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Saturday, September 18th, 2010
Lots of stuff going on this weekend! Sylvia (a child of the millenium, a dragon baby) is as of today, no longer able to write her age with a single digit (assuming of course that she is writing in decimal notation). We are having a birthday dinner with some friends this evening, and tomorrow afternoon her party will be at the Raptor Trust in the Great Swamp. The other big activity for me, outside of celebrating Sylvia's birthday, is fiddling. Barbara Lamb is in town this weekend, she's giving a concert at Menzel Violins tomorrow afternoon -- I can't make it because of the party, alas, but I've arranged for a fiddle lesson this morning. Really looking forward to it! I've learned her jig "Twisty Girl", I'm hoping she'll teach me "Älgen på taket". And the fiddling continues this afternoon, when Mountain Station (i.e. me and John) will have its first gig, at John's neighborhood block party. I'm pretty shocked at the amount of music we are comfortable playing -- we didn't work out a set list exactly, but we have enough songs to play for an hour set easily, and the order of the songs will determine itself...
posted morning of September 18th, 2010: 4 responses
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Friday, September 17th, 2010
Each Canto of Altazor gets a little faster, a little more frantic. In Canto III (which Weinberger says in his preface, is where the fireworks really start), the rhythm is getting insistent, begging you to follow along:
Break all one's ligaments and veins
The loops of breathing and the chains
Of our eyes, our paths to the horizon
Flower projected on uniform skies
The soul paved with memories
Like stars, emblazoned by the wind
The sea, a rooftop shingled with bottles
Dreams in the sailor's memory
Sebastian Ramirez and Tomislav Definis of V Producciones have filmed a spell-binding reading of this Canto, paired with Bach's piano concerto #9. (Be sure to keep watching til the end!)
posted evening of September 17th, 2010: Respond
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Thursday, September 16th, 2010
 I haven't read Lore Sjöberg's Bad Gods in a while now... I think he had stopped updating a year or two ago, and I forgot about it. Today he does a (hilarous) guest strip at Dinosaur Comics, inspiring me to take a look again at his home page -- turns out he's back in business! His two current features are Apocrypha ("things that aren't part of other things") and Speak with Monsters, comics about the Cockatrice, the Purple Worm, the Troglodyte, etc. I don't know how frequently he updates but for now, there are a lot of archives to go through...
 (Also, the site seems to occasionally crash Firefox, which seems like a lousy feature if it is by design.)
posted evening of September 16th, 2010: Respond
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 LanguageHat posted the other day about the Hungarian Rohonc Codex -- and at Nick Pelling's Cipher Mysteries site I find a recent interview with Benedek Lang regarding the codex and attempts to decipher it. Another good article on the codex is at Passing Strangeness, Paul Drye's blog on "the odd bits of the world."
posted evening of September 16th, 2010: Respond
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Tuesday, September 14th, 2010
I'm feeling on a bit of a roll with reading and translating the prologue to Altazor. Here is another section, in which Huidobro/Altazor lays out the manifesto of the poem. There is some tricky pronoun-switching here; but I think the way I'm reading it makes sense.
Oh: how beautiful... how beautiful.
I see the mountains, the rivers, the jungles, the sea, the ships, the flowers, the seashells.
I see the night and the day, the axis where they converge.
Oh, oh,-- I am Altazor, great poet, without a horse who eats birdseed, nor who warms his throat in the moonlight; with my little parachute, like a parasol above the planets.
From each drop of sweat on my forehead are born stars; I will leave you the task of baptizing them, like so many bottles of wine.
I see it all, my brain was forged in tongues of prophecy.
See the mountain as the breath of God, climbing its swollen thermometer until it touch the feet of my beloved.
Am that one who has seen all things, who knows all the secrets, without being Walt Whitman -- I have never had a white beard, white like lovely nurses, like frozen streams.
That one who hears at night the counterfeiters' hammers, just busy astronomers.
That one who drinks from the warm glass of wisdom after the flood, paying heed to the doves, who knows the path of fatigue, the seething wake behind the ships.
That one who knows the storehouses of memory, of lovely forgotten seasons.
He: he, shepherd of airplanes, who conducts lost nights and masterful winds to the matchless poles.
His moan is like a blinking web of unseen meteors.
The day rises in his heart; he lowers his eyelids to make night, the farmer's respite.
He washes his hands under the gaze of God, he combs his hair like light, like he's harvesting slender raindrops, satisfied.
