30 September 2011
Rain and Other Things
WARNING! PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK! I need to practise my Hindi a little bit. It is horrible, so if you speak the language, please bear with me. 
मैं बारिश से प्यार है | बारिश मुझे खुश बनाता है | (I love the rain. Rain makes me happy.) Many people think यह एक बहुत असामान्य बात है (this is a very unusual thing). हर कोई नहीं (not everyone), though; as एक नए दोस्त (a new friend) [मैं आशा करता हूँ | (I hope.)] pointed out to me last night, बारिश बहुत romantic होना सकता है (can be very romantic). Even stranger [दूसरा लोग के लिए (to other people)] is my love of storms. As a child growing up in Tampa, Florida, I would sit on the patio for hours watching electrical storms in the distance. They were fascinating, especially when they occurred at sunset. It was storming tonight–alternating with drizzles. I had hopes that it would still be raining when my shift was complete; sadly, however, यह नहीं था (it was not). That’s alright; at least the earlier rain helped me get through my eight hours.
This has been quite a week–एक बहुत बहुत मुश्किल समय हफ़्ता (a very difficult week)–and the past two days were the toppers. [हे भगवान, उस बहुत सच है (Oh, Lord, is that true).] People chewed my brains–a lot! Plus, something happened that made me a bit sad and worried… At any rate, with everything that has gone on, I am exceedingly grateful to have tomorrow off from work. This was one of those really(!) long weeks, because I got off at 0600 on Tuesday morning, after my usual all-night shift, then I was back on shift at 1630 for another round (that’s an hour later than usual, so I appreciated the extra sleep). (–And here is a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to my manager for finally keeping an agent on queue for an extra hour each night!) I generally prefer to work that Tuesday evening shift, though. It means that I actually have a full calendar day away from the queue when the schedule shows me ‘off.’
Contributing to the busyness of my week was an extraordinarily large amount of personal communication. I have made new friends in my journey to learn Hindi. I began my Hindi course on LiveMocha.com last year, but I have not done much with it until very recently; I have been using other resources and going बहुत धीरे-धीरे (very slowly). [Here is a tip for you: If you try to use songs to learn Hindi, you can create some very bad habits in terms of ensuring appropriate levels of respect for your relationships to others. यह एक अच्छी बात है कि मैं cautious हूँ--और शर्मीली भी (it is a good thing that I am cautious--and shy).] Due to the time difference between my home and India (or Nepal, too) I have had to fit (i.e. ‘cram will-he, nill he’) tutoring sessions in as I am able. I had my first live voice session this past Saturday–it was not my finest hour, since I had been up for two days. I was a little bit more ready for the next round with tutor number two. I am fortunate, though, that my tutors are patient gentlemen. That is not to say that they are not taskmasters–दोनों अपने अपने ways में (both in their own ways). I will need to pay attention and stop using Urdu words instead of Hindi words, though. I am hoping to hear from another LiveMocha user whom I requested as a friend; it would be nice to get the input of a Hindustani lady on points of language, although that may prove to be a non-issue. I also want to solicit a woman’s perspective on Hindustani culture, though.
I find myself deeply appreciative of the respectfulness of most of the भारतीय (Bharatiya; हिन्दूस्तानी = Hindustani; Indian) individuals I have come into contact with, even on-line; लेकिन मैं दुखी हूँ कि यह सब के लिए सच नहीं है (but I am sad that this is not true of everyone). Cultural differences do not even come into the discussion; it is NOT appropriate, acceptable, or respectful to use pornographic photographs as your profile images, people–most assuredly not on a general-use Website like LiveMocha. To be confronted with some random guy’s naked…ehm…member while trying to improve my language skills is soooooooo not cool. I only hope that blocking this individual will prevent his image from being shown in my list of Recommended Partners in the future. I feel nauseous just thinking about it. यह सिर्फ मुझे है? (Is it just me?) Call me a prude, but the only man’s genitalia that interests me is my husband’s. Frankly, the only लिंग [liṅga, or योनि (yōni), for that matter] I care to have linked to my Hindustani cultural studies are those related to पूजा (worship). और हाँ (and yes), I also did not appreciate breast shots populating my search list when I was hunting for a good female tutor match, either. I really have to wonder about people’s lack of self-respect, as well as their lack of respect for others. If you would not show a photograph अपनी दादी को (to your grandmother), then you should not be showing it to anyone else, especially if they did not ask to see it. है ना? (Isn’t it? or Ain’t it so? lol) अब मुझे दुःखी लग रही है | (Now I feel depressed.)
