Secret Alphabet
The pen put to paper. Jet black ink, strips of the night sky, the
space between the floors. When it was good, then each letter of every word
vibrated. All of them together in unison created an ambient hum that filled my
studio.
Each letter and vowel shook harder and harder. Not tortuously but
with the innate sensuality as occurs in true, perfect sentences. With a steady
increase the sides of every letter began to crack. Pieces fell off, leaving
jagged edged holes from which sprout little wings. They flutter around the page
breaking off into groups of various sizes, each with its own meaning.
Their migratory patterns fill page after page. At night these
word-birds sleep, their plumage speckled with punctuation marks.
An affirmation of us. There is once again the secret language. I
do not reveal too much by saying so to myself. Besides, I like the rhythm of
the sentence. The cadence had variations as its being said several times in my
head.
The bed is the paper, contorted, entwined limbs, the words. It is
mostly vowels; the breathing and panting too contribute to the linguistics of
our predawn struggles. I speak not for myself but to you, so that we may
remember.
- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2016
A reissue of Wayne's first collection of essays is now available:
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