Nostalgia de la muerte

"In modern times poetry is not, nor can it be, more than an underground cult, a ceremony in the catacomb."
                                                                       -Octavio Paz "Hieroglyphs of Desire." Trans. Esther Allen

Beyond the ruins...

Velimir Khelbnikov’s “Incantation by Laughter”

Velimir Khelbnikov (1885-1922)

Huidobro (1893-1948)

In class today, we discussed two interpretations of "Canto VII" from Altazor by Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro. Here is an excerpt of Eliot Weinberger's English translation of the same:

Huidobro, Vicente. Altazor (revised edition). Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2004. Page 148.

If you didn't understand anything, that's not unusual for the reader of Altazor. A popular critical reading of "Canto VII" is that language is undone by the end of the poem, and the reader is left only with nonsensical sounds. An alternate reading, by Octavio Paz, is that Huidobro achieves, in a mystic way, the perfection of poetry, that the poetry "says without saying" (Vuelta. 107. pp. 13). Paz makes an interesting point, however, I'm not sure that I will take him at his word. After all, his interpretation is, perhaps, less of a reading of Altazor and more of a reflection or projection of his mystical ideas about poetry onto the poem. Still, there is room for that reading. Whatever "Canto VII" says, or means, if it does mean, it is a product of its time, poetry of the first wave of the 20th vanguard  movement. The reason I bring it up is that most of my readers are familiar with Latin American and Spanish literature, and have read all or part of Altazor (and I know that at least one of them hates the poem). But I bring up Altazor mostly to introduce something that is new to me.

One of the early 20th century vanguard movements that I am mostly ignorant of is the Russian Futurist movement. I learned a little bit about it today. One of the Russian Futurist poets is named Velimir Khlebnikov. Khlebnikov, along with another Russian poet, invented what they called Zaum.  According to Charles Bernstein (see here), "Zaum is not a poetry of opacity, as with much later sound/idiological poetry. [Velemir] "Khlebnikov beleived that zaum would cross the barrier of national languages, as a sort of proto-Esperanto." Read more about Zaum here, then watch this video.


My professor says that when he heard the poem in Russian (he doesn't speak Russian) he knew that the poem wasn't "in Russian," but something different. For him it was akin to Huidobro's "Canto VII" from Altazor. Here is a translation of the poem to English so you can read it. If you're a reader of Latin American poetry, hopefully the next time you read/teach Huidobro, his work will make a bit more sense to you and your students.

Incantation by Laughter

We laugh with our laughter

loke laffer un loafer

sloaf lafker int leffer

lopp lapter und loofer

loopse lapper ung lasler

pleap loper ech lipler

bloop uffer unk oddurk

floop flaffer ep flubber

fult lickles eng tlickers

ac laushing ag lauffing uk

luffing ip luppling uc

lippling ga sprickling

urp laughter oop laughing

oop laughing urp laughter

Заклятие смехом

О, рассмейтесь, смехачи!

О, засмейтесь, смехачи!

Что смеются смехами, что смеянствуют смеяльно,

О, засмейтесь усмеяльно!

О, рассмешищ надсмеяльных — смех усмейных смехачей!

О, иссмейся рассмеяльно, смех надсмейных смеячей!

Смейево, смейево!

Усмей, осмей, смешики, смешики!

Смеюнчики, смеюнчики.

О, рассмейтесь, смехачи!

О, засмейтесь, смехачи!

On another note, I've wanted to learn Russian since I was a teenager and fell in love with Russian classical music. I've never made time for that goal. Hopefully, eventually, I can get there. I think it would be fun to look at transatlantic poetic influence between Russia and Mexico. However, from what I can tell, there is little to none.

Nine

In many religious traditions, the number 9 is a sacred number. It is often associated with perfection and completeness. In mystic traditions it is a magic number, with many of the same connotations. A brief example: The Christian trinity is composed of 3 beings, and is believed to be perfect (3 is also a sacred number, in part because of its relationship to the number 9). However, multiplying 3 by 3 is the perfection of something already conceived as being sacred and holy, therefore it is still more holy, perfect, sacred, important, etc. The number 9 and its derivatives show up several times in the Bible. One instance is in Galatians 5:22 when Paul explains the fruits of the Spirit, he gives 9 characteristics: "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance: against such there is no law." In Acts 3:1 we learn that the hour of prayer at the temple is the 9th hour. In Matthew 27, Luke 23, and Mark 15 we learn that the 9th hour was when Jesus "gave up the ghost" while on the cross. These are just a few examples from Christianity. If you look for it, you will find references to the number 9 in relation to important events/times in just about every religious/mystic tradition around the world, including Pre-Colombian traditions. I like numerology, I love counting versus in poetry and finding meaning in numbers, I see the number 9 and its derivatives in many sacred traditions of my own faith. However, today the number 9 is sacred and holy to me for another reason, it is the 9th anniversary of my marriage to my best friend and wife, Shaunielle. For me there is very little that is more sacred, complete, magic, and perfect than my time with her. I love you Shaunie, happy anniversary.

Detropia, the Modern City in Ruins

A friend sent me this article, which is a review a documentary about the decline of Detroit, MI, titled Detropia. The article was compelling enough that I want to see the film. The author of the article frequently uses the word "ruins" or variations of the same to describe neighborhoods, buildings, and factories that once were full of people, people that produced, but now lie empty, abandoned, decaying, in short, in ruins.

