Words always existed in my life, but more like a cloud than a pile of rocks. There they were, formless in the back of my mind.
One day, I take a fountain pen in hand (this one had been sitting in a drawer for 21 years, so this was an act built upon sufficient due consideration). And I am amazed at the slick way the well-contained gush of watery ink lifts the nib into the third dimension.
Even more amazing: the words lift with it. The words come alive above the paper. I have real power in my fingers: tall letters, words speeding to the right with great intention and force, a word humbled by thin lines and a less-aggressive slant.
The words are altered, as different as a woman with a new hairdo. Familiar words become strangers full of interesting choices and stories.
Most marvelously, it is my hand that directs this symphonic composition.
A composition for ballet, at once wicked and frail, the parts played by friends I thought I had lost, who found me, for it was I who was suspended, out of touch with the page and all it conveys.