SCHIZZI

Little Pat--Parisian Boy

2011-11-01T18:21:00.000-07:00

Le Pilote #2

Summary: In trying to fix a TV antenna, Pat finds an injured carrier pigeon carrying a mysterious message, with an address and a plea for help. Mr. Soupe is a bit startled by Pat's acrobatics.

"You can open your eyes now Mr. Soupe, I'm out of danger. And look, I've got a surprise for you."

"But..."

"29 Brooks Street, by car."

"Little Pat!"

"An empty house. Closed door. Strange... Pat, my friend, it's time to pull out the big guns. No one should ever climb this high without a parachute. From what it looks like Pat, you're life is hanging by a thread! If Hollywood doesn't hire me to play Tarzan after seeing this... The path of adventure is littered with chimnees."

Sussi e Biribissi

2011-10-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

Ch.II, A Cat Worth a Fortune (Che vale un peru`)

Biribissi couldn't sleep that night. He just tossed and turned, throwing a couple of nasty kicks from time to time into Buricchio wh was sleeping at the foot of the bed.

"Wait! Who is Buricchio?" I hear you saying now.

I'll tell you. Biricchio is a big, fat tabby cat that would make your mouth water. I say mouth water on purpose, because it happened more than once that he was almost taken for a jack-rabbit by a few resatuarants. But Buricchio, like all good little beasties, enjoyed the protection of Saint Anthony and had gloriously escaped all danger.

Overall, Buricchio was not like other cats. He had a cat's nose and paws. A cat's fur and tail, but he was more well spoken than quite a few chaps I know personally.

I imagine you all smirking incredulously, saying: "My dear, nephew of Collodi, no beast has ever uttered a human word, so please refrain from telling us such stories."

Actually, no, my dearest little readers. Despite the fact that certain ideas may pass through my brain, I only want the best for you as if you were my only little brothers. I swear to you all that Buricchio could speak, and with such good judgement, that he would have made many of you jealous. And during such fortunate times as Sussi and Biribissi had, animals talked like people, while people nowadays, I lie not, often speak just like animals. The effects of progress.

I told you all that Biribissi couldn't sleep that night, but threw a few kicks every now and agian into the side of our poor tabby curled up at his feet.

Buricchio finally lost his patience.

--Master Biribissi! Could you please keep still for just a moment?
--I can't sleep--he responded.
--I am sorry for that, but could you please leave me in peace for a moment.
--Yeah, that's easy to say when you don't have a hole in your head.

Burcicchio was stumped.

--A hole in my head? Is that what you have?
--Certainly.
--Who gave it to you?
--What?
--The hole.
--I told you you wouldn't understand.
--How is one to understand when you speak like an oracle?

Biribissi sat on the bed and lit a candle.

--Tell me, Buricchio, do you know what a zenith and a nadir are?
--Buricchio smiled with satisfaction.
--Of course I do--he answered.
--Well, let's hear it...

Buy a KELTON

2011-10-29T14:51:00.000-07:00

Le Pilote #2, 5 November 1959

"Why don't you have a watch...since it's your dream to have one: A real wristwatch!"

Yes, KELTON makes you a real watch that's completely unbreakable.

Finally, a watch that you can take with you every day--and everywhere--to play, to recess, and to play sports:

You'll never take it off!

Your KELTON will impress your friends, and you'll be proud!

Some good advice: For this Christmas and its gifts: it's time to ask for a KELTON!

BANG! His KELTON holds up to hits!

KELTON

(bottom of page 10)

In the backyard 1

2011-05-24T18:32:00.000-07:00

Flakes of grass   草片
glow in the setting sun   在夕阳发光
swirling   漩涡着
like dandelions   像狮牙
and giggling girls   像女儿
behind the mower   在割草机后咯咯笑

-Siete troppo vicine-
I growl in italian   我嗥叫
then flash a smile   然后闪出一个笑容
bouncing locks   两头跳金发
haloed in gold   闪耀如佛光

The slick lawn   光滑草坪
spits green   吐出绿液
we itch the cuts   我们痒着不见的伤口
and pick the paint 剥掉绿漆
waiting for night's reason   等到傍晚的理由
to retreat indoors   回进去

Italy thinking patriotic thoughts (150th yr anniversary)

2011-03-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

Beppe Severgnini, one of Italy's most visible columnists, contemplating the kind of patriotic recharge his country needs on its 150th anniversary (corriere.it).

Sandra Corti writes(sandracorti@mac.com): "I've been living in the United States for 10 yrs. I have a 7yr old daughter here. Since he started school when he was 4, he has, every morning, together with his classmates, teacher, and the whole school in unison (via loudspeakers), stood up, placed her hand over her heart, with eyes turned to the American flag and proclaimed out loud "The Pledge of Allegiance: "I pledge allegiance to the flag of United Stats of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all". This is how American children begin their day.

Beppe's response:

A sacred duty of fidelity to a nation: The Pledge of Allegiance, it would be good for us to do it as well. I imagine the objections: what use is such a declaration in an empatic, incoherent, and absent-minded Italy? So many of our leaders have made a mockery of the 54th article of the constitution: "Citizens to whom public functions have been granted have the duty to absolve those tasks with discipline and honor, under oath according to the stipulations of the law." Why would such people honor yet another tenet of loyalty? The answer is easy, and I'm happy to give it on the day of Italy's 150th birthday.