When a person visits a site of ruins, a common reaction is to ask the question ubi sunt? Where are they, those who were once here? Another common reaction is to look upon the ruin as an artifact of remembrance, a memento mori, "I too will die and decay, like the people that once were here, like those who have gone before." Of course, this notion of transience and cyclical time was ever present in the ancient mind. However, with the rise of modernity, as early as the 17th century, a more linear model of time began to be preferred (see the first chapter of Five Faces of Modernity by Matai Calinescu). Our modern/contemporary notion of progress is based on this idea of modernity. We, as a human race, are "moving forward," gaining "more knowledge" than those who came before us. However, one of the ugly secrets of modernity is that it will chew you up and spit you out. Especially in the age of consumerist capitalism, it should be no surprise that our cities don't continue to grow outward and upward, but begin to shrink once their usefulness is surpassed. One of the dirty secrets of the economic boom of the 90's is that we are only starting to feel the effects of outsourcing and the artificial growth that occurred when manufacturing costs decreased and wages/profits increased. The worst part is that those who benefited from shipping American manufacturing jobs elsewhere, are not the ones who will pay for their decision. The promises of corporations, that they will invest in a community and be committed to a community, are as hollow as buildings where their business once thrived. Those buildings, like the promises made to occupy them, are now vacant, decaying, in ruins. We should learn from the ancients, all things are cyclical. The promise of modernity, constant progress, is not necessarily cemented to a place. All modern places will eventually fall victim to cyclical time, they will fall into ruins and be buried by nature. Perhaps, in  a distant future, they will begin a new cycle, and grow once more.

Everything Makes Sense on the Bike

I am jealous of this photo. I want to ride shaded streets in Colorado, badly. This is a shot from the most recent post of a cycling blog I read, Manual for Speed. It's not always very eloquently written (I think some of the posts are written by pro-cyclists themselves) and sometimes it's obvious an entry wasn't edited very well. However, Manual for Speed captures one thing about cycling that I love, when I'm on the bike, everything makes sense. My head is clear, I seem to know my place in the universe, in life, at work and school, family stuff all seems simple, it just all makes sense. When I'm on the bike it seems that if I just approach everything in like I do on the bike, it will work out. So I need to keep moving forward, looking back every now and then to make sure I haven't left anyone form the group behind, checking my position relative to traffic, keep working hard, give it my best, maintain speed on the flats but conserve energy for the climb, work hard to the top of a hill  and over the crest and then tuck and coast, letting the air pass over me as gravity carries me home. But then I get off the bike, and I can't seem to keep the focus, my priorities get messed up, I don't eat right. I don't sleep enough, I get grumpy. Life happens. However, sometimes, the feeling of being on the bike lingers. Sometimes I am so focused I know exactly what I need to do, when to do it, and how to do it; I get that gratification that comes, not just from accomplishing something, but nailing it, and knowing that you are good at what you do, that you will make it, and that everything's going to be okay. Some days I'm a great husband and father, a great teacher, a good colleague, everything clicks, just like when I'm on a great ride. I know sports analogies are tired and cliche,  but I think there is a reason they surface so much. If athletes in other sports have an experience similar to mine when I ride, the sports analogy can't help but surface, because everything makes sense on the bike.

Relax...

...and listen to "It Never Entered My Mind," one of my favorite tracks by The Miles Davis Quintet. Sometimes I forget how soothing music can be. If I find myself agitated or stressed, usually it is, in part, because I haven't been listening to good music.

Miles Davis - Trumpet
John Coltrane - Tenor Sax
Red Garland - Piano
Paul Chambers - Bass
Philly Joe Jones - Philly Joe Jones
   

Happy (Early) Anniversary to Us, from The Killers

I got tickets for Shaunie and I to go see The Killers for an early anniversary gift. You can't always time a concert by one of your favorite bands around your anniversary, but this worked out to be just about three weeks before our 9th anniversary, so I jumped on the chance to get tickets, knowing that Shaunie would love it. Here is her write up of the experience. Seeing the concert with my wife and best friend was almost as rad as being married to her, she is nothing short of wonderful and she has a truly beautiful heart. I am a lucky, lucky man. Without further ado, Shaunie:


A few weeks ago, a friend with ties to music industry let Ben know that The Killers would be playing a small concert in Hollywood in late September. Tickets were first sold to those belonging to the official fan club of The Killers, and then the rest of the tickets would be open to the public two days later. Ben started leaving hints at this point about some way awesome anniversary present he was hoping to give me. I didn't know what it could be. Then one morning he hid out in the room for a little while telling me to stay away from the computer. Near 10am, unbeknownst to me, he sat at the computer refreshing the browser every few seconds and as soon as the tickets went on sale he clicked the purchase button. Luckily or miraculously, the authentication code he had to enter wasn't too tricky and he snagged two tickets. He later learned from a friend that the public tickets had sold out in less than one minute. Ben was able to wait for about 20 minutes, and then he couldn't do anything but pick me up, swing me around, and yell, "We're going to see The Killers!!!" (He had planned on waiting at least a few days before telling me, but he can't keep a secret when he's excited).

