i'm staring at _____. i'm thinking that there is nothing more important than _____ understanding what i'm about to say. i begin:
"i want you to understallečneunttergamerrüng." nonplussed. my words didn't coalesce. i begin again:
"it's very important that you follorêiglubznåttervistąntce." mild panic. why can't i say it? it's important. before i can rephrase, _____ whispers:
"no, no. no no no, no. no no no no no. no." barely audible, but insistent, repetitive. "no, no." i am at a loss as to whether _____ denies my words or can't understand them, or is fugued out. hair undulates around the face as if underwater. eyes are distant, glazed.
again:
"i really, really need you to harpenkskoðrieffegón..." frantic now. i mouth the words in my mind -- they're there. i grasp them in my mind -- there, there. i won't submit, fuck this Babel. i open my maw again to hurl words:
"...///,/..///.../////,/,/.//"
indecipherable sound and symbols made manifest pour from my shocked jaw -- a gigantic copy of Klimt's "The Kiss" twirls forth, followed by a terrified bat with a jetpack and a stream of cold blue numbers, counting themselves off. 1, 4, 5, 3, 7, 7, 8. my throat heaves forth more -- a torrent of hundreds of ancient hand-bound books flap like crazed gulls out of my gullet, shedding gilt & flecks of gold as they go. i'm screaming now, or trying to. a waterfall, fully formed, rocks and all, cascades down my lips; the sun sets in my throat and throws fire into the sky beyond my teeth; pitchforks erect themselves into words i can't read; my tongue licks trails of moss and bramble across _____; i cough up a cross.
all the while, _____ murmurs, gaining intensity and volume: "no, no. no no no, No. No No No No No. NO." indifferent to my riot of symbols, my attempts to bridge the gap.
a word in my mind: a symbol of a skill. "ADAPT." so i try, begin to talk a different way, but what now sounds are blasts of dissonance betwixt melodies, meaningless arpeggios, discordant scales, bent notes, and here a segment of Shostakovich, here Bartók, here Glass, here a 303 line... sounds turn to stones, different colors for different voices, saffron, tear-slicked black, pulsing magenta fuzz. there are insects between the stones, who turn to static and noise up my vision. all is synesthesia, bliss-pulse-confusion.
& _____ shouting now, "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" denying me! denying it all!
i try to shout! to scream what i mean! but what comes out is an enormous prism, the size of a rhino, spinning, scintillating, blinding. as it twirls it reveals the multiplicity of meanings of each of my every words, throwing out possible interpretations under different circumstances, a tornado of effulgent data, maddening me with possibility and nuance. it is all i can see now, the rotating prism prison, shackling me with my own words in chains of language and misunderstanding. i am a wizard of words, but this spell is beyond my skill.
