Logophilia (1/1, PG) by TinkaTITLE: Logophilia (1/1, PG)
AUTHOR: Tinka (tinka100@hotmail.com)
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
RATING: PG, for implied stuff. Not too heavy, though.
ARCHIVE: Bluefroggie & Gossamer, yes. All others, please ask.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: When words just aren't enough. Or how even a well-educated man
is struck dumb.
THANKS: Penelopody again. This is your requested fic. Patricia for being
such a giving person.
DISCLAIMER: Characters used within are not mine. A list of other
copyrights I may have tampered with can be found in the notes.
NOTES: At the end.
---
What is the meaning of love? What is the meaning of truth? Tiny concepts
with layers of meaning, of connotations. They are so easy to say, so
easy to write - but they are so difficult to explain or to master. I
find that is how words work for me these days. Words that were among the
first words I knew - those words are now what trouble me most.
Language is liquid like water. I used to think of it as a tool, but I
can bathe in it. It refreshes me, it soothes me. But, it also slips
through my fingers when I need it most. I reach out with my hands, with
my pen, hoping to catch a word filled with the right emotion, the right
meaning. But words strain, crack and sometimes break, slip, slide,
perish, decay with imprecision. They will not stay in place, will not
stay still. They dance before my eyes and disappear most alluringly as I
try to memorize them.
I sit here with a blank sheet of paper before me. I have felt its
texture - its rough, blank surface - and its color. Its warm, white
welcoming space beckons me to write. But I cannot fix any of my
formulated phrases and I am stuck once more.
My body has words to say. My lips have sentences waiting to written
down. I must translate these words, sentences, languages into a
universal language that she can read and understand. Language is a skin:
I rub my language against hers. It is as if I had words instead of
fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with
desire. But how can I write my desire? H.O.W.? Black lines on white
paper cannot contain my feelings. I struggle, but all my carefully
learned words are falling short.
--
"How do you spell helminthiasis?"
Scully looks up from the filing cabinet.
"H. E. L. M. I. N. T. H. I. A. S. I. S. - why do you want to know?"
I shrug.
"I just came across this case about a man who died infested with worms.
I thought you'd know how to spell it. I bet you were a spelling bee at
school."
I am slightly disappointed when she turns back towards the filing
cabinet and continues flicking through the files.
"I was. School champion for three years running."
Her voice is calm and detached. I lean back in my chair.
"How about passalorynchite? Or bardocucullus? Rhabdomancy?
Ultracrepidarianism?"
"Are you looking these words up, Mulder?"
"Would you believe me, if I said no?"
Finally she shuts the filing cabinet and turns back to face me. She's
wearing yet another black suit today. They all have slightly different
cuts, and this suit highlights her elegance while hiding how tiny she
is. She always seems taller in public than in private, and this has
nothing to do with the height of her heels. She tries deliberately to
appear taller, more daunting, and less vulnerable when she's at work. I
remember the first time I saw her at home. She is a different woman, yet
the same. I cannot explain myself. I cannot describe her.
"Mulder, how on earth would you know these words? And if you did, how
could you fail to know how they're spelled? They're not exactly the kind
of words you use in every day conversation."
"I could use them in conversations with you.."
She rests against my desk.
"But that's different. We both have far too big vocabularies for our own
good. You're the first man I've ever said 'leptology' to."
"Leptology: a minute and tedious discourse on trivial matters."
I mutter this definition without much joy and she grins.
"That's right, Mulder. Now what on earth does ultracrepidarianism mean?"
Scully is not only a person of matchless integrity; she is also too damn
clever. She sits there looking all business in her sharp suit and has
just outmanoeuvred me. I am not amused.
"Ultracrepidarianism: giving opinions outside of one's knowledge."
"Oh really?"
Scully's smile is far too innocent to be genuine. Outmanoeuvred twice in
one go. I must be getting old, or perhaps too slow. I try to get back
into this conversation using desperate means.
"Scully, are you saying that my conversational skills should be
floccinaucinihilipilificated?"
