Jag har börjar upptäcka med mitt mailande hur olika man uttrycker sig på olika språk. Skriver jag till svensktalande talar jag om jämförelser av nu och då, av här och där, om flykt, melodrama och trasiga minnen, hoppet om att finna något nytt. Skriver jag till engelskspråkiga talar jag om vägen, sökandet, möten i förbifarten, jakt och hur denna plats bara är en av många... jag skriver ju om samma ting, men perspektiven är så fantastiskt olika...Med utgångspunkt "cogito ergo sum" - Jag tänker därför är jag, så måste det väl också vara som så att HUR man tänker också är VEM man är. Man får en själ för varje språk man behärskar, säger ett gammalt ordspråk.
Mjo, onekligen så formas sättet man tänker av kommunikationens regler, som i sin tur formas av människor och möten och kontexen man befinner sig i. Min andra själ föddes och fostrades i Shanghai, där jag lärde mig tala engelska flytande. ...född och fostrad i tid och rum där allt och alla bara var på genomresa, på väg någon annanstans. Min andra själ är fortfarande ung och upprorisk, den ser inga hinder men bara möjliheter, den behärskar fler synonymer för ord som "rädsla, begränsning, reson, trygghet, säkerhet" och så vidare. Men på engelska är det bara ord, ingenting jag förstår eller låter mig hämmas av. Min engelska själ är mest bara hungrig hela tiden, lite bångstyrig och respektlös kanske, men framför allt hungrig.
Undrar hur min italienska själ kommer att se på världen? Enligt Primiana bör det inte dröja mer än 6-7 månader innan jag behärskar språket någorlunda flytande. Får den födas här, på Azienda delle Macchie, tror jag den kommer att skratta mycket, gestikulera mycket, tänka mindre.
Tre språk. Tre själar. Tre skärseldar? Hjälp!
Av de två själar jag besitter för tillfället så gillar jag nog mitt engelska tankesätt mer. Min svenska är ju så fruktansvärt pubertal och gnällig egentligen.
Hur gör man för att glömma bort sitt modermål? Jag tror den själen kommer brinna längst i skärselden, den har ju haft både mest tid och vilja att synda.
Tips uppskattas!
.....
Back on the mythical track of the vagabond - He who travailed must now travel - Another boot to lash out and spin the wheel of fortune, may fortune grace me or at least have decency enough to bury me in a beautiful place! I must recover my strength and my will after too long a time in darkness, and I believe the remedy is to be found in the soil of the earth, where there is grass and trees and rocks and hard work to be done. ...get my back straight and all bones, meat and sinews working properly again... Maybe even a tan while I'm at it! Then we shall see where fate guides me! A backpack, a few changes of clothes, a few good books, things to write on and things to write with is all I need to maintain what I hope to become. Oh, and tobacco of course... Always tobacco! God made a mistake putting blood in my veins instead of tar, I guess he's stuck in routines like everyone else these days, blind to the anomalies in his creation, just another homo sapiens injected on a moving track, dreaming of what he will do with his pay check and blind to the ever changing world around him... 'Ol bastard won't even pay heed to provocations these days, even though the whole world turned either Sodom or Gomorra... I guess I'll just have to keep on injecting myself with poison sticks! If they raise the tarry tax further I shall have to resort to a life of crime, we all need that little extra fuel pumping our veins to feel alive right? It's not even about right versus wrong these days, rather blasphemic survival versus a will to live... And I wish to live!
Farm dog is barking again. He does not like boars, old Percival... It's peaceful here. Every morning I open my window I'm struck by a beautiful panorama of an olivegrove covering a hillside beneath a rising sun. A westbound wind roaring depths and heights, erasing all tracks behind and and obvious paths ahead. Leaving my mind blank as that of a newborn baby boy. If I ever manage to raise cash enough this is how I wish to spend my days growing old! Pretty pretty!
But there's a difference between the settler and the nomad, I know it all too well... There's a restless wanderer in the soul of my kin, there's no way to let her out and even old age seemingly cannot defeat the pull of the horizon... I sincerely hope smoking kills me before my legs grow too weak to wander...
South next, not North!
Hoping for India next, maybe Nepal, Tibet and Mongolia, maybe even China again! Just loose plans of course. Life taught me that he who stares too intent at the horizon is he who forgets the vile rocks and the beautiful flowers at his feet. And I have both stumbled and crushed flowers chasing my own horizon... This time I shall let the rocks and the flowers guide my path. I'm hoping this time the wind is strong enough to carry me all the way...
...South, not North!
Tre språk. Tre själar. Tre skärseldar? Hjälp!
Av de två själar jag besitter för tillfället så gillar jag nog mitt engelska tankesätt mer. Min svenska är ju så fruktansvärt pubertal och gnällig egentligen.
Hur gör man för att glömma bort sitt modermål? Jag tror den själen kommer brinna längst i skärselden, den har ju haft både mest tid och vilja att synda.
Tips uppskattas!
.....
Back on the mythical track of the vagabond - He who travailed must now travel - Another boot to lash out and spin the wheel of fortune, may fortune grace me or at least have decency enough to bury me in a beautiful place! I must recover my strength and my will after too long a time in darkness, and I believe the remedy is to be found in the soil of the earth, where there is grass and trees and rocks and hard work to be done. ...get my back straight and all bones, meat and sinews working properly again... Maybe even a tan while I'm at it! Then we shall see where fate guides me! A backpack, a few changes of clothes, a few good books, things to write on and things to write with is all I need to maintain what I hope to become. Oh, and tobacco of course... Always tobacco! God made a mistake putting blood in my veins instead of tar, I guess he's stuck in routines like everyone else these days, blind to the anomalies in his creation, just another homo sapiens injected on a moving track, dreaming of what he will do with his pay check and blind to the ever changing world around him... 'Ol bastard won't even pay heed to provocations these days, even though the whole world turned either Sodom or Gomorra... I guess I'll just have to keep on injecting myself with poison sticks! If they raise the tarry tax further I shall have to resort to a life of crime, we all need that little extra fuel pumping our veins to feel alive right? It's not even about right versus wrong these days, rather blasphemic survival versus a will to live... And I wish to live!
Farm dog is barking again. He does not like boars, old Percival... It's peaceful here. Every morning I open my window I'm struck by a beautiful panorama of an olivegrove covering a hillside beneath a rising sun. A westbound wind roaring depths and heights, erasing all tracks behind and and obvious paths ahead. Leaving my mind blank as that of a newborn baby boy. If I ever manage to raise cash enough this is how I wish to spend my days growing old! Pretty pretty!
But there's a difference between the settler and the nomad, I know it all too well... There's a restless wanderer in the soul of my kin, there's no way to let her out and even old age seemingly cannot defeat the pull of the horizon... I sincerely hope smoking kills me before my legs grow too weak to wander...
South next, not North!
Hoping for India next, maybe Nepal, Tibet and Mongolia, maybe even China again! Just loose plans of course. Life taught me that he who stares too intent at the horizon is he who forgets the vile rocks and the beautiful flowers at his feet. And I have both stumbled and crushed flowers chasing my own horizon... This time I shall let the rocks and the flowers guide my path. I'm hoping this time the wind is strong enough to carry me all the way...
...South, not North!
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar