Some six months ago, I shut down one of my many blogs, Observations: Lest I Forgetand transferred much of its content to this one. I fully intended to put new content here and leave the …Lest I Forgetsite to history.
Truth is, I have a lot about which I wish to opine, and enjoy doing so in different fora and diverse platforms. So Observations: Lest I Forgetis being revived today, with fresh content all its own.
No, wait, no one uses those anymore. People make notes in their Notepad, which is on a device in a virtual application of some sort or other for use on Android, Windows or Mac. This means that that chances that there is a transcript of proceedings or thoughts are minimal.
Of course, a transcript can be a printed version of a text so you can print out the Notepad and voilà, you have a transcript. After all, a transcript is a record of something originally presented in another medium.
I confess that, although I am a wild user of social media and a heavy duty blogger, I do use a pen or pencil as a prelim to my process. I don’t keep my handwritten transcripts– often even I have trouble figuring out what I meant to say– but I use them for guidance when I go to the laptop to type up my reflections.
Once upon a time, in the good old days, when you transcribed something, you were putting thought to paper. Or, I suppose, truly old school, you wrote it down on papyrus, and before that on the cave wall.
There are times I am gripped by what feels like a lingual fantasy. I can hear the words of a proverb in what was once my native, or at least first, language in my head, but I cannot form them. I am unable to repeat them even though they are on the tip of my tongue.
Instead, I stammer and realize the inadequacy of the attempt.
Afflictions of the tongue
What was my mother tongue is lost to me in almost every way. It remains a shadow, a memory that I cannot express. These afflictions of the tongue sometimes feel like afflictions of the heart, too.
It saddens me that the words I should be able to say are stuck in my throat. i feel like I am dreaming words that are familiar, and the dream becomes a waking nightmare of regret.
The words I hear in my head sound as if they were under water. There is no ease in repetition. The harder I try to express them, the stucker I feel. Stuck in an adopted language, one in which I am quite adept; speaking the words of a country of choice, not birth, more fluently than I ever remember speaking the language of the country I left behind.
Nativists would argue against bi-lingualism. I, despite my ineptitude, am all for it. I would love to be able to speak well in both the languages to which I belong.
I miss the fluidity I once had in moving between two languages, the gift of easy expression.