These words are beautiful

I deal in words every day — I’m a writer, after all. But there’s just something about Japanese that perfectly explains feelings we have a hard time with in English. Here are a few that I found beautiful:

Continue reading These words are beautiful



The link above lists seven types of hashtag abusers, which one are you?

I seldom use hashtags. Not for any “noble” “holier-than-thou” reason; I was (still am) just too lazy to tag what I post online. I figured, if my stuff gets seen/read, then fine. If not, then fine too. Digital (not biological) determination by way of social media. Survival of the digital fittest. I do use it from time to time when I’m trying to be funny, sarcastic or self-deprecating, but it was just such a bother that most of the time, I don’t. I did think hashtagging got out of hand though when I started seeing hashtags like #fun and #food in posts.

Don’t get me wrong. Used sparingly and efficiently, a hashtag is useful for clariying tone, injecting subtext, playfuling rejiggering text, as the article states — or in my case, directing sarcasm (at myself) and attempting to be ironic. To quote the article, which quotes writer Slate deputy editor Julia Turner, “[T]he hashtag gives the writer the opportunity to comment on his own emotional state, to sarcastically undercut his own tweet, to construct an extra layer of irony, to offer a flash of evocative imagery or to deliver metaphors with striking economy.”

But the article leaves us with a question: “But is [the hashtag] too much of a cheat? A gimmick that stops us from going deeper, thinking harder, or expressing ourselves more fully and clearly?” You tell me.

[image from article in]

Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

“Words” by Anne Sexton. A friend and I were talking about her a few days ago. And then she cropped up again at an interview I was transcribing. She’s a difficult poet to like. You kinda have to be in a bad mood to appreciate her. But this one, I like.