paper-rose-021307.mp3
shakespeare said ‘that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’
this, a wisdom being slowly learned with time and repeated exposure. the wisdom of refusing the label, that is… the realization that it is not what we call a thing, another, an event, or an experience that gives it meaning, but what that thing, other, event, or experience is.
i find ‘what anything is’ to be a thing beyond words. which, as a writer, is downright appalling.
what to do? faced with this, seeing it true?
shall i knit adjectives and nouns, adverbs and appellations, scatter them across the page like confetti and hope the glitter and sheen of them will be more than that finger pointing at the moon?
i have a conflict brewing, but not in a harmful or hurtful way. rather, i’m thinking in this moment about the reality that, for all my words, i can never really tell you a thing.
the reality that, in any moment, no matter how much cadence, tempo, inflection, description, or metaphor i splash here, it is forever and ever amen just me pointing at something and hoping you are looking at what i am, and not just my finger.
there is part of me that still refuses this truth. angry writer’s ego says, ‘damn it… i can make you feel it. i can deliver the moment as i knew it. i can.’ and maybe, sometimes, i actually manage to get close enough that you feel any of it.
but sitting here, thinking on it in mindful manner, i do realize it’s mostly mental masturbation. which makes me chuckle. all the words ever written, and so many more eloquent and masterful than i will ever manage… what makes me think i have anything ‘to add’?
can i possibly think to shine an apple touched by ol’ billy wigglestick? could i more concisely speak to culture and society and all its many contrarinesses than montaigne? render idea or ideal into words with greater clarity than cicero, plato, aristotle?
hah. that would be arrogance, now wouldn’t it?
no. impossible. but perhaps that does not mean it is pointless. perhaps there is yet room for a splat of mud, a bug, a little cricket like me to say something that resonates, give to you, whomever you are, a sense of connection and belonging and ‘oh yeah, i know that feeling’ that points to a much deeper, greater thing than ever i could hope to put into words.
i chase myself around the bush with it, of course. running giddy, dizzy circles and on occasion, falling to the ground to dig with shaking hands into the earth, asking, asking, ‘what is it that you need to say?’ and ‘why do you need to say it?’ and ‘what makes you think anyone needs, wants, or cares to hear it?’ and especially, ‘what makes you think it is not already said, already known, already fully experienced?’
and here, a silliness, a truth, and a confession, most of this incessant verbosity is just me talking to the wall of myself, wondering if i’m listening, if i understand, or how many times i will need to ‘say’ these words to myself before i no longer need to hear them.
sheepishly i admit, it is a comfort if you (you generic you, you!) get something out of it… but to be quite stupidly blunt, i write because i must, because it is the only way i learn things, and because it is the only way i manage not to forget them.
strange amnesia, you know… and, weary of repeating lessons, recurring patterns, and the bruises of it all, these are my sticky notes… yellow leaflets scattered across my life, ‘do not forget!’ written in indelible marker and set everywhere my eye might think to look.
in the end, little more than paper roses, really. which leads me back to good old William and the wisdom of his brevity — a thing i remain unable to manage… would a rose by any other name not smell as sweet?
i chuckle to myself and answer the question with a question, ‘does a paper rose have a scent?’