A few days later the latest album from The Killers arrived and Ben immediately started listening to it. We would listen to it in the van everywhere we went and we listened to it on the way to the concert so we would know all the new songs. Ben thinks there is a bit of a Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers sound on some songs and some influence from 80's bands such as The Pet Shop Boys and The Cure, and Depeche Mode. There is also a song called "The Heart of a Girl" that sounds kind of like a U2 song. I really like the lyrics to that song, and we got to hear it at the concert too!

A fabulous friend offered to swap babysitting for the 5 hours this whole thing was going to take, and our kids were jealous, but well-behaved when we left. (A funny story: When we told the kids we were going to the concert Ben said, "We're going to bring our CD and see if we can meet them and if they can sign it." Once we got there we realized how naive that was, but when Evelyn heard this, the gears in her mind started working and she got a smile on her face and said, "Maybe you can show them a picture of us when you meet them so they know who we are too." Our kids are big fans too, cute.) When we arrived at the Fonda Theater in our minivan, there was a HUGE line wrapping around the block. My heart sank at the thought of waiting in this ridiculously long line. Ben wanted to walk up to the front to see what the line was all about and whether these were people with tickets or people wanting to try and get into the show at the last-minute. We got to the front and after seeing an opportunity Ben smoothly maneuvered us into the front section of the line without anybody noticing. We found out that, somehow, 1300 people are supposed to cram into this modest theater. 

After walking past the well-equipped bar, we headed upstairs to the balcony seating, and found single seats here and there, but there weren't two seats together. So we ended up sitting separately for most of the concert, I was on the aisle seat of a row and Ben was in the aisle seat of the row behind me, so we could talk and hold hands still. It was interesting to see that most of the people at the concert were about our age. Still, that didn't stop some guy from making fun of us as we left in out minivan with Idaho plates. But he was a Red Sox fan, and we all know how Red Sox fans are.

 All the pictures we took of us in this dark theater look goofy. I couldn't stand the bright flash, and Ben was trying to take our picture and stay in the photo at the same time. And that lipstick? You can't trust those color buttons at the store. I thought I was buying a red/pink blend. As it turns out this tube is bright fuchsia. The girls think it's awesome. It also takes 18 hours to wear off. But I still kind of like it. 

I wish our camera could show how close we were seated, it looks farther away than we really were. We were close enough that I could make out facial expressions and everything.

 It. Was. Awesome. From beginning to end.

Below you can see a video of the opening and a bit of the first song, "Runaways," from their latest album, Battle Born. The camera did pretty good with the sound, but it doesn't even come close to capturing just how loud it was in there. When they played songs such as "Mr. Brightside," "When You Were Young," or "Smile Like You Mean It" it was just super loud, Ben loved it (You can hear him yelling, "Yeaaahhhhh!" in the video when the band walks out onto the stage). They played a good mix of songs from all of their albums (set list below). In the middle of the concert The Killers slowed things down a bit and played some of their ballads, which are my favorites. They also performed "Moon River," by Johhny Mercer and Henry Mancini, a song that is referenced in some of their own songs.  

Here you can see Brandon's synthesizer stand is a lightening bolt like the one on the cover of the album, it changes all sorts of colors depending on the lighting scheme.

 We didn't end up with any super-crazy drunk people around us, which is nice, though they always provide a bit of entertainment for me. 

 Or maybe I was just too focused on the concert to notice any crazy people. 

 I may have lost a degree of hearing, but I think this was worth it. I had planned on bringing ear plugs, but forgot. 

 It was so much fun. It feels like it was a dream. We still can't believe we got to see one of our favorite bands live! What are we going to do next year for our 10 year anniversary to top this? I have no idea.

(This is the ending of the song "Human," Gordon's favorite song by The Killers. After I walked the girls to the bus stop the next morning, Gordon and I went home and I showed him the videos and pictures from the concert. Of course he liked this one the best and he wondered why the didn't play the beginning of the song for him on the video. :) What a sweet boy. 

The kids are a bit jealous that they didn't get to go. So we're thinking of picking up a copy of this DVD from their last tour and asking uncle Dan if we can watch it his house on his big TV with great sound so the kids can pretend that they got to go to a concert as well.

Here is the set list from the concert, we got to sit right next to each other for the encores because some people left after The Killers left the stage for the first time:

Runaways
Heaven Ain't Close
Smile Like You Mean It
Spaceman
Flesh and Bone
For Reasons Unknown
Bling (Confessions of a King)
Miss Atomic Bomb
Human
Here With Me
Dustland Fairytale
Moon River (by JOhnny Mercer and Henry Mancini)
Read My Mind
Mr. Brightside
All These Things That I've Done

Encores:
Heart of a Girl
Jenny Was a Friend of Mine
When We Were Young

Nostalgic Synth Pop

I love 80's synth-pop. It's even better when it has some saxophone mixed in. When I heard the song "Midnight City" by the French band M83 I was instantly hooked. I bought their two-disc album Hurry Up, We're Dreaming last night and I listened to it while I prepared an exam. What I love about it is that it sounds like the 80's without reverting completely back to a pure 80's sound. There's not much there lyrically, but like Duke Ellington, or Abraham Lincoln once said, "If it sounds good, it is good." (Hey, this is the internet, we don't have to cite sources or even have sources.) Dig on these songs from M83, the first two videos a part of a mini-sci-fi story in images. The third one is unrelated, but apparently the band has a penchant for sci-fi as well as synthesizers. I can dig it!

