Words or wizardry

Say the magic words...

Over the last few weeks, I find myself whispering like a madman to whatever activity I’m doing. Sitting at my desk at the office, I won’t be overheard by my headphoned coworkers as I mutter, “save me, stick of gum, save me” or “save me, three-hour-old Sweetgreen salad, save me.” Why am I like this? I saw a tweet a few weeks ago that simply said "Couch nap save me. Save me couch nap.” and after seeing my roommate be saved from tiredness by a couch nap, I find myself chanting the phrase like a mantra, an incantation. 

It’s like what many poets say: words are magic. With the right combination of words placed just so, a poem, a song, a novel, an essay, a line, a phrase can manifest new emotion, a smile, a revolution. A text message can turn a day into a dream or a nightmare, in a few words or many. Think about all the combinations of words that mean “I love you,” like “how are you feeling” or “goodbye” or “brooooo” or “check out this song” or “how was school today” or “I miss you” or “is everything okay” or “yeah, I just miss you” or nearly any set of words from the right person at the right time.

But the muttering: it’s in the lulls at work when the tiredness of my continuously poor sleep sets in and I start asking for salvation from cold brew and nu-metal playlists. It works as well as anything works — I enjoy the coffee more, imagining the caffeine burst through my blood vessels to the raucous drumbeats and scream-singing of the song. What else could I hope for the chant to do for me, the dumbest affirmation in the world? 

I wonder why this tweet felt relevant enough to hundreds of people that liked and retweeted it enough for it to appear to me. And beyond that, why did it stick with me so much that I began to say it under my breath and turn it into an incantation that actually made a material difference in my life?

I like this video from Benjamin McEvoy where he wonders why certain people connect so strongly with particular lines of poetry. He explains that nearly everyone who loves poetry begins to love the art form from a particular line that hits them like a meteor and changes their perspective forever. For me, it’s probably a line from a Kaveh Akbar poem, like “Imagine being the sand forced to watch silt dance / in the Nile.” from “Portrait of the Alcoholic Three Weeks Sober.” It’s beautiful, it’s simple, and it waltzes in my mind all the time, without explanation, never failing to unnerve and disarm me. The line commands me, the line is understandable, the line is an image, the line is straightforward, the line guides me. But would others feel the same?

Benjamin’s theory — certain lines of poetry tap into our past lives. Somehow, a perfectly crafted set of shapes and sounds evoke memory and experience and feelings that we have never experienced and may never again, tapping into something deeper. And maybe so. I imagine another life where I was like sand in front of river silt, another life where the Nile saved me, another life where I was a set of immovable grains. More magic.

And there are past lives in this life. In elementary school, they called the library the “media center” and it was the center of school, with two entrances to two different parts of the school. It had a purple-ish carpet and something like a small amphitheater tucked in the middle. It was one of my favorite places in the world, the place where I learned chess, the place where I found so many books, guided by the soft voice of the South African librarian Mrs. Allen. Fifth graders could apply to do one of a few positions at the school such as helping on the yearbook or with the special education classes or volunteering at the library. Most people applied to all of them, but I only cared about spending more time among books: I loved to learn how the checkout system worked, and to be able to check out books myself when Mrs. Allen wasn’t at the counter. This privilege let me steal more moments with my tomes, more time to read.

I’d already discovered the magic then. The words in the fantasy worlds and spy thrillers I read were teleportation spells to take me to new worlds, to imagine myself as a chosen one, to leave behind the boringness of classes that were too easy and a life that was already fully perfect. I wasn’t a writer yet, and I wouldn’t be for many more years, not really. Yet, I still knew there was something in the runes on the page, among the papery smell and crackles of the plastic covers. I’d been made sensitive to the spiritual energy words contained already.

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Kids have always been making up words, making up their own dialects with those they love most. My family group chat is still incomprehensible with words and phrases my brother and I made up over a decade ago. These spells carry love and familiarity, a secret lingo that ties us together as much as our memories do. And kids make up slang too, which spreads a little or a lot, finally giving vision to something that was always being grasped at but couldn’t precisely be described. 

Apparently, kids these days are making up words in hopes of going viral. They aren’t trying to be magicians, they just want the trappings that one gains when they create magic. If they wanted magic, they’d look more like storytellers or poets or artists. I wish I could hand them the perfect book or poem that would shock them, activate the magical energy systems in their body and let them see language as the miracle it is. 

But who can blame them? There’s money to be made, even if it means slapping sounds together and trying to convince people you’ve created a new hex to make the trees greener and the sun shinier. They see the witches and wizards soar on their broomsticks bewitched with beautiful prose or trendy phrases while hoping to be somebody, “sand forced to watch silt dance.”

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We must do what we can to push back against the genocide in Gaza. Things are only getting worse. Calling your US representatives to support de-escalation and a ceasefire, donate to Care for Gaza, a grassroots organization delivering food to Palestinians, or buy e-SIMs to keep folks connected to their families. My friend Mosab’s family has been taken hostage by Israeli forces; writing a letter to your representatives to demand their release could help.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• PLAYLIST - SchyGuyy - some guy on Instagram had a really good playlist

• POEM - “There are Mornings” by Lisel Mueller - Even now, when the plot / calls for me to turn to stone, / the sun intervenes.

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