In the English classes, we often have to translate sentences. Just sentences. Little snippets of information connected no nothing else. Let’s take a first-grade one. Claire stood on the bridge, drinking cold coffee. Why is the coffee cold and why does she still drink it, why does she need to be awake on that bridge and where does the bridge lead. Why not “Claire stood on the bridge discussing philosophy with it”, that’s the type of sentences I’d like to translate. They have just about as much logic and sense, transmit just about as much information, and are much more fun. And who the fuck is Claire, anyway.
I admit this does not seem very important. But too much sleep, a day when you have nothing to do and a really energetic power metal album put you in a really weird mood. It almost reminds me of the mood I had one day last spring. I hated that frilly spring. But I had been really sick for 2 weeks, and when I finally able to get outside the house, the violets were in bloom. There was this little park in front of one of the local university’s buildings that was full of violets, so I just stood there, black clothes, dirty hair in a bun, picking violets while some of the students were staring at me. Happiness meant picking violets, and violets were everywhere.
Forgive me for talking senseless stuff. But the only interesting thing in my life are my thoughts.
And, since we’re talking sentences, let me tell you about the sentences in the Romanian classes. We had to study the grammar of quotes from famous Romanian books. Even today, I happen to open a book, read a bit and have a strange feeling of deja vu. And then I recognise the fuckin’ sentence. Damn grammar
Tags: memory
