Когда училась в школе, вела дневник на английском. Потом, когда училась на ин.язе, было забавно перечитывать - грамматика в школе была нулевая. Зато школу я закончила с приличным уровнем владения лексикой. Механизм такой: вы используете только те слова, которые уже есть в вашем лексиконе. Они ваши, вас не заставляет их зубрить учитель. Вы просто находите их в словаре, и они сразу же остаются у вас в памяти - потому что они уже вами были использованы в контексте.

Всех желающих приглашаю вести здесь свой дневничок в виде небольших постов, ессно на тему, интересную для обсуждения читателям. Читателей приглашаю мысли и experience отписавшихся обсуждать, а также (если ваш уровень языка выше) править ошибки прочих авторов, хотя бы лексические. Надеюсь, все понимают, что в процессе обучения делать ошибки не стыдно.
Большая просьба, все обсуждения и правка - только на английском.

When I studied at school, I used to write a diary in English. Later, when I studied at the University, it was fun to read what I had written in my school diary - my grammar used to leave much to be desired. But then, when I left school, my vocabulary level was substantial. It works this way: you use only the words that are part and parcel of your personality. They are your choice, not a choice of your teacher. You simply find them in the dictionary, and they stay in your memory - just because you have already used them.

I welcome all the English speakers and learners to write your diary here, every time leaving a short message, which might be interesting & discussable. All the readers of the diaries are welcome to discuss the thoughts and experience of all those who post diary entries. It would be great if you also corrected mistakes, at least lexical ones - if your level of English permits. I hope everybody understands that it's not a shame to make mistakes while you are learning.
Please, avoid Russian when discussing things and making corrections.

Dear diary,
I've been thinking on this for a little while and as it occurs to me there might be someone interested in reflecting on this as well. There is a story I want to share with you and if this someone is here, I care to know their opinion.
Here we go...

There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella
by Fernando Sorrentino

There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.
That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even - God forgive me - umbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.

There is no option to correct my first message. I wonder what to click...


It's a well-known fact that Moderadors are the only forum users that are allowed to break forum or topic rules. Here comes another proof . I hope this forum's moderators don't ban people if those discuss moderator's actions. This is someting so awfully unfair that I usually leave forum after such an occasion. Let them **** themselves and enjoy their forum without my irritating presence.

Dear Miranda, let's start with your request written by you in English ))).


Beautifully written. Care to share your reflections first?

That would be unfair. On watching the illustration you gave the idea of annoyance. Now that you have read it, is it still felt like this? No metaphor at all? What's inside?
I definitely have the images which can form into shapes. But I would like to hear you say things first.
Nochka, eh? Non Grata? Selena? Everyone else?

A nagging thought, restlessly persisting in your head? Or do you mean something else?

Well, nouvElle, that is a hell of a story.
I find it amusing and worth reading, but it feels like it's not finished. I have so many questions left... Why did this man with an umbrella appear exactly five years ago? Were there some significant events that the story-teller neglected to mention? Would it make any difference if the man with an umbrella appeared ten years ago?
Who is this man, anyways? He doesn't sleep or eat, he doesn't answer questions even when asked. Is he some kind of a sign? What does this umbrella-hitting mean?
Reading the story, I was expecting some kind of an explanation in the end. Like, the man with an umbrella is that... and if we do this... it will get us there. Didn't happen, though. Have to make my own thinking, after all.)))
I do have a feeling that this story shows us that people tend to get used to a lot of things. I, for example, was forced to get used to riding a bicycle in a very peculiar way: when I about ten years old I was too short to sit on the seat and reach pedals at the same time; I could just forget about the seat and treadle, but there was this aluminum crosspiece between the helm and the seat (I don't know what it's called), and this thing was getting in the way, and I still couldn't reach the pedals; so that wasn't an option, either. So, I had to put my leg under the crosspiece, and that was it: my new way to ride brother's bicycle.
Years later, when I was old enough to ride 'adult' bicycles, I realized that it's hard to get used to ride a bicycle in the normal way; it just didn't feel right for me))) But I got used to it, after all.
So, it all comes to getting used to something.

It's so great you have come! Enjoy reading you soo very much...

Hams, VC - thanks a lot!

nouvElle



Oh, honey, it takes a little more than story-telling to make me come. ;-)

In case, you weren't referring to me or I'm being too presumptuous, that was meant as a joke. I beg your pardon in advance if I offended you in any way. I think I like to talk dirty.

Gh-hm... *clears her throat*

So, what do you, guys, think about the story? Come on, share your opinions! I'm interested in what others gathered from this wonderful story. ;-)

I have checked all the links Nouvelle had shared with me - the links to the cartoon and a short movie based on this story. Those are masterpieces by themselves, as the creators of those clips added their vision and imagination to the work of fiction.
I mean I enjoyed the part where the main character (who is a female in the short movie) falls asleep to the umbrella-tapping, and though the guy stops hitting her on the head, she keeps jerking her head in her sleep.
In the cartoon there is another piece of creavity: the episode where the both characters are walking in the rain, each with their own umbrella, one protecting himself against the rain, another hitting him with his umbrella. Suddenly the gust of wind carries away the oppressor's umbrella, and he looks so crestfallen, that his victim gives his umbrella to him, rather than enjoy his freedom.

Сообщение отредактировал ХОМЯГ - 11.12.2011, 9:55

No offence taken. ) Rather

I would love to check the links and the movie, as well! It sounds wonderful. Could you share them with us?)) I mean, if it's not too private a matter.



LOL.



Good. I guess...

It reminded me of the episode from Sex and the city, when red-haired Miranda who had just given a birth to a son, was having a sex with some man in another room
At the very dramatic moment her baby started crying and she shouted to him: "Yes, Brady, Mom is COMING"
That was funny

Yeah, it's funny all right!
I love double-meaning in English.

It's a great ESL teaching/learning tool. One of my English instructors made it a prerequisite to passing his course. Every single day you had to write in the journal. Twice a week he had to read it. But beware, ESL teachers! Students may use horrendous grammar or make you uncomfortable with too much info to get back at you :-)