i wish i could tell a story from beginning to end that encompasses all the factors that led to me, to what i did. but it's such a fine and complex weave of smells and silences. choirs resounding joy and fear echoing in corridors of powerlessness.

i want to conquer words the way i would a wild stallion or the way those invented creatures from avatar tame the wild flying creatures to be their partners and yet, of course, their minions, do their will. aargh. this is where i get stuck. i can feel my way to a grace that does not include turning other creatures into servants but when i attempt to dialogue even with myself, even in the privacy of my own mind, i am repeatedly coming up against the limits of a language meant for commerce and battle.

they say that dante's italian is the one spoken in italy now but it was from his native dialect basically and finessed a bit. when our languages no longer root in organized violence (extended to include theft and betrayal) then maybe we can get them to describe these places of extreme joy, these many ecstasies that ebb and flow and crash into us as we go from job to home to wherever we twitter.

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