I haven’t been wanting to think it, but I’m feeling like the curve of the endearments is headed back earthward. I might be nearly through. Through making endearments themselves, that is—I think they have an opposite, a shadow, a light, which I’ve been working to discern for a few years, and maybe it will be possible to know what that is once I’ve satisfied myself in finding all the endearments I want to make. Or all the ones for now. Let’s leave a window, the possibility of another little curve.
I was feeling this pretty clear and then I came again across butterbean. Not a term we use in my family, but so good. If it were a legitimate endearment and not a fake-Southern thing, I thought, I’d be a fool not to make it. All those good letters! Bright vowels and b’s and all. I looked around online to see how often it’s used that way. I found it referenced on a couple of those sites that are self-consciously Southern, cute-style, bless-your-heart-only-means-one-thing–style, which I did not trust. The OED, which notes many words that are also endearments, doesn’t list it, prob. because it is, in fact, a Southern thing.
But how real? A query in Facebook (about which I normally feel intense ambiguity composed of a, love and curiosity for my friends and family’s doings and b, dislike of and suspicion about the platform and its owners’ veiled intentions and actions, but which is really good for purposes like this) made it definitively clear. Butterbean is alive and well and in use among a bunch of the good people I know. Genuinely, dearly so.
I’m making anagrams now, before bed, usually—already in bed, in fact, sleepy, which is possible only with such an agreeable set of letters. I’ll have to move to more attentive times of day soon, parse out the repetitions, parcel out the lot by parts of speech. But for now I fall asleep with a’s and e’s, their cheer and possibility, their magenta and bright blue, in my head.
And soon, butterbeans, a new endearment, one more at least.
One thing about computers: They make it easy to come up with a plethora of options, and harder to take the time to think about a single option’s merit. I always begin writing an endearment by hand. Despite this, on typing up the initial draft, I often end up with several nearly identical electronic iterations, which begin to blend together on the screen. I print them out, but it can still be hard to tell what’s what.
Thus the trusty scissors, which I have just employed for cinnamon. The poem has started to shape itself into phrases, but their relation to one another has been eluding me. I printed the poem out and cut it into word- and phrase-sized slips of paper. A few rearrangings, a hand-written recording of the result, and suddenly a new option leapt out. Not a change to make the poem perfect, but one I hadn’t seen on the screen.
Was it the slips of paper? Was it the clean, blank page, with title at the top and final word at the bottom? Was it the writing of a slantwise draft in the margin, which is now the only draft on that page? Or was it just that essential ingredient of the endearments (and of most poems), time?
Speaking of time, cinnamon is from a very other one. I encountered it in a post by Katherine Connor Martin on the Oxford Dictionaries blog, about endearments that have fallen from use. Cinnamon is Chaucer-era, and it seems a fine one to bring back. Next in line: turtle (although I am taking the liberty of using the full phrase turtle dove).
And speaking of computers, and vexation, a project I’ve been working on for a while is just released. Forces of Attention, a series of objects designed to help people mediate their relationships with their computers, debuts with series 1: THE WORLD IS NOT IN HERE. You can get a copy at todointhenewyear.net. If you do, and if you have thoughts about it, I’d like very much to know.