We must give ourselves up to the requirement of fedelity of the elected: he who has a conscience must use it; he who doesn't, no phrase or ceremony will deliver it for him. A declaration a' la Americana might help instead a younger electorate upon whom we cast our hopes, and for new Italians, from whom we expect effert, enthusiasm, and loyalty that the USA expects of its new citizens. To choose a new country is to accept new duties, rights, traditions, and lifestyles. In order ot be good Italians, a bit of romantic love for the place is a necessity: there's no other way.

Many wishes. Something I find in my email inbox that I enjoyed: auguri.tecnova.it. That's right. Italy deserves better. Italy needs to be better led and inspired, not pandered to in all its desires or absolved from all its guilts.

P.S.: Happy Saint's day to all Giuseppe, Beppe, Peppe, Peppino, Pino, Pinuccio, and company!

For Carly

2011-02-28T18:02:00.000-08:00

A couple of recent block prints I'm hoping to convert into T-shirts at some point...

When I clean crumbs (A Poem)

2011-02-27T11:20:00.001-08:00

When I clean crumbs

A dirty pan

the size of my world

and bigger than our sink

I should be cleaning dishes

but sitting in a church pew

Curling water corrals the oil

I press the stubborn crust

against the rising tide

Cleaning the crumbs from my pan

brings back Mama’s tears

Fried corn bread on a Thursday morning

that’s my day

I got to say one grace

and another to myself

“forgive me for swiping the jam”

but God was never fast enough

and I snatch the first piece

That made Mama cry

Fried corn bread on a Thursday morning

doesn’t crumble like Wednesday’s freshly baked

Stiffer

the butter holds

I like it burnt

That made Mama cry

Burnt bread for her babies

The flame could never be controlled

And I never cared if those globs of jam

made her feel better too

I never saw her tears fill the sink

floating crumbs and memories of her Mama

Kentucky corn bread isn’t fried here

but then

I always taste it

when I clean crumbs

from a dirty pan the size of my world

Steelers Lose

2011-02-08T16:57:00.000-08:00

My tribute to a good team that fought with a better team on superbowl day. This is a tussle in charcoal.

The Woodblock Bug

2010-12-19T11:20:00.000-08:00

I've caught the woodblock printing bug: a combination of recent research in early modern Asian and Italian Renaissance art. Here's my first incision and print. I'm crazy about this form, a combination of my three favorite mediums: drawing, painting, and sculpting... Its reproducibility is eerily enticing too... Makes me feel exponentially creative (the empowering feeling of art's commodification?). At any rate, I've got the fever. And the only remedy is more cowbell...

Drawing at Centre

2010-12-12T18:51:00.000-08:00

I've been sitting in on our local Centre professor Sheldon Tapley's studio sessions. He has been gracious enough to let another artistically-inclined colleague to stretch out his fingers and bludgeon his pencils. It's been fun getting back into figure drawing.

Big Sky Art II

2010-11-14T17:31:00.001-08:00

Lone Mountain in all it's Autumn glory... Anyone got a job opening in Big Sky for me?

Big Sky Art

2010-11-01T16:28:00.000-07:00

Some new projects commissioned by Mamma. The Montana scenes are done in watercolors and colored pencil and will probably be turned into postcards at some point. Enjoy")

"The Bosses," Mario Vargas Llosa

2010-10-08T08:02:00.000-07:00

In celebration of Mario Vargas Llosa's Noble Prize of 2010. A translation of a section of one his mini novels, "The Bosses" (Los Jefes):

III.

He examined us with his beady little eyes, pretending to be disinterested and nonchalant. But it was impossible for us to ignore his forced smile and the fear and hate deep inside that dumpy body. He frowned and then relaxed his brow, sweat gushing out of his tiny purple hands.

He was shaking:

"You boys know what this is called? It's called rebellion. You all think that I'm going to succumb to the caprices of a bunch of idlers? I crush insolence..."

His voice lowered and raised. He was straining not to scream. "Why doesn't he just blow up already?," I thought. "Coward!"

He had stopped. A grey spot floated around his hands, resting against the glass desktop. Suddenly his voice raised. He swung around sharply:

"Out! Whoever mentions examinations will be punished."

Before Javior or I could make a gesture to him, the true Lu appeared, the one from the night robberies at the Tablada ranches and the battle with foxes on the dunes.

"Mr. director..."

He didn't turn to look at him. His eyes askance must have been releasing fire and violence, like that time when we fought in the dry riverbed. He must have been opening his mouth wide full of saliva, bearing his yellow teeth.

"We can't tolerate being failed either because there's no schedule. Why do want us all to get bad grades? Why?"

Ferrufino had drawn closer. He was practically touching his body. Lu, pale and terrified, continued speaking:

"...we're tired of this..."

"Shut up!"

The director had raised his arms, his fists crumpling something. "Shut up," he repeated infuriated. "Shut up you animal! How dare you!?"

Lu stood there quiet, gazing at Ferrufino as if his eyes were about to suddenly jump out from his neck: "They're both the same," I thought. "Two dogs."

"Seeing as how you learned from this one."

His finger was pointing straight at my forehead. I bit my lip: I immediatly felt my tongue slide against a hot string. This calmed me.

