|
|
|
the archive(s):
issue no. 6:
untitled into./ Ilya Zaychik
We speak of words. We write of words. We take pictures and paint paintings, all in the name of clarity. We want to convey it just right, in those moments at night when all is still and a brilliant thought enters the mind and needs to leave just as quickly, begs to be understood by another. In just the perfect way, too, no bull, no 'do you know what I'm sayin'?, at the end.
But the fact is this. The process is like wetting your thumb to remove a chocolate stain from a white shirt: the stain is there, it is displeasing to you. This has already happened. You know, furthermore, that pawing at it with your greasy fingertips will only smudge it around, so that not only is the point of impact brown, but the surrounding area becomes dark and dirty also. Still, who leaves a chocolate stain unattended? What kind of savage?
You try to say something as clear as possible, but realize it needs a little something extra, so you add a phrase, but that leaves something to be desired, which requires a little tidying up. You do this until you've been speaking for two hours and it's dawn.
Someone looks at a picture; they wonder what is outside the frame. So they make a movie, and then two sequels and three prequels, and now you have no idea what's going on. Where's the original picture, you ask. What picture, they respond.
I talk to people in their second language (English) sometimes, and am astounded by how much more precise they are in their speech than I am. No complex verb tenses, run-on sentences, no bull. Their linguistic limitation proves to be their advantage, and now I sound like the blathering simpleton and I don't even have an excuse. I know this damn language, unfortunately.
|
|
|
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
