Post-graduate student seeks BabelFish text translator

(refer to http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A3930815 for details)

Anyone? Anyone?

And really, if you don’t understand what I am writing, then you’re not the only one.

I have started (finally) to wade through the theory-ooze of literary and cultural works of Mikhail Bakhtin. I say ooze, not in the sense of… say… a weeping sore. No, more like that slippery, squelchy mud that you get after a torrential downpour. But seeing as we’re in drought, I am really only relying on the memory of such rain-events.

Maybe I should call it sludge (the mud not the brain. Although come to think of it, maybe the brain too). Yes. And so you see how it is affecting my thought.

Whatever I call it (theory-sludge? THludge? THooze?), it’s the down-in-the-WWI-trenches kind of sludge. The pre-battle charge where you crap in your pants prior to being slaughtered by the assessors.

Yes. I have to write a goddamn thesis.

I have no one to blame for this unfortunate turn of events but myself. I even chose the theorist.

I must be nuts. MAD. Bloody bonkers.

The ironic thing is this: my theorist is Russian. My current creative writing deals with the cruelty of the Russians during WWII. So by reading a dead Russian’s words I may well be continuing the torture and slavery of the Polish soul. Even in death the Bolsheviks exercise their iron fist. My only consolation: at least the theorist I am using was exiled from Russia. Seems he was also an enemy of the state. We might agree with each other after all…

Hang on… this isn’t ironic … it’s just melodramatic. Oh god.

And so you see what this theory-imbibing has done to my brain. (Will I ever think normally again?)

Back to the confusion.

I am yet to find anybody who really truly understands theory. People say they understand, but no-one can explain to me what the hell it’s really about. The world is awash with a myriad of books, essays, theses and so on, all claiming to analyse and understand and make sense of it all. (Note: theses rhymes with faeces for a reason).

Yet the language is so dense (see sludge) that it is impossible to try to extract any kind of sense or meaning from the words.

And no, not even psychotherapy or ECT would help me now.

What I really need is a BabelFish. Will pay top dollar for one. Will check e-bay now.

Eat your greens (but steer clear of the reds)

My son has spots, and it’s my fault.

We’re experimenting with foods – some oatmeal, pureed fruit, tiny bits of pasta, mashed broccoli with no seasoning at all, all pulverised to smithereens – you know the drill. We wait until it is lukewarm and then we open our mouths in the hope that he’ll emulate us and spoon the mushy goop into his waiting mouth. We chant ‘yummy!’ like some deranged housecoat-wearing cheerleader (housecoat in case food is spat out in a spray of ppppppppprrrrrrrrrrah. He hasn’t yet learnt the word for ‘no’ but ‘no’ will most likely be his first word).

Lately, we’ve been a little lax in the ‘wait a few days before new food introduction’ routine. Yesterday, I let him hold a piece of red capsicum. I didn’t let him chow down on it. But what touches the hand touches the mouth and so on and so forth and now he’s covered in an allergic rash and red capsicum is the only thing I can attribute it to.

I feel really guilty, but I must remember that no- I did not give him a toilet brush to lick or rubbed his face with cold sores. Still, the guilt is there and I feel like a bad mama. (FYI: I am mama and tummy-mummy is mum or mummy. They’re different enough, yet are also both ‘mother-ish’ names so as not to spark confusion or questions from nosey people who have no business in my family life but who will – because they are just ‘like that’ – invariably end up asking us all kinds of impertinent questions. Note to such people: fuck off, none of your bloody business.)

Back to the spots.

Child seems happy enough and trip to the hospital with mum (ie not me) ended up with the diagnosis of ‘allergic reaction… probably. Nothing to worry about… probably. Unless it gets worse… which it probably won’t’.

Luckily, it doesn’t get worse, but this doesn’t lessen the worry., not only because it could have been more serious, but because had it been more serious, had I rushed him to hospital, there would have been nothing I could have done. I am not even allowed to authorise the use of children’s paracetamol.

Spotty child is content to sit in high chair, eat pre-allergy tested porridge with apple, and bash table with green plastic spoon.

boing-weee-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-bleep-bleep-whizzzzzzz (I need to buy shares in Fisher Price)

There’s a toy in the car that won’t switch off. It’s possessed by the boing-ha-ha-ha demon, and it’s not happy that it has to share it’s space with the whiz-bleep-bleep lion thingy or the da-di-da-da plushie giraffe.

I am living in a baby rave party. Babies all over the world, come on down to my pad ‘cos it’s a hapnin’ scene, there’s lights, music, songs (all with prerequisite American accent) and even the shape-sorter plays a tune.

The green frog is on ecstasy and its eyeballs look botoxed. Kind-of reminiscent of A Clockwork Orange.

Happy hands it’s fun to play!
Count to three! Clap away…
One! … (clap-clap-clap)
Two! … (clap-clap-clap)
Three! … (clap-clap-clap)
Happy hands… Hooray!

The green frog is freaking out my son. It’s bigger than him.

Everything needs batteries, myself included. But nothing comes with the precision screwdrivers that are required in order to pull the darn toys apart so that the batteries can be put in and why oh why are we even thinking about putting in the batteries anyway?

I can’t stop thinking in bleep-bleep mode.

Happy pills are fun to take!
Prozac keeps me sane all day…
One! … (in the morning)
Two! … (just for luck)
Three! … (what the hell)
Happy pills… Hooray!

My son’s fave toy: a small green plastic spoon that was part of a green-frog plastic bowl-and-bib set. Spoon fits nicely in his had and is good for both bashing things and chewing; it doesn’t get soggy and sometimes comes with pureed apple.