Reply to Sonnet V: Nothing But No

Read aloud for proper effect.

Sonnet V: Nothing But No (Michael Drayton)

Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?

How falls it out so strangely you reply?

I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,

With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."

I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";

I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";

I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";

"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";

Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?

No I am I, if I no more can have;

Answer no more, with silence make reply,

And let me take myself what I do crave.

Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;

Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."

Reply to Sonnet V: Nothing But No (Esther CW, June 2013)

No more "No," now "Aye," and "Aye," not "No".

That is what I now sincerely reply.

I tell ye, Love, I can only answer so,

With this affirming "Aye," I'll not deny thee "No."

Now I too love, forever answer "Aye";

I know you love, I retract my "No";

You said "I die," now I say "No";

"Save me," you cry, I hold you close.

Woe is gone, I do not lie when I say "Aye".

No I am I, if apology I do not crave;

Silence now, I have ceased to fly,

Take me to yourself, I end this stave

Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;

Plight our troth, I'll not say "No."

What do you make of this?

I've got my height from my Parisian mother, my passport from my Dutch father, my complexion from my biological Indonesian father, I was born in Brussels, and my first (and only fluent) language is English. Not American, British, Australian, Canadian, or any other particular country's English. Just English.
There, intro over.
When I was 14, one of my Social Studies diagnostic test questions was "who is the president of your country?"
My answer: "Kibaki".
I'd moved to Kenya only a couple months previously but I'd been reading the national newspaper every day and I didn't hesitate a moment before writing what I did. I've always thought of whichever country I was currently living in as "my country".
What a look my mom had on her face when she brought my corrected test back to me. I had done very well on every other question, but what sort of gibberish was that on the question about the president of my country?
In 2009, I borrowed two library books - Anne Franke and Zlata's Diary. I read Anne Franke first. 
For the record, I hated it. Whiny brat who spends all her time throwing fits because she isn't the center of attention and the goddess of everyone's world.
Ahem, that's not what I'm actually trying to tell you. There was a passage in Dutch from her diary on the flyleaf that I did not understand a word of. I did not know how to pronounce the Dutch names and I was familiar with almost none of the streets and places she mentioned.
Next, I read Zlata's Diary. Zlata was an 11 year old who survived the war in Sarajevo with her family and kept a diary while she was at it.
I knew how to pronounce every name, knew every location she mentioned and had been to most of them. One page of the book was a scan from her diary. I read her schoolgirl handwriting and then continued with the book. A few pages later, I wondered if I was having a deja vu. I remembered what I was reading even though this was the first time I'd read the book. It took a minute for me to realize that this was the passage I had read in Bosnian and that this confirmed that I had understood it perfectly.
What do you make of that?

The Six Year Old Pedagogue

Hehe, pedagogue sounds better than teacher, doesn't it?

One of my fondest memories is of being five and six years old and helping care for a one year old boy.
His parents used to ask me to watch him for a minute or so while they went to get the phone (yes, the one that stays in one room ALL the time, on account of having those old-fashioned things called wires) or to fetch something from another part of the house.
I felt terribly grown up and responsible whenever I was seated with little Sammy on my lap and a picture book in front of us. I'd do all the pointing and exclaiming that anyone who has taught young children is an expert in and glow with pride when he happily sat with me and absorbed the knowledge that comes from flashcards.
To my memory, that was the beginning of a career in teaching that I have been passionate about every day of my life since. 

Passing on knowledge is SO important! 

I haven't really got "showy" skills. Someone was once embarrassed when they asked if I sang or played and instrument and I answered no. "Do you write?" "No." (at that time I only sneaked into the Writers' Kingdom through a tiny hole in the wall and always made sure no one saw me)
"Do you dance?" "No." "Do you (more of those things that most people can do)" "No."
He was a gentlemanly fellow and I felt bad for making him feel bad on my account, but I was shy, so I said nothing. 

As for things I CAN do, I can spell any word I've seen once and tell you how many letters are in it a moment after, I can speed read, kick your BUTT on Boggle, Text Twist, Bookworm Adventures Deluxe (if you sit behind me and remind me to top up my health), and find any spelling or grammar mistake in any thing written in the English language from food labels to tourist brochures to tweets to novels.
Yes, I know. If you don't have G-O-D* this is the most boring list in the world and maybe you don't even know what I'm talking about, but c'est la vie. 
Torturous tidbit: "C'est la vie" is spelled "selawy" here. The curious thing is that Bosnian does not have a "w" or a "y" in its alphabet.


*Grammar Obsessive Disorder

Tutu, tutu, tututu. Tutu, tutu, tututu...

Last Wednesday I presented a little girl who was having a birthday for the seventh time in her life with a tutu I had made for her. She couldn't have been more ecstatic. I made a sock bun in her hair, put her in white stockings and sent the ballerina forth to camera land. 
Something was missing, however. Back to the bedroom we went to envelop her brother in a tight grey turtleneck, black socks and stockings. Voila! Well, it was the best we could do with the resources we had on hand and a childish-impatience-fueled hurry.
Now pay close attention, I am going to teach you something that I KNOW you don't know. Torturous tidbit coming up: A male ballet dancer is called a...ballerino!
I just know you are going to sleep better tonight for finally having this question that has been haunting you so long put to rest. Why didn't you just look it up on Wikipedia for once and for all like I did?
I like making tutus. A lot. The first one I did was for myself and everyone who has looked upon it has been filled with admiration and/or envy, harhar. 
I do so want to make more, and I shall, just as soon as I can get enough material to make them properly huge. I want people to say I am fat when I wear it so I can contradict them in my best moody mammoth voice: I'm not fat. It's all this tulle. It makes me look...poofy.