9 out of 10 monkeys believe they are not behind glass

As I have aged, I have found that my grasp of the English language has become more and more limited. It has not become limited through some inability to learn, nor has it reduced due to the continual process of age and memory loss. Nay, it is as if my typing hands are often skipping parts of language beyond my the limits of my conscious self. I have a thought, or an idea, some tumultuous free form mindbanger that longs to be free of my limited cranium, and streaks off towards my fingers to be outputted in some form or fashion. But on the way, it looses proper nouns, adverbs, adjectives, and often a bit of punctuation. It is like my body, my subconscious self, has created it’s own perverted form of shorthand.

I shit you not.

Like the word punctuation in the paragraph above… it immediately came out as “punction”. Obviously punction is not what i meant to type, in fact, I know how to spell punctuation, but nonetheless, it came out punction. Intentions be damned.

It happens with parts of speech as well. I will reduce a noun and adjective down to a single word, or drop the subject altogether and end up with a small catastrophe of sentence fragments. I enjoy fragments. I don’t know why.

The feel snappy. Really snappy.

Grammar is always the first casualty in the war of translation of thought to action.

Artists can translate well. Hacks can fake it well. Then there are the rest of us, we plebes that just struggle with proper sentence structure, correct tenses, and the occasional dangling modifier.

And what really cranks my gears? Everyone thinks they are an editor. Even though they can barely write a grocery list.

Ha.

I am reading Harlan Ellison’s Shatterday right now, and English is thrust to the forefront of thought while perusing his pages. Just because he is so damn good at writing. Damn good. Makes some authors look like complete amateurs. His language is engaging, his diction superb, and the structure he uses feels like a caramel across the tongue.

I always thought Shakespeare’s sonnets were like caramel. You can’t bite into it and expect a good thing. You have to take it slowly and let it melt over your consciousness. That is the only way to truly appreciate some writing.

Wouldn’t it be nice if everything I read was like that? Hell, wouldn’t it be nice if everything I wrote was like that?