Friday, November 13, 2015

Thinking with Words: predilection

pred·i·lec·tion (prĕd′l-ĕk′shən, prēd′-)
n.
A special liking for something; a preference.
[French prédilection, from Old French, from Medieval Latin praedīlēctus, past participle of praedīligere, to prefer : Latin prae-, pre- + Latin dīligere, to love; see diligent.]
Synonyms: predilection, leaning, partiality, penchant
These nouns denote a predisposition to favor someone or something particular: a predilection for classical composers; conservative leanings; a partiality for liberal-minded friends; a penchant for exotic foods.

Before I loved you, I spoke you, I speak to you, only you, you apart chosen, only you you you
Before I chose you, I set you apart, I gathered you like firewood, I collected you together, I placed you separate from the rest, none of those, those, those
Before I held you tightly, I made laws for you, about you, with you, I ruled my interests by you, through you, in you, I gave myself away to you, at you, within you, you you

When I was sixteen I fell in love with a woman I didn't marry, and the one I did marry I was already in love with. Four years before that I dreamed of a girl my age and having sex with her
—not having had sex yet to dream accurately, I saw us from the doorway to her room;
dreamlogic—
and then the girl, with same name with same hair with same height, shows up in class.
And I never spoke to her. I sat there on the floor putting away a workbook, her name throbbing through my brain's ears, paralyzing me with dread.
And I feared talking to them.
I feared talking to another woman I fell in love with when I was sixteen, the one long-haired redhead who rowed for Lakeside.
But I talked easily with the older woman I fell in love with, with whom I would stay in love with for much, much longer,
because she confided in me how women her age valued emotional honesty in themselves and others, and all her
stories about her husband just told me that it doesn't get any easier just because you've done it longer
—seems true for a lot of things when I think about it—
and she also flirted with me and that felt nice.
Twice as old as sixteen now, at least, and I have a lot more experience, but it doesn't feel like wisdom.
It feels like doubt and mistrust, suspicion and reluctance. A lot of my loves make no sense. There's no pattern, no rules.
No forms, no standards. But there's also craving for aesthetic beauty, erotic appeal, intellect and wit, freedom to smile, but not always.
There's earnest, mousey, trashy, calmer, thralling, spring.
She says aloud what's on her mind, and her mind wanders easy over hills, tramples over villains, corners like all lions
She finds her peace in any way, or
makes her ruin disappear. And even then I cannot
say what sort of type I have ahead of time,
except that I have learned
what 'predilection' is.

2 comments:

Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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