About eight months ago I went to the dentist for a check-up and cleaning, and the dentist found a cavity in the side of my second molar on the left. I am notorious for putting off dentist visits. Not so much because I’m scared of them but because I am not ever thrilled at the bill that results. The receptionist always says in such a soft, soothing voice: “Sweetie, It’ll be $450 today.” So, I scheduled appointment the next week to have it filled. When the dentist got to drilling, he found that the tooth was more than he could fix. He said the cavity was too deep and that I’d have to have a root canal; he puts a temporary filling in it. The words “root canal” always strike me with a little fear and apprehension. So he says that he know a good dentist in Albany (Georgia). I’m like whatever. Dr. Jones’ same mellifluous receptionist made me an appoint for two weeks later. Well, you know, things get crazy, things happen, one gets busy, the tooth’s not really hurting much at all, the dog needs to go to the vet, the house needs a’cleaning, the homework need a’doing, etc. The week of the appointment came, but I had a little too much going on to break away. I think I had to finish some Thoreau and translate a bunch of Latin or some lame-ass excuse like that. I cancelled the Albany appointment two days ahead of time. I told them I couldn’t make it and would just have to reschedule. They were fine with that and added that I shouldn’t wait too long.
Fall to winter turned;
Winter turned to spring.*
Why have I never learned,
To listen to one single thing?
*(February is pretty much the beginning of spring here.)
Then, three weeks ago, this second molar on the left with the temporary filling started hurting like hell right out of nowhere. I must have bitten down on something or maybe a cold drink hit it. Who the hell knew? All I knew was that I had this excruciating, throbbing, hot pain one the whole left side of my face. It was rough. The tooth had never hurt until now, but I guess it had just reached the point of no return. Little second left molar was screaming in my ear. I can stand a lot, but this was too much. At times, the pain seem’d to abate or lessen. I tried Tylenol. It helped a little, but the throbbing throbbed on. I called to reschedule the appointment with the root canal people. “We can’t work you in until late next week.” I was thinking, “Yeah, thanks, bitch.” Of course I didn’t dare say that though. I was nice and wrote down the time and day. The pain radiated on down to the neck. One night I was almost to the end of the rope. This one puny tooth had me still awake one night about two A.M. The later it got, the more it hurt. Eureka! My dad has some pain killers stashed somewhere, I thought. I found it in the pantry; Oxycodon, that’s a real good narcotic prescription drug! So I popped one of them and was out in about twenty minutes. No pain, no nothing. Luckily, this was on a Friday, so I didn’t have to get up the next morning. Good thing, for I didn’t even roll over until about ten. I was out.
A nice opiate sewed it up right,
The ravel’d and torn sleeve of care.
The poppy defeats tooth’s might;
I’d not ever before known such despair!
My appointment was at 9:00 this morning. So that means I had to leave by 7:30; so that means I had to get up at 6:00 because I had to e-mail some stuff to someone that I’d promised on yesterday. And drink coffee a while, etc. Alright, I get to the Albany “endoscopic surgeon” just on time. Of course they have to do X-rays and such. Fill out some forms. Some questions. The doctor went to Loyola. I don’t know why that’s important, but her degree had the motto “Maiestas Maiora Dei” on it. That’s pretty. I wanted a root canal after I met this doctor. She was so kind and so gentle that I was completely relaxed. Her assistant was rubbing my shoulder during the local anesthetic, the needle in the gums. I had never had this kind of dental treatment. It was like a spa or something. The only downer was that I got my hair caught somehow when she was reclining me back in the chair. So they have this cool system where the X-rays come up on a computer screen and can be viewed. I got to see all that right along with the doctor. So she’s plotting out the length of the tooth and all this. She takes a look and mentions that she need to prod around and see what going on because the now-eight-month-old temporary filling looks funny. She looks all down in there for a few minutes and decides that the tooth can’t be saved. The temporary filling fell out! I think I knew that somehow this might happen beforehand. It was “rotten to the core,” literally. She said I needed to try to get in at my regular dentist today if possible since this tooth could easily become infected. She put in a temporary filling…where have we heard that before. The only thing is is that my dentist is in another town forty miles away. I asked if there was another dentist close by who might could get me in today. So they call a colleague down the street.
A prescient mind I have not,
A good imagination perhaps,
At least to know a tooth might rot;
But how my logic did lapse.
Dr. Smith down the street, a “maxillary and dental surgeon” can take me. I drive down there, but by this time the local anesthetic has had the effect of making the entire left side of my face numb as well as somehow affecting my vocal cords. So I really can’t talk clear. I kept putting “nt” sounds in words. Odd. Another few forms to sign and fill out. Another X-ray. I think I may be glowing. This doctor has this X-ray machine that looks like something out of Star Wars that one stands in while a plate rotates around your head all the while making a cool, spacey sound and takes a panoramic view of all the teeth. Then I wait a while longer. The doctor comes in and asks a few questions. He leaves. I’m reading plaques on the walls here too. Looks like he was a Navy dentist at some point. His plaque says “Facilitas Ad Marem.” I’m not too sure about this, “Easiness at sea,” “Good-naturedness to sea?” Whatever. He brings in the anesthetist and says that they will need to put me to sleep since my teeth have really long roots. Who knew? Ok, so I’m here, the tooth has to go, and I can’t put it off. BUT . . . but I have to pay FIRST! I guess they’ve had some experience with bad accounts. Pull out the plastic. They do an IV drip for the anesthesia. I’m out cold in no time. I wake up; however later it was, I don’t know. The good thing was that my pants weren’t pulled down and the nurses weren’t laughing when I woke up. The tooth came out in four pieces. My mouth’s full of gauze. I fell back asleep. The dental intern with a red beard came in and asked me if I was OK. I was just like let me sit here another minute. They told me not to drive anywhere just yet, and I agreed that this was a good idea.
Damn you puny tooth!
Now I’m $900 in the hole;
O tell to me sooth,
How might I this day thole?
