smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2006-01-24 07:09 pm
smokingboot) wrote2006-01-24 07:09 pm
Gibberish
I used to invent languages when I was a kid, and it's just as well, cos there are no existing words to describe today; this is what glossolalia is for; I need an invented word to get it across, a combination of syllables and gestures. The gesture entails putting both your hands up to your face covering your eyes and then forming a kind of praying shape which entirely hides your nose and mouth while you rock backwards and forwards repeatedly chanting 'Oeneeng! OEoneeeeeng!' and as the day gets worse and worse, you shorten it to 'Ooon! Ooon!' or even 'Eeeng! Eeeng!' And it kind of means, the end has come and I had no idea it was going to be like this, Or, the end has come and I have decided to turn into a snail.
But OK, all done.
OK, not all done, but important stuff done, email working again, much sorted. If there is something about the important stuff I have forgotten, tell me before I sink into my bath. It will be hot and bubbly, and may be assisted by something cold and bubbly.
Nothing cold and bubbly in the house. Of course. I just had sausages in cider gravy. Barely tasted them. Right now I am the very spirit of speedfreakery, and I must slow, I must stop.
Because I so want a slow gentle dissolving, a flow into the trance-like state I was in last Thursday and Friday. See, to get me back to normal, I am going to remind myself of some of the very nice things that have happened to me since last week. One biggie was a 24 hour conversation with the inimitablecyanidemigraine. When I lived in London, late night chats with chums were a big part of my life; people would just pop round and we would talk all night. I loved it and have missed it. Thursday into Friday was pretty special; sleep deprivation and excellent company are a great combination. Some things are beyond describing, so I am back to glossolalia again; the whole thing was Lalthaia-harim. Whereas bytepilot's visit yesterday evening was just terrific. Some friendships grow and stuff happens and people learn and change, but quintessentially stay as daft as they ever were. It's great. We were totally bappanbokkuba-ba. Can't be good for us.
Other things?
Out of nowhere, a letter from a publishing company that owes me money talking about paying me! This is so outlandish, I must have made it up. Maybe I sent myself the email from an internet cafe in Babylon. I'm not sure anymore.
Listening to Under Milk Wood for the first time; this was the version narrated by Richard Burton. I have used my eyes so much recently moving from page to screen and back again; I needed to close them and just listen. Dylan Thomas and Richard Burton were not a popular combination in our house; my mother, tolerant in so many ways, could not find it in her heart to approve 'words written by a drunk spoken by a drunk'. Bless her, she suffered too much from a drunk and verbose husband of her own to want to hear their poetry; so it has taken many years and a very cleverly thought present fromlarians parents to bring it to my attention. I am glad they did. It glimmers on the ear, and I found myself fading in and out of it like a tide. Any fool can invent language; to take the familiar and make it magical, that is art.
More work. Yes, dull, but so very handy.
And other stuff I cannot possibly recount here.
Finally, my letter to the local rag regarding the beast of Saddleworth Moor has made it into the letters column. Nature seems to beset our community with menace; This week's front page headline exposed the scandal of a 17th century viaduct being demolished by a hoodlum community of water-voles. Man, it's tough, living on the edge.
But OK, all done.
OK, not all done, but important stuff done, email working again, much sorted. If there is something about the important stuff I have forgotten, tell me before I sink into my bath. It will be hot and bubbly, and may be assisted by something cold and bubbly.
Nothing cold and bubbly in the house. Of course. I just had sausages in cider gravy. Barely tasted them. Right now I am the very spirit of speedfreakery, and I must slow, I must stop.
Because I so want a slow gentle dissolving, a flow into the trance-like state I was in last Thursday and Friday. See, to get me back to normal, I am going to remind myself of some of the very nice things that have happened to me since last week. One biggie was a 24 hour conversation with the inimitable
cyanidemigraine. When I lived in London, late night chats with chums were a big part of my life; people would just pop round and we would talk all night. I loved it and have missed it. Thursday into Friday was pretty special; sleep deprivation and excellent company are a great combination. Some things are beyond describing, so I am back to glossolalia again; the whole thing was Lalthaia-harim. Whereas bytepilot's visit yesterday evening was just terrific. Some friendships grow and stuff happens and people learn and change, but quintessentially stay as daft as they ever were. It's great. We were totally bappanbokkuba-ba. Can't be good for us.Other things?
Out of nowhere, a letter from a publishing company that owes me money talking about paying me! This is so outlandish, I must have made it up. Maybe I sent myself the email from an internet cafe in Babylon. I'm not sure anymore.
Listening to Under Milk Wood for the first time; this was the version narrated by Richard Burton. I have used my eyes so much recently moving from page to screen and back again; I needed to close them and just listen. Dylan Thomas and Richard Burton were not a popular combination in our house; my mother, tolerant in so many ways, could not find it in her heart to approve 'words written by a drunk spoken by a drunk'. Bless her, she suffered too much from a drunk and verbose husband of her own to want to hear their poetry; so it has taken many years and a very cleverly thought present from
larians parents to bring it to my attention. I am glad they did. It glimmers on the ear, and I found myself fading in and out of it like a tide. Any fool can invent language; to take the familiar and make it magical, that is art.More work. Yes, dull, but so very handy.
And other stuff I cannot possibly recount here.
Finally, my letter to the local rag regarding the beast of Saddleworth Moor has made it into the letters column. Nature seems to beset our community with menace; This week's front page headline exposed the scandal of a 17th century viaduct being demolished by a hoodlum community of water-voles. Man, it's tough, living on the edge.