the heel press

The power of speech may be the most dynamic and influential realization ever manifested within the human race. Nations have been built upon it; wars have spawned from it; politics swears by it; religions amass by it. The power of speech can disillusion (Google Hitler), it can inspire (read Hemingway), and it can uncover stupidity (listen to anything Bush says). The words of today have been spoken yesterday and they will be heard tomorrow; mostly to achieve the same goals. Words have become, or have always been, the most powerful form of expression.

And that, my friends, is where the tragedy unfolds. It is the Shakespearian ACT III of our current lives.

Are we nothing without words? Quite possibly, but to deprive yourself of the ability to communicate through words is to awaken a hibernating passion that you never thought could exist within. There is something so pure and innately beautiful about being completely stripped of the ability to speak. In the routine of life, such beauty is so discrete that it is barely recognizable; it quietly lingers within all of us, waiting to be noticed, waiting for recognition.

Sicily, Italy
I had been seeing her in passing every day for nearly two weeks. I was even standing close enough to her at one time to hear her speak. I did not understand what she was saying because she spoke Italian; a strong and old Sicilian dialect. I knew she didn't understand an iota of English and she knew the same about me. It is just something that is naturally understood; our facial expressions can tell all. Our eyes would meet with such resilience that an observer could trace with his finger the invisible line connecting her eyes to mine. I felt alive again. I had almost forgotten the feeling. I knew then why I had to leave home.

This particular day was different. I was feeling slightly more confident than usual and it appeared that she shared a similar confidence; perhaps something that built with time. She was alone and so was I. As I walked toward her, our eyes remained loyal to each other, like an elderly couple who still walk together after a lifetime of marriage. I was just in front of her now. I grabbed her hand. That feeling was so god damn strong. I touched for the first time. We both knew what was going to happen... We stepped back, floated back down to reality, smiled softly and walked away. I left Sicily the next day.

Every writer should know when the subject matter he dwells upon exceeds his talent to describe it. I do. So, I will allow the poet Saul Williams to do it for me: It was a "kiss that confirms that the universe is aligned, that the world's greatest resource is love, and maybe even that God is a woman." It was "pure psychedelic inebriation."

When there is an inability to produce words that convey any understood meaning, the previously neglected senses of the human body are significantly enhanced. The sense of touch, hearing, taste, smell, and sight awaken full of vibrancy; a vibrancy unique because for so long it has been caged and repressed. It is a feeling that we may slightly stumble upon every so often in our normal lives, just enough to know that it exists but clueless when it comes to making sense of it. Only when you can eliminate the possibility of communicating through words do you begin to truly communicate. The lack of words gives rise to the beauty in simple acts: a movement, a touch, a smile. It is a feeling lost in translation but slightly still pulsating within certain experiences. The last real experience humans have had is virtually impossible to remember: a mother and her newborn sharing that sensual connection, communicating clearly and passionately without any words.

Perhaps there is a reason we can not remember that feeling. Perhaps the very memory of such experience is enough for some to remain content, but we must learn to search for it, and we must embrace it. I have just now learned how to speak. I will never leave here, and only when I begin to understand the native language will I move to a new place.