Lost in Translation, and Pretty Much Any Coherent Train of Thought

It seems I lost the ability to be seated and write for a while. I believe it was mainly because of an overwhelming pressure to find a niche, a target, a focus for my writing as apparently to set up and run a blog, there has to be consistency. Telling my brain to run on a consistent level is like breaking the news to the Pope that he’ll be met off his Ryanair flight by Dave’s assistant shortly, and that he’s got an en suite at Heathrow’s finest Travelodge. It has all the well-meaning intent of top-notch forward thinking, but quite frankly, it ain’t gonna happen. And so, instead of traumatising my little pea with expectations that break both its spirit and limited capability, I will make it shake on just one small statement of agreement; I will write. That way, I’m not building it up to immense disappointment, or the fear of facing an audience to only be exposed for the crock of shit that it really is, the little bastard. I digress; I will write. Once a month, about whatever topic is meandering about in the fog of my skull, so that the forecast clears up a bit at the very least, and there’s room to rabbit on about something completely different.

Which brings me, rather leisurely I know, to writing as you speak. I write as I think- if I had to write in a professional capacity, I would be absolutely fiddly-diddling-fuckity useless. The mood takes me about once a month- or if something/someone’s pissed me right off (I either tap it out angrily, or knock them clean out, and the first is always the more humane option of course)- and when I do write, there is very little thought, plan or purpose to it. A little like doing a relatively large and intimidating crossword, in German or other such European illegible language, in that I have a good idea what the aim is- write shit, get to end, which varies on location- but have absolutely no clue on how I get there. So I set off on my proverbial wander like a blindfolded Jibber Jabber and see where I end up. 365 baby steps on…….. So essentially, to earn money, I basically have to await the day when talking a bunch of crap is in Vogue. An array of Politicians, Britney Spears and my personal Favourite Brooke Shields (Quote, ‘Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life’ Unquote. It’s unbeatable) have already achieved, so I live in hope.In addition, I completely freak out at the idea of having to read back over this little pile of nonsense. I have yet to read back anything on this page without squinting through the eyes of fear, the rose-tint eyelashes giving a good pep talk of ‘sure Kat, brilliant Kat, don’t change a thing Kat, just keep FUCKING SCROLLING KAT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD KAT OR YOU’LL NEVER WORK UP THE BOTTLE TO POST THESE BAG OF BULLPOO KAT and so onwards.

Which then, led me to ponder the concept of typing as you speak. I know full well I don’t sound anywhere near as pretentious/lofty/annoyingly aloof if you speak to me in person; hell, I’d be a social leper and almost definitely be pushed to the desperation of supermarket check-outs for my daily dose of interaction. So then how is it, that the lower you slip down the social ladder of despair that is the British Class System, the cooler it is to tappity tap as though you’re reading a book out loud. Bad enough that we are now meant to comprehend ‘Safe Dere Blud, U iz ly propa mashed up, U be geddin a ride get meh?’ (‘evening there fella, you look a bit worse for wear, want me to get a taxi for you? Splendid.’) if its blurted out in the street, but now it seems we are writing in the same manner?

Now, can I actually argue that this is out of line. Its an oldie but a goodie-  language changes over time, words change their meaning, Michael Jackson took on Bad as his own and your Nan still goes a bit vacant if anything depicted as bad isn’t actually bad but in fact good, the poor dear- AND, literature has in all honesty always adopted this method of evolution. Go rocking back to the good old days of Chaucer and his merry fellow yokel, and what do we have but entire plays of phonetically constructed script. Instead of holding it up for a load of illiterate bumpkins with a couple of ciders under their belt, we’re studying in Universities and marvelling at its cryptic and historical nature-ooooooh, we’re so intellectual and all that jazz. We’re reading stuff with ‘e’ on the end of every word, we must be so ever so mighty clever. Edmund Spenser used to draw a small frustrated tear to my eye with ‘ His carkasse tumbling on the threshold, sent// His groning soule vnto her place of punishment.’ As a serious OCD sufferer and correct spelling extraordinaire, it pains me to read anything that doesn’t look quite proper. Again, bit of a tangent, but the point-there is one- is that surely ‘safe’, ‘ bless’, ‘cuff me’ and all these other magical words categorised onto Urban Dictionary must have a place somewhere? The whole point of language is that its infinate, and universal. There are no boundaries, restrictions, and there is nothing that can’t be defined into a series of words, either sourced from an original definition or created in that moment to provide definition for something yet to be presented with a meaning. I didn’t think this would be the babbling conclusion that I would reach, from feeling rather strongly about retaining literature and the history of the Queen’s English, to throwing around a phonetic street-talk flag for essentially the entirety of NDubz and co, but I hold my hands up. How can you draw a line on something that has no end? In a hundred years, this could be completely unreadable. Know what made my mind up? Urban Dictonary making a terrifyingly accurate definition to my inane and pointless word- vomit. ‘Academic Bulimia’. I like to at least retain the disillusioned concept of ‘Academic’ in that some of the words are not only funny, but clever and long too. You get me..

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~ by Scarlettice on September 17, 2010.

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