Less than words can say!

The following are the most delightful words that have pinged in my mind throughout the hours on WordPress. These delightful words were plucked, scrubbed and squisnted at (it was all done half-cocked really) before being swanked on my blog.

Some are just exquisitely resplendent like ‘chinoiserie‘ and ‘demagoguery‘, whilst others like ‘chicory‘ and ‘quiddity‘ are so damn adorable, like babies with rainbow lollipops in swaddles! Whilst some are classic Americans (‘jazz‘ and ‘sloppy joes’), others are prided for their European delicacy like, say “vichyssoise’ and ‘velleities‘. There are those such as ‘Rubenesque‘ and ‘rococo‘ who are imperious, haughty, commanding. But those towered over by such totalitarians must not be shunned from the podium: the innocence and timorousness of ‘ingenue’ and ‘waif’ are to be valued… diamonds amongst bland boulders of common words.

What callipygous words indeed! They’re as humorous as a humdinger on a hat rack.

Can it be that they’re a Word-Salad? If so, what’s a Word-Salad?

 A Word-Salad is a mixture of random words that, while arranged in phases that appear to give them meaning actually carry no significance. The words may or may not be grammatically correct, but the meaning is hopelessly confused.

So, maybe life is made up of a lot of things that sort of make sense. But put all together, they don’t really make any sense at all. But that’s fine, because sometimes, things don’t have to make sense. Sometimes, they can just be. Simply be.

So a Word-Salad is a place where it doesn’t matter if the words match up, because they mean something to me. They mean such important things as remembering that octopus doctors fly at midnight downriver.

 The answer to the perplexities of the Word-Salad is . . .

Drinking Ripe Orange Juice!

I don’t want to force creativity to come, but if I must use force, I certainly will. I will punch a muse in the throat to catch a cough of a few good words. I’ll squeeze the orange to slurp up the juices as fast as possible, before the fruit ever becomes ripe.

Too often, I want to find the significant in the trivial, when things are truly trivial. But nothing ever is—trivial, I mean. Everything can be made to mean something; everything can be a symbol. Every simple thing I do might signify something greater, some unconscious transformation which will seem like catharsis, but only seem.

So you try to be inspired. Find beauty in everything, every cockroach and crack in a brick wall. Sometimes, we try to wrench poetry from what is uninspiring, and when the angel raps on our window glowing with divine truths, our hands are too weary to transcribe what she says.

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