This would be home.  And this would be the space to write about these things which happen to one person and should be could be reflected in the world around one.  But one does not obstinately does not use this space for that.  And one hopes you understand.  The parasitic internet world around us surrounds us and colludes against us at least in post-apocalyptic fantasies.  Who knows what would really be the meaning of all these robotic arms and new processing brains and memory cards.  Would this be a memory card.  

So long as I remain alive and well I shall continue to feel strongly about prose style, to love the surface of the earth, and to take a pleasure in solid objects and scraps of useless information. It is no use trying to suppress that side of myself. The job is to reconcile my ingrained likes and dislikes with the essentially public, non-individual activities that this age forces on all of us.

- George Orwell in Why I Write

Intricacies of Modern Arabic




Edward Said has this incredible essay, The Language of the People or of the Scholars?, a primer on the modern day complexities of the Arabic language - standard, classical and colloquials - and the intricate divisions and interconnections between these varieties across nationalities and social classes. It is so worth reading. I often use this blog as a place to leave these kinds of things that fascinate me. And I wanted to leave this here for me and for you.

All this light is dead," said Ingeborg. "All this light was emitted thousands and millions of years ago. It's the past, do you see? When these stars cast their light, we didn't exist, life on Earth didn't exist, even Earth didn't exist. This light was cast a long time ago. It's the past, we're surrounded by the past, everything that no longer exists or exists only in memory or guesswork is there now, above us, shining on the mountains and the snow and we can't do anything to stop it."

La bienvenida oficial al DF

Al lado del Templo Mayor, rodeado de danzantes, olor a copal y breakdancers que llamaban a los espiritus de la lluvia y del sol, un hombre canoso con una colita trenzada en un traje de lino blanco y huaraches se nos acerca para ofrecernos una hoja de papel con todos los dioses aztecas listados con dibujitos de cada uno.   Meneamos la cabeza y le dijimos "No gracias" mirándole en los ojos un segundo.  Y nos dice, "No pues, se la regalo, quiero que conozcan algo de nuestra cultura."  Y meneamos otra vez la cabeza.  Nos dice, "¿De dónde son?" Y contestamos que somos de Tejas y la cara del señor se vuelve rojo y más arrugado y nos dice, "No pues, no, no les voy a regalar nada.  Ustedes ni pueden entender esto.  Solamente entienden Mickey Mouse y el Hombre Araña y las chingaderas de allá.  No les voy a dar nada."  Ya me sentía como que caliente, mi cuerpo tieso, y le digo, "Modernízate guey modernízate.  No seas idiota."  Y esquiva la mirada, nos da la espalda y tan pronto como apareció, el señor se va, gritando, "No, ustedes nunca van a entender nada de nuestra cultura.  Nada de nada."


You get quiet.  You are almost always alone.  You stop going out to the city. Stop telling long, entertaining stories to make people laugh.  You move into yourself and out of the world.  You suddenly realize the language you used to speak is not the language you write now.  You suddenly realize what condensation gathers on the window on days when suddenly the temperature drops.  You cook beans in a pot made of clay, let them come to a boil and then watch them.  You do small things.  You write like never before because suddenly you have nothing else and it is obvious that there is nothing else.  You stop reading the Internet.  You disconnect from the Internet.  Your friends are worried about you.   You do nothing to allay their fears.  You stop returning phone calls in a regular, orderly fashion.  You harbor dreams of greatness and wonder how it would be achieved.  You masturbate at night and continue to enjoy the moment after orgasm more than the orgasm itself.  You write because your grandmother dies and suddenly that entire generation is gone.  You try to imagine fictional worlds and constantly end up regressing to your own.  You wonder about how your language has regressed in the last few years.  Your isolation is supposed to be productive.  You produce.  You write many words whose quality you doubt to the extreme.  You labor over words and syntax.  You strain to eek something shiny and bright out of old, old words.  Sometimes you are happy in your quietness and talk to yourself.  This is not being quiet, you scold yourself. Alone, staring out the window you see the trees, the forest, the mountain in the distance.  You have suddenly arrived to the place you have always wanted to be. The chance is yours.  

(This is a reprint from the Catalogue of Feeling.)

Nimrod Call for Submissions
for spring issue focused on Mexico
Deadline: December 15, 2008
http://www.utulsa.edu/nimrod/



We are happy to share a call for submissions from Nimrod International Journal, one of the oldest "little magazines" in the country. Nimrod's Spring 2009 issue will be devoted to Mexico. They are interested in receiving poetry, short stories, and personal essays-in English or translated into English-by those currently living in Mexico, Mexican residents of other countries, and others who write about or from within the culture. Send no more than 10 pages of poetry, and stories and essays of no more than 7,500 words, in any subject or style. Translations should be accompanied by the original and, when necessary, a release from the author to publish in Nimrod. From the United States, mail submissions to: Nimrod Journal, The University of Tulsa, 800 S. Tucker Drive, Tulsa, OK 74104 [Mark both the outer envelope and the cover letter with "Mexico issue."] Outside the United States, submissions will be accepted by mail or in the body of an email to nimrod@utulsa.edu. The deadline for submissions is December 15, 2008. Please feel free to share this call widely. Visit the website for more information.


Worn out and spun around a pole. Knit into a corner of holey concrete. Arranged for sale. Time would be a savior of tulips and glass vases. Tomato sauce smothered on everything. Gone for a moment please.

(This is a reprint from the Catalogue of Feeling.)