Adventures in Cheese

I'm visiting my family in Idaho. Today we went to a store called Fred Meyer, it's pretty upscale. I enjoyed looking around at the varieties of foods there, I especially enjoyed the cheese counter. Dig it.

Ride to Work, if you Can and Want To

Some cyclists seem to be rather militant about encouraging more people to bike to work and around town. I'm not one of those people. I also drive a car, and I think that creating an artificial bike/car dichotomy is counterproductive. But I do really enjoy riding my bike to and from school and I hope to be able to bike to and from work in the future, you know, when I get a real job. I think that if more people in the U.S. are to bike to work or around town, we need to make it more convenient to do so. The city of Irvine is pretty bike-friendly. There are many bike paths, they are nice and wide (for the most part) and the city sweeps them regularly. But Irvine doesn't hold a candle to Portland, OR or Copenhagen Denmark. Check this out. (And why do all the Danes in this video seem so soft-spoken and friendly?)

Imparables

Riding my bike almost always feels like some form of therapy. It's hard to not enjoy it, and when I can't ride, I crave that feeling of freedom and pure joy that I feel when I'm flying through the streets of Orange County. Even when I'm climbing a nasty hill, I always know that I will get to bomb down it afterward. As my friends often say, "Any day on the bike is better than any day off the bike." Very true. Here is a short video of some folks from Catalunya that enjoy cycling despite the challenges they face. I think that they too feel some sort of freedom when they are on their bikes.

Unstoppables. Video 1. from black train films on Vimeo.

Coyoacán

Today I went to Coyoacán and saw Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo's house, as well as Trotsky's house, both which are now museums. Rivera and Kahlo were communists, which was very common for Mexican intellectuals and artists of their era. Frida actually had a picture with Marx, Lenin, Stalin, and Mao (as well as some guy I didn't recognize) hanging above her bed. Trotsky fled Russia because he was an enemy of Stalin, he initially stayed with Rivera and Kahlo upon arriving in Mexico, but after he had an affair with Kahlo, Rivera kicked him out. He moved a few blocks away to a house that he built for he and his companion. He was working on a biography of Stalin that was also an attack on Stalin's brutal methods that resulted in the murder of many Russians. Of course, Stalin couldn't let this happen, he, or someone under him, sent assassins to kill Trotsky. In May 1940, a first assassination attempt on Trotsky's life was led by a Russian spy and Mexican muralist, David Alfaro Siqueiros, they shot up his house with about 200 bullets, but did not kill him. After this, Mexican President Lázaro Cárdenas ordered that the house be made into a fort. Doors were bricked up, there was a watch tower, and Trotsky lived and worked in this small house/fort. In Augist of that same year, a security guard let a Spanish spy into the compound and he snuck an ice pick into the house and delivered a blow to Trotsky skull. They struggled and guards subdued the spy, but Trotsky died a day later. This is the stuff of fiction, if someone were to write this in a novel, it would be unbelievable. International Communism, spies, Mexican painters that are part of rival socialist ideological groups helping/attempting to murder a political figure? Awesome. Seeing these things in person is a radically different experience from seeing pictures of them. And yet, dear reader, I would like to share some pictures with you.

"El marxismo dará la salud a los enfermos/Marxism will give health to the ill" Frida Kahlo  (no date)

"La mujer sentada/Seated Woman" 1915. Diego Rivera: From his cubist period.

This is an example of Frida Kahlo's apparent love for indigenous cultures. This is in the garden area of her former home.

Trotsky's ashes are inside of this monument, as well as those of his companion, Natalia Sedova (his wife was murdered in Sibera years before he came to Mexico)

This is the room where Trotsky was sleeping when Siqueiros and others tried to shoot him. He hid in the corner where the table was as they shot through the windows.

This is one of several bullet holes that can still be seen in the room where the  failed assassination attempt occurred.

Being There...

...is totally different from seeing it in pictures. Today I had the best tacos al pastor I've had in years, went to a few book stores, and hung out in front of El Palacio de Bellas Artes. More of the same tomorrow.

Ruinas verdes

"MONTEALBAN"

para Paulina Lavista


A la entrada, un sombrío ciprés
vigilia imparcial a los turistas
que han venido a admirar el crepúsculo
entre las ruinas heroicas.
El sol enciende leves antorchas
entre los matorrales,
fogatas ilusorias, reflejos
que se prenden como diamantes
a la vegetación abigarrada.
El valle es un gran prisma,
una desolación que resplandece.
Montealbán se hunde
en la concavidad de claroscuros
del ocaso. Las ruinas
introducen su tiempo en nuestro tiempo:
su vuelo prodigioso
es una señal de las edades.
Nosotros regresamos a Oaxaca.
La ciudad templo
se entrega a su fascinación,
a su pasmo de siglos.
Es más segura
la hermosa cantera verde
en la pequeña ciudad criolla
que la vertiginosa arquitectura
de Montealbán iridizado
a las puertas de la noche.

-David Huerta. El jardín de la luz. México: UNAM, 1972. 18-19.

Almost Friday

Melancolismos de un hombre medio-avanzado de años

Selections from Árboles: Cuaderno de aforísmos by Marco Antonio Campos

Somos sombras de tiempo y al pensar en nosotros y los

otros –ayer, hoy – somos sombras en movimiento.

