“I am the liberator of Paris and you are a motherf***in’ afterthought!”
I collect bits of dialogue (that bit is included) in Word documents at the ready so as to file for to keep whatever I hear or read or can manage to copy off the blurred desktop blotter (it’s a blotter, it’s supposed to be smeared from my coffee cups and bottles of water set in between me and the keyboard — which I never, ever spill, mind you, but they do leave smudges now and then).
Anyway, the Word documents grow in size and are divided into more documents, and, I am beset with words. In an abundant sense. I am also trying to learn Italian, or, at least, more Italian than I already know, although I’ve not yet organized Italian dialogue without English subtitles, translations from anywhere except Google’s “Language Tools” (if you haven’t yet experienced the interesting nonsense that is the Google “translation” system, give it a try).
Learning new languages, whatever they may be, can be an experience akin to making content-sense on the Internet from what various “user I.D.s” write. It’s a rough world, and the internet is among the roughest places going. Not like I’d ask many of the “user I.D.s” I encounter on the internet into my home for a cup o’ coffee, or, even, tea. Once in a while, there’s the clear-as-a-bell, funny, endearing, sweet and charming, sharp even, writer I read and get to know, but for the most part, outside these mingling of reliable comments, there exists a huge sea of human incapacity that appears to use the internet to dwell in desolation and tedium. Then they “stand up” and harass others.
Just the other day, not even using the internet, I tried to explain to a visiting Repair Man who producer David Foster was. I played Josh Groban’s astoundingly beautiful CD, “Closer,” produced by David Foster, on my excellent surround sound speaker system, inorder to amplify the explanation as to who David Foster was, only to be waved off by the Repair Man who clearly did not understand what a producer was, nor how Groban’s astounding CD was a part of the point I was trying to make, and then, returning to my desk (and the internet), I read whereby some person in some other country — English speaking one at that — complained how what I wrote was “incoherent,” despite hours of patient explanation of a point, complete with outline and carefully fundamental language. No superlatives. No excessive punctuation. No personal references, nor slurs. Just an outlined issue about a technical question. Incoherent it was deemed, after I asked the person to identify what they didn’t understand and I’d be happy to further explain and the person retorted with the “incoherent” nasty. Lazy reader, I suppose. Certainly careless. Note that this accuser could not compose an informative statement nor elucidate their perspective beyond the one-termer.
I realized that we don’t all speak the same language. I can mumble my advancing Italian, French and Americanized English even, and it is all incoherence to anyone with a different heart, mind, or even head in another place. It’s not the languages that set us apart, but the intention of the heart. “Incoherent” is a nasty rock thrown over a fence. “Incoherent” is someone describing their own inflexibility and that any sense is anathema. They’re not melodic, those word rocks thrown over the internet.
And then there is Paris, where American jazz found footing and the world made purchase — good or bad, a continued issue of debate. And, here, my blotty desktop Word documents, Josh Groban performs in English, Spanish, French and Italian. And film dialogue: I didn’t write BIRD, but I wish I had. Sense is where you find it — I cannot explain that to someone who needs an explanation. Let it remain as incoherent, as much as is possible, as is Josh Groban, music production, and even, unabashedly, this website, to anyone who throws those word rocks, which are the real nonsense the world over. Note again, throwing pejoratives without being able to actually explain what some troller actually means indicates the “incoherence” is on their part, not anyone else’s.
“Turn your head up to the sky
Nothing down below but me
Face the truth to realize all that we could be
Torn apart by rage and fear
Hold on to what brought you here
Don’t let go,
Never let go.”
— Josh Groban, “Never Let Go” from his CD, “Closer“