my first language
during the intrusive thoughts of ecuadorian crisis which resulted in my immigrant ass returning to its home country, my quiet voice whispered gently, "remember your first language."
???wtf??? can't you speak plain human?
the whisper goaded me back to the years of my delayed speech development. my amnesia therapy had progressed far enough that i knew of what my quiet voice was speaking, but i was far from serene about **going there**. ? ? ?does i really have to remember that stinky people shit? ? ?
"remember your first language."
sigh. . . i know better than to argue with the quiet voice. i can argue to my heart's content and it will continue its monotonous whisper. i strapped on my guitar and began the quest to remember my first language and braced for the recurring mind fuck of having no way to either confirm nor deny the memories which i would find there. lead the way, you g.o.d. gnarly old dickhead.
translating words between the global word banks is child's play next to translating between these whachmacallits and any of the human languages. here in 2024, machine translators have advanced far enough to make that easier than ever. the current translators will run spelling and grammar checks for you with loads of apps which will advance those capabilities even further. alas, my first language isnae listed on the translation options. i'm pretty sure it still runs on the analog circuts, though it wouldnae surprise me much to learn that the gnarly old dickhead knew about even more about digital processes than charles babbage.
my current best guess is that music is my first language. when i begin to dissociate from current events, music floods my brain. i havenae kept score, but i believe that is a 100% phenom. the jukebox between my ears is loud and boisterous. always. the two dots are far from confidently connected, but methinks i have been connecting generational dots when i follow the soundtrack of any given episode into its cultural and historical etymologies.
when i listen to fa's cousin (see linguistic snot knots), ben e. king croons into my brain with his chart topper, "spanish harlem." following that classic gem lead me to pete seegar to victor jara to phil ochs and to a civil rights benefit organized by phil ochs in new york city to. . . well. . . my mind do have a mind of its own. . . ply radical acceptance here. it is what it is, whether i understand it or knot.
over the course of this psychotic journey, the u.s. classic rewrote itself --did i mention that my mind has a mind of its own?-- into the old hippie from spanish harlem. the new lyrics arenae politically correct.
dare i ask fa's cousin if she grew up in spanish harlem and attended that mostly forgotten concert from a mostly forgotten suicide victim?
somebody explain it to me in a language that makes sense. please.
Replies
on the bio-web, an anxiety surge is to be expected as the winter solstice passes and the days begin to grow longer and colder. despite THEIR claim to the top of the evolutionary scale, my psycho sense says that humans are as vulnerable to this natural phenom as any critter on the bio-web. no, profie, i amnae calling humans, "animals." even biologists with fancy acronym strings on their curriculum vitae are politically cautious in pointing out the scientific evidence that humans are animals are, indeed, animals. the academic wars between schools of biological science and the academics who wear their Curriculum vitae on their foreheads remains nearly as fierce as the warring factions currently shouting across the border fences. does it matter which of the world's border fences they are shouting across? in my first language, the debate of who has god on THEIR side is downright ludicrous. even more so for the racial debates which preface the outbreaks of violence between cultural sub-groups. yo. . . pretender. . . a dog is a dog, whatever it's color, whatever it's costume, whatever it's choice in cosmetics.
within my current psychotic episode, the old hippie from spanish harlem is merging with the old hippie i call, "pimp sis." when pimp sis issues her old hippie alerts, i translate that as she is preparing for another coup de tat of my life. bib sis knows best. . . the yaddahs of my ptsd blahs are still slapping that brassier away from my pre-adolescent chest. no, bitch, i don't wanna meet your newest hippie faction. or are they the more profitable rich guys tonight? sorry, sis. my give-a-damn is busted. a dick is a dick and a cunt is a cunt, no matter the clothing style it springs from.
as the warring puppet shows in my head continue their infernal racket, methinks i am going to suspend fa's domestic assistance for now. my machine translator isnae handling the translations well. i have yet to find the app for that. works in progress.
