parks of madrid - retiro

The set-up:
3AM on December 21, 2009, Madrid...














Then the visit to Parque del Buen Retiro 12 hours later:

Are they growing cabbage here now?

Whatever they are, they sure are stinky.


The pond, not frozen.


One of many stopped or inaccurate clocks in the city; it was about 3:15.


That's a nice chunk of snow.




Statue alley.


What interesting statues...I wonder if somebody got funny pictures of us trying to get up on that damn pedestal.











A frozen lake in front of the Palacio de Cristal.

With duck tracks.

And a water sprite path through the middle.




Palacio de Cristal looking wintery.



A tiny ice column on the Grotto.


Not much water here.


This tree appears to be spawning a deer.


Discovery of a snow boulder.


Somebody made a snowman on top of an urn. Poor guy looks kind of disfigured.


Meditation in the old convent to end the visit.

upstairs pt. 3

Look, detective, I don't really mind being called down to the station if I can be of any help, but I've already told my story several times. I don't see why you might hear something different here, when nobody has heard anything interesting in my house. Yes, I suppose your ears are fresh to my story, but that still doesn't tell me why we have to be here. I'm not being interrogated, am I? I'm just answering some questions, again, right? No, I'm not nervous, I'm just a little irritated that I had to leave work like that. My supervisor has it in for me, you know. If I didn't have some, let's say, connections in HR, she might have had my ass kicked out already. I don't know, she's just a bitch. I've never said or done anything to her. I think she's jealous because Ted in the mail room has a crush on me and not her. He always lets me send packages whenever I want.

Ah!...Um...Well, it's...OK, so he really shouldn't be doing that, but I don't send big packages, and I don't send them often. It's only been three. Or maybe five.

Oh, really? That's very strange. It really couldn't have been me, though, detective, I didn't even know their names. How could I address a package to them? Oh, it just said "Resident", I see. But how do you know it came from my office? Seriously? They have special package wrapping paper? That's amazing...and a little silly, if I may say so. Well, we're not FedEx or something for chrissake, why would the office need special paper with its own watermark? I didn't think we even sent out that many packages, that was why Ted was so accommodating. But what was in the package, when was this? Oh, you think I should know?

Look, detective, I've already said I didn't like them. I admitted I vandalized their door. I complained about them to my co-workers. But I don't do creepy threatening things like in the movies, if I have a problem with somebody, I let them know directly.

What do you mean, like with my supervisor? I don't have any problem with her, she has one with me! God!

Well, I don't understand what you're getting at with these questions. Yes, I think they are kind of a waste of time. If you want me to tell you something in particular, why don't you just ask me?

NO. I absolutely did not kill my upstairs neighbors.

Now if you're done making baseless accusations, I'll get back to the office. Lacey must be spreading rumors about me already.

Yes, Lacey is my supervisor. Fine, talk to her. Call her at the office. The number's in the phone book. You have my information, and you can read, can't you?

(See you later? Yeah, like the twelfth of never. Fucker.)

glass

Broken glass upon the floor
It glitters brightly
In tiny shards
Shards of glass, glass like stars
Winking and twinkling
In the black pudding of the sunless sky
Shards as clear as the tears
That trickled down her face
Before I broke the bottle
On her head

names pt. 2.5

first draft

In jokes and stories, certain surnames and surname forms are likely to appear. They will be typical of a group that is looked down on in society or allowed to be made fun of. At the turn of the 20th century, many jokes in the US involved people with German/Yiddish or Scottish/Irish names. The M(a)c- prefix is still used for funny names, e.g. Homer Simpson renaming Marge "Chesty McBoob". Another example is the early 20th century comic character Boob McNutt.
The surname Jones is also used often for funny or light-hearted characters, possibly because its large number in the population make it easy to use without seeming to point to any particular person, thus avoiding provable insult or slander. Some examples are Jughead Jones, Skippyjon Jones, and America Jones. Even Bridget Jones could fall into this category.

unbearable

Speak to me not of thy grandiose dreams,
Of thy troll-slaughter, of thy zombie death toll.
Fill not mine ears with words a-drip with fantasy.

Tell me not of futures beyond a decade and a world,
When thou art unrecognizable and bold,
And rejoicing in existences here known but vaguely.

Why dost thou envision such a lofty mirage?
Why can I not fall back and go?
Why do I cling to a hallucination of thee?

Tell me now, what thou saw'st on the street this morning,
How the scuttling clouds chilled thy soul.
Fill my head with words stuffed with normality.

