Once there were two knights and they roamed all over the land doing good deeds for some and bad deeds to others as befitted their needs and humor. In fact, they knew no master but their own wills.
One summer day, they were riding along and entertaining each other with tall tales of former exploits. One said to the other, "Aye, Colum, do you not remember? I had the dragon below my boot and he begged my mercy to let him go or kill him quickly, through the heart. That was when I got my fine shield, from his hoard."
"Oh, you are a sly liar, Arne," said his companion, "But I know you lifted that shield from the drunken soldier of the Empress' Army in the Tavern of the Green Horse, and I had drugged him first and deserved first choice of his goods, you rascal."
"My dear Colum, would you doubt the word of your constant guide and follower? Truly, you cut me to the core." He had a face of wounded soul and his friend a face of ruffled pride, but within moments their merriment burst through like water from behind the ice dams in spring.
On they traveled on their lazy mounts, whose ragged tails swatted uselessly at flies and other things that bite and sting. Their jocularity rolled before them like a king's carpet and sank into the dry, yellow dust like the few precious drops of rain in a drought-stricken land, or like a child's angry tears on a dry bit of bread. They had no cares or worries, and all was well in their simple world.
As the day stretched towards evening, they realized they were still a long way off from the next village, and, for reasons too numerous and complex to mention at this time, could not return to where they had come from. One turned to the other with the furrowed brow of one put out and asked his plan for the night. The other also brooded but said he knew how to build a fire and light it with magic rocks he had stolen from a wizard. His companion opened his mouth to scoff, but their talk was interrupted by a scream.
A child had been caught by a wolf! There he was, the great, hairy bastard, trotting jauntily over the fields with the babe caught by its shirt in his slavering, foul-breathed mouth. All jokes were laid aside as the sense of indignation rose and the two knights spurred their steeds to action, a chase over the spongy grass. The wolf did not seem to stretch his legs or hurry his pace, and yet he stayed far ahead for many long minutes. But finally, the knights drew near to his tail and one slashed with his sword and the other poked with his lance. The wolf jumped as if he were a sleeping donkey, bitten by a famished fly, and with a grunt, dropped the child on the ground. Then he galloped off with sharp barks that almost sounded like laughing.
The two knights felt heroic. One scooped up the child with his mighty arm and set him on the saddle before him. The other asked with a bright and confident voice where the youth's home was. The little one pointed with a shaking finger over the darkening fields, ever softer and purpler in the falling cloak of night. Off they went, but at a gentle pace, so as not to jar the child more than what he had already suffered.
The sky was red behind them and black before them and their horses trotted briskly and at every turn they tried to break into a run. The child kept his arm pointing like a compass needle, drawing them around the hills and mounds of rocks, that the old ones said were the stone houses of the dead. Soon the little star of a hearth beckoned them and a mother's wailing called them, and when they rode up with the child the shouts of joy warmed their hearts and bowls of stew and mugs of beer warmed their stomachs, and that night soft, thick blankets warmed their feet. In the early morning they set off with blessings and waving arms and returned to the road. As the sun rose higher they slaked their thirst with their water pouches, soon emptied. "Come, dear companion," said one to the other, "Let me wet my tongue tip with just a drop of your water. I swear on my sword I will refill your pouch from the cleanest flowing fountain in the next town."
"Nay, good friend," answered the other, "For I was about to say the same to you."
"Let me at least try to squeeze a drop from your pouch. You are never so careful as I to pull the last bit from the depths, be it water or-" and his friend elbowed his ribs sharply as he passed the leather bag. "You scoundrel!" cried the thirsty one, "You took more beer from them! And after their kindness to us last night?"
"Kindness? It's a just reward for chasing a wolf like the one we saw yestere'en. And they had children a-plenty, if you bothered to notice, and they would hardly miss that scrawny one. Truly, the kindness was on our part."
"You are a greedy rogue, and I wonder that I should continue in your company," said the other grimly. But then a smile lit his countenance and he held up his large pouch. It jiggled and squawked. Like chickens.
"Ah, good companion!" cried the beer thief, "Who would be my friend if you were not? To whom would I be friend if not to you? For we are of one soul as much as can be."
The two knights went on down the road with their mounts' swishing tails behind them and the echo of their laughter too, and then that echo came back like the laughing bark of a great wolf. The two friends turned as one in surprise and saw nothing behind them but the last pile of rocks, gray like a wolf's hair and bristly like his coat.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
another tale
So once there was an old woman and she lived all by herself in her little house, all away from the little town. Sometimes there were travelers coming down the little road, but most times not. The old woman had her life that hardly ever changed and she was happy with nobody to bother her. Then one day a rider came down the road.
He was riding on a big brown horse, and she was lazy and slow but he did not seem to mind very much. He was turning his head and looking every which way like he was lost or had lost something. The horse came up to the old woman's little house and stopped. The rider didn't notice for a minute or two that his mount wasn't moving at all anymore, she had been moving so slowly. The old woman was beating her rugs when she saw them approach and when they stopped she hobbled right up to the side of the horse and croaked, "Can I help you with something, young man?"
"Well, Old Aunt," said the young rider politely, "I am on a mission from the Duke of Ouveriandor, from across the mountains. I am to find a girl who is special."
The old woman laughed and laughed and gasped out at the end of her happy howling, "My dear, surely you must know by now that all girls are special."
"Well, yes, Old Aunt," answered the rider, more than a little flustered and shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "but this girl is special in a different way. She can speak to the beasts."
The old woman turned and walked away, waving her arms over her head and called back so the rider could hear, "Dear young man, those are but stories that we fools in the little towns tell each other on dark nights when there are storms or over the feast fire for our enjoyment. There is no truth to them, except, maybe a stretching of what is really truth."
"But, Old Aunt, I must be sure of these things before I return to the Duke. How far away is the town from here?" The old woman heaved a heavy sigh. She pointed to the sky and said, "Look, young man, the sun is sinking low. You will not arrive before the dark comes and the roads are not safe at night. There are thieves and...wolves."
"My horse is swift." And the old woman eyed them.
"When she wants to be." And the old woman eyed harder.
"I think you ought to stay in my little house tonight. You will reach the town tomorrow and you will see how quickly you arrive. But in the night, all the roads are longer and the hours are longer and our lives are that much shorter for it."
The old woman carefully took in her raggedy rugs and the rider helped. Then they had a small but tasty supper of beer broth and hearty peasant bread. Then they went to sleep to await the daylight. The old woman hustled the rider, her guest, into her bedroom where she had put fresh sheets and blankets on her own bed for him, and before he could protest she slammed the door behind him. "It is rude to refuse hospitality," he told himself. And he buried himself in the bedclothes and was soon fast asleep.
And dreaming.
Dreaming of the Great City that was made of precious stones and jewels and shining metals and rose smooth and sleek into the sky. Everybody dreamed of entering the Great City and here he was. But in his dream, although he had forgotten. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept seeing a silhouette, in the shape of a wolf with a big, toothy smile, but when he looked straight at the shadow there was none. He was wandering the glittering streets under the orange-y sun when he saw the girl, the girl who must be the one he was seeking. She was dressed in simple peasant's garb that looked washed-out and strange against all the richness of the City and then she saw him too. And she ran. She ran into a tiny alleyway and he followed, shouting, "Wait! I have a message from the Duke! I beg you listen and at least give an answer I can take back to my lord!" Then they were at the end. There was a wall. And the girl was trapped with no way out. She turned and stared with eyes full of terror and the rider was about to comfort her when he thought she was looking at something behind him. He turned. And saw nothing. And he turned back.
And the demon's face filled his vision. With a thousand dagger-teeth. With leathery skin. With long, long claws clicking on the stones. With great black holes for eyes. Holes that were empty and could not see but did see and saw him and he knew he had to get away.
And he sat up gasping in the old woman's bed.
The sun was just rising. He went into the kitchen where the old woman was warming toast and porridge and they ate together. He did not mention his dream. They did not speak to each other over breakfast.
He went out to fetch his horse and she came lazily at his whistle. As he laid saddle and bridle on the steed, the old woman said with words like wintery stones, "Some things are best left undisturbed. You are young but you should learn this now." Then he mounted up and thanked his host and she waved him off smiling. Then he rode into the little town where nobody knew any answers to his questions.
In the middle of the night, he awoke with a start in his lumpy inn bed.
He had just realized that the dress on the girl in his dream was exactly the same as the old woman's.
And at that moment a gleeful wolf howl came in through the window.
He was riding on a big brown horse, and she was lazy and slow but he did not seem to mind very much. He was turning his head and looking every which way like he was lost or had lost something. The horse came up to the old woman's little house and stopped. The rider didn't notice for a minute or two that his mount wasn't moving at all anymore, she had been moving so slowly. The old woman was beating her rugs when she saw them approach and when they stopped she hobbled right up to the side of the horse and croaked, "Can I help you with something, young man?"
"Well, Old Aunt," said the young rider politely, "I am on a mission from the Duke of Ouveriandor, from across the mountains. I am to find a girl who is special."
The old woman laughed and laughed and gasped out at the end of her happy howling, "My dear, surely you must know by now that all girls are special."
"Well, yes, Old Aunt," answered the rider, more than a little flustered and shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "but this girl is special in a different way. She can speak to the beasts."
The old woman turned and walked away, waving her arms over her head and called back so the rider could hear, "Dear young man, those are but stories that we fools in the little towns tell each other on dark nights when there are storms or over the feast fire for our enjoyment. There is no truth to them, except, maybe a stretching of what is really truth."
"But, Old Aunt, I must be sure of these things before I return to the Duke. How far away is the town from here?" The old woman heaved a heavy sigh. She pointed to the sky and said, "Look, young man, the sun is sinking low. You will not arrive before the dark comes and the roads are not safe at night. There are thieves and...wolves."
"My horse is swift." And the old woman eyed them.
"When she wants to be." And the old woman eyed harder.
"I think you ought to stay in my little house tonight. You will reach the town tomorrow and you will see how quickly you arrive. But in the night, all the roads are longer and the hours are longer and our lives are that much shorter for it."
The old woman carefully took in her raggedy rugs and the rider helped. Then they had a small but tasty supper of beer broth and hearty peasant bread. Then they went to sleep to await the daylight. The old woman hustled the rider, her guest, into her bedroom where she had put fresh sheets and blankets on her own bed for him, and before he could protest she slammed the door behind him. "It is rude to refuse hospitality," he told himself. And he buried himself in the bedclothes and was soon fast asleep.
And dreaming.
Dreaming of the Great City that was made of precious stones and jewels and shining metals and rose smooth and sleek into the sky. Everybody dreamed of entering the Great City and here he was. But in his dream, although he had forgotten. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept seeing a silhouette, in the shape of a wolf with a big, toothy smile, but when he looked straight at the shadow there was none. He was wandering the glittering streets under the orange-y sun when he saw the girl, the girl who must be the one he was seeking. She was dressed in simple peasant's garb that looked washed-out and strange against all the richness of the City and then she saw him too. And she ran. She ran into a tiny alleyway and he followed, shouting, "Wait! I have a message from the Duke! I beg you listen and at least give an answer I can take back to my lord!" Then they were at the end. There was a wall. And the girl was trapped with no way out. She turned and stared with eyes full of terror and the rider was about to comfort her when he thought she was looking at something behind him. He turned. And saw nothing. And he turned back.
And the demon's face filled his vision. With a thousand dagger-teeth. With leathery skin. With long, long claws clicking on the stones. With great black holes for eyes. Holes that were empty and could not see but did see and saw him and he knew he had to get away.
And he sat up gasping in the old woman's bed.
The sun was just rising. He went into the kitchen where the old woman was warming toast and porridge and they ate together. He did not mention his dream. They did not speak to each other over breakfast.
He went out to fetch his horse and she came lazily at his whistle. As he laid saddle and bridle on the steed, the old woman said with words like wintery stones, "Some things are best left undisturbed. You are young but you should learn this now." Then he mounted up and thanked his host and she waved him off smiling. Then he rode into the little town where nobody knew any answers to his questions.
In the middle of the night, he awoke with a start in his lumpy inn bed.
He had just realized that the dress on the girl in his dream was exactly the same as the old woman's.
And at that moment a gleeful wolf howl came in through the window.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
when time is short
When time is short, seconds slip by like slimy Jello through your fingers. Minutes flow around your head like the breeze from an open car window as it hurtles down the highway. Days come into view and disappear around the corner of the calender. The thread of your existence gets pulled through a knothole of change, dragging against the edges, and yanked on by Fate or Destiny or Doom. You try to hold on desperately, tying together the experiences you think are necessary. Every frantic tug is answered by a stronger one from the other side.
