Here is the New York Times caption for this photo: Inmates from the Jefferson County Jail in Texas unloaded bails of hay for cattle, hundreds of which have died after drinking toxic flood waters.

Anything wrong in this picture? This is why this blog is called Bad Texas. Because we have major problems. Hurricanes, disasters and (to top it all off) neo-chain gangs with all black prisoners lorded over by white guards. Bad bad Texas.

Photo: Mark Wilson/Getty Images

Report from the Front


Hurricane Ike rolls over Houston. Mess. Disaster. Horror. A personal take: one friend's house near the Heights has walls filled with water, leaking skylights, leaking windows, growing mold. She's hoping FEMA will come through with money. Or her insurance. Meanwhile she's working with evacuees at the George R. Brown convention center. Another friend told me everything was fine at his house near the coast and then told me his place had taken a foot of water, had a number of broken windows, an exterior porch that had separated from the house and trees down. Oh, and his house is more than seven feet off the ground. Hurricane Ike devasted the city, the region I love deeply, humidly, no matter the storm. And some who have suffered are keeping their heads up in the air and pushing forward. And those with minor wounds stumble.  And others fall.

Read Houston blog posts here:  Sehba, Dream Act blog, Green Parents, Houstonist.

And let's not forget this same storm ravaged Cuba and Haiti.  The people there are suffering just as badly, but actually a lot worse as compounded by Third World poverty.  Depressing but true.

¡Abajo el Transito!



Ya conozco la historia de todos los días en los medios en México y el estereotipo de México al nivel mundial: la violencia, la corrupicón, la impunidad. Ahora, agrego mi granito de arena: ¿Qué onda con los transitos en México? Hace dos semanas trajé mi carro a Monterrey. No lo quería traer por las inumerables veces que me han parado y molestado y acosado. Pero decidí intentar manejar aquí una vez más. Pues les informo, que ya me pararon dos veces. Una vez nos detuvieron una hora para intentar extorsionarme. Dos policias que ni eran del Transito. No les di ni un centavo. Ahora hoy otra vez me pararon por una babosada, o sea un pretexto para tratar de sacarme más lana. Jamás en mi vida daré un centavo como mordida. Sé que muchos gringos y mexicanos sí lo hacen, pero yo no. No voy a apoyar a esa corrupción ya. Quiero a México y quiero que sea mejor y no peor. Como dijo una amiga, si insisto en la justicia y la responsabilidad del gobierno y nuestra responsabilidad como seres humanes, no puedo dar mordida. Decidí que ya voy a regresar mi carro a Tejas. Mejor hacerme pasar como ni supiera manejar. Mejor evitar estas broncas. Andar en camiones y taxis y carros de amigos. ¿Ustedes tienen broncas con los transitos? O realmente es solamente por la cara de gringo que tengo y las placas tejanas en mi auto? Cuentan por favor. Y claro, no sólo en problema de México. En los EEUU ni dan licencias a mis amigos y familiares mexicanos (no familia por sangre, pero sí familia) que no tienen documentos. Y la policia acosa y molesta y para a la gente allá también. Pero aquí como extranjero parece que soy un blanco para sus intentos de sacar mordida. Y ya no lo aguanto.

Notes


A beginners guide to Translation.  Getting started, translation as a profession, tips.


°°°



Many now have a small piece of real estate in a "social utility" I'd rather not name.  One I resisted for years but has recently eaten me.  So I've been thinking and reading a lot about it.  Here are some links to decide what Facebook, yes I said it, really is: 

an imperialist gringo plot to map of social activists and artists and everyone, 

a corporate ultracapitalist tool for charting our wants and needs and desires, 

a tool to combat twentieth century social isolation or 

a crazy-making new time-waster with benefits.  

You just might have to commit Facebook suicide one day.


°°°


Todavía tengo miedo.  I am still afraid.  Muy afraid.

But at least there's the first amnesty since 1986.  Pero por lo menos hay una amnistia.

