Word are like atoms, expressing different properties depending on what other words
join them and form a true compound, or are just hanging out nearby, sharing a few electrons,
maybe, or even just a cup of coffee and a biscuit. It's not helpful to take a metaphor and
relentlessly hammer it into shape, but the ends justify the method, at least sometimes,
and words are mostly harmless and immune to damage by hammer blows. Their
essence remains. Our metaphor is a metaphor, in other words. The hammer is real.
The first person to notice the malleability of language was likely a cave dweller, though
it's possible he had a hole in the ground with a few bushes for cover, or a hollowed out
log. One thing for sure--as he started thinking about it all, he found he couldn't stop,
and the buzzards were soon circling. Eventually Darwinian pressures fell upon the
generations, and a few thinkers emerged who could ponder the intricacies of language
while also keeping an eye on the baby and the food pile. Thus the first philosophers
came into being.
When the internet shuts down it's like a big box of crazy has finally been closed, arms franticly struggling as the lid smashes upon the retreating mouse-cramped fingertips of millions. That's how it feels, at least, and then the world is calm, birds chirp, the breeze breezes, plants grow, paint dries, and writers search for that old word processor they shelved long ago with the little green screen and floppy discs, knowing that a window of possible concentration has opened and they best make use of it fast.
But sitting now in front of that word processor, perhaps a heavy early model, half typewriter, half computer, confronted with that green blinking cursor on the tiny green window, feeling like a World War II radar operator, the writer realizes that shrinking options is really just less, less everything, and even if she can write a few words, only a few, the ink in the internal printer has likely dried up, the floppy disks are all lost or bent beyond hope, so any words he creates will live briefly on the screen before the plug is pulled. Is it worth it? The question of the ages rings clear and loud in the writer's head.
Is it worth it?
The writer realizes that emphasis is flat with type, so he tries all capital letters:
IS IT WORTH IT?
This is considered shouting, the writer has heard, and it feels good, but the writer also realizes that it doesn't capture the intended subtleties. The Devil is in the details, a cliche, the writer also knows--everything is in the damn details, plenty of room.
The writer begins to wonder if some people still are able to post on Facebook. Facebook has always fascinated this writer, so out front and "in your face" with its intent, a "book" for "faces," the circle of friends, ever circling, sometimes growing, shrinking a little after that last outburst about the Tea Party, but the requests still coming, be my friend please, I won't complain, I'm mostly quiet anyway, I don't get caught up in loud public shout-downs, they promise, and then betrayal at the first mention of your mother-in-law's political preferences, when who cares really?
No, someone will turn the internet on again, you know that is true, there is still time, even if things are really messed up and the deep sea cables have been cut, there are failsafes, back-ups, action plans, and so much money spent; people will reverse comically back to their computer chairs, wires will grow and connect like frantic fingers at a windowsill, and people will talk.
