the last laugh

words are wild. they don't care about you or what you're trying to say. they exist complete and self-fulfilled. sometimes they like to amuse themselves, and that's when they adhere, in such large numbers, to people like me.

people like me have a fatal fascination for implements of magic. and we learn soon enough that there isn't a magic as compulsive as a string of words, tied end to end, and pulled incessantly out of a gaping gullet. we discover this fascination in repose, while the world sleeps, while the summer sun bends to its will the shaggy heads of asoka trees. we read, read, read. till the world swims around us, and words pop out, without warning, in a bubble over previously mundane articles - knife (gleam), tar road (molten), ice cubes (tinkle), sofa (sink), ladle (soup), and so on (etc.)

as with all love affairs, the beginning is bewildering, then blissful. we can't keep your hands off the beloved and nothing turns us off. not even the sorry books that accompany her. bring em on, bring em all on. then turn around and leave us be. close the door behind you.

soon we get more picky. about the books that is; we're just as smitten by the unit of storytelling. big words, small words, words with hyphens, words that follow other words. prime words, that rhyme with nothing but themselves. heavy words, that threaten to tip the whole sentence over unless balanced quickly with airy verbs. lazy words, that just sit there no matter how many furious nudges they get from conscientious conjunctions.

then there are other words.

ones with hidden barbs. smug. ones with fat jolly elbows. ribald. ones that pause unnaturally in between. punc-tilious. ones that are inconveniently apt, sounding so pretentiously arty. juxtapose. ones that sound like the action they describe. gulp. ones that can be spelt in a song. onomatopoeia (to old macdonald had a farm...p-o-e-i-a) foreign words. concerto. rendezvous. cummerbund!

the next stop on route crippling addiction is in-tone-ation. some words are better than others at saying what they mean because they incorporate into their selves syllables of precise aim. prePOSterous conveys not only contempt at an idea, but also some of the sputtering rage it causes. SWirl is the shape of milk as it's stirred into black coffee. LANguid dozes in a hammock, its fingers trailing in the sand.

and slowly, as we, the charmed, begin to look up from the books and increasingly onto a blank page, the magic states its price. much like the chemical trigger in the brain that commands eat! another one develops that demands write! only this time there's no heady rush, no wilful intoxication, no rigorous bliss. this time you're behind the curtains and you can see the strings, pulleys and cogs that make it all go. the nubile magician's assitants eye you in disdain. the rabbit nips your finger, the dove poops in your hair, and you notice that the confetti is recycled, swept up after every show.

not so pretty, and here you must stay. you must learn not only the act, but also the magician's flourish. you must perfect the performance, and break in the dancing shoes. the words lie in your hand, guileless and reproachful as putty. your mouth is dry, your brain groans at yet another regurgitated line. abracadabra and hokus-pokus. pick a card, any card and think of a number from 1 to 100.

and yet, despite how inadequate you feel, despite the way self-doubt scurries through the brain, and despite the tricks that don't come out right, you are always here. trying to make up in dusty confetti, what you lack in stage presence. pulling words around you in comfort against the draughts of slience. effacing frantically everything that sounds wrong, or worse, (oh much worse) contrived. hoping every night that the spotlight will wash away your tremble, the microphone smooth out your stutter.

but the audience misses nothing. and the words laugh hardest of all.