The following is meant to be an addendum to my previously posted essay, “The Woods and I, and Her.” A lipogram is a form of writing in which a certain letter or group of letters is suppressed. In this case, I suppressed the letter E. Writing it was enjoyable—for the first ten hours or so.
I was amidst autumn’s full glory. During a gradual transition in my town’s visual backdrop, that distinctly rich viridian color of spring was transforming into a brilliant gold. Fall, an annual occasion promising natural and satisfying tranquility, spurs my mind to think in privacy. But this fall I was always with Caitlin, walking on trails winding through woods and parks. Writing this stirs up nostalgia, for I miss my town’s distinct, idyllic charm. No, that’s not it. I miss that girl who I can talk to without words. I miss sitting on that wood platform with Caitlin, hand in hand, taking in a calmly flowing brook’s bubbling sounds. In Caitlin’s company, words can act as linguistic masks, trivial sounds, falling unsatisfyingly far from truth. In such situations, which almost always occur following instants of surprising bliss, words simply fail. For all I know, I could just lack a good vocabulary. But also, such thoughts thwart a logical, syntactical organization. Anyways, Caitlin and I could pass long durations without talking, that which I could not possibly do individually. Again and again I saw how wrong I was about joys of privacy and isolation. Without Caitlin, autumn would lack that particular quality so captivating that I can savor it still, as I am writing. I could say similar things about any month, any day, any hour that I was with my girl.
My journal, which usually lay in dust, ran into gradually rising amounts of ink—a runoff of thoughts that my mind could not contain. I saw its transformation into a bank of autobiographical narrations and individual ruminations. Flipping through my journal, I know that words, again, fail; all words that is, but this singular “Caitlin.”