Category: Fourre-tout

A little bit of everything

The Art of Pronunciation

Like thousands of Americans, I am a foreign-born individual. In other words, I was born outside the United States, and English was not my mother tongue. Later, when I moved to California, my first major hurdle in the US became mastering English, or at least, understanding (and timidly uttering) the local lingo.

As everybody who tries to learn a second language knows, it is not easy. Correct pronunciation is the key to being understood by the natives. But before pronouncing any word, it is essential to know how to spell it properly, and many immigrants fail to understand this. They ape words the best they can, trying to reproduce what they have heard before without solid foundations.

Pronunciation is more than just the simple act of speaking words aloud; it refers to how a word or language is spoken, including the articulation of individual sounds to the rhythm and melody of speech.

Mastery of pronunciation is vital for clarity, credibility, and effective interaction, whether one is addressing a crowd, engaging in conversation, or performing on stage.

The key to mastering any discipline is to be inquisitive and mindful of guidance. Never be offended if somebody corrects or questions your speech. Listen, question, and learn. Better to be misunderstood once than to be perpetually on the wrong end of a stick.

The importance of pronunciation extends beyond mere understandability. It influences how speakers are perceived, their confidence in using a language, and their ability to connect with others. Poor pronunciation can lead to misunderstandings, frustration, and barriers in social, academic, or professional contexts. Conversely, good pronunciation facilitates smooth communication and opens doors to deeper relationships and greater opportunities.

In summary, pronunciation is a multifaceted skill encompassing articulation, phonetic symbols, stress, rhythm, and intonation. Attentive practice and mindful listening can transform pronunciation from a barrier into a bridge.

Alain

The Clock Watcher

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at precisely 1:00 p.m., I submit myself to the same grim routine. Like my companions in misfortune, I enter a vast hall lined with about thirty reclining chairs, each waiting for its occupant to begin treatment. Each session, governed by humming machines, lasts three and a half hours but feels like an eternity. And that doesn’t even include the preparation (before and after), which adds another 30 to 40 unwanted minutes to the routine.

Altogether, we spend more than four hours lying motionless, tethered to machines that hum indifferently —or sometimes buzz—beside us. For those who endure dialysis, time acquires a new gravity: it is no longer counted in hours, but in minutes, each one carrying the weight of captivity and the hope of early release.

Even the trip to the dialysis center has become a ritual. At first, I relied on others for transportation, but after that initial visit, I chose to drive myself. Anything to cut down the feeling of dependence—and the misery of extra wasted time in this virtual jail cell.

Once strapped into the chair and connected by tubes to the machine, the slow torture of clock-watching begins. The first two hours are tolerable; the last stretch, however, is exhausting. You try not to look at the clock, but like any prisoner, your eyes will betray you.

It begins with that first stolen glance at the wall clock. The eyes, almost involuntarily, flick toward it—as if mere willpower could make the hands move faster. Over time, one becomes a reluctant master of such tricks, a conjurer of minutes.

Everyone develops their own methods to survive the wait. Some bring books, breaking the hours into chapters. Others listen to podcasts, letting the voices pull them into another world. A few meditate, counting breaths or ceiling tiles.

My own method so far is music. I divide the long session into batches of songs, each lasting about three to four minutes. I force myself to listen to at least three songs before I allow myself another glance at the clock. Ten whole minutes gone—an achievement in this peculiar arithmetic of survival.

For the final stretch, I turn to music with a driving beat. I’ve learned that an old rock classic lifts me far more than a ballad or a symphony. One of my favorites is Patrick Hernandez’s Born to Be Alive—a song that doesn’t just please but pushes you strongly forward like a favorable wind.

Still, the wall clock rules the room—both tyrant and companion. The secret isn’t to defeat it, but to fill each minute with something just engaging enough to loosen time’s grip. In the end, the game isn’t about winning, but about enduring—shortening the ordeal, one minute at a time.

Alain

The Physical and Emotional Toll of dialysis

About a month ago, I reluctantly agree to start dialysis. Now, 3 times a week I trek to the dialysis clinic to have my blood cleansed. Each 3 ½ hours session brings hours that stretch with time and marked by the slow (very slow) ticking of an unfeeling clock.

Three times a week, the ritual begins. You arrive at the clinic, body and soul weary, bracing for the now familiar ordeal.

The process is repetitive: needles are inserted in your arm, blood is drawn, cleansed and returned. Those who endure dialysis know that time works differently here; the last 60 minutes expand, especially in the final stretch, when every nerve and muscles of your body begs for relief.

In the final hour, the clock seems to slow down more markedly. The first hour may pass with resignation, but as the session drags on, the mind and the body grow restless; the long-held captive body aches for relief, and the final hour becomes a struggle between endurance and acceptation.

There is also an indignity in this routine, a sense of becoming less a person and more an object—whose functions must be maintained artificially. For many, there is also a helpless rage: the anger of impotence, of having one’s autonomy replaced by procedure and protocol.

Dialysis also exacts a heavy psychological price. Beneath the surface of routine, frustration simmers. There is the distress of lost freedom, and the constant alternance between acceptance and resistance. Most of the time, the rage is silent, but sometimes, it surfaces in tears or bitter words spoken to an unconcerned audience.

To live with dialysis is to endure the slow clock, the aching body, the sense of power slipping away, but with the ever-present feeling that life, imperfect and constrained as it is, is still worth living.

“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.'” – Mary Anne Radmacher

Alain