I am bridging dream to dawn as succinctly as I can: fastening plot to image, locales to emblems; all of it, to the journal page. I leave the characters to re-emerge at will and dialog to assume its shape in good time.
I ignore the keys but relish the sound of their tapping, exploiting the functioning of knuckles and joints.
Caffeine is best suited to kicking murkiness to the curb and I tell myself this is verbal tomfoolery, self-indulgence disguised as legitimate exercise, the run-off of an overactive sleep-sticky mind, as whatever string of syllables I pose in place, saccharine or toxic, reflect back: words fail.
* * *
After the second glass of Oveja Negra with a hint of blackberry, after the ensalada with fennel and pear, after the ciabbatta bread with Roma tomatoes and a drizzle of balsamic, after the braised short rib and exchange of abbreviated histories – three or four neutral sentences to summarize your divorce, and an equal allotment to categorize mine – after the moules marinières swimming in garlic, after a change to a dry white and your satisfied nod, after stories of your grandmother’s crèpes and your mother’s mayonnaise, it’s only natural that we switch to French, after exploring the pleasures of the palate.
* * *
I rummage through the plastic storage box beneath the armoire, searching for a draft, coming up empty.
I scan labeled folders in a metal cabinet; I discover outlines and client lists, coming up empty.
I scavenge until I find an old tape. I refuse to pop it into the dusty VCR; its starring couple was felled by cataclysms and vagaries.
Words fail, and I’m coming up empty.
* * *
After you reach across the table, after you travel the rise and dip of each finger of my left hand with your right, after you stroke my pinkie and it tickles so I laugh, after you suggest desserts and coffee, after we pick, we pucker, we savor, we sample; after we indulge in the flourless chocolate cake, in silky swallows of flan, in two cups of double espresso; after the proprietor informs us the restaurant is closing, you help me with my coat, and you walk me to my car.
There’s little time to waste and no reason to hurry.
* * *
I crack the thesaurus to define what you mean to me and fail, I craft a paragraph and discard it so I fail, I attempt to recreate the dream and resent the trite futility of my task as words fail.
This is why the body is a must, stripped of sentence structure.
* * *
After conversation that constructs inexplicable connection, after my hand in yours and an overwhelming sense of safety, after you kiss me and say you don’t want to leave me, after one yes that leads to another and phone calls nightly until the second date, after four hundred days of feeling cherished, you whisper good morning mon amour and I capitulate to living the moments rather than writing them: brewing French Roast for two instead of one, fetching you at the auto dealership despite the forty miles and the throbbing in my lower back, fretting over your forgotten medication, listening to you regale my boys with tall tales, chopping leeks and carrots for the next concocted soup, retrieving this sensation of family I thought long past, luxuriating as night around us, and words fail.
Flash Fiction exercise.
Inspired by the 5-day writing challenge at Momalom, Five for Five, subject: “words.”
*Image of flan courtesy Flickr, Creative Commons License 2.0
© D. A. Wolf
Beautiful. When you live moments like those, words do fail. You can get so preoccupied with naming it you may miss the moment altogether. Thanks for bringing a smile to my face. Kudos for staying in the moment.
Sometimes, just sometimes, words are not necessary. They just muck up the moment. 🙂 This sounds like one of those times when words were not necessary. The meaning was clear. Lovely.
Oh, man. Now I’m hungry and stuck at swim lesson with a half-stale bag of almonds. Thanks a lot. 🙂
Just chuckling, Heather. I made myself hungry, too! And after a visit to the dentist – I can’t eat! 🙁 Enjoy your almonds…
The post that never got written last night was akin to this, except it was about motherhood. But I know what you mean. Some of the most endearing, memorable moments just can’t be described.
Exactly, Justine.
(Hugs to you and yours!)
Your words have captured the moments perfectly, or perhaps they’ve captured the fleeting imperfection. The things you can’t describe, that can’t be nailed down, and that shouldn’t be, really. They’re a thing of beauty.
Yes. We are so eager sometimes to fill the space with words, but in reality there are some things that are better left unsaid.
I don’t have the right words to explain how much I love this post. Just so very cool and I keep thinking, yes, in my head. Words fail indeed. Glad I stumbled upon this post through Momalom.
Thank you, ALisa. And let’s hear it for the momaloms – and momaloms’ mom!
400 days of feeling cherished. Sheesh. To hell with words.
It’s a new adventure for me, Wolf. And you’re right. To hell with words. 🙂
I think the very fact that we try (that we yearn) to write about what’s impossible to express speaks volumes. If we actually got it down on paper, actually got all the words exactly right, where would the magic be? Sucked into a piece of paper instead of swirling around in our hearts and our heads.
PS: I hope this is true!! 🙂
You never know with my pieces tagged “writing” do you, Stacia… Truth, fiction, or a little bit in between?
Oh my, I HAVE been gone quite a while, haven’t I? To hell with words, indeed!
Also, I’m starving after that paragraph with the wine. And I somehow wish I were in cafe, with boats drifting by, and an open afternoon ahead of me. Not a journal by my side, not a computer or a book, but good company. To words spoken aloud with good, good company and a whole lotta good food.
xo
I love this unique perspective on words.
BLW I don’t see how words can ever fail you – but I do understand how some things are so difficult to capture. You seem to do it well though.
Not well enough, Cathy. Always seem to be too rushed… the desire to “create” at war with the necessity to make a buck. Ah, the concessions we make in order to feed our kids and keep a roof over our heads! 🙂 But as long as any of it has to do with words, I’m a very happy camper.
holy cow…now we’re talking. I must say that I got swept up in the dirvish called Fifty Shades of Gray…while it is plenty steamy, I was disappointed. Before I was informed by every women I know practically, I assume the Fifty Shades of Gray referred to love between a middle aged couple. HONEY, you write that one. I am ready to buy the book. We, the middle aged boomer gal, still like sex and sexy and …But I would much rather read it in real context of my life, wrinkles and lack of flexibility. Put me down for the first 10 copies.
Love… and passion… is alive and well, even at 50+ with or without any of those shades of gray. Thanks for the good words, Kristine! 😉 I guess I should return to my collection of literary (but slightly steamy) short stories in process?
so much of the success of Fifty Shades…is the cover. So many romance/sexy novels have disgusting covers. I am creating one for you as we speak. I think the market is ready and hot…as is your ability to create the scenario.
My own PR Department, and the ink isn’t even dry on the words! (Kristine, you make me smile.)