"Out!," he yelled again. "Out of here! Or you'll regret it!"

We left. An immobile anxious crowd extended to the edge of the stairs connecting San Miguel's college to the plaza Merino. Our classmates had tromped through the small gardens and fontain; they were silent and worried. Strangely, between the white, ecstatic patches some blanks appeared, small rectangles that no one had trampled. Their heads all looked the same, like in a march formation. We crossed the plaza.

No one asked us anything: they moved to one side, making way and pressing thier lips. They stayed where they were until our feet hit the avenue. Then, following some dispatch no one had given, they filed in behind us, without compass, as if we were heading back to classes.

The pavement boiled. It looked a mirror the sun was slowly dissolving. "Is it true?," I thought. One sweltering night I'd been told, on this very street, but I didn't believe it. The newspapers had all said that the sun, in a few isolated spots, had driven some men insane and at times even killed a few.

"Javier," I asked. "Did you ever see an egg fry on the asphalt?"

Surpised, he shook his head.

"No. But I've heard abou it."

"Is it true?"

"Who knows? We could try it out. The ground is burning like a heater."

Alberto appeared in the doorway of La Reina. His blond hair shined beautifully; it looked like gold. He waved his right hand cordially, enormous green eyes opened wide, smiling. He was curious to know where we were marching to, this amorphous, silent multitude under a crude heat.

"Are you coming later," he yelled out.

"I can't. I'll see you tonight."

"He's a moron!' Javier said. "He's a drunk."

"No," I affirmed. "He's my friend. He's a good guy."

Sketches from Rome IV

2009-12-06T07:22:00.001-08:00

Sketches from Rome III

2009-12-06T07:18:00.001-08:00

Sketches from Rome II

2009-10-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

Guest Artist: Abby's Sketches from Piazza S. Pietro

2009-10-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Abby's Korner! This is my dad drawing pictures at Saint Peter's. The next one up is my Mom messing with her camera. On the top, you can see my Mom, Sophie and I all together. I'm smiling in the front because Mom is taking a picture of Sophie and not me this time:)

Sketches from Rome I

2009-10-24T09:05:00.000-07:00

A Sculpture

2009-07-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

My last session of the summer, I decided to drop the pencil and paintbrush and get my hands dirty. I joined my other two colleagues in sculpting our gracious model. It's the first sculpture in clay I've done, I'm used to microwax. The silkiness and suppleness of the medium is great fun to work with. You can't get as fine as detail as you can with wax, but the building process is much more tactically enjoyable. With wax, you're working with heat, flame and tools more. Clay is kid's stuff--gettin' the hands all muddy. Unfortunately, the finished products don't stay together very well after they've dried--super fragile. This scultpure has since crumbled into a few different pieces. Oh, the evanescence of art...

Watercolors

2009-06-10T06:34:00.000-07:00

I'm giving watercolors some more time lately. The painting up top is mixed media: a pencil sketch with a watercolor wash over top, later touched up with color pencil. It's hard to get used to the diffused nature of the medium (especially coming from oils), but I'm fascinated with all the different effects that can occur. The one-line sketch below was done during the last couple minutes of class.

Sophia

2009-06-05T17:56:00.001-07:00

So, I've decided to turn my materials onto the family. I finally broke out this amazing set of colored pencils Jenny got me when we first got married. Sophia was my first victim. Man, she's a cutie.

Back in the Studio--Charcoals

2009-05-30T15:10:00.000-07:00

I like the messiness and stark contrasts of charcoals. Today, I'm on hiatus from color and back to the basics of line, perspective and value. The model was so comfortable, we never even took a break in the whole two hours. Apparently reclining postures are good for all around. It's nice to be back in the Saturday studio.

Pause

2009-05-04T04:35:00.001-07:00

I'm in Beijing doing some research until May 15. I'll pick back up when I return.

Watercolors

2009-04-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

I'm learning the art of watercolor painting in the studio, now--mostly by trial and error. It is much different from the oil technique I've grown up with, but I'm really enjoying it. The subtleties and uncertainties of the medium are really surprising and aesthetically intriguing. Water and pigment kind of do their own thing sometimes. But that's precisely the medium's charm. I'm really liking it. The first painting is of the model takin' a nap and the second one an exercise done at home from a sepia photograph of Abby.

Fred's Back

2009-04-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

I feel much more comfortable and confident doing male models. Strange. Must be that my drawing technique favors hulky, cut figures. I do prefer shapes and lines over soft shading and curves. Possible explanation. Freud might have a different one, though. Anywho..., this week I was determined to construct a complete compisition within the frame of one page. I am very happy with the results. I usually zero in and have a difficult time getting the whole picture in view. I'm now training my eye to work more telescopically. I also did a quick sketch with pastel colors. Every little bit helps in familiarizing myself with the mysteries of ROYGBIV.

