Disclaimer: This is unedited.
I am sitting by a fire with tears in my eyes, and a bottle of wine in my stomach. I spent hours translating a ritual, and all I can think is: I do not want to be thirty. I know that buys into the youth obsession society at first glance, but I mean: I do not want to be my thirty.
Thirty is not old. Let us drop that 1960s belief. We have people in their 100s left, and right. 30 is fine. It is the example that one should have everything deciphered by then. I just realised that I actually do love language. I just realised that I really do hate improper usage. I completely hate it. Dialectal rambling is fine; nonetheless, I truly love concision. I love it almost as much as I love this zinfandel.
I think that – counter-intuitively…and, why the fuck do phones have neither the em dash, nor the en dash…- the concision-addiction derived from years of speech therapy. I had a horrid stammer. I suppose that I should say that I had a lovely stammer. I sounded as if I could be in IT by Stephen King.
Side note: I just referenced that film because I cannot make it past chapter three with the ‘faggot’ comments.
I adored my speech therapy classes.
I looked forward to them at Aloha Elementary. I learnt language from a standard textbook. I learnt to speak with conscientious attention to that which I wanted to say, and to how which I should say. That formula led me to adore Early Modern English.
I hated Shakespeare for years, but I loved the sound of it. I did not give him a chance until I took a semester of Shakespeare. I, seriously, took a Shakespeare course at Lyon in the English Department- should one capitalise ‘department’ there? -, and an acting course on Shakespeare. I, therefore, had 2/5 of my time dedicated to Shakespeare.
Early Modern English led to Middle English – I love you, Chaucer -, and that led to Anglo-Norman. Now, this is where my mind breaks in two…because that is a healthy sentence to write, eh? I hate the Normans for that which they did to English. We could have had cases, and V2 structure. Instead of that, we have a messy collaboration of Latinate words without emotion, and Germanic words without ‘couth’. On the other hand, King Richard I is by far my favourite king of England. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine – and, my intimates finally see her name on my blog – is by far my favourite monarch. She is not just my favourite monarch of England.
She is my favourite monarch.
Why are they no good historical accounts of her? Seriously, and truly if one knows of a true historical account of Queen Eleanor, send me the link. I will buy it over buying wine…or tea.
Okay, maybe not tea.
It is six minutes now before I was born.
I am finished with this rambling.
Posts always seem longer writing them than reading: it sucks.
I am just going to post my last post in my 20s, and say this:
I love my boyfriend. I love my Triforce.
I love my art more than anything.
I love. I fucking love.
I am not going to be perfect, for that sounds horrific.
Side note: ‘For’ is by far the least appreciated F.A.N.B.O.Y.
I do not wish to turn thirty, but if thirty is here, I should make it a lovely decade.
All be well, and be safe. All be loved.
-J.A. Victor Wilson @ 29 years old