I love words.
If I could commit all of my studies to learning the languages of the earth and the ways that they were formed, I think I would be content. Linguistics always kind of tickled me, but whenever it’s mentioned in class, it’s so fleeting or I’m so out of it that I just can’t enjoy it like I really want to. I love to translate accents and work them together, then dissect them. I want to know what it means and why. I like to find how things relate and where the ‘ae’ in a word disappeared to, etc, etc~.
Probably one of my dumbest geek splurges would be character swapping.
I think it was the first or second week of October. I was in the mall, browsing a store for items that could be used at a haunted house I’m going to be judging at. (Nothing was of use, of course, because everything was either for a baby or some sex fantasy that husbands don’t have the gall to address until they happen to find the wares in the store.) Sifting through the crowded ‘aisles,’ I came to the shops centre. There was a woman there with her daughter, talking to herself about a lack of liquid latex in Baytown and holding up a little makeup kit.
And this is where character swapping came into play. I became the part of me that loves Theatre technicalities. --Namely being Theatre makeup, of course.-- Fleshed her out in a matter of seconds. And through that personage, I dug up some of my knowledge on latex, etc, and took some tidbits of information from a conversation I had overheard an hour ago. Et voila, I became anew. I wouldn’t exactly suggest pretending that you’re someone who loves cars and doesn’t know zip about cars in the first place, but if you can pull it off? Do it. This is the perfect improvising activity to test your abilities as an actor. Even if you’re not in some class or other.
The woman and I ended up talking about places that one can order latex from in its various forms and what she did for a living. About Houston and its general ability to hock out anything you can think of, and so on. The conversation went on for about fifteen minutes? We parted ways and she left thinking that I was a nineteen-year-old student attending some nearby college. Who was also~ working in the Theatre department and putting up for a Halloween special. See? That’s the thing. You don’t give too many details, but you give just enough, and you could have anyone believing anything—so long as you’re not obviously bullshitting.
How does this tie around to what I started this blog with? I like to tell people that I’m going to be a linguistics major someday.
It could be true in some scenarios, I suppose. And it’s not really an extreme character swap, but depending how far they delve into it, I could easily slip into my knowledge of the romantic languages and the like. You don’t really have to know a lot about a subject, you just have to have one thing that you could turn into a lengthy conversational tool. And if the person you’re talking to doesn’t know anything at all about that area of study? You could probably pull off some good faux history. For all they know, Chinese derived from sea faring peoples that hung around India before it was densely populated.
I don’t know anything except for basics on Geography. You could probably convince me that Russia was once a peninsula.
But back to linguistics and words in general~. How many ways could I say that I just love the entire topic? (Probably a variant of five or so, but not to get too into diction and whatnot here..) I think in paragraphs and whenever I watch movies, I think of how I would describe what I’m seeing in prose. I think of the different tones used and how texture in a picture could relate to a scene. I think of how conversations that I have in real life could be translated to an exchange between two heroines.
What really hurts me though, is that I never get to express that love. Or at least, not in the way that I truly would enjoy expressing it. Writing, writing, writing. I wish I could just write an excerpt about a day at school or work, rather than actually be doing it. I write everything important to me. I can say countless things, do countless more—because undeniably, I am a thespian through and through—but when something truly impacts me, I write about it. And more often than not, I share that writing with at least one person. I love feeding my scrawl to an active mind and I love seeing how that mind perceives it.
If I have something to say to you and I write it? It would most probably be said in all honesty and seriousness.
(Not to be confused with over-the-internet banter. I don’t exactly have an alternative beyond writing to you in that sense.)
I cannot tell you how many letters that I have written through the years--to Vixen alone! In fact, I used to write to her every day of my life, back when I actually had the time to. That notebook never reached her, but even if I know that a letter won’t reach someone, at least I’ll have written it. And I can imagine how the conversation would go following it. I put so much of my soul into what I’m writing, even when it’s fractured and ill thought out. I just…
I have a lot of regret. And envy. Bottled up inside of me when I see that my friends, who have no interest in being authors, end up writing more often than I do. It eats away at the back of my conscious until I feel a little sick, then a lot sick, then plainly depressed. I used to have days where I would use that sickness to skip out on school for a day out of the month, and I would write in the solitude of my room, typing or scribbling so quietly that not even a Sonic Ear could pick it up.
There is so much that I care for, but there are two things that I could not live without.
I think only one person really knows what those things are, or at least they should.
Question of the Day: What is your most secretive guilty pleasure? All anons are welcome~, of course.