Back to the Drawing Board

2009-04-05T08:42:00.000-07:00

A new session has begun at the Creative Oasis where I draw, and I've decided to tackle the thorny issue of color. Colorology is a totally distinct, complex science. Sketching in monochrome is one thing, but adding color is a whole other issue. I've always been fascinated with color but never quite got it. In the next few weeks, I'll begin my journey to learn how to use it. The piece here was done in pastels (another medium I find intriguing but don't have a good handle on). I'm having a particular difficult time applying color to the skin, trying to avoid making it look too flat or too colorful (where it ends up looking like fabric instead of flesh). The monochrome one-line sketch was done at the end of the session to give my eyes a break (and restore some confidence and control:)). I did another black and white sketch, but my scanner pooped out on me. Anyway, there they are

New Pics

2009-03-14T17:55:00.001-07:00

So...I haven't posted for a couple of weeks because we've been traveling on the weekends--skipping art class. A new low, I know. Anyway, I was pleased to see a new model in the studio today. She presented a whole new anatomy of forms and poses (pardon the pun). It was nice. Men's complex musculature doesn't quite provide the same satisfaction that a curvy female form does.

This time around I decided to exercise a different section of my artistic mind. Instead of aggravating my already feverish penchant for detail and perfection by focusing on one piece, for this session I elected to use a variety of different sketching methods from a number of different angles. The sketches are thus more unfinished but at the same time more suggestive, having lasted at the most 15-20min. The continuous line sketches (that's right, no unbroken lines--like a long spaghetti noodle) actually lasted about a minute or so.

Enjoy.

The Male Model's Back

2009-02-14T15:49:00.000-08:00

Any grammatical way you look at that title it works (after all, it "is" "his" back). Which brings me to something else: I've decided to call our male friend "Fred." "Fred" was supposed to be replaced by "Sally" today. But apparently something came up. So we did a side of "Fred" we've never seen before: the backside. I reckon Mom would've liked this one. As interesting as it is to sketch good ol' "Fred," though, I'm looking forward to softer-fleshed "Sally." She should be showing up in the next couple of weeks. Enjoy.

Back to the Drawing Board

2009-02-07T16:00:00.000-08:00

This standing pose with full lighting was a bit more challenging. It becomes more difficult to pick up differences in tone and keep the whole model in view. A good challenge...

Back to the Drawing Board

2009-01-31T15:43:00.000-08:00

Jenny, in all her infinite wisdom, decided that what I needed for Christmas was an art class. Something to get me back doing something I truly love and that is truly relaxing (all types of reading have essentially been ruled out as pass-times for me). So, I signed up for a figure-drawing, sculpting class at the local art studio and my first session was today. It was great. Above are two sketches from magazines I did this week at home to warm me back up for creative work. The one below is a rendition of the live model in the studio today. I very much enjoyed it and am looking forward to future sessions to hone my skills and to ease my nerves. 'Till next week...

Murakami and Running

2008-12-23T22:48:00.000-08:00

When I picked up Haruki Murakami's most recent book, I was giddy for a continuation of some post-modern experience--elephants vanishing and all that. The English title seemed promising in this regard, "What I Talk About When I Talk about Running." The cognitive compounding of thoughts and actions appeared to point to a comically twisted, self-reflexive tale of one sort or another.

Before cracking the volume in front of our crackling fire, I admit that I had already known a little bit of Murakami's life and habits. Last semester I was given the task of teaching a course on the Introduction to Asian Literalture and in my haste to suture my own syllabus out of a pile of colleagues' old ones, it just so happened that some of Murakami's 's short stories found their way into my curricural Frankenstein. Of course, before I taught the class (more precisely, a week before I lectured on him) I hadn't the faintest idea what kind of writer or person he was. Some days before I had to tell my students something significant about him, I started flipping through his short story collections and surfing the web. Wikipeida is always a great place to start. I finally came to find out that he lived a very interesting and enviable life. At least, that is how I feel about it.

His dual-life as an athelete and artist stirred something in me that I had burried long ago and that graduate school was at present stamping further into my depths: the prospect of a creative and physically engaging existence, one balanced by the body and the mind. The two things I absolutely loved to do throughout childhood and adolescence was to write, paint and play soccer and ski. Strictly speaking, this doesn't make me compatable to Murakami, not by any stretch of the imagination. For one, he writes well and continues to race in marathons. I, on the other hand, as any of my advisors can tell you, am no paragon of the pen--seriously lacking in substance where I attempt to be most influential and earnest. Not to mention, I've practically given up on soccer and skiing (permanent injuries, money issues, blahblah). These are the shortcomings that prevent any sort of direct correlation between me and the famed author I'm referring to (and secretly envying). However, the dual-desire to exercise the mind and body is certainly kindred, and Murakami's life and writing inspires me to dust off my tired and buffeted dreams to live healthily and creatively. He was thirty-three, a ripe old Dantean age, when he launched his habits as novelist and runner. Having just turned thirty-one, I aspire to make similar adjustments for my own good. Maybe it won't be a novel and a marathon...At the very least, it has to be an engaging dissertation and the occasional lap around the tredmill.

Winter Break

2008-12-21T15:38:00.000-08:00

We are privileged every now and then to get a glimpse of who we are. Like a flash of clarity we stumble over an epiphany of ourselves. It's always brief. And because the object that trips us into revelation is, in fact, us, it's usually painful too. Arguing from the analogy, it may just be the treading of the self by the self that raises consciousness. At any rate, I kicked myself today.

