John Gets All Artistic On You

I wrote these two on the bus between Vienna and Bratislava in an attempt to share with everyone everything that is involved in total immersion language training. Keep in mind that, although they concern the same topic, the narratives are completely unrelated, if there's much of a narrative at all. Aside from the strenuous and frustrating practical training with the language, there's also quite a bit of emotional baggage tied up in this process, and I'm just the sensitive kid to respond to it, I guess. In any event, I hope these say all I want them to:

Soon the quirky soldiers begin to come, charging, to attack your fortress. They are more in total than your available army, and they’re commanded by five-star generals, but they seem manageable from the security of the fort. They come first in few numbers, one here, two there, a small platoon over the trenches. Waddling awkwardly, they’re quickly put down, their questions swiftly answered. However, the battle picks up; they siege the ears, but, again, they are duly met with those prepared slings and arrows. The battle degrades from easy victory to stalemate as the sides trade blows. But, look, your munitions run scant! Listen, your men are muntinous! Feel, your pulse has quickened! Taste, your mouth is dry with speechlessness! When the head is at odds with itself, the body has no hope.
The attackers have breached the doors! How is this? They’re no better than your soldiers, eh? Do they employ the same methods? Do they think differently? How do they visualize the way? Are not their commands the same? How…do they?
To win this battle, your General rethinks. The semantics are the key, but he must begin with them rather than reaching them. That translation is everything, yet a person, the essence, the reality of him, is all in what is his original thought. A message is a person, and he is, of course, nothing without it.
The tactics change, and new defensive maneuvers are deployed. Your men are issued new rations, and the battlefield twinkles as the swords reflect the sun. The intruders are beat back; the homeland is defended. A personality changes, and all flows; a risk taken, and a goal achieved. But what thought is given to the accountants, who sit before abacuses far flung from the battlefield? The general, although happy with his latest outcome, withholds angst at the thought of watching the scales tip.

Slowly, cautiously are the steps taken across this bridge. A most precariously hung suspension bridge, the steps must be so here. What is a deed but its method? Can action and command be separate? Can command and language similarly proceed independently? What is existence if not preceded by thought? Obvious hardship is undergone in the fierce arena; sometimes steps forward are taken without gaining ground. Forward? Nay, ‘new’ would better suit.
The footfalls all make different sounds; sometimes like spoken words, sometimes like the scratching of a pen, sometimes they even seem to be silent but for a barely audible stretching and relaxing of muscles as eyes move across a page. Boots are weighed down by a wary fear; alertness is a false comfort. Sure, you’ve learned to walk, but can you hike? Run? Frolic? Prance? Trot? Shuffle? The realization that the river flows swiftly beneath quickly and vividly manifests. No matter, the feet are kept.
Dark clouds ominously arrive; the wind begins to blow. The bridge sways; questions are asked of of the fortitude are asked, which normally go unanswered. Can it endure? In what state will it emerge? Will this trip turn sour? Control turns to hope, in the shadow of which waits the dread beast, Frustration. The bridge rocks like a bucking bronco, and the hands grip to familiar cables. Movement forward is slow, sometimes unnoticeable, even to the traveler. Yet it painfully continues, and the only ways out are the other bank or over the side, back into the familiar stream to be dumped back in those familiar places.
Should the traveler sometime find the opposite bank, will he still be the same traveler? A change is required, sure, to find this strange and wonderful place, but will the eyes interpret its details the same? The reaction be as it would have been? “Strange” and “wonderful” on the other side might have entirely different meanings. At home was this traveler comfortable with himself; security was self-supplied. Master of his domain, he certainly was- still is as he clings to himself. There, in short, he liked himself. Will a similar fondness be found in his destination? Should he continue at the risk of exchange himself for someone else? It is already a difficult bridge to cross; could he do it again if necessary? The questions fly as he continues onward. The rapid flow resounds in his ears, the wind howls as his weight is whipped back and forth, yet he continues onward, hoping for the best. He’s already learned to walk, and he’s yet to forget how to crawl; the footprints are still evident. Forward he walks, hoping the pattern will not change.