The Wobbly Loom Of Linguistic Relativity

If language shapes the way we think, then what’s this rope doing here? What’s if for? Welcome to the world of syntax. Here we’ll see words as they truly exist, side by side, throwing war and religion at the lightning behind an eyelid. I get dressed in the universe and put on a hat that drips with prepositions. It’s on my head, but it’s in my mind. After I put it on I feel bilateral and creamy. Mimicry is a coin that we pay to the gods of combination. Some things are transparent and some things are golf. I know it’s not good for depression, but I do it anyway: create crime dramas in my head. Then I send myself to jail so that I can break out again. And this is what we call linguistic relativity. You can make a gun out of it, or a speculative fiction. Books will give you a more respectable hue over time. It’s the whiteness of the paper with all those black letters leaping around with rounded limbs and hairless faces. The verbs wear a silky-soft type of reticence when they’re not doing anything, but become nimble prestidigitators when they’re riled. Most metaphysical words in Hopi are verbs, not nouns as in European languages. This is why I think we should keep Europe out of this. England’s ok. Call me fickle, but the loom I’m weaving this on is wobbly. Perspective can get a little tricky. But give it a chance. I’m eager to see the shadows lengthen during the rest of this sentence as Richard II enters on a hot afternoon in mid-July and tells us to make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Ok. I’m up for that. Get your umbrella. I feel my legs broiling like chickens in a rotisserie. Here’s the thing: I crave heat all year long. So when it gets here, I’m fine baby. I will retain some memory of the sun’s luscious heat in my bones when winter arrives. Once there was a way to get back home, but that time is gone, and now home is wherever you find it. Make it. Issue it. Pull it around with a rope. But where do we get a rope? What happened to that rope at the top of the paragraph? Did a typo eat it? Texture is a literature for the hands. That includes rope. Rope involves prepositions and has a personality big as Saskatchewan. Even twine. I mean, think about it, what is a thought exactly? Does anybody know? If you look closely at a Viking ship you will immediately notice the magnitude of grace in the sweep of its lines. This might be used as an example of writing. It’s hard to break free of the Matrix. But I’m trying. I’m trying.