With All My Wordy Goods ...

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Jerry Douglas, "Birdland"

Time: Night.

"Trust" is a word with more levels than a good-sized apartment building.

I trust my neighbors not to come over and help themselves to my TV when I go off leaving the house unlocked. Beyond that, I trust them to call the police if they see someone they don't know rummaging around.

I trust that the 911 operator will pick up, if that call has to be made, and I trust the authorities to get here quickly.

If the burglar has knocked me on the head, I trust the emergency medical technicians to get me to the hospital and the doctors and nurses there to care for me competently and professionally.

And if I've been hit really, really hard, I trust the nice people who'll get my body to send it to a medical school, where it can do some good.

But I wouldn't trust any of them with my words. My life and health and safety, yes, but not my words.

To hand over copy to another person, and trust that person to make it better without stripping away the writer's voice, is a step some writers can never take. They might submit to editing, but grudgingly -- and their work suffers for it. Conversely, some editors are unworthy of that trust. They put in mistakes. They change the writer's vision to fit their own. They hand down their judgements from on high and will brook no dialogue.

I've been fortunate enough to find trustworthy eyes for my own work, and to have been entrusted with the task of helping to shape others' writing. I'm grateful on one hand, mindful on the other.

After all, all we writers have are words. We have to take care of them ... and each other.

The Aftereffects of Neglect

Tea: Peach, iced.

Music: INXS, "Don't Change"

Time: Evening.

Today, I met a woman who teaches at one of the colleges here in the metro area. She teaches English as a Second Language to one group of students -- and, in effect, English as a First Language to another.

They're native-born college freshmen, products of the public schools, who can't identify the parts of speech. (I have a friend who specializes in truly righteous rage. I'd like to turn her loose on whoever failed these kids.)

It's astonishing. It's sad. But at least, with enough Schoolhouse Rock, it's fixable. A lot of damage isn't.

Words and Music

Tea: Assam Melody with wildflower honey

Music: Ronald Sell, "Fear No More"

Time: Night.

Tonight's music (on the last night of my first visit to New York) is from the musical "The Frogs." I'm still more a Bob Walkenhorst guy than a Stephen Sondheim guy, but who can go wrong with Aristophanes or William Shakespeare?

See, Will's the lyricist here, although Sondheim did the music. The words are from "Cymbeline." It's the second time I've heard them tonight.

The first time, they were read by John Lithgow, who has edited a solid book of other people's poetry. He read from the book (and did a great recitation of "The Deacon's Masterpiece or The Wonderful 'One-Hoss Shay' " by Oliver Wendell Holmes). It reminded me of Dr. Seuss, which is never a bad thing.

My point? Do I need one? Can't it be enough sometimes to get lost in words and have that be the point?

Cup XLIV: And Reams to Write Before I Sleep ...

Tea: Earl Grey Bravo

Music: Suzanne Vega, "Tom's Diner (DNA Remix)"

Time: Morning

It's not quite deadline day, but the line is definitely getting its affairs in order.

I've an arts profile to finish, pitch letters to bat out to all fields, much audio to transcribe, and a double handful of fictional characters nudging me to move their lives (and afterlives) along.

So ... if I'm head down for a while, present in body but not in mind, don't fret. I've just stepped away for a while, and I'll be back.

But just because I'm pounding away on my own words and turning others' spoken vowels and consonants into ones and zeroes doesn't mean you should sit around and be bored.

If you're in Kansas City, get out and enjoy the glorious fall weather. Go to Loose Park, or wander among the outdoor sculptures on the grounds of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, or do some caffeinated people-watching outside at The Crave Cafe.

(But wait ... I have wireless and a laptop. I can get out of the house, too, so long as I get my work done while I'm at it. Permit me a short Charlie Brown dance of joy for technology.)

Today's story:

Robert Hitchens, "The Black Spaniel"

Cup XXVIII: What's a Synonym for "Argh?"

Tea: Apricot Caramel with Honey

Music: Autumn's Grey Solace, "Falling Sky"

Time: Early Afternoon

It's raining today. Suits the feel of things right now.

Typing the phrase "kill your thesaurus" into a Yahoo search produces this result. AltaVista, same thing. In Google, it's only slightly more productive.

Something very wrong with that shortage. Because, despite the name, synonyms aren't. Words, as with any other coloring/flavoring agent, have separate and crucial shadings/tastes. Use the wrong one, and risk everything tumbling down.

It's a lesson even a word person (he said, looking in the mirror) needs to remember more often.

Today's story:

Fitz-James O'Brien, "The Lost Room"