The RoggBlog

I found this while clearing out an old hard drive, dated November 25, 2005.

At 11.30, I finally hauled myself away from my bed and my books, and sat on the balcony, smoking, wondering just how to formulate my thoughts and commit them to paper.

My attempts at writing since I’d arrived here had been dismal, my insights hackneyed and predictable, any attempt at emotion trite. Maybe all this language teaching had warped my perception of what language is actually for: the vast majority of my students want me to teach them to survive in a foreign country, to order at a restaurant, to get through Customs and so on, whereas I’d always felt language to be more than just an enabler. I’d never even liked the image of language as a vehicle for our thoughts, since it had always put me in mind of a rickety two-seater from the Victorian age, when it was still mandatory to have a man waving a red flag in front of your vehicle.

Language is the river bed along which our thoughts, our ideas, and our emotions flow. Without it, the mind is a limpid, stagnant pool. With it, it branches, slows down and speeds up, and is gradually changed by the nature of the water it carries.

This is why I need a tiny familiar (like Jabba’s little mate) to cuff me upside the head once a given level of introspection is reached.