La Anti-Expo de Christian Bravo / Christian Bravo's Anti-Show

A friend of mine, Christian Bravo, was on track to present his work at a Chicano community arts center in Houston in a show that would have opened this week. Unfortunately, the person in charge of the show decided that his work was not appropriately Chicano and did not fit within the rubric of Chicano arts. Evidently his work was a bit too edgy and controversial. In any case, I wrote a kind of introduction for his work and I want to present it to you with photos of his work. So this will be the on-line Anti-Expo of his work. And can let's work for the day when Chicano art is not one thing (indigenist and 60's political), but rather is multivalent and free. Enough art Migras already.
°°°
Un amigo mío, Christian Bravo, había arreglado todo para presentar unas obras suyas en un centro comunitario Chicano de arte en Houston dentro de una exposición que iban a inaugurar esta semana. Por desgracia, el encargado de la expo decidió que su obra no era bastante Chicano y no cabía dentro de la gama de arte Chicano. Parece que sus obras son demasiado desafiantes y controversiales. Bueno, yo escribí un prefacio para su obra y se lo quisiera presentar a ustedes con fotos de sus obras. Entonces aquí vamos a montar una Anti-Expo de su obra. Y trabajemos para el día cuando el arte Chicano no sea un sola cosa (indigenista y política sesentera), sino algo polifacético y libre. Ya basta con los migras del arte.

Christian Bravo’s work is an art of the possible and the beautiful in difficult times. Sculpture, painting, photographs, drawings.

Unproper subjects. Recycled objects. Beauty in unexpected places. Refuse and the shimmering evidence of daily use. A hefty prostitute making her living in the central part of Bravo’s hometown of Tampico, México. Spoiled and rancid sauces from a restaurant workplace. The naked bodies of friends and acquaintances. The journey to plastic wrap. His daily photos of children, elderly, mushrooms, blooms, moldy spores. Hoses and dining room chairs. Bodies repackaged as art, plastered to wooden crates, and reinjected into the commercial stream.

Bravo doesn’t lament or mourn. Better to focus on other brighter possibilities, he seems to say, other freedoms, other small moments of joy or beauty. Along with a solid critique of commercialization and those left out of the benefits (but not the effects) of migration and globalization. A contradiction: borders matter less and less and there is hardly any interest in outdated traditionalist regionalism. Borders matter more and more and create barriers to personal and collective happiness. A reflection of the United States, an image reprojected, thrown back in the art of a perpetual outsider. Bravo imagines what happens to the bodies affected by commercialization, migration, climaxing militarism and falsely patriotic clampdowns. Artistic evidence of what Walt Whitman celebrated as “the perpetual coming of immigrants.” And the perpetual arrival of perspectives which reimagine both art and its role in our daily lives.

La obra de Christian Bravo es un arte de lo que es posible y bello en tiempos difíciles. Escultura, pintura, fotografía, dibujos.

Sujetos impropios. Objetos reciclados. La belleza en lugares inesperados. Basura y la evidencia resplandeciente de su uso diario. Una prostituta rolliza ganándose la vida en el centro de la ciudad natal de Bravo, Tampico, México. Salsas podridas y rancias de un restauran que es un lugar de trabajo. Los cuerpos desnudos de amigos y conocidos. El viaje de envoltura de plástico. Sus fotos diarios de niños, viejos, hongos, flores, esporas de moho. Mangueras y sillas del comedor. Cuerpos repaquetados como arte, pegados a cajas de madera, y reinsertados en el flujo comercial.

Bravo no lamenta ni llora. Más vale enfocarse en otras posibilidades más prometedoras, parece decir, otras libertades, otros momentitos de alegría o belleza. Junto con una crítica fuerte de comercialización y los que no han gozado de los beneficios (pero sí han sufrido de los efectos) de la migración y globalización. Una contradicción: las fronteras importan cada día menos y por lo tanto hay escaso interés en el costumbrismo caduco. Las fronteras importan cada día más y crean barreras a la felicidad personal y colectiva. Una reflección de los Estados Unidos de América, una imagen reproyectada, regresada en el arte de un forastero perpetuo. Bravo imagina lo que ocurre con los cuerpos afectados por la comercialización, la migración, el militarismo en auge y la represión dizque patriótica. Evidencia artística de lo que Walt Whitman celebró como “la llegada perpetua de inmigrantes.” Y la llegada perpetua de perspectivas que reimaginan el arte y su papel en nuestras vidas diarias.











