The Tip Of My Tongue

I dreamed that, while seeing two clients in succession out the door, I felt moved to recite to each of them one of the metrical English translations* of the Catullus verse that starts Ameana puella defututa. The version I was declaiming goes

Ameana, big-nosed twat,
Duns me for an awful lot…

But I kept blanking out on the third line. I could recall the concluding couplets but could not for the life of me remember what came in the middle, even though I thought it was very important for each of these people to hear the poem.

I hate it when that happens.

*I like the conclusion of the version I remembered better than the one I linked here.
Find out what the hell has shocked her,
Call her relatives, her doctor,
Give the kid a looking-glass
To show her face looks like her ass.


8 thoughts on “The Tip Of My Tongue

    • I love the ones where he threatens people with the eternal vengeance of being defamed in copious hexameters.

      That one turned out to be the Myers/Ormsby transliteration, and now I know why I refused to remember the third and fourth line: the English is wooden and uninspired and I could have done better myself. Sesar’s is also good if you want the verse to swing.

  1. Dammit. I have no idea what you are on about. Now I feel as dumb as the people I work with.
    Being as you are the only one who would care – I had the most goddamn boring dreams last night. I was doing some sort of historical or science research, but it was boring as fuck! And it was one of the few damn times I’d wake up and fall back into the same dream. Each time I was thinking, ‘For fuck’s sake, why am I dreaming this crap?’ I’m going to blame it on just finishing Michael Crieghton’s last book Micro (terrible entirely) and my hubby’s 24-HR BP monitor beeping all night.

  2. Ah, look up Catullus sometime, he was the Latin poet that everyone reads even if (like me) they can only hang on by their teeth with the rest. (Vergil is so boring! Like your dream!) What’s not to like? Half his poems are that breezy and obscene. One of them opens, more or less, “Fuck you at both ends.”

    Michael Crichton was a sick creep. He probably programmed the book to do that to people.

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