Two tongues lock in sweet exchange...thrusting, sparring, daring sweet exchange. But words meant for detached, untraceable infinite space lose their levity over time. The inevitable weight of connection sours the sweet.
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Tongue is connected to face is connected to body is connected by bones and blood and ruled by heart and head.
A child with a box of crayons knows the weightlessness of color, and--his imagination unchecked--he finds wondrous space until he is schooled into boundaries, and his colors become lined, weighted down by rules about separation and mixing. Sometimes even the most stubborn child will be jeered and teased into the company of his miserable, resigned, weighted peers.
So too are adult tongues (foolishly daring in adulthood) soon reminded of the grounding connections of blood bones heart head. And words with no apparent meaning--or not meant to mean--begin to shape into a story.
First, a dark circular Mittelholzan story of frightening innuendo and shadowy faces, each capable of changing shape, merging and blending, confusing, taunting, jeering like those who surround the defiant child with his box of crayons.
Then, a story of intersecting triangles.
And the faces and connections become less shadowy, demystified, like a McWatt lesson on crafting fiction from folktale: there's always a reason, a very basic explanation, which involves blood bones heart head.
And so the tale ends, shaped by the boundaries of this space, and by the discretion of the teller. But if you'd rather have a more fairytaleish ending, I'll let John Agard do it for you:
If I be the rain
you the earth
let love be the seed
and together
make we give birth
to a new longing
for harmony....
(Taken from John Agard's "Go Spread Wings" in Lovelines for a Goat-born Lady)