spanish harlem continues to provide the soundtrack for reminders of fa's old hippie cousin. as i pause for a chuckle at the acronym for "old hippie," the chuckle ends with a tearful regret that it is becoming the theme song for the intrusive thoughts over the newest visa bride wannabe to enter gringolandia. no, i amnae going to let myself do the research on whether the eastern european visa brides are selling more quickly than the asian and latino visa brides. that market is far, far to close to my childhood trauma. i still havenae neutralized the proverbial teeth in those flashbacks. they remain stubbornly resistant to therapy. works in progress. perhaps this will be the exposure therapy to accomplish that miracle.
i never did like the lyrics to "spanish harlem." they are what my broken brain has dubbed, "a six inch love song." my broken brain credits the six inch love song for the linguistic snot knot of love/sex. in the old hippie dialect of my youth, that could be translated to the romantic refrain of, "free love me, baby, free love me."
it be the melody which wove its way into my fissured neural net. the melody grabs me by the short and curlies. the melody haunts, as does ben e. king's crooning tenor. words easily blurred. aretha franklins version hit me like heresy on a spanish inquisitor. no, aretha, i amnae going to tie you to a stake, but your r & b style annihilated the haunting melody. rest in peace, aretha. i didnae like your version of spanish harlem, but you are still singing to me sweetly from the tower of song.
in the yaddahs of the dialectic shifting from the music therapy which uses live instruments, including voice, lyric changes have provided some potent mojo i have yet to find words for. the physical evidence between my ears is profound, but still quite beyond scientific measure. neurology remains one of the youngest of the medical sciences. the scientific exploration of our organic hard drives is still baby-talking. be gentle with baby, please. no, child, i donae wanna be your lab rat. i donae like most of you well enough to pay off your college loans, but i am rooting heartily from a safe social distance.
the first clear evidence on my personal, unaccredited scientific measure was the, "the birds an the bees." when jewel akens carried that song to the charts in 1965, i was 11 and still singing more often than speaking. my child prostitute training should have alerted me to the impact that song would have on eaves-dropping sexual predators, but not blaming myself for childish ignorance remains a therapeutic challenge. fast forward to my turn of the millennium psychotherapy, turning my big brown eyes into, "big wild eyes" and connecting the thing called love into the bio-web worked even better than code three pain-killers and anti-psychotics.
i believe i will indulge a wish that the lyrics for spanish harlem were as fit for children as my custom version of the birds and the bees. works in progress. repurposing six inch love songs to nursery rhymes is far from a simple process. so far. everything in life seems to be much easier after you find the formula. marie curie just popped into my broken brain to remind me that finding formulas is often a lifelong challenge.
the current lyrics for spanish harlem
the old hippie from spanish harlem
really know just how to charm them
marked on her day of birth
to know her feminine worth
she'll get down on her knees
to do just what you please
just before she bites
i fairly sure the first old the first old hippie of spanish harlem hasnae ever been to spanish harlem but her hazel eyes and auburn hair sure could rock the costume, as does her approach to that thing called, "love."
the psychotherapy puppets in my head are advising i abandon research into the newest old hippie in the puppet show.
another linguistic irony
my work in environmental science and civil rights gets me called, "old hippie" on a far more consistent basis than the people who call themselves by that cultural icon from many decades ago. one of the translations i use for the old hippie alert is, "arrested development." shhhhh. . . pimp sis gets dramatic when i accuse her of arrested development. bratty bubblegummer that i am in her old hippie costume, i remain unrepentant.
meanwhile, there is a dual birthday party planned for the little pitchers filling up on the current adult dialogue. my theme for that event is a ditty which blurted out of big bro's reaction to the domestic warfare going on in my toxic mom throne in the post-parenting drama of my adult children and their father.
