Monday, 30 March 2009

A show is something that must be written about afterwards. The event itself is intangible. The arrival at the small white house, with discrete balconies and a small courtyard full of plants, was innocuous enough. Equipment was set, soundchecks had, seating laid out in rows with cushions placed along a white stone shelf that ran along two sides of the room. The stairs at the back let to a small wooden-doored storage room whose entrance was mirrored in the doors of the small outbuildings which were on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Some said the space was an old bakery. Later in the evening, I had spoken to the proprietor, a friendly teacher who ran the space as recreation, a community-led enterprise for experimental and avant-garde music and theatre. My French is as bad as it ever was and soon one of the other musicians stepped in and saved me. Still now, I remember trying to comprehend words, trying to filter out my half-baked German translations and replace them with GCSE French ones. The Anglicisation of the world is ruining my ability to interact with people in their home languages. It seems as though there is only room in my head for one language and one translation. Since living in Germany the paltry amount of French verbs, nouns and adjectives I knew has been decimated. My German hasn't improved in months, though this I aim to amend. Perhaps I have a finite amount of wordspace within my brain? I hope my head isn't operating a one-in-one-out policy.

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