I had an idea. I’ll call my best friend. I can get him to take me over to his house where I can hang out a while. I get him on the phone. He’s on his way to quote some jobs. I’m like please come get me. He’s like Ok but you’ll just have to ride around with me. Fine. He wants to go to Wendy’s. For Chrissakes! I’m starving so I ordered a hamburger although I had no idea how I’d eat it. As we were riding from one place to the next, I began to come around and ate the hamburger over the course of an hour. Well, while we were riding around, this guy who’s building a new racetrack in town calls and asks my friend if he wants to bring his car out to the track and try it out. HA! My friend races super late models, the highest class of dirt track cars. But two weeks ago, he got the crap knocked out of him when racing down in Brunswick. The front end of the car got hit by some kid who came from the bottom of the track to the top and hit the left front. It bent the frame, and it’s not yet been fixed. So he looks at me. I too have a car. I built it four years ago. But I ran out of money. Mine’s much less sophisticated, more of a stock car. A ’78 Camaro with a full cage and x-braced chassis and Chrysler leaf springs and Chevy engine bored out to 0.60 over and all that fun stuff. The car’s ready to go pretty much and has been. Last year, I let my friend race it a time or two at the local asphalt track. Our deal was that he get me a rear-end gear. All good. But, I’ve never driven it. So, as much as I wanted to just go lay down somewhere, I agreed that we’d take my car out to the track and let him drive it. When you let someone else drive your racecar, it’s kind of letting some other dude sleep with your own girlfriend or wife. That sounds strange, but when you work on one of the damn things so long, it’s like your baby. So we get out there and he goes out. It’s just a ¼ mile track, so you’re not on the gas long. Fun stuff. The only thing is that the car’s rear brakes have never worked well. All front brakes. All front brakes causes a hellacious push on corner entry. Then you get back in the gas on exit and it gets loose. I just watched all this go on. It was fun to see the old car actually being driven. It wasn’t like we were there to set a track record, so he just drove it the best he could.
My jaw began to throb again,
Another dude was in my car!
Around the little track he did spin,
I hoped the paint he would not mar.
For some reason, I began to feel better. The guy building the track wanted to drive too. I thought he’d not wreck since he’s actually got some driving experience. He goes out, makes a few laps, and drives pretty smooth. While I’m watching this, I start to think that I ought to just get in my own car and try it out. It is, after all, my car. The anesthesia’s worn off. We right here. This is a good opportunity. He pulls in. I get in. I had to borrow a too-small helmet and damn if it didn’t pull my hair when I was putting it on. I finally got it so there wasn’t tension on my strands. One hitch. My friend put a clutchless transmission in the car when he raced it. Here’s the modus operandi of that devil – Crank the car. Put it in gear. To get it going in first, push the clutch in at the same time as you give it gas. Stay in first till you gain speed, then with the clutch still pushed in, shift to second, release clutch. Sounds easy. But it’s so backwards. I got it after two stall-outs. Wow! I had a good time. I haven’t driven a racecar in five years and I’m inept at it anyway, but just playing around with it was a blast. I didn’t want to come in. I just kept making laps and trying different lines. I spun it around on the front straightaway once. That’s always fun. So I got my fill of it. How ridiculous to have built a racecar and not to have even driven it one time until today. Racing’s like doing crack, only more dangerous and more expensive.
What’s the point of all this? Here are some potential morals:
Don’t sleep with another guy’s wife but once and only if he gives his permission.
Root canals from hot dentists could be fun.
Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow.
An ounce of prevention might not prevent the need for a pound of cure except in the case of rotten teeth.
The bird builds her nest on the highest roof beams, but the spider lives there too.
A loose racecar’s a fast racecar, unless it’s not.
Red bearded, red headed.
The more the risk, the more the gain.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
"Cybele comes to Rome"
In the tradition of Dryden’s Vergil, Longfellow’s Dante, and Thoreau’s Pindar, I have adapted into couplets and retold my rather free translation from an excerpt out of Ovid’s Fasti (4.183-281) along with a verse epilogue based on Livy’s prose account (29.10-11, 14) of the same legend.
Erato, my muse, advise me I pray, whence Cybele came,
Or has great Rome always been her home, the same?
“Our mother always loved Dindymus, Cybele, those lofty mounts,
Her Ilian kingdoms, and high Ida’s cool founts.
When Aeneas carried Troy’s sacred gods to the Italian land,
The Lares in his barks, Cybele watched from the strand.
She felt her divine powers not yet called to Latium in turn;
In Phrygia, her accustomed home, stood she firm.
Now mighty, favored Rome has seen five ages of prosperity;
Her legions subdue all the world, now shaking in temerity.
A hallowed old priest hears the fateful Euboean song,
A fated message, laconic, terse, not long.
‘Romans, seek your mother out, I order you, she is absent from your land;
When she comes, receive her – with only a chaste hand.’
The city fathers wonder at the obscure Delphic lot –
‘Which mother, and where is she to be sought?’
Paean Apollo is consulted: ‘Summon the mother of the gods;
Find her on the Idan mountain, its peak in the clouds.’
Roman princes are sent. Phrygia’s held by Attalus the first,
But he denies the Ausonians the right of their birth.
The earth then shook, trembled, with a sounding, violent rumbling;
Thus spake the goddess from her shrines crumbling:
‘I myself wished to be sought. Let there be absolutely no delay.
Rome is a fine place. Forthwith, take me away.’
Attalus quakes in terror and says, ‘Still you, great one, are ours;
It’s from us Dardans that Rome derives her powers.’
Immediately to cut the Ilian pines for wood, countless axes began,
Just as had done Aeneas, as from Troy he ran.
A thousand hands come together to build the ship, a pious task,
Finished in burnt colors, the goddess in her safe cask.
Most guarded, she sails through the waters of Poseidon her son,
First along the great straight of a sister, the Phrixean.
Then by broad Rhoetum, she skirts wide shores, the Sigean home,
Next Tenedos, and the ancient works of Eëtion.
The hardy sailors greet the Cyclades; waves by Lesbos roll,
The fishy waters only broken on the Carystian shoal.
