Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Futhark my life.

On the way to the drugstore, there is a long white construction wall with 'post no bills' signs on it. Indeed, there are no bills. There is, however, graffiti. On my way past, I scanned the usual anti-gentrification slogans, and then did a double take.

"Is that the fucking elder futhark?"

I pulled an eyeliner pen out of my purse and quickly copied down the runes onto my wrist. Walking home I s

tudied it, cursing myself for not knowing if a) it WAS for sure the elder futhark and b) not remembering the bloody alphabet if it were. I then realised nobody in their right mind would give two shits.

A google search later, I discover, A-HA! It's the MEDIEVAL expansion on the younger futhark. I then set about translating my wrist.

It says, 'Larson.'

What we have learned today: some kid named Larson has a sharpie, and I have no life.
 
 
(My sister, however, thinks it's adorable that a) I was upset for not knowing my runic alphabet, and b) for being honestly pissed that it was just some kid's name.)

2 comments:

  1. I too would be upset. It's like the time my brain blanked at the MFA and I couldn't translate any of the hieroglyphs in the Egyptian wing. I felt utterly mundane. I am glad you reconciled the script though!

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  2. I once bought a pen and notebook to transcribe something someone had written in some kind of runes (it was a *very* long time ago) on the back of a lavatory door in a shady part of Rockhampton. At least my effort was sort of rewarded; it turned to say "life can be beautiful if you let it be that way".

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