To look upon her, to consider her, to be curious about her intent, her meaning, her function, her purpose and the precise measurement of ink that She Is.
Doused upon each page that she adorns, in replica repetition in uniform form
She appears *
Upon re-edition
Upon photocopy
Upon borrowed copy
Upon final copy
Upon precious copy
Upon only copy
Like the rings of a tree to time, she wades and waddles upon the written word, the umpire of interpretive text.
In her finest display as arbitrator, she draws the spotlight toward her form as she do-si-do's across the page, cavorting between words:
&
curtseying
Whispering &
Wailing
Shy &
Outspoken
*
She accessorises the gateway to an island of mystery
Unearthing
Revealing
Cajoling
Parading
that which, otherwise, would go *
She is the perfect, multi-faceted hostess. She is the key to a riddle, the solution to a puzzle, the status to a man, the top hat to a magician, the heart to a lover.
She is an unchanging precision.
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She is, to some works, their definitive Holy Grail; faith's Sacred Heart. She reveals the flesh writhing behind the mask; the scowl beneath the cowl. |
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She skims the surface of sentences. A spirited rebel, she draws between the lines, transforming into a marksman pinpointing the target of that which is nimbly aimed at. SHE IS NEVER RUDE. |
Yet she is no stranger to insolence.
At times she appears boldly: an electric shock on the page that surprises. She folds her arms, all six of them, into the guises of full-stop points
.
Then as insight gains momentum, she unfurls her pin-prick marks, baring flailing arms in the sudden act so reminiscent of Her metamorphosis. Each arm a keeper of comprehension's mystery. Hers is a brilliant display of dexterity coupled with grammar's prowess.
A veritable strutting peacock of the Punctuation Species.
*
And in her parade she reveals the essence of her raison d'etre.
She is Lithe Literary Luxury.
She augments meanings cause, intensifies linguistic conception, complements word's intent and serves with a modest dignity that is not quelled by duty-bound subservience to her master's tongue, a lashing organ which she placates, appends and a-fixes.
She never punishes, neither is she ever punished either*
With as unruly a master as The Word, Madame Aster Risk is an indomitable mark upon the page, a symbol of significance, a stalwart among the feeble scratchings that excuse themselves before they've entered the sentence.
To all literature, she is Revelation.
To meaning's interior, she is Genesis.
To sentence's delicate art, she is iconic, harmonizing form as function's equal counterpart.
*
And so it is that, with a subtle appreciation of the chaos she humours and the silence she augments, understanding beckons.
She begins to twirl, to sparkle, to dance across the page. She pirouettes as she takes aim then fires. A pure virtuosic shot. She is literature's true north, academia's twilight, thought's conception and idea's birth.
Still she does not brush shoulders with ego. She is never too proud to acknowledge her reason for being, for without the sagacious minds that decipher her starlit glyphic persona, she will burn dim and her once fiery tail will emit the dying embers of confusion's reign succeeded by the brutal coup of language.
*
To Madame Aster Risk, this furious flame, these elixirs of light that may forevermore ignite the written word of pattering quilled keyboards and eternally fuel the hummed buzzing of electric scrolls.
*