El espacio es real pero nosotros estamos hechos de tiempo.

El espacio se transforma y nosotros somos sombras o

fantasmas en el espacio. Desaparecemos y el espacio sigue

transformándose.

El pasado es un montón o amontonamiento de escasas

imágenes que, interrogadas, apenas explican una vida.

La juventud, en sus mejores momentos, es como aire

fresco que se respira y se toca en un bosque después de

la tormenta.

En la madurez caminamos sobre las sombras de nuestros

grandes sueños.

Cuántas veces al ver el paso de las aguas del río creí que

en las aguas iba yo.

El pasado es el país de las imágenes rotas y las sombras

despedazadas.

El pasado existe para que los poetas embellezcan sus

miserias.

Una buena parte de la vida busqué fantasmas en el pasado

para conversar con ellos, y muy tarde, con tristeza, me di

cuenta de que esos fantasmas no existían.

Un melancólico conoce periodos e instantes de felicidad

pero no la felicidad.

Music for a Melancholic Monday

I dedicate this one to my former students at BYU, who knew what the Cold War was (University of California fail).

"La suma"

http://www.davidokane.com/doppelgaengers.html

"La suma"

Ante la cal de una pared que nada

nos veda imaginar como infinita

un hombre se ha sentado y premedita

trazar con rigurosa pincelada

en la blanca pared el mundo entero:

puertas, balanzas, tártaros, jacintos,

ángeles, bibliotecas, laberintos,

anclas, Uxmal, el infinito, el cero.

Puebla de formas la pared. La suerte,

que de curiosos dones no es avara,

le permite dar fin a su porfía.

En el preciso instante de la muerte

descubre que esa vasta algarabía

de líneas es la imagen de su cara.

Jorge Luis Borges

Los conjurados 1985

Music for a Melancholic Monday

Today's track in the "Music for a Melancholic Monday" series is a personal favorite, "In a Silent Way/It's About That Time" by Miles Davis. I discovered this during my short tenure as a student at Berklee College of Music. I was drawn to the synesthetic name of the album and I wanted to learn how music could be silent. Who better to teach me than the great Miles Davis? I listened to the album a few times in the Berklee Music Library, they had just about everything a guy could ever want to listen to, it was pretty close to heaven for a music junkie. Since the library eventually closed for the night, I decided that I liked In A Silent Way enough to buy it. This track (the second track on an album that only has two tracks) helped me through some tough times while I was living in Beantown.

Though I'm no expert, I can tell you that In A Silent Way (1969) comes from the beginning of Miles's more experimental era and this album would probably be classified as jazz-fusion. This was one of the recordings that helped launch guitarist John McLaughlin's career. I tend to be more of a fan of the bop and hard bop era, but this is one of the handful of fusion albums that I really like. If you need to grade a stack of papers or do some other mindless task, put this on and give it a listen. Or if you just want to stare out the window at grey skies, this track is the perfect accompaniment, I'm thinking of you East Coast friends.

Melancholic Music for Mondays

"Recado a Rosario Castellanos"

Jaime Sabines (Chiapas, Mexico 1926-1929) was a well known and beloved poet of the people. His colloquial style, use of swear words, and his quotidian subject matter make him very accessible to readers of poetry, as well as those who may not read or even like poetry much. A public reading by Sabines would draw large crowds. He once read at the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City and the turnout was such that large screens and projectors were put outside so that all who came could see and hear the poet read his verse. The poems of Sabines are visceral, they are felt more then they are read or heard; he has a way of finding poetry in the saddest circumstances and expressing the human experience in such a way that the reader cannot help but feel identify with him, or feel that he identifies with them. Much like the works of Ruben Bonifaz Nuño (Mexico, 1923), his poems create solidarity with the reader, they seem to say, "I understand. It's okay, I've felt this way too.We're in this together."

Though not his best work, "Recado a Rosario Castellanos" struck me as a good introduction to Sabines as it captures his poignant style.  The poem is an extended apostrophe in the form of a note to his dear friend and fellow poet, Rosario Castellanos. While serving as an ambassador to Israel, in August of 1974, Castellanos died tragically. While some think that it was a suicide, most believe she accidentally electrocuted herself by turning on a lamp while drying off after a shower (Sabines is among this group). In the first and third lines of the poem, Sabines calls Castellanos a "tonta," which means fool, or stupid. It may seem harsh, but as the poem continues his love for Castellanos is apparent and it is obvious that his use of the word tonta is more of a term of endearment said lovingly in a way that only a close friend or family member could after such a terrible accident. There is a translation in English below (beware the swears if you're offended by strong language).

If you enjoy this poem I highly recommend reading what is probably his best known poem, "Algo sobre la muerte del mayor Sabines," which is a beautiful poem about the death of his father. 

"Recado a Rosario Castellanos"

Sólo una tonta podía dedicar su vida a la
soledad y al amor.
Sólo una tonta podía morirse al tocar una lámpara,
si lámpara encendida,
desperdiciada lámpara de día eras tú.
Retonta por desvalida, por inerme,
por estar ofreciendo tu canasta de frutas a
los árboles,
tu agua al manantial,
tu calor al desierto,
tus alas a los pájaros.
Retonta, rechayito, remadre de tu hijo y de
ti misma.
Huérfana y sola como en las novelas,
presumiendo de tigre, ratoncito,
no dejándote ver por tu sonrisa,
poniéndote corazas transparentes,
colchas de terciopelo y de palabras
sobre tu desnudez estremecida.