The screams are more distant now, like a flock across the hills, when the stars are sleeping afer a night of continuous labor.
The beautiful hunter, looking at the heavenly watering-hole where the heartless birds drink.
(The as-yet-nameless stars will make another very satisfying appearance early in Canto I.)
Ah, qué hermoso... qué hermoso.
Veo las montañas, los rÃos, las selvas, el mar, los barcos, las flores y los caracoles.
Veo la noche y el dÃa y el eje en que se juntan.
Ah, ah, soy Altazor, el gran poeta, sin caballo que coma alpiste, ni caliente su garganta con claro de luna, sino con mi pequeño paracaÃdas como un quitasol sobre los planetas.
De cada gota del sudor de mi frente hice nacer astros, que os derea la tarea de bautizar como a botellas de vino.
Lo veo todo, tengo mi cerebro forjado en lenguas de profeta.
La montaña es el suspiro de Dios, ascendiendo en termómetro hinchado hasta tocar los pies de la amada.
Aquél que todo lo ha visto, que conoce todos los secretos sin ser Walt Whitman, pues jamás he tenido una barba blanca como las bellas enfermeras y los arroyos helados.
Aquél que oye durante la noche los martillos de los monederos falsos, que son solamente astrónomos activos.
Aquél que bebe el vaso caliente de la sabidurÃa después del diluvio obedeciendo a las palomas y que conoce la ruta de la fatiga, la estela hirviente que dejan los barcos.
Aquél que conoce los almacenes de recuerdos y de bellas estaciones olvidadas.
Él, el pastor de aeroplanos, el conductor de las noches extraviadas y de los ponientes amaestrados hacia los polos únicos.
Su queja es semejante a una red parpadeante de aerolitos sin testigo.
El dÃa se levante en su corazón y él baja los parpados para hacer la noche del reposo agricola.
Lava sus manos en la mirada de Dios, y peina su cabellera como la luz y la cosecha de esas flacas espigas de la lluvia satisfecho.
Los gritos se alejan como un rebaño sobre las lomas cuando las estrellas duermen después de una noche de trabajo continuo.
El hermoso cazador frente al bebedero celeste para los pájaros sin corazón.
↻...done
posted evening of September 14th, 2010: Respond
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Sunday, September 12th, 2010
A nice mash-up of The Big Lebowski and The Matrix, from Three Finch Lynch.
(Thanks for the link, Henry!)
posted evening of September 12th, 2010: Respond
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Let's look at the next bit of Altazor's prologue. So far there have been two brief, pointed soliloquies, by God and by Altazor; the next to speak will be the Virgin. I am dying to know whether the Spanish word "aureola" is a pun for "aureola/halo" -- as an English speaker reading the Virgin saying "look at my aureola" has a different meaning from "look at my halo"... [...argh, never mind, this was based on a confusion on my part between "aureola" and "areola".]
I take my parachute; running off the edge of my star I launch myself into the atmosphere of the final sigh.
I circle endlessly above the cliffs of dream, I circle among the clouds of death.
I meet the Virgin, seated on a rose; she says to me:
"Look at my hands: they are transparent, like electric bulbs. Do you see the filaments where the blood of my pure light is running?
"Look at my halo. Cracks run through it, proving my antiquity.
"I am the Virgin, the Virgin with no taint of human ink, the only one who is not only halfway there; I am the captain of the other eleven thousand, who have been to tell the truth overmuch restored.
"I speak a language which fills the heart, according to the law of clouds in communion.
"I am always saying goodbye, and I remain.
"Love me, my child, for I adore your poetry. I will teach you aerial prowess.
"I need, so strongly do I need your tenderness; kiss my locks, I have washed them this morning in the clouds of the dawn. I want to lie down and sleep, on my mattress, the intermittent mist.
"My glances are a wire on the horizon, where the swallows can rest.
"Love me."
I knelt in that circular space. The Virgin rose up and seated herself on my parachute.
I slept; I recited my most beautiful poems.
The flames of my poetry dried out the Virgin's hair; she thanked me and then slipped away, seated on her soft rose.
"The flames of my poetry"! -- remember, true song is arson. I am not able to make much sense of the third paragraph of the Virgin's speech -- who are the other 11,000? Who has been restoring them? What is everyone else only halfway? [Jorge López supplies some good ideas toward an answer in comments.]
Spanish below the fold.
