the sound of your voice
Sep. 8th, 2017 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lokuroLately, I had to give a lot of talks about my current research project (mainly bionanosensors for neurotransmitter detection based on carbon nanotubes. There are also a few funny bits about Egyptian Blue pigment as a fancy side project~) but instead of getting better with repetition, my English is getting weirder and weirder... Funny bits of German/Russian accents thrown into the mix don't make the situation any easier... so, I was just curious how the end product might sound to a native speaker? Therefore - and to make up for the lack of activity in the past 5 years (do you feel as old as me while typing that?) - I decided to upload some text snippets and accompany them with my vocalization. I hope it's understandable? I hereby present you with three attempts at communication with the outer world:
English and others species, (beware of lots of text and sound, no translation provided)
English
(in this case it's a few snippets form an amazing (and still ongoing) rp with a great writer (and a very patient one since she still hadn't kicked me out despite severe... um, delay in response) in DS9 universe, Garak/Bashir with me playing Garak)
“Ah, but you see, the station was actually designed by an architect highly influenced by the Rogarin style”, if Garak sensed the latent double meaning behind Bashir’s excitement for exploration of his home-world, it showed nowhere on his smiling face, “One of those attempts at classicism which are revived at least once every hundred years, each time remarkably different. I am afraid you’ll have to take a crash course of a few thousands years history to appreciate the beauty of each iteration cycle leading to the final result.” Thankfully, they were just discussing civil engineering, because otherwise one might think he denied Bashir the possibility to ever understand a culture so opposite to his beloved Federation
Admittedly, on his bad days the bold architectural decisions were lost on Garak. The station resembled a dreadful redrad wheel, and he was the redrad, damned into the never-ending circling around the promenade, never going somewhere; just an illusion of endless motion created by a huge spinning wheel lost in the vast cosmos. But one certainly can’t blame the architect for that. As far as exile goes, this one was not that bad a place. It could be worse. It could be Romulus.
Sound: mp3-link
German
Text (my old (very, very old) ficlet from WK, inspired by our cosplay group - don't judge xD)
Morgens in der Schwarzwohnung um halb acht....
Statt Moral hatte Crawford seinen Kaffee. Schwarz. Die obligatorische Zeitung, die er am Frühstückstisch entfaltete, versperrte ihm die Sicht auf seine herzallerliebsten Teamkollegen, doch konnte er jederzeit voraussagen, dass keiner von ihnen seine Leidenschaft teilte.
Schuldig trank Kakao - Zucker pur.
English and others species, (beware of lots of text and sound, no translation provided)
English
(in this case it's a few snippets form an amazing (and still ongoing) rp with a great writer (and a very patient one since she still hadn't kicked me out despite severe... um, delay in response) in DS9 universe, Garak/Bashir with me playing Garak)
“Ah, but you see, the station was actually designed by an architect highly influenced by the Rogarin style”, if Garak sensed the latent double meaning behind Bashir’s excitement for exploration of his home-world, it showed nowhere on his smiling face, “One of those attempts at classicism which are revived at least once every hundred years, each time remarkably different. I am afraid you’ll have to take a crash course of a few thousands years history to appreciate the beauty of each iteration cycle leading to the final result.” Thankfully, they were just discussing civil engineering, because otherwise one might think he denied Bashir the possibility to ever understand a culture so opposite to his beloved Federation
Admittedly, on his bad days the bold architectural decisions were lost on Garak. The station resembled a dreadful redrad wheel, and he was the redrad, damned into the never-ending circling around the promenade, never going somewhere; just an illusion of endless motion created by a huge spinning wheel lost in the vast cosmos. But one certainly can’t blame the architect for that. As far as exile goes, this one was not that bad a place. It could be worse. It could be Romulus.
Sound: mp3-link
German
Text (my old (very, very old) ficlet from WK, inspired by our cosplay group - don't judge xD)
Morgens in der Schwarzwohnung um halb acht....
Statt Moral hatte Crawford seinen Kaffee. Schwarz. Die obligatorische Zeitung, die er am Frühstückstisch entfaltete, versperrte ihm die Sicht auf seine herzallerliebsten Teamkollegen, doch konnte er jederzeit voraussagen, dass keiner von ihnen seine Leidenschaft teilte.
Schuldig trank Kakao - Zucker pur.
Der Geruch alleine reichte aus, um Crawford das klebrige Aroma förmlich auf der Zunge schmecken zu lassen. Man glaubte es kaum, aber er hatte eine erstaunlich rege Phantasie und müsste sich danach immer besonders gründlich die Zähne putzen, um den imaginären Geschmack wieder loszuwerden. Ja, nicht jedes Zahnpastalächeln von einem Amerikaner ist genetischen bedingt, schließlich war Schuldig ja auch nicht blond und Farfarello....
Farfarello trank jeden Morgen Tee. Herb und fruchtig zugleich.
(I know it's a long way towards any attempts at podfic :'D But it was fun! Which one did you found more understandable or nice sounding? Also - gosh, I really do not sound that high pitched in RL. Do I?! x_x)Farfarello trank jeden Morgen Tee. Herb und fruchtig zugleich.
Er hielt die Tasse in den Händen, als ob es ein kleines aus dem Nest gefallenes Küken wäre, das er beschützen müsste, und konnte manchmal stundenlang in die dunkle Teeoberfläche hinein starren, ohne sich zu rühren oder auch nur zu blinzeln. An anderen Tagen wiederum war er hyperaktiv. Crawford schaffte bereits reflexartig den Kopf genau zweieinhalb Millimeter nach links oder nach rechts zu bewegen, damit ein angekohlter, steinharter Toast oder eine wie ein Flugzeug gefaltete Käsescheibe an ihm vorbei flogen ohne den perfekt sitzenden Anzug zu ruinieren.
Sound
Russian
Text (the last time I wrote something in Russian is... um, about 12 years ago? Maybe 15? So, yeah, you'll have to believe that I am still capable of writing, I just really don't want to dig up any embarrassing teenage text of a 16y'old :'D Let's have a passage from Dostoevsky instead, shall we? Because, yeah, I want you all to feel the Russian depression at its finest~)
Федор Михайлович Достоевский
Sound
Russian
Text (the last time I wrote something in Russian is... um, about 12 years ago? Maybe 15? So, yeah, you'll have to believe that I am still capable of writing, I just really don't want to dig up any embarrassing teenage text of a 16y'old :'D Let's have a passage from Dostoevsky instead, shall we? Because, yeah, I want you all to feel the Russian depression at its finest~)
Федор Михайлович Достоевский
Идиот
В конце ноября, в оттепель, часов в девять утра, поезд Петербургско-Варшавской железной дороги на всех парах подходил к Петербургу. Было так сыро и туманно, что насилу рассвело; в десяти шагах, вправо и влево от дороги, трудно было разглядеть хоть что-нибудь из окон вагона. Из пассажиров были и возвращавшиеся из-за границы; но более были наполнены отделения для третьего класса, и всё людом мелким и деловым, не из очень далека. Все, как водится, устали, у всех отяжелели за ночь глаза, все назяблись, все лица были бледно-желтые, под цвет тумана.
В одном из вагонов третьего класса, с рассвета, очутились друг против друга, у самого окна, два пассажира -- оба люди молодые, оба почти налегке, оба не щегольски одетые, оба с довольно замечательными физиономиями и оба пожелавшие, наконец, войти друг с другом в разговор.
Sound