I had a really,
Bad ‘flu in winter of
Nineteen eighty four.
I had a really,
Bad ‘flu in winter of
Nineteen eighty four.
Oh yeah, I was a
Ski guide in Switzerland and
Also I was a
Water ski trainer
On an Aegean island
In the seventies.
“Language is the armoury of the human mind and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Researchers study Language Attrition in elderly.
10 Jan 11 @ 04:47pm by THOMAS MORCOMBE
Language attrition is the weakening or loss of a first or second language by an individual. It is more common to speakers who routinely use one language more than the other.The phenomenon of language loss has caught the attention of two McMaster, Canada, professors who are determined to explore how and why this occurs.
After observing second language loss in their own mothers who were native speakers of Chinese and German, Dr. Denis Yu and Dr. Selina Stroinska of the Department of Linguistics and Languages are researching the occurrence of second language loss in the ageing population. In other words, how non-native speakers who learned English and used it competently in adulthood, begin to lose elements of the language in their elderly years, reverting to their native tongue
Their research has lead them to discover that the older a person is, the easier it is to slip into their home language. If their current tongue is their second language, then the brain will, in later life, recede into a comfort zone where it can slow down and take less effort to process and think. Often they will struggle for words and meanings or not say anything at all. Research has shown that this tendency to slip into mother tongue is often coupled with diseases such as Alzheimer’s or Dementia. The majority of the elderly may just find it easier to answer/respond in a comfortable and familiar tongue.
The study looked at the environment of the senior; an area where only the person’s second language is spoken is more likely to strengthen this language due to frequency and exposure, however, it they are not being directly spoken to, then they may not employ this language. To accommodate this phenomena, there has been an increase in specialised nursing homes, such as the selectively Greek or German Speaking nursing homes.
To change the T.V channel or not.
 Sitting here
 It’s Sunday and he’s playing T.V Video Hits.
I like their clothes. So dressy.
 Suka: like
 The T.V is in front of me. I only need to reach.
 I’m Catholic
 These gyrating women are not being respectable.
 may I
 I don’t like these singers.
 I forget a lot.
 Sometimes I like to forget. Because of this, I don’t have to think.
 watching, this
 I don’t understand
 I speak Indonesian.
 I am Indonesian.
 That boy plays piano.
 That boy turns off the TV so that I can hear his piano.
 But when the boy is not here comes to visit and she plays old-timey music.
 I really like Katrina because she speaks a bit of Indonesian with me.
 But I forget when.
 To flick to Channel 2? Or to not flick to channel 2?
 about the ocean and tourist attractions in Greece
 I’ve not yet been to Europe.
Makes one Pumpkin Pudding
2 Gentle hands
1 Loving Heart, opened
¼ cup Sympathy
4 tablespoons Patience
2 Attentive Eyes
½ cup Acceptance, pre-washed/clean
1 teaspoon Compassion
2 Listening Ears
A small pinch Unconditional Kindness, to season
** Residents such as Veronica were War time nurses and they harbour memories from the 1940s and hallmarks such as the War. Note that Veronica responds attentively to music by Glenn Miller and that perhaps an activity for the Recreation time on Friday afternoons could be a Wartime dance. Look into volunteers who are able to dance the Boogie Woogie, the Foxtrot, the Quickstep and Jazz. For lazier afternoons, introduce the Serenade.
**Residents such as Linda are selectively mute. She has not uttered a word for the past few months. However, note that she livened up when a visitor arrived to play the piano. (Log the piece and composer, perhaps attain a copy of this for when he is not available to play).
**Residents such as Dewi have Alzheimer’s. Implement your kindness when people like her become forgetful or distressed. See that she feels comfortable in a familiar environment and that she has a doll with her. Her doll is her lifeline.
Don’t just save this recipe for a special occasion, share this recipe as often as possible. Serve warm to enhance sweetness and share with family and friends.
“One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no-one ever comes to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way” –Vincent van Gogh
On her frequent travels to the City, she catches a train that zips through the underground tunnels, eagerly rushing towards the vibrant pulse of the centre.
On the infrequent times she catches the all stations, the wild train is tamed and stops at the timeworn Nursing Home, to pay its respects to the elderly, then races on leaving few on the station. Many travellers offer a passing glance, hardly aware that they are seeing a compound of society’s jewels cowering behind laminated door numbers.
She is one of the few who opt to visit the old place, but walking up to the Nursing Home, the feeling of bravery is lost. In retrospect, she admits that, when walking past countless doors, choosing one number to behind which to explore only deepens her heart ache and she fights back tears. She visits the nursing home to see her grandfather, Brian, but during her long hours there, she calls in on a few of the other residents.