O-kay, new subject… Let’s see… Troy Davis has been on my mind a lot lately, but that is too depressing and angry a topic to talk about after that last paragraph. Actually, now I cannot think of anything to talk about that is not angst-y. That being the case, I am signing off. (To my friends who sneak peeks at my ranting and raving and later tease me: I love you! Don’t you have anything better to do, though? No–Really. I worry about you guys. XOXO)
14 August 2011
José Again
(This post is the translation of my previous message. I did not think I would be able to get to this so soon, but work is dreadfully slow tonight.)
Many years ago I came into possession of a book of poems written by José Ángel Buesa y Regato. In fact, I found this book so long ago that I cannot even remember how or when I bought it. In this book, I found a newspaper article written in honor of the author after his death (in 1982). The poems in this book were very beautiful, perfect vehicles for transporting the fantasies of a young dreamer. In addition, the article caught my curiosity about the poet. Each time that I read this book of poetry, my imagination takes flight again; and when I see the article, my curiosity catches fire once more.
Among other things, I am a poet and a photographer. The two are very important in my life; I cannot separate them from who I am. As a good photographer must always see everything with respect to a photograph, being a poet means that you cannot live without thinking about every image, every idea, and every emotion with respect to the imagery of a poem. Buesa lived to write his poems.
José Ángel Buesa is described as ‘the most famous, the most artistic, and the most influential of the contemporary Cuban poets.’ Readers can appreciate that this poet worked hard and with attention on his poems. He did not allow slips and he had a clear concept of his style and his preferred form. He knew the importance of always studying seriously.
Buesa began writing at a very young age. He wrote many poems, and he also wrote other types of literature. His popular radio serials were sold in many American countries. He published nearly two dozen poetry collections and also published books of prose. Buesa was only twenty-two years old when he published his first book of poems, ‘The Flight of the Hours’. His most famous collection of poetry, ‘Oasis,’ has now been published in twenty-six editions.
Buesa spent the last two decades of his life outside his native Cuba. During his exile, his poems lived only in the hearts of his people. Today, this poet has much respect in his country of origin. His legacy influences many of the Hispanic poets writing today.
Buesa wrote of life and romance. In truth, the poems of Buesa still help many men to seduce women. His poems have been musicalized by the composer and pianist Adolfo Guzman. You can listen to them on radio and in nightclubs and in other places.
Now, you can read four short poems… Just bear with my translations, please; poetic language can be a bit trickier than average speech, and my Spanish is extremely rusty.
. . . .
The Old Tree
Good tree that suddenly lost the gifts
of the flower and of the fruit, beneath the cold gust,
your austere sorrow seems like mine,
and so, like your leaves will fly my songs.
.
But, sooner or later, will come the spring,
and, to rejuvenate your aged trunk,
you will have the flower and the fruit, and the foliage, and the nest…
and I, instead, have not even your hope.
.
One hundred times you offered me your shade in the summer;
one hundred times your perfume came to visit my home,
good tree that blossoms while life passes,
perhaps because you are unaware that it never goes in vain.
.
My childhood you remember almost like a friend,
although already has cracked your old age of grandfather.
And today, to see how you still grow toward the sky,
not even the comfort of growing old with you remains to me.
.
Well, even though identical falls oppress us,
over your dry leaves grow lush leaves,
and so, some day, the wind will dishevel my grey hairs,
will carry to me the perfume of your new shoots…
. . . .
The Son of the Dream
A son… Do you know, do you feel what this is?
To see born the life of the depth of a kiss,
by an ineffable miracle of love;
a kiss that fills up the emptied cradle,
and that naively we looked at and smiled:
a kiss made flower…
.
A son… A fragrant, strong and sweet bond!
I seem to see it above your lap already palpitating;
and I look to move it with childish pledge
the small hands of our little one
as if they wanted to hold onto a dream
that comes and goes…
.
In the fresh water of our tenderness
you will moisten the wings of your mischief,
like a dove that learns to fly,
and you will be violent, crazy and odd,
and you will love equally the woman and the wine,
and the sky and the sea…
.
With the bitter thirst of adolescence,
You will drink in the murky spring of science
and, tender singing,
you will leave for the world, with your lyre to the shoulder
leaving a trail of roses of amazement
and a golden splendor…
.
You will cross at a gallop the arid plain,
pallid from daydreaming, crazy from adventure
and drunk on ideals;
and, in your delirium from remote journeys,
you will return one day with the broken oars,
bringing in your lips the taste of salt.
.
Ridiculous wayfarer of lifeless paths,
you will pass your shadow above the deserts,
in an infinite pilgrimage
and your hallucinated nonconforming pupil
you will see in your destiny an enormous
question.
