« What do you love? »

Une main qui se tait dans le Samourai de Kihachi Okamoto (1965-mifune-productions-co.-ltd.-toho-company)

I love words, especially in my mother tongue, French, especially the words I’d be unable to spell by my own. When mother is not here anymore, ask to the dictionaries, watchmen of the words. Not the obscure words but words at the edge of use, the words which might fade into the mist in the next centuries, the ones which need to be use and cherished and loved. Vieilli terms in dictionaries, saying « hey, this one is old, but one day it was common; would you dare to use it to give him a new life? ». Yes, all kind of words at the edge of something are lovable: neologisms for instance always give me a special rejoicing, here, especially when I create them. People make children — I invent words. Oh, Mother, where art thou? I just pooped partheneologogenesis.

Then, when I’m tired of my own language… I run to the bow and yell: « I’m the King of the Words! » Wide is the ocean, wide is my ignorance. Love to learn. There’s plenty places in these words. Some are identical (in French identique), like familiar faces wearing strange costumes; some are brand new for me. Love, where the fuck does it come from, Brit?! Can’t you say I aim you? No, it has to be something refreshing — love to set foot on wild and unknown words.

Love, desperately, the irreconcilable losses in translation. Languages are about habits, not only words. Some habits are untranslatable. Thwarted love (yes, I found it in a dictionary), but still, it makes you appreciate even more your own language habits. Like… locutions; what, foreigners name « fixed expressions », and what, as a child, I named « words locomotives ». Choo-choo! Put your ass at the stern and watch the swirls moving your inflated heart. Vomit all you got and learn — or create. Partheneologogenesis!

And when you’re little locutions escape you, you should love to play with its facetious sisters: the syntagmas, the language nymphs.

And when it’s not words, or habits, when nothing left in the realms of senses, we can remember our common roots. No, it’s not love, or mother tongue’s love. It’s cave men mumbles. Never say that it’s not a cute child anymore, that it’s an old abortus! With my mother tongue, I’m a civilized person; with foreign tongue, I’m a cave man. In English, I waltz like a mambo dancer: a cave man mumbling. Why should I love this? Come on, haven’t you got it yet? I’m talking about accents. Articulation, pronunciation, rhythm. That’s music! Mambo jumbo mouth dance! Yes, I love accents, and as a king child of the words sailing from one locution to another, before speaking a language, I mumble it. I started to articulate English accents: « do these cheze wrongly anyway or are theze free to tell the trough? ». Now, I’m sailing through Asian tongues — ting tong! Mainly Chinese (xziaoh tzaï ni ya choo cha miaoh xzi na!) and Russian, especially the very distinguished Siberian guttural accent (sdrakoï, shpanitza! da? prokia movoditrakia, niedastro shpooka, prekanio vrakonaïa, da da-da!).

I do love talking rubbish (fixed expression). And so do I.