And she crossed the swelling waters where Icarus lost his wings;
His fateful resting place, that sea with his name still rings.
She passes Crete to the left, rocky Peloponnesus on the right,
And seeks out Cythera, home of Venus, love’s might.
Now the seas gird round three-cornered Sicily, a bounteous land,
Where three giants forging white iron eternally stand.
Then by African seas she coasts; Sardinian fiefdoms she spies
But holds for those dear Ausonian lands, her prize.
She reached Ostia, our port where the great Father Tiber divides,
Where ever to greater depths by Latin fields he glides.
Knights, senators mixed with plebs, to the shore comes a throng,
To greet their mother at the Tuscan river’s mouth so long.
Mothers, daughters, and daughters-in-law to the shore proceed,
Along with those Vestals who keep the virgin’s creed.
Men heave and ho with tough ropes stretched ever so taut,
But in the shallow waters the foreign ship is caught.
The Latin land was in a drought; burnt now was the Faliscan grass;
The ship’s weighty keel was trapped in a muddy morass.
Each pious Roman pulled and worked more than his share,
But strong hands loosed not Cybele from her watery lair.
She sat as a steadfast island situated firm in mid-ocean;
The astonished men panic and tremble at the omen.
Claudia Quinta had to Clausus traced back her well-born clan,
Only nobility marked her brow, her face’s entire span.
A chaste Vestal lady through and through, yet not always believed;
Vicious rumor stalked her, of a false crime not reprieved.
With ornate hair and well-dressed she always went about;
This told against her, besides her quick tongue to an old lout.
Her clean conscience laughed at the mendacious rumor,
But we are a crowd who believes in fault sooner.
She then proceeds from the host of venerable mothers so chaste,
Drinking the pure river water, only a taste.
Three times she wets her hair, raises her hands to the sky.
(Anyone would think her mind had gone awry!)
Into the face of the great goddess Cybele she does stare,
On a knee, uttering words, while tossing her hair.
‘Kind, prolific mother of the gods, of your supplicant dear,
Under a condition, accept this simple prayer.
They all deny my chastity. If you do me condemn, I can hold no grudge,
I will punishment deserve, from the goddess as a judge.
Yet, if I am as faultless, blameless as I make the claim to be,
It then must be you, goddess, who will follow me.’
Thus spake she. With little effort on the hempen rope she pulls,
Same task, not doable before, with even the strength of bulls.
The goddess is wrested from the mud; the boat’s movement, Claudia’s praise.
Sounds of joy waft up amongst heaven’s fire-bright rays.
The tired band finally reached the damp Father Tiber’s Hall,
Sitting on a promontory to the left, surveying all.
Night had come; they bind up the rope to an oaken stump,
Giving themselves to sweet sleep, bellies plump.
Light had come; they loosed the rope, undoing their knot,
But before proceeding, burned some frankincense, just a jot.
Here is the place, where into which the slippery Almo flows;
Almo loses her name to the Tiber; he everyone knows.
Here the ancient, aged, sacred priest in his purple toga robed
Washed the goddess in the Almon waters as they flowed.
As he washes her, the priestesses howl out; a furious flute is played;
And soft hands strike drums, across them leather splayed.
Claudia leads the parade, beaming. Hardly believed in her chasteness,
Now with Rome’s first goddess as her witness.
Cybele is faithfully carried to her new home by way of the Porta Capena,
By yoked heifers sprinkled with flowers, to her new arena.”
Epilogue:
As the mysterious Sibylline Books had foretold, in long ages past:
“If ever a foreign enemy descends into Italy, holding her fast,
Bring Magna Mater into Rome, from her Phrygian home
By way of Neptune’s frothing sea foam.”
Cybele saved great Rome from her hated Carthaginian foe,
Always to her a great debt shall we owe.
With the Megalesian games we honor our great protectress still,
Lest ever she decide to depart down the Palatine Hill.
Great Rome, ruler of the world, land of lands, land of light,
Always maintain piety to our mother’s delight!
Erato, my muse, advise me I pray, whence Cybele came,
Or has great Rome always been her home, the same?
“Our mother always loved Dindymus, Cybele, those lofty mounts,
Her Ilian kingdoms, and high Ida’s cool founts.
When Aeneas carried Troy’s sacred gods to the Italian land,
The Lares in his barks, Cybele watched from the strand.
She felt her divine powers not yet called to Latium in turn;
In Phrygia, her accustomed home, stood she firm.
Now mighty, favored Rome has seen five ages of prosperity;
Her legions subdue all the world, now shaking in temerity.
A hallowed old priest hears the fateful Euboean song,
A fated message, laconic, terse, not long.
‘Romans, seek your mother out, I order you, she is absent from your land;
When she comes, receive her – with only a chaste hand.’
The city fathers wonder at the obscure Delphic lot –
‘Which mother, and where is she to be sought?’
Paean Apollo is consulted: ‘Summon the mother of the gods;
Find her on the Idan mountain, its peak in the clouds.’
Roman princes are sent. Phrygia’s held by Attalus the first,
But he denies the Ausonians the right of their birth.
The earth then shook, trembled, with a sounding, violent rumbling;
Thus spake the goddess from her shrines crumbling:
‘I myself wished to be sought. Let there be absolutely no delay.
Rome is a fine place. Forthwith, take me away.’
Attalus quakes in terror and says, ‘Still you, great one, are ours;
It’s from us Dardans that Rome derives her powers.’
Immediately to cut the Ilian pines for wood, countless axes began,
Just as had done Aeneas, as from Troy he ran.
A thousand hands come together to build the ship, a pious task,
Finished in burnt colors, the goddess in her safe cask.
Most guarded, she sails through the waters of Poseidon her son,
First along the great straight of a sister, the Phrixean.
Then by broad Rhoetum, she skirts wide shores, the Sigean home,
Next Tenedos, and the ancient works of Eëtion.
The hardy sailors greet the Cyclades; waves by Lesbos roll,
The fishy waters only broken on the Carystian shoal.
And she crossed the swelling waters where Icarus lost his wings;
His fateful resting place, that sea with his name still rings.
