WORD RIFFING

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Sitting at my desk I couldn’t decide if I should finish my short story or work on my new novel. Paralysis. Sometimes to free my mind I like to just think about words. I call in word riffing.

For instance I hate the word grass. It doesn’t do the subject (grass) justice. It’s a harsh word that doesn’t allow for the smell of those freshly mowed little green blades. Grass is crass. Lawn is better, but it rhymes with yawn which is a bore. And sod? That reminds me of heavy labor or heavy drinking as in sot. Dichondra? Now we’re getting too specific and too class-conscious. But I can’t come up with a better word. Mychondra? Too possessive.

Another word I don’t like is lips. A lip is the rim of something: a glass jar, a bucket, or the edge of a table. Lips are for all intent and purpose the rims of the mouth. But the word doesn’t reflect the softness and vulnerability that is human. I think lips should be called plips: a word that intones fullness, anticipation, fleshiness ergo human being. “He pressed his plips hard against her mouth.” Yes, I think I like that.

There is a word I absolutely love. Asphalt. It means exactly what it sounds like. Hot tar rolled over your driveway. And no matter how many times you roll it over your driveway it’s going to crack and buckle. In California pretty weedy flowers pop up through these cracks reminding you that your asphalt is breaking apart. It’s a shame this word can’t be used in a different but more appropriate way. Since “phalt” sounds like “fault” I think it could be a great curse word. When some screw-up screws up you could say, “Look what you did, asphalt!” The screw-up could then retort, “Don’t give me any of your plip.” Now that works.

But what about grass? To find a better word I could start with the color green and its variations. Emerald. Jade. “We sat on the jade looking at the sunset”. No, no. Besides the word green has been ruined for me. Green is now political. If I hear the word one more time I’m going to turn around and snap, “Shut up, asphalt.” Which reminds me I drove my friend’s Prius. I wittily called it a “Pious.” Let’s just say, he didn’t understand word riffing or my great wit.

The car was fun to drive. There is no key. It’s similar to driving a toaster. You push a button and the car starts without making a noise. Because it doesn’t make a sound there is an eerie sense that the car is driving you. For those of us who must be in control I found this disturbing But, I have to admit, it’s a good car. What was my point? Oh, yes. When I floated silently into a parking space, not sure if I was at my destination or not, a woman who had parked next to me was getting out of her SUV. It was filled with two panting dogs and a lot of panting children. I admired her bravery for driving a big noisy gas guzzling machine until she opened her mouth. “Oh,” she gushed. “You’re driving a Prius. Don’t you love it? We have one at home. I think it’s so important to give back to our earth.” She was having an ecological orgasm right in front of me and her kids. I felt used. So as you can see I can’t go with green.

But why not call grass velvet? Who says velvet has to be a fabric? Velvet is lush, and it drapes like grass when it spills over a mound and rolls down to the edge of the street. Where are the rules? And nobody wants to turn the world velvet.

“They sat out on the velvet. He turned and kissed her hard on her plips. “You asphalt,” she snarled, leaping to her feet.

Having just reread what I have written I am reminded of John’s column in which he wondered if writers were crazy. I can honestly answer: Yes.

Chekhov noted that crazy people are just like the rest of us only more so.

SO! Now I like that word. It can be used in sooooo many ways. Plus I like how people use it as an introduction to what they really want to talk about. “Sooooooo let me tell you about my life.” “It’s always about you, asphalt!”

I remember with great pleasure when President Reagan was asked by a reporter how his meeting went with Tutu, and he replied, “Tutu? So-so.”

I blame this silly column on the political season where the words spoken by our candidates never mean what they mean. Maybe these candidates should just say, “Look all you asphalts, read my plips. Grass means velvet when I talk.”

I have to go put some plipstick on. It’s good for a woman’s soul.