On the Difficulties of Complete Integration into a

On the Difficulties of Complete Integration into a New Culrure
My Froman freinds are mostly conversant only in wurzel gummidge, the Somerset scrumpiod dialect evolving from the agricultural consciousness augmented in thought pattern by the fermented apple juice of local sacramental reverence. Whilst having over two hundred different words describing the varieties of cider ditch tumble and the enormity of drunken drainage channel wallowing possibilities that rural cider man will experience in a normal healthy life of alcoholism, yet, frustratingly for the incomer they have, literally no linguistic expression or even a conceptual framework for love. From paternal, sexual to homeland loyalty, any fond association the Froman wishes to express, he must make do with the metaphorical use of 'cider ', this covers all but the sublime superlative where 'gert lush' is used. The animal passion for the mud of their birth being an intrinsic 'gnosis' shared by all, to verbalise any detail of their sense of oneness with the soil would show a moral idiocy. It is a given. City folk are prone to scoff at what, to their urban mindset, appears yokel simplicity. Yet a vast scrumpoid vocabulary has evolved into a linguistic sub category able to explore a deep poetic and mystical complexity of relationships between man and root vegetable. These subsurface crops are revered, seen as a physical metaphor of the journey from the dark underworld or prebirth silence, upward in to the light. Representative of personal birth and growth but also, in a broader sense, mans journey from our animal ancestor into the light of human reason. Turnip, potato, mangel wurzel and swede, the limited word restrictive stretch urban man is imprisoned by, a poor tool kit of draper and homebase DIY poverty revealing an infantile oblivious ignorance to the immense, emotional, spiritual, aesthetic dimensions the scrumpoid mind has evolved the capacity to conceptualise, digest, invert and contemplate. This refinement of mind is largely made possible by the scrumpoid gruntage dialect, (a secondary linguistic system that comes into play as the lower levels of the cider state are adequately articulable through the basic tongue, deeper submersion into the cider state of mind sees the yokel shift seamlessly in to this additioal communicative system as the primary dialect reaches its limits to articulate this higher level cider consciousness) it is through the secondary language the yokels specialised ability is able to express in eloquent exactitude, the enormous spectrum of transcendence the root vegetable/human connection the yokel intellectual is party to. To the urban ear, tuned to a steel and concrete inorganic modernity, this musical grunted poetics, though cognitively impenetrable, can sound of a similar beauty to birdsong yet augmented by a symphonic labyrinth of vast and diverse complexity. No one born and raised outside the scrumpoid bumpkin culture, where scrumpy is the very breastmilk feeding the developement of the yokel child, could ever learn even a fraction of the most primary gruntage. Together, in cider, the spiritual musicality of dialect paints the air space of the rustic bar in a vibrant rainbow of auditory wonder. Scrumpogrunt, as linguistic academics often refer to this secondary language, is a communicative throw back, the missing link, expressive of all emotional subtleties. Confined to a single language that deals only with the material plane, it can be difficult for our minds to grasp. Yet the logic of this binary system, it's primary dialect able to explore and communicate the material reality, but where we fall dumb, the scrumpoid gumbo has the secondary system that can discuss and communicate the immaterial, the transcendent, the numinous and mystical connect to the earth in tubor from parsnip to beet. Indeed, the expression 'going back to my roots' comes from scrumpoid origins, as, in death, a return both physical in burial and spiritual, the internment of bumpkin sees the return to Mother Earth. The rotting corpse decomposition into compost, feeding the tubor. The physically quantifiable passage of the molecular particles of the yokel flesh, into the swede, spud or carrot. A complex tradition of reincarnation of the spirit into a hierarchy of root vegetables dependant on the conviction and discipline in cider consumption shown in life sees the temperate heretic cursed to a mangel wurzel afterlife. The return as animal feed a fitting punishment for a life wasted in cider less hubris. The piety of the seriously alcoholic may incur earthly suffering, the hangover akin to catholic flagellation, yet only through a pure and drunken life can yokel achieve divine carrot hood.
Full understanding of Scrumpogrunt comes through realising, unlike modern language where a word represents symbolically the object, Scrumpogrunt are sounds of direct animal reaction, no structured translation of the feeling into word, a pure direct vocalisation of emotional yokel spud interplay. A biological instinctive reaction of human/root tubor contact. This dialectical oddity originated from a time when man first stepped beyond the grunt, whimper and moan of animal into the language now common to Homo sapiens. This entire paradigm dimension is not only incommunicable to their towny counterpart, it is far beyond any comparable means of understanding. A dimension we can prove existent by mathematics, yet beyond our brainscope. Much like trying to imagine the echo location sensory world of bats. Or visualise infinity. Outside our sensory equipment. Beyond the conventional scope. The scrumpoid mind is deeply compassionate of our tubor blindness. Indeed, difficult for them to grasp why anyone could live in in such an empty world. In inverted pity, we struggle to envisage a loveless life, we prize love as the saving grace of an otherwise cruel world. Love is to urban man what swede is to scrumpoid. So, scoff as the urban shoe polisher may, the scrumpoid mind takes a melancholy pity at this spiritual wonder the towny can never enjoy. Though, the sons of the soil share my company and we politely down a jar or two together, one can't help but feel a gap, an unbridgeable distance, locked in different worlds. I see the sympathetic glances they give me, as though reluctantly dragged to the zoo, confronted with a captured ape, sadly behind glass, recognising that, from their lofty agricultural mind perch , my thought is mere bovine slurry. Cursed to miss the leaf above, and tubor below, the mud veil where the scrumpoid consciousness connects through lumpen root, in to the earth, Gaia, my soul unconnected to the host planet. A motherless, confused child. A lost uni lingual tourist, without correct currency, guidebook or sunscreen.


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