i can't understand why immigrants tear out their mother tongue and perform a ridiculous act of integration... the whole: "english, born and bred" - oh yeah, eskimos in saudi arabia, igloos made from solidified sand! i'll eat an english breakfast, i'll support west ham, i'll give into shamelessness, whatever you ask... but i wonder: wouldn't these immigrants be better integrated if they at least managed to retain their mother tongue, while speaking the language of integration? disavowing the mother tongue breeds a disavowal of the culture being immersed in... disavowal of the mother tongue breeds contempt for the culture one integrates into... the day i stop speaking western slavic, is the day you cut my tongue out, and make me eat it! i ask you: is it not better to retain your mother tongue, and imitate the culture you live in, or, is it better to disavow yourself from the mother and embrace the father, the land, while at the same time faking integration? i know i'm faking, because i am merely a: mimic in situ... but at least i have the decency to respect my origins, which translates into: not desecrating my foreign surroundings... how many of these terrorists can recite the quran, with the recitation being in: necessary arabic? i respect the culture i appropriated by respecting the most important aspect of my own origin culture: the mother tongue remains, even though i am beyond the fatherland... you lose that: you lose any sense of decency - for both cultures, even within the proximity of the shared european experience - no such conundrum for an englishman learning french, is there?*

i remember a drawing my ex-girlfriend
showed me when i was revisiting
edinburgh for the graduation
ceremony and was helping her write
an essay while she was wriggling out
a joint for me for the supposed "added
intellectual" stimulation...
  her then new b/f, high on l.s.d. walked
in, looked at me,
   with a look of a budding fear -
   as if: something was imminent or at leaat
about to take surreal dimensions of
extensions...
        i was dope eyed and to think of it:
only remember it now.
the drawing of her dream?
  her kneeling, arms outstretched -
with a sword lying on the ground...
apparently me, standing before her,
my back turned in the drawing,
holding a sword...
            my epitome of the meaning
of either judgement, or: mercy...
  rarely do people peer through a window
of someone's snapshot of the psyche -
it seems hard to imagine
  the dream-narrator as nothing more
than an automaton -
     as if: there is no choice in what we
wish to dream of...
                     but also:
we never seem to experience dreams
in the first person, that ever apparent
third party of the person sleeping.