I love the english language. Making sentences is like cooking: the page is your pot.
Evolution happens: saying "thee" and "thou" is downright prosaic, and if you flip the coin, getting educated people to say things like "somdiloquent", "shennaverous", and "suresia" eases the passage from nonsense to websters.
Master of phonegry, Lewis Carrol wrote the following brilliant poem. Enjoy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrave. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jujub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum gree, And stood awhile in thought And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! and through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrave.
Christmas, at home. Our house smelled delicious. The smell of baking bread with a hint of christmas tree.
I loved the sounds too. Dad splitting kindling in the kitchen with our big knife, the crackling fire, and the "pop" when mom pried the lid off the homemade canned applesauce with a tableknife.
The presents under the tree had unmistakable allure...especially those which I couldn't identify by traditional methods of smelling, shaking, and pinching.
Christmas day, the tide of euphoria swept steadily in until the day's end, when I crawled into bed, a blissfully selfish rascal, wearing, hugging, and clutching at as many of my presents as I could.
Christmas Day-- Away. I awake in the town of Banos, Ecuador. My friends and I have lived in a bus or hostel for the past month, and the long bus hours, hard beds, and cold showers have gradually become status quo. Banos means "Baths" in spanish, and the little town has been a holiday retreat for Ecuadorians for centuries. Nestled between steep hillsides and overlooked by an active volcano, Banos offers hot thermal baths, and lots of little cafes and shops designed to delight the tourists heart.
It is evening now, I spent the day on a rented bike of questionable quality, passing through beautiful mountain gorges and peddling madly along dirt tracks. Tired, I now rest inside a tiny telephone booth and listen absentmindedly to the noisy hum of young ecuadorians chattering about life. Picking up the receiver, I dial my phone card number, then 001 (U.S. int. code) then 1-207-725-7437.
Some minutes later, I set the phone back in it's socket, check carefully for my wallet, and then proceed to the hostel. My friends and I realize we haven't said anything about christmas all day long, and over the bubbling hum of our camping stoves, we quietly discuss what christmas is like thousands of miles away. Lying back in my bed clutching at my memories, I'm smiling, it is so good to know your missed.
Nearly a year has now elapsed since that day in Ecuador. I sleep in a cushy bed every night and expect electricity and hot water on command. Immersed in a culture of education, I hardly have time to think about this christmas, a christmas at home. I go to bed now, clutching fondly at memories of foreign lands, and happy at the expectation of this christmas, a christmas with my family.