That is by far the longest word I know. And long, complicated words are
not the words I want to be saying to her. One of the hardest things in
life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.
She looks cornered. I pull out the definition with a flourish.
"That is, my dear fellow agent, categorized as worthless?"
I love the way she reacts. The way her shoulders shake with suppressed
laughter, the way her eyes shine with joy. Most of all, I just love the
way her mind meets mine. The way that we subtly play verbal chess. I
open my mouth to let these words fall out, but they stop in my throat.
She slides off the desk and looks back at me with one of those glances
that I am not sure about. They last just a second and I need more time
to decipher them.
"So, what's this case about a guy being infested with worms?"
"I made it up, Scully. I'm hopeless."
She shrugs.
"I wouldn't say that. Just that you're special."
"I can tell by the tone of your voice that I shouldn't take that as a
compliment."
Somehow my voice sounds vaguely flirty and I could kick myself. This
isn't the way I want to flirt with her. I want to be subtle and
sophisticated. Classy.
She crosses her arms and leans against the door. Why has she moved away?
"Perhaps you should."
I am startled. But I realise that this is as flirty as she dares get and
I should probably make a move. My tongue is tied with her heart-strings.
I just sit by my desk and look at her. She looks back at me.
"Perhaps you should, Mulder."
Her voice is lower now, less self-assured. I can tell she is scared that
she has revealed too much in those two tiny sentences. Sentences that
float around in the air and collide with my body as I finally make it
out of my chair.
I can feel the unspoken words floating between us. They're filling the
air with electricity. I try to read what our bodies are saying, but the
words turn into solid air before my eyes. Once more I have tried to
decipher, to read what's just been sketched in. Once more I realise that
I need her help.
I walk slowly towards Scully. My fingers tremble - I am not sure of what
I am doing.
"There's so much I want to say. But I don't know how, Scully. Help me
out here. All the words I know aren't doing me any good."
Her eyes are studying me intently. Warm, blue eyes.
"If you want me, Mulder, come and get me. Don't think so much. Let go of
your head."
I chuckle quietly, reaching out for her. My hand caresses her neck. Her
head becomes heavy. Her eyes never leaves my face.
"And that one comes from the most deep-thinking woman I've ever known."
Her voice is soft, yet dry.
"Of course. Someone has to make up for your lapses of reason."
Her hands have begun moving too. Her right hand is clasped around my
jacket's collar.
"Reason? Unbelievable that you still believe in that concept after all
you've read. After all you've seen."
She smiles and then bite my chin gently.
"Mulder, are we going to have a metaphysical conversation about Reason
and other so-called old-fashioned concepts or.."
"No, no we're not, Scully. You're so right."
And with that pearl of wisdom, that perfectly formed sentiment I kiss
her. No fancy words involved. No clever words. Just Scully and I. Just
right.
---
I still struggle, still wrestle with words. I look at her and try to
explain what my love for her means. Like glass, words can gesture to the
viewer, blinking back some distortion of herself. I made a mistake when
I tried using a baseball analogy, I admit that. Likewise, I was puzzled
when Scully tried telling me her feelings via complicated medical
language. I have realised that to try to write or speak love is to
confront the muck of language: that region of life where language is
both too much and too little. It is excessive and impoverished. Words
still eludes me, but somehow Scully prefers me like that.
And here she comes. Peering over my shoulder to see what I am writing
right now. Correcting my spelling mistakes, like the clever little
spelling bee she is. I can feel her warm, soft body against my back. Her
breath is in my hair, her arms are around me. And I feel loved, whatever
the word may imply.
--
NOTES: Inspired by current philosophy (okay, Jacques Derrida, if you
must know) and by reading far too much literary theory. Go figure.
I've borrowed lovingly from TS Eliot, Roland Barthes, Dave Dobbyn and
David Gray. No infringements intended. Long words found at
http://members.aol.com/tsuwm/ (Worthless Word of Today).