.
But your tenacious adventures will be useless,
pursuing a dream that you can never reach…
and it must be so,
because you will find nothing, like me, the goal
of all your uneasiness of man and of poet;
because in the women of your anxious life
you will find no one like yourself…
.
You are the rose of a lonely life,
the rose that no one will see repeated,
because plucking it will shrivel the rosebush
and, as in the world later you will not have that rose,
he will go on his long fruitless search,
in search of an equal!
. . . .
The Insatiable Thirst
To say good-bye… That is life.
And I tell you good-bye, and I go…
To return to love is the prison
of those who love with excess.
.
To love and love all of life,
and to burn and to burn in this flame.
And not to know why we love…
and not to know why we forget…
.
To seize the roses one by one,
to drink one wine and another wine,
and to walk and walk by a road
that does not lead anywhere.
.
To feel more thirst at each fountain
and to see more shadow in each chasm,
in this love that is always the same
but that is always different.
.
Because in the muted disagreement
of the dreamed and the lived,
always, from the bottom of forgetfulness,
is born the death of a memory.
.
And in this unceasing anguish,
that touches the soul and does not touch it,
to kiss the shadow of another mouth
in each mouth that you kiss…
. . . .
Final Poem
Once again your roads carry me toward the dawn,
when now in my smile died the last child.
Once again that arrow is sticking itself in the night,
and the autumn rain to dream with you.
.
Once again these hands are rising up toward the dream,
and these deaf roots thirsty for dew.
And the profound disaster of growing in the shadow,
with closed eyes and vacant arms.
.
Once again that torch that exhausted my blood,
and that dark silence that extends your heartbeat.
—Oh, heart of excitement in the black glade,
dying eternally and eternally alive.
.
Oh, yes, once again and always to die in each star,
and to light that lamp that went out from the cold.
Oh, yes, once again and always, until life dies;
once again toward the dawn, and all the roads!
José Ángel Buesa y Regato
Hoy, quiero hablar de un poeta cubano. Debido a esto, estoy escribiendo en español. Voy a traducir este mensaje más adelante. Lo prometo.
Hace muchos años que entró en posesión de un libro de poesía escrito por José Ángel Buesa y Regato. De hecho, me encontré con este libro hace tanto tiempo que ni siquiera puedo recordar cómo o cuando lo compré. Dentro de este libro descubrí un artículo de periódico escrito en honor del autor después de su muerte (en 1982). Los poemas en este libro fueron muy hermosos, vehículos perfectos para transportar las fantasías de una joven soñadora. Además el artículo capturó mi curiosidad por el poeta. Cada vez que yo leo este poemaria, mi imaginación echa a volar de nuevo; y cada vez que veo al artículo, mi curiosidad se prende fuego una vez más.
Entre otras cosas, soy una poeta y una fotógrafa. Los dos son muy importantes en mi vida; no puedo separarlos de quien soy. Como un buen fotógrafo debe ver siempre a todo el mundo con respeto a una foto, ser un poeta significa que no puede vivir sin pensar en cada imagen, cada idea, y cada emoción con respeto a la imaginería de una poema. Buesa vivió para escribir sus poemas.
José Ángel Buesa está describido como «el más famoso, el más artista y el más influyente de los poetas cubanos contemporáneos.» Los lectores pueden apreciar que este poeta trabajado duro y con cuidado por sus poemas. No permitió deslices y tenía un claro concepto de su estilo y su forma preferida. Él sabía la importancia de estudiando siempre en serio.
Buesa comenzó a escribir a una edad muy temprana. Él escribe muchos poemas, y escribe también por otros tipos de literatura. Sus populares novelas radiales se han vendido en muchos paises de America. Publicó casi dos docenas de poemarias y publicó tambien libros de prosa. Buesa tenía solo veintidós años cuando publicó su primero libro de poemas, «La fuga de las horas.» Su poemaria más famosa, «Oasis», ahora se ha publicado en veintiséis ediciones.
Buesa pasó las últimas dos décadas de su vida fuera de su Cuba natal. Mientras su exilio, sus poemas vivido solo en los corazones de la gente. Hoy este poeta tiene mucho respeto en su país de origen. Su legado influye a muchos de los poetas hispánicos que escribe hoy.
Buesa escribió de la vida y del romance. De veras, los poemas de Buesa aún ayudan a muchos hombres a seducir a las mujeres. Tambien, sus poemas habían sido musicalizados por el compositor y pianista Adolfo Guzman. Puede oírlos en la radio y en los clubes nocturnos y en varios lugares.