Are we all interconnected?  Do you know the girl you mocked in kindergarten?  The one who you unknowingly harassed?  If not for common names, would you know the little boy at the back of your ninth grade math class who farted nonstop?  What happened to losing touch?  What happened was isolation was a blip and this global village is getting bigger? Twentieth century rebellion and escape was just a momentary fantasy? What happened was the joke's on you, because you wonder will high school ever end?  Your reinvention comes off as a distraction, you know that?  But I think you never stopped living with all those who you lost, right? How could you stop loving or at least stop remembering your first lesson of love? You learned well, didn't you? Did you see the news report with the scientists who said remembering is the same as reliving? Will we all be doomed to relive or overjoyed? Will there be a way to escape? Does a village to keep us all within certain preestablished boundaries or just more aware of them?  This is practically meaningless, you know?  And then the fact that we are all more social useful, does this scare you?  Am I made more socially useful?  Were you?  All of us should find something beautiful to say, shouldn't we?  Something true would be nice?  I think so? Could I suggest you get married and have a huge reunion party? Could I sent the Evite? Maybe you could paint that day in the woods when you had your hair up and that yellow dress with red stripes and my underwear on? Remember when we all ran down to the lake and buried our face in the cold water trying to forget the sun and its harshness?  Remember when we drove at eighty miles an hour to throw ourselves into a sweaty pool of flesh?  How could you forget?  We will never lose touch of our lies, you know?  All of us?  I think so?









LA PAGINA GOOGLE

Me acaba de llegar una semblanza muy, pero muy interesante. De hecho, voy a tener que agregar esta información a mi biografía y a mi currículo ahora mismo:

SU OBRA EDITORIAL SE ENCUENTRA EN LAS BIBLIOTECAS, LIBRERIAS E INSTITUCIONES EDUCATIVAS, PUBLICAS Y PRIVADAS MAS IMPORTANTES NACIONALES Y DEL EXTERIOR, COMO EN LA BIBLIOTECA DEL CONGRESO DE ESTADOS UNIDOS DE NORTEAMERICA; EN LA BIBLIOTECA DE LA SANTA SEDE; DE LOS REYES DE ESPAÑA, ETC. ASI COMO EN LA PAGINA GOOGLE.

Porque claro, mi obra editorial también se encuentra en estos lugares y en LA PAGINA GOOGLE.

Risa risa.

Almost Island


Just stumbled upon Mumbai-based Almost Island with intimate, disastrous, luminous poetry, prose and essays. Especially striking translations of poetry from twentieth century Bolivia and modern day Saigon.
(Trying not to say interesting or compelling or awesome on the blog anymore. Hay que hacer ejercicio léxico pues.)


A an exerpt from The Night by Jaime Saenz en español and in English translation by Forrest Gander. Sample:

La experiencia más dolorosa, la más triste y aterradora que
imaginarse pueda,
es sin duda la experiencia del alcohol.

Y está al alcance de cualquier mortal.
Abre muchas puertas.

/

The most painful, the most morbid and terrifying
experience imaginable
comes by grace of alcohol.

And any walking stiff who wants it can get it.
It opens door after door.


°°°



Also on Almost Island: Five poems by the Saigon poet, Nguyen Quoc Chanh, translated by Linh Dinh. An excerpt from his poem Post, Post, but not Post... :

Past: I tattooed myself, fought the Chinese.
Now: my granddad hawks tofu.

Past: I flexed myself against the French.
Now: my dad mends shoes on the sidewalk.

A while ago: I risked my life against the Americans.
Now: my wife is anxious to marry an American.

Sometimes I want to forget: O the ones who cry alone!
Sometimes I want to believe: O the ones who cry alone!
Sometimes I want to go mad: O the ones who cry alone!