When time is short, its droplets are tangy sweet and sour, that burn your tongue and throat, but you don't want it to end. Every bite is bitter. Every mouthful a penance for the past and the future, that were and will be so smooth and cool.
When time is short, silence closes in on your ears, muffling even your own heart. As much as it races in distress, the sound is blocked out the deafening stillness of an end.
When time is short, every breath is full of razor blades. Every meal is mud and broken glass. Every word spoken is a hammer on your stomach and an ocean on your soul. Your guts get run through the wringer over and over and over again.
When time is endless, it sleeps on the grass in the sun, dozing, snoring, swishing its tail like a calm and contented cow. When time is short, it runs from you. It hides and dodges, cackling and sneering. You reach and it vanishes before your eyes, just an illusion of substance. When time is short, it rushes over the hills with its head high and eyes bright, and it never looks back.
When time is short, its droplets are tangy sweet and sour, that burn your tongue and throat, but you don't want it to end. Every bite is bitter. Every mouthful a penance for the past and the future, that were and will be so smooth and cool.
When time is short, silence closes in on your ears, muffling even your own heart. As much as it races in distress, the sound is blocked out the deafening stillness of an end.
When time is short, every breath is full of razor blades. Every meal is mud and broken glass. Every word spoken is a hammer on your stomach and an ocean on your soul. Your guts get run through the wringer over and over and over again.
When time is endless, it sleeps on the grass in the sun, dozing, snoring, swishing its tail like a calm and contented cow. When time is short, it runs from you. It hides and dodges, cackling and sneering. You reach and it vanishes before your eyes, just an illusion of substance. When time is short, it rushes over the hills with its head high and eyes bright, and it never looks back.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly
Janet O'Connolly was mildly excited about her first date in seven months. She hadn't been that busy, she hadn't been shot down or in seclusion. She just hadn't come across anyone interesting for quite some time. There had been one-time dates the year before, but none of them had any spark or sense of fun. Then, at her weekly watering hole, she had noticed somebody. It was Nathan, who had hung out with her and her group for a couple of years every Friday night. He was a tall skinny man, somewhat older than she was, maybe even older than Mattie, the matriarch of the group. They had been seeing each other at the Jazz for all those Fridays without so much as a drunken kiss and suddenly, one night, Janet felt a tug of interest in him. He had always seemed gentlemanly, with his proper shirt and tie, shirt, neat hair and intellectual's glasses. The flirting began slowly and subtly, so Janet thought, with the gentle brush of the knees at the table or a slightly longer look than necessary. She had never been very good at flirting anyway, always wanting to go too fast. This time she would try to go slow and let things build to a more natural climax.
After a couple of months of fruitless Friday nights, Janet and Nathan found themselves alone at the bar. Everybody else had decided to make it an early night, leaving before 11:30. Usually, they closed they place, not going until Martin the bartender shooed them out the door, which varied in time from a slightly respectable 1:30 to a practically debauched 3:45, the standing record. Janet and Nathan were still in the booth, each with half a glass of Killian's Red to finish off. Janet was on number three; Nathan was only beginning to drink the first one in earnest. Somehow, he had the power to make one pint of beer last for three hours. Some of their fellow Friday nighters had bets about how he managed to stretch the glass for so long, some going so far as to suggest he was siphoning liquids from anybody around him who took their eyes of their own glass. That was, of course, ridiculous. The group was heterogeneous in alcohol consumption, and everybody knows it's a bad idea to mix your alcoholic beverages. He had been asked in the past, and Nathan's response was always that he liked to savor his beer. Good enough for Janet. Nathan had lived in the city since childhood, whereas Janet had only moved there five years before, and she was asking him about what it was like. Every once in a while the news had some nostalgic story about things from past years and decades, important buildings and local celebrations, but on the little screen things were kind of removed. Now, talking to Nathan, they could be real and almost tangible. As time flowed on, Nathan was less descriptive and more tactile. Janet thought it was time to call it a night.
As they walked down the street to the taxi stand, Nathan held her hand gently, and Janet felt a mild fluttering in her stomach. There were several waiting at the corner, so Nathan opened the door of the first one and held his arm out to the interior, showing her in. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said softly before closing the door behind her. Janet smiled all the way home that night. Nathan did call the next afternoon, but was brusque and cut the call short. Family matters, he said, and Janet didn't feel like pressing the issue at that point.
On Wednesday night, her phone rang. Not expecting any calls and worn out from a stressful day at work, she let the machine pick up. Nathan's uncertain voice shocked her. She grabbed up the receiver and almost shouted into the phone. Nathan laughed at her enthusiasm and said he was just wondering if Janet would like to have a small, intimate dinner with him the next evening. She sure would. Nathan laughed again and said he would meet her at the bus stop on Prairie and Fountain Road. It sounded like a plan. They said good bye, and Janet smiled gleefully into the lapels of her robe as she sashayed back to the couch and horror movie.
The next afternoon a text appeared on her cell around lunch time: "Sorry, have to postpone the dinner. Think you can stand Saturday crowds?" Janet was a little surprised that she didn't feel disappointed, and sent an agreeable message back.
So then Saturday rolled around. Janet had decided not to go all out in her makeup; a nice, natural look seemed most appropriate. She got off the bus at the appointed stop and hour, and sat down on the bench to take one last look at her hair. She only had about ten seconds before Nathan appeared before her, like a genie out of an invisible lamp. He was noticeably excited that she had arrived on time. Janet found it a little amusing. In his gentlemanly fashion, Nathan offered her his arm and they walked off down the street, chatting about the week. Janet felt comfortable and relaxed, with her hand on a strong, steady bicep, and suddenly they were standing in front of the Jazz. It was perplexing. Sure, the place had food, but it wasn't much of a spot for a quiet dinner for two. Maybe he'd lost the reservation on Thursday and this was the only thing he could get. "Are you OK?" came a slightly worried question from her left. "Yeah, no problem," answered Janet with a grin. And in they went.
They sat down in a booth not far away from their regular spot. Nathan ran up to the bar to get drinks. Janet was feeling a little bemused; why didn't he just get the waiter so they could order the dinner now? He came back with two mugs overflowing with foam, pure white looking as Ivory soap bubbles. The cool brew was refreshing and the gentle prodding of the alcohol made it easier for the conversation to flow at the same pace as the liquid down their throats. There was laughing, joking, gentle poking and pushing at shoulders... and Nathan was gradually closing the gap between them. Before Janet knew it, there were warm, moist lips on hers and a stubbly chin scraping her own. It was nice and it was fun, and Janet felt little fizzies in her chest. It might just be an exciting night. Then Nathan pulled back a little and said breathily, "I'm really not hungry, so why don't we go over to that hotel across the street." Janet thought it might be the beer talking, and she replied, "Why don't we just go to my place?" "I thought you had a roommate. I don't want to make her night uncomfortable." "Your place it is, then." Nathan sat back a little and looked worried, saying, "Oh no, we can't go to my place. My mom lives right around the corner." "So she lives around the corner, so what? Does she keep an eye on your doorway just to see if you walk in with a woman?" Nathan shook his head and said, "I really can't bring any women to my house." The fizzies froze up were they were. "Do...do you actually live with your mom?" Nathan chuckled condescendingly, but didn't answer. The weight of disappointment was starting to make its descent on Janet's shoulders and she said, "I guess I should be getting home." That jerked Nathan out of his complacency. "What do you mean?" he snapped, "Aren't you attracted to me? Isn't that enough to spend a couple of hours together?" So, it was only going to be "a couple of hours" anyway, the cheapskate wasn't even going to spring for a night. "Look, Nathan, I thought we were on the same page with this casual fun thing, but your fun is a lot more casual, and public, than mine. I think it's best if we call it a night right now." Nathan looked almost sad as Janet gathered up her purse and sweater. Then he took her arm again and walked her to the bus stop, as gentlemanly as he had been at the beginning of the night. "I hope this doesn't mean we can't still be friends at Friday Nights Sloshed." Janet had to laugh a little at his term for the gathering. "I don't see why not. But I'll have to act like none of this - tonight, the drawn-out invitation - ever happened. That's just how it needs to be with me." "I think I understand," said Nathan. The bus appeared down the street and he patted Janet's shoulder saying, "Well, see you later then." Janet got on the bus and rode in silence all the way home. Everybody else on the bus looked like they had something to ponder as much as she did, and not even a cell rang all during the trip.
The next morning the stubble burn on her chin almost made Janet forget about not saying anything to anyone in favor of a good hard razzing for Nathan's not knowing how to shave properly.
After a couple of months of fruitless Friday nights, Janet and Nathan found themselves alone at the bar. Everybody else had decided to make it an early night, leaving before 11:30. Usually, they closed they place, not going until Martin the bartender shooed them out the door, which varied in time from a slightly respectable 1:30 to a practically debauched 3:45, the standing record. Janet and Nathan were still in the booth, each with half a glass of Killian's Red to finish off. Janet was on number three; Nathan was only beginning to drink the first one in earnest. Somehow, he had the power to make one pint of beer last for three hours. Some of their fellow Friday nighters had bets about how he managed to stretch the glass for so long, some going so far as to suggest he was siphoning liquids from anybody around him who took their eyes of their own glass. That was, of course, ridiculous. The group was heterogeneous in alcohol consumption, and everybody knows it's a bad idea to mix your alcoholic beverages. He had been asked in the past, and Nathan's response was always that he liked to savor his beer. Good enough for Janet. Nathan had lived in the city since childhood, whereas Janet had only moved there five years before, and she was asking him about what it was like. Every once in a while the news had some nostalgic story about things from past years and decades, important buildings and local celebrations, but on the little screen things were kind of removed. Now, talking to Nathan, they could be real and almost tangible. As time flowed on, Nathan was less descriptive and more tactile. Janet thought it was time to call it a night.
As they walked down the street to the taxi stand, Nathan held her hand gently, and Janet felt a mild fluttering in her stomach. There were several waiting at the corner, so Nathan opened the door of the first one and held his arm out to the interior, showing her in. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said softly before closing the door behind her. Janet smiled all the way home that night. Nathan did call the next afternoon, but was brusque and cut the call short. Family matters, he said, and Janet didn't feel like pressing the issue at that point.
On Wednesday night, her phone rang. Not expecting any calls and worn out from a stressful day at work, she let the machine pick up. Nathan's uncertain voice shocked her. She grabbed up the receiver and almost shouted into the phone. Nathan laughed at her enthusiasm and said he was just wondering if Janet would like to have a small, intimate dinner with him the next evening. She sure would. Nathan laughed again and said he would meet her at the bus stop on Prairie and Fountain Road. It sounded like a plan. They said good bye, and Janet smiled gleefully into the lapels of her robe as she sashayed back to the couch and horror movie.
The next afternoon a text appeared on her cell around lunch time: "Sorry, have to postpone the dinner. Think you can stand Saturday crowds?" Janet was a little surprised that she didn't feel disappointed, and sent an agreeable message back.
So then Saturday rolled around. Janet had decided not to go all out in her makeup; a nice, natural look seemed most appropriate. She got off the bus at the appointed stop and hour, and sat down on the bench to take one last look at her hair. She only had about ten seconds before Nathan appeared before her, like a genie out of an invisible lamp. He was noticeably excited that she had arrived on time. Janet found it a little amusing. In his gentlemanly fashion, Nathan offered her his arm and they walked off down the street, chatting about the week. Janet felt comfortable and relaxed, with her hand on a strong, steady bicep, and suddenly they were standing in front of the Jazz. It was perplexing. Sure, the place had food, but it wasn't much of a spot for a quiet dinner for two. Maybe he'd lost the reservation on Thursday and this was the only thing he could get. "Are you OK?" came a slightly worried question from her left. "Yeah, no problem," answered Janet with a grin. And in they went.