Speak to me of a woman in the train
And her hair that swayed to and fro
With Medusa locks she pushed away to see

And weave a tale of nothingness to sooth and calm
My nervous mind, make it catch and slow.
Describe the tiny bird that hopped off free.

Thou dost not see the present, nor I future.
Our eyes do not meet as we well know.
I reach thru fog and darkness to clasp a hand to me
And find my emptiness and numbness only grow
When thou look'st off to whatever thou and thou alone would see.

upstairs pt. 2

Oh, hello. Detective, huh? Are you on the case upstairs? Yeah, yeah, they talked to me a couple of days ago 'cause I filed that complaint. Yeah, I'm also a neighbor, so yeah, it makes sense.

Well, what can I tell you? They were already here when I moved in a couple of years ago, but I never got to know them that well. They kept to themselves pretty much. I guess the people upstairs from them knew them. And the people next door, like I told the police last time. No, we really don't have get-togethers in the building or anything, I guess we only see each other in the elevator or the lobby or the halls. I think I only know anybody else here by first name. Like Judy, or Chris and Tina or Rusty, although he's the janitor and he doesn't actually live here. Oh, and the old woman, her name is Mia. Was Mia. I think. Somebody yelled that to her one time when I was up asking if they could keep it down. Yeah, somebody in the apartment, I guess it was the guy. I don't even know what her connection was to that family, I can only assume she was somebody's relative. She didn't really look old enough to be somebody's mom...maybe an aunt. Or much older sister.

Well, like I told the police last time, I never heard anything that night. I came home after work, working late, it was about 10 pm, and I just went right to bed. I had to be up at 5:30. I didn't hear anything when I came home, and nothing woke me up, it was the best sleep I'd had in weeks. I should stay late at the office every night.

No, I was at work all day. I mean, I have to be at the office at 8 in the morning. Yeah, I get up at 5:30, I have a long commute. It's in Lakeview and I carpool so I have to be ready early. That day was actually my day to drive so I had to leave almost an hour earlier than normal. Oh sure, I pick up Sarah Roslin over on Kirkvale, Tom Jennings down on Redding Ave., and Charleena Arrosa on Charing. By that big mini-mall they built last year. She could walk into it to do her shopping if there were any stores worth using. Are you kidding? They're crap! It's not even cheap crap, which is more insulting, I mean, if they sold you cheap stuff, like che-eap stuff and it fell apart after a couple of days, you know it's your own damn fault for buying it but it's not cheap so you think you're paying for some modicum of quality and all you're getting is crap and it's not even Chinese, it's from India or some shit and you never hear about these places on the news that send all this crap over here that people buy without thinking -

What? Oh, sorry.

Yeah, so Charleena lives over there. Sure, you can call them. I don't remember the exact times I picked them up, they probably don't either, but we got to work about 5 to 8. I have the numbers here...hang on...Sarah isn't home though, I don't think. She was yakking all the way to and from the office yesterday about the ski trip her fiancé was taking her on, and I think they left this morning. Well, I don't know, I started tuning her out. So tiresome after a while. Like nobody had ever been skiing before. Oh, you know, I have her cell number somewhere too, if you want. OK, I'll just send it along if I come across it.

No no, I don't mind at all. It's got everybody all nervous, not knowing why this happened or who could have done it. Can you tell me if there are other cases in the neighborhood? I mean, we're not looking at a serial killer or anything, right? Well, OK, I understand you can't really comment, I just want to know if we should be alert for anything...OK. Yeah, I get that.

Oh, the complaints...yeah I know you have to ask about them, it makes sense and everything. They just didn't seem to get that their floor was my ceiling and they would stomp around like elephants in a parade. And that one time they were doing work on the floors. No, usually it was just stomping around and shouting at each other. Or to each other, 'cause they didn't really sound mad, but they have voice modulation disorder or something and they can't speak softer than 100 decibels. I talked to them several times about it, but they acted like I was crazy at first, and then they got all defensive, like I was the one making problems for the neighbors. They just did whatever the fuck they pleased and the rest of us could go fuck ourselves. Um, no I don't actually know that they bothered anybody else, like I said, we don't really have relationships in the building, between neighbors you know. I didn't really talk about it with anybody else here. My carpool buddies sure got an assfull - er, earfull though. You can ask them how much I complained.

There's not much I can do. It's not so extreme that the police can intervene and they're supposedly adults so they're free to do as they please. If they want to do the Highland freaking Fling up there I can't really stop them.

