There is a Fine Line Between a Party and a Riot
Most of my words sit like sugar-free mints at the tip of my tongue. Now I encounter athletic words. They push off my restraining grip and climb nimbly to the high board, vaulting, twisting, hurtling through space in showers of sparks. I lurk below, flat-footed. Tame words—cat, chair—wait politely with me on flash cards stapled to construction-paper-covered corkboards. (Overhead projectors may be called into play.) Off the high board comes tintinnabulation! Onomatopoeia! Can I corral their exuberance? My thought balloon lights up. The divers...
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