Many languages have a singular and plural form of “you.” English is no exception, although many foreign speakers of English are unfamiliar with our beloved “thou”. Many non-natives believe “you” is the singular, or familiar, form. We Anglophones get accused of being a bit fresh with the rest of the world when we are, in fact, the greatest of stiffs, using formal address with everyone except God.
I vote we bring back “thou” to give ourselves a cozy way of addressing another person, a special person for whom we want to distinguish closeness, trust, and complicity. We could maintain our global stuffiness and reserve this familiar form for highly select, specific circumstances. Just think of the power we could load into this one little word. I suggest you try it.
Thou. Let it roll off your tongue and hang in the air. It’ll take some getting used to. I can only imagine how I’d feel, someone saying it to me in one of those brief moments of tension. I’d turn to leave. I’d feel his hand on my shoulder. He’d say, “Whither goest thou?” I’d shiver with that rush of exhilaration only a loaded word can produce.
Thou. Sigh. He thoued me. Read the rest of this entry »
Julian forces us to go to cocktail parties. OK, to be precise, he gets us invited, and we never balk at an evening of “character research.”
To assume a role, he says, you have to understand your character’s high moments. Most actors roll their eyes and remind Julian that he is not a youth center drama coach. We stick up for him and assure him it’s not just for the cocktail parties. “You need to ask a few probing questions,” Julian says, “learn where a person stands, discover his driving force. Is he passionate about his job, his hobby, his unique take on life? ” Thanks to him, we’re good at getting strangers to unleash their enthusiasm. Some of us could moonlight as head hunters.
People discuss the oddest things at cocktail parties. The other night the subject was amputation. The anesthesiologist was all excited because they’d managed to save the knee. “Don’t you see?” she said, “Below the knee makes all the difference to a more or less normal life.” Read the rest of this entry »
Why do we iron?
There is a certain hypnotic pleasure to the act. One or two gentle strokes, the ugly crease is gone, and you have straight, smooth cloth. We need this smoothness for some reason. Why? What do we get out of this repetitive, seemingly useless act? If every time I ironed, one starving child got fed, I’d iron every day. Imagine the sense of purpose we’d feel if we could iron out hunger, disease, inequality. We’d iron for peace. We’d iron to protect the ozone layer. Read the rest of this entry »
Colette wonders why I keep coming back.
“You make me laugh,” I say.
“Don’t let me be selfish. Tell me about you,” she says.
Somehow we get started. I speak loudly and distinctly and choose my words carefully. My accent leads to misunderstandings. She soon takes over the story-telling.
Colette says she’s looking for work. I wonder why. She’s 93 and well-worn by the kilometers she’s put on her feet. She’s spent years walking the art galleries of Paris, visiting artists in their studios. She’s written volumes about these talented individuals she’s admired and cherished so selflessly.
“Are you bored?” I ask. I’d be bored living in a home full of people too deaf and confused for conversation, a sterile-looking place with a revolving door staff and only one or two employees who take time to listen. Read the rest of this entry »
No, please, not that bench. Damn!
The man I dread always waits until the last minute. If the controllers turn up, he stays on the platform and plays for the pigeons. He’s easy to spot, dressed in brown with a broad-brimmed hat, pride trumping shyness with a smirk. I’d hate to hear him speak.
Come on, my ticket-sniffing friends! Where are you today? Maybe I can switch cars. Nope. The engines just went “clunk,” and here he is. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Screecher!
He starts off with Somewhere My Love. I usually like that song - if it’s played in tune with a dose of passion. It is difficult to explain what happens when the Screecher puts bow to strings. Read the rest of this entry »
As Mel carries on with his nose… (cf. Jacques’ Nose)
Mel’s prepping my skin. She’s right. It does help me concentrate. Her fingers tingle every stub of my beard. Amazing what that does. I love this chair. A firm seat does help. If only I could be like Vincent and jump on any girl. Vincent loves explosive love. I love Celine. Correction. I’ve got twenty nanoseconds to fall in love with Celine- dear little vitamin D deficient, long everything Celine. She drops her briefcase on stage, and I’m supposed to tackle her. Yeah! But why? Read the rest of this entry »
You have to touch Gilles to talk to him. You put your hand on his arm, your mouth right up to his ear, and you stay there. Gilles needs you close. He knows your voice, your perfume, how your hand feels. He knows if you’re the big, rough, warm hand or the cool hand with long, thin fingers, the weightless hand that feels lost when he covers it with his own. Gilles knows where you fit in, and he’s happy to single you out in this world of voices, perfumes, and hands. Read the rest of this entry »
I had to go back to see the money people at the French unemployment office. It was a balmy spring day, and I found myself waiting outside in a long line of blank-faced chomeurs. The yellow man next to me decided to grace me with his conversation. “What are you here for?” he asked. Read the rest of this entry »
The other day I met a sandwich-maker.
He was waiting for the train one morning, as I was, and his gawking got me looking around. Was I really the youngest, most beautiful woman here? Yep. All men for the moment. Come on, buddy, knock it off. I’m not sixteen anymore. An old woman arrived. She seemed to know the gawker, and they spent the entire ride chatting.
We changed trains at Juvisy. The gawker came and sat next to me. We made small talk. I knew no evil masher could have a grandmother for a friend. Still I lied about where I lived, where I was going. Read the rest of this entry »
Colette has taught me to appreciate small things. I’m not talking about rose petals and ladybugs. We all need to slow down and put our senses to use. Get a whiff of that daffodil. Listen to the girl next door struggle with her violin. When you’re 93, you can’t hear the girl next door and you don’t get out into the garden unless someone comes to visit on a nice day.
I’m talking about pleasure in something neither beautiful nor inspirational. Read the rest of this entry »
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