That's kind of a difficult question, Detective. How can I be happy about murder? Even if it gives me some peace and quiet? They weren't always stomping around, it was just certain days. Should I be happy that somebody got into the building and did something horrible to my neighbors? Just because we had a little disagreement? My problems are hardly worth breaking the law to that extent, I think. I mean, because I might have committed a little vandalism. On their door. About six months ago. I, ah, carved "Quiet!" into the door. I felt really bad the next day. I guess Rusty took care of it the next day though, because I never heard anything about it. Well, who else would it be but me? I had talked to them several times already. Always polite, mind you. They really didn't want to hear a word, though... Oh, it was small, just an inch high or so. Then I guess they didn't report it, or didn't even see it, if Rusty got it off. Well, it wasn't really carved in there very deep. I think he could sand it down and varnish. Er, no I don't know much about carpentry. But, I never heard anything about it, so I can only assume it disappeared before they ever saw it.

Sure, whatever. I don't plan on going anywhere. Call me anytime. Oh, but not at my work phone. You have my cell number? OK, good bye, Detective. Good luck on the case.

names pt. 2

first draft
What importance does the last name have, compared to the first name? The first name is more personal, more individual, the name your family gives you after some conscious effort, and yet it is the last name that causes brain twisting problems, at least in the United States. The last name is slightly more fluid, historically. This is true for men and women, although in recent history it is only the woman's last name that is expected to change at any point in her life. So, what is this thing called the last name?

Last names define the individual at another level than the first name. They were used as identifiers and for providing information to people who did not know and might never know the individual to which they referred. They also separated people who had the same first name in times and places that was common. For this reason, there are several sources for last names that are repeated in most societies that make use of these monikers: patronymics (Johnson); occupational names (Smith); territorial names; personal description.

Patronymics are one of the simplest ways of getting a surname. It is logical for people to refer to others by the names of their close relatives who are older and better known. Although I use the word "patronymic", names of this type also, if rarely, include mothers, uncles, cousins, and employers. Typically, the old surname used in early forms included an ending that showed in relationship to the named person. The endings in English included -wife, -sone, -doghter, and -man, showing familial and work relationships. In some regions, including Wales and the Low Countries, the patronymic was considered a person's surname until scant centuries ago, while other zones, including England and parts of Germany, began to make surnames hereditary, true "family" names. Iceland today still uses patronymics as surnames and in Russia the patronymic is a sort of middle name, so the usage has not completely died out. As mentioned, old surnames were specific about the kind of relationship the holder had with the better known person, but almost all surviving names of this type refer to the "son", with just a few others to the servant or "man".

Occupational names in English represent the occupations common in the Middle Ages, when surnames began to be fixed and made hereditary, which is why we have Coopers, Smiths and Brewsters (brewestre is the feminine of brewer), but no Photographers, Senators or Scientists. Christopher Andrews in The Name Game, however, mentions names of this sort occurring in Iran, where surnames of the "modern" sort were imposed quite recently. Some of these names make little sense today, after spelling and pronunciation changes, and changes in economy and industry.

Territorial names can be divided into two broad categories: names for where the individual is from; names for what the individual owns. It may sound strange in this age of mobility, but naming somebody for where s/he came from was not very common when English surnames were being established. The majority of people simply did not travel very often or very far. Moving to a neighboring village might happen, but the new resident probably was already known in the community and would have had a surname describing him/her from previous encounters. A more common form of the territorial name is one that describes the area where the individual lives rather than naming a town, region or country. In this category are names like Meadows, Brook, and the exceedingly common Smith (common because it has several possible roots, one being a nickname for somebody living near a dirty stream, from OE smitan). Landowners were often known by the names of their most important territories, or the ones that they were most closely connected with. Even today, English nobles are called by land titles when their family name is completely different. This also gave some examples over history of children taking their mother's surname, because they inherited her (family's) land. In some of these cases, the oldest son would take the father's lands, name attached, while a younger son would take the mother's, so that two full brothers came to have different surnames. Royals and nobles were classes that could and did travel in the past, and their children were known by their birthplaces - e.g. Joan of Acre, a daughter of Edward I of England, who was born while her parents were crusading in Syria.

Finally, a surname might give a description of the person. This could be physical appearance, habitual actions, or character. Race may be from OFr ras, denoting a clean shaven man, although Race was also a personal name, in which case the family name is a patronymic. English Fairfax and Irish Gannon were used for a blond or fair-haired person. Some Devils are descendants of medieval actors who played the Devil in passion plays. Bigods have an ancestor who used the phrase "by God" to excess.