She passes Crete to the left, rocky Peloponnesus on the right,
And seeks out Cythera, home of Venus, love’s might.
Now the seas gird round three-cornered Sicily, a bounteous land,
Where three giants forging white iron eternally stand.
Then by African seas she coasts; Sardinian fiefdoms she spies
But holds for those dear Ausonian lands, her prize.
She reached Ostia, our port where the great Father Tiber divides,
Where ever to greater depths by Latin fields he glides.
Knights, senators mixed with plebs, to the shore comes a throng,
To greet their mother at the Tuscan river’s mouth so long.
Mothers, daughters, and daughters-in-law to the shore proceed,
Along with those Vestals who keep the virgin’s creed.
Men heave and ho with tough ropes stretched ever so taut,
But in the shallow waters the foreign ship is caught.
The Latin land was in a drought; burnt now was the Faliscan grass;
The ship’s weighty keel was trapped in a muddy morass.
Each pious Roman pulled and worked more than his share,
But strong hands loosed not Cybele from her watery lair.
She sat as a steadfast island situated firm in mid-ocean;
The astonished men panic and tremble at the omen.
Claudia Quinta had to Clausus traced back her well-born clan,
Only nobility marked her brow, her face’s entire span.
A chaste Vestal lady through and through, yet not always believed;
Vicious rumor stalked her, of a false crime not reprieved.
With ornate hair and well-dressed she always went about;
This told against her, besides her quick tongue to an old lout.
Her clean conscience laughed at the mendacious rumor,
But we are a crowd who believes in fault sooner.
She then proceeds from the host of venerable mothers so chaste,
Drinking the pure river water, only a taste.
Three times she wets her hair, raises her hands to the sky.
(Anyone would think her mind had gone awry!)
Into the face of the great goddess Cybele she does stare,
On a knee, uttering words, while tossing her hair.
‘Kind, prolific mother of the gods, of your supplicant dear,
Under a condition, accept this simple prayer.
They all deny my chastity. If you do me condemn, I can hold no grudge,
I will punishment deserve, from the goddess as a judge.
Yet, if I am as faultless, blameless as I make the claim to be,
It then must be you, goddess, who will follow me.’
Thus spake she. With little effort on the hempen rope she pulls,
Same task, not doable before, with even the strength of bulls.
The goddess is wrested from the mud; the boat’s movement, Claudia’s praise.
Sounds of joy waft up amongst heaven’s fire-bright rays.
The tired band finally reached the damp Father Tiber’s Hall,
Sitting on a promontory to the left, surveying all.
Night had come; they bind up the rope to an oaken stump,
Giving themselves to sweet sleep, bellies plump.
Light had come; they loosed the rope, undoing their knot,
But before proceeding, burned some frankincense, just a jot.
Here is the place, where into which the slippery Almo flows;
Almo loses her name to the Tiber; he everyone knows.
Here the ancient, aged, sacred priest in his purple toga robed
Washed the goddess in the Almon waters as they flowed.
As he washes her, the priestesses howl out; a furious flute is played;
And soft hands strike drums, across them leather splayed.
Claudia leads the parade, beaming. Hardly believed in her chasteness,
Now with Rome’s first goddess as her witness.
Cybele is faithfully carried to her new home by way of the Porta Capena,
By yoked heifers sprinkled with flowers, to her new arena.”
Epilogue:
As the mysterious Sibylline Books had foretold, in long ages past:
“If ever a foreign enemy descends into Italy, holding her fast,
Bring Magna Mater into Rome, from her Phrygian home
By way of Neptune’s frothing sea foam.”
Cybele saved great Rome from her hated Carthaginian foe,
Always to her a great debt shall we owe.
With the Megalesian games we honor our great protectress still,
Lest ever she decide to depart down the Palatine Hill.
Great Rome, ruler of the world, land of lands, land of light,
Always maintain piety to our mother’s delight!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Not actually hendecasyllabic...
Tu, Catulle, putas te me possidere.
Noli me tangere quod propria sim.
Quidquid desideravi, passer ferret,
Numquam ei adaequare posses vix!
Noli me tangere quod propria sim.
Quidquid desideravi, passer ferret,
Numquam ei adaequare posses vix!
Favorite Star Wars Quote:
Princess Leia speaking by way of R2-D2:
"General Kenobi: Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars; now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire. I regret that I am unable to present my father's request to you in person; but my ship has fallen under attack and I'm afraid my mission to Alderaan has failed. I've placed information vital to the survival of the rebellion into the memory systems of this R2 unit. My father will know how to retrieve it. You must see this droid safely delivered to him on Alderaan. This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi; you're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi; you're my only hope."
"General Kenobi: Years ago, you served my father in the Clone Wars; now he begs you to help him in his struggle against the Empire. I regret that I am unable to present my father's request to you in person; but my ship has fallen under attack and I'm afraid my mission to Alderaan has failed. I've placed information vital to the survival of the rebellion into the memory systems of this R2 unit. My father will know how to retrieve it. You must see this droid safely delivered to him on Alderaan. This is our most desperate hour. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi; you're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi; you're my only hope."
Where the Wild Things Are... (In Latin)
Where the wild things are...
Ubi feri sunt...
The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another,
his mother called him “WILD THING!” and Max said “I’ll eat you up!”
So he was sent to bed without eating anything.
Illa nocte suum vestitum lupinum Max gessit ac fecit malum modorum complurum,
mater eius eum appelavit “FERE!” atque Max dixit “Te edam!”
Ita dimissus est nihilo cibi eso ad cubiculum.
That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around, and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max,and he sailed off through night and day, and in and out of weeks, and almost a year to where the wild things are.
Ipse nocte in Maxis cubiculo diu silva crevit quoad vitibus tectum penditum sit ac facti sint muri undique in mundum, et Maxi mare naviculam propriam tulit, atque abnavigavit per noctemque diem, per dies septem, per paene annum ad locum ubi feri essent.
And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws till Max said “Be still!”