Let me know what you think at tinka100@hotmail.com
AUTHOR: Tinka (tinka100@hotmail.com)
CLASSIFICATION: MSR
RATING: PG, for implied stuff. Not too heavy, though.
ARCHIVE: Bluefroggie & Gossamer, yes. All others, please ask.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: When words just aren't enough. Or how even a well-educated man
is struck dumb.
THANKS: Penelopody again. This is your requested fic. Patricia for being
such a giving person.
DISCLAIMER: Characters used within are not mine. A list of other
copyrights I may have tampered with can be found in the notes.
NOTES: At the end.
---
What is the meaning of love? What is the meaning of truth? Tiny concepts
with layers of meaning, of connotations. They are so easy to say, so
easy to write - but they are so difficult to explain or to master. I
find that is how words work for me these days. Words that were among the
first words I knew - those words are now what trouble me most.
Language is liquid like water. I used to think of it as a tool, but I
can bathe in it. It refreshes me, it soothes me. But, it also slips
through my fingers when I need it most. I reach out with my hands, with
my pen, hoping to catch a word filled with the right emotion, the right
meaning. But words strain, crack and sometimes break, slip, slide,
perish, decay with imprecision. They will not stay in place, will not
stay still. They dance before my eyes and disappear most alluringly as I
try to memorize them.
I sit here with a blank sheet of paper before me. I have felt its
texture - its rough, blank surface - and its color. Its warm, white
welcoming space beckons me to write. But I cannot fix any of my
formulated phrases and I am stuck once more.
My body has words to say. My lips have sentences waiting to written
down. I must translate these words, sentences, languages into a
universal language that she can read and understand. Language is a skin:
I rub my language against hers. It is as if I had words instead of
fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with
desire. But how can I write my desire? H.O.W.? Black lines on white
paper cannot contain my feelings. I struggle, but all my carefully
learned words are falling short.
--
"How do you spell helminthiasis?"
Scully looks up from the filing cabinet.
"H. E. L. M. I. N. T. H. I. A. S. I. S. - why do you want to know?"
I shrug.
"I just came across this case about a man who died infested with worms.
I thought you'd know how to spell it. I bet you were a spelling bee at
school."
I am slightly disappointed when she turns back towards the filing
cabinet and continues flicking through the files.
"I was. School champion for three years running."
Her voice is calm and detached. I lean back in my chair.
"How about passalorynchite? Or bardocucullus? Rhabdomancy?
Ultracrepidarianism?"
"Are you looking these words up, Mulder?"
"Would you believe me, if I said no?"
Finally she shuts the filing cabinet and turns back to face me. She's
wearing yet another black suit today. They all have slightly different
cuts, and this suit highlights her elegance while hiding how tiny she
is. She always seems taller in public than in private, and this has
nothing to do with the height of her heels. She tries deliberately to
appear taller, more daunting, and less vulnerable when she's at work. I
remember the first time I saw her at home. She is a different woman, yet
the same. I cannot explain myself. I cannot describe her.
"Mulder, how on earth would you know these words? And if you did, how
could you fail to know how they're spelled? They're not exactly the kind
of words you use in every day conversation."
"I could use them in conversations with you.."
She rests against my desk.
"But that's different. We both have far too big vocabularies for our own
good. You're the first man I've ever said 'leptology' to."
"Leptology: a minute and tedious discourse on trivial matters."
I mutter this definition without much joy and she grins.
"That's right, Mulder. Now what on earth does ultracrepidarianism mean?"
Scully is not only a person of matchless integrity; she is also too damn
clever. She sits there looking all business in her sharp suit and has
just outmanoeuvred me. I am not amused.
"Ultracrepidarianism: giving opinions outside of one's knowledge."
"Oh really?"
Scully's smile is far too innocent to be genuine. Outmanoeuvred twice in
one go. I must be getting old, or perhaps too slow. I try to get back
into this conversation using desperate means.
"Scully, are you saying that my conversational skills should be
floccinaucinihilipilificated?"