The origins of surnames are interesting enough for linguists, historians and genealogists, but there is also a definite psychological aspect. The surname in Western Society tends to be static. You belong to your family. You may acquire a nickname that supplants your given first name, use your middle name, or choose a completely different name. The surname, however, is rarely changed, except in the case of married women and artists. Artists may be "forgiven" for leaving their roots behind, since the arts, especially performing arts, have not been respected professions in past times. This has changed, but the tradition of the artistic name remains. On the other hand, the married woman, in most Western countries, is expected and almost required to leave her "maiden name" behind once she leaves the courthouse or church. The concept of this requirement is bizarre in today's world, if one looks at it objectively. It effectively demands that one half of a couple relinquish all ties to past and family and "belong" to the family of the other half. For most people, it is a tradition, helpful at best, harmless at worst, but for some it is the very essence of oppression and misogynistic sexism.

The origins of the tradition of the wife taking her husband's surname could be logically explained. As stated in the paragraph on patronymics, it is perfectly sensible and logical to define a person by their relationship to a better-known person. In this sense, it is perfectly logical to define a woman in the Middle Ages by the male closest to her. Women were not expected to be public figures, expect, perhaps for royalty and nobility, and the public face of the household was the husband and father. "That's Beth, Will's daughter. That's Joan, John's wife. That's Sairey, Robert's maid." When a woman married, her definition would logically change as the public figure closest to her went from being her father to her husband. As a tradition, it was not universal. In modern Hispanic countries, women never officially take their husband's name as their only surname, although they may be known by it socially. Cervantes mentions in Don Quixote that it was the tradition of Castille for women to use their husbands' names, leaving the reader to conclude that it was a custom peculiar to the region and/or time, since it had to be specifically explained. Of course, the good novelist does not say whether legal documents, such as a will or census, name the woman by her husband's name or her father's name. This much is logic: distinguishing name from a known or public figure. This became tradition. However, many things which were traditions have fallen by the wayside of society for various reasons, why not the renaming of women? It remains an extremely sensitive subject for a great many people in Western culture, particularly in the US, with extremists of both genders on both sides of the issue. These days it is easy enough to keep or change your surname in the US, being a woman or a man, and the only thing that really stops women from keeping and men from changing is the crushing weight of tradition, with a topper of fear of ridicule.

By extension, we might ask why a child is given the father's surname by default, whether the parents are married or not. When the parents are married, and the wife has taken the husband's name, there is no confusion at all. When there are two parental surnames, things can get tricky. It would seem like the most logical thing for the child to receive the surname of the primary care-giver, which would in the majority of cases be the mother.

A complex world requires complex tags. The surname is accepted as a necessity by almost all the world's population, but its forms may be reevaluated at any time as society evolves.

stealing from mr. burns

My love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
My love has thorns and spines that stab
And leave the lover hewn.

As fair thou art, o love of mine,
So deep in love am I;
But never will you know, my dear,
Tho all the seas go dry

Tho all the seas go dry, my love,
I cannot make thee see
That what I'd like to be to thee
Is what thou still art to me.

So fare thee well, my own, my pet
Fare thee well a while.
I may find another yet
If I walk a thousand mile.

El anillo de la reina

Érase una vez una reina que regía sobre un dominio muy pequeño. Muchos príncipes venían para cortejarla, pero ella no quería pareja y coregente en esos momentos. El reino era feliz durante muchos años.

Un día, una enana montando un tiburón blanco apareció, bajando el río. La enana era bajita, vieja y bastante fea, en contraste a la alta, guapa reina. Elándonil la reina se fue del palacio al río para escuchar lo que quería la enana. La enana le dijo:
-Me llamo Teshocholudka. Soy la bruja maestra de los Enanos de las Montañas Doradas. Con mis poderes, he sabido que tendrá muchos problemas en el futuro cercano. Los espíritus me han enviado para darle este anillo. Tenga cuidado, Reina Elándonil.
Y con esto, la enana subió a su tiburón y desaparecieron río arriba.

Elándonil miró el anillo. Era una banda de plata sin decoración alguna y no parecía un anillo mágico. Lo puso en el dedo pequeño de la mano derecha de todos modos. Todo iba bien durante un semana más.

Era el día seis del último mes de primavera cuando vino la lluvia. Llovía tanto que no era posible ver un metro de distancia. Llovía tanto que el río subió tres metros y toda la gente en las granjas tenían que mudarse dentro de los muros de la ciudad. Llovía así durante diez días. Después de la lluvia, vinieron las moscas. Volaban alrededor de las cabezas de todos y festejaron con los cadáveres de los animales ahogados. Elándonil preguntó a todos sus ministros qué se podía hacer y todos contestaron:
-Nada.
El anillo mágico tampoco hizo nada. Después de ocho días, las moscas dejaron la zona. Entonces, salió el sol. El agua se secó, y brillaba el sol. Hacía mucho calor, y brillaba el sol. Las cosechas que habían sobrevivido la inundación se marchitaron, y todavía brillaba el sol.

