Drifting across a sea of words
As always, I love and find myself in reading. Words are as indispensable to me as air, as food or water or sleep. I find what I feel in the writing of others, gaze quietly travelling across a page and I fall entirely upon a phrase that is how I feel about him, or a truth just realised, or a light shining on something I didn't know but instantly recognise. A shared knowing between the author and myself, and perhaps for you too.
This small corner of my website was going to be updates from my life, work related things, and it was unimaginatively titled 'News'. I don't have any "big" news right now, no new publications to announce, no news on the marking of my thesis, no other career news I can casually drop whilst doing excited jazz hands around it. But what I do have is day after day. Moments of joy. Being taken by breathless surprise. Learning patience and wisdom in small measures from the multicolour riot of emotions that course through me.
I want to write these colours across the page. I will write fragments, long stories. I will share pictures, quotes. I want to, and intend to, live in everything. I want to find a way to weave my fashion thoughts in with my writing, myself, my stories. To weave together professional and personal, and isn't that what my research is all about anyway? So here I will write myself though the breaths and glances, in the unexpected absences, in the longing and the finding and the hunger of being alive. Hi. Welcome.
Here is a glass of all I want for you. Open your eyes. See how it swells with so much want and possibility, how it threatens to shatter but holds steady and strong. Close your eyes. Drink.
And in the voice of Jeanette Winterson, some thoughts on the precious, vital, necessary power of language via BrainPickings:
For me, language is a freedom. As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience, and it worries me that more and more people are learning not to use language; they’re giving in to the banalities of the television media and shrinking their vocabulary, shrinking their own way of using this fabulous tool that human beings have refined over so many centuries into this extremely sensitive instrument. I don’t want to make it crude, I don’t want to make it into shopping-list language, I don’t want to make it into simply an exchange of information: I want to make it into the subtle, emotional, intellectual, freeing thing that it is and that it can be.
And from G. K. Chesterton, familiar and foreign figure who is, for me, interwoven with another familiar and foreign friend, this:
The center of every man’s existence is a dream. Death, disease, insanity, are merely material accidents, like a toothache or a twisted ankle. That these brutal forces always besiege and often capture the citadel does not prove that they are the citadel.