I don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to write here (or anywhere else)--not because I don't want to, but because language is continually escaping my brain. I know vaguely the words I want to use, but find that they have fallen into some deep crevasse in my brain, from which they cannot be retrieved, at least in a timely manner. I am aware often of choosing something that is kind of "like" what I wanted to say, yet not what I would have said had I the usual resources available. It's rather like what one experiences when he is using a foreign language. He stacks things together that will convey in a simplistic, rather childish manner, what he means to say. One is aware of being less than articulate, but forgives himself, as does his audience, because he is struggling to use a second language. But when English also becomes a second language, what is my first language? Well, it's rattling around in that crevasse, unable to get out.
While I was talking to Christoph the other day, I wanted to tell him about the mononucleosis I had as a teenager and discuss the suggested connection of this to the later development of multiple sclerosis (a large percentage of MS sufferers have also had mono at an earlier time in life). However, I could not think of the word 'mononucleosis' to save my life! I mean, I missed half of my senior year in high school because of the thing, was traumatized by this first serious illness of my lifetime and continued to feel the lingering effects long after my recovery, and yet I could not think of the word. All I could think to say was "You know, the kissing disease", which surely confused Chris even further.
This, of course, is just one example. It happens all the time. Words, and entire sentences--Poof! Now you see it, now you don't. In my lifetime, I have been trained to use the proper word, the precise construction--as an English literature major, as a writer, as an expert in healthcare documentation. My private pursuits and professional activities have required me to be articulate. My own sense of pride requires me to be articulate. And yet here I am, peering over the craggy lip of that mental crevasse at the dark waters in which so many words swim.
Poof. Now you see it, now you don't.
While I was talking to Christoph the other day, I wanted to tell him about the mononucleosis I had as a teenager and discuss the suggested connection of this to the later development of multiple sclerosis (a large percentage of MS sufferers have also had mono at an earlier time in life). However, I could not think of the word 'mononucleosis' to save my life! I mean, I missed half of my senior year in high school because of the thing, was traumatized by this first serious illness of my lifetime and continued to feel the lingering effects long after my recovery, and yet I could not think of the word. All I could think to say was "You know, the kissing disease", which surely confused Chris even further.
This, of course, is just one example. It happens all the time. Words, and entire sentences--Poof! Now you see it, now you don't. In my lifetime, I have been trained to use the proper word, the precise construction--as an English literature major, as a writer, as an expert in healthcare documentation. My private pursuits and professional activities have required me to be articulate. My own sense of pride requires me to be articulate. And yet here I am, peering over the craggy lip of that mental crevasse at the dark waters in which so many words swim.
Poof. Now you see it, now you don't.
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