Third element of the Periodic Table; adjectival derivative of Greek lithos (rock); “made of rock”
Sisyphus with his rock knows about same. Same rock. Same journey forcing him into same self. And now I too have my daily rock pushing me up against a samer self.
What did you lose, Sisyphus?
Myself, I first lost the sense of myself as lit fuse stepping on detonators; my old nickname, “Volcano.”
You lost far more than the yen to rustle cattle. I’m sure of it.
Next went whisperlight sleep. I used to waken if a moth snored; I missed nothing. Tied to this stone, I sink immediately; the world, despite my inattention, turns.
What about your wheedling tongue? Do you miss being able to talk your way into and out of anything?
Strangest for me, the confetti-forming over my words. Now when I see “Follow my directions exactly” I read “Follow my actions directly.” Omniscience now suggests omissions ; in pertinent I hear a lurking penitent and aspiration surely needs an aspirin.
Horrified, in some measure at least, my laughter used to be at those who said biblical cord
for umbilical, or ornithologist for oncologist; who spoke of Tenerife when they meant Tel Aviv.
Such aural malappropriation seemed to me so wrong, and yet no word exists alone. Each has tackle to grapple it to other words, to make meaning and sentence; but each, also, an aura—spokes of aural traceries, so that the cuckoo of ornithologist sits as spokily in its cancer-care nest as does plum with plump . . .
Sisyphus, my tongue that spoke straight, correct, now bends to the roof of my mouth to send the stone down my throat.