They sat down in a booth not far away from their regular spot. Nathan ran up to the bar to get drinks. Janet was feeling a little bemused; why didn't he just get the waiter so they could order the dinner now? He came back with two mugs overflowing with foam, pure white looking as Ivory soap bubbles. The cool brew was refreshing and the gentle prodding of the alcohol made it easier for the conversation to flow at the same pace as the liquid down their throats. There was laughing, joking, gentle poking and pushing at shoulders... and Nathan was gradually closing the gap between them. Before Janet knew it, there were warm, moist lips on hers and a stubbly chin scraping her own. It was nice and it was fun, and Janet felt little fizzies in her chest. It might just be an exciting night. Then Nathan pulled back a little and said breathily, "I'm really not hungry, so why don't we go over to that hotel across the street." Janet thought it might be the beer talking, and she replied, "Why don't we just go to my place?" "I thought you had a roommate. I don't want to make her night uncomfortable." "Your place it is, then." Nathan sat back a little and looked worried, saying, "Oh no, we can't go to my place. My mom lives right around the corner." "So she lives around the corner, so what? Does she keep an eye on your doorway just to see if you walk in with a woman?" Nathan shook his head and said, "I really can't bring any women to my house." The fizzies froze up were they were. "Do...do you actually live with your mom?" Nathan chuckled condescendingly, but didn't answer. The weight of disappointment was starting to make its descent on Janet's shoulders and she said, "I guess I should be getting home." That jerked Nathan out of his complacency. "What do you mean?" he snapped, "Aren't you attracted to me? Isn't that enough to spend a couple of hours together?" So, it was only going to be "a couple of hours" anyway, the cheapskate wasn't even going to spring for a night. "Look, Nathan, I thought we were on the same page with this casual fun thing, but your fun is a lot more casual, and public, than mine. I think it's best if we call it a night right now." Nathan looked almost sad as Janet gathered up her purse and sweater. Then he took her arm again and walked her to the bus stop, as gentlemanly as he had been at the beginning of the night. "I hope this doesn't mean we can't still be friends at Friday Nights Sloshed." Janet had to laugh a little at his term for the gathering. "I don't see why not. But I'll have to act like none of this - tonight, the drawn-out invitation - ever happened. That's just how it needs to be with me." "I think I understand," said Nathan. The bus appeared down the street and he patted Janet's shoulder saying, "Well, see you later then." Janet got on the bus and rode in silence all the way home. Everybody else on the bus looked like they had something to ponder as much as she did, and not even a cell rang all during the trip.
The next morning the stubble burn on her chin almost made Janet forget about not saying anything to anyone in favor of a good hard razzing for Nathan's not knowing how to shave properly.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
dog
The dog went trotting down the street. It was a warm summer day. Wonderful smells came from every side. There, on the right, somebody was making a cake. Chocolate. The dog's tongue swept over his chops as tiny droplets of spit sprayed out into the air. Next to the cake, something green. Something cut. Trees. Limbs nipped off, bleeding sap. Freshness and newness in the air. The tree made neat, perfectly balanced. The birds and squirrels disturbed and noisy. Chattering, cheeping, screeching, cackling. Time to remake their homes in sparser branches and wider spaces. Times are tough all over. The dog's food bowl was empty when he left his house. And the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the alley. The surface was recently blacktopped and the smell of tar was heavy in his nostrils. In spite of its strength, other scents found their way in. Smells from garages, open and closed. The cars resting inside, or the space where the car would be later, covering over the spot it made on the floor. When the dog made spots on the floor, the man whacked him on the nose with a rolled magazine, or on the bottom with a slipper. The dog never sees people whacking the cars, but maybe they only do it in the garage so they can point at the mistake and yell, so the car knows what it did wrong. There on the left, an open door! And the car inside must have made a very big spot indeed. The whole top of the back end was full of dents and depressions. Two men were standing next to it on either side shaking their heads in disgust, one rubbing his jaw and the other with his hands on his hips. Funny, their feet didn't look big enough for slippers to make those kinds of marks. It must have been a Sunday paper. Sometimes the Sunday paper was so fat the dog couldn't get hold of it to carry it around in his mouth. He passed the open door, wreathed in scents of machines and their accessories. He got to the end of the alley and turned right and the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting through the park. The air was full of high, squealing sounds. Children running and playing. One ran up to him, almost close enough to grab his passing tail, but a nervous mother ran up behind the child and jerked him away. Her voice was tight, angry and frightened at once. All around, people were hot and sweaty. Some had food with them. The dog's tongue tingled as he caught the odor of salty, oily meats, the kind that people put on bread and ruin with runny things that come in bright colors in bottles and jars. Walking slowly by a cluster of trees, hoping to see picnickers under them who would give a friendly old dog a bite to eat, he caught the sharp, sweet smell of fear. There were no picnickers, just two girls. Their scent was stinging, bitter, coppery, and one looked around nervously while the other never took her hands away from her face. More than afraid, the lookout was anxious and the hiding one was sad, but they were fearful of something too. They obviously had no food, so the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the dirt road. Little puffs of dust rose up under his feet. Some yards of grass and clover separated him and the dirt from the trees and billowing dark green summer leaves. Not a breath of air moved around those leaves, but they hung expectantly, waiting for a gentle evening breeze. It was still a long time till evening. There was no sound to distract the dog from his path either. No twittering birds, no nattering, squeaking insects. It was so quiet. Like the TV when the man in the house put it on mute to listen to the boy and girl talk on their phones in their rooms. Between them speaking there was silence, like now on the road. Suddenly, there were sounds from the trees. Feet stamping, lungs pumping, sticks and stalks roughly thrust aside. A boy, a teenager like the one in the house, was running. He came out of the trees to the right of the dog and ran wildly. He didn't look behind him, like he thought whatever he was running from could catch him if he saw it. There was a break in the trees up ahead of him and a ditch or a hole, because he suddenly lifted his arms up and disappeared downwards into the weeds. And the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the train tracks. He placed his feet carefully on the ties because the ash gray rocks between them poked and pained his pads. The sun beat down stronger and his tongue dropped out of his mouth, and now he was very thirsty. Not a drop of drool managed to fall from his lips before it could be shrunk away by the heat. There was water around the tracks, but it was stagnant, choked with slime and filth. The dog was not so thirsty yet that he would even consider that oozy liquid. It stunk horribly. Something else was stinking too, something dead. It had been dead for a while and the summer weather was wearing the body away. Stronger and stronger the smell drifted up from the left side of the tracks, the swampier side. Even the last few dry, roasting hot days hadn't hardened the mud here. The dog could imagine it squishing between his toes and covering his paws with crusty boots. It might be cooler. But the smell kept him on the tracks. It was just on his left now; he couldn't see anything in the weeds, but it must be right there, rotting away, bloated with the gases of death and swarming with bugs. The dog could hear them humming quietly as they flew around their possession. They didn't fly above the weeds, though, and they didn't come near the tracks. How odd. And the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the highway. On the highway shoulder really. He was no stupid dog. There weren't that many cars zipping by, only a few. Some even slowed down and pulled a little to the left so as to be sure of not hitting him. Now there was a little breeze, and not just from the passing cars. It came from over the fields. It was full of questions and answers. The dog smelled animals, big ones, but he had never seen them and didn't know what they were. There were small animals too, on the breeze. Their smell was more pungent, concentrated. Then, up ahead, there was a car. It wasn't moving like the other cars. It was lying on its side in the grassy ditch, with all its limbs flailed and stretched out, reaching for help. Three people were standing around, near the back end. As the dog came closer he could smell their nervous sweat, even though two of them acted calm and relaxed. There was a man who was obviously tense. He walked a few steps out to the field and came back again with jerky, uncoordinated movements. The other man was calmly smoking a cigarette, casually raising the pale little twig to his lips for a few seconds before letting his arm drift down. The woman appeared calm, but as the dog passed by, odors erupted from her - salty sweat and tears, sweet endorphins and urine. The woman and the smoker glanced at the dog as he trotted past. The other man didn't notice him. He was yelling now, angrily waving his hands in the air over his head. He smelled like blood. The car did too. But there was nothing else to call the dogs attention, so he looked off into the distance, towards the coming night, and the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the alley. The surface was recently blacktopped and the smell of tar was heavy in his nostrils. In spite of its strength, other scents found their way in. Smells from garages, open and closed. The cars resting inside, or the space where the car would be later, covering over the spot it made on the floor. When the dog made spots on the floor, the man whacked him on the nose with a rolled magazine, or on the bottom with a slipper. The dog never sees people whacking the cars, but maybe they only do it in the garage so they can point at the mistake and yell, so the car knows what it did wrong. There on the left, an open door! And the car inside must have made a very big spot indeed. The whole top of the back end was full of dents and depressions. Two men were standing next to it on either side shaking their heads in disgust, one rubbing his jaw and the other with his hands on his hips. Funny, their feet didn't look big enough for slippers to make those kinds of marks. It must have been a Sunday paper. Sometimes the Sunday paper was so fat the dog couldn't get hold of it to carry it around in his mouth. He passed the open door, wreathed in scents of machines and their accessories. He got to the end of the alley and turned right and the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting through the park. The air was full of high, squealing sounds. Children running and playing. One ran up to him, almost close enough to grab his passing tail, but a nervous mother ran up behind the child and jerked him away. Her voice was tight, angry and frightened at once. All around, people were hot and sweaty. Some had food with them. The dog's tongue tingled as he caught the odor of salty, oily meats, the kind that people put on bread and ruin with runny things that come in bright colors in bottles and jars. Walking slowly by a cluster of trees, hoping to see picnickers under them who would give a friendly old dog a bite to eat, he caught the sharp, sweet smell of fear. There were no picnickers, just two girls. Their scent was stinging, bitter, coppery, and one looked around nervously while the other never took her hands away from her face. More than afraid, the lookout was anxious and the hiding one was sad, but they were fearful of something too. They obviously had no food, so the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the dirt road. Little puffs of dust rose up under his feet. Some yards of grass and clover separated him and the dirt from the trees and billowing dark green summer leaves. Not a breath of air moved around those leaves, but they hung expectantly, waiting for a gentle evening breeze. It was still a long time till evening. There was no sound to distract the dog from his path either. No twittering birds, no nattering, squeaking insects. It was so quiet. Like the TV when the man in the house put it on mute to listen to the boy and girl talk on their phones in their rooms. Between them speaking there was silence, like now on the road. Suddenly, there were sounds from the trees. Feet stamping, lungs pumping, sticks and stalks roughly thrust aside. A boy, a teenager like the one in the house, was running. He came out of the trees to the right of the dog and ran wildly. He didn't look behind him, like he thought whatever he was running from could catch him if he saw it. There was a break in the trees up ahead of him and a ditch or a hole, because he suddenly lifted his arms up and disappeared downwards into the weeds. And the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the train tracks. He placed his feet carefully on the ties because the ash gray rocks between them poked and pained his pads. The sun beat down stronger and his tongue dropped out of his mouth, and now he was very thirsty. Not a drop of drool managed to fall from his lips before it could be shrunk away by the heat. There was water around the tracks, but it was stagnant, choked with slime and filth. The dog was not so thirsty yet that he would even consider that oozy liquid. It stunk horribly. Something else was stinking too, something dead. It had been dead for a while and the summer weather was wearing the body away. Stronger and stronger the smell drifted up from the left side of the tracks, the swampier side. Even the last few dry, roasting hot days hadn't hardened the mud here. The dog could imagine it squishing between his toes and covering his paws with crusty boots. It might be cooler. But the smell kept him on the tracks. It was just on his left now; he couldn't see anything in the weeds, but it must be right there, rotting away, bloated with the gases of death and swarming with bugs. The dog could hear them humming quietly as they flew around their possession. They didn't fly above the weeds, though, and they didn't come near the tracks. How odd. And the dog trotted on.
The dog went trotting down the highway. On the highway shoulder really. He was no stupid dog. There weren't that many cars zipping by, only a few. Some even slowed down and pulled a little to the left so as to be sure of not hitting him. Now there was a little breeze, and not just from the passing cars. It came from over the fields. It was full of questions and answers. The dog smelled animals, big ones, but he had never seen them and didn't know what they were. There were small animals too, on the breeze. Their smell was more pungent, concentrated. Then, up ahead, there was a car. It wasn't moving like the other cars. It was lying on its side in the grassy ditch, with all its limbs flailed and stretched out, reaching for help. Three people were standing around, near the back end. As the dog came closer he could smell their nervous sweat, even though two of them acted calm and relaxed. There was a man who was obviously tense. He walked a few steps out to the field and came back again with jerky, uncoordinated movements. The other man was calmly smoking a cigarette, casually raising the pale little twig to his lips for a few seconds before letting his arm drift down. The woman appeared calm, but as the dog passed by, odors erupted from her - salty sweat and tears, sweet endorphins and urine. The woman and the smoker glanced at the dog as he trotted past. The other man didn't notice him. He was yelling now, angrily waving his hands in the air over his head. He smelled like blood. The car did too. But there was nothing else to call the dogs attention, so he looked off into the distance, towards the coming night, and the dog trotted on.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
attempted translation 2
An American folktale from the Appalachian Mountains
Tailypo
Allá en la sierra vivía un hombre viejo. Vivía con sus perros, Ladro, Muerdo, y Nohagonada. Llegó al bosque y la montaña hace muchos años en busca de una vida sencilla y nunca regresaba al pueblo ni pedía ayuda a nadie. Cuidaba de sus herramientas para que no rompieran, cazaba y cocinaba la comida que necesitaba y cosía su propia ropa.
