The Taste of Language

I am the words that pour from your lips.

I am “Vivacity,” “Capricious,” “Demure.”

I sing through your teeth, tasting of vowels; long “U’s” and sweet “I’s” that are reminiscent of molasses, or warm honey.

I taste of love and of childhood and of every bitter memory that lingers upon your tongue.

I remind you of your own humanity whenever you take the time to notice me.

I remain appealing to the eye through countless ages; unlike you, fleeting lover, I am eternally beautiful.

I form the bonds that tie you to your world, and I give you that sense of knowledge and sentience.

I am the beauty that sets you apart from the crawling worms and howling beasts of the earth, and from the singing, yet dumb, creatures of the air.

I, unlike you, will always know what to say and how; never a word on the tip of your tongue, only to be forgotten, dried up, and turned to gritty ash in your mouth


I am the music for the non-musical, the poetry for the unimaginitive; every facet of me has its own flavor, its own intent.

I am unending, and without beginning.

And I am yours to use, and to make your own.



The water is speckled and moving

as if it giggles to itself

tickled by dainty pinpricks

that pock its surface, rippling

laughing quietly


tittering about some secret

it shares only with itself

it covers the sun

and makes the green among the grays

more vibrant, brighter than the sun

could ever manage

I would think

this makes him jealous

as he tries to banish the clouds away

just to prove

he can make things brighter

with his hot



But I prefer this musk

this haze over the earth

this scent of clean air

and wet soil

of sweet water against grass

as the whole earth bathes

It is washed clean

and I walk among it

also purified

by the happiness it brings me


An Autumn Night

It wasn’t often the old man had a chance to freely talk. So rare an occasion was it when someone wasn’t clattering noisily about the inn he had one day wandered into, or wreaking havoc through the kitchens. Now, he had the full attention of thirty six men and two young boys. Women didn’t usually come to the bar.

Slowly, as if some adventurer had discovered his mouth a tomb, and was taking great care not to disturb the dust as he lifted the lid, the old man parted his lips to speak. And with a great preceding breath of dust and age, the bent, white-haired, long-faced, time-harrowed soul relayed to them his tale.

The words flowed forth from his mouth in curling, breathy waves, little splashes of sound accenting his consonants and vowels here and there. His countenance seemed to lift as he spoke, hands clasped before him as he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. The language was familiar to many of them, however none of them had commonly spoken in The Old Tongue in ages. The two young boys were oblivious to the meaning of the tale as it spun from his lips, as the language had been outlawed years before they’d been born, but they listened nonetheless intently, captivated and twined within his intricate web of poetry.

And I sat among them as a stranger, not understanding, but feeling as though I didn’t really need to. His gestures and expressions proved to be enough for him to make me feel what he wanted me to feel. And so i simply sat. And I listened. I let the words of this old Bard twist and weave into a stunning pattern before me. I saw it in the faces of every man in the place. Silently I thanked the gods, blessed to have found this delicate and lasting beauty among what is normally such clamor. And still, the old man spoke with fluidity until it was done. Some men wept, attempting to hide it in their shirtsleeves. The Bard simply stood and picked up his cane. The light emanating from the wall-candles flickered warmly against his heavily-lined face. Without another word, the old man left them in their silence.

His words lingered as a song in the ears of everyone in the room.

By one man, thirty eight found connection.

And I watched him go in peace, looking on as the Bard wandered on into the ringing quiet of the night.


Words, words, words

Sometimes I catch myself complaining about how little I get to sleep, and how tired I feel in the morning. But then I remember that the night before, I was up role-playing with a friend, or just talking about plans for later in the week. This type of role-playing, for those who might not know, is a form of storytelling in which two (or more) parties take on the role of a character and, through descriptive text, much like elaborate stage direction, and conversation, lay out a situation and act it out. In this case, my friend and I each have a character of our own design, as the story focuses on the two, and over the past four months, it has turned into something quick and frivolous into a half-painted canvas. Our writing is filled with the colors that paint this world, and these people who reside in it. The universe is our clay, and gradually we mold it to our liking. From what we believed would be a silly one-off like so many of the things we would write, our story developed, and is developing, into its own being, rich with mythos, foreign races, fantastical creatures, and culture. I’m finding myself only increasingly excited about what is to come, where our paths will take us in this new land, and about the ultimate end of it all, when we transfer our writing into novel form. The two of us hope to have it published at some point, and personally, I have gracious amounts of faith in this one.

This is going to be the one, I think to myself. I’ve never felt so attached to a story-line.

However, I feel neglectful of my other original characters; the more well-rounded ones whom I’ve been working on for over five years. They’re just lying in wait for an actual plot to fall in place for them. I started writing an introduction for them two months ago, but then I stopped again, and never really finished. I lost motivation for that track, and found myself immersed in this beautiful new world I had created with my friend. So it seems my older characters will continue to wait. Waiting and waiting until I find the motivation and the experience level needed to complete the world they live in.

For now, I have a world to continue building. I suppose, in all truth, that a world is never truly done being built. There are too many facets to what makes a society to ever be able to call it “finished.”

And so we will write.

We’ll write, and we’ll draw, and we’ll map this increasingly intricate universe until we can truly call it habitable and dynamic.

(I think I may start posting bits and pieces from it. Little excerpts from the story onto my blog.)


“Where Do You Get Your Ideas?”

Inspiration is a fickle mistress, as is Sleep. Yet in Sleep sometimes I find Inspiration, if Sleep is so kind as to allot me a dream. With a landscape stretched out as far as my mind will allow, I am free to travel where I please. Perhaps I find myself with my feet sunken into the sand on Catalina Island. There, I can wander the coast, and up the hills, across the fields, into the kelp forests below, and as much in detail as my mind allows me to remember. The beauty is bright, but fleeting, and my heart aches when I feel I am waking up, entering that half-realm where dreaming and reality tend to blend. The ache and the peace mingle and I yearn to stay asleep.

Here, I admit I am a slave to my own passions.

And because of this, I fantasize and daydream with a kind of wist that comes often to me in a wave of heavy, sudden longing. It dissipates quickly, but the aftertaste of want lingers on my tongue. I think, “I’ll run away. If I find time. And the means. And a solid destination.” And thus, the dream is broken and reality takes hold again with its little reminders of things that make dreams possible in this world; Money, Time, Resolve.

And of those three resources, I am equipped with very little, it seems.

So instead, I write. I write to dream. I write to escape. I write to make the world my own. I write when the world presses upon me and I feel my breath tightening. I write to mold a sanctuary of my own. I write to know the people around me, and every facet of them, exactly who they are. I write for me. I write for you. I write to tell a story, as disjointed, sporadic, and sparse as it may at times be.

I am a writer.

And perhaps an author of many things. A word, a poem, a story, a world. Many worlds, at that. Ambiguity, free verse, and poetry are my tools. And with them I find I can carve a niche for myself in the world. Not the one I’ve created, but the one in which we all live. With Imagination and Inspiration and Sleep as my guides, I can create a life for myself. I can affect. I can impact.

Yet I can only hope to leave a mark.