Broken Thought Recorder
“This is untranslatable.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“Got you there, Johnny. Actually, it’s 99% translatable if you think about it.”
“And nobody gives a fuck about the 1%.”
“You’re right, it’s wildly inaccurate anyway.”
“What are you two arguing about?”
“It doesn’t matter!” they exclaimed boldly to indicate an overlap.
I have to switch to English to make writing cool and fancy. I can’t pull this text off or call it reading writer’s digest elsehow. English has different spectra, especially as a foreign language. Would fat courage do the trick and cut the mustard?
Here’s an interesting idea: plant English seeds in Slovak soil. As the seedling wrenches for the sun, only a few of the few clinch it home. Two languages can make you anything between bipolar. Take cars. Chopping your little finger may seem a little too much or plain wrong but their inaccessible and, consequently, inescapable appeal basks at the point of no return.
The writer is oblivious to everything but the present moment. Everything could be approximated to the history of art. Anything fancy is sheer luck. Sheer luck could be approximated to coincidence driven by intuition.
Nothing compares to lush vegetation. Lushness brims with waterfalls and watermelons, their rind sleek to the point of explosion. Green juiciness melts into the blank sky. The blankness actually turns out pretty fluffy. Angular blocks clawing at the horizon exude puzzlement. The unintended and uninhibited blunt-edginess of nature compels disobedience. Nailed in a precise exercise, I could look out the window for lines.
What’s the point? To move on. To lose myself in blubber. To stay put. To gird my loins in front of the computer. To tell the truth — that thing I think I’m telling.
I don’t really notice nuances and if I do, I don’t remember them later. I just keep banging my head against huge chunks of general digestions. Huge chunks of general digressions keep banging in my head. Am I going to show you some heart? The answer is highly probabilistic: wreathing is certainly no problem at this point. My attempt to transcend a cringeworthy dropping has gone haywire. Capturing my churned self has never felt so vain. I like to think about these sentences as steep staircases, each stair branching in multiple directions towards salvation. Wow, that’s a big word! Like damnation, the opposite of haze dispersed along a mountainous range.
Two fairly important things: I don’t think that a thought recorder would untangle my writing concerns. I could rewind to remember the second thing, though. This is not a drill! What was I thinking? Something ending with at this stage is missing here, superseded by the elegy of distraction. A screw is loose. It had something (i.e. anything) to do with thought recording and it was fairly important. Maybe a summary at this stage? It rings some ridiculous bells. All in all, it must have been a momentous idea.
Life is wiggly indeed.
Last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history is mere oblivion: no teeth, no eyes, no taste, nothing.
What is that phrase you will have wanted to use?
“Nature is abundant.”