Hacía dos semanas con el sol cuando un caballero apareció ante la puerta del palacio. Cuando tocó la puerta, una nube cubrió el sol por fin. Elándonil lo recibió y habló con él, y él le dijo:
-Soy un caballero del reino de Odandu, muy lejos de aquí. He venido para cortejarte.
Elándonil se enamoró de los ojos brillantes y la sonrisa ancha de Gorman, el caballero de Odandu, y la fecha para la boda fue decidida.

Esa noche, un fantasma apareció en el espejo de la reina mientras ésta se cepillaba el pelo. Era su madre.
-¡Desgracias te esperan! !Os esperan a todos!- sollozó el fantasma.
-¿Por qué dices eso, madre?
-El caballero no es lo que parece. Si toca el anillo, lo verás.
Elándonil quería preguntar más, pero su madre desvaneció.

La noche antes de la boda, Gorman preguntó a Elándonil:
-¿Por qué no te quitas ese anillo? Te daré uno más bonito mañana.
Elándonil, recordando lo que le había dicho su madre, contestó:
-Quitamelo tú mismo, si no te gusta.
Ella le estiró el brazo y él hizo para arrebatar el anillo. El instante que lo tocó, el hechizo de su aspecto fue quebrado y se convirtió en un demonio horrible, que se prendió fuego y ardió hasta dejar no más que cenizas.

Siempre después de aquél incidente, el hombre que quería casarse con Elándonil tenía que besar su anillo.

upstairs pt.1

Yes, Officer, I know they were my neighbors, living right upstairs and everything, but I don't know anything about what happened last night. I was very tired, and I went to sleep early, and I slept hard. I didn't even hear my alarm until it had been ringing for almost 10 minutes. I didn't hear a thing last night, or this morning, I didn't notice anything odd at all, until you came knocking at my door.

Well, yes we did have some...disagreements about noise. Typical stuff really. You know, the upstairs neighbor thinks they're being perfectly quiet and the downstairs neighbor can hear the feathers that fall out of the pillow when they hit the floor. I even called the station one night, I'm sure you have a record of it. No, I think it's perfectly fair for you to ask me some questions based on that. It makes perfect sense, and I don't have anything to hide anyway.

The problem? Oh, that night. Well, they decided they were going to do some work on the bathroom at 11 at night. I did go up and ask nicely if they could do it at an hour when people are up and around anyway, like in the afternoon or something. I don't even mind if they start early in the morning, I have to get up early for work. It doesn't bother me that much. But anyway, I asked nicely and they were really fucking rude! I'm sorry, I shouldn't swear like that. Are you going to put that in the report? No? "Just the facts, ma'am" right? Ha, yeah.

So anyway, the older woman was really nasty about it, saying they could do whatever they wanted 'cause it was their place and nobody can tell them what to do in their place. I tried to explain that I could hear everything from their place in my place, but she didn't want to hear it. Finally, she said they'd finish up the wall and be done for the night and as soon as she closed the door they started pounding on those tiles again. Nobody else heard it, since sound just doesn't travel up in this building and the people downstairs from me are on vacation until...I think this Sunday. Or the next.

So that was that, the big problem. I called the police, you know, you guys, but nobody showed up until an hour later 'cause it was just a noise complaint, and they had actually stopped by then. So they said there was nothing they could do. Maybe they felt bad later, since they didn't do any work late at night after that. Just during the day. I only noticed on the weekend. It's not so bad if you aren't trying to relax after a hard day at work, knowing you have to go back the next day. At least on a Saturday I can go out to the park and read or something. Just take a walk. I never even saw them in the elevator after that, thank god. What? Oh, I just mean because I was pissed for a long time about it, even though it never happened again. I mean, what the hell are you thinking, doing major home renovation at 11 o-fucking-clock? That just seems like some kind of stupid to me. Yeah, there were still some noises, but normal shit, I mean stuff. The kids dancing around, moving a table, something falling on the floor, that kind of stuff.

No, I don't now that they had trouble with anybody else in the building. They were friendly with the people next door. No, I mean the next building over. 'Cause, you know, you can see their windows from yours and you can even talk if you want. Yeah, look here. See? I don't know the people across from me, though. They always have the curtains closed. In fact, I don't know if I've ever seen them even move.