Sophia had just cried herself to sleep giving me a chance to finally visit the bathroom. I pushed the flimsy wood-panel door in. It floated slowly into the room oblivious of its own weight, warm billows of air cushioning its swing. Oddly enough, the bathrooms in my parents house tend to be the warmest. As I stepped in puffs of dry heat stuffed my nostrils. The sensation sent me reeling back to my childhood when I would race around our small L-ranch home in West Kingston looking for an open heating vent that wasn't occupied by a sibling (particularly an older one who couldn't be pushed around). If I were so lucky to find a vacancy, I'd plop down in front of it with a blanket slung over my shoulders and pitch a make-shift tent, letting the warm air thaw out my tummy and roll over my puckered face. Sometimes I'd bring a book along and read it shifting my weight to expose new flesh to the subtly, singeing heat. Eyeing the toilet I saw something awkwardly jammed into my toiletry bag next to the sink. It was a book that I'd recently been given by my mother-in-law that Jenny had crammed in there--who knows why. A rare gift of leisurely reading. Leisure reading--a rare gift, indeed! I'm a fourth year PhD student in Comparative Literature and can count on two fingers the one book I've read in the past few years that could qualify psychologically as a leisurely read. I pawed the glossy black cover and scanned its art: a cinematic shot of what looked to be a scruffy-looking Christian Bale being hugged by a child (I love Batman). The title read, "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, apparently "Now a Major Motion Picture" and a winner of the Pulitzer Prize. Promising. Besides, everyone had been saying it was a must read. When I'd asked them why, though (I like to have explicit reasons), all I got was a pocked plot rehash. But excitement translates even better than reasons, so imprecise reviews of the novel posed no injury to its promise.

I bent the book back to the first page of the story, skipping as I usually do the title and acknowledgment pages and began to read. "When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him" (4). I squinted after the third alliterative liquid: when, woke, woods. Hmmmmm..."In the dark and the cold of the night" began to stoke the fire of my suspicions. Finally the estranging conditional "he'd"! All this ambitiously crammed into the first sentence ushered an immediate verdict: yikes. I ventured above all good reason a quick look at sentence dos and was horrified to have the verdict glaringly upheld: "Nights dark beyond darkness." The nocturne cliche sent me reeling a second time, though, in this instance into a discomforting epiphany instead of into the past. In sync with the swirling water, I experienced an actual vertigo as a I realized that against all opinions and best intentions, I couldn't even enjoy an enjoyable book. I instantaneously reviewed the pleasure I'd got out of my recent light, vacation reading, Lu Xun's Nahan, Laoshe's Camel Xiangzi, Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar (highly recommended), and saw what I'd become. I felt it like I saw it as if my chest had emptied momentarily transparent. What I saw haunted me as I sensed that there was no respite for me. Welcome to my winter break.

(I've since turned back and tried reading The Road again. This time I purposely let the particular stylistic issues slide by and surprisingly finished the book. It was actually quite a good story. McCarthy may not be the consummate stylist but he does have a knack for a gripping tale.)

Some Tanka (Japanese) Poems

2008-10-19T14:58:00.001-07:00

Watching the Game

"don't bother me now!"
--I bite like the sweetest bark--
steadying a vision
always grows into cruelty,
where visions crash crismon

False-start

putting feet to ground
I feel the rush of the run
thighs piston in time
chugging forward, forward
a dream of quickness clunking

Happy toes

feet, our quiestest
selves. made to bend with the mind
now suddenly propped up
bare, cheerful, shedding their ache,
rubbing in pairs, happily

Relax

gen'rally, I need
more time...or maybe less of
it to adjust to
the quiet that requires
I cease searching, for more time.

Sketches of My Girls

2008-10-19T14:21:00.001-07:00

Jenny as a child. And a quick sketch of Abby reading in the Church foyer.

More sketches

2008-10-05T11:16:00.000-07:00

Some recent fast head and figure sketches. Guess of whom?

Christmas in October?

2008-10-04T11:22:00.000-07:00

I know...just trying to get a jump on Christmas cards this year. (Do I ever send these things out anyway?! At least I try).

Dreaming of Autumn, 18 July 2008, Taipei

2008-07-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

I fall
and gaze
at the pumpkin sky
on a bed of crackling blades

The wind cuts a figure
of my face
The clouds I fix
with an eye

Great mounds of cream
in a steeled pan
sliding softly to a
warmer
side
Their edges ooze
at a million points
that following strains to a sigh

To hold this season in
my view
is a folly
I'd known from the start
Sweet clouds too gooey
to bear any message
I close my eyes
Let the breeze play
Autumn's aria
for me

孔雀東南飛并序：A Chinese Romeo & Juliet

2008-03-22T05:36:00.000-07:00

In preparing for my comprehensive examination in August, I've lately been reading some very old poetry. Some of it has been fun (eat, drink and be merry...and then drink some more) and some has been cliche (I love you with the passion of a burning mid-day sun--blah, blah, blah). Just today, though, I came across a narrative poem for the ages. All 好漢 apparently know this story well, but it's new to me. I've since decided to translate the poem, 孔雀東南飛并序. It's the story of a young couple torn apart by meddling mother-in-laws in an unjust feudal structure in which young women have no rights and no hopes. The young bride in this tale is tossed around like dirty laundry as she and her young husband attempt to keep their love alive while their families scheme against them for a more auspicious future that brings honor to their families but little to them personally. How will it end up? Think Romeo and Juliet. Here's the first installment:

Part 1:

A peacock heads southeast,
then hesitates to glance back home.

