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articulation
January 2009 
doing Justice to my silences
Posted on Jan 1st, 2009
by 
Erin
Erin
i like to be alone because it spares me the chore of having to articulate my thoughts.
sometimes being with people, talking (or not talking) to them, answering their questions exhausts me. buttressing with my forehead all of reality that is inarticulable–which is most of reality–doesn’t usually exhaust me. having to convince others that this reality exists, its weight bearing down on me, its shape, molding my existence–exhausts me. of course, i do not know reality. i only see it, or feel it, more aptly, in slivers, in the way a dream is known. something drives me to turn my eyes on reality, and i do this always by naming what it is not and chasing it into crevices.
in conversation i only feel at ease when i avoid reality altogether–talk about the weather, make a joke, order a cup of tea–or…
when i Talk about it…
i could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, refined minds, whether male or female, till i had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their heart’s very hearthstone.–jane eyre, charlotte bronte
…with words like ants carrying ten times their weight. as shakespeare says, “look on beauty, and you shall see ’tis purchased by the weight.”
i find the worst confluence of events to be when reality is hailed by my partner(s) in conversation…but only i know it. and, being compelled by Justice, i must labor to bring it into the room…
this involves sailing around what i “know”–which i am made aware of by my feelings–in a dingy…mapping its contours…i end up giving up because the shore i’m exploring is connected to a continent.
for the longest time i didn’t bother to articulate my thoughts…but then i realized…the Beauty of a thing is related to the degree of labor required to bring it into the world as pinned down in language.
it is my suchness to translate.
what i write is what i have the gumption to translate.
if i am ever sad it is because i don’t know what to say.
that is…an unbridgeable rift exists between my feelings and my words. either because the choosing–out of everything so beautiful–seems arbitrary…or because the work is intimidating.
sometimes being with people, talking (or not talking) to them, answering their questions exhausts me. buttressing with my forehead all of reality that is inarticulable–which is most of reality–doesn’t usually exhaust me. having to convince others that this reality exists, its weight bearing down on me, its shape, molding my existence–exhausts me. of course, i do not know reality. i only see it, or feel it, more aptly, in slivers, in the way a dream is known. something drives me to turn my eyes on reality, and i do this always by naming what it is not and chasing it into crevices.
in conversation i only feel at ease when i avoid reality altogether–talk about the weather, make a joke, order a cup of tea–or…
when i Talk about it…
i could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, refined minds, whether male or female, till i had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their heart’s very hearthstone.–jane eyre, charlotte bronte
…with words like ants carrying ten times their weight. as shakespeare says, “look on beauty, and you shall see ’tis purchased by the weight.”
i find the worst confluence of events to be when reality is hailed by my partner(s) in conversation…but only i know it. and, being compelled by Justice, i must labor to bring it into the room…
this involves sailing around what i “know”–which i am made aware of by my feelings–in a dingy…mapping its contours…i end up giving up because the shore i’m exploring is connected to a continent.
for the longest time i didn’t bother to articulate my thoughts…but then i realized…the Beauty of a thing is related to the degree of labor required to bring it into the world as pinned down in language.
it is my suchness to translate.
what i write is what i have the gumption to translate.
if i am ever sad it is because i don’t know what to say.
that is…an unbridgeable rift exists between my feelings and my words. either because the choosing–out of everything so beautiful–seems arbitrary…or because the work is intimidating.
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