OK, no problem. Bye.

one tale

One fine day, a young girl was walking down the road to her house after going to buy some bread and butter for her family's dinner. She was not paying very much attention to her surroundings. She skipped and sang songs she learned from her mother and her friends in the little town, and noticed not the landscape on the sides of the road nor the people who walked by her. She was quite content.

Then the sun began to go down.

And the sky began to grow red.

And the road was empty of other travelers when she saw the wolf.

He was big and shiny and fat, with dark gray hair over all his hide. He was also smiling and his long, white teeth were winking in the last reaches of sunlight. He smiled even wider when he noticed the girl. He said to her, "Good evening, young miss. It is a fine evening now, is it not?"
The girl did not know what to do. She had been taught not to speak to strangers, especially when they were so different from her, but she had also been taught to be polite when spoken to. She hesitated a moment and then replied, "Yes, it is a fine evening, good sir. And I must hurry home where my family is expecting their bread and butter." The wolf let his tongue fall lazily out of his mouth, on one side where the girl could easily see it, and laughed without making a sound. They were almost abreast on the road. The girl was feeling uneasy. The sun was sinking fast. When they were face to face on the road, she saw the wolf's eyes were red and his tongue was red and his nostrils were quivering as if he smelled some delicious prey in the distance. He addressed her again, "Must you hurry so, darling child, for the night has not yet fallen and there is still much to see in the light of the sleepy sun." The girl was not sure what to say. She had never considered a twilight adventure before, as she was still very young. The wolf tossed his head impatiently after a scant second of her hesitation and said petulantly, "Well, young miss, since you are not of a mind to join an old world-wanderer, I shall continue on my way all by my lonesome." The girl was ashamed at having insulted a stranger without any desire to do so, and she said to the wolf, "I did not wish to be rude, but you see, I have never spoken to a wolf before and I was not sure how to respond to your kind request."

The wolf smiled wide and long.

His teeth sparkled like the stream under the noonday sun.

His eyes glowed like the bonfires that consume all in their hearth.

He said, "I should have known better than to speak to you before making your acquaintance, dear child. I do not wish to confuse you or cause you fear. You may call me Uncle Vulk. I spend all my time outside and I never sleep, so I know all the sights at all times and I only wanted to share the enchantment with one so lovely as you." The girl was not convinced; in fact, she was was more uneasy after this short speech than before it, when the wolf was but a passing and talkative stranger on the darkening road. She said uncertainly, "I should be getting home. My mother will be waiting and she will be angry if I am late and the butter is turned when I arrive." The wolf sat down on his haunches and said, "My dear, you should not make your mother wait for you and your goods. You must hurry home. Do not worry, though, we will meet again, and maybe then we shall see wonders together and experience joys unimagined by your youthful mind." The girl felt it was an opportunity to leave and she turned quickly and walked down the road with firm steps. She had gone only ten paces or so when she realized she taken her leave from the wolf rudely, without saying goodbye.

She turned to do so.

There was only a large stump by the side of the road.

It was black in the dimness of twilight.

As she turned to run the rest of the way to her family's little house, she heard a wolf howl that turned to a stiffled chuckle, oozing over the fresh night breeze.

a spirit on the mountain

The bear spirit rumbles through the trees, dragging the wind and pushing the sun. In his footprints burst new sprouts from the earth. His claws open the way for seedlings to the air and worms to the soil. His hair combs the dust from the breezes. His voice is the thunder, rolling on the mountainside at night, under dark clouds and chilling drops of water. He keeps the wheel of life turning relentlessly, uprooting a tree that has stood for centuries, or for months. A baby bird is protected from a fox or hawk, or crushed under his paw. His saliva slithers to the ground to form a stream that feeds the green plants, or rushes over them, drowning or pulling them from their earthy bed. He seeks out the parcels of cracked, parched earth and leaves a swamp in his wake. He moves at the speed of wind and the slowness of sunlight over the skin of the world. The mountain spirit is always present but never there.

attempted translation 1

I happened on a collection of e.e. cumming's poems in a book store I like to browse through. This poem wasn't among them. They weren't bad translations, being certain things about cumming's syntax and punctuation that are simply impossible to convey as the presumedly meaningful oddities they are in a foreign language with its own, different style of expression. I want to try my own translation. I don't think it's very good; it's too literal and attached to the original to be artistic like a poem should be. Maybe later I'll artify it a little.

