My tiny house of language

 

 

hotmilk

Sometimes I feel like I’m going to die of boredom in conversations and one of my dearest wishes is to wake up one day free to open my mouth and let any old thing fall out. Of course, I am free, though I appear not to know it, or as my Landmark buddies understand, knowing makes no difference anyway. To anything. Least of all to knowing oneself as free to say … what? What is it I haven’t yet said or haven’t been courageous enough to say?

There are many times I want to tell someone they’re a fool. Lately, it’s been parents. As a non-parent, listening to what parents say about their children is often alarming and I want to tell them do you realise the misery you’re storing up for yourself and your child.

But it’s not really about being free to tell someone they’re a fool. It’s about being free not to go through the old conversational motions, free to say something stupid, eccentric or seemingly off topic, like answering a question that will arise next week or last week, and in turn, to be said to.

Like my trainer giving me instructions last week. “Do one more here,” he said, “and then I’ll meet you in the bushes over there”, gesturing to a quieter corner of the gym. I was enchanted. If I didn’t already love him, his remark would have done it.

And like Dr Gómez in a new novel I’m reading called Hot Milk by Deborah Levy which is full of the kind of conversations I dream of. Dr Gómez is the specialist Sofia and her intermittently paralysed mother consult in a town on the Spanish coast. Here’s a taste.

I regarded Gómez as my research assistant. I have been on the case all my life and he is just starting. There are no clear boundaries between victory and defeat when it comes to my mother’s symptoms. As soon as he makes a diagnosis, she will grow another one to confound him. He seems to know this. Yesterday he told her to recite her latest ailment to the body of a dead insect, perhaps to a fly, because they are easy to swat. He suggested she surrender to this strange action and listen carefully to the monotony of the way it buzzes before it dies. It is likely, he said, that she will discover that the buzzing sound, often so irritating to the human ear, resembles the timbre and pitch of Russian folk music.

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5 thoughts on “My tiny house of language

  1. I’ve just finished reading this book! It’s been crazy cold here. Minus five at night, so not cold for Canada, but cold here in Lotus Land. I’ve been reciting my ailments out my bedroom window into the snow covered garden.

    Like

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