 Miramos la próxima porción del prefacio de Altazor. Hasta ahora hay dos breves y intencionados soliloquios, uno de Dios y uno de Altazor mismo. La próxima oradora será la Virgen. Quiero saber si la «aureola» es un juego de palabras -- en inglés «aureola» remita al pezón, asà la orden de la Virgen, «mira mi aureola»...
Tomo mi paracaÃdas, y del borde de mi estrella en marcha, me lanzo a la atmósfera del último suspiro.
Ruedo interminablemente sobre las rocas de los sueños, ruedo entra las nubes de la muerte.
Encuentro a la Virgen sentada en una rosa, y me dice:
«Mira mis manos: son trasparentes como las bombillas eléctricas. ¿Ves los filamentos de donde corre la sangre de mi luz intacta?
»Mira mi aureola. Tiene algunas saltaduras, lo que prueba mi ancianidad.
»Soy la Virgen, la Virgen sin mancha de tinta humana, la única que no lo sea a medias, y soy la capitana de las otras once mil que estaban en verdad demasiado restauradas.
»Hablo una lengua que llena los corazones según la ley de las nubes comunicantes.
»Digo siempre adiós, y me quedo.
»Amame, hijo mÃo, pues adoro tu poesÃa y te enseñaré proezas aéreas.
»Tengo tanta necesidad de ternura, besa mis cabellos, los he lavado esta mañana en las nubes del alba y ahora quiero dormirme sobre el colchón de la neblina intermitente.
»Mis miradas son un alambre en el horizonte para el descanso de las golondrinas.
»Amame.»
Me puse de rodillas en el espacio circular y la Virgen se elevó y vino a sentarse en mi paracaÃdas.
Me dormà y recité entonces mis más hermosos poemas.
Las llamas de mi poesÃa secaron los cabellos de la Virgen, que me dijo gracias y se alejó, sentada sobre su rosa blanda. «Las llamas de mi poesÃa»! -- Recuerda, los verdaderos poemas son incendios. No puede buen entender el tercero párrafo del discurso de la Virgen: ¿quién son las otras once mil? ¿Qué significa aquà «restauradas»? ¿Qué son todos otras «a medias»?
↻...done
posted morning of September 12th, 2010: 4 responses
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Saturday, September 11th, 2010
So a few weeks ago I had an idea for the beginning of a story... I've been working on it for a little while and am still not totally sure where it's going; if any of you would like to take a look at it and tell me your thoughts about it, I'd be glad to have your feedback on where to go with it. I'm not sure what it means that I am revising and reworking this piece more heavily than I have worked with any other writing I've done that I can think of, besides maybe the review of Death with Interruptions; this is already the third or fourth revision of the story's beginning. The story is going to be called "Silent Rain" -- I'm trying to capture the psychological/linguistic conditions and sensations created by absence and by the perception of absence. Comments welcome.
posted morning of September 11th, 2010: 3 responses
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Jorge López has been posting a lot of beautiful photography lately. Take a look at his latest: "I'm writing you this card..."
posted morning of September 11th, 2010: Respond
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Friday, September 10th, 2010
There’s a thin line between what you are and what you aren't.
I'm afraid of loving you, and you're afraid I can't.
I’m falling now, I’m falling.
I’m falling now, I'm falling.
Take it away. Robyn Hitchcock, "I'm Falling"
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Nearly every line of Altazor that I have read so far is just screaming for me to quote it -- I am going to go ahead and lay out some blocks of quotation; my idea here is to be doing a parallel translation of the poem (based loosely on Eliot Weinberger's) and (in the other direction, at the same time) of my own writing. Here is a section that immediately follows the speech by God that I quoted in the previous post -- a second great soliloquy, this time by Altazor (and/or by the author, there is a great deal of confusion between his voice and his character's): | |
Con casi cada uno de los lÃneas que yo acabo de leer del poema Altazor, sentÃa el deseo de citarlo, repetirlo, traducirlo. Adelante, voy poner unos palabras citadas; tengo aquà la idea de traducir simultaneamente el poema (siguiendo vagamente la traducción de Eliot Weinberger) y mi propia escritura. Con esto, una pasaje que sigue directo el discurso de Dios citado en mi post anterior: es un segundo grande soliloquio, por Altazor mismo (o quizás por el autor, hay una gran confusión entre los dos).
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↷read the rest...
posted evening of September 10th, 2010: 7 responses
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