Ahora, puede leer cuatros poemas cortos…
. . . .
El árbol viejo
Buen árbol que perdiste bruscamente los dones
de la flor y del fruto, bajo la racha fría:
tu pesadumbre austera se parece a la mía,
y así, como tus hojas, volarán mis canciones.
.
Pero, tarde o temprano, vendrá la primavera,
y, al rejuvenecerse tu tronco envejecido,
tendrás la flor y el fruto, y el follaje, y el nido…
Y yo, en cambio, no tengo tu esperanza siquiera.
.
Cien veces me ofreciste tu sombra en el verano;
cien veces tu perfume fue a visitar mi casa,
buen árbol que floreces mientras la vida pasa,
acaso porque ignoras que nunca pasa en vano.
.
Mi niñez te recuerda casi como un amigo,
aunque ya se agrietaba tu ancianidad de abuelo.
Y hoy, al ver cómo creces todavía hacia el cielo,
ni aun me queda el consuelo de envejecer contigo.
.
Pues, aunque nos agobian idénticos otoños,
sobre tus hojas secas crecen hojas lozanas,
y así, algún día, el viento despeinará mis canas,
trayéndome el perfume de tus nuevos retoños…
. . . .
El hijo del sueño
Un hijo… ¿Tú sabes, tú sientes qué es eso?
Ver nacer la vida del fondo de un beso,
por un inefable milagro de amor;
un beso que llene la cuna vacía,
y que ingenuamente nos mire y sonría:
un beso hecho flor…
.
Un hijo… ¡Un fragante, fuerte y dulce lazo!
Me parece verlo sobre tu regazo palpitando ya;
y miro moverse con pueril empeño
las pequeñas manos de nuestro pequeño,
como si quisieran sujetar un sueño
que llega y se va…
.
En el agua fresca de nuestras ternuras
mojará las alas de sus travesuras,
como una paloma que aprende a volar;
y será violento, loco y peregrino,
y amará igualmente la mujer y el vino,
y el cielo y el mar…
.
Con la sed amarga de la adolescencia,
beberá en la fuente turia de la ciencia;
y, tierno cantor,
irá por el mundo, con su lira al hombro,
dejando un reguero de rosas de asombro
y un áureo fulgor…
.
Cruzará al galope la árida llanura,
pálido de ensueño, loco de aventura
y ebrio de ideal;
y, en su desvario de viajes remotos,
volverá algún día con los remos rotos,
trayendo en los labios un sabor de sal.
.
Caminante absurdo de caminos muertos,
pasará su sombro sobre los desiertos,
en una infinita peregrinación;
y su alcinada pupila inconforme
verá en su destino grabada una enorme
interrogación.
.
Pero será inútil su tenaz andanza,
persiguiendo un sueño que jamás se alcanza…
Y ha de ser así,
pues no hallará nunca, como yo, la meta
de todas sus ansias de hombre y de poeta;
porque en las mujeres de su vida inquieta
no hallará ninguna parecida a ti…
.
Que tú eres la rosa de una sola vida,
la rosa que nadie verá repetida,
porque al deshojarse secará el rosal;
y, como en el mundo ya no habrá esa rosa,
¡él irá en su larga búsqueda infructuosa,
en pos de una igual!
. . . .
La sed insaciable
Decir adiós… La vida es eso.
Y yo te digo adiós, y sigo…
Volver a amar es el castigo
de los que amaron con exceso.
.
Amar y amar toda la vida,
y arder y arder en esa llama.
Y no saber por qué se ama…
Y no saber por qué se olvida…
.
Coger las rosas una a una,
beber un vino y otro vino,
y andar y andar por un camino
que no conduce a parte alguna.
.
Sentir más sed en cada fuente
y ver más sombra en cada abismo,
en este amor que es siempre el mismo
pero que siempre es diferente.
.
Porque en el sordo desacuerdo
de lo soñado y lo vivido,
siempre, del fondo del olvido,
nace la muerte de un recuerdo.
.
Y en esta angustia que no cesa,
que toca el alma y no la toca,
besar la sombra de otra boca
en cada boca que se besa…
. . . .
Último poema
Otra vez tus caminos me llevan hacia el alba,
cuando ya en mi sonrisa murió el último niño.
Otra vez esa flecha clavándose en la noche,
y esa lluvia de otoño para soñar contigo.
.
Otra vez estas manos alzándose hacia el sueño,
y estas sordas raíces sedientas de rocío,
y el profundo desastre de crecer en la sombra,
con los ojos cerrados y los brazos vacíos.
.
Otra vez esa antorcha que extenúa mi sangre,
y ese silencio oscuro que alarga su latido.
