Speak

Language is an amazing thing. To think we can string together a collection of sounds and communicate simply using thin air.  Just imagine you are using an appartus for something other than its intended purpose, the breathing appartus.  Clicking, clucking, inhalation, exhalation, your lips, tongue, throat all working in sync to manipulate the air and create a sound, We learn from a young age that different sounds mean different things, for many their first word is inspired by their benefactor and guardian; mamma, dadda.  But it could also be any number of other things including sausage!

The first language I encountered was English. Now, I don't remember a lot about my early days but I do remember being curious when it came to certain expressions. I asked about these expressions and what they meant. Then, I would ask why people didn't simply say 'what they meant.'

The second language I encountered was Irish. I think my first words were áran (bread) & báinne (milk). After drilling these words into our tender minds, we learnt to string our first sentence; Is maith liom bainne, ní mhaith liom aran. So, began the long romance with Irish or Gaeilge.  This turbulent relationship lasted for all of my primary and secondary schooling. I think I have a greater respect for the language and its intricacies now. Perhaps, it has something to do with living abroad but in recent times I have felt myself revising vocabulary.

The next language I encountered was French. Most of us have heard smithereens of French by the age of 12, others were fortunate enough to have visited the country itself.  I did well at first, I learned the verbs but something happened. Maybe it was puberty maybe it was the workload at school, maybe it was any number of things but I found learning the language did not come so easy as it had. I suppose once you delve into the intricacies of a langauge its true complexity is exposed. I persevered for a few years, I remember my final exams at school in particular.   I had brought along a document. I was part of a local youth group that had gone to Cologne for World Youth Day, incidentally my first trip abroad and my first true brush with German. My document was a picture of Pope Bendedict wizzing by in the Pope Mobile and a story of how my friends and I, while on an aimless wander managed to see albeit briefly the head of the Catholic church. I went on to talk about how I would like to study at Maynooth.  At this point the examiner interjected, 'Oh,' she asked 'You want to be a priest?'
I was caught off guard. Blabbering away some lines I undoubtedly had rehearsed. 'Excusez moi?'
I was not sure what answer to give and I quickly summoned one of my favourite phrases, 'Ce n'est pas mon truc.' Yes, it looked as though I had saved myself ad my exam but somewhere along the way I had whet her appetite for discussion. She began to ask a series of questions pertaining to the status of the Church, young people's interest in religion etc. I struggled through. The beads of sweat bleeding down my face. I was so relieved to escape. I had not anticipated a discussion on social commentary.

It was during my teenage years I began to take an interest in several European languages. There were many Polish, Lithuanian, Latvian and a few  other Eastern European people working in Ireland. I worked in a petrol station at this time. I enjoyed asking my workmates what different expressions were and I managed to pick up a few Polish, Russian and Bulgarian words.

At University I took German as one of my three BA subjects. If I am honest I chose the language because I wanted an introduction and foundation. However, at the time I had planned to pursue English and History, dropping German after one year. It didn't quite work out like that.  I enjoyed the class and I wanted more. I won a scholarship for a language course in Vienna and my fate was sealed.  I have felt a pull towards the country ever since.

There was a time during my MA when I felt I ought to be doing something else, something more. I was conscious that the job market was getting tougher by the month. I wanted to make myself more marketable. I saw there were Chinese lessons offered by the Uni. I enrolled and for 4 hours a week for an entire semester I learnt Mandarin.  Chinese is an interesting language. It is a tonal language. Similar sounding words can mean very different things.  We learned some basic dialogue using pinying,(Chinese using the Latin alphabet).  We also had to learn some Chinese characters.  It was an interesting and rewarding experience.  As it was the final semester of my MA I did not have a chance to pursue the language, but I might reconsider this in the future.

Here I sit now in my flat in Vienna, contemplating the intricacies of my mother tongue, English.  As an English language teacher, you look at English in a very different way.  Just because you grew up saying things one way, does not mean that is the right way.  Pronunciation problems become evident.  The limitations of the language are also exposed, sometimes there is no translation and no equivalent.  But that's nice.  It's humbling.  As I aspire to become a writer. these students of English help me deconstruct my own language.  I certainly have a greater appreciation for the spoken word, And as one becomes intimate with their spoken language, they get closer to adequate expression.

Beauty in the night sky

In the city I don't see those glistening fires of hope and desires.  Stitched into the rippling velvet sky millions of golden eyes. Watching from the past, ushering in a future, the seam between night & day, today and tomorrow.  Light on a lonely road, when the sun goes and the moon is weak, the stars will the light to burn on. Beauty in the dark, comfort too knowing that countless souls stare like you, longing  & hopeful & grateful. You are never alone with the stars in the sky connecting us all. Conduit to our dreams, shining in the darkest hours, always there though we may not see them, watchful. Sometimes falling, sometimes shooting through the sky.  They shift to get a better look, to grasp out attention and turn it away, turn it to something better.

The plough, Orion's belt & the North star stand to guide us as we orientate ourselves in this wilderness, on the open sea and in this flood of people.
But in the city, all is washed away
Oh the bright lights of the city, flash and blind-promising to guide us but they hide from us the dotted glowing cape of night, the world's shawl that can move and soothe.  Above the city hovers a blank canvas.  Empty.

Sick days

No one likes being sick.
That dizzy, light-headed, blocked, choked up feeling, with heavy limbs and weary eyes, doubled over and hobbling to the bathroom when nature calls.  Sometimes it calls abruptly.  It's not much fun when you're alone and battling the symptoms with hot drinks and lemsip.
I don't like being sick but it did bring with it some advantages.  When I was a little mite things were different. Coming from a large family, it was something of a novelty to be home alone with my parents.  Of course, there were times when I had had appointments and half-days at school but these were full days at home without my siblings.  There were some perks being ill in the past; tea and toast in bed among others.

Just what went on in the outside world during the hours of 09:00-15:00 when we children would normally be buried in our schoolbooks.

Tea and toast in bed and a string of TV programmes unavailable to the regular school goer.

I remember my mother would step into the darkened room and ask if I wanted to eat anything.  I might sleep for a while depending on the severity of my symptoms.  My mother would take the clock from her bedroom and place it on the chest of drawers.  There was no clock in my bedroom.  I could now monitor the time I spent in bed.  I might sleep or doze, waiting until midday before I'd brave the kitchen.  Alternatively, I might open the curtains of my room and read, occasionally glancing at the farm across the road.

In my mind I would tell myself that I would use this unprecedented free-time wisely.  There were drawings to be drawn and pictures to be coloured, however, this plans almost always awry.  A weak mind and body hindered my ambitions.

One of the most interesting things about sick days was the TV schedule.
There were several shows I enjoyed but now I cannot remember their names; claymation and puppetry shows.  Often these had animals.  Some of these shows targeted a younger audience but at this time I was free to indulge, away from the scrutiny and jibes of my siblings.
One channel had an afternoon of classic delights, Tintin and Adam West's Batman among others.  It was riveting stuff.  Once the worst of my illness was behind me I was able to rest and enjoy the shows beaming from the box.

It can be hard to return to the real world after a week or more of rest and nursing.  The comforts of home are deeply embedded as the routines of last week have been torn asunder.  But there are people and stories to catch-up with.  If I were feeling particularly studious, or if I wanted to appear so I'd ask my brother or sister to pick up homework.  There was never any danger of me falling far behind in academic work.  However, gossip and sport were another question.