When I write in English it is absolutely imperative that I don’t try to translate Romanian thoughts but rather think and write English thoughts. In my recklessness I have attempted to take random Romanian writings and clothe them different garments. I have realized however that such efforts are doomed from the start as the particular feeling that drives the Romanian thought can’t be translated or transplanted in the altered sensibility that accompanies my use and abuse of the English language.
The two conscious scribes, it seems, must live separate lives, unknown to each other, neighbours, time-sharing one keyboard, one fountain pen, one pillow. One blog, broken in two by a ragged, absolutely necessary, continuous line.
Oddly enough I have lost this distinction in my sleep and my dreams speak a language that can be one or the other, impossible to remember the next day. Sometimes the sweeping emotions carry a linguistic identity that can be remembered, but for the majority of my night wanderings I am bound to understanding without knowing if the vessel that carries the message is inborn or learnt. Well, neither Romanian nor English are inborn, they are both learnt but I don’t remember learning Romanian so I will just assume there is a blob in my brain where Romanian happened before I became aware of it, as close to an inborn trait as is possible.
However, in the living, conscious line of my existence I must push forward the thoughts in alternate periods, Romanian now, then English, on and on, trying to escape the dissolution of my little used Romanian and the banality of my poor, abused, colloquial English, bringing together dubious heaps of communicable information that might keep some lonely soul from falling asleep on a boring night.
Penelope sees it as intellectual snobbery; she has, as always, little use for my perplexities. The other angels keep drinking my wine and nodding in agreement with everything she says. Useless, all of them…
