Sitting in my refuge of reclusiveness on a dreary first day of the week, I seek direction and solace. It is the truest of statements to report that I find little succor viewing the purveyors of the pigskin pastime, or those of the PGA. I am the most unapologetic of villains in that while I reside in the state which claims but one constellation, I liken the efforts of the NFL as blood sport which, in my personal estimation, brands it as immoral, brutish, and rancorous.
Now that I have shown my true colors as a rather onerous, tiresome, and inconsiderate buffoon let me move on to what it is that I do best. For those of you that have survived the ill treatment of the last paragraph and are still reading, I want to talk about my favorite topic…words.
I have been accused of many things in my life and most of the less flattering comments of me have some measure of truth. I have been told that I think I am better than others in the fashion in which I write this blog. I have been (and this is my favorite) called a “Pompous Ass” by someone who disagreed with me on a matter of importance. I have experienced the underwhelming population of comments about my blog and the contents. Thank you to all who do find it germane to comment on the blog as per my request. I have not heard any criticism that would make me consider, even for the briefest of moments, any reason to change one damn thing.
Having the necessary power, skill, resources, or qualifications to write about words, a subject I have been enamored with for the last FIFTY FOUR years, I would like to take you into the world in which I dwell. There is a realm within me that listens for a better way of saying things. I am not a particularly articulate man when it comes to oratory presentations. I stumble over words and find myself at a loss for what to say when I am using my vocal chords to deliver any kind of message. I have a propensity to use multi-syllabled vulgarities and that has placed some encumbrances in my way to share messages or matters of import.
This is not the case where it comes to writing. As an art, writing is not a practice of talent, but it takes practice to make talent. I strive for talent and not monotony. I seek the most fluid of phrases and the least mundane of passages to state the thoughts, feelings, and beliefs I hold dear. I want fluidity to rule over jerkiness, and gracefulness to replace inelegance. I want others to love and cherish words as do I.
In that endeavor, it is contingent on me to express myself in ways that will elicit such emotion and solicit readership. I have made reference to my days at the university as my faithful Sancho and I did battle with the windmills that were professors who stood in the way of our ultimate goal. That is, to become men of letters. We were of the conviction that the use of large words and excessive amounts of paper would secure us our place in history. I can report to you, my faithful reader, that our efforts were successful. I am the author I always wished to be (sans the seven figure income) and he has become one of those metaphorical windmills spoken of earlier. (In search of yet another couple of clowns with potential to help mold)
This process has taken some twenty years, and much labor. Being in love with words is not enough. I must take that adoration and put it to some sustainable use. Hope springing eternal, I yearn for a larger readership, and (Out of my mouth into God’s ear) possibly financial recompense. However, the readership and the ability to eat regularly are but second place to the true reason for writing…the absolute devotion, ardor, passion, and affection for words.
This fixation with the feeling words give me is not a gift from which I have no obligation. In order to reap the benefits of this rapport with phrases and vocabularies, there is a requirement imposed to increase ones knowledge of those magical entities. I must listen, read, absorb and, ultimately, use those inamoratas. Using them in a fashion that makes sense is certainly desired, but it is vital to use them, even if some have difficulty reading them. I am unapologetic of my use of words. Having the experience of teaching is my specific method of conveying my emotions. I do fervently think that having a dictionary next to you while reading is a must for anyone who does, in fact, practice the gift of reading. Ask any prison official what the benefit of education is and they will probably tell you that if enough education went on, then they would be out of business.
To sum this piece into one central idea, if it is still inscrutably indeterminate, the point is that you must learn to read better. Using the rhetorical “You” signifies every man, woman, and child in existence. There are two watershed events in my life that have helped mold the man irritating you today in this blog:
1. After an almost twenty year absence I went back to school.
2. I discovered personal computers.
Going back to school taught me that regardless of the time differential between the last class I attended and the first one back, I had a relationship with words that needed nurture. The personal computer initially stood as a defense against my inability to write legibly. It also created a paradigm shift in my life. After sitting at that old boxlike Macintosh in the school library, several of the more negative results of my irresponsibility (homelessness, lost utilities, hunger, etc.) and sloth never manifested their nasty posteriors again. I now own four instruments driven by successive and seemingly random collections of ones and zeros. I am four times assured that all will be well.
I have fifty or sixty pieces which could secure my continued existence within my refuge of reclusiveness if the appropriate editors would get off their deceased posteriors and deliver the checks. (Perhaps I will regret that last bit of haughtiness) Fortunately, I am not alone in that endeavor, although I am almost at the end of my rope with rejection of what I consider my finest work (a story entitled “My First Deer”). Best of all, I have once more allowed you, my faithful readership to once more use the mantra of most T. Lloyd Reilly’s faithful followers; “Well here he goes again with all that big word bull@$&%!