Howdy, y'all. I've been in Madrid for the past week, so I'm a bit behind. Like 20 hand-written pages behind. And each article I post here is usually 2-3 pages. So I've got a bunch, and I'm going to try to keep them shorter for Cedarbird's sake, since she loves to complain about how long-winded I get. Whatever.
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02 Apr 2008. 5:24pm.
"Say pull for me again.
"Say hot for me again."
I sit in the darkened booth, twisted sideways and backwards to fit in the claustrophobia-inducing hellhole, and read the words on the computer screen through the window (outside of this horrible, dark, sealed box/coffin) in a painfully monotone voice, careful to keep my speed consistent as the maddeningly repetitious phrases scroll before my dull, dead eyes.
"Say furl for me again.
"Say Paul for me again."
I can see the grad student, seated patiently at the other laptop, biting on her thumb while watching the recording stream live, her face lit like someone telling a ghost story around the campfire - all light from below, all shadow above.
"Say pole for me again.
"Say hoe for me again."
It's not that bad, I guess. When i got the e-mail from her asking for my help in recording some phrases in English for phonetic analyses connected with her doctoral dissertation, I was more than willing (mostly because I hope people are willing to help me when I reach that point). The fact that the school would pay me 25 Euros each for the two sessions only sweetened the deal.
"Say poor for me again."
But did I know it would be so mind-numbing?
"Say Paul for me again."
I already said Paul four times for you again.
This is proof positive why I study literature, not phonetics and phonology. This may be mind-numbing to me to sit in this coffin/box for two hours and read words into a microphone, but she's got to go listen to this recording heaven-only-knows-how-many-times and extrapolate whatever data she's looking for.
"Say pool for me again."
That's not only mind-numbing, that's downright brain-liquefying.
"Say furl for me again."
Nevah! I say to myself, as I begin to think about the Sonata de invierno, waiting for me back home and with so few pages until the denouement. Poor Marqués de Bradomín, losing his arm and then unknowingly, accidentally trying to seduce his own nun/daughter. My sordid adventures have nothing on Xavier Bradomín, man.
"Say heat for me again.
"Say pure for me again."
In that moment I realize my brain has been severed into two in new and exciting ways. Speech, one of the supposedly 'higher' brain functions, has joined the lower functions and my mind is in no way, shape, or form connected to the words coming out of my mouth. They might as well be gibberish, the mad ravings of a Pentecostal who smoked a little too much 'Holy Spirits' and is in the throes of the ridiculously misunderstood 'gift of tongues'.
Huh.
The screen reads "THE END" and I force the door of my sound-proofed prison open and tackle my bottled water, eager to slake my thirst. With a big smile, the grad student thanks me for my time and hands me some money.
Not a bad way to earn 25 Eurobones, and she needs me tomorrow for another (shorter) session, same price.
Good. This will finance my weekend travel.