Ita venit ad locum ubi feri essent, fremuerunt fremitus atroces eorum et infrenduerunt dentibus atrocibus eorum et volutaverunt oculos atroces eorum et monstraverunt ungues atroces eorum, dum Max dixit “Placete omnes!”
And tamed them with a magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once, and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all, and made him king of the wild things.
Et eos mansuefecit fraude magica, spectans in eorum oculos fulvos, id ipse numquam nictans, et territi sunt et eum vocaverunt omnium plurimum ferum, et regem ferorum factus est.
“And now,” cried Max, “let the wild rumpus start!”
“Quidem,” Max clamavit, “Convivium incipiendum est!”
“Now stop!” Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper.
“Desistete!” Max dixit et dimisit feros ut dormiant nihilo cibi eso.
And Max the king of all the wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
Ita Max, rex ferorum omnium solus fuit atque voluit redire ad locum certum illum amari gente eius.
Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat, so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.
Dum circumspexit undique mundo procul ac cibum bonum olfecit, igitur necesse ei erat relinquere regiam potestam loci illius ubi feri essent.
But the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go-we’ll eat you up-we love you so!”
At feri clamaverunt, “ O noli abire, te edemus, te plurime amamus!”
And Max said, “No!”
Atque Max dixit, “Minime vero!”
The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws, but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye.
Fremuerunt feri fremitus atroces eorum et infrenduerunt dentibus atrocibus eorum et volutaverunt oculos atroces eorum et monstraverunt ungues atroces eorum, sed Max iit in naviculam propriam et dixit “Valete.”
And sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him, and it was still hot.
Atque renavigavit per annumque septem dies et diem et in noctem ad cubiculum eius proprium, cena manente et parata.
Ubi feri sunt...
The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another,
his mother called him “WILD THING!” and Max said “I’ll eat you up!”
So he was sent to bed without eating anything.
Illa nocte suum vestitum lupinum Max gessit ac fecit malum modorum complurum,
mater eius eum appelavit “FERE!” atque Max dixit “Te edam!”
Ita dimissus est nihilo cibi eso ad cubiculum.
That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around, and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max,and he sailed off through night and day, and in and out of weeks, and almost a year to where the wild things are.
Ipse nocte in Maxis cubiculo diu silva crevit quoad vitibus tectum penditum sit ac facti sint muri undique in mundum, et Maxi mare naviculam propriam tulit, atque abnavigavit per noctemque diem, per dies septem, per paene annum ad locum ubi feri essent.
And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws till Max said “Be still!”
Ita venit ad locum ubi feri essent, fremuerunt fremitus atroces eorum et infrenduerunt dentibus atrocibus eorum et volutaverunt oculos atroces eorum et monstraverunt ungues atroces eorum, dum Max dixit “Placete omnes!”
And tamed them with a magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once, and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all, and made him king of the wild things.
Et eos mansuefecit fraude magica, spectans in eorum oculos fulvos, id ipse numquam nictans, et territi sunt et eum vocaverunt omnium plurimum ferum, et regem ferorum factus est.
“And now,” cried Max, “let the wild rumpus start!”
“Quidem,” Max clamavit, “Convivium incipiendum est!”
“Now stop!” Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper.
“Desistete!” Max dixit et dimisit feros ut dormiant nihilo cibi eso.
And Max the king of all the wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
Ita Max, rex ferorum omnium solus fuit atque voluit redire ad locum certum illum amari gente eius.
Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat, so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.
Dum circumspexit undique mundo procul ac cibum bonum olfecit, igitur necesse ei erat relinquere regiam potestam loci illius ubi feri essent.
But the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go-we’ll eat you up-we love you so!”
At feri clamaverunt, “ O noli abire, te edemus, te plurime amamus!”
And Max said, “No!”
Atque Max dixit, “Minime vero!”
The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws, but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye.
Fremuerunt feri fremitus atroces eorum et infrenduerunt dentibus atrocibus eorum et volutaverunt oculos atroces eorum et monstraverunt ungues atroces eorum, sed Max iit in naviculam propriam et dixit “Valete.”
And sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him, and it was still hot.
Atque renavigavit per annumque septem dies et diem et in noctem ad cubiculum eius proprium, cena manente et parata.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Perspectives...
Once a guy ordered a bowl of tomato soup in a nice restaurant. The waiter brought him the soup quickly. It was hot and fresh. The patron then looks into the bowl and finds a fly in his soup; he immediately tells the waiter. The waiter apologizes profusely. The manager gets involved, and ultimately the patron’s whole meal is free.
Once a frog hopped into a frog restaurant. The frog orders a bowl of tomato soup in this really nice frog restaurant. The frog waiter brought the soup quickly. The frog patron looks into his bowl of soup and finds a fly; he immediately tells the waiter. The waiter replies, “Hey, be quiet, if you say anything, everybody else will want a fly in their soup too!”
What is it that we find repulsive about others depending on our perspective? What do others find loathsome in us depending on their viewpoint? What in our culture seems normal to us that should be loathed and reviled and driven out and reformed were we to see it with an unbiased eye?
Once a frog hopped into a frog restaurant. The frog orders a bowl of tomato soup in this really nice frog restaurant. The frog waiter brought the soup quickly. The frog patron looks into his bowl of soup and finds a fly; he immediately tells the waiter. The waiter replies, “Hey, be quiet, if you say anything, everybody else will want a fly in their soup too!”
What is it that we find repulsive about others depending on our perspective? What do others find loathsome in us depending on their viewpoint? What in our culture seems normal to us that should be loathed and reviled and driven out and reformed were we to see it with an unbiased eye?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
An Interesting Article...
An exerpt from "The Aquatic Journal of Eurasia."
Vol. 5 May 2005 Pages 24-33.