weeeeeeeeeeeeeell
the itty is a bitty
the grump is a lump
the itty needs your pity when the grump needs to lump
so dance with the itty
leave the grump to lump
simply let it beep, beep, beep a-beep
'cause we have songs to sing
we have bells to ring
we have joys to discover
and love to discover
so dance with the itty
leave the grump to lump
simply let it beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, a-beep
big bro seriously rocked the beep beeps. if my repressed memory is serving me well, it was the beep beeps which drew him away from the door where he was crying for mama. mama's reasons to keep that door closed are hers to sort. maybe. that fact might have become clear to her since she was promoted to heaven. sorry i called you, "dumber-in-law," mommy. your calling me monster-in-law wasnae a good excuse.
hubs changed fa's "job title" to "product developer fairly soon after her language skills developed far enough to forgo the translator. i have adored the show of hubs and fa learning how to work together. it gave me hope that the two sides of this hideous divide can learn how to work together. any project will do, folks. can we try projects more creative than building new and improved border fences? i only wish that eyesore on the north american borders was the ugliest border on the planet. this beaten crazy bitch wolf is running out of dream steam.
changing "fa" to "pd" felt like more work than it was worth here in my therapy journal, but i believe i am ready for the name change of my strictly personal reality. "professor y." py is far from the first illegal immigrant to act like she is here to educate me on the wisdom of the country they don't want to live in. does it matter which country? the desperate need to educate their students is a common trait among all the countries sending us illegal immigrants and shouting in their native language that we need to attend their dreary classes. i am still trying to find my sense of humor over the py who is currently living in my battered dream of an education center. maybe if i give her space to teach her educational specialty? she surely isnae catching on to the environmental classes i hope will find the room to grow them. she is still trying to educate me on how the meat and egg factories run THEIR industrial complexes. THEY don't tolerate chicken shit on their porches or beneficial snakes by THEIR windmills. birds of prey must be shot on sight. give those pesky insects a dose of chemical warfare. the wise ones of THEIR country barely know what un medio ambiente is. they are proper money mongers.
last update, py cared enough about my 3 orphans to attend today's kid birthday party. last update was just after i moronically tried to show her i cared with a group hug. need we further proof of just what a gringa burra i am? she updated me while the youngest of the 2 beloved children being honored today expressed her sense of honor from a safe social distance. hubs and i have engaged in tit-for-tat evasion strategies in hopes of keeping the focus on the lovely young women who have just turned 8 and 5. information doesnae travel across domestic barriers than it travels across border fences/rivers/oceans. all i am certain of is that py is no longer a safe subject between us. he has a visa marriage to broker for the only illegal alien he has taken the time to talk to.
sigh. . .
the children have designated the spaghetti pot as their official, "vomit pot." when their tummies are grumbly enough to erupt, its size and snug lid have served as a receptacle which fits neatly into their sick beds, somewhere before py's last housecleaning, i placed that vomit pot on the back burner of our range top. it was easily returned to its back burner after py washed the clean pot for her gringa burra. i didnae bother to try to explain what a clean spaghetti pot was doing on my back burner. she is here to educate my ignorant, pasty white ass. this student of life doesn't argue with her profies.
each time this bubbling cauldron distracts me from the children, i walk by the range top and lift the lid of the vomit pot to remind myself that i believe the children are our future. let their laughter guide me to where life ought to be.
my psycho senses donae believe she will show today. just guessing. . . as always, the reasons for the pattern of evasive maneuvers are hers to sort. we see what grows. let god lead the dance.
for now. . .
beep beep beep a=beep.
dance with the itty and leave the grump to lump.
girl howdy, my head hurts. my academically ignorant theory is that the language files are fissuring. no, i donae believe i'll try again to run the theory by any of the acronymned experts. i remain fairly certain they will only repeat their efforts to throw pills at the problem.
a solution which has bubbled out of my safe social distance is tapping the sore spots. it provides relief real enough for this just-a-patient. i don't argue with lawfully accredited experts any more than i argue with illegal ones or the children i am attempting to teach well enough that we can let them lead the way. argue with a child and you are only teaching them how to argue. it is not my job to educate experts. thank god.
