In honor of our recent St. Patrick's holiday, part of the post will be in my own idiosyncratic language, reminiscent of the of Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce, except it will be for American rednecks, not educated Irishmen.
(Haven't you wanted to try making up your own language ever since you heard of that book? Go for it! Share your weirdness with me!)
And there will be a porm at the end. In Englishish!
Blessed Sauer thiccchk inner hands gubruples burgling stank. (That sentence was about sauerkraut and sausage farts. You're welcome, Ghost Joyce.)
... *** ###
This is harder than I thought... First, I'll create a respectable paragraph about something normal, with a few characters and conversations, then Joycify it:
"Can I drive?" Canned eyes control the peranbulalutions, the twilig cooneat time, the motion of the otion, canned eyes arrive?
"Yes. Maybe not. Okay, here." Yeznomaibeeso. Otay.
She handed the keys to the boy, one house key, (not to her house) and one car key, with a large foam heart-shaped fob and a long lanyard attached. She handerdt the rubats to the tomsawyer barefool gnus, won a hauskey (knot two hern hausn) and won a cartkey, withern largo foamheart fob and looongeren rop. (These keys would NOT get lost, dammit.) (Thewm keyn would NORT gith loose dn=an==mmit!)
"Why did you hesitate?" Whell, Y RU waithen?
"Well, it's twilight and there are a lot of people out and about because of the warm weather..." Tis Twilig and a lockt a pilet a grumble a murder a flocket of ppl R ootn aboon causa da wrmnf.
"It's not twilight yet --- Smurfle!
Oh, wait - stop. This is very boring- and I thought of something. TW-words. They are rarely good, are they? There aren't very many of them, and they all seem to have a similar character, as of something not quite repellant, but definitely unsettling. Twilight is a creepy time. Colors are wrong, lots of things (especially trees) look black. The sun is gone, but the sky is still lighted. Ancient peoples believed this was a magical time, but not in a good way. It was the time for questionable magic. Somebody thought up the word "crepuscular" to apply to twilight, and it fits perfectly. More TW words include twerp, twang, twelve, twisted, Twyla Tharp, and twerking. I have mild sinesthesia, and all my TW words are pale purple, sort of a periwinkle with a little pale grey added.
So who gets to think up words anyway? Babies? Dogs?
The Blank family has a new dog. He is a short-legged red dog with long hair and a long nose, sort of a Corgie-Collie. They got him at the humane society. He is old and trained and very mellow. He doesn't bark; he doesn't jump around. In the car, he won't climb on the seats unless invited to do so, and they he curls up on his blanket and doesn't stand up and get slobber and nose prints on the windows. This according to Nother Blank, who rode home from soccer practice with them.
The dog had surgery on its tail and the vet shaved part of it. (The dog's shaved tail looked just like one of those farty sausages I cooked with the sauerkraut. And the two youngest children wouldn't eat the dinner. "How can you not like sauerkraut? Your father likes it, and I like it, and your ancestors are German and Irish. How can you not like it? You like cabbage, and you like pickles, and sauerkraut is pickled cabbage, so you must like it..." But taste will not yield to syllogisms.)
"He is such a good dog! I want a dog like that."
"Why would such a good dog be at the Humane Society shelter? Who would give up such a good dog?
"He was a stray. Somebody found him and the Humane Society was afraid he wouldn't get adopted because he was too old. He had his nails painted when they found him. Like, with fingernail polish."
Poem for St. Patrick's Day
I dreamed I had a stroke
just like a regular dream nothing made sense
appearing untraveled in new places, vaguely familiar but not two possible
asked for a pencil and an old man unzipped his pants
couldn't find the number nine
button on the phone
The mind takes these things in stride
Dreams are weird
float in their comforting chemical plots
gentle sex with the never imagined attractive...Mr. Blank, from the bank, really?
flying footless over quilted counterpane maps
flipping flingable hair that sticks and grows, like vines
hitting without punching
screaming without sound
dreaming without bound
