The other day a proz- s- saic^
friend mused:
I wish I could write music or poetry.
I didn't know what to say because
I'm always lost for words -
groping for them
in the greyish p- m- m-uddle
from which the right word can never be extricated
by my clumsy tongue
(instead some subpar subs-
titute stutters its way through my pharynx
unsuccessfully conveying
the glistening clarity I see/think/feel
in my head
mixing orders of
words up by the time they translate to
spoke- o- on tongue)
How do you convey the simultaneity of graphic thought
ad verbatim?
The words that delineate in a mental landscape
transmute not to linear argument.
Which is why I so admire Rhet-t-
-oric which seems to work
with the smooth efficacy of a Butler
redeeming you to his point of view.
While my words are some kind of Scarlett
lett-er -lett-ing on my stupidity instead.
Oh my silly friend
the silence of my prosaic grin
is saying only this:
If I could say in it prose,
I would not need prosody.
^Prozac is an antidepressant drug that was once widely prescribed for depression, particularly in the USA. It can also be used for the treatment of OCD, panic disorder, bulimia and PMS. In certain rare cases, it is also used for ADHD, and Asperger's.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
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