Sprechen Sie Auf bitte--
I have an air-sickness bag and three pages in that All-Star Mead notebook to subtitute as an update, but I have done neither. I have money and the inevtiable thingyness of 'things' that I need to get (like a diary), but I have done neither. I have telephone calls to them and to you to make, but I have done neither. I have a computer and a life to set up, but I have done neither.
I feel we are off to a fairly strong start, here. If we keep up at this pace, then by the end of five weeks, we will have accomplished absolutely nothing, gotten absolutely nowhere. And that will be perfectly wonderful.
If a little progress is made, I must be glad. If only a bit of back-sliding occurs, I must be glad. If the world only goes to hell in a semi-smallish handbasket, I must be glad.
For tear upon tear upon tear, like the world of a Fitzgerald book or the life of a Hemingway character, the whole stratosphere slowly begins to come apart.
I must be glad it is not all at once.
Plans fall through. Roofs fall in. Rain falls down. People give. Floors cave. Love fails. Chances are shot. Opportunities are lost. Bridges are burned. And hopes are crushed. And, despite it's appearence, this is more than an excercise in the English language. That's the state of our lives in an instable world living a flexible existence. That is the tangible representation of an intangible idea which we can only express in tangible ways, such as langauge. Or else, our thoughts would be considered intangible and unrealistic.
It is no wonder language is confusing.
Perhaps I ought to feel blessed that I was given the usurping, ever-complicating, ever-simplifying mother-tongue as the avenue upon which I make my voice. Perhaps it gives some non-evident advantage over the next person in line to becoming Autorin.
Then again, I doubt that somehow. French is complex. Deutsch ist sehr schön. And, British (nay, proper) English is so damn elitist you can't get a word they are saying. And they aboslutely refuse to understand a word you dare speak to them.[1] Yet, perhaps the fine line between their elitistic tongue and my muddled one is not so far - and perhaps that is wherein the blessing lies.
I speak English.
No. Wait. I speak Deutschlish - but only from time to time.
...maybe that accounts for my 'bad' (read: wrong) syntax. That's probably just an excuse, though. My syntax can be blamed on nothing than my fantasivoll mind. Any other attributation is a contrivation of the truth.
Digest that in another language.
So now I learn: I only thought I loved language before.
Sadly, I didn't even know language, then. Heute? I love it all the more.
-Rk
[1] I love the British way of thinking. It's so ... sanitary, so clean, so organized, so official. Just like die Deutsche.
I feel we are off to a fairly strong start, here. If we keep up at this pace, then by the end of five weeks, we will have accomplished absolutely nothing, gotten absolutely nowhere. And that will be perfectly wonderful.
If a little progress is made, I must be glad. If only a bit of back-sliding occurs, I must be glad. If the world only goes to hell in a semi-smallish handbasket, I must be glad.
For tear upon tear upon tear, like the world of a Fitzgerald book or the life of a Hemingway character, the whole stratosphere slowly begins to come apart.
I must be glad it is not all at once.
Plans fall through. Roofs fall in. Rain falls down. People give. Floors cave. Love fails. Chances are shot. Opportunities are lost. Bridges are burned. And hopes are crushed. And, despite it's appearence, this is more than an excercise in the English language. That's the state of our lives in an instable world living a flexible existence. That is the tangible representation of an intangible idea which we can only express in tangible ways, such as langauge. Or else, our thoughts would be considered intangible and unrealistic.
It is no wonder language is confusing.
Perhaps I ought to feel blessed that I was given the usurping, ever-complicating, ever-simplifying mother-tongue as the avenue upon which I make my voice. Perhaps it gives some non-evident advantage over the next person in line to becoming Autorin.
Then again, I doubt that somehow. French is complex. Deutsch ist sehr schön. And, British (nay, proper) English is so damn elitist you can't get a word they are saying. And they aboslutely refuse to understand a word you dare speak to them.[1] Yet, perhaps the fine line between their elitistic tongue and my muddled one is not so far - and perhaps that is wherein the blessing lies.
I speak English.
No. Wait. I speak Deutschlish - but only from time to time.
...maybe that accounts for my 'bad' (read: wrong) syntax. That's probably just an excuse, though. My syntax can be blamed on nothing than my fantasivoll mind. Any other attributation is a contrivation of the truth.
Digest that in another language.
So now I learn: I only thought I loved language before.
Sadly, I didn't even know language, then. Heute? I love it all the more.
-Rk
[1] I love the British way of thinking. It's so ... sanitary, so clean, so organized, so official. Just like die Deutsche.