That is by far the longest word I know. And long, complicated words are
not the words I want to be saying to her. One of the hardest things in
life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.
She looks cornered. I pull out the definition with a flourish.
"That is, my dear fellow agent, categorized as worthless?"
I love the way she reacts. The way her shoulders shake with suppressed
laughter, the way her eyes shine with joy. Most of all, I just love the
way her mind meets mine. The way that we subtly play verbal chess. I
open my mouth to let these words fall out, but they stop in my throat.
She slides off the desk and looks back at me with one of those glances
that I am not sure about. They last just a second and I need more time
to decipher them.
"So, what's this case about a guy being infested with worms?"
"I made it up, Scully. I'm hopeless."
She shrugs.
"I wouldn't say that. Just that you're special."
"I can tell by the tone of your voice that I shouldn't take that as a
compliment."
Somehow my voice sounds vaguely flirty and I could kick myself. This
isn't the way I want to flirt with her. I want to be subtle and
sophisticated. Classy.
She crosses her arms and leans against the door. Why has she moved away?
"Perhaps you should."
I am startled. But I realise that this is as flirty as she dares get and
I should probably make a move. My tongue is tied with her heart-strings.
I just sit by my desk and look at her. She looks back at me.
"Perhaps you should, Mulder."
Her voice is lower now, less self-assured. I can tell she is scared that
she has revealed too much in those two tiny sentences. Sentences that
float around in the air and collide with my body as I finally make it
out of my chair.
I can feel the unspoken words floating between us. They're filling the
air with electricity. I try to read what our bodies are saying, but the
words turn into solid air before my eyes. Once more I have tried to
decipher, to read what's just been sketched in. Once more I realise that
I need her help.
I walk slowly towards Scully. My fingers tremble - I am not sure of what
I am doing.
"There's so much I want to say. But I don't know how, Scully. Help me
out here. All the words I know aren't doing me any good."
Her eyes are studying me intently. Warm, blue eyes.
"If you want me, Mulder, come and get me. Don't think so much. Let go of
your head."
I chuckle quietly, reaching out for her. My hand caresses her neck. Her
head becomes heavy. Her eyes never leaves my face.
"And that one comes from the most deep-thinking woman I've ever known."
Her voice is soft, yet dry.
"Of course. Someone has to make up for your lapses of reason."
Her hands have begun moving too. Her right hand is clasped around my
jacket's collar.
"Reason? Unbelievable that you still believe in that concept after all
you've read. After all you've seen."
She smiles and then bite my chin gently.
"Mulder, are we going to have a metaphysical conversation about Reason
and other so-called old-fashioned concepts or.."
"No, no we're not, Scully. You're so right."
And with that pearl of wisdom, that perfectly formed sentiment I kiss
her. No fancy words involved. No clever words. Just Scully and I. Just
right.
---
I still struggle, still wrestle with words. I look at her and try to
explain what my love for her means. Like glass, words can gesture to the
viewer, blinking back some distortion of herself. I made a mistake when
I tried using a baseball analogy, I admit that. Likewise, I was puzzled
when Scully tried telling me her feelings via complicated medical
language. I have realised that to try to write or speak love is to
confront the muck of language: that region of life where language is
both too much and too little. It is excessive and impoverished. Words
still eludes me, but somehow Scully prefers me like that.
And here she comes. Peering over my shoulder to see what I am writing
right now. Correcting my spelling mistakes, like the clever little
spelling bee she is. I can feel her warm, soft body against my back. Her
breath is in my hair, her arms are around me. And I feel loved, whatever
the word may imply.
--
NOTES: Inspired by current philosophy (okay, Jacques Derrida, if you
must know) and by reading far too much literary theory. Go figure.
I've borrowed lovingly from TS Eliot, Roland Barthes, Dave Dobbyn and
David Gray. No infringements intended. Long words found at
http://members.aol.com/tsuwm/ (Worthless Word of Today).
Let me know what you think at tinka100@hotmail.com