Today, she walks over to Veronica and sits by her bed. As usual, she notes the figure of the Holy Mother on her bed-stand next to two cards of well-wishes, which provide a bloom of colour to the bleak room. To the fragile woman’s left, a sepia version of her youthful self in a Nurses’ uniform. The younger Veronica smiles up at the camera and from this, May notices subtle differences between the Nurse Veronica and the fragile Veronica. Presently, Veronica’s face is wrinkled, to the extent of which the lines may be traced to roads on a map, each offering a path that leads to an experience she had whilst in that uniform.
May sits and offers her hand, then cradles Veronica’s (which by stark contrast is icy cold). Her skin if lax and smooth, each finger ending in painted pink nails, (from the carers who decided to ‘pretty her up’). As she grasps May’s hand, she looks not at fledgling visitor, but through her and with each twitch of her mouth, Veronica clutches her hand stronger.
Today, she tells a story. One that doesn’t take long. One that May struggles to understand. Her speech is of incoherent and her listener must pause to decipher what she’s thinking. Her eyes smile and somehow, May finds she does indeed understand and proceeds to lose herself.
on the edge of the chair
As if the soft cushion can support his current equilibrium
As if the soft cushion can break his fall
Reaches for a cup of tea
but can’t just reach
Has to feel around
-smooth laminex-gritty crust crumbs-flimsy paper plate- thin plastic cup (oops)
Tackle plastic cup
loses the fight with the cup.
wn the front of his shirt
Not that he would know
what colour his shirt was today anyway
Chest, however, is still warm and dry.
Katrina must have put a napkin there
Recognise Katrina’s gait tha-thump
Reach – soft, light and feathery but slippery, her hair slides through fingers
Feel higher- rough felt and itchy prickly balls, perhaps pompoms. Felt is jaggered, inconsistent, like a tree branch. One conclusion. Christmas Antlers.
Hand is quicklybroughttoface
Vanilla. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Custard Tart. Honey.
This is Katrina.
voice pauses awkwardly.
vibrato held for too long.
No, This Elvis is Not Real. Earlier, Elvis talked. Said my name. Definitely not the real Elvis.
Crying in the Chapel?
If it weren’t for the antlers,
Wouldn’t have known it was Christmas
balanced on the edge of gravity
teeters on the last hope of equilibrium
perches on the stinging, scalding metal of the see-saw
Clings to the rubber of the handle-bar for relief
but not far. Springs back up again.
Inertia pulls neck down, while violently lifting his body to the heavens.
Strong thighs leap off, into the sand pit.
Grit in shoes. Grit in undies. Grit in hair. Grit in eyes.
Rub eyes, inflamed.
Open. To a Caribbean Blue sky
So cloudless you could see Saturn
If you tried.
Drink in the wholesome blue of the sky.
Dazed by a bright red tartan picnic rug
Small boy with lime-green overalls. Overalls that have obviously seen a thousand and one paint balls.
Small boy has artistic skills.
Small boy has balance and courage. Those monkey bars have humiliated and defeated many a brave warrior.
Boy drops, hearing the barely audible call of his mother by the red tartan rug.
sprint towards the boy,
Size 4, mud-stained volleys fly up in a flurry of giggles. Hazel eyes stare and twinkle with mirth.
Pause the live combat,
Nose to the air.
Woody, incensed, sharp and fragrant.
‘Tis the season to be back-burning.
Meaty, salty, sharp and fragrant.
‘Tis the season for family BBQ’s on a public griddle. (Entrust the hygiene of the entire extended family to a squirt of lemon juice on the hotplate before the feast).
This. This is Christmas.
I went caravanning with the mates down south over the Christmas/New Year break a couple of Christmases ago or what is more than that actually it may have been a good few decades because we all had time off work back then us being part of the Union and all and I sat with my mates to respect the old year as it took a bow and joined the setting sun then dipped my hat to the new one as it came around again like a refrain and we all sang along and thought of things we should have done but that’s alright because in that caravan you’re on the open road and there wasn’t really a sense of urgency to betray us in the dark at all except that maybe the hot and sticky rainy season told us to clear off from our outside barbeque to sit and play cards inside and far off on the horizon a bright white stiletto hit the earth and thus began Australia’s seasonal light sound and water show so lucky we took the time to patch up the leakage problem in the caravan before we set off because the rains that came down that year were phenomenal
but now I don’t even know what day it is let alone when New Year’s comes around these days I mean what year is it now?
