Language
electrifies me. There is a power to the
interplay, crush and tumble, of words that provides me with a
satisfaction and a
transcendence nothing else (
praise,
chocolate,
sex) can give me. In those moments when I am alone with the
linguistic elements that define language, alone to concentrate on the
tempo, the tone, the way one sound melts into another in the transmutation of one
idea to another, I feel filled with a
power almost
physical, a current that runs through my
body. It is as though the appendages through which I use language (my hands, my mouth) are the outlets and I am the generator, churning away, electromagnets energizing, that converts the
energy.
I am both the omnipotent wielder of this power and the leaf fluttering tenuously under the barrage of its currents. Because the possibility inherent in this discrete combinatorial system--phonemes, listemes, words, sentences, and ever larger structures, from paragraphs and pages to books and treatises--is limitless, that created by those who use it, too, is limitless. As a user of words, I can express any idea, whether witnessed or imaginary, to as extensive a detail as I wish. I can make anything happen. To someone like me (okay, I'm not so great at sports or lifting heavy things and opening the tops of jars) this ability is a treasure. To realize that I can bend and shape the current of energy to express whatever I want is like winning the lottery. Suddenly, I am able.
Yet, at the same time, being open to the phenomenon of language, whether it is instinct or acquired knowledge or both, as it most likely is, means not only that I can effect changes with the combinations I create but that I can be affected by the combinations of words that others create, sometimes profoundly. It is a sort of danger of being short-circuited. A hurtful phrase, a mesmerizing book, a catchy lyric: all of these can, in a sense, disrupt my ability to function. A well-constructed phrase is a joy, enjoyed both by the organic side of me, who appreciates its aesthetic attributes and by the intellectual side, who admires its logical structure, but I can be so caught up in it, in the rhythms and cadences of someone else's use of syntax and sound, that I am paralyzed; I cannot free myself to string together my own words.
In the end, it is a matter of choice. I may choose to be open to this uniquely human mode of communication, complete with benefits and risks, or I may choose to bury my head, read little, write less. It is just like the very basic gift of existence. I have found that I can step out the door most mornings and, in the distance between my dorm and the main building of the school, be so bombarded with sensory stimulation that I am overwhelmed; the wildly improbable has happened, life thrives, and I am here to make sense of it all.