—Oh, corazón de fiebre en la floresta negra,
muriendo eternamente y eternamente vivo.
.
Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre morir en cada estrella,
y encender esa lámpara que se apagó de frío.
Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre, hasta morir la vida;
otra vez hacia el alba, por todos los caminos!
12 August 2011
Inspiration and Wavering Hope
I have been re-reading Turtle Island (Gary Snyder, 1974). It is not a long book, but it is deeply inspirational for me. Each new reading provokes new thoughts and reflections (which is generally true of Snyder’s work). I truly admire the writer and his writing. Turtle Island may be temporarily ousted from its pride of place from time to time, but it always rises back to the top as my favourite of Snyder’s works.
Several years ago, I used an excerpt of one of Snyder’s poems as the texte of a glosa poem for a poetry course. At the time, I was feeling rather disgusted and depressed about the state of environmentalism in the U.S. While I still find myself similarly frustrated and ‘wavering’ in hopefulness from time to time, I have since become significantly more active in environmental causes and actions outside my personal sphere. This most recent re-reading of Turtle Island prompted me to track down that old glosa poem, so that I could revisit the way I felt after reading ‘As for Poets’ for the first time in a long time…
Inspiration and Wavering Hope
`The life in his poem
Left millions of tiny
Different tracks
Criss-crossing through the mud.`
From `As for Poets`
By Gary Snyder
Deep ecology with Taoist centre–
A new vista unfolds before my disillusioned heart,
and discovery brings profound realizations.
I am an unfinished page, filling through synthesis.
While many are blind, deaf, mute,
the earth writhes with human venom!
Some seek panaceas for their irredeemable consciences;
while one expressed his vision through his words…
With ravenous and undeniable awe, I welcome
the life in his poems.
Buddhist, traveller, teacher, brilliant mind–
Love of life, love of earth, love…
His deeply grounded knowledge and determined life
are examples as I seek my own light-stepping path.
His grasp of the rhythms of earth and human spirit
is embedded in his words– uncanny
how they moved my mind and spirit.
Reading each rising word, each line, I sank.
Those beats, flowing anything but blindly,
left millions of tiny
ripples echoing onto time.
The power in each breath that lingered on his pages,
raw like those wild, restless, and unconformist men,
convince me that some generous passion still is hidden
in human breasts– though some are selfish, inhumane.
The state of nature and of man– both in parallax–
are cause for condemnation not content;
they require us to sacrifice for future while we can.
Like rows of mirrors refract
different tracks
into space and space and space,
so are we reflected down the line with endless relevance.
The torch is flickering while heroes age and die;
this man, too, is failing and sometime will fall.
His thoughts remain to stir me still– and always will;
the surface of that well of words is far from limpid.
My anarchistic optimism strangles angrily on the truth;
yet I, and others, wade stubbornly on with purpose green.
In the end I cannot help but see our hopeful sweat and blood
criss-crossing through the mud.
(August, 2005)
25 June 2011
So much for maintaining a regular presence here
The past year has been an eventful one. Some highs, many lows, some losses… I hope that these next twelve months are a bit calmer and much gentler for my friends and family, as well as for myself. I also hope that I will be able to make the time, over the next several months, to use this blog to express my thoughts and experiences with regularity. Journalling, poetry writing , crocheting, loom knitting–even my photography has taken a backseat to all of the ‘necessary’ things that require my attention. My fingers are itching for a camera; and my pores hardly remember what photo chemicals feel like. If nothing else, I hope to use downtime at work in a more productive manner, now that things here are moderately calmer. Although I greatly miss having a job where there was always someone who would appreciate research, proofing/copy-editing, or other miscellaneous assistance with whatever project was approaching deadline, working at home with no mindless busy-work does have some significant perquisites.
Due to the overwhelming multitude of professional and family obligations encircling me, I am taking time off from college. My heart thumps unpleasantly at even having to type that. The need to interrupt what has already been a snail’s pace endeavour is far from a happy circumstance, but such is life. I have been spending even more time reading serious articles about politics and about the many issues and causes that are important to me. This is both a good thing and a bad thing; the bad is in 1) just how much time this absorbs and 2) how depressing it can be to read so much more (in both number and depth) about issues that are so intensely serious. I believe that my state and federal congressmen probably think this is a bad thing, as well, given the sheer volume of mail they now receive from me.
