Friday, November 27, 2009

Holiday Haikus

To be alone during any holiday is not fun, but to be relatively alone on Thanksgiving is a crime. For some reason this solitary confinement has made me think in Haikus.
To think in Haikus has its benefits. It challenges you without tiring you out. You can pare your feelings down to the size of prayers that people place at the feet of idols. It helps you prioritize your emotions on paper (or screen, I suppose). Here are a few perhaps silly ones that have been revolving in my head on the topic of Thanksgiving:

Eden

At home in Eden
food and laughter fill bellies
save room for pie.

Turkey Day

Three different meats
all turkeys go to heaven
leftovers for weeks.

sorry, one more:

Affluence

In front of TV
the Oilers are the Texans?
no one keeping score.

Ok. I invite all who so desire to leave a Holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Years) Haiku in the comments section. Without making it too strict, just make a three lined poem with the following syllabic make up 5-7-5. This will help exercise your creative muscle. They can be silly, semi-silly, profound, not perverted, whatever (almost).

Ok. One more:

Thankful

Around the table
taking turns to give our thanks
missing hugs from Sam


Sunday, October 25, 2009

Into the Archive: 31 and all alone.

I've been missing my wife 'n' kids. They are currently in Priscila's homeland and so this little gem of a memory that I found in my archive, like it was the text of Don Quijote, gave me a smile today, my 31st anniversary of not dieing:

video

This is Lili at 10 months old when we were visiting Argentina in February of 2006. Yes, I am the whistler.

- Note Lili's improvisation at the end with her dramatic transition from waving the Argentine flag while on her feet to down on her knees during the ecstatic conclusion of the my abridged version of the national anthem of Argentina:

"Y juremos con gloria morir! Y juremos con gloria morir! [bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam]" ("And we swear that we will die in glory! And we swear that we will die with glory! [dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum]").

Funny stuff.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Millenial Fire Drill?


(Thanks to Cousin Sidra in situ)

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Chia Obama? and petition for new pose



This is no joke and I'm probably the last to find out about this but I thought that I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to comment on this latest cultural faux pas. http://www.chiaobama.com/

I already consider the Chia Pet® is already a kitschy mistep of melding culture and nature but the evolution from Pet to Obama is unbelievable.

They have a "Determined" and a "Happy" pose but where is the "Flowering" or the "Who just put water on my head?" pose?
So anyone who comments - that is if anyone does comment - please leave a suggestion for a new Chia Obama® pose.

Ok, one more: the "Like my new Astro?" pose.

P.S. I think the actor on the chiaobama website video is a local (Utah). Anybody recognize him?

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Whoa oh uh oh Dream Weaver...

It's too nice outside - Hindsight is miopic:


Saturday, May 2, 2009

Interdialogue, and Mr. Wind

~ So, what do you do for a living?  
- Well, for right now, I go to school and I get paid to do so.  
~ What do you study? 
- Well, I am a PhD candidate in the Spanish Literature program.  
~ What's that? 
- What's that? 
~ Yeah, what's that? 
- I am studying how to be a good critic of literature that is written in Spanish from a perspective centered in a culture where Spanish is the main language. 
~ And what can you do with that? 
- With what? 
~ With your PhD literary critic degree. 
- Well, I am training to be a professional scholar so my best prospects for employment come from the higher education field. 
~ Your going to teach College Spanish? 
- Well, maybe.  It depends.  It depends on where I get a job. 
~ What do you mean? 
- If I get a job at a university where there is a possibility for tenure - which usually exclusively comes from four-year universities - then I will probably not teach Spanish as in the language (as in como se dice and yo me llamo) but will be a scholar (as in read a lot, write a lot, talk a lot, lie a lot, sit a lot, travel a lot, think a bit) with minimum teaching duties each semester (as in teach Spanish literature courses). 
~ And if you don't get a job in one of those universities, where would you work? 
- Well, if I don't get what is known as a tenure-track position in a four-year university I can still get a position in a liberal arts college or I suppose I could work at a community college. 
~ Would you teach como se dice in a liberal arts college or a community college? 
- I would most definitely teach como se dice-yo me llamo if I were to work at a community college and if I were to get a job at a liberal arts college I would probably teach both como se dice and literature. 
~ So you'll be a professor? 
- Yes. 
~ So what does one literary critic do anyway? 
- A literary critic reads and writes about all texts that can be considered literary. 
~ What does that mean? 
- I don't know, exactly, but it in general it includes novels, short stories, poems, films, artsy books,  booksy arts, and music lyrics to name a few. Basically, fictitious art communicated through language. 
~ Whatever. 
- Right. 
~ How does your intended career contribute to the well being of the human race? 
- Whoa! Take it easy! 
~ Sorry. I was just trying to hide my real question: Why would anyone pay you to read and write? 
- Argh!! Salt in the proverbial humanities wound! 
~ Now what does that supposed to mean? 
- Ahah! See? If literary critics didn't exist, who would be able to answer your question? 
~ Never mind, it doesn't matter now. 
- Wait, wait a second. Let me explain, maybe... Language is a part of us yet it seems apart from us.  We don't just use it to communicate information (i.e. What time is it? It is one o'clock), we also use it to communicate identity, emotion, to influence someone for good or bad, to assess and to understand both ourselves and others.  Literature is about this communicative power.  Though you may point out, and you'd be absolutely right if you did, that spoken language is different than literature, they are unavoidably tied to one another. 
~ And the economic part of the question? 
- Right, have patience my friend... If language (oral and written)  is so important to who we are, then studying literature is a study of ourselves.  To be more straight to the point about it: literary criticism is a method of philosophy. 
~ So you're going to be a philosopher. - Sure why not. ~ Still, why should anyone pay you for thinking? 
- You are obviously concerned with practical matters.  What do I produce? What comes of what I do? is what you want to know.  A dentist fixes teeth so that they don't cause pain to their owner so that the owner of said teeth can continue to live, but without pain, in order to produce whatever the produce; A mechanic diagnoses and fixes cars, etc. so that their owners can use them to travel and to produce whatever they produce; A doctor diagnoses problems, helps cure, and alleviates his or her patients pain or discomfort so that these patients can then continue to live and produce what they produce; A teacher... 
~ Right.  If you're not helping society produce and progress, what are you doing? I realize that not everyone will, or should, produce something tangible but don't you think that we have some responsibility to each other as humans to make living worth living? 
- Well your comments and questions are really complicated and intricate.  What you are saying and what you are asking is exactly what I do as a literary scholar (I like that better, let's pretend that I've always considered my projected profession as a literary 'scholar' instead of a 'critic').  I suppose that the idea is that as I and others look at what literature has to say about questions such as yours, and as we try to 'translate' what we read from these texts, that we'll be able to find some of these answers, which opens possibilities for us as humans to 'progress' as you have put it. 
~ Ok. I think I understand.  But doesn't religion do the same thing? 
- Yes and no.  I would say off the top of my head, and off the tips of my fingers, that theology looks beyond literature and into questions of being, of existence.  I certainly consider these questions as a literary scholar, but I do so through my reading of literature.  I'm not necessarily looking for evidence of God in literature; rather, I am looking for evidence of God in humanity through literature - that is, what makes humans human and what makes humans inhuman. 
~ Once again, you've lost me.  Why don't you give me an example. 
- Well, I am particularly interested in how our relationship as humans with non-humans is presented and perused in literature.  My example may seem silly (oh and it is) but just watch this clip and think about what this advertisement is trying to 'do:'



- Ingenious, right? It's absurd to think of wind as a large french-sounding derby-wearing loner, right? 
~ Right. 
- Yet we do something like this quite often: "Why did the wind have to blow my hat off?" or "Around here the wind never rests."  In order to understand our experience in nature, we create relationships within it.  So how would I analyze this 'text'?  It's hard to separate the context from the text in this case.  Here wind is a misunderstood and ignored being who doesn't understand why he is seen this way by humans.  And the way to overcome this unfortunate circumstance there is provided an intermediary: a wind-energy company that presumably does indeed understand the wind.  Now that Mr. Wind has been given the chance, he and the wind-energy company have found a way to help each other out: "Wind + Windmills = clean energy for humans so that they can continue to live the way they live without the guilt that using carbon-based fuels creates, and wind becomes 'useful' and therefore 'desirable' and 'friendly' to humankind (the only thing that would absolutely clinch this is if at the end of the commercial the actor playing Mr. Wind were replaced by a more 'desirable' faced actor (probably a woman, if they would choose to follow the unfortunately historical model depiction of nature, that is)). 
~ So what do you think this says about who we are as humans? 
- Well, I should have mentioned earlier that not every analysis (in fact almost no analyses) ends in a revelation about what it means to be human. Some just try to point out how literature affects and effects us as readers and some simply try to tie literature to philosophy.  
~ And what did you do with this example? 
- I would say that my brief analysis is really a critique on how 'Green' companies use models of human/nature relationships that really aren't necessarily completely 'green' at their core and that, as is to be expected, their ultimate goal is to convince the consumer to switch to, or support, wind-energy technology so that they will be successful in business.  This is not to say that their intentions lack any 'green' thinking. I am only trying to peel back their message to reveal its integral parts. 
~ But wouldn't you say that the commercial is funny? 
- Oh yeah, it's clever alright, I'm just a critic (I guess I'll have to go back to calling myself a 'literary critic' and not a 'literary scholar').  

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Between Lilliput and Brobdingnag

Beardlog, Hairdate 56:03:32 (humor me non-Startrek fans):

'Although it has only been 56 days, 3 hours and 32 minutes, it feels like I've gone

through 1001 nights. I've tried to quell the rebelliousness of my nerves but I've failed
miserably. I am finding myself looking everywhere for meaning in my experiment.