Un año, la caza iba muy mal. Muchos días regresó a casa sin más que un conejo flaco. Algunos días regresó sin nada. Un día de octubre, cuando el otoño estaba ya al caer, estaban el hombre y perros en el bosque. Habían cazado dos conejos pequeños y por el hambre que sufría, el hombre los cocinó en un fuego allí mismo. Comió su parte y repartió el resto a los perros. Todavía sentía mucha hambre. De repente, vió un animal que nunca había visto antes. Se posaba en un arbol, del que las hojas ya empezaban a caer. Tenía el tamaño de un mapache grande pero estaba cubierto de pelo negro y grueso. Sus ojos eran amarillos y brillaban como velas. Sus orejas eran largas y puntiagudas. Pero lo que más impresión daba era la cola. Una cola tremendamente larga y gorda. El hombre levantó su escopeta y disparó, y el animal aulló y huyó, saltando de una rama a otra. La cola cayó al suelo, y el hombre la cogió antes de que los perros la comieran. La llevó a casa e hizo un cocido. La cola tenía carne para él, Ladro, Muerdo, y Nohagonada, y los tres quedaron satisfechos después de esa cena.
Ya era hora de dormirse. El hombre apagó la lámpara y se metió en la cama. Los perros se tiraron en frente del hogar. El hombre estaba a punto de caer en un sueño dulce y tranquilo, cuando escuchó algo desde fuera. Era una voz que parecía venir del bosque. Dijo: Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? El hombre se dió cuenta de que era ese animal del arbol, buscando su cola. Saltó de la cama, abrió la puerta y gritó a los perros: ¡Ladro, Muerdo, Nohagonada, a cazar! Los tres perros salieron corriendo y aullando. Al cabo de un rato, volvieron Muerdo y Nohagonada, sin pelo ni pellejo del extraño animal. El hombre quedó en la puerta llamando a Ladro, pero no apareció. Al final, volvió a la cama.
Esta vez, dormía unos minutos cuando la escuchó otra vez. Y parecía más cerca que la primera vez: Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? El hombre volvió a saltar de la cama y abrir la puerta, llamando a los perros. Salieron, y esta vez sólo volvió Nohagonada. Ahora el hombre empezaba a preocuparse de verdad. Quedaban horas para el amanecer. Sacó la escopeta y volvió a la cama, pero esta vez no descansaba ni diez minutos antes de escuchar la voz por tercera vez, y estaba a pocos metros de la cabiña. Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? Abrió la puerta y salió Nohagonada, y el hombre quedó con la escopeta en el hombro, pero no vió nada en la oscuridad afuera. Esperó mucho tiempo, pero no volvió ninguno de sus perros. Los llamó una y otra vez, pero no vinieron ni le contestaron. Al final, volvió a su cama, con la escopeta en las manos. Dejó la lámpara encendida encima de la mesa. Esperaba el alba ansiosamente.
Entonces, escuchó un sonido. Era algo rascando la pared. Al principio, creía que era los perros que habían vuelto y querían entrar, pero en un momento supo que no. El sonido venía de dentro de la cabiña. Y en la luz de la lámpara vió dos orejas negras, puntiagudas y muy largas salir de detrás del pie de la cama. Y vió dos ojos amarillos ardiendo como dos soles. Y vió como el animal del bosque subía por su cama. Y lo escuchó decir: Lo sabemos, tú y yo, quien tiene mi tailypo. Y el hombre vió que las patas negras del animal acabaron en garras negras y muy largas y con aspecto de afiladas. Y el animal empezó a arañar y arañar.
Cuando se levantó el sol la mañana después, no quedaba nada de la cabiña menos la chimenea.
Tailypo
Allá en la sierra vivía un hombre viejo. Vivía con sus perros, Ladro, Muerdo, y Nohagonada. Llegó al bosque y la montaña hace muchos años en busca de una vida sencilla y nunca regresaba al pueblo ni pedía ayuda a nadie. Cuidaba de sus herramientas para que no rompieran, cazaba y cocinaba la comida que necesitaba y cosía su propia ropa.
Un año, la caza iba muy mal. Muchos días regresó a casa sin más que un conejo flaco. Algunos días regresó sin nada. Un día de octubre, cuando el otoño estaba ya al caer, estaban el hombre y perros en el bosque. Habían cazado dos conejos pequeños y por el hambre que sufría, el hombre los cocinó en un fuego allí mismo. Comió su parte y repartió el resto a los perros. Todavía sentía mucha hambre. De repente, vió un animal que nunca había visto antes. Se posaba en un arbol, del que las hojas ya empezaban a caer. Tenía el tamaño de un mapache grande pero estaba cubierto de pelo negro y grueso. Sus ojos eran amarillos y brillaban como velas. Sus orejas eran largas y puntiagudas. Pero lo que más impresión daba era la cola. Una cola tremendamente larga y gorda. El hombre levantó su escopeta y disparó, y el animal aulló y huyó, saltando de una rama a otra. La cola cayó al suelo, y el hombre la cogió antes de que los perros la comieran. La llevó a casa e hizo un cocido. La cola tenía carne para él, Ladro, Muerdo, y Nohagonada, y los tres quedaron satisfechos después de esa cena.
Ya era hora de dormirse. El hombre apagó la lámpara y se metió en la cama. Los perros se tiraron en frente del hogar. El hombre estaba a punto de caer en un sueño dulce y tranquilo, cuando escuchó algo desde fuera. Era una voz que parecía venir del bosque. Dijo: Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? El hombre se dió cuenta de que era ese animal del arbol, buscando su cola. Saltó de la cama, abrió la puerta y gritó a los perros: ¡Ladro, Muerdo, Nohagonada, a cazar! Los tres perros salieron corriendo y aullando. Al cabo de un rato, volvieron Muerdo y Nohagonada, sin pelo ni pellejo del extraño animal. El hombre quedó en la puerta llamando a Ladro, pero no apareció. Al final, volvió a la cama.
Esta vez, dormía unos minutos cuando la escuchó otra vez. Y parecía más cerca que la primera vez: Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? El hombre volvió a saltar de la cama y abrir la puerta, llamando a los perros. Salieron, y esta vez sólo volvió Nohagonada. Ahora el hombre empezaba a preocuparse de verdad. Quedaban horas para el amanecer. Sacó la escopeta y volvió a la cama, pero esta vez no descansaba ni diez minutos antes de escuchar la voz por tercera vez, y estaba a pocos metros de la cabiña. Tailypo, tailypo, ¿dónde está mi tailypo? Abrió la puerta y salió Nohagonada, y el hombre quedó con la escopeta en el hombro, pero no vió nada en la oscuridad afuera. Esperó mucho tiempo, pero no volvió ninguno de sus perros. Los llamó una y otra vez, pero no vinieron ni le contestaron. Al final, volvió a su cama, con la escopeta en las manos. Dejó la lámpara encendida encima de la mesa. Esperaba el alba ansiosamente.
Entonces, escuchó un sonido. Era algo rascando la pared. Al principio, creía que era los perros que habían vuelto y querían entrar, pero en un momento supo que no. El sonido venía de dentro de la cabiña. Y en la luz de la lámpara vió dos orejas negras, puntiagudas y muy largas salir de detrás del pie de la cama. Y vió dos ojos amarillos ardiendo como dos soles. Y vió como el animal del bosque subía por su cama. Y lo escuchó decir: Lo sabemos, tú y yo, quien tiene mi tailypo. Y el hombre vió que las patas negras del animal acabaron en garras negras y muy largas y con aspecto de afiladas. Y el animal empezó a arañar y arañar.
Cuando se levantó el sol la mañana después, no quedaba nada de la cabiña menos la chimenea.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Zweite Geschichte - Teil 1
Im Wald auf den Schwarzen Bergen wohnt die Hexe. Ihr Haus ist hinter den Wasserfall, in der Tiefe einer dunklen Höhle. Sie braucht das Essen nicht im Wald sammeln oder jagen - die Tiere kommen an den Bach, um zu trinken, und werden von der Stimme der Hexe bezaubert. Aber, die Hexe isst nicht die Körper, nur die Seelen. Der arme Tierkörpe kommt in den Wald zurück und nach ein paar Wochen verfallt zu Staub. Am Fuße des Berges liegt ein kleines Dorf, und in diese Dorf lebt eine fröhliche Familie. Die Eltern arbeiten lang und hart, aber ohne darüber zu klagen, und die Kinder wachsen gesund auf. Es sind drei Kinder: Der Älteste, Madock; die Mittelere, Medwona; der Jüngste, Mididomen. Sie haben kürzlich ihren alten beliebten Hund an die Hexe verloren. Er ist zu Staub geworden, vor den Augen Mididomens, und seine Tränen hatten seine Geschwister davon überzeugt, die rache an der Hexe zu nehmen.
Jeder Dörfler weißt daß die Hexe mächtig und fast unverwundbar ist, aber es gibt Gerüchte von einer Schwache. Das Herz der Hexe befindet sich nicht im Brust sondern in einer Taschein ihren alten schmutzigen Rock. Madock der älteste wollte die Hexe suchen und ihr Herz stehlen. Medwona wollte mitgehen, aber die Eltern und ihr zukunftiger Mann weinten und beteten. Sie wollten das schönes Mädchen nicht verlieren. Madock bereitet sich mit Brot und Käse, eine guten Messer, und einen Tau vor. Mididomen sieht seinen Bruder mit seinen vollen Sack und fragt „Bruder, wohin gehst du?” Madock antwortet „Brüderchen, ich verspreche dir die Rache für den Tod unseres Borstens auszuführen. Er war ein guter Hund und hatte niemanem weh getan. Dir Hexe verdient seine Seele nicht.” Mididomen sagt „Ich gehe mit, Bruder.” Die Brüder einigen sich zusammen auf den Weg zu machen, und Medwona, die immer helfen will, kommt ins Zimmer und sagt „Brüder, ich kann euch nicht gehen lassen, ohne euch etwas nützliches zu schenken.” Sie hat eine Jacke und ein Kappe mit ihren eigenen Händen gestrickt und gibt sie Madock. Medwona sagt jetzt „Meine Arbeit bei dieser Suche ist vorbei, aber die der Brüder fängt erst an. Die Kleider werden euch schützen.” Madock ist berührt und Mididomen erfreut sich über das bunte Garn, und die Geschwister umarmen sich zum Abschied. Die Brüder gehen aus dem haus und neben der Scheune finden sie den zukunftigen Schwäger. Er weint und Lacht und Madock fragt „Was machst du denn, dummkopf? Bist du froh oder traurig?” Madock hat immer wenig Respekt für den Freund seiner Schwester gehabt, und jetzt noch weniger, weil er der Cousin der Exfreundin Madocks ist. Die ehemalige Freundin ist seit einem Jahr mit einem Fremden verschwunden, und Madockhegt einem Groll gegen die Familie. Der Schwäger antwortet mit noch breiterem lachen „Ich weine, guter Schwäger, aber ich weine mit Freude weil meine Frau sicher zu Haus bleibt und ihre tapferen Brüder meine Hilfe nicht brauchen.” Madock geht wütend in Richtung der Berge und Mididomen ihm, aber der Schwäger ergreift seinen Arm. „Mididomen,” sagt er „Ich habe einen Ratschläg für euch: Im Wald, nichts grünes essen, nichts rotes pflücken, auf nichts blaues hören.” „Warum hast du das nicht zu meinem Bruder gesagt?” „Ach, er ist so verärgert, und zu Recht, würde er mir nie zuhören. Ich weine falsche Tränen um seine Gefühle für meine Familie zu verschlechtern und bald wird er meine Cousine vergessen. Ich weiß nicht warum sie mit dem Goldenen Mann weg gegangen ist, aber ich wünsche deinen Bruder kein Leid mehr.”
