find many of them at the bottom of a bottle of red wine–the vulnerable words.  The ones that don’t come out in the daylight or with sound mind.  The vulnerable words wait until late in the night when your walls break down and the tears flow freely.  And with the tears come the words, the what-ifs and the should’ve beens and the imagining of lost loves that died long ago.  I hate the vulnerable words.

I can find the words that make me smile sometimes, too–the ridiculous turned ridiculously funny.  I can tell you stories of the nasty fake bugs planted around the office or the trauma of 26,000 pieces of glassware produced in India that weren’t delivered on time and what a ridiculous shit storm that has been; I can tell you about the cluster that was my friend Cory and I trying to serve beers to 200 golfers last weekend and the beer wouldn’t pour or about the Italian curses I’m learning from a fluent friend and how I plan to incorporate them into my daily vernacular.  I can tell you of the meetings at the office that really consist of me and some of my favorite people closing a door and opening a bottle of wine, sharing our stories and laughing until we cry.

The thing is, the vulnerable words sneak up without notice–without intention and without pre-meditiation.  The fun words are crafted, molded into the exact shape I want them to take.

But what about the “is” words?  The words that feel. Where are they?

The stories about what is actually going on in my life–the ones to describe the daily on-goings, and the weekly cribbage tournaments and the rest of this family that I’ve adopted along with the great friends I’ve acquired. The ones to tell you about the stark, lonely empty that creeps in from time to time and the forgiveness I cannot find it in myself to deliver.  The grudges I have held on to and the ghosts I’ve made a sport of chasing.  The foundation that our bi-weekly coffee talk has created in my week and the comfort I feel in the fact that my people have learned to read me–good mood, bad mood, indifferent.

But I can’t tell you about those–because I can’t find a way to write those words. The letters get tangled and the words don’t string together in any way that makes sense. Maybe they are even more vulnerable than the vulnerable words.  They’re the words that the wine won’t even bring out into day.  Maybe I’m afraid that those words will ruin what actually is becoming something that feels solid, that feels safe.

In any case,   I’m headed away from the technology and the Blackberry and the email for the weekend.  The caravan leaves for the mountains this afternoon and I plan on spending the next two days in the company of great friends, wandering these hills, hoping for a little clarity.

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