The mer-people of the sea reproduce in much the same fashion as the salmon or other marine species of fish. It is a well-documented scientific process. The female deposits the eggs in a sheltered area of an inland stream or bayou, and the male in close proximity deposits his part of the equation. While the initial courtship rituals of the mer-people is largely undocumented and has heretofore gone unobserved by scientists, we can speculate that the ritual is similar to that of the Alpine chamois of Central Europe. From ancient texts, we learn that males vye for prime breeding females through contests involving brute strength, not by butting heads like the chamois per se, but by fighting with their powerful, fish-like tails. It is recorded in Old Norse literature and the little extant Etruscan literature available of sea captains and crews observing this courting phenomenon in the Adriatic and Baltic seas. Although some would argue that much of this ancient literature is a blend of imaginative fancy and fact, these are the best descriptions we have of mer-people mating rituals.
There is a new study being financed by the Tyrolian Scientific Commission to study the mating ritual around the Po River delta in Italy, as many mer-people sightings have been reported by shrimp and clam fisherman especially around Venice as well as in Trieste at times in the early spring when the effluvience of melting snow in the rivers has swollen the low-lying, marshy areas in the brackish waters. What the results of these studies will be we cannot say as of yet, but the prospect of gaining insight into this obscure people is high with new technologies that allow cameras to employ "night-vision" technology in the murky waters where mer-people are commonly reported to have been seen.
At the same time in Denmark, while one can readily observe the mermaid statue in Copenhagen harbor, one must wonder why such a thing would have been constructed. For the mermaid/merman to have been such an integral part of the culture and lore of ancient land-bound peoples, some basis of truth must have existed to place these creatures in terran man's legends. And regretfully, it is not believed that the mer-people have developed a written language with any existing works. And, moreover, if we were able to begin a dialog with the sea-peoples, the hurdles in communication would be exceedingly difficult since the language as reported by fisherman and others in history has always been likened to a dolphin-like sound, probably based on the principles of echo-location. Hopefully, in the future, increased scientific awareness and willingness of land-man to acknowledge his sea-cousins as equals and not only less evolved, water-bound hominids will give us the knowledge and information to work together with this noble race. Some will say that the mer-races are the caretakers of the seas, and if it were not for them, there would have long ago been a diminishment in the fish stocks that are so important to land-man's survival. It would seem that at this moment that the mer-people and terran man's survival is dependent - one upon the other.
Also, one need only observe his very own hand and see the slight amount of webbing left between his fingers to realize that man on land may have had as a remote forebears the sea-peoples. Genetic sampling is not yet possible due to the reticent nature of the sea-people, but it is hoped that as a part of the mating study, that DNA can be obtained for comparison through gel-electrophoresis to determine the amount of kinship among land and sea man.
(P.S. - I made all this up.)
Vol. 5 May 2005 Pages 24-33.
The mer-people of the sea reproduce in much the same fashion as the salmon or other marine species of fish. It is a well-documented scientific process. The female deposits the eggs in a sheltered area of an inland stream or bayou, and the male in close proximity deposits his part of the equation. While the initial courtship rituals of the mer-people is largely undocumented and has heretofore gone unobserved by scientists, we can speculate that the ritual is similar to that of the Alpine chamois of Central Europe. From ancient texts, we learn that males vye for prime breeding females through contests involving brute strength, not by butting heads like the chamois per se, but by fighting with their powerful, fish-like tails. It is recorded in Old Norse literature and the little extant Etruscan literature available of sea captains and crews observing this courting phenomenon in the Adriatic and Baltic seas. Although some would argue that much of this ancient literature is a blend of imaginative fancy and fact, these are the best descriptions we have of mer-people mating rituals.
There is a new study being financed by the Tyrolian Scientific Commission to study the mating ritual around the Po River delta in Italy, as many mer-people sightings have been reported by shrimp and clam fisherman especially around Venice as well as in Trieste at times in the early spring when the effluvience of melting snow in the rivers has swollen the low-lying, marshy areas in the brackish waters. What the results of these studies will be we cannot say as of yet, but the prospect of gaining insight into this obscure people is high with new technologies that allow cameras to employ "night-vision" technology in the murky waters where mer-people are commonly reported to have been seen.
At the same time in Denmark, while one can readily observe the mermaid statue in Copenhagen harbor, one must wonder why such a thing would have been constructed. For the mermaid/merman to have been such an integral part of the culture and lore of ancient land-bound peoples, some basis of truth must have existed to place these creatures in terran man's legends. And regretfully, it is not believed that the mer-people have developed a written language with any existing works. And, moreover, if we were able to begin a dialog with the sea-peoples, the hurdles in communication would be exceedingly difficult since the language as reported by fisherman and others in history has always been likened to a dolphin-like sound, probably based on the principles of echo-location. Hopefully, in the future, increased scientific awareness and willingness of land-man to acknowledge his sea-cousins as equals and not only less evolved, water-bound hominids will give us the knowledge and information to work together with this noble race. Some will say that the mer-races are the caretakers of the seas, and if it were not for them, there would have long ago been a diminishment in the fish stocks that are so important to land-man's survival. It would seem that at this moment that the mer-people and terran man's survival is dependent - one upon the other.
Also, one need only observe his very own hand and see the slight amount of webbing left between his fingers to realize that man on land may have had as a remote forebears the sea-peoples. Genetic sampling is not yet possible due to the reticent nature of the sea-people, but it is hoped that as a part of the mating study, that DNA can be obtained for comparison through gel-electrophoresis to determine the amount of kinship among land and sea man.
(P.S. - I made all this up.)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
"The tiger and the lotus"
Those gates of untold bliss bid me enter in,
This place stirs the animal under my skin,
Dark and venerated, sacred to our race,
A warm and pleasing lovely inner-space,
Forged in this kiln is every living soul,
Such a small vessel makes one in whole.
Like a sentinel guarding a treasure,
Those gates hold a wave of pleasure,
When the tiger pounces on the lotus flower,
Growling at the darling bud of water,
The cat is no longer the thane in power,
Howling in the throes and joys is in order.
Beauteous petals can subdue the wild,
A soft caress, a sensual touch, so mild,
A tiny seed is sown, perhaps a love grown,
Just a speck alone, a little life shown,
Bane and boon to this noble clan,
Brave tiger leaves across the land.