Jeder Dörfler weißt daß die Hexe mächtig und fast unverwundbar ist, aber es gibt Gerüchte von einer Schwache. Das Herz der Hexe befindet sich nicht im Brust sondern in einer Taschein ihren alten schmutzigen Rock. Madock der älteste wollte die Hexe suchen und ihr Herz stehlen. Medwona wollte mitgehen, aber die Eltern und ihr zukunftiger Mann weinten und beteten. Sie wollten das schönes Mädchen nicht verlieren. Madock bereitet sich mit Brot und Käse, eine guten Messer, und einen Tau vor. Mididomen sieht seinen Bruder mit seinen vollen Sack und fragt „Bruder, wohin gehst du?” Madock antwortet „Brüderchen, ich verspreche dir die Rache für den Tod unseres Borstens auszuführen. Er war ein guter Hund und hatte niemanem weh getan. Dir Hexe verdient seine Seele nicht.” Mididomen sagt „Ich gehe mit, Bruder.” Die Brüder einigen sich zusammen auf den Weg zu machen, und Medwona, die immer helfen will, kommt ins Zimmer und sagt „Brüder, ich kann euch nicht gehen lassen, ohne euch etwas nützliches zu schenken.” Sie hat eine Jacke und ein Kappe mit ihren eigenen Händen gestrickt und gibt sie Madock. Medwona sagt jetzt „Meine Arbeit bei dieser Suche ist vorbei, aber die der Brüder fängt erst an. Die Kleider werden euch schützen.” Madock ist berührt und Mididomen erfreut sich über das bunte Garn, und die Geschwister umarmen sich zum Abschied. Die Brüder gehen aus dem haus und neben der Scheune finden sie den zukunftigen Schwäger. Er weint und Lacht und Madock fragt „Was machst du denn, dummkopf? Bist du froh oder traurig?” Madock hat immer wenig Respekt für den Freund seiner Schwester gehabt, und jetzt noch weniger, weil er der Cousin der Exfreundin Madocks ist. Die ehemalige Freundin ist seit einem Jahr mit einem Fremden verschwunden, und Madockhegt einem Groll gegen die Familie. Der Schwäger antwortet mit noch breiterem lachen „Ich weine, guter Schwäger, aber ich weine mit Freude weil meine Frau sicher zu Haus bleibt und ihre tapferen Brüder meine Hilfe nicht brauchen.” Madock geht wütend in Richtung der Berge und Mididomen ihm, aber der Schwäger ergreift seinen Arm. „Mididomen,” sagt er „Ich habe einen Ratschläg für euch: Im Wald, nichts grünes essen, nichts rotes pflücken, auf nichts blaues hören.” „Warum hast du das nicht zu meinem Bruder gesagt?” „Ach, er ist so verärgert, und zu Recht, würde er mir nie zuhören. Ich weine falsche Tränen um seine Gefühle für meine Familie zu verschlechtern und bald wird er meine Cousine vergessen. Ich weiß nicht warum sie mit dem Goldenen Mann weg gegangen ist, aber ich wünsche deinen Bruder kein Leid mehr.”
Sunday, June 27, 2010
witness
An article by esteemed travel writer C.S. for a distinguished travel website mentions a tragedy which occured in the most recent city to be blessed with the wandering adventurer's presence.
Following in the footsteps of the likes of Richard Burton and Hester Stanhope, I found myself in the domed city. It was more magical, and yet more normal, than any other city I have visited. Walking down the twisting medieval streets in the early morning, listening to the shopkeepers haggling with their suppliers, boatmen on the river giving each other orders and news, women calling each other from open windows while they hang night-dampened bedsheets - it was like stepping into an old-time, big-budget movie.
But bits of gritty reality washed in too, things film can't transmit. Besides sounds and colors, there were smells. Some good, like the bakeries or the markets piled with fresh and fragrant fruit. Being used to the sterility of supermarkets, the blazing brightness of the hues and the heady scents of fresh picked melons, peppers, tomatoes, apricots and various citrus fruits was simply overwhelming. Everything leaped out at me from its stand, daring me, begging me to pick it up and test its weight and firmness in my hands before shaking my head at the merchant's exorbitant price and confidently saying I would pay half. Other smells were less enjoyable. From alleyways and patios near butchers' and fishmongers' wafted invisible fists of blood, guts and other bodily products. I was assaulted in a restaurant toilet by the stench of layers of spilled urine, lying untouched for years like sediment on the river bank before it hit the city limits.
The river itself was none too pleasing to the nose. It was terribly scenic with its old stone bridges, lean boats slipping people and goods up and down, and dark, shining water that reflected everything like a scrying mirror. But the odor that glided up over its walled banks...was tremendous. Its subtlety and pungence left me wordless. Trying to describe its components is like dismantling the formula of some complicated perfume. I can't force myself to think about what might be mingled in its waters and settled on its bottom from the factories just outside the city limits. From the first moment I had a sense of foreboding, a mournful feeling of unavoidable tragedy regarding this river. The way it slithered through town, with none of the stateliness of the Thames or the rush of the young Mississippi, made it seem sinister. In spite of the lack of twists and turns - it runs practically straight in its course through the city - I sensed an aura of the serpentine when I gazed down upon it from the oldest surviving bridge. This bridge is now pedestrian only, cobbled, with fanciful street lights and carved faces on its centuries old walls. Only the faces and the very ends of the walls are original; the others have been added over the years by commission of the city authorities to honor famous sons (and daughters). Of the four oldest faces, only one is inarguably identified: the founder of the city. He stares grimly at the knees of the passers by, perhaps in disapproval of the bare flesh he now sees paraded before him. About twenty faces are named only by rumors, the historians at the university archive shrugging their shoulders when asked and saying only that the documents have been lost. How? When? Ah, more mysteries.
This bridge was the scene of the most memorable event during my visit. Of course, I am referring to the biggest news story of the past week. Oddly, the excitement makes my memories blurry and difficult to read, like action photos taken with a disposable camera. I suppose it was the crushing emotions that burned these fuzzy, smeared images into my brain, more than the sight itself. The midday sun was pouring down like lemonade, tinting everything slightly yellow and making everything sticky. I was meandering, thinking about an appointment I had with the curator of ancient artifacts in the Municipal Museum (which is not, I was sternly told, to be confused with the City Museum. Ever.) My late breakfast of lightly toasted ham and bread with currant jam was on its last legs in my stomach and my thoughts kept turning to those rosy apples I had in my bag. The street was full of people, locals and tourists, but the noise level was pleasant, energizing. I was taking the street next to the river, since smaller streets had often turned me around and spit me back onto the main thoroughfares blocks before the point I had turned down them in the first place. Other days I could handle the labyrinth, but today I had somewhere to be at 1:30 on the dot. And then, the incident happened.
The bridge was about 200 feet in front of me, pale tan over the snakeskin emerald of the river. And then it was all black and smoky. The noise was so loud, I think I didn't even register that there had been a sound for several seconds. I just saw the smoke. I felt the vibration. Like the loudest clap of thunder in the wildest summer storm. I even saw little pebbles dancing on the wall next to the sidewalk and wondered what had turned them into jumping beans. Then I saw people all around me reacting. Some were pointing with one hand and covering a wide open mouth with the other. Some were cowering on the ground, covering their heads. Some were like me, looking from one face to another, trying to take in what was going on, to make a decision. Then the smell hit me. It was a horrible chemically smell, like burning rubber or plastic. The heavy black smoke hadn't even reached us, but the smell whizzed through the air, still air yet, to claw at our noses. I gagged and dashed for cover with everyone around me to the restaurants and bars across the street. Fortunately for us, all the traffic had also been stopped by the astonishment and curiosity of the drivers and nobody was in danger of being bashed by the chugging, tooting hunks of metal that shudder down this city's streets. After an eternal wait in a quaint cafe full of heavily clothed tables and jeweled mirrors, police and soldiers appeared to reassure us of our safety, but also to remind the tourists of where their country's nearest consulate was.
Needless to say, my meeting at the museum was postponed.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
maybe a force of nature
Diamonds in the Deep Dark Sea
Covered in scales that sparkle
With shining claws
And eyes that glow like lamps in the mines
A glimpse of her and all flee
Into caverns and caves so dark
Escaping her jaws
That gnash and foam and bristle with toothy spines
Her home is in a watery cave
With stillness all around it in the murk
And mud that lies far down beneath the light
Covered in slime
No hand on ship or boat is brave
Enough to challenge her right to lurk
Below the waves, hiding from the sun so bright
Passing time
Until some unlucky soul jumps or falls
Into the emerald green of waters deep
And dark and cold
And then she feeds
Quick and rough, ignoring hapless, pleading calls
For help and aid. Then off to sleep
And dream of seasons past and bold
When all her needs
Were simpler and joyfully met
On altars placed beside the shore
By fearful but respectful folk
Who begged her favor
From a goddess or a demon who would set
Currents, fish, good weather and more
All bounty to those who kindly spoke
And tossed out sacrifices full of flavor
Covered in scales that sparkle
With shining claws
And eyes that glow like lamps in the mines
A glimpse of her and all flee
Into caverns and caves so dark
Escaping her jaws
That gnash and foam and bristle with toothy spines
Her home is in a watery cave
With stillness all around it in the murk
And mud that lies far down beneath the light
Covered in slime
No hand on ship or boat is brave
Enough to challenge her right to lurk
Below the waves, hiding from the sun so bright
Passing time
Until some unlucky soul jumps or falls
Into the emerald green of waters deep
And dark and cold
And then she feeds
Quick and rough, ignoring hapless, pleading calls
For help and aid. Then off to sleep
And dream of seasons past and bold
When all her needs
Were simpler and joyfully met
On altars placed beside the shore
By fearful but respectful folk
Who begged her favor
From a goddess or a demon who would set
Currents, fish, good weather and more
All bounty to those who kindly spoke
And tossed out sacrifices full of flavor
Sunday, May 30, 2010
maybe a villain
Old Iron Heart
Struck fear into the hearts of children
With her shoes of skulls
And her gloves of sick man's skin
And her skirt of woven corpse's hair
She was gray, gray, gray
Like the clouds before they drop their rain
Like a mirror under a hundred years of dust
Like a pile of ashes after the fire burns out
But her eyes were two red cinders
Burning behind the smoky curtain of her hair
The Witch of the Wilds
Where the bears bellow
And the stags rut
And the little squirrels scatter the tree babies
Over the open-armed bed of the earth
Her house was built of bones
And eyes lined every window
As a witch she needed no door
Her house was always moving
To where a weary traveller
Or wandering child
Could least expect
There was no sound in her realm
Not a crow cawed, not a fly buzzed
Everything was still, still as a deaf corpse in the grave
The unhappy traveller who finds her
Will never speak again
Struck fear into the hearts of children
With her shoes of skulls
And her gloves of sick man's skin
And her skirt of woven corpse's hair
She was gray, gray, gray
Like the clouds before they drop their rain
Like a mirror under a hundred years of dust
Like a pile of ashes after the fire burns out
But her eyes were two red cinders
Burning behind the smoky curtain of her hair
The Witch of the Wilds
Where the bears bellow
And the stags rut
And the little squirrels scatter the tree babies
Over the open-armed bed of the earth
Her house was built of bones
And eyes lined every window
As a witch she needed no door
Her house was always moving
To where a weary traveller
Or wandering child
Could least expect
There was no sound in her realm
Not a crow cawed, not a fly buzzed
Everything was still, still as a deaf corpse in the grave
The unhappy traveller who finds her
Will never speak again
Thursday, May 13, 2010
maybe a hero
Bloodyknife the hero
Protected his home and his folk
His heart beat stronger with outrage
When the enemies came
Thinking they could easily take what they wanted
Bloodyknife the brave
Fought off the invader
And led his kin to victory
That filled them all with pride and happiness
And the knowledge of their rights
They were not a rich, golden folk
They worked hard and were rewarded
The earth gave them bounty
Fleeting but replenished regularly
With their iron and steel
The pulled the fruits from the ground and the trees
And they loosed the spirits of their fellows in fur and feathers
To the life beyond
Always with need
And always with respect
To please the Watcher Overhead
They never thought they were unhappy
Or wanted anything more than what they were given
But when Bloodyknife was born
His mother had already given her spirit to the beyond
The baby pushed at the cold womb
And the midwife saw
She cut him out
With his father's deer knife
And he was given his name in sorrow
But also in hope, for he was strong and could survive motherless
He grew quick and smart
He grew loving and with a will to guard
The hound could not sense a fox
Without Bloodyknife springing from his place to chase it away
He did not kill them for sport or trophy
But only to end a threat
They were marked
On the tail; on the toe; on the ear; on the nose
When the marks ran out, the spirit was loosed
It was the only way for the Merciful but Stern
Bloodyknife the Warden if his family's life and land
He took a fascination
With fire
He burned his fingers many times
Trying to grasp it
He watched it change wood and grass and bone
To dancing light
Soon he began to help the smith in his tasks
Because he had the biggest, hottest fires
And there were sparks and rivers of metal to observe
Then Bloodyknife made his own sharp points
Not red with life sap
Red with the hot breath of the light
He made them sharp to pierce the hide and heart
Of great stags and bears and rams
Nobody thought like-lookers would be their targets
Or that points from far-off lands would spill the life sap
And loose the spirits in the village
Before the ice time ended
Protected his home and his folk
His heart beat stronger with outrage
When the enemies came
Thinking they could easily take what they wanted
Bloodyknife the brave
Fought off the invader
And led his kin to victory
That filled them all with pride and happiness
And the knowledge of their rights
They were not a rich, golden folk
They worked hard and were rewarded
The earth gave them bounty
Fleeting but replenished regularly
With their iron and steel
The pulled the fruits from the ground and the trees
And they loosed the spirits of their fellows in fur and feathers
To the life beyond
Always with need
And always with respect
To please the Watcher Overhead
They never thought they were unhappy
Or wanted anything more than what they were given
But when Bloodyknife was born
His mother had already given her spirit to the beyond
The baby pushed at the cold womb
And the midwife saw
She cut him out
With his father's deer knife
And he was given his name in sorrow
But also in hope, for he was strong and could survive motherless
He grew quick and smart
He grew loving and with a will to guard
The hound could not sense a fox
Without Bloodyknife springing from his place to chase it away
He did not kill them for sport or trophy
But only to end a threat
They were marked
On the tail; on the toe; on the ear; on the nose
When the marks ran out, the spirit was loosed
It was the only way for the Merciful but Stern
Bloodyknife the Warden if his family's life and land
He took a fascination
With fire
He burned his fingers many times
Trying to grasp it
He watched it change wood and grass and bone
To dancing light
Soon he began to help the smith in his tasks
Because he had the biggest, hottest fires
And there were sparks and rivers of metal to observe
Then Bloodyknife made his own sharp points
Not red with life sap
Red with the hot breath of the light
He made them sharp to pierce the hide and heart
Of great stags and bears and rams
Nobody thought like-lookers would be their targets
Or that points from far-off lands would spill the life sap
And loose the spirits in the village
Before the ice time ended
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
ink
Tattoos are fascinating. They are a strange blend of ancient and modern, being found on millenia-old mummies, but also seen as newly accepted in open (Western) society. The tools and pigments have changed over time, as well as popular designs and reasons behind the tattoo. From a social rite to freak-making operation to statement of individuality-just-like-everyone-else's, the tattoo has evolved over time to the personalized and portable work of art that many people consider it to be today.