¡Cómo te quiero, Chayo, cómo duele
pensar que traen tu cuerpo! —así se dice—
(¿Dónde dejaron tu alma? ¿No es posible
rasparla de la lámpara, recogerla del piso
con una escoba? ¿Qué, no tiene escobas la Embajada?)
¡Cómo duele, te digo, que te traigan,
te pongan, te coloquen, te manejen,
te lleven de honra en honra funerarias!
 (¡No me vayan a hacer a mí esa cosa
de los Hombres Ilustres, con una
chingada!)
¡Cómo duele, Chayito! ¿Y esto es todo?
¡Claro que es todo, es todo!
Lo bueno es que hablan bien en el Excélsior
y estoy seguro de que algunos lloran,
te van a dedicar tus suplementos,
poemas mejores que éste, estudios,
glosas,
¡qué gran publicidad tienes ahora!
La próxima vez que platiquemos
te diré todo el resto.

Ya no estoy enojado.
 Hace mucho calor en Sinaloa.
Voy a irme a la alberca a echarme un trago.

Original:
Jaime Sabines. Poesía, nuevo recuento de poemas. México: Joaquín Mortiz, 1977.

Translation:
Jaime Sabines. Pieces of Shadow: Selected Poems. Trans. W.S. Merwin. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2007.

Soliloquy

Tonight, on the fourth night, your absence feels almost permanent,
our son, rather than ask for you, asked for his stuffed animal.

Tonight, making my usual mate and sipping it alone

feels more melancholy than ever.

I wonder if this is what years of solitude feel like,

I wonder if my face echoes that of this man.

Content to forever cebar his mate for one,

alone, a life unfallowed.

México, 1821

Here is a cool map of Mexico from 1821. I like that it shows the different states/territories. I have a book on Mexican history headed my way via U.S. Mail, I am interested to see when the current state's borders were created. I am also casually looking for maps/city plans of Mexico City that predate the 20th century. I may have to go to Mexico to find anything with a good amount of detail. This isn't really related to my dissertation, I've just always loved maps and seeing how borders and place-names change over time.

Radical Face

Today I heard a song by a band named Radical Face. The singer, Ben Cooper, sings for another band, Electric President, that I had heard and enjoyed previously. I immediately recognized his voice but the musical style was quite different from Electric President. Thanks to the wonders of the internets I quickly learned more about Radical Face and my aim in this post is for you to listen to a song or two from their 2007 album Ghost (always a bonus for me) If you enjoy them, learn more about Radical Face. Happy Thursday.

 

On Ruins

I am near the end of a directed reading on 20th century Mexican poetry with my adviser. Each week I read from the works of one or two poets, usually focusing on what one might call their "greatest hits" or their most important books, while also focusing on my chosen dissertation topic, ruins and metaphors of ruins. It is interesting how when one decides to focus on a certain topic, it seems to emerge everywhere. That was my experience in my M.A. program when I focused on ghosts, and it has been my experience thus far as I have figuratively explored the ruins of Mexico as represented in the great poems of its native sons and daughters. 

I use the term ruins loosely. While sometimes it refers to a literal monolith or structure, or the remains of past civilizations, often it is more of a metaphor, or even way of seeing Mexico, or an aspect of its culture (politics, urban life, etc.) as a whole. In the poem "El retorno maléfico," by Ramón López Velarde, the poetic voice describes a provincial town decimated by the violence of the Mexican Revolution, as if it were a ruin. A once vibrant town, full of life, children's voices, and the sounds of animals now consists of a few abandoned houses and buildings whose adobe walls, riddled with shrapnel, are falling. The remains of the town are a material byproduct of the ideological struggle that defined Mexico in the early 20th century and transformed much of López Velarde's beloved provincia into a wasteland. Juan Rulfo's vision of rural Jalisco after the revolución and the Crisitada war is similar, a dustland populated by ghosts, decaying pueblos, and broken families.

In some places the past is more present, in the U.S. we have done a better job of forgetting the past of a place. The task is easier in a country so young. In the U.S., what remnants there are of past cultures or peoples usually exist only as place names. One of the things about Mexico that fascinates me is that there are literal ruins just about everywhere. As my professor jokingly said to his class today, "You only have to stir up the dust in Mexico City and you'll find a piece of Tenochtitlán." For those of you not familiar with Mexico City, I'll explain. Just to the northeast of the main plaza (El Zócalo), there is a huge excavation site where in the late 60's or early 70's, archaeologists began to uncover the ruins of the Templo Mayor, the main religious site of the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlán. Some utility company workers had dug below the streets to put in some new water pipes or phone lines (I don't recall exactly) and they found the foundations of the Templo Mayor. Since then much more has been excavated and it is a fully functioning archaeological cite and museum. Right at the center of a major metropolitan city you can see the remnants of a building where more than 500 years ago mass human sacrifices were made by a culture that now only exists as an echo. Mexico City was literally built on the foundations of Tenochtitlán after the Spanish conquest in 1517, the city is an architectural palimpsest.

