Dear word, I love seeing you and saying you and marking you and playing with you and twisting you and garbling you. But I do not like marshalling you, I do not like putting you to service. I like pressing you, pressing against you, but not press ganging you.
Dear word, I am terrible at writing, by which I must mean: press ganging you into organized meaning. But I dislike meaning (the verb, not the noun). I like becoming-meaning, I like opening-for-meaning, I like meaning as something received, rather than something given. I trust planning-to-write more than having-written; the former feels like engagement, the latter, oblivion.
Dear word, I am in a bind, for there are things I want to do that require doing things to you that neither of us will enjoy. I seem to need to bind the word in order to get the word out.
Dear word, I am bound to move from word play to word work. Dear word, I am setting up this space—this space which I have tried and failed to set up before, which I have always halted or haltered—as a space to practice compromise between word work and word play. As a space to explore and fail, to write wrong. As a space between word worlds. As an overly public, overly worlded space for wordsmithing for worldsmithing. As a practice imperfect.
Dear word, I am sorry for all this. Dear word, do not run away from me, not too much, deer word.
Let us play.