This place stirs the animal under my skin,
Dark and venerated, sacred to our race,
A warm and pleasing lovely inner-space,
Forged in this kiln is every living soul,
Such a small vessel makes one in whole.
Like a sentinel guarding a treasure,
Those gates hold a wave of pleasure,
When the tiger pounces on the lotus flower,
Growling at the darling bud of water,
The cat is no longer the thane in power,
Howling in the throes and joys is in order.
Beauteous petals can subdue the wild,
A soft caress, a sensual touch, so mild,
A tiny seed is sown, perhaps a love grown,
Just a speck alone, a little life shown,
Bane and boon to this noble clan,
Brave tiger leaves across the land.
Unfolding poetry
“479” by Emily Dickinson
She dalt her pretty words like Blades –
How glittering they shown –
And every One unbarred a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone –
She never deemed – she hurt –
That – is not Steel’s Affair –
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh –
How ill the Creatures bear –
To Ache is human – not polite –
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom –
Just locking up – to Die.
In “479” by Emily Dickinson, her juxtaposition of seeming opposites of symbolism illustrate a cathartic cutting moment which she resolves throughout the poem. Besides symbols, her grammatical constructs convey the time-sense of her resolution.
Blades cut; blades are sharp. Words dealt as blades to the poet cut as deep to her as any steel. Dickinson’s emotional sensitivity displays itself in the poem readily. She begins as if she is reeling from an encounter with an unknown woman. The woman seems eloquent, yet eloquent in a sense of having a way with words carefully chosen to wreak emotional havoc for the poet.
Often pretty words are thought to be those that make one happy or elated. And yet, Dickinson describes them glittering like a blade. Perhaps the woman offending paid a compliment in two ways. A double entendre likened to the slow kindjal piercing to the nerve were her words.
The symbolic aspects contradict one another, furthering the sentiment of a double edged compliment. By calling words that hurt “pretty” and “glittering,” she contrasts pain or aching with the usually positive adjectives negatively. Later, “a vulgar grimace” contrasts back to the “pretty” delivery of hurtful words. The picture of a sophisticated, urbane lady comes to mind dressed in her finery, standing at Dickinson’s garden gate. The lady stands there and harangues Dickinson. Perhaps the lady was one of those who thinks to be doing “a favor” to her addressee by telling to Dickinson all the should be doing – all the while cutting.
Further, Dickinson resolves the episode in two ways. She uses the infinitive form “to ache” to show purpose. “To ache is human” mirrors the saying, “To err is human.” Perhaps she believes that aching is the purpose or lot of a human and part of the province of what being a human is. She contrasts the aching with “polite” in the same line. Politeness is a social convention typically thought to alleviate pain – that is, relationships among humans. Later, she places the final infinitive, “to die,” at the end of the poem – to die as a human’s final purpose. In the penultimate line, she uses “Mortality” as a noun, suggesting that she has relegated herself to a long line of those hurt by words. Dickinson perhaps shed some tears on the way to the emotional resolution with the “Film upon the eye.”
Dickinson’s use of tense gives clues as well to the progress of the resolution. Stanzas one and two are in past tense; three is in present. Although the poet was hurt, like Wordsworth, she experiences the moment and lets it coalesce. Later, she puts it into words with her overflow of emotion in spontaneity.
Dickinson herself cuts with words in this poem, “479.” Her skillful use of symbol and clever, carefully-chosen grammar rend out the emotions of the reader just as she felt them. As a glittering blade can cut to nerve and bone, so can words. As she was cut, so she cuts. And, as those knife-words were double-bladed, so the poem is. Not only does the poem recount a hurtful exchange, but it also counts the exchange among those human things, those inevitable emotions which lead all to the same destination – death. Her seemingly fey attitude is a resolution of sorts. Her hurt has now also died, has been cried out, and resolved.
She dalt her pretty words like Blades –
How glittering they shown –
And every One unbarred a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone –
She never deemed – she hurt –
That – is not Steel’s Affair –
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh –
How ill the Creatures bear –
To Ache is human – not polite –
The Film upon the eye
Mortality’s old Custom –
Just locking up – to Die.
In “479” by Emily Dickinson, her juxtaposition of seeming opposites of symbolism illustrate a cathartic cutting moment which she resolves throughout the poem. Besides symbols, her grammatical constructs convey the time-sense of her resolution.
Blades cut; blades are sharp. Words dealt as blades to the poet cut as deep to her as any steel. Dickinson’s emotional sensitivity displays itself in the poem readily. She begins as if she is reeling from an encounter with an unknown woman. The woman seems eloquent, yet eloquent in a sense of having a way with words carefully chosen to wreak emotional havoc for the poet.
Often pretty words are thought to be those that make one happy or elated. And yet, Dickinson describes them glittering like a blade. Perhaps the woman offending paid a compliment in two ways. A double entendre likened to the slow kindjal piercing to the nerve were her words.
The symbolic aspects contradict one another, furthering the sentiment of a double edged compliment. By calling words that hurt “pretty” and “glittering,” she contrasts pain or aching with the usually positive adjectives negatively. Later, “a vulgar grimace” contrasts back to the “pretty” delivery of hurtful words. The picture of a sophisticated, urbane lady comes to mind dressed in her finery, standing at Dickinson’s garden gate. The lady stands there and harangues Dickinson. Perhaps the lady was one of those who thinks to be doing “a favor” to her addressee by telling to Dickinson all the should be doing – all the while cutting.
Further, Dickinson resolves the episode in two ways. She uses the infinitive form “to ache” to show purpose. “To ache is human” mirrors the saying, “To err is human.” Perhaps she believes that aching is the purpose or lot of a human and part of the province of what being a human is. She contrasts the aching with “polite” in the same line. Politeness is a social convention typically thought to alleviate pain – that is, relationships among humans. Later, she places the final infinitive, “to die,” at the end of the poem – to die as a human’s final purpose. In the penultimate line, she uses “Mortality” as a noun, suggesting that she has relegated herself to a long line of those hurt by words. Dickinson perhaps shed some tears on the way to the emotional resolution with the “Film upon the eye.”