"When I was 13 I learned to make silks.
At the age of 14 I learned to cut patterns for clothes.
When I was 15, I could play the kong hou.
And at 16, I learned to recite the Classic of Poetry.
Then, at 17, I become your wife.
...
Because of this, I will always suffer.
(But not because of you). Even though you were a busy official,
your devotion to me was unwavering.
(We both know the real reason why:)

The cock would crow in the morning and I would hasten to begin my sewing,
never resting until evening fell.
In just three days, I could produce 5 bolts of cloth.
But your mother complained that I worked too slowly.
That could never be, though. I was never so slow.
Being the daughter-in-law in your home was so hard.
Your mother pressured me so.
Staying around held no promise or respite for me.
Please, I told you, go speak with your mother
and tell here to release me.
Tell her to let me return to my own home."

Part 2:

You gently listened to me,
then went and plead with your mother:
"You know my prospects weren't bright.
But then we found this wonderful woman.
We bound our hair and tied the knot, sharing the same bed and pillow,
swearing that even beyond the grave we would forever remain friends.
We've been together only 2 or 3 years;
Our lives have just begun.
And my wife has been nothing but proper and kind.
Why, then, do you think so little of her?!"

Your mother snapped back:
"How can you be so thoughtless?!
This woman has no idea what propriety means!
She puts on aires and forces herself upon you.
And I have suffered with it for too long--
How dare you cross your mother!
Our neighbors have a much finer daughter.
Qin Luofu.
She is beautiful, and her figure is unparalleled.
I have already asked her hand in marriage for you.
Now, get rid of that woman, Liushi!
Send her home right away!"

You fell to your knees and plead with her again:
"If today I am forced to let Liushi go,
I will never again remarry..."

Part 3:

Your mother listened to you,
then slammed her hand down, shouting:
"How can you defend that disgrace of a woman?!
I haven't an ounce of sympathy for her.
You'll never stay together."

You listened meekly and said nothing...
then, excused yourself and came home.
You slowly explained to me what had occurred.
Your sobbing hardly let a word pass:
"It's not me! I don't want you to go!
My mother is forcing this upon us.
For now, it's best you return to your home.
I must return to my duties at government.
But I promise we'll be together again shortly.
When I return home, I will come for you myself.
Remember that I love you.
Never, ever forget what I've said: I will come for you!"

I humbly replied:
"Please...don't say such things.

"I still remember the late winter of that year,
bidding farewell to my mother and coming to you.
I was diligent and cautious in serving your mother.
My behavior was sober. I was never improper.
Day and night I continued in such a difficult way,
sad and alone, but never complaining.
I was vigilant to make no error
to repay your mother for her good graces.
And then all of a sudden, I've done something that has cast me out of our home.
Oh, what will I say when I return to my father's house?"

The taoist temple up the hill

2008-01-18T19:24:00.000-08:00

Just a...taoist temple up the hill from our house.

Somethin' s Fishy with the Humanities

2008-01-14T20:45:00.000-08:00

So, as probably all of you haven't noticed, over the past couple of weeks, world-renowned literary theorist and critic Stanley Fish has been spouting his ideas about the value of the Humanities in the New York Times. The problem, of course, with his gushings is that they are not gushy at all! His extolments achieve at best a trickle. And those few drops that slip from his pen, he intentionally reserves for himself and other like-minded, self-minded literary scholars. Speaking about a poem he recently unpacked (that's literary jargon for "to explain"), he writes:

"Why do I do it? I don’t do it because Herbert and I are co-religionists. I don’t believe what he believes or value what he values. I don’t do it because it inspires me to do other things, like change my religion, or go out and work for the poor. If I had to say, I’d say that I do it because I get something like an athletic satisfaction from the experience of trying to figure out how a remarkable verbal feat has been achieved."
(http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/01/13/the-uses-of-the-humanities-part-two/index.html)

For Fish, then, teaching and studying the humanities is all about the personal rush of exercising the heart (not the moral one, mind you) and mind--just his, naturally.

"Me, me, me"--that transparent message certainly does not need to be unpacked.

Therefore, as a view on the value of the Humanities, Fish's isn't much of one at all. In fact, it seems intentionally designed to be an argument contra that very translation of purpose and value. A sort of humanistic anti-Christ: the value of the humanities begins and ends in him--"I am inclined to like it; I'm the miracle. What about you?" This of course, is an intentional political maneuver that Fish makes, he's not that self-centered (is he?), designed to push the humanities beyond the reach of realistic and concrete evaluative measures imposed on nearly all other departments, fields of knowledge and industries. In order to justify the continued pursuit of knowledge or production, that pursuit must, in fact, produce something tangible or, at the very least, quantifiable. Stanley Fish (and he's not the first) tries to solve this problem by refusing to acknowledge the standard by openly and provocatively claiming the worthlessness of the pursuit of humanistic studies. By rendering all worth to a simple personal confession, the possibility of the objective evaluation of the worth of the humanities becomes impossible.

Ergo, the humanities are justified and safe (?!) Self-contained and solipsistic, the humanities are nothing but their own end, untranslatable and answerable to no standard other then their own internal economy.

