Peter and Jane were my first friends,
little carefully drawn figure on rows of multicoloured Ladybirds.
first carefully uttered sentences then pretentiousness
at 3: my father flies to London. joyfully greets me in a strange tangle of vowels and gestures – and I? I non riesco a capire.
since then I have switches between knowledge (arrogance)
and tripping over the same dictionary based traps that I set myself.
at 11 I can read Dickens (la Pitzorno non basta) and at 13, I am convinced I will win my school English writing contest (e invece no) and then at 18, when I should be losing the shackles of childhood, I only go and loose a language
what was an effort to write 800 became a 3 day mission
thesaurasasasasa, onstant confusion
I don’t know how to say Norfolk still.. ed in ogni caso,
everything I say these days is veiled, faccio comunque finta
i can make a 3 hour marathon, slide between a deadline and an expectation now, yet I always forget the Italian word for lawnmower
unfortunately this.. well, it leaves a space occupied by essays, commas, and self -consciousness, e quindi… quindi?
I am a confused tourist whose flag-coloured umbrella is lost in the crowds
an octogenarian whose directions on his map are decades of wrongness
a bat forced off my branch at midday,clumsily slamming against my habitat
a traveler at the train station by my house that doesn’t show arrivals
eh, c’è veramente da impazzire
I have taken flights and trains away from my language, flown over years of efforts and eloquence, clouded my glasses and brain in French hidey holes and strange Austrian towns. I cannot discuss my life in the language that shaped it.
I suppose pride can arise even if you are unaware of what I say,
though you tend to stand outside of my writing and carefully dip a toe in
you ask vague questions and I give an answer with a thousand interpretations
none of them really literary, none of them really meaningful, gocce di small talk e di chitter chatter, yes I know – I know there is pride but I cannot talk of it
I used to have favourite words yet they have shrivelled to leave me
suspended, incapable, I repeat the same ones you would know yourself
there is no hint of personality or uniqueness, no spark of what makes them mine
therefore, I just..
hope, I guess, I hope
to knead forgetfulness and fear back into my 20 year old self,
now targeting two. Your target language, your target home.
I knew I couldn’t write well, but at least I owned a language.
I know I cannot write well, but at least I can attempt.