Portrait of the Mal


Today starts a new series on bad texas of occasional translations of blog posts in Spanish - these are posts that make me pause, stop my incessant interscrolling and leave ripples and eddies in my brain for days after. There are contextual and translation notes after the translated post. To start things off, this post from Guatemala by Javier Payeras:


Portrait of the Mal°
Monday, August 18, 2008 on chulo chucho colocho


I feel guilty each time I write. I feel guilty each time I finish a page and someone else reads it. I feel guilty for thinking that I can make literature. People who make literature become the literati. I feel guilty for that, for saying that I'm a literary person. This is a long series of guilty feelings which finally end up being pure rhetoric.

I once read a phrase that I liked, something encapsulated in a book that motivated me to write. Someone gave me the recipe for baking a cake and I burned it. Someone clapped for me and I sang four more songs. Someone pushed me and I slipped. No one warned me that it would be easier if I didn't touch the pristine, blank sheet of paper I had in front of me with my impure hands.

No one should be taken to prison for the simple fact of writing, just as no one should be taken prisoner for stripping off their clothes. But if one writes and then publishes, it is the same as leaving the house naked and scaring the lady selling bread: it makes a mockery of the thin line between the semiliterate amateur and the genius. It is a crime.

So becoming a bad writer is the same as transforming into a criminal genius. I am a criminal: I have published a few not very important books, I have called myself a writer, they have called me a writer and up to this date I have not used surgical gloves to touch or to say what I love.

I greatly appreciate the people who make me see things and who through their criticism try to make me be reasonable. I have several people who discourage me for my own good and for the good of literature. They accuse me of being all sorts of things: opportunistic (that was the first thing they called me), pretentious, degenerate, disillusioned, consumerist, mediocre, phony, cynical, illiterate, insecure, naive, deceitful and a ton of other adjectives of that ilk. Unfortunately, writing is the best I can do (which does not mean that I do it well). Perhaps the most difficult of all has been to survive. When I show up to ask for a job, employers look at my resume and laugh. It seems stupid to them that I say I am a writer. Everyone thinks that a writer is a pompous person and not someone unemployed who—if they so desire—could throw away the trash or clean their toilets for them. They think that we writers live in cosmopolitan cities, we have money, literary agents, we dine with ambassadors, we give lectures in packed auditoriums and we sleep with lots of women. So then they answer

—you know we already hired someone—

and they give me no other option except turning around and taking off.


°°°


Contextual and Translation Notes:

I found the blog of Javier Payeras a few days ago by way of another Guatemalan author, Alan Mills. (Yes, I know, his name is Alan Mills and he is Guatemalan.) I was reading one of Mills' poems in Plan B, an independent poetry project out of Ciudad Juárez that is publishing amazing poets from all over North and Central America, a kind of bridge between worlds and languages if you will. So I read a poem in Spanish by Mills and I was shocked to find a gringo who wrote such amazing work in Spanish. So I went to his blog Revólver and discovered that his name was simply some kind of fluke of colonial experiments (I invented an explanation in my head) and that he was certainly no gringo. But while on his blog, I read a post that linked me to one by Javier Payeras, Retrato del mal. This post grabbed me and left me musing. So last night at 2am when I couldn't sleep I translated it. This morning, Payeras gave permission to post it.

° The title I translated as "Portrait of the Mal." Mal is actually a word in English, used more in medical terminology as I found in The American Heritage Stedman's Medical Dictionary. The definition is "a disease or disorder." I liked the idea of leaving the word mal there, because the noun mal in Spanish has multiple definitions (translation of the definitions from here) - 1) the opposite of good, evil; 2) material or moral harm; 3) misfortune or calamity; 4) illness or ailment. I wanted to capture the complexity of the word mal in Spanish and since I could think of no word in English that had these multiple meanings, I decided to leave the word mal which turns out then to be a decision not only to leave the word in Spanish, but also to translate the word into English, i.e. a medical term for a disorder. At the same time, I left the word untranslated and translated it. I'm a happy translator today.

A congeries




Thus the city I wanted as my object had to be one that I knew in its intimate details.  New York was too big, too much a congeries of the world's facets.  I wanted something nearer, something knowable.  I deliberately selected Paterson as my reality.  My own suburb was not distinguished or varied enough for my purpose.

- William Carlos Williams, from his Statement preceding his long poem Paterson




* To save you a trip to dictionary.com, a congeries is an assemblage, aggregation or heap.