I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing sometimes I silently melt by my window and peer out over suburbia and think to myself *sigh* because the path forward is a desolate one but quite frankly sitting by the same view day in day out fails to bother me actually for my prior life saw me gaining a birds-eye view in the skies of Papua for king and country and all that
to begin at the beginning I helped build and fly aeroplanes and my beauty was the Jewel in the Sky and when in that freedom I must admit greying hair grimy faces gritty half-smiles don’t count for much at all because from up there the fear is not in the falling but of the impact after tumbling dipping dropping then plummeting
so maybe I never actually held the substantial weight of a weapon of destruction or felt the wall of pain as the jolt from a backfiring gun explodes up my shoulder and I never had to decide if a life was less than what its worth by demolishing hope in a skerrick of a second
I am still considered a war hero because of my war effort
is it something to be proud of? I remember the heat of the camp as storms made the fields steam like a kettle and I remember the deafening roar of a thousand monsters being woken prematurely to hunt and feed and I remember the blood spray encrusted on the faces of those loved and lost is it really something to be proud of?
I also remember that those I fight I do not hate those I guard I do not love
except Stella Stella Stella she is a beautiful shining star which glints and sparkles in the night sky and stars in Van Gogh’s colour-by-number the one that’s up in the house I built in the Mountains she holds a musky air moth balls from our wardrobe but also has a sweetness that not unlike Nanna’s sugared figs that looked like frosted garnets so Stella she comes to call on me and also my daughter I love her too she comes sometimes to take me to Mass on Sundays and this is good because although sometimes she can’t steer my tub chair around sharp corners with her wrist her daughter comes to help and aids my trip to Mass instead and I remember in the cool of one morning a while back she leaned intrusively down and peered at me through thick black eyelashes to examine my face and announced:
-We’re going a different way today
because the nursing home got a new elevator
and so she took me in the new lift and what a smooth ride it was! The metallic box whirred and purred and slunk its way from the 4th floor to the ground yet I hardly noticed we were moving until I saw the doors open to a widening gap of light but next to the orange glow was an old old old man staring at me with papery thin skin and wrinkles like a road map and he looked at me through smeared lenses with thick brown frames that reached from his bushy white eye brows to midway down his cheeks and his eyes were an eerie pale blue that looked through me and he had the same shaving scar that I have and I wondered why this old old old man was examining me but I saw that he moved when I moved and
and then she took me past a stairwell where everything was washed in a dreamlike golden light but it actually wasn’t coming from anywhere because it was just a muted glow from the amber stained glass then as I was being pushed there I wondered why there was stained glass down here and not in other areas of this nursing home and I drew upon my knowledge of building and architecture and I thought about how the stained glass must have been down there for many reasons like-
AND then I saw a majestic statue of Our Lady and she looked simply ethereal she had a snowy veil an ephemeral snapshot in all its glory that held every crease and fold since they day she was carved- her white gown sustained elegantly behind her she just stood there as a powerful presence that filled the whole stairwell and she looked bigger than me but I used to be tall didn’t I I used to bump my perfectly slicked hair-do on the doorframe but when I looked at Our Lady she looked bigger than me because-
maybe she’s holding everyone’s problems
maybe I just got smaller
I’m not sure any more and so Louise wheeled me past her on our way to the chapel and I went to Mass and since then I’ve only been back that route to the chapel once and that was actually just last week and as a matter of fact I enjoyed the ride of the new lift a whole lot more because I closed my eyes it was like listening to a slide trombone effortlessly flow from one fluid note to the next and I relished it all the more because I knew I was going to see Our Lady and that made everything that morning all better that morning I remember that I was having problems with:
so everything was just grating on the frayed ends of my nerves and I sat and thought that all was lost all hope all meaning all reason to try all reason to stay all reasons to give up were
-Gone. This place is seriously hopeless.
my thoughts exactly wait- erm- how could Louise answer?
-Our Lady! Her statue’s gone! Oh, well, I didn’t expect much more from them.
Indeed she was missing
and I wasn’t too sure what to think
and then Louise stopped wheeling me for a bit and she put the journey on hold so that I could just sit and rest for a little while under the stained glass glow and it was very nice to sit in the warm sun even if it wasn’t that warm at all and I liked to sit there and count maybe all of the little dust motes that floated around in the sunlight and I think I got up to about 47 and then I lost count again because I was side tracked thinking about something else and then Louise came back to me pushing a very large mass that I think was Our Lady but she was not the same her figure was a little different and that’s because I noticed her hands
both of them I think were jagged and coarse not the same colour as her skin They were raw perhaps broken off
and I wonder if that was because maybe she was trying to carry too many people’s burdens in her crumbling hands and maybe like me her arthritis took its toll and maybe she literally cracked and just fell apart it was very sad to see that very sad indeed because she looked so strong and then I felt a little chilly so I pulled my crocheted multi-coloured blanket up
and then I went to Mass and when I went to Mass I thought about how:
I didn’t want to be there
I didn’t want to be there at all
I didn’t want to be left there all by myself
I didn’t want to be separated from my family
I didn’t want to be separated from my family by my family
I wanted to be home back home in the home that I actually built for us in 1954
I wanted more than anything to be out of this place