lots of people have asked me why i tap my head the way i do. naturally, they invalidate what i tell them because i lack the academic accreditation to form valid theories. my heavily invalidated just-a-patient theory is that neural pathways run on electric pulses. my neural net scrambles with physically painful results. tapping my cranium stabilizes the agitated electrical pulses.
just a theory from a beaten crazy bitch wolf. don't accuse me of experting.
the theme song for today's puppet show is, "skip-a-rope." it's one of the dinosaurs from when country music was three chords and the truth and even the dumbest of people were still smarter than their phone. even me.
way back when the love of my life was still sharing his poetry with me with natural ease and grace, he pointed out to me that the adults in the charlie brown tv specials were performed with muted trombones. i donae feel safe asking hubs to confirm that memory for me, but my internet memory check for this morning validated enough of the memory to be close enough for psycho work.
as i review the close enough for children at a two princess party., the theme song remains skip-a-rope. hubbies harmonies are the muted trombones of the charlie brown specials.
in our current tit-for-tat skirmish, i feel like he is defending fa like a future visa groom. feeling not fact. here comes the bride. . . big fat and lying. . . do i care whether she still believes the illegal immigrants in **my** country are better than the illegals in **her** country? it's not my job to educate professors of any validation.
skip-a-rope appears to be acquiring new lyrics. . .
this morning i feel far from capable from the trivial pursuit of whether the dajabon river carries the nickname, "massacre river" in spanish, as well.
god please send us a better way.
just praying. . .
healing hopes for all.
no exceptions.
cheat on your taxes, don't be a fool
now what was that you said about a golden rule
skip a rope
i put the metaphorical vomit while back into the space reserved for the spaghetti pot while cleaning the remnants of the good-enough-for-precious-princesses party. it's time to get the kids off to the first day of school after winter vacay. i having trouble keeping my mask on.
i returned the vomit pot to yesterday's place next to the trash can in my smoke easy/quiet corner.
i still have another 30 minutes before show time. my wife sense is still hearing muted trombones from the master bedroom the love of my life occupied alone last night
just breathing. . .
as i approached this entry, i debated whether it was worth investing in the research to remember the name change i gave fa yesterday. i decided, "no. it is what it is, by whatever name."
while walking the guagua to the guabua, i noted that fa's two functioning vehicles were absent from the education center inventory y nada mas. i amnae up for the volunteer task of minding an adult's business this morning, en cualquire idoma. i was busy listening to the children while they play. well. . . only one guagua riding the guagua today. the younger guagua has a dentist appointment this morning. i assured the guagua driver -betcha dollars to wishes she is monolingual-- that the younger guagua would be riding the guagua for the trip home this afternoon.
take good care of business
and it will be okay.
i am quite relieved that hubs was driving our favorite guagua to the dentist this morning time. i could use some alone time.
this morning's gaze into my cracked crystal ball has me hypervigilant for her caravan of translators ready for the volunteer task of edumacating my pale white ass. please let me be wrong about yet another team of educators headed here to inform me that the illegals in **my** country are far superior to the illegals in **their** country.
praying i am wrong. . . just praying. . .
for what it's worth
the well covered piece of my literal body really pale. it doesn't quite match the white on my art pallet, but i am wondering if i should i show the profies just how pale it really is? wouldn't be first time i've gone literal on metaphorical profie asses, but? ? ? nah. . . as all sides of my therapy lines have informed me, i'm not here to educate profies unless they hearts are literally young. please don't ask me to metaphor around today. there is a clear and present danger of my going ballistic on whatever expert wants to show me their metaphorical ass color today.
there be a silver lining in this current shitstorm. hubs is acting like he is in danger of understanding my first language. he is still wearing his drive-wifey-to help face, but? ? ? he's listening instead of driving.
