There are some words that make me swoon.
There are some smells that actually have been known to make me close my eyes and moan from someplace deep in my gut, beyond my physical hunger there is this place that understands the smell of rosemary and flour, a soft tickle of a breeze in the mid-summer desert heat, an especially tight harmony all land there and my response is a pleasure-sound from that ancient depths place within me that doesn’t even have a proper name.
(Perhaps its name IS a sound?)
Contemplative is one of those words.
Four syllables whose definition is pleasurable and the experience of it moving from my throat across my tongue and teeth and the sound like a prayer, “Con – tem – pla – tive” bursts forth, almost prayer like each time.
Is it possible to have a crush on a word?
I talk about spreading the word-love virus and I am serious about that. Words are potent and getting more adept at their use provides a power few understand yet. We are at a point of word-breakthrough here yet my fascination with contemplative feels almost like – dare I say it? – word lust more than word love.
Is this why I enjoy onomatopoeia, internal rhyme and assonance? I’m not a big fan of overused alliteration – too ordinary.
Oh, for a well-placed combination of vowel sounds. See what I mean. Say that aloud, “vowel sounds”. Now wait, this entire sentence. Say it! “Now say that aloud, “vowel sounds.” All those round, muscular “o” moments.
If you will excuse me, please. I need a drink of water and perhaps my notebook and some pens. And some uninterrupted time.
You understand now. I know you do.