Why do people choose to be tattooed? Why do we want a permanent mark on our skins, one that is even painful to have put there? In some cultures, the tattoo is a beautifying mark, much like pierced ears in modern Western society, and piercings are also a somewhat painful way of making oneself more attractive. Other methods of leaving marks on the body have become popular in the 20th century among some strata of our society, generally permanent and involving some discomfort, both in their application and the subsequent healing. These include branding, scarification, and piercing other parts than the earlobes.
The tattoo is possibly the most accepted form of permanent body modification today. It can be placed so as to be hidden in situations where it might be distracting or inappropriate. Many tattoos are beautiful, with a variety of patterns and colors, and can be considered works of art. However, the question arises again: why the permanent mark? Why go through an uncomfortable process, when a simple body painting could suffice? Temporary tattooing with pigments like henna often last for many days or weeks.
Most who undertake the chore of getting a tattoo say it represents some important event or idea in their life. Names and slogans tend to be easily deciphered, but images may be more obscure to the casual viewer. In a way, this is an advantage for the owner of the tattoo, whose views and ideas may change with time, and a pattern or picture can be reinterpreted more easily than words.
Part of the tattoo's appeal may in fact be the possibility of pain in its application. In other cultures, it has been applied to mark milestones in a person's life, achievements and growth in the
community. While the tattoo does not have that
universally recognized meaning here and now, to the willing canvas there may be a certain psychological fulfillment in having it done. The minutes, even hours spent, perhaps a process taking days to finish, then the healing...all this might stimulate the pleasure centers of the owner of the new tattoo. Add to this the enjoyment of showing off the picture to admiring or horrified
observers, and the tattoo is worth the money, time and discomfort for its fans.
This thinking can also be applied to more destructive activities such as cutting, which leads some mental health professionals to search for negative causes for tattooing, and to the publicizing of these views over other, more positive opinions.
Modern Western society is one of individuals and personal choices. We have the luxury of being able to dress and decorate ourselves distinctively, and the tattoo is part of the decorative cache for many people, even those who choose not to make use of it themselves. In our times of volatile mobility, the very permanence of inked skin may hold some attraction; the mark will remain for the rest of the bearers life, barring some serious intervention to have it removed. It can be modified, but will never disappear completely.
Why do people choose to be tattooed? Why do we want a permanent mark on our skins, one that is even painful to have put there? In some cultures, the tattoo is a beautifying mark, much like pierced ears in modern Western society, and piercings are also a somewhat painful way of making oneself more attractive. Other methods of leaving marks on the body have become popular in the 20th century among some strata of our society, generally permanent and involving some discomfort, both in their application and the subsequent healing. These include branding, scarification, and piercing other parts than the earlobes.
The tattoo is possibly the most accepted form of permanent body modification today. It can be placed so as to be hidden in situations where it might be distracting or inappropriate. Many tattoos are beautiful, with a variety of patterns and colors, and can be considered works of art. However, the question arises again: why the permanent mark? Why go through an uncomfortable process, when a simple body painting could suffice? Temporary tattooing with pigments like henna often last for many days or weeks.
Most who undertake the chore of getting a tattoo say it represents some important event or idea in their life. Names and slogans tend to be easily deciphered, but images may be more obscure to the casual viewer. In a way, this is an advantage for the owner of the tattoo, whose views and ideas may change with time, and a pattern or picture can be reinterpreted more easily than words.Part of the tattoo's appeal may in fact be the possibility of pain in its application. In other cultures, it has been applied to mark milestones in a person's life, achievements and growth in the
community. While the tattoo does not have that
universally recognized meaning here and now, to the willing canvas there may be a certain psychological fulfillment in having it done. The minutes, even hours spent, perhaps a process taking days to finish, then the healing...all this might stimulate the pleasure centers of the owner of the new tattoo. Add to this the enjoyment of showing off the picture to admiring or horrified
observers, and the tattoo is worth the money, time and discomfort for its fans.
This thinking can also be applied to more destructive activities such as cutting, which leads some mental health professionals to search for negative causes for tattooing, and to the publicizing of these views over other, more positive opinions.Modern Western society is one of individuals and personal choices. We have the luxury of being able to dress and decorate ourselves distinctively, and the tattoo is part of the decorative cache for many people, even those who choose not to make use of it themselves. In our times of volatile mobility, the very permanence of inked skin may hold some attraction; the mark will remain for the rest of the bearers life, barring some serious intervention to have it removed. It can be modified, but will never disappear completely.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
parks of madrid - juan carlos I
Photos from December 2009
Palms wrapped up for the winter
Dark skies across the river
A garden showcasing plants representing the three cultures of Spain: Jewish, Christian and Muslim
Olive trees from the old orchard. They were incorporated into the park when it was landscaped in the early '90s
Barajas airport on the other side of the highway. I was seconds too late to get a landing plane in the picture.
One of many sculptures
Palms wrapped up for the winter
Dark skies across the river
A garden showcasing plants representing the three cultures of Spain: Jewish, Christian and Muslim
Olive trees from the old orchard. They were incorporated into the park when it was landscaped in the early '90s
Barajas airport on the other side of the highway. I was seconds too late to get a landing plane in the picture.
One of many sculptures
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The Man
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I fluttered, weak and weary,
Over the many moldy mounds on the monotonous misty moor,
On I fluttered, nearly died, then suddenly I happ'ed to spy
A huge and hulking hoary house menacing the misty moor.
"'Tis a shelter!" I rejoiced, "beckoning me to its door!"
This I hoped, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
When each darkly feathered member left its life upon the moor.
Eagerly I came a-calling, but the scene there was appalling
When I peeped into a window of a room, from ceiling to floor,
Filled with volumes old and dusty never browsed since long before
My flight from off the muddy moor.
And the wobbly, weird, unwieldy way the gentleman did sway
While I watched him fume and fantasize about I know not what
Made me feel a bit uneasy and in fact I was quite queasy
But my daemon made it clear to me, and I could not ignore
Its urging to find an open door
To enter the house, and then what more?
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
Swiftly did I flap my wings and enter through a broken door.
In the darkened halls I glided heedlessly through darkness like a
Velvet cloud of ink without a sign of wall or floor
Until I turned a corner and 'twas there I met a door
I flew into it, nothing more.
Deep inside the room I heard the man a-mutt'ring as he stirred
Shuffling, groaning, growling did he then approach the dismal door.
In my terror did I fly, returning to the breast of night
But my curiosity did stop me fleeing o'er the the fragrant moor
And I came with trepidation to a window and sensations
Horrible did me assail as I gazed upon the floor.
There inside the chamber scattered on the floor, around a ladder
Tomes and tomes and moldered pages lying on the filthy floor
Greeted my inquiring vision and I made a quick decision:
I must enter in that room and help this mindless omnivore
To rearrange his dwelling and forget this person called Lenore
Named by him, that ceaseless bore
So I tapped upon the pane of glass, which, slickened by the rain
Made me slide and shudder on the ledge brought up from depths of yore,
Placed against the moody mansion in some ill thought out expansion
Of its innards so to make it like a labyrinth 'round its core,
Then so suddenly that ass did open wide those sheets of glass
Almost did I fall upon the puddles of the muddy moor.
Muddy, moldy, misted moor.
But I did not fall. I stood, and elegantly as I could
I strode into the room to teach and tend to him as was my chore.
With a flutter of my wing and no other thought but sing
The praises of the world and wonders of the days of yore
So as to take from him his sorrow, give him hope of new tomorrows,
Free him of this hounded horrifying hold of woman named Lenore,
And I shouted, "Nevermore!"
Up I hopped and up soared, up to a bust of paste and board
That sat in silent, prim repose upon the wall, above the door.
Down below the man just stared in stupor, then he glared
And angrily he shouted at me like a stupid, vacuous boor.
Furious he was at that fact that I had come and sat
Upon his bust of dust and mustiness and fancy
Dropping bits of battered dreams and fantasies upon the floor
Was the bust then his Lenore?
Raging on he did me utter dreadful words from all the gutters
Of those slimy, dirty filthy holes of dust and smoke from o'er the moors
On and on he went, repeating phrases, labels, titles fleeting
Making out a vague mirage of what he must have thought my chore
Fists a-shaking, voice a-quaking, furiously squealed and howled he
Stomping petulantly on the floor
Fuming in his fluster did he fling out insults without pity
Stinging quick my helpful heart as I perched above his door
And I sputtered, "Nevermore!"
So I promised to the spirits without sorrow, without cheer, it
Would be my burden and my partic'lar chore
To see this man here eased of grief and pain; this, yes this is chief
Of all my cares at this dark moment while he rolls upon his floor
Hands to head and knees to trunk, he sobs and makes himself quite drunk
With useless memory and tears. I am quite sure of my business here:
It is to wipe away this demon succubus Lenore
And here I stay, never flitting, I'll be sitting, ever sitting
And till I have my satisfaction of seeing peace below this door
I shall flutter nevermore!
Over the many moldy mounds on the monotonous misty moor,
On I fluttered, nearly died, then suddenly I happ'ed to spy
A huge and hulking hoary house menacing the misty moor.
"'Tis a shelter!" I rejoiced, "beckoning me to its door!"
This I hoped, and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
When each darkly feathered member left its life upon the moor.
Eagerly I came a-calling, but the scene there was appalling
When I peeped into a window of a room, from ceiling to floor,
Filled with volumes old and dusty never browsed since long before
My flight from off the muddy moor.
And the wobbly, weird, unwieldy way the gentleman did sway
While I watched him fume and fantasize about I know not what
Made me feel a bit uneasy and in fact I was quite queasy
But my daemon made it clear to me, and I could not ignore
Its urging to find an open door
To enter the house, and then what more?