i have moved to the psychic flu treatment. my hyper expression isnae more than verbal vomit. i most need to rest, hydrate and take in as many soft foods as i can. donae beat myself up for my inability to clean my plate. despite the lectures of too many, using food to make yourself sick is the my measure of the greatest waste of all. should i be mailing my leftovers to those starving children in africa? i amnae confident they will survive the humanitarian relief, but i have clinical proof that **i** am the craziest person in the room.
sigh. . .
just breathing is easier some days than others
works in progress. . .
oopsie. . . i forgot to record my soundtrack of the day. the beatles seem to be continuing the brittish invasion.
imagine
let it be
all you need is love
unfortunately, the other songs of the episode are still playing, but. . .
be gentle with yourself and patient with the process.
kermit the frog just croaked in a verse of, "it's not easy being me."
i went ballistic on a group of senior citizens at the ice cream store this morning. the only physically young hearts in the store were employees. the first of them was a rather handsome man who quipped about age before beauty as he entered the store ahead of me. he had waited a goodly while to pull the impish stunt on me. i played along as well as my psychic flu allowed, then bounced my lucky young lady ahead of him and rested my hand on his shoulders like a proper man might do for a frank sinatra waltz and babbled about my need for a role model. his young-at-heart enthusiasm was equal to missus hisser's response to my posting my agreement her insistence that i need help. somebody else, not me. the best help she could offer was to call the cops on my help-needing ass.
all but one of the other young-at-hearters who witnessed my erratic response to the dapper gent bit back their clever youthenisms. the most youthfully tinted of the couldn't quite suppress a giggle when i shouted, "don't y-o-u-t-h-enize me!" but quickly averted her eyes when i noticed. i was surprised she caught the pun. retired english profie? if so, a young-at-heart one. the authentically tinted blue hair ahead of me had her nose buried deeply in the business at hand. they literally young cashier with whom i normally enjoy mathematical puns wasn't up for any punny business this morning. still more collateral damage. the children always pay the highest price. did i notice a rise in the volume of frankie's metaphorical crooning? sorry, my literal child. . . i haven't found that particular volume control yet. may it break the denial of blue-hair's crooning. nah. . . the retired english profie would be far more useful on the front lines of this yaddah blah. blue hair looked like she no longer had the time to recuperate from the hardships of breaking denial, much less come up with a more honest plan of action. the english profie still had plenty of pep beneath her dyed hair, butt. . . even in the einstein hairstyle, she looked entirely too ivy league to decrease social distances from the human realities of her doctoral degree.
sigh. . .
focus, focus, focus. . .
just breathe, hopeless piece of white trash. . .
just breathe. . .
keep on praying, ESPECIALLY when it feels like nobody is listening. . .
while appreciating the progress in the dumb broad show, the profie currently in charge of my coveted education center remains a clear and present whachamacallit. project delay? profie of the immigrant issues en **mi** pais. well. . . her dominican slice of that shit pie isn't the only slice of the pie, but ? ? ? profies are notoriously hard to educate. ya either buy the lecture or you don't. the student is under no obligation to explain their decision to the all-knowing profie.
my timeline is currently a mess, but methinks it was a week ago that profie performed her last swabbed the decks here on my little ship of fools. better a dirty deck than dirty minds. while she was attempting to update hubby on the details of the pending visa marriage, she shifted into the business-as-usual of having me translate for the parts her knight in shining armor wasn't catching from her beginner's english, i cut her off and said, "english, please." dunno why. . . the capitalist devil made me do it. . . for sure, translating for the mercenary gangs in the 2006 katrina cleanup appeals feels warm and comfy next to translating for a visa wedding.
in the psychotically projected possibility that we cross our current culture divide far enough to speak again, i feel greatly comforted by keeping the puppet show in my head in english. her recital of the spanish urban myths is ? ? ? chaotic as it percolates through the grinds of the slice of gringolandia economy she really does have the power to shut down. dare i hope she won't hit us too hard? visa brides are as unpredictable as any s00n-to-be-ex in gringolandia.