what to say

You don't have anything to say, right? So you look at the space available for a castle or a hut and you think, I could speak any sort of structure into existence, then walk inside and look around, spy on the people who live there, sniff what's cooking on the stove, scoop up the cat and rub its head, then lie down on the bed and wait for him or her or them or it -- who lives in this house -- to step in and lie down. Lie right down beside.

But ... neh ... that's kinda creepy. Kinda creepy, yeh? Walking into an imaginary house, poking around, ending up on the bed where something unmentionable could happen.

Something you wouldn't want to talk about if you could, tongue all tied up with a leather strap and buckles or numb with novacaine, the room spinning like a vinyl single at 12 rpm. There are all sorts of things not to talk about.

It's better that way. Holding your tongue. Submissive tongue. Yours a language with no word for that anyway, no word for what you don't want to say so can't think, can't think about anyway, a notion you can't entertain because you have no place to do entertaining. The revolution is the turning of the room. Just when you thought the door was available, a door you could get to if you could get off the bed, a door you step through to begin the journey, the journey ready to take you to the new land, the land where words for what you can't say are waiting ready on shelves in haberdasheries and drugstores.

Just when you thought you saw it, already open a crack, the door has rotated away and all you face is wall. Maybe there's a picture on the wall. But what of?