I often find I can’t find the words I want to type. Words become worlds to me at times - not
because I find them to be microcosms of keystrokes, encompassing so much intent
in so few lines – but because my clumsy, shaking fingers have decided that that
would be a better interpretation of my meaning.
Perhaps it’s
some Freudian slip that makes words into worlds and that has left a sentence unfinished
as “Friction acts” after hitting enter instead of space. Or some desire to speak my own tongue (I
think that’s what makes me replace h with j with alarming frequency).
But it must
be some different kind of intent that turns democracy into democrazy. Nor do I think that it can simply be chalked
up to typos. And it must be more than
the proximity of keys. For I think I’m
trying to tell the world something (or perhaps the word). So that I might make my own language of
Freudian slips and linguistic lusts. Yet
I think, sometimes, that this is simply a case of typos. Or perhaps my own stupidity…
… that
calls out to me through a new patois of pen slips. Telling me that rule by the people
only ever occurs with crazy people.
No comments:
Post a Comment