The absence of any sort of serious cognitive challenge does not sit well with me, however, so I am also endeavouring to teach myself Hindi. It is slow going. Hindi is such a lovely language, though. I now listen almost exclusively to Hindi Internet radio stations, with periodic breaks to listen to Tamil, Punjabi, and Urdu stations. I almost always have this music playing in one ear while I talk to customers, except when I am first studying new information and vocabulary. I have to pause my music, though, to talk in Spanish to my callers. For some strange reason, it is very difficult to talk in Spanish while my brain is also trying to translate song lyrics from Hindi to English. (Go figure!)
Lately, I find myself having to think for a split second before I say numbers in the appropriate language. Have you ever heard parents trying to get a child’s name right, especially when their kids all have name that are similar or begin with the same lettres? ‘Michael–Matthew–I mean, Marcus, whoever you are.’ That is me: ‘Ek–uno–I mean, one.’ I also occasionally bring word-order differences across if I have been concentrating on Hindi for a while and do not carefully consider what I mean to say in English. Oddly enough, I generally need to be immersed in Spanish for a few hours before my brain automatically and subconsciously converts my default/dumb vowel from the English ‘uhm’ to ‘ehm’ sound, while this switch now occurs after about 30 minutes to an hour of immersion in Hindi.
I find myself gratified by the generous responses of the local Hindustani population to my faltering attempts to communicate in their local tongue. I blush–very easily, if I may understate it– and being self-consciousness when I converse with native speakers, I turn a bright, rosy shade of red within a split second of speaking. This blush only deepens at the first response given to my first sentences by a new victim: usually a stunned look followed by ‘What?’ Of course, I then backpedal and repeat myself in English, at which point the Indian individual grins broadly with delight and then asks me to please repeat the Hindi. After a brief exchange, the flop sweat eventually evaporates and a fun time is had by all. When my new acquaintances discover that I am learning in Devanagari (the Sanskrit script), instead of only the transliterated Hindi, they are positively amazed. (The fact of the matter is that Devanagari is so much clearer in terms of the intended pronunciation. What you see is exactly how a word sounds, whereas it seems like everyone transliterates the same word differently.) Very often, I am asked why I (a native-born, English-speaking United States citizen) would want to learn Hindi at all? ‘Why not?’ I joke, ‘ Not only is Hindi an ancient and beautiful language, but eventually I will be able to watch even old, un-subtitled Hindi movies and understand them.’
In all seriousness, though, I think languages are a crucial window into the culture of other people. Language is the heart of a culture, enabling all other aspects of human interaction. I can only imagine having the time and the talent to learn–truly and thoroughly–dozens of languages? I am in awe of those who are able to learn and use multiple languages fluently and properly. I learn languages to a point and then forget them when I no longer have a need for them: Spanish in my childhood; French and some Portuguese in adolescence; Russian, German, and Greek in my teens (to different degrees of proficiency, but no partner with whom to practise any of them), Japanese and pidgin while living in Hawai’i; some Chinese and Vietnamese over the course of time… Aside from Spanish, however, no other language has drawn me as strongly as Hindi. I don’t know why this is so. I have hit a point, though, where learning Hindi is messing with my ability to easily switch to Spanish. After I overcome this speed bump in the learning curve, though, I am determined to also work hard to restore my Spanish language to its previous fluency and to make the effort to use and maintain both languages for the rest of my life. That is one of the wonderful things about increased diversity in the U.S.; one does not have to look as hard and go so far to find people with whom to talk in so many other languages.
I love the sounds of other languages…most of them. I am of German and Cherokee descent, to a small degree, but I identify most closely to my Black Irish heritage. Even if it is definitely not one of those languages that can claim speakers around every corner, I regret having never been successful at learning Irish Gaelic/Gaeilge. I have a fairly good ear for linguistic sounds that many English-speaking adults have lost the ability to hear. Until my vocabulary becomes challenged by extended or very complex conversations, my Spanish is generally mistaken to be that of a native speaker (and, since I learned at the feet of people from Spain, Mexico, Cuba, and various Central and South American countries, my accent has been claimed as originating in some interesting places). Given time and a good source to model from, I can do pretty good approximations (during short conversations) of native accents in quite a few other languages, as well. Much to my chagrin, Irish is not one of them! I find it extremely difficult to pin down the sounds and the rules governing Gaeilge, but I have never been able to determine why this, of all languages, gives me such an extremely hard time. (Maybe I should try to learn Scottish Gaelic/Gàidhlig first, since I have an easier time reproducing a Scottish lilt than an Irish brogue.) At any rate, Gaelige is the language I hope to tackle and overcome after Hindi, and I hope that it, too, is a language that I will be able to keep polished for the rest of my life. What then? …hmmm… Farsi, Turkish, Welsh… and then Portuguese, French, Russian, and Japanese again (more thoroughly and for frequent use this time around). How great would that be? Hopefully, I will still be studying languages (and everything else) until the day I die.