Last week I was finally organizing the books that I inherited by what seemed to be
pure chance from my eccentric neighbor who mysteriously disappeared the week
before - only 3 months after he had moved here from his homeland of self-described
"men of small means yet highly trained in the art of weaving rope and tying knots." I
found the books inside an old, somber looking wooden crate outside my door one
morning. My only clue that these books came from him scrawled itself
perpendicularly on a lined sheet of notebook paper that I found stuck inside a book
missing its cover and title page. The paper was a crisp contrast to the antiquatedly
frayed page margins of the yellowed manuscript. It must have been this contrast that
roused my curiosity to the point that I slid the note out of the book's grasp until the
manila, ragged pages rolled together again. Laying the book back down carefully into
the crate as if I would set off a bomb if I didn't put it back exactly in its previous
position alongside its fellow antiques, I read the note. I suddenly became aware of my
indiscretion and I scanned the note precipitously. A word caught my glance. Better yet
it was a letter that attracted my returning gaze. Looming like buzzing neon, "G" was
hard to ignore and it reminded me of the curious way my neighbor referred to himself
- in such a way that I never pushed for an explanation as to its origin - as "Mr. G." As if
by a projection of a subconscious recognition of what was already on my mind at the
moment, I reread the note with more confidence:


"grown too big for this old place. moving on to bigger and better things. take my books, no room in my life for vestiges such as these. best of luck with your endeavors, G."

I never doubted for a moment that these were the words of Mr. G. He knew that I was
a bibliophile and I knew that he was anxious to change his surroundings. In fact, his
insistence on constant change was at the base of his eccentricity. G was always
changing everything about him, especially his appearance. If we didn't meet in the
hall or outside the apartment building at least once a day, I would feel a strange
disorientation when I would see him again to the point that G would have to remind
me that it was he who I was looking at by simply looking me in the eyes and saying
"G." Inevitably I would banally respond by indicating the change that had already
been adequately emphasized in his eyes and in his name: "Sorry. Your new hat threw
me off." We both knew that it wasn't his change in fashion that perpetually confused
me. Something else had changed that made his hat look smaller or his shoes clown-
like. During the first two months of our acquaintance, my studies of English Folktales
were so tightly wound around my head like iron hoops around a wooden barrel that
these uncanny discrepancies slipped from my mind only to return when we would
reintroduce ourselves upon our next encounter.

His want for change was contagious and the present experiment is, in many ways,
because of his insistence that I finally let my beard grow. I had never let my beard
grow before because I couldn't. My school and my work allowed only the moustache
as a reflection of refined manhood and so my decision to grow facial hair was reduced
to a decision between enduring frequent nicks on my chin and keeping a 'booger
broom' in addition to only slight decrease in nibs of toilet paper polka-dotted with
blood. Mr. G's suggestion at first bothered me because I had already planned to begin
to grow a beard but I didn't want to do so if this obviously disturbed man could
possibly think that he had any influence on my decisions regarding personal hygiene.
And so when I retorted his suggestion by revealing my idea for an experiment where I
would see how long a beard I could grow in a year, G's response of delight surprised
me as much as my spontaneous plan to avoid embarrassment had surprised me. Now
that I reflect upon it, our conversation that day was the longest line of connected
sentences that we ever shared. I now realize that it was the only conversation that we
had. G told me that he was somewhat of an expert in all matters that deal with the
human body's growth rate and he pulled out of his large breast pocket an aluminum
tube that had been perfectly rolled like the instructions on the back of a toothpaste
tube suggest. He handed it to me and said, concluding our conversation and our brief
acquaintance: "With this there are more islands on the horizon." All of this my
experience with G returned to me like in the back of a dream when I reached the
bottom of the box and found that the book without a face that I had placed on the top
of the box was now at its bottom. My still hands and calm fingers betrayed my
spinning mind as I began to read the first lines on the first page...

It doesn't matter now. The only words that remain in my memory are G's last words
"With this there are more islands on the horizon." Unwittingly, I had casually opened
the metallic tube and, assuming that it was an innocent hair tonic, smoothed its
contents onto my face where I felt my beard would grow. Nothing that followed that
fateful beginning seemed to be out of the ordinary. My beard grew and my
appearance began to shift accordingly.

Today I write this with great difficulty as my fingers clumsily sort out the keyboard
one letter at a time, my hands are heavy, my elbows ache. I have outgrown my clothes
and food not longer satisfies my hunger. This must be my last entry. I must move
forward:'





Why the story? Well I bought baby bananas and I took this picture. I thought that I could both update my beard growing and diffuse of the schizophrenia that I'm going through as a result of being under the yoke of 4 PhD seminars including Victorian visual culture, Post Franco Spanish lit, Literature and post-natural discourse, and Latin American visual modernities.

Oh. Someone else who's is growing to-big-for-their-britches (feel free to use this cliche/idiom):

Sam (photo taken by Priscila):