vestido de verde mi amor montaba
un destier dorado hacia el alba plateada
ante cuatro galgos burlones agachados al suelo
corrían los ciervos alegres

más velozes son que sueños moteados
los ciervos queridos y apurados
los ciervos rojos e insólitos
ante cuatro rojos corzos al agua blanca
cantó el clarín cruel

llevando la trompeta mi amor montaba
el eco hacia el alba plateada
ante cuatro galgos burlones agachados al suelo
se abrían las planas praderas

más suaves son que un sueño acolchonado
los ciervos flacos y flexibles
los ciervos velozes y volados
ante cuatro velozes ciervas en un valle dorado
cantó la flecha hambrienta

con el arco en el cinturón mi amor montaba
la montaña en el alba plateada
ante cuatro galgos burlones agachados al suelo
se levantaban los picos escarpados

más pálidos son que la muerte desalentadora
los ciervos lustrosos y delgados
los ciervos altos y tensos
ante cuatro altos venados en un monte verde
cantó el cazador suertudo

vestido de verde mi amor montaba
un destier dorado hacia el alba plateada
ante cuatro galgos burlones agachados al suelo
cayó muerto mi corazón

Joan Baez singing Cumming's original words in English.

Erste Geschichte

Es war einmal ein Drache, eine Katze, und eine Krähe. Sie wohnten auf eine schwarze Berg ohne Leben. Der Drache wußte alles, was passiert war; die Katze wußte alles was gerade passiert; die Krähe wußte alles was passieren wird. Viele Menschen kamen von weither um die magische Tiere um weise Ratschläge zu bitten. Jedem Besucher war es erlaubt drei Fragen zu stellen, aber alle drei konnten nur an einem der Tiere. Die meisten fragten nach der Zukunft. Manchmal ersuchte ein Besucher zu betrügen, indem er sein Tier daher fragte was andere antworten würde. Der Drache antwortete: Das ist nicht passiert, daher kann ich nicht sagen; die Katze antwortete: Das passiert nicht, daher kann ich nicht sagen; die Krähe antwortete: Das wird nicht passieren, daher kann ich nicht sagen. Einige Menschen, die viele Jahre lebten, machten sich zwei oder drei Mal auf die Fahrt. Sie bemerkten, daß der Drache immer grösser wurde und die Krähe immer kleiner. Die Menschen glaubten, daß die Vergangenheit immer länger werden wurde und die Zukunft immer kurzer weshalb sich die Tiere veränderten. Viele hatten Angst. Die Krähe hatte schon die Größe einer Männerhand erreicht. Schließlich ist jemendem eingefallen, daß man die Krähe immer beobachten müßte, so daß alle Menschen auf das kommende Ende vorbereitet sein würden. Aber wer würde sich um die Krähe kümmern? Sofort brach ein Krieg zwischen den umliegenden Städten aus, und die Verkleinerung der Krähe beschleudigte sich. Einige sagten, daß der Krieg schuld daran war, daß die Zukunftskrähe bald verschwinden würde, und die einige Lösung wäre Frieden zwischen allen Menschen zu schließen. Natürlich, schenkten die meisten den Friedenskämpfern keine Beachtung. Als die Krähe schon die Größe eines Daumennagels angenommen hatte, besteig ein Gesandschaft der wichtigsten Bürger aus den bedeutendsten Städten, um mit der Katze zu sprechen. Die Katze veränderte sich nicht, sie behielt die gleiche Größe, Farbe und das gleiche Alter. Der Bürgermeister der Stadt nördlich des Bergs fragte: Was passiert jetzt, das die Verkleinerung der Krähe verursacht? Die Katze lächelte (soweit eine Katze lächeln kann) und antwortete: Nicht alle Menschen stellen diese Frage, daher bleibt sie unbeantwortet. Die Delegation reiste enttäuscht ab.

names pt. 1

first draft

"A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."
- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

"Not if you called it a stinkweed."
- Bart Simpson, The Simpsons

The personal name is an important label. It gives us a sense of self, a direction, a mold to fit, shoes to fill, even expectations to fight against. A name given by others always carries with it their expectations for the receiver - parents naming a child; an owner naming a pet; friends or classmates assigning a nickname - and this can fill the named one with pride, hope, or horror. The personal name, in Western societies at least, is more flexible than the family name and can be used to show changing national or social alliances. The children of immigrants have often been given names common in their parents' adopted country rather than their homeland for this reason. In some cultures, a personal name has been a flexible thing, easily changed with the passing time and the development of the person through experience and maturity. Slate magazine, my favorite online news source, had this to say about the matter in current Chinese society. The author, Huan Hsu, mentions the fluidity of identity in China, something that is lacking in other countries: "people tend to view names and identities as absolute things," he writes. This seems to have been true for all of recent Western history. Even when a surname could change with relative ease, the first name was stuck to a person like a lamprey to a shark.

