Man o’ Fisting
As a goodbye to 2013 and too many loose ends, here’s a sort-of essay I wrote in 2011 or 2010 on the many and varied ways in which either language has failed us, or I have failed language. Given the span of time between myself and the me who wrote this, I am no longer certain of the veracity of my claims, and thus refuse to be held accountable for them. Thank you.
Man o’ fisting
I meant to look up the definition of “manifesto” before writing this. I’m in love with definitions the same way I’m in love with inboxes, recycling bins, closet organizers, colour coding. I like the idea that life can be categorized, neatly sorted into boxes. It calms me down. I like the idea that in opening up OED online, reading a summary of when a word showed up, its signifieds, how others have used that word, I will know what the word means. I like the idea that I can evade error.
And yet. I am not a ruler person. I am not right angles. All my tights are split at the crotch, I walk into traffic when I’m happy, Я изучать les langues I have no reason to learn beyond having no objection to learning them. I need to stop denying connotation. My lot is not to denote.
I hated writing in primary, secondary school. I’d start strong, suddenly find myself unable to conceive of a satisfactory ending; rather than struggle to address the structural problems that had created this inconceivability, rather than work through, I chose to abandon each labour of ELA, moving on to the next idea, not looking back.
(This is also how my relationships end.)