I don't know about you, but that just feels like a really poor move. In fact, it seems down-right childish and irresponsible. Aren't the humanities designed to promote more refined gestures of communication and rhetoric? Or is this just another trope meant to achieve a surprising effect?

Unfortunately, I fear it just may end up pissing people off.

On Education

2007-12-05T23:24:00.000-08:00

A couple of things happened today that have brought me her to scribble down my thoughts on education, and if time and patience permit, perhaps even to sketch out what I feel is an ideal form of education. First of all, minutes ago I finished reading an editorial in the New York Times on the changing role of Latin (not the J-Lo kind) in an American education. The gyst of the article was rather predictable: the writer extolled the benefits of learning Latin while lamenting its reduced importance in a modern world concerned mostly with gadgets and positions. Politicians like Jefferson and Roosevelt who dedicated years to the study of the classics no longer exist. Modern-day public servants and their supporters (the general population) have traded in liberal educations for trades--for work. At that point, though, the article's rhetorical force fizzles out. It seems deliberately to shy away from making those grandeous claims about the positive psychological, intellectual and emotional impacts that studying Latin can have on an individual that might otherwise sway people to pause for a moment and ponder their own educations. He won't say it, so I will: Frankly put, studying Latin has an unbelievable capacity to make you a better person. Yes, that is right: you will think and even feel better and clearer. You will be superior because of it. And that result, the education of the whole human being, is what education should be. For some, that's precisely what it is.

Today, while reading the Mengzi (Mencius) together, my instructor, 徐老師, shared a personal experience with me that related to the text. He explained how as a young student he and a friend had read a certain passage in Mengzi and were deeply affected by it. The passage is a rather famous one (公孫丑上) and talks generally about how not to transgress your true nature. Mengzi, in fielding the questions of his student Gong Sun Chou, analyzes the system of expression and power and influence of the human mind. It sounds like quite a mouthful, but Mengzi has a knack for making complicated things quite simple: A single person's potential for power and influence is so immense that if he culivates himself properly, his spirit can fill the immensity of space. The maintenance of that power is based on the simple principle that a man's 志 (zhi)(his thoughts and intentions) drives his 氣 (qi)(the dispersion of his energies and influences--in short, his actions), and, of course, vice versa: 氣 greatly influences 志. To keep one's thoughts and actions healthy and growing, one naturally must be righteous and virtuous. If righteousness and virtue do not inform one's thought and actions, one's powers and influences will inevitably wane (其為氣也，配義與道；無是餒也). Beyond that, though, one must also practice a proper amount of self-control, that is not waste or expend too much thought and action (good or bad). One must contemplate reservation. At this point, my teacher told me how he took all this to heart. As a highschooler, he tried hard to be a good person, a good student. That attempt became a struggle and that struggle became a burden. Eventually, his mistakes disheartened him...and (I don't know, he didn't explicitly say, but I imagine) he put that task aside. This was his sort of half-hearted confession that Mengzi might have got something wrong. We sat for a couple of moments soaking in his experience. I then broke the silence: "Did you manage your pursuit of the goal? Did you manage your anxieties and frustrations?...Maybe Mengzi didn't get it wrong after all." The proposal sparked a little A-Ha! erlebnis (an "Oh, Yeah!" moment). The bell rang and we parted ways. We'll talk about it again tomorrow, no doubt.

Both of these experiences reminded me of what an education ought to be, the cultivation of the whole human being, not the least of which is his/her soul. They also brought to my mind the two indispensable modes of carrying that education out: the analysis of textual and human materials; the written and the spoken word; study and discussion/debate (dialectic, the Socratic method). Playing and struggling with words on paper and in the air help us work stuff out that has, is or will be happening in our lives. This process is education.

Now, pragmatically speaking, how does this translate into surviving or making a living? Quite frankly, the better, more intelligent and more mature a person you are, the more secure your occupation will be. But that isn't what a lot of people mean when they ask that question. They usually mean "getting ahead" or moving up the ladder of consumption of fine goods. Or, maybe they don't mean that all. Perhaps they just mean learning a useful trade so as to be useful to society. Well, why can't fixing a car, selling stocks or teaching be done on the side or even in conjunction with the education of the whole human? Why shouldn't an electrical engineer study both computer code and Latin? Why can't a plumber dabble in German or Enlightenment philosophy? A fine example of this kind of multilateral education is found in Chinese culture. In addition to the heavy emphasis on success in mathematics and the hard sciences, Chinese cultural requires their children to study English and their own classical language and history. While their execution of that form of education has its shortcomings, its emphasis of those materials, in my opinion, is spot on.

Un ángel desterrado (inspired by a recent event in Arizona)

2007-11-29T04:03:00.000-08:00

Emmanuel shuffled his feet nervously over the gravel. The sound rang clear in the cold, desert air. Daniel gently lifted his eyes from his forearms and caught the light reflecting off of Emmanuel's worn boots. The leather in spots had popped free and was curling away from the soles. The air crackled again as Emmanuel shifted his weight. His lips fumbled over each other. He bobbed for a moment and then propped himself up.