Some of the poets I've read (e.g. Octavio Paz) have several poems about literal ruins while others, such as Jaime Sabines write more about the present and every day life. Others still write more metaphysical or religions poems in an esoteric or hermetic style (e.g. Alí Chumacero, José Gorostiza). Yet, despite their specific interests, all of them seem to write about ruins in one way or another. Jaime Sabines, who wrote an incredible poem about the death of his father, implies that, though his father is no longer alive, as long as he, the son, remembers him, el mayor Sabines will continue to live. One could argue that, genetically, our ancestors are alive and present in us. Although their bones have long since turned to dust, their DNA lives on, and their biological memory continues in us. Efraín Huerta is known as a poet of the city. His poems often deal with his love/hate relationship with Mexico City and Mexican politics. For that reason I was somewhat surprised to find a poem by him that is about a literal ruin, El Tajín in Veracruz Mexico. In this post, I've tried to talk about what a ruin is and what a ruin does. I don't think I've done a very good job of explaining what I understand a ruin to be, but this poem by Huerta does. If you don't read Spanish, you can find a translation here. (Remember, it's a three part poem, so if you read it in English, be sure to click the "Next Page" button at the bottom of each section, it's sort of hidden). Also, if you've taken the time to read this much, read the poem and leave a comment. Gracias.

El Tajín

  a David Huerta

a Pepe Gelada

...el nombre de El Tajín le fue dado por

los indígenas totonacas de la región por la

                    frecuencia con que caían rayos sobre la pirámide...

1

Andar así es andar a ciegas,
andar inmóvil en el aire inmóvil,
andar pasos de arena, ardiente césped.
Dar pasos sobre agua, sobre nada
—el agua que no existe, la nada de una astilla—,
dar pasos sobre muertes,
sobre un suelo de cráneos calcinados.

Andar así no es andar sino quedarse
sordo, ser ala fatigada o fruto sin aroma;
porque el andar es lento y apagado,
porque nada está vivo
en esta soledad de tibios ataúdes.
Muertos estamos, muertos
en el instante, en la hora canicular,
cuando el ave es vencida
y una dulce serpiente se desploma.

Ni un aura fugitiva habita este recinto
despiadado. Nadie aquí, nadie en ninguna sombra.
Nada en la seca estela, nada en lo alto.
Todo se ha detenido, ciegamente,
como un fiero puñal de sacrificio.
Parece un mar de sangre
petrificada
a la mitad de su ascensión.
Sangre de mil heridas, sangre turbia,
sangre y cenizas en el aire inmóvil.

2

Todo es andar a ciegas, en la
fatiga del silencio, cuando ya nada nace
y nada vive y ya los muertos
dieron vida a sus muertos
y los vivos sepultura a los vivos.
Entonces cae una espada de este cielo metálico
y el paisaje se dora y endurece
o bien se ablanda como la miel
bajo un espeso sol de mariposas.

No hay origen. Sólo los anchos y labrados ojos
y las columnas rotas y las plumas agónicas.
Todo aquí tiene rumores de aire prisionero,
algo de asesinato en el ámbito de todo silencio.
Todo aquí tiene la piel
de los silencios, la húmeda soledad
del tiempo desecado; todo es dolor.
No hay un imperio, no hay un reino.
Tan sólo el caminar sobre su propia sombra,
sobre el cadáver de uno mismo,
al tiempo que el tiempo se suspende
y una orquesta de fuego y aire herido
irrumpe en esta casa de los muertos
—y un ave solitaria y un puñal resucitan. 

3

Entonces ellos —son mi hijo y mi amigo—

ascienden la colina

como en busca del trueno yel relámpago.

Yo descanso a la orilla del abismo,

al pie de un mar de vértigos, ahogado

en un inmenso río de helechos doloridos.

Puedo cortar el pensamiento con una espiga

la voz con un sollozo, o una lágrima,

dormir un infinito dolor, pensar

un amor infinito, una tristeza divina;

mientras ellos, en la suave colina,

sólo encuentran

la dormida raíz de una columna rota

y el eco de un relámpago.

Oh Tajín, oh naufragio,

tormenta demolida,

piedra bajo la piedra;

cuando nadie sea nada y todo quede

mutilado, cuando ya nada sea

y sólo quedes tú, impuro templo desolado,

cuando el país-serpiente sea la ruina y el polvo,

la pequeña pirámide podrá cerrar los ojos

para siempre, asfixiada,

muerta en todas las muertes,

ciega en todas las vidas,

bajo todo el silencio universal

y en todos los abismos.

Tajín, el trueno, el mito, el sacrificio.

Y después, nada.

Junio de 1963

Poesía Completa. México: FCE, 1988. 241-43

California is calling

Para mi amigo Mac, quien, además de ser poeta y fotógrafo, ama la madre tierra. California is calling.

"One learns that the world, though made, is yet being made, that this is the morning of creation. That mountains long conceived are now being born, brought to light by the glaciers, channels traced for rivers, basins hollowed for lakes. When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. The whole wilderness in unity and interrelation is alive and familiar. The very stones seem talkative, sympathetic, brotherly. Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike. This natural beauty hunger is made manifest in our magnificent national parks. Nature's sublime wonderlands, the admiration and joy of the world.

