Words worst & Diptera resucitation [Chronicles of Dis/Infection, Feb2015]

Cumulative sentences lend themselves to writing moves that almost guarantee more effective sentences. Learn how these easy-to-write sentences take you through increasingly specific sentence levels and how they clarify and embellish preceding phrases. – The Great  Courses.com {B.Landon, I suppose….and woah! what a sales pitch, total in control of the product…}

Every word, sentence, paragraph, page is meant to signify, to burn bright into the night, hold forth the incandescent torch of meaning. Looking at any given scribbled page and taken with an analytical turn of mind, you might be justly mistaken to think that it all begins with letters: one finite line of black [any other contrastive color of your choosing] then another, the constituents of thought translated into little ciphers, tiny affairs of hand-eye-coordination plus writing implement plus medium.
But no, not so, not in our linguigenesis. What any first entity would‘ve proclaimed is: Let there be words. And words there were. Allegedly onomatopoeic in the beginning – one gal or another always making that same sussurating sound and jabbing his thick index at the cave-sheltered fire until every last member of their tribe, their clique, their local social network finally figured it out. What were humandkind‘s first words anyway? Fuck y‘all? Surely some invective concerning the untenably primitive conditions of the early paleolitihicum.
The word must burn, extinguish itself upon the tongue in being spoken or shine interminably forth from a page. The words must collectively fullfill their signifying duty, be it from the cave of the human mouth or from the suburban appt-block of the page. The word must be a well-functioning cell of the meaning-making organism, fighting the good fight against entropy, maintaining its lovely bilingual bilayer of phospholipids.
Phosphorous lisps, sulfurous syllables! The words also, at other times, any given moment like so now, can get away, run rampage and end up doing whatever the hell they please: logorrhea, bad poetry, airport bestsellers, propagaghdad, fux news, presidential speeches, alphabet aids. I name it.
And the sentence, what about her? Worse. She is considered the queen supreme of prose. Ask any lit bros or fiction broads. The fetish of the ideal sentence: it must be perfect, it must be irreplacable, it must be, gasp-of-gasps, necessary. The same damn fantasies we like to tell ourselves about our own species.

Or also: there can be no lazy sentence. Every sentence must do its part.


This here sentence can go to war [it‘s as underarmored as a slug but hey, it‘ll get its tinsel-parade-charade when it gets home all blown to shit]. Are such war-hardened sentences even still suited to a civilian existence in airport global b[p?]estsellers? Sentences have to labor, to fight, amidst the white noise, thus they are meant to deliver a single charge of meaning: BoOOOoom. An explosion, what a piece of work, fireworks, the reader is all fired up for the next sentence in line to do its work, discharge its load. Like fuck a letter, forget the word, kill a bird, this bang of energy dropped between two periods is where all the action is.



A good deed every day, keeps the devil away. Something along those lines, I think. What I did was so minuscule as not to actually warrant any attention. Yet I felt strangely good about it, delighted: I saved a life. Not just any life, the life of an individual. Not just any individual either, the life of an individual, nameless gadfly.dead flies doing funny poses positions drawing cartoon joke (6)
It had been lingering on one of our stairway‘s ratty curtains for two or three days. By day three it was absolutely listless and even egged on by a swipe would take to the air no longer. Imagine it: the most artful of insectile dodgers known to human kind no longer dodges. Evasive energy ≤ 0. Poor little guy was past flying on fumes even, just ready for the splat de grace. But I wasn‘t a willing participant in assissted suicide. Instead I dashed upstairs in search of a resucitating snack.  A minuscule slice of water-sprinkled apple had to do the trick.
The fly approached, carefully, sleep-drunk, almost dead, then stuck out its proboscis and started to suck. I was reminded of that namesake movie whose images for those who have seen it, unfortunately will not let themselves be forgotten. Later in the afternoon on my way out it was up in the curtain again and vivaciously avoided my lethal palm. The window was opened at the double and rather than being one of those shitshape gnats that keeps gratelessly beating its head against glass one hand‘s width from a perfectly open window, this fellow took happy flight into the great outdoors. Which gave rise to astounding, perfectly disproportionate emotions of joy, as though one had just yanked an emaciated developing nation child out of poverty‘s jaw.
The feat was repeated a few days later with a fellow fly camping out in our kitchen. This is not to be cavalier or ludicrous about the singular value of human life [e.g. buddhist priests repeatedly tell us to be infinitely grateful for not being born an earthworm]. However, the buoyant feeling of watching a fellow being rekindle its spirits was a point-blank illustration of the irreducible value of every single living being.



About tmabona

writer, reader [bolano, DW, bellow, deLillo], runner, badmintoneer
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s