Dickinson’s use of tense gives clues as well to the progress of the resolution. Stanzas one and two are in past tense; three is in present. Although the poet was hurt, like Wordsworth, she experiences the moment and lets it coalesce. Later, she puts it into words with her overflow of emotion in spontaneity.
Dickinson herself cuts with words in this poem, “479.” Her skillful use of symbol and clever, carefully-chosen grammar rend out the emotions of the reader just as she felt them. As a glittering blade can cut to nerve and bone, so can words. As she was cut, so she cuts. And, as those knife-words were double-bladed, so the poem is. Not only does the poem recount a hurtful exchange, but it also counts the exchange among those human things, those inevitable emotions which lead all to the same destination – death. Her seemingly fey attitude is a resolution of sorts. Her hurt has now also died, has been cried out, and resolved.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Introduction: February 1st, 2007
Ahhh, the internet. Such a place where one can find anything and everything. It kind of reminds me of that song, "Portobello Road," from Bedknobs and Broomsticks. So, a blog is where a person keeps a diary of sorts, I suppose. Now, in times past, folks kept diaries under lock and key - their little sanctuary to pour out their thoughts and inner-selves. And, now it's all turned around. Inner is presented to the outer world. But, what to say here? I guess I will have to keep it nice. Not mention specific names. Stay away from moralizing and proselytizing. Or not. Marco Polo in his book of his journey to the Far East had an uncanny knack in that he observed without passing judgment. "The Mongol Tribesmen of Central Asia drink mare's milk with blood for breakfast; they seem to enjoy it immensely. They tout its benefits and believe it to be a perfect drink."
Moving on, this blog may be boring. I am a full-time student right now. I am studying to become an English and Latin teacher. Whoohooo!!! I know that is what the reader is thinking! Well, it is fun, to me at least. Chaucer, Emerson, Thoreau, Shakespear, Donne, e.e. cummings, Hawthorne, Milton, Herbert, Hardy, Bronte, Dickens - that's all good stuff! I am crazy about grammar - words, structures, and, style, and crazier even about Latin. To look at words on their most elemental bases and roots gives one a sense of continuity and meaning that I don't believe I'd otherwise have without having studied language intensely. I do know a little of Portuguese too. But it is very rusty (muito enferrujado).
I'm not sure what all I'll put here. With me doing a lot of writing for the several different classes I'm in, I might even put up some excerpts from essays. I might make posts in Latin just for practice. And, I might even break out some Swedish!!! Well, maybe not so much. Who knows,a poem might just fall out of the sky and land here, as far from poetic convention as can be, but poetry after a fashion nonetheless.
And, I don't want to feel like this blog is just a bunch of self-aggrandizement, but, of a sort, it is. How can me talking about me not be about me? I'm not going to post things self-deprecating and blasphemous to me, intentionally! So, how is the balance struck between a Narcissus-like shrine to me and a web-log resembling a diary? Verily, I know not. Whosoever may choose to read can make their own judgments. That, depending on a reader's perspective is always the rub, is it not? Writing is revealing of a person in several ways. You read what I write, you think you know what I mean, and you interpret what I write on account of what you are. You as a reader have reflected back to you what you think I meant depending upon all those thousand things that make you you. I think that the saying, "The meaning of the poem lies in the belly of the poet," could not be a more apt sentiment to express what happens in the exchange between reader and writer. I may mean one thing, and yet, those subtle shades of meaning surrounding words may very well lead another to carry a meaning far, far away from that meaning which I intended. This, I believe, is what makes good writing remain popular. Now, I'm certainly no writer, but I like to do it.
So, I will just make a bunch a random observations at time with some of it bordering on humor or perhaps however a reader may see it. I will write little rants, perhaps. I will write little stories. And, maybe even a biased commentary on something that may be so far off from a realistic interpretation that any sane person would deem full wise and fair.
Moving on, this blog may be boring. I am a full-time student right now. I am studying to become an English and Latin teacher. Whoohooo!!! I know that is what the reader is thinking! Well, it is fun, to me at least. Chaucer, Emerson, Thoreau, Shakespear, Donne, e.e. cummings, Hawthorne, Milton, Herbert, Hardy, Bronte, Dickens - that's all good stuff! I am crazy about grammar - words, structures, and, style, and crazier even about Latin. To look at words on their most elemental bases and roots gives one a sense of continuity and meaning that I don't believe I'd otherwise have without having studied language intensely. I do know a little of Portuguese too. But it is very rusty (muito enferrujado).
I'm not sure what all I'll put here. With me doing a lot of writing for the several different classes I'm in, I might even put up some excerpts from essays. I might make posts in Latin just for practice. And, I might even break out some Swedish!!! Well, maybe not so much. Who knows,a poem might just fall out of the sky and land here, as far from poetic convention as can be, but poetry after a fashion nonetheless.
And, I don't want to feel like this blog is just a bunch of self-aggrandizement, but, of a sort, it is. How can me talking about me not be about me? I'm not going to post things self-deprecating and blasphemous to me, intentionally! So, how is the balance struck between a Narcissus-like shrine to me and a web-log resembling a diary? Verily, I know not. Whosoever may choose to read can make their own judgments. That, depending on a reader's perspective is always the rub, is it not? Writing is revealing of a person in several ways. You read what I write, you think you know what I mean, and you interpret what I write on account of what you are. You as a reader have reflected back to you what you think I meant depending upon all those thousand things that make you you. I think that the saying, "The meaning of the poem lies in the belly of the poet," could not be a more apt sentiment to express what happens in the exchange between reader and writer. I may mean one thing, and yet, those subtle shades of meaning surrounding words may very well lead another to carry a meaning far, far away from that meaning which I intended. This, I believe, is what makes good writing remain popular. Now, I'm certainly no writer, but I like to do it.
So, I will just make a bunch a random observations at time with some of it bordering on humor or perhaps however a reader may see it. I will write little rants, perhaps. I will write little stories. And, maybe even a biased commentary on something that may be so far off from a realistic interpretation that any sane person would deem full wise and fair.
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