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Array
(
[sid] => 172367
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Signs
[time] => 2012-05-05 08:54:27
[hometext] => Not a true story, just a little something inspired by the captivating beauty of sign language.
[bodytext] => “Sorry to be blunt, but why can’t you speak?” She smiles- either the question has become null through heavy exposure, or she’s found a trusted nook for stowing frustration. Her eyes go down, her biro frantic into the ruled notepad: ‘Been this way since birth.’ Such paralysis, it rebukes the ego- for the world to come through the senses, incite a reaction- and the mouth wants to work, but can’t. But now she’s stabbing once more across the paper- ‘SIGN LANGUAGE!’ Ah- of course. “Could you show me some? Please? I just think it’s amazing”. Strange that, no matter how fierce my thoughts they always protrude as cliché. She nods though: biros ‘River’ then lays the pad down. Emancipated, her hands flutter up- index and middle fingers extended on both; sharp and thin, they jut straight from her with a space in-between; then she moves them out going slightly right, then flowing left as if to manoeuvre the space through a soft meander. And I see it- the verdant banks, interchange of birdsong and the water, heavy with ease; and I feel a form of nakedness as I realise the full emptiness of this- my own language. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 127 [topic] => 21 [informant] => HaroldWilson [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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