Some of us oldsters use language patterns that can be strange. We sometimes communicate with a variety of verbal styles, including those that are arcane, lighthearted or metaphor-rich. The possible difficulty, though: Those ways of speaking and writing can also be perceived as signals that we’re having trouble finding our verbal marbles. That we’ve gone daft.
Some listeners believe that only direct, easily-accessed forms of speech are acceptable. Those of us whose vocabularies and communication skills span decades might be relegated to the demented edges of truth, beauty and the American Way. That’s not what we hope for—we want to be understood and to understand.
This is familiar territory for me. My allusions sometimes hearken back to days of yore; my metaphors may fail to hook others’ curiosity and my invitations to come out and play may not be recognized as such. What I hope would be perceived as enjoyable, shared utterance can sometimes elicit quizzical looks or raised eyebrows.
The fault is mine; I acknowledge that. “When communicating, meet the listener’s ears.” (So goes an imagined adage about the King’s English.) Just because I want to frolic with words doesn’t require others to do the same.
But from the viewpoint of someone who has not yet entered his Daft Days, this thought: I don’t want to be satisfied with mimicking only the linguistic patterns of contemporary jargonistas, hacks or bloviators. When it comes to words, I want to remember how to play, run freely, turn over rocks or spray graffiti. I don’t want to yield my language patterns to cultural similitude or artificial intelligence, losing what could be delightful, wise or hopeful. And I’m certainly not ready to cross into the real or imagined verbal patterns of dafthood/daftiness/daftnosity.
Perhaps the same is true for you…?
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