Dee Ef

Inspiration wasn't the same today as before. The muse who before swept me along and up and dreaming now sits down on a bench and stairs me in the eye. The muse is a man with a haggard face stained and dusted by the metropolis' grimy reach. The muse is something else much more sporadic and random. Today my friend swore he saw Gael García Bernal at a table in the back of the Argentinian restaurant but it wasn't him, it was a guy with the same haircut sitting alone looking slightly sad with a similar face but rounder, more bulbous, and with something of a round ball attached to the tip of his nose. Maybe inspiration would be watching a marital fight over traffic that just doesn't move, the nervous silences followed by rapid fire excuses and pleas for understanding. Perhaps trying to make yourself understood in a language you barely understand is the most inspiring. Perhaps walking and connecting with asphalt, sweat, mandarin oranges and cabbage would be. Rivers of grime outpour into a gold-lined gulley.

Half an Hour

Never made it with you and don't expect
I will. Some talk, a slight move closer,
as in the bar yesterday, nothing more.
A pity, I won't deny. But we artists
now and then by pushing our minds
can––but only for a moment––create
a pleasure that seems almost physical.
That's why in the bar yesterday––with the help
of alcohol's merciful power––I had
a half-hour that was completely erotic.
I think you knew it and
stayed on purpose a little longer.
That was really necessary. Because
with all my imagination and spell of the drinks,
I just had to see your lips,
had to have your body near.

- A poem by Cavafy translated by George Economou.  More here.

Cutouts on Street Corners in Tucson, Arizona

Activists in Tucson, Arizona have been placing life-sized cutouts of Maricopa County’s insidiously regressive anti-immigrant law enforcement officials around town on street corners and at intersections, including one of the chief of armed despicability himself, America’s self-described “toughest sheriff” Joe Arpaio, and another of a Border Patrol agent, presumed to depict Nicholas Corbett, who just recently faced a hung trial for the second time after being charged with the murder of Mexican immigrant Francisco Dominguez in January of 2007.

Text and image from Subtopia.

Notes for the Future, Obama and the Northamericans

I just got back from a presentation at the Book Fair in Tampico, Tamaulipas, México.  I gave a talk in a tent in the main square on translation and also set up a desk in the square and did free translations for passers-by: letters for kids to their English teachers, love letters y más.  At the end of my talk, I passed out cards to the audience and asked them to write their hopes, dreams, recommendations, suggestions for the new Unitedstatesian president and for the Unitedstatesian people.  I told them I would translate what they wrote and post it on this blog so that my readers would have a look into what people in one small port city at one hopeful moment had to say about los Yunaites.  Here are their notes translated into inglés:

Obama: I want a better world I want peace on Earth I just want love I think that's what everyone wants. Race or whatever color you are doesn't matter it doesn't matter if you're from here or if you are someone from somewhere else.  Now I want the best for the world that the war stops that the dawn breaks once again that the land provides fruit again but you what do you want...  - José A. Pérez Mtz 

Open your eyes.  Watch out for the Right.  Hope isn't everything.

I hope for more human relationships between you Northamericans and us Mexicans, I wish you a lot of prosperity.  - Adriana

Well what I think is that Obama is going to be the change because he is between two races his mom and his materal grandparents his dad of color so there isn't any mistrust of him on my part and I do hope that he gets papers for all the Mexicans that are over there and don't have family here and already have their roots there that he helps everybody over there all the Mexicans. - Rosalba Gómez Hdz - his American mom his dad of color

That the hope entrusted in the President elect of the U.S. is reflected in real change and that it doesn't happen to them like it happened with us Mexicans, the change promised by Fox never happened.

That he eradicates racism hopefully it happens since he's of color he could be the perfect person to do that.  - María Olivia Ibarra Hernández

My hope for the whole world especially those who govern the nations is to work, work and work to find solutions to worldwide poverty.  - Joel Guerrero Morante

(i am a grandmother) i was pleased that Obama won since it represents a change that was needed for a long time  - Maria Jesus Ramirez

That he can follow through on his campaign proposals and fulfills the hopes invested in him. 

Obama: Never forget the common man Never forget to respect equality of opportunity, justice for everyone equally Never kill anyone with your power.  - Martha Izaguirre

Remi sans famille

As I've discovered over the last few months, Remi is universally known to all Mexican young adults of a certain age.  Unaltered Remi image here.  No, Remi is not normally dressed up in leather and standing on Corazón Alegre his pet monkey.  So sad.  Remi is always very sad.   Did anyone in Gringolandia watch this when they were little?

La imagen es de Manuel Meza.  Hay más de sus ilustraciones aquí y más de un colectivo de ilustradores chilangos aquí.   Check them out!

Un vocabulario shihuahuense

acá - Y mi mamá, todo acá, diciendo no salgas a esta hora.  Musho sholo ahorita.
aguaje - Vamos al aguaje ya, esta pinshe ciudad no tiene de otra.
reborujado - Pinshe narco, la ciudad está bien reborujado.
reborujo - Puro reborujo esta ciudad.
repunoso - Cuidate con ese mushasho m'ija, está repunoso el tipo.

°°°

Y quiero saber cómo le llamas o qué palabra usas cuando el hotel donde te estás quedando en Shihuahua llegue a ser la base de operaciones para la Policia Federal.  Frente a mí, una alberca de hotel, al otro lado más de dos cientos policias federales uniformados y con ametralladoras.  Más vale que me fuera de aquí ya, opino yo.  Si no fuera por las dos mujeres vestidas de monjas a mi lado, tendría más miedo aún.  Uf.