Recently I read a short screenplay I wrote about four years ago. I named it "1216" mainly because that was the day I thought I met Solly, a guy I used to like. Well, I made a mistake. I met him on December 18, 2005, not the 16th, and that was also the date I started a blog at Xanga.com. A lot happened there.
I remember in college, I read a short story in Professor Anderson's American Short Fiction class; in it, the author writes that people forget years and remember moments. This is certainly true for me.
This is a story, told the way you say stories should be told: Somebody grew up, fell in love, and spent a winter with her lover in the country. This, of course, is the barest outline, and futile to discuss. It's as pointless as throwing birdseed on the ground while the snow still falls fast. Who expects small things to survive when even the largest get lost? People forget years and remember moments. Seconds and symbols are left to sum things up: the black shroud over the pool. Love, in its shortest form, becomes a word. What I remember about all that time is one winter. The snow. Even now, saying "snow," my lips move so that they kiss the air. (Ann Beattie "Snow")When I am confused, I like to open my right palm and read it religiously. The lines dance stories for me. I enjoy spending hours deciphering them. Yet today I seem to have come to an inconclusive conclusion again.
Yes, I believe there are "emotionally charged" words. My heart stirs too when I see them.