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
Swiftly did I flap my wings and enter through a broken door.
In the darkened halls I glided heedlessly through darkness like a
Velvet cloud of ink without a sign of wall or floor
Until I turned a corner and 'twas there I met a door
I flew into it, nothing more.
Deep inside the room I heard the man a-mutt'ring as he stirred
Shuffling, groaning, growling did he then approach the dismal door.
In my terror did I fly, returning to the breast of night
But my curiosity did stop me fleeing o'er the the fragrant moor
And I came with trepidation to a window and sensations
Horrible did me assail as I gazed upon the floor.
There inside the chamber scattered on the floor, around a ladder
Tomes and tomes and moldered pages lying on the filthy floor
Greeted my inquiring vision and I made a quick decision:
I must enter in that room and help this mindless omnivore
To rearrange his dwelling and forget this person called Lenore
Named by him, that ceaseless bore
So I tapped upon the pane of glass, which, slickened by the rain
Made me slide and shudder on the ledge brought up from depths of yore,
Placed against the moody mansion in some ill thought out expansion
Of its innards so to make it like a labyrinth 'round its core,
Then so suddenly that ass did open wide those sheets of glass
Almost did I fall upon the puddles of the muddy moor.
Muddy, moldy, misted moor.
But I did not fall. I stood, and elegantly as I could
I strode into the room to teach and tend to him as was my chore.
With a flutter of my wing and no other thought but sing
The praises of the world and wonders of the days of yore
So as to take from him his sorrow, give him hope of new tomorrows,
Free him of this hounded horrifying hold of woman named Lenore,
And I shouted, "Nevermore!"
Up I hopped and up soared, up to a bust of paste and board
That sat in silent, prim repose upon the wall, above the door.
Down below the man just stared in stupor, then he glared
And angrily he shouted at me like a stupid, vacuous boor.
Furious he was at that fact that I had come and sat
Upon his bust of dust and mustiness and fancy
Dropping bits of battered dreams and fantasies upon the floor
Was the bust then his Lenore?
Raging on he did me utter dreadful words from all the gutters
Of those slimy, dirty filthy holes of dust and smoke from o'er the moors
On and on he went, repeating phrases, labels, titles fleeting
Making out a vague mirage of what he must have thought my chore
Fists a-shaking, voice a-quaking, furiously squealed and howled he
Stomping petulantly on the floor
Fuming in his fluster did he fling out insults without pity
Stinging quick my helpful heart as I perched above his door
And I sputtered, "Nevermore!"
So I promised to the spirits without sorrow, without cheer, it
Would be my burden and my partic'lar chore
To see this man here eased of grief and pain; this, yes this is chief
Of all my cares at this dark moment while he rolls upon his floor
Hands to head and knees to trunk, he sobs and makes himself quite drunk
With useless memory and tears. I am quite sure of my business here:
It is to wipe away this demon succubus Lenore
And here I stay, never flitting, I'll be sitting, ever sitting
And till I have my satisfaction of seeing peace below this door
I shall flutter nevermore!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
moon
My Moon
You come and go in my sky
You hide your face in fun or fury
And then you reveal yourself again
My Moon
My eyes can't resist your light
You are closer to me than all the stars
That would like to take my fancy
My Moon
I can't hide from you
When you slide out of the cloak of night
And hover over me wherever I am
My Moon
You are cold and you are cruel
You beckon and reject
You swoop away and back to me, but not quite
My Moon
I had an illusion
That you were at my side
That fades and revives with your turns
My Moon
I can't escape
There is no other heavenly body
To draw me from your orbit
My Moon
We circle like comets in space
And always find each other again
Out of habit, but not will
You come and go in my sky
You hide your face in fun or fury
And then you reveal yourself again
My Moon
My eyes can't resist your light
You are closer to me than all the stars
That would like to take my fancy
My Moon
I can't hide from you
When you slide out of the cloak of night
And hover over me wherever I am
My Moon
You are cold and you are cruel
You beckon and reject
You swoop away and back to me, but not quite
My Moon
I had an illusion
That you were at my side
That fades and revives with your turns
My Moon
I can't escape
There is no other heavenly body
To draw me from your orbit
My Moon
We circle like comets in space
And always find each other again
Out of habit, but not will
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
i heart public transportation
The best thing about living in a large European capital is not needing a car. I even get some unkind enjoyment out of seeing people have problems with their car: traffic jams; no parking; hemmed in by double-parkers; fender benders with other inattentive drivers. In spite of being sometimes crowded, it's much easier to squeeze on to a train or bus than maneuver through crowded and narrow streets in my own vehicle. Even if there are delays, I can just pull out a book since I don't have to worry about driving.
Older metro entrance at Argüelles
New entrance at Moncloa
The movie star streetcar in Pinar de Charmartín Metro station. It was in several films, but the credit for Doctor Zhivago, which is on the plaque in the display, seems to be naught but an urban legend.
Trains coming and going on Line 3 in Argüelles station
If you have to graphically tell people it's for sitting, it's probably not very well designed
Ghost stations, official (Chamberí)
and unofficial (Arroyo Fresno)
Ceiling of hallway to Line 2 at San Bernardo on a rainy day
Evidence of a 90 year old metro:
Even though the oldest line is just over 90 years old, these photos are from Line 4 at Bilbao and San Bernardo stations, opened in 1944. There are connections with Line 2 at San Bernardo (1925) and Line 1 at Bilbao (1919), but the Line 4 sections are less cared for at its older end.
Old bus, new bus
Red bus
Blue bus
Some bus stops have these now. Not the ones in the middle of nowhere, where you don't have a choice but to wait an hour if that's how long it takes, but it's a start.
A stopped clock, what a surprise. At Las Tablas Light Metro stop.
The Light Metro
Driver's seat
Ishtar Gate blue tiles at the tunnel entrance near Blasco Ibañez stop
Tiles from the train
Older metro entrance at Argüelles
New entrance at Moncloa
The movie star streetcar in Pinar de Charmartín Metro station. It was in several films, but the credit for Doctor Zhivago, which is on the plaque in the display, seems to be naught but an urban legend.
Trains coming and going on Line 3 in Argüelles station
If you have to graphically tell people it's for sitting, it's probably not very well designed
Ghost stations, official (Chamberí)
and unofficial (Arroyo Fresno)
Ceiling of hallway to Line 2 at San Bernardo on a rainy day
Evidence of a 90 year old metro:
Even though the oldest line is just over 90 years old, these photos are from Line 4 at Bilbao and San Bernardo stations, opened in 1944. There are connections with Line 2 at San Bernardo (1925) and Line 1 at Bilbao (1919), but the Line 4 sections are less cared for at its older end.
Old bus, new bus
Red bus
Blue bus
Some bus stops have these now. Not the ones in the middle of nowhere, where you don't have a choice but to wait an hour if that's how long it takes, but it's a start.
A stopped clock, what a surprise. At Las Tablas Light Metro stop.
The Light Metro
Driver's seat
Ishtar Gate blue tiles at the tunnel entrance near Blasco Ibañez stop
Tiles from the train
Thursday, February 18, 2010
oh reeeeeeeeeeally?
In which I voice my disapproval of a slab of writing perhaps meant to be an essay.
DECLINING MANLINESS
[P1]Am I still a man? Was I in the past?
If you say "still" in your first question, you imply that you definitely were.
Shall I still be in the future to come?
As opposed to in the future past?
Nowadays, this dubitative triptych mirrors many male adults’ restlessly efforts and concerns to shed some light on their own identity.
"Dubitative triptych"? Do you mean a trio of doubts, or do you doubt that there are three questions? Or that "triptych" is the best word to describe them? Also, you surely mean to say restless since restlessly is an adverb and its place in that sentence, i.e. modifying a plural noun, requires an adjective.
Even me, for I am a man. I have always sensed and pulsed this inner self beyond any lurking logical or organic doubts.
What do you mean by "pulse"? Merriam-Webster gives: 1 : to drive by or as if by a pulsation; 2 : to cause to pulsate; 3 a : to produce or modulate (as electromagnetic waves) in the form of pulses b : to cause (an apparatus) to produce pulses. I don't see how any of those apply to what one does to one's inner self. And you have logical doubts about being a man? Really? And "organic"? What are we talking about there, that you have doubts based on biology, or that those doubts affect your biology? Or do your doubts develop as if they were living organisms? Or are coordinated as part of the whole of your personality and therefor inescapable and ineradicable?
Yet, I have never exactly ascertained what being a man really entails, bar the key physical and physiological attributes one is assigned from the moment of conception.
This is the only thing you say clearly.
[P2]At least, manliness has more to do with the type of mental attitude we men embrace in keeping with a succession of particular situations that put ordinary people to the test.
But not extraordinary people?
Men are supposed to possess more body strength which enables them to vigorously cope with extra-risk adventures in the blink of eye whereas women are known to ruminate ways to downplay the side-effects of a weaker consistence.
"Supposed to" or tend to possess more body strength? Didn't you just say manliness was more of an attitude than anything physical? What are these "extra-risk" adventures you refer to? What does "weaker consistence" mean? Are you saying women are made of pudding?
[P3]Moreover, going hand in hand with the precursors Simone de Beauvoir and Germaine Greer, rampant feminism cracks down on men as the backbone of a political campaign whose ideology advocates the deconstruction of any signals of men’s actions over the course of the Western civilisation.
Since when is feminism rampant? Like most social movements, it's been embraced as an ideology by a very small portion of society, although many of its ideals or tenants have been accepted by the broader population. I don't think the idea is to eliminate the "signals" (I suppose you mean signs) of men's actions, but to point out that people who weren't rich white men (don't forget that other groups have been oppressed too) were also doing things and contributing to society. Some radicals would certainly eliminate any evidence of men accomplishing anything, but they are just that: radicals. They don't represent the movement, or even a large part of it, they just have louder voices.
This neutralises the two genders and prompts a one-sided single status where any differentiation whatsoever vanishes into thin air – the neutral gender.
Why should there be differentiation in terms of value to society? How would you propose we rank people? Your tone implies that you support a gender-based hierarchy, but how can you reconcile that with universal respect? Oh wait, you can't. That's the point, isn't it? The only place where gender really has weight as an argument for discrimination is in biology and, by extension, romantic or sexual relationships. In other fields, such as employment or friendship, other qualifications are important although they may give an advantage to one gender over the other, e.g. jobs requiring physical strength will favor men over women because of biology. But in most cases in modern society, the qualifications are based on mental or emotional abilities that can be cultivated by either gender to much the same extent. There is no reason to insist that everyone identify first and foremost as their gender. What's next, religious markers for every sleeve? Everybody obligated to wear the traditional costume of their ancestors because wearing jeans, suits and business skirts makes everybody vanish into - the neutral culture???
Nevertheless, few of us, men and women, see ourselves as hermaphrodites.
No, most people see themselves as people, and anyway being a hermaphrodite is not the same as being of neutral gender. I am not aware of any movement for making all people hermaphrodites. I can only suppose that you equate certain emotional and intellectual behaviors with masculinity and femininity, and anyone daring to blur the lines a little is the mental equivalent of a hermaphrodite. What's more troubling to me than that, is that you seem to reserve things like strength and critical thinking for the masculine side, and that jabbering in the tertulia about virtue and virility being etymologically connected makes it sound like being virtuous, i.e. a good and respectable person, is something only a man should aspire to. But, of course, actually taking the time to consider personality traits and lay them out on their appropriate sides with an argument to their placement behind them is much too unimportant for your manly, manly mind.
[P4]A bitterly resentful newly-divorced ma’am sprang on me yesterday: “Come on, bloke, do you think that fucking bastard had ever been a man since I got hitched with him”. She bumped into me when I left the courtroom after interpreting one former-Nigerian Spanish-national woman who had fallen out with her Spanish husband over his ex-girlfriend. Eaten up with jealousy, the former-Nigerian flung their honeymoon candlestick down on his back. Now he is crippled for life.
What a sad story. What's your point? If he was a manly man, he would have broken her arm before she even thought of reaching for that candlestick? If he was a manly man, he would have married a more suitable woman in the first place? Oh, oh, no! Now I get it! It's a snotty allegory! Right? The Nigerian woman represents all women, the Spanish husband represents all men, the candlestick represents the relatively recent legal rights of women (honeymoon=new), and the bashing is the loss of male privilege! Yeah, it totally makes perfect sense! Because no man ever uses the law to screw over a woman, or another man. Take that candlestick away, women should be kept in the dark. See? I can make literary associations with my puny female brain too.
