My complicated relationship with
language came along in my very young years. I had, at that time, no
compulsion to words; except for the fact that I liked writing bad
poetry. I suppose I still do. I wrote of my fathers friends mainly
and I don't think my verse was too shabby. Here's a slice:
Heres To Stan.
Heres to Stan, we love stan
Heres to Stan, to Stan
The Handicapped man.
I read the poem to
my old man who pointed out something very important. Pretty obvious
what it was.
'Handicapped means
like, disabled' he said, in a political correctness that didn't quite
compute with the time. Cripple was still a survivor in those days,
But here is the
thing, I was raised in an iron-clad circle of blue-collar workers.
Handy, or being handy, was a thing of almost nobility, of virtue. In
my brain then, handy-man was a good thing to be.
We were
working-class, solved problems domestically, caused problems
domestically but always handled our own. Obviously we needed doctors,
but being as self sufficient as possible was a real pride point. And
paying some arsehole to do a basic was about as emasculating as it
got. Get a mate to do it and piss it up. Maybe not correct, but this
was the ethic and one I can't fully escape.
And so handy
entered my vocabulary as something of pride. Handicapped seemed to
further it and work with my rhyme scheme, so clearly I was chuffed.
Then, as things do, the truth hit me. I was calling a member of the
extended coal family a disabled guy. Though a devastating case of pot
abuse and cuntiness eventually proved me right, my failure in
language rings on to this day.
And on to exhibit
two.
There was a time,
in Catholic school, when the idea of secret notes appealed to me. I
had a teacher, who I shan't name because I don't remember her name
(though it was certainly something Italian), who wore toro red
lipstick. She also wore pencil skirts, had a disastrous 90s haircut
and wore crisp red suit jackets. It was grade three and might have
been my first sexual experience, though it was probably just a case
of me liking her as a teacher (as a friend, though I was a catch back
then).
Regardless I spent
the entirety of an evening writing and re-writing a letter to her. I
worked it in and out, much more than I do today, making it just
right. Then I signed it.
Feeling proud I
recruited my old man as an audience. He absently nodded along with
the letter until I got to the sign off. What was the sign off? From
your secret admirer.
'That means that
you, like, love her' the old man explained, half-pissed.
'But I do Dad' I
cheered, thinking he had got my point.
'No like, you want
to kiss her. Like me and mum.'
I was horrified, I
thought it only meant something platonic. I was in love with the
teacher and the world was over for me.
Exhibit 3.
Another poem. I
was big on poetry at one time though I mainly enjoyed coming up with
the rhymes. Couplets were a thing of beauty to me. Coming up with the
right one and getting the syllables in order. A thrill when you hit
it right, I didn't draw.
But here is
another slice of my pre-teen poetry that highlights my point:
Dad and Tim
like footy and cricket
But I think we
should just fricket.
Inventiveness is
next to godliness. Artists learn from their previous art and this is
a lesson in the value of an extremely cringe-worthy piece. My dad,
who had stopped being a literary critic and started being a drunk
again actually loved this piece, in all its infantile charm.
I still have
issues. Paramount amongst them is how I was so eager to bastardise a
word that early. I'd heard the 'friggin this' and 'friggin that'. I
had also heard many 'fucks' but knew enough to know that 'fuck it'
did not fit the symmetry of this piece.
Secondly, I
criticised two things that are now dear to me. I know that at one
time they were a good excuse for a piss-up and so a good distraction
for the old man. This is, I guess, why I suggested we should
'fricket'.
Though in
retrospect I love both games and wish away any idea of 'fricketing'
it. They are both still good excuses for a piss-up and now I
understand.
But those things
led me to write on, for some reason, and are the reason you are
reading this now.
Language still
bugs me, luckily I am super handicapped at it.
NP.
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