-John Muir   (Cited in Ken Burns' documentary The National Parks: America's Best Idea)

Andrei Tarkovsky at the Tide Pools

Today we went to the tide pools at Crystal Cove State Beach.  I filmed this short video mostly because the way that the sea grass was dancing and swaying in the tide's vaivén was beautiful and mesmerizing, but also because it reminded me of the opening shot from Andrei Tarkovsky 1972 film Solaris (below).

Un poema que recordé el día después de mi cumpleaños

"Como latas de cerveza vacías"

-Ernesto Cardenal

Como latas de cerveza vacías y colillas

de cigarrillos apagados, han sido mis días.

Com figuras que pasan por una pantalla de televisión

y desaparecen, así ha pasado mi vida.

Como automóviles que pasaban rápidos por las carreteras

con risas de muchachas y músicas de radios...

Y la belleza pasó rápida, como el modelo de los autos

y las canciones de los radios que pasaron de moda.
Y no ha quedado nada de aquellos días, nada,

más que latas vacías y colillas apagadas,

risas en fotos marchitas, boletos rotos,
y el aserrín con que el amanecer barrieron los bares.

Like empty beer cans, like empty cigarette butts;

my days have been like that.

Like figures passing on a T.V. screen

and disappearing, so my life has gone.

Like cars going by fast on the roads

with girls laughing and radios playing...

Beauty got obsolete as fast as car models

and forgotten radio hits.

Nothing is left of those days, nothing,

but empty beer cans, cigarette butts,

smiles on faded photos, torn tickets,

and the sawdust with which, in the mornings, they swept out the bars.

-Translation by Thomas Merton. Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology. Steven Tapscott ed. Austin: U. of Texas P., 1996. 298

A paraphrased conversation between two grad students that I overheard while reading on the 5th floor of KH

Student 1: [Reading quietly at a table]

Student 2: [Walks up, sharply dressed. Directing himself to student one] What are you reading?

Student 1: [Indistinguishable speech]

Student 2: Oh I didn't read that. It looks long.

Student 1: It is long. Did you read the other reading though?

Student 2: No, but I'm sure it's the same thing as the first one.

Student 1: It is the same, they're all about the same thing.

Student 2: It's always the same thing.

Student 1: Listen to this part, [reads a passage from the reading].

Student 2: You know, I have to really be in the moment to appreciate that stuff and I'm just not right now.

The conversation then shifted to the topic of methodology for directing discussion groups for undergrads. The positive is that one of the students was reading, and, from what I heard, doing their darndest to finish ALL the reading. The negative is that there are even grad students that don't do the reading. This isn't terribly new. When I was a T.A. for a theory course in my M.A. program it was obvious who had and hadn't read the day's text at all. I've noticed it in my PhD program as well. Of course many of us have had days where we didn't finish the reading. Sometimes toward the end of a quarter I've given up on finishing the reading because I need time to work on my paper. So this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but it also hints at a larger problem. What seems to be more prevalent now is that there are undergrads and graduate students that simply don't read much at all (a symptom of the internet age?). They get summaries, they read Wikipedia entries, they gloss over what this or that critic has said about this or that author, they make the token comment in class so that it appears that they have read, but it all comes down to appearance. It almost seems that the appearance of erudition is more important than erudition. I don't know what to make of this. Maybe it's nothing new. Thoughts? Criticisms? Jokes?

Prosciutto, Engineering-grade Bacon.

This is very impractical and doesn't serve much purpose other than to prove that pork is indeed the super meat.

I'm just a Stormtrooper, trying to support my family and be a good Dad

The internets are alive with images such as this one: a depiction of a Stormtrooper father and his son enjoying a day out:

This clever and unexpectedly touching series of photos is the work of one Kristina Alexanderson, a Swedish photographer (http://www.kristinaalexanderson.se/). Since you probably don't speak Swedish and can't read/navigate her blog, I suggest you check out the entire photo series on her Flickr site.

One photo I especially liked is that of the father and son Stormtroopers fishing:

It reminded me of a moment I shared with my son last summer, one that happened to be captured on film. The photos are surprisingly similar:

More from Beirut

Zach Condon, the front man of the band Beirut started writing and recording music as a teenager. One of his side projects was called Realpeople. In early 2009 Beirut released a double EP called March of the Zapotec and Holland, by Realpeople. The former is a short album inspired bu Mexican folklore and music. Apparently Condon had traveled to Oaxaca Mexico and attempted to capture the spirit of his experiences in music. Those of you that know me will understand why I am immediately taken by this album. For those of you that don't know me, I am a Mexicanist by trade and I played trumpet in high school and I played in a brass quintet in college. Beirut nicely blends the Mexican influenced tone and modes with their own sound, which allows them to maintain their musical identity. Here is a track from March of the Zapotec called "The Shrew".

About halfway through the disc the album takes an abrupt turn. It is literally as if another band from a completely different genre was cued. This is the Realpeople section of the disc which is titled Holland. Some of what you hear on this album is from Condon's earlier days and it has been reworked. Below is my favorite song from the second album, "My Night with the Prostitute from Marseille." Not the most wholesome title, but the lyrics don't offend and the music is incredible. Of this I dig, I hope you enjoy it too.

To hide you from the dust of time...

"[Menciono] aquí a Angelita Díaz de León, para que viva lo que mis versos puedan defenderse de la capa de polvo del tiempo."
                            -Ramón López Velarde (1888-1921)
                             La sangre devota.  "Prólogo a la segunda edición""