— From Jeffrey. Lord help us be grateful people who could start speaking extraordinarily.
I don’t know the Substance of the creation, let alone the Value, the Words that sing Their significance.
But. I do know with all my heart that they are they, sleeping, looming, waiting, patient, quiet, they are always there - it is us with the bad vision, the broken ability to sense importance and significance and la vraie qualité qui reste toujours dans les création.
My words cannot bouge (sway) their values. their êtres, but I am afraid my words will mislead. Mislead…because “devils are always unmaking language”
and I have no authoritative voice, I can only say what I see, but we are fallable. We are wrong often.
And the strength in Words.
Words lighten and words darken a mind, a soul,
words sharpen and words fade the heart,
they allume and they extinguish,
they thicken a man
or thin a man
root him into a state
or set his feet running
they braid our hearts into hearts of steel, or hardness and cold, warm or tenderness, all on what material we choose, faible ou fort, for better or for worse,
they bring cool air
or breathe suffocating heat
Words are the way we Move.
America is the Imperatif - the communicating Commander of What You Must Buy Next.
France - the Imparfait - a movie that pans from scene to scene, story to story, an oral system of Education through stories of past moyens.
Spain - the passe composee. Oeuf. Ca c’est sur. It was a good country once, and now what’s done is done.
The Lost, the Humans - we are the Subjunctif - plein d’espoir - there is always the chance that it will be so.
In all cases I must start writing again. For my soul, for my physical well-being, for my Creator.
And Of the Creator I would ask to be humbly formed in the form of an ecriteur, a writer of the significant. With the internet and iPhones and instant photos and on and on, information is not treasured, not chewed, and we are not anchored. We live in little boats and resemble that of phantoms. People of little substance.
Nothing firm and nothing to give, because we can all look up another youtube video and our brains rest and rust, our hearts rotting due to lack of proper food, proper exercise we were made for. Ah, HOW we were made to live! How we are not living!
Once, as I passed by a cottage, there came out a lovely fairy child, with two wondrous toys, one in each hand. The one was the tube through which the fairy-gifted poet looks when he beholds the same thing everywhere; the other that through which he looks when he combines into new forms of loveliness those images of beauty which his own choice has gathered from all regions wherein he has travelled. Round the child’s head was an aureole of emanating rays. As I looked at him in wonder and delight, round crept from behind me the something dark, and the child stood in my shadow. Straightway he was a commonplace boy, with a rough broad-brimmed straw hat, through which brim the sun shone from behind. The toys he carried were a multiplying-glass and a kaleidoscope. I sighed and departed.
Phantastes - George MacDonald