alley highway path street trail road
[way] + + + + + +
[backs of buildings] + - +/- - - -
[government] - + +/- +/- +/- +/-
[intersections] +/- - - + - +/-
[wilderness] - +/- +/- - + +/-
[made for cars] +/- + - + - +
[way]=the features these terms share: strips of land, width shorter than length, which one can travel upon.
English doesn’t like two words to mean the exact same thing. They become magnetized. Slowly repel each other across sentences in separate rooms in separate towns in the same tongue in different mouths. Then, they warp and alter—a fish growing to the size of its bowl. A fish changing sex when the local males have left. My path, my street, my road, my alley. I own nothing, and yet I own these sentences as traffic in my mind. They own themselves as separate via words’ talent for singularity. For being multiple as roads, alleys, highways, paths, streets, trails. This is how the language owns us: by being specific and general enough to trick us into choosing a way.
Semantic Analysis: Ways
by Jennifer Kronovet
above/ground press broadside #330