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
as this morning's verbal vomit settles over the current psychotic break with far greater comfort than the visa marriage options, i find myself wondering --albeit reluctantly-- if i need to do the research to discover how the spanish urban myths are translating into 2024 colonial english. i've been avoiding that cultural snot knot since the 2006 flight from the volunteer job of translating for the spanish portion of the disaster industries. they are equally cruel in english and being trapped between warring mercenaries isnae my idea of idealistic volunteer duties. i damned sure donae want either faction's money in my pocket. i need to put my hands in those pockets and that particular strain of germs is enough to make this anti-maskite germaphobic.
the intrusive thoughts continue with little control over which language those intrusive thoughts come at me in, but my appetite has improved considerable. the tightening knots in my gut are no longer producing inconvenient discharge. progress over perfection. . . be gentle with yourself and patient with the process. don't rush the convalescence.
hubs continues in his volunteer position as consulate of this little slice of gringolandia. la profesora currently living in what we hope will one day be an education center hasnae offered any new classes onboard the little ship of fools since hubs took over the yaddahs of the blahs on the other side of the border fence. the classes la profesora is currently holding there are already as confusing as any border crisis, be it across el rio grande or el rio dajabon.. the consulate tells me the visa wedding is off the table. i am grateful he spared me the gory details of that evolution. it is enough to know la profesora is not going to hold more classes on marriage fraud.
since la profesora educamated me on the urban myth that the flight of illegal immigrants can collapse the economy of gringolandia, i have been watching to see how she will collapse her little slice of gringolandia. yes, profesora, you have the power. teach us how to wield that power, benevolent professor.
skip-a-rope
on my side of the great divide, i'm turning the other cheek. god's will be done.
i continue studying ignorance of the border crisis here on the farm. la profesora living in our education center with her growing collection of hoard piles and junk vehicles, is a wise woman who can run her side of the fence in her own manner. my cheek remains turned. muestrame, profesora, muestrame.. ?que va a hacer para cerrar su propio parte por cerrar su propio trozito de gringolandia?
as i let the border crisis evolve according to god's plan, our little ship of fools seems to be stabilizing anew. i am growing in confidence that we will survive the visa bride episode. even if the forces rocking our education center mobilize their revolutionary forces, there will be love upon our little ship of fools before la profesora's forces sink the ship. pues. . . oraciones en curso. . .
hubs has left of his ambitions to be a good marriage broker. beyond that pesky detail, his relationship with la profesora is his to sort. he hasnae been overly fond of the beauty products she has been bringing our future brides, either. the adorable cupie dolls on the super girl cartoons are already doing a splendid job of teaching pussy power. do we really need the kid version of those beauty products on our furniture, etc? empowered barbie, in her multi-cultural/multi-discipline glory, is already on the job, capitalist gringo strength. let's hear it for equal rights. it's all in the accessorizing. don't forget the well-dressed visa groom and ella fitzgerald croon. "isn't it romantic"
as all the intrusive thoughts around that weary debate settle into their business-as-usual, magic seems to be happening between hubs and i. he has actually acknowledged -in assuring tones- that my previous experience in these issues counts for more than a pussy whip to nag him with. the physical presence of the damsel in distress which once hugged the newer damsel in distress enthusiastically has taught him more than my pussy whip ever did. if nothing else, the younger damsel in distress is much shorter than the young-at-heart one.
i love my big gringo's knight in shining armor reflex. i donae believe he could have helped this trozito de basura blanca stabilize into something resembling a sorority girl without that reflex. imitating a sorority girl still isnae on my list of ambitions, but the natural warrior in me really digs the camouflage. even gooder than the military camouflage that is all the fashion rage this season. or was that last season? do i care? the camouflage of assumption doesn't shift with the latest greatest from the catwalk.
pasos chicos, fe grande y oraciones siempre. . .
and the beat goes on. . .
we see what grows. . .
i'm just metaphoring around when i say i am listening for the quiet voice. my quiet voice doesn't speak in words, though it's machine translators are still gooder than google's.
the visa bride drama continues. . . i find myself ready for another boycott of my fourth language. yea, it's the second dominant language of the americas (plural intended), but it is not subject to the first amendment of my country's civil rights. i reckon i could make a court case for that freedom of speech, but i'm busy catching up on my domestic chores and have other places i would prefer to invest my economic share of gringolandia.
sigh. . . how much of a capitalistic cunt am i to feel most annoyed with hubby's manly shrug at the extra domestic chores. my 69 year young balance isn't quite as young as my smokey heart. my personal preference would have been to hire a new cleaning service the day after the princess party, but my noble man wants his regular back, especially since she cried on his shoulder before the princess party. probably several times since.
prior to the current immigrant crisis, hubs had agreed we should gift the pirate's den to my best beloved sis who moved there in 2020 to take care of the homeowner details. yes, the same sister who made special arrangements to provide geezer care for the sister she was caregiver for to rescue us during the covid yaddah blahs. best beloved sis had the paperwork ready to roll just before the visa bride drama arose. is it a silver lining in the immigration cloud that he has been too busy to carry through on that pesky detail? just wondering.
letting god lead the dance.
virtual (adjective as in in essence)
Weak matches (from thesarius.com)
basic
constructive
essential
fundamental
implicit
implied
in all but name
in conduct
in effect
in practice
indirect
potential
practical
pragmatic
tacit
unacknowledged
------------end quote---------------
even my blood sibs who prefer the family forgive-and-forget tradition remember me as a walking dictionary. i am nearly ready to trust the memory that i had several dictionaries memorized before my misbehaving tonuge could reliably form sentences. decades later, i still have difficulty communicating my bizarre brain waves and often resort to synonyms and antonyms to communicate. weak matches are all my digital thesarius has to offer for "virtual," but i've worked with less. for sure, my virtual patience is at a breaking point. i find myself cussing like a child prostitute at the virtual ops.
upgrades in progress. . .