Many European countries have or have had stringent laws governing personal names. In many, it was not legally possible to change a name, once given. The flip side is that the law had a lot to say about giving the name in the first place, sometimes to a ridiculous extreme. In Catholic countries, the baptismal name was the name, and for many centuries the priest had the final say on a baby's label. A child might be automatically called officially by the name of the saint honored on the day of birth or baptism, no matter what the parents wanted to call the child. In Poland, a name day celebration was, at least at one time, more important than a birthday. Under the Franco regime, all children born in Spain had to have Spanish names, unless there was no possible Spanish equivalent. These naming laws have been softened in the last decades, but only a couple of years ago the Spanish Civil Registry refused to allow a couple, both born in Colombia, to name their daughter Beliza, saying that the name didn't exist. The parents argued that it was from a play by Lope de Vega (Lope de Vega, for the love of god), but in the play the name was spelled with an s, so the Spanish bureaucrats, in their ceaseless quest to serve the public, refused to allow a variation with z. The language must be protected somehow, you know.

By being careful about naming in the first place, a government may prevent some petitions for name changes in the future. In the United States, apparently, we prefer the "better to say you're sorry than to ask permission" system, whereby the parents have much more authority in the beginning, and the children more rights to change later. There are rumors and documentation of ... unfortunate names. Some seem to be jokes played on uneducated parents by wiseass doctors (Placenta, Chlamydia); some make an interesting combination with the surname (United States, Wanna Koke, E. Pluribus Ewbanks); and some are just odd all by themselves (Five-Eight, Pennsylvania and Erie Railroad, Whom-the-Lord-Preserved).

An unusual name has a definite effect on the psyche. As Christopher Andersen observed several decades ago in The Name Game, children with strange names likely have strange parents, and will grow up to be strange themselves. The oddly monikered may be pleasantly unusual or criminally weird, but they tend not to be "average". Speaking of criminals, there have been cases of such people who, when fleeing the law or their past, begin to use new names and really seem to become different people, at least on the surface. Of course, some are lawbreakers or assholes no matter what their names are. However, because the name is such a big part of the first impressions people make, a different name can easily provoke a different reaction from people one meets, and in turn different reactions from the newly-named.

When name changes are allowed, there are often still restrictions. One cannot name oneself after one's favorite brandname, product, or celebrity, in most cases. Unfortunately for the children involved, these restrictions might not be in place for the initial naming and this produces examples like Adolph Hitler Campbell. The father might have a point in saying that a name is just a name, not a destiny, but saddling his child with such a psychologically weighty title seems like a cowardly way to make his point. A person with full confidence in this belief would take the name himself. It may be, however, that this change was prohibited by law, while naming a child after an infamously angry Austrian is not.

Names go through cycles of popularity. Some rise and fall in numbers, while others become so tied to a particular time period that when they go, they enter a kind of onomastic limbo where they are known, but only as ghosts or musty old ideas from years gone by. Sources appear and lose their value, from legends, celebrities, family members, to random joinings of sounds. In some languages, a name still means something objectively, but in others, it only means what, or rather who, it can be connected to.

Many names of Black Americans seem to be the only ones that are absolutely without etymology and history. The reason for this could be related to cultural identification. A Black American may have little reason to identify or to even want to identify with mainstream (white) culture and its names; the family is many generations and centuries from its African roots and any family, tribal or cultural naming traditions have been utterly lost; instead of glomming onto somebody else's name culture, why not create their own?

underground

I was riding on L2. First the train appeared at San Bernardo like a ship rising over the horizon of the sea, except the sea was a dark cement lined tunnel and the horizon was the top of the hill to the old center of town. First you see the yellow-lit end station sign, rising up from the darkness, and then the headlights, like some nocturnal ogre's eyes, searching for prey in the eternal subterranean night. Then the train zooms into the station and the otherworldliness of its exterior is gone. This time, there weren't many passengers inside when I got on. I must be late, I thought. The train rumbled through the tunnels, the noise of the wheels on the tracks, shrieking like the souls that had been disturbed when the tunnels where carved out of the early century's earth, and the passengers took no notice. It's all the same journey, every day you descend to the old lines. Narrow tracks, rattly cars. Soothing chunketa-chunketa of the machine rolling down the rails. Then we reached our destination, just one stop down the line (you can even see the stations down the track from each other if you're on the right side and lean out a little). The magical trip was over and I was moving on my own two mundane feet.