[P5]Not surprisingly, a newly-revised decaffeinated interpretation of Marxism has been heralded by a soaring proportion of Western women.
What was the old decaffeinated interpretation? This "soaring proportion" must be based in Europe, because most American woman are still staunch capitalists.
“We women are exploited and bastardised.
You're not seriously saying that's not true. Not that it's only women, but my deities, open your eyes.
Let’s take over the economy. Now it is our turn.” Which leaves them in the self-complacent paradigm that there is Nothing after a woman.
Do you really think that feminists consider themselves to be the end of history? Some could, I guess, but I certainly consider this just evolution of society that will continue in one direction or another until the end of the human race. Uh oh, I'm lumping men and women into one genderless group again. Shame on me.
Will Friedrich Nietzsche not be frolicking in his grave right now?
I doubt it, unless he has an entire mausoleum to himself.
[P6]In essence, we people of the universe need to gain momentum and reconquer the soil where one day, by virtue of a sound yet not insane virility, Aristotle plucked up the courage to tackle one’s existence as a man.
Oh, now we're all people. Call up girls to turn on their sisters, eh? Your statement implies that only people with masculine tendencies can think and ponder. Philosophy is the exclusive realm of the man, in other words. Are you insecure in your intellectual ability? Afraid somebody without a penis will out-think you? Maybe you should concentrate more on whatever it is you're supposed to be thinking about and less on conspiracy theories. And what's with this name dropping? How is feminism an interpretation (decaffeinated at that) of Marxism? What did Nietzsche actually say about removing gender from society? How did Aristotle define a man, since you obviously can't do it in your own words? I have serious doubts that you have ever even read any significant amount of work by De Beauvoir and Greer, much less understood the message. Do you even know what any of these people actually said or are you just hoping nobody else knows and everybody will think you're just fantastically well-read and oh so very clever at applying a new interpretation on old philosophy?
You know, some people, and I do mean people, can get away with being obscure in their communication. The simplest thing can sound like an unbelievable breakthrough of human thought if only it's said with the right words. Some people can make very simple observations that others take as genius, as in the fictional example of Chance the gardener. But this, this slovenly pile of fluffy, whipped-up hooting and squealing, this logorrhea of complaint, this plaintive whining bleat of outraged offense and pompous self-importance, this is NOTHING. That's what I said, nothing. You make no argument, your thoughts have no connection between them except your obvious wounded pride in the face of feminist activities, or at least what you assume to be feminist activities. Your premise was ostensibly to talk about manliness, but all you can do is attack feminism, only mentioning the word in the second paragraph of your rant. Do you really think the best way to define a term is to talk about something else? You don't even explain how manliness really differs from feminism.
This is what really gets me, and offends me, not just as a woman, but as a thinking human being: you can't be bothered to say anything coherent, cogent, or removed from your personal tragedy regarding the topic you proposed. You only want an opportunity to whine about some hurt feelings and have everybody say, "There, there, we know you're a fantastically valuable person to society. If only the women could see what a good catch you are, they'd be coming all over themselves just to see your holy form walking down the street." If you need to be patted on the head and given candy constantly, and I'm speaking metaphorically, you are not an adult and by playing at being one you only make yourself look like a jackass.
I would like to comment on your other anecdote, which was given in the tertulia, about being brushed aside and disdained by your female colleagues in the interpretation booth. Like so many professional victims, your automatic response is to cry anti-me discrimination, "It's because I'm a man that they don't respect me!" you howl. Now, it is certainly possible that those two are just bitches. Even misandrist bitches. But it's also just as possible, in fact more likely, judging by your performances in the tertulia, that they think you're an arrogant, obnoxious jerk, a puffed-up gas-bag of empty opinions and a puling, socially retarded blubberer.
By the way, I don't think any of my opposition to accepting your tripe as worthy of being called philosophy, even pub philosophy, makes me in any way a feminist. It really makes me an intellectual elitist. So, think of me like that and not as a simple woman, since I'm sure intellectual elitism is something you can easily identify with.
DECLINING MANLINESS
[P1]Am I still a man? Was I in the past?
If you say "still" in your first question, you imply that you definitely were.
Shall I still be in the future to come?
As opposed to in the future past?
Nowadays, this dubitative triptych mirrors many male adults’ restlessly efforts and concerns to shed some light on their own identity.
"Dubitative triptych"? Do you mean a trio of doubts, or do you doubt that there are three questions? Or that "triptych" is the best word to describe them? Also, you surely mean to say restless since restlessly is an adverb and its place in that sentence, i.e. modifying a plural noun, requires an adjective.
Even me, for I am a man. I have always sensed and pulsed this inner self beyond any lurking logical or organic doubts.
What do you mean by "pulse"? Merriam-Webster gives: 1 : to drive by or as if by a pulsation; 2 : to cause to pulsate; 3 a : to produce or modulate (as electromagnetic waves) in the form of pulses
Yet, I have never exactly ascertained what being a man really entails, bar the key physical and physiological attributes one is assigned from the moment of conception.
This is the only thing you say clearly.
[P2]At least, manliness has more to do with the type of mental attitude we men embrace in keeping with a succession of particular situations that put ordinary people to the test.
But not extraordinary people?
Men are supposed to possess more body strength which enables them to vigorously cope with extra-risk adventures in the blink of eye whereas women are known to ruminate ways to downplay the side-effects of a weaker consistence.
"Supposed to" or tend to possess more body strength? Didn't you just say manliness was more of an attitude than anything physical? What are these "extra-risk" adventures you refer to? What does "weaker consistence" mean? Are you saying women are made of pudding?
[P3]Moreover, going hand in hand with the precursors Simone de Beauvoir and Germaine Greer, rampant feminism cracks down on men as the backbone of a political campaign whose ideology advocates the deconstruction of any signals of men’s actions over the course of the Western civilisation.
Since when is feminism rampant? Like most social movements, it's been embraced as an ideology by a very small portion of society, although many of its ideals or tenants have been accepted by the broader population. I don't think the idea is to eliminate the "signals" (I suppose you mean signs) of men's actions, but to point out that people who weren't rich white men (don't forget that other groups have been oppressed too) were also doing things and contributing to society. Some radicals would certainly eliminate any evidence of men accomplishing anything, but they are just that: radicals. They don't represent the movement, or even a large part of it, they just have louder voices.
This neutralises the two genders and prompts a one-sided single status where any differentiation whatsoever vanishes into thin air – the neutral gender.
Why should there be differentiation in terms of value to society? How would you propose we rank people? Your tone implies that you support a gender-based hierarchy, but how can you reconcile that with universal respect? Oh wait, you can't. That's the point, isn't it? The only place where gender really has weight as an argument for discrimination is in biology and, by extension, romantic or sexual relationships. In other fields, such as employment or friendship, other qualifications are important although they may give an advantage to one gender over the other, e.g. jobs requiring physical strength will favor men over women because of biology. But in most cases in modern society,
No, most people see themselves as people, and anyway being a hermaphrodite is not the same as being of neutral gender. I am not aware of any movement for making all people hermaphrodites. I can only suppose that you equate certain emotional and intellectual behaviors with masculinity and femininity, and anyone daring to blur the lines a little is the mental equivalent of a hermaphrodite. What's more troubling to me than that, is that you seem to reserve things like strength and critical thinking for the masculine side, and that jabbering in the tertulia about virtue and virility being etymologically connected makes it sound like being virtuous, i.e. a good and respectable person, is something only a man should aspire to. But, of course, actually taking the time to consider personality traits and lay them out on their appropriate sides with an argument to their placement behind them is much too unimportant for your manly, manly mind.
[P4]A bitterly resentful newly-divorced ma’am sprang on me yesterday: “Come on, bloke, do you think that fucking bastard had ever been a man since I got hitched with him”. She bumped into me when I left the courtroom after interpreting one former-Nigerian Spanish-national woman who had fallen out with her Spanish husband over his ex-girlfriend. Eaten up with jealousy, the former-Nigerian flung their honeymoon candlestick down on his back. Now he is crippled for life.
What a sad story. What's your point? If he was a manly man, he would have broken her arm before she even thought of reaching for that candlestick? If he was a manly man, he would have married a more suitable woman in the first place? Oh, oh, no! Now I get it! It's a snotty allegory! Right? The Nigerian woman represents all women, the Spanish husband represents all men, the candlestick represents the relatively recent legal rights of women (honeymoon=new), and the bashing is the loss of male privilege! Yeah, it totally makes perfect sense! Because no man ever uses the law to screw over a woman, or another man. Take that candlestick away, women should be kept in the dark. See? I can make literary associations with my puny female brain too.
[P5]Not surprisingly, a newly-revised decaffeinated interpretation of Marxism has been heralded by a soaring proportion of Western women.
What was the old decaffeinated interpretation? This "soaring proportion" must be based in Europe, because most American woman are still staunch capitalists.
“We women are exploited and bastardised.
You're not seriously saying that's not true. Not that it's only women, but my deities, open your eyes.
Let’s take over the economy. Now it is our turn.” Which leaves them in the self-complacent paradigm that there is Nothing after a woman.
Do you really think that feminists consider themselves to be the end of history? Some could, I guess, but I certainly consider this just evolution of society that will continue in one direction or another until the end of the human race. Uh oh, I'm lumping men and women into one genderless group again. Shame on me.
Will Friedrich Nietzsche not be frolicking in his grave right now?
I doubt it, unless he has an entire mausoleum to himself.
[P6]In essence, we people of the universe need to gain momentum and reconquer the soil where one day, by virtue of a sound yet not insane virility, Aristotle plucked up the courage to tackle one’s existence as a man.
Oh, now we're all people. Call up girls to turn on their sisters, eh? Your statement implies that only people with masculine tendencies can think and ponder. Philosophy is the exclusive realm of the man, in other words. Are you insecure in your intellectual ability? Afraid somebody without a penis will out-think you? Maybe you should concentrate more on whatever it is you're supposed to be thinking about and less on conspiracy theories. And what's with this name dropping? How is feminism an interpretation (decaffeinated at that) of Marxism? What did Nietzsche actually say about removing gender from society? How did Aristotle define a man, since you obviously can't do it in your own words? I have serious doubts that you have ever even read any significant amount of work by De Beauvoir and Greer, much less understood the message. Do you even know what any of these people actually said or are you just hoping nobody else knows and everybody will think you're just fantastically well-read and oh so very clever at applying a new interpretation on old philosophy?
You know, some people, and I do mean people, can get away with being obscure in their communication. The simplest thing can sound like an unbelievable breakthrough of human thought if only it's said with the right words. Some people can make very simple observations that others take as genius, as in the fictional example of Chance the gardener. But this, this slovenly pile of fluffy, whipped-up hooting and squealing, this logorrhea of complaint, this plaintive whining bleat of outraged offense and pompous self-importance, this is NOTHING. That's what I said, nothing. You make no argument, your thoughts have no connection between them except your obvious wounded pride in the face of feminist activities, or at least what you assume to be feminist activities. Your premise was ostensibly to talk about manliness, but all you can do is attack feminism, only mentioning the word in the second paragraph of your rant. Do you really think the best way to define a term is to talk about something else? You don't even explain how manliness really differs from feminism.
This is what really gets me, and offends me, not just as a woman, but as a thinking human being: you can't be bothered to say anything coherent, cogent, or removed from your personal tragedy regarding the topic you proposed. You only want an opportunity to whine about some hurt feelings and have everybody say, "There, there, we know you're a fantastically valuable person to society. If only the women could see what a good catch you are, they'd be coming all over themselves just to see your holy form walking down the street." If you need to be patted on the head and given candy constantly, and I'm speaking metaphorically, you are not an adult and by playing at being one you only make yourself look like a jackass.
I would like to comment on your other anecdote, which was given in the tertulia, about being brushed aside and disdained by your female colleagues in the interpretation booth. Like so many professional victims, your automatic response is to cry anti-me discrimination, "It's because I'm a man that they don't respect me!" you howl. Now, it is certainly possible that those two are just bitches. Even misandrist bitches. But it's also just as possible, in fact more likely, judging by your performances in the tertulia, that they think you're an arrogant, obnoxious jerk, a puffed-up gas-bag of empty opinions and a puling, socially retarded blubberer.
By the way, I don't think any of my opposition to accepting your tripe as worthy of being called philosophy, even pub philosophy, makes me in any way a feminist. It really makes me an intellectual elitist. So, think of me like that and not as a simple woman, since I'm sure intellectual elitism is something you can easily identify with.
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