I am returning to conversational Hebrew–and conversational Hungarian, Czech, Bulgarian, and Turkish.
Back to pages that flow and sing, sounds of Old English and Middle English, Old Norse and biblical Hebrew, medieval Hungarian and Church Slavonic, medieval Bulgarian and beyond. Weld and fuse these ancient languages with modern Norwegian, Icelandic, Bulgarian, Czech, Hebrew, and Turkish.
How I love language! The sound and music of language ties my lips to the mouths of others. Our glorious, soul-kissing tongues will meet in Turkish, Hebrew, Norwegian, Bulgarian, Czech, Hungarian, French, Spanish, and Italian.
Tours, languages, adventures in foreign lands; I see horizons expand before me. Speak to a live Bulgarian on native soil or a Hungarian, Czech, Israeli, or whatever–that’s a thrill to repeat and repeat!
Dear, Language, I am coming! I tour every year to meet you and make love to your lips.
I see the mountains of Ararat melting into the sands of the Negev, the peaks of Mount Sinai trembling and bending towards the Balkan rivers. Can these visions be untrue? Or should I dance for joy at my release?
I am grinding along the bottom, writing anything I can to fill my daily quota. I practice dexter movement: a thousand fingers fly across the pages as they march to Egyptian pyramids behind a balkan drum with a slavic beat. I torture myself by checking the clock. Yet torture is part of the daily quota game. All this without affirmative action.
Can I fill it? Is anyone out there listening or is this journal too inward?
My confidence is slipping. Otherwise, why ask such a question?
Fishing for the word, phrase, tadpole or stirrup bender. I’m aiming for pure flow. But will pure flow hold a reader? Is it interesting? Those questions can only be answered later–and by someone else. I cannot concern myself with it. But I do. Will I be loved or embarrassed when this verbal flow is read in public? Will I want to hide if a reader falls asleep?
But just because my audience may fall asleep or I may get embarrassed does not mean I’m wrong. In spite of human weaknesses my writing is good. Perhaps people will read it in the future.
But suppose, through lack of confidence, I over edit, discarding jewels, diamonds, gold, and priceless metals? What a crime that would be. Future headlines: Writer throws jewels into the sea believing they are stones.
Pure flow in itself is a worthy goal. It is a stranger knocking at my door. Though his face is unclear he nevertheless will be my guest.