26 February 2010
Animals in captivity
I was so sad to see/hear in the news that a captive orca in the Sea World, Orlando, facility was responsible for the death of his trainer. This is not an isolated incident; captive animals do occasionally kill their caretakers. In fact, this orca, Tilikum, has made previous human kills. My heart goes out to the family, friends, and colleagues of this trainer who lost her life when Tilikum either attacked or tried ‘playing’ with her. My heart also goes out to Tilikum and the countless other intelligent creatures who are held captive for the entertainment of human beings.
Since childhood, I, like so many others, have enjoyed visiting zoos to see exotic animals. Over the past several years, though, I became (and remain) torn about the ethics of this. Zoos often provide a sanctuary for injured and abandoned animals ‘rescued’ from the wild or from private collections. Many zoos are involved in breeding programs to increase the numbers of endangered animals and, so, are trying to do some good in their own way. Even when zoos have significant acreage, however, and can provide their animal attractions with relatively spacious yards, this does not mean that the animals have enough space to ensure their mental and emotional health and well-being. The effect of captivity on animals who normally range across broad sections of terrain in the wild is a matter of scientific observation; for instance, large cats confined to small spaces develop neurotic habits, such as pacing for hours along a certain path, and primates will sometimes begin to sit for long periods during which they rock themselves, act despondent, and remain disengaged from their group and their caretakers.
Captive animals often develop behaviBoural problems, taking their frustrations out on their human caretakers, on their fellow captives, or even on themselves. The development of psychological problems can be especially marked in those animals who exhibit a significant levels of intelligence (as measured by human standards), such as: elephants, ‘higher-level’ primates (chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, etc.), and sea mammals (dolphins, porpoises, orcas, etc.). Think of the developmental damage/limitations observed in humans who have been confined and neglected during their formative years and who have been denied ‘normal’ social contact and interaction, as well as experiences and instruction that most of their peers receive during a comparative period. Even with professional care, therapy, and instruction provided in later periods, these individuals never attain the same level of social, psychological, or cognitive development as those who have more normative upbringings. I am thinking of one girl, in particular, whose mother was complicit in the abuse perpetrated by her husband on their daughter. ‘Genie’ was chained, naked, to a potty chair in a dark room for the first twelve (I think) years of her life, with verbal communication and both emotional and physical affection withheld from her. Once she was rescued, she spent the rest of her life either in the care of specific researcher/therapists or in the confines of a group home because she was not able to progress to a level of functional self-sufficiency necessary to allow her to live alone (don’t even get me started on the culpability of the researchers who fought over who was going to get the next chance to use this poor child as a guinea pig for their current pet theory, instead of actually focusing on helping her).
Like humans, many of the animals most susceptible to the detrimental psychological effects of confinement are naturally adapted to roaming across long distances. What is even more significant is that, like humans, most of these animals are social creatures, living in tight-knit herds, packs, pods, and other family- or social-groups. Beyond basic requirements of survival, such as food provision tactics, these groups are the source of vital aspects of social support, both in early developmental stages and across the lifetime of these beings: instruction and guidance, discipline and approbation, comfort and affection, physical contact and emotional presence…
If an elephant is the sole representative of his species at a zoo, how healthy can his mental state remain? How much actual improvement does the presence of one other elephant represent? Consider the natural hierarchy that exists in elephant herds in nature; the females are the core of herd stability and well-being. Even rogue elephants, who wander alone in nature for long periods of time, can suffer from what amount to psychiatric disorders as a result of their solitude.
If a dolphin and a handful of her compeers are made to exist in a concrete tank that takes mere moments to traverse, how stable can her behaviour be expected to remain? Consider, especially, that pods of dolphins and other sea mammals can be individually identified because of the patterns of their ‘speech.’ When an aquarium purchases or captures a new animal for their collection, that creature is effectively forced into a situation where it must form a bond with a group with animals who may be the same species but who speak a different language–or, at the very least, a substantially different dialect. Imagine being an English-only-speaking human person who was thrown into an inescapable situation where your only companions spoke either Russian or English with the thickest and most indecipherable of Irish brogues (and some Gaelic thrown in for good measure).
