russian in the dark

My Russian has improved.

In an attempt to buff up my very rusty Russian language skills, I installed four compartments in my bedroom. Each compartment provides intensive instruction before moving me on to the next compartment.

For some reason, probably enunciated by Henry James in one of his more arcane tomes, the compartments are installed at ceiling level in my bedroom.

I have no idea how the system worked -- whether or not I finally learned the difference between the first and second conjugation of Russian verbs. I don't know because, as you have already guessed, it was a dream.

I am surprised that I had any dreams last night because I was having trouble sleeping. I am not certain why. It could have been putting off my Spanish lesson yesterday until 1:30 this morning. Or it could have been my midnight carbohydrate-laden dinner. Or even the result of my up-close-and-personal encounter with the toxins of my ant buddy (ants in my pants).

Whatever caused my Moscow nights reverie, it was a reminder of just how little we know about our minds. The brain is still an undiscovered country for science -- not that researchers have not tried to Mark Twain its depths.

So, we are left with more poetic or dark (if you are a strict Freudian) interpretations of our night-time adventures.

I had intended to drive to Manzanillo this morning. But I had not yet paid Antonio (the guy who so meticulously tends my pool) for his services.

He arrived just as I was finishing breakfast. I paid him and we chatted about the pool, the coronavirus in Mexico, and the economic contraction he has seen around town.

My Spanish was far from perfect, but both of us were able to communicate well enough that we kept up a ten-mionute conversation while he cleaned the pool. The fact that he understood me was reward enough.

Over the years, I have tried my hand at several languages: Latin, German, Russian, Greek, Italian, Spanish. Even a bit of British English.

I have never been a natural. Each language has been a struggle. I suspect everyone who has seriously taken a run at a new tongue feels frustrated trying to find the right word or phrase.

For me, I now think I know what people with brain injuries feel. Well-constructed thoughts are in my head, but I cannot convey any of them in the manner they were constructed. Instead, I do what every language instructor suggests: if I cannot think of the word I want, I use words I do know to describe it. As if I were in the mid-stages of dementia. (As a side note, I have done that for years in English.)*

Maybe that is all the dream was about. I had struggled with my Spanish lesson last night, and my brain was doing its man-thing by trying to conjure up a solution. And, as untended minds are prone to do, it wandered off on its own tangent.

Or maybe I really am supposed to install Russian language compartments on the ceiling of my bedroom.

After all, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. 


* -- One example. Probably 30 years ago at work, I was sitting at the lawyer lunch table. My story to the group hinged on a very simple word that I could not dredge up out of memory. So, I resorted to description. "You know. That thing in your living room that you watch. It has a screen -- and knobs." My friend Roy said: "Do you mean 'television?'" I nodded and continued with my story.

Roy stopped me. "I'm not worried that you could not remember the word, but I am a bit worried you think televisions still have knobs."