"Daniel, ¿sabes que?," he asked turning his gaze to the starry sky. Daniel straighted up and looked over at the stranger. Glancing fire light glistened on Emmanuel's widening eyes. "Aunque no te lo creas, hay príncipes en el desierto. A veces pierden el norte y se encuentran aquí. Príncipes, niños afortunados come tu.... You...eh...ehh--prince!," Emmanuel sputtered jabbing his finger in Daniel's direction. "Pero, hay serpientes también, ¿sabes? Serpientes...eh, ehh...," he stammered to a halt realizing he had no idea how to make this out in English. He puffed and then abruptly poked his finger in the ground. He shifted to his knees and shuffled along, dragging a long, winding line in the cold earth. Daniel watched on blankly. Seeing the boy's perplexity, Emmanuel began to hiss and wiggle his hands, intermittently gesturing to the drawing in the sand.

"Oh, SNAKE!," Daniel spouted.

"Sí, esnake!," Emmanuel laughed. "En el desierto hay muchos serpientes, animales y personas peligrosos." Emmanuel paused and fixed his gaze directly at Daniel. "Pero aquí, conmigo estas a salvo. No hay serpientes. Aqui, todo está bien." Daniel squinted and finally shrugged. Emmanuel thrust his head down and smirked at himself. He stood up and stepped over to the boy's side. Daniel felt his hand drop on his head and kindly ruffle his golden hair about. "No te preocupes," Emanuel softly whispered. "Todo está bien." Daniel shyly lowered his gaze and smiled. It was the first time since the car accident earlier that morning that he felt safe. It was strange running into Emmanuel wandering in the middle of the desert, but Daniel knew now everything was ok.

Emmanuel's hand slid away from Daniel's head and back into his pocket. He gazed at the horizon.... Nothing yet. He grabbed some more dried brush and tossed it onto the bonfire. "Dentro de poco verán," he quietly lamented. He bit his lip and and shook his head in disappointment. He looked back over at Daniel. It was worth it, he told himself--it was worth it. Emmanuel turned his back to the fire and stepped out into the darkness. Away from the noise of the fire, he could hear the slow approach of vehicles on the desert road.

Le scuse d'un vagabondo moderno

2007-11-26T02:58:00.000-08:00

Sono millenni che gli italiani vengono qui: Polo, Ricci, chiunque. Tutti venivano qui per aprofitare delle fiabe e delle mirabilia d’oriente. Avevano degli scopi grandiosi e la fortuna di mietere dei raccolti mitici. Però ora la situazione sembra essere cambiata. Siamo nel ventunesimo secolo. L'italia non è più come era a quell’epoca. Adesso veniamo qui per imparare la lingua cinese e non per poter poi esercitare il dominio culturale o religioso sull'Est. Anzi, la conoscenza che ora io ottengo durante questo soggiorno sarà dispersa a casa non quale una narrazione di mille storie fantastiche ma piuttosto come un libro di testo qualsiasi, informativo ma sempre un po' noioso. Imparo la lingua cinese per assicurare la mia validità nel prossimo futuro e per offrire la medesima opportunita` a migliaia di ragazzi italiani che non possono saperlo, che spesso si rinchiudono nelle fortezze immaginarie dei loro bei paesi. Perciò forse si dirà che il mio incarico sembra un poco platonico: portare la luce ai prigionieri--balle! Comunque, odio Platone. Si prendeva troppo sul serio. Quando mai oserei dire di distribuire conoscenza salvifica alle masse?! Sciocchezze. Stiamo parlando della realtà ragazzi, non dell'aldilà di un'esistenza astratta. Se vogliamo abbinare la nostra esistenza peninsulare con una realtà globale più ampia, bisogna digerire e diffondere una conoscenza Han. Per quanto mi riguarda, non voglio sminuire con un paese che rimpiccolisce sempre di più. Spero che tanto come ai tempi antichi, l'oriente ci sappia ispirare vita nuova. Altrimenti, quale valore avrà? Dico, per me—per noi!

Jenny at the Computer

2007-11-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

Apologies for the graininess of the photo. Until we getter a better camera or a portable scanner, we'll just have to suffer with sub-par photo replication.

(un)Inspired by recent events in Italy

2007-11-22T23:16:00.000-08:00

"Rudy.... Rudy? You're shaking. What's wrong?...What the hell happened? WHERE'S MEREDITH?!"

Rudy instinctively thrust his hands behind his back and scrubbed them on his jeans. He opened his mouth to lie but the horror of his own guilt struck him dumb. Meredith stared at his gaping mouth and quivering tongue. His silence only enraged her suspicions. She bounded towards the door behind him crashing through his shoulder. The knock sent a surge of adrenaline though Rudy's limbs and instantly cleared his stupor. Before Amanda could lay a hand on the knob, Rudy had turned and crushed her chest against the door frame. He crashed to the floor and clutched Amanda's shoulders with his dark grip. She felt his body tighten into an steel cage. He pressed her into the floor, stammering threats and obscenities into her ear. The crushing weight prevented her from heaving in the breath she had lost seconds ago. Her eyes bulged and lungs burned. His caustic babble faded out. She could only sense now her own desperate gasps and the dull thud of her skull against the wooden floor.

When the air finally rushed back into Amanda's lungs, she rolled over and found that she was alone. Rudy had fled. Amanda on all fours tried for the door again. She fingered for the handle. "Meredith," she coughed. "MEREDITH!"