How can we accurately measure the harm done to these captive animals who are deprived of their freedom and the support of a sufficient family of fellows? Do the educational and research benefits of zoos and aquariums outweigh the negative ethical ramifications of confining animals, whether captured or bred for the purpose? Is the existence of a zoo justified by its potential to teach children and adults to value life in a less species-centric manner? Who is qualified to make these judgments? For the moment, I am trying to make ethical decisions about each individual location, based on its purpose and its provision for and care of its animal charges. Aquariums with intelligent sea mammal attractions? No. Circuses with elephant performers? Absolutely not. Zoos? Perhaps–after doing some research into their facilities. Large animal sanctuaries, where herds of animals are free to range across large tracts of land? How wonderful!
9 February 2010
Kicking it off with a bit about music
If you take a look at the music library in our home, you would be hard pressed to find anything even remotely resembling Top 40 hits. We long ago had to do away with displaying our CD’s in their jewel cases; there simply was not enough room! Even with a recent weeding out of those discs that we never listen to, we still had to purchase a new case for purchases made over the past year. (That makes 4 large, 250-disc cases, now–plus a couple of cases half that size–and we actually need a couple more so the contents are not quite so packed in and the inserts don’t have to go in the same slot as the discs.)
I grew up speaking almost as much Spanish outside the home as I spoke English; there was even a decent amount of French thrown in (poorly pronounced, usually with a vaguely Spanish accent, no less). Even native speakers have told me that they have trouble with their first language when they have gone for extended periods without speaking it. I certainly have retained almost none of the French that I once knew; as for my Spanish, even with formal classes it suffered greatly after my parents moved our family from Tampa, Florida, to a podunk little town in Southwestern Arkansas. The passion (and, dare I confess it–the preference) for the language never left me, however. At every opportunity, I listened to Latino radio stations and accosted random Hispanics for brief conversations. It was always difficult to determine which music groups were worth the effort it would take to find and buy their albums.
Launchcast (in its original incarnation) helped introduce me to a lot of great artists and helped expand my musical horizons far beyond the Latin music I was looking for. When Launchcast underwent its changeover, I switched entirely to Pandora (I tell myself I am contributing to the Music Genome Project when I try in vain to add all of the foreign artists to my station); in addition, the radio stations available through iTunes have been invaluable tools in seeking out new artists’ music. I also love being able to listen to samples on Amazon and then order albums that once would have been well nigh impossible to discover, much less buy.
My husband is now addicted to ‘world’ music, too (he is the one who first investigated the iTunes radio options that we have always ignored). Along the way, our personal music library has grown to include music in Portuguese (European and Brasilian), French, Italian, Faroese, various African languages, Turkish, Arabic, Hindi, Tamil, and other languages; this is in addition to Spanish music from all over the globe. It is now a rare thing to add a new singer/group into the collection if the songs are in English. Andrew Byrd, Keane, Frou Frou, Teitur…there has to be something particularly striking about the vocalist and/or the music to draw us in. Last fall, I asked my husband if he wanted to go on a date to a Bollywood dance recital for a local dance school; he couldn’t wait to go, but he laughingly told me he would be very disappointed if the music and costumes were not largely traditional. Luckily, he got his wish, and we were even treated to Prabhu Deva (India’s answer to Michael Jackson) being dragged onto the stage during the finale to ham it up with a few of his standard moves.
My patience with popular English language music has been very short for a long time now (since the late 80′s, actually). My main source of displeasure is the dearth of originality. While New Wave wasn’t always the most original music out there, at least it was FUN. I am certain the same complaint about lack of originality can be (and is) made of foreign music by native critics. (Although I don’t read many product reviews, as a rule, I do like to read comments from native speakers on their own artists–when I can do the translations.) It is much easier for me to enjoy cliches, though, when they are sung by Tarkan or Nek. Exotic accents, native instruments or beats, even differences in syntax (for those languages I can actually understand even a little)–these things contribute to the appeal of non-English music (and film, too). Add to that certain cultural differences that come across in lyrics and on-stage; it is just so much fun for me that I couldn’t even begin to express it to anyone else!
I have a huge amount of appreciation and respect for artists like Juanes and Sting, both of whom are amazingly talented individuals and both of whom often use their music to impart political and humanitarian messages; nevertheless, enjoyment–i.e. my own subjectively experienced sense of entertainment and temporary mental liberation–is usually the primary reason I listen to music. There are some days when it is only the music I am listening to that keeps me on an even keel; I tell myself, ‘Oh, listen! They’re playing “Hechicera” (or “Particle Man” or “Bu Gece” or “La jeune fille aux cheveux blancs”). Go to your happy place and forget that you just handled 10 straight calls from some of the most personality-challenged individuals on the planet.’ Some days I log off from my job and go in search of Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’ to help blow the cobwebs away or ‘Mes Ami’ to help turn my grumpiness into happy contentment. Even people who don’t work in a customer-centric job may be able to relate to that.
