PADRE NUESTRO

Padre nuestro que estás no sé dónde,
haz que no peleemos por tu nombre;
Venga a nosotros el razonamiento;
Hágase presente la empatía
en toda mente, incluso la mía;
El pan nuestro de cada día démosnoslo unos a otros no sólo hoy,
y perdonémonos nuestras ofensas, así como nos damos la oportunidad
de mejorar como personas;
Si caemos en la tentación,
puedan todos librarse del mal
y que nos sirva de lección;
Pues nuestros son la responsabilidad, el peligro y la determinación, por siempre.
Amén

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Our father who art who knows where,
let us not fight for your name;
May reasoning come;
Room for empathy be done in all minds, even mine;
Let us give each other every day our daily bread
and let us forgive each other our trespasses, as we give each other the chance of becoming better people;
If temptation overcomes us,
may everyone be delivered from evil
and let it be a lesson to all involved;
For ours is the responsibility, the danger and the resolve, for ever.
Amen.

Your Friend (by Khalil Gibran)

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside,
for you come to him with hunger,
and you seek him for peace.

Tu amigo es la respuesta a tus necesidades.
Es el campo que siembras con amor y cosechas con gratitud.
Él es tu hogar y tu mesa,
pues acudes a él cuando tienes hambre
y lo buscas cuando precisas paz.

Hávamál

Norse poetry from around the IX century. Here are some fragments:


Elds er þörf, þeims inn er kominn ok á kné kalinn;
matar ok váða er manni þörf, þeim er hefr um fjall farit.

Den som har komme inn og frys på knea, treng eld.
Den som har fare i fjell, treng mat og klede.

He who comes in with cold-shaking knees, needs fire.
He who has experienced the danger of the mountain, needs food and clothing.

- - -

Er-a svá gótt sem gótt kveða öl alda sona,
því at færa veit, er fleira drekkr síns til geðs gumi.

Øl er kje så godt for vettet som folk seier det er.
Når ølet går inn, går vettet ut.

Beer is not so good for wits as people say it is.
When beer goes in, wit is lost.

- - -

Ungr var ek forðum, fór ek einn saman, þá varð ek villr vega;
auðigr þóttumk, er ek annan fann,
maðr er manns gaman.

Då eg var ung og fór aleine, fór eg vill på vegen.
Då eg møtte ein annan, syntest eg at eg blei rikk.
Mann er mannens glede.

Once I was young and wandered alone and knew nothing of the road.
When I found a comrade, I felt rich,
for man is man's delight.

Harp Song of the Dane Women (by Rudyard Kipling)

WHAT is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre.
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken- -

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

Din tanke er fri

En la clase de noruego escuchamos esta canción, que es una traducción noruega de una canción alemana que, durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, era popular entre la resistencia. El título significa "tu pensamiento es libre".

Din tanke er fri,
hvem tror du den finner.
Den flykter forbi,
slik skygger forsvinner.
Den kan ikke brennes,
av fiender kjennes.
Og slik vil det alltid bli:
Din tanke er fri.

Jeg tenker hva jeg vil,
mitt ønske bestemmer.
I stillhet blir det til,
i ukjente drømmer.
Min tanke og lengsel
vil bryte hvert stengsel.
Og slik vil de alltid bli:
Min tanke er fri!

Og tvinges vi inn
bak jernslåtte dører,
da flykter den vind
som tankene fører.
Fordi våre tanker
kan rive ned skranker.
Os slik vil de alltid bli:
Vår tanke er fri!

Olav H. Hauge

A new poet I've found. Well, in fact, he's not so new. He wrote a while ago. Høgne introduced us to some of his poems in the nynorsk class. Here they are:

DET ER DEN DRAUMEN

Det er den draumen me ber på
at noko vedunderleg skal skje,
at det må skje --
at tidi skal opna seg
at hjarta skal opna seg
at dører skal opna seg
at berget skal opnsa seg
at kjeldor skal springa --
at draumen skal opna seg,
at me ei morgonstund skal glida inn
på ein våg me ikkje har visst um.

IT'S THE DREAM

It's the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen --
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the rockface will open
that springs will gush --
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn't know was there.

**********

I DAG SÅG EG...

I dag såg eg to månar --
ein ny og ein gamal.

Eg har stor tru på ny-månen,
men det er vel den gamle.


TODAY I SAW...

Today I saw two moons --
a new one and an old one.

I have great confidence in the new moon,
but it is the same as the old one.

**********

KATTEN

Katten sit i tunet når du kjem.

Snakk litt med katten,
det er han som er varast i garden.

THE CAT

The cat sits in the yard when you come.

Speak a little with the cat;
it is him who's best acquainted with the farm.

Sullabullyam

This is a poem/song written by norwegian author Edvard Hoem. It talks about how everything passes and disappears from the world; even of the most sublime things that are, no traces will be left after a time... And yet, joyously, SULLABULLYAM!!!

Når vi har forlate den rullande jord,
og vatnet og vinden stryk ut våre spor,
når alt det vi sleit med er slutt og forbi,
høyr songen vi syng om den bortfarne tid.
Sullabullyam!

Lik lyset frå stjerner som ikkje fekk namn,
lik draumen om liv i den eviges famn,
slik styrer vår lengsel frå mørker og grav
til kystar ein stad bakom himmel og hav.
Sullabullyam!

Alt vakkert skal kverve i botnlause rom.
Den søtaste smak skal bli bitter og tom.
Og du som eg elska, skal også forgå!
Vi jublar mot vårar vi aldri skal sjå!
Sullabullyam!

Så lytt til ei nynning når natta er still,
ja, lytt til vår song når vi ikkje er til.
Høyr fuglar og harper og stigande song,
frå oss som gjekk bort, men som levde ein gong!
Sullabullyam!

Marble

What did Sabina think about Hadrian's relationship with Antinous? What were Hadrian feelings for each of them? How did they fill their days? What did they say to each other and what did they refrain from saying? Was there fear, love, submission, hate, pain, acquiescence, indifference? How were their lives like before they met? What were Antinous' expectations for the adulthood he never reached?

I'd love to know. These marble portraits, particularly Hadrian's, look so very lifelike and expressive. I know they do not hold the answers, but they must have been posed for, or been copied from posed-for originals. How much do these faces communicate of the thoughts that fleeted behind them when they were flesh? Antinous, idolized, was re-sculpted so many times after his death that he is somehow the least real to me, and thus the hardest to read. Sabina, on the other hand... did her bitterness and resignation and sadness truly pass into the stone, or am I just imagining them?

Armani Jeans Publicity

Here's a picture of a 5m x 5m poster advertising Armani Jeans at Termini Train Station in Rome. If you happen to go there these days, you'll see it still.
My thoughts (funnily, all questions) on looking at this add are:
1) Are these the jeans one buys when one is a drug addict and/or drunk and/or anorexic and/or suicidally depressed?
2) After the photo shoot, did the Emporio Armani people also provide the necessary medical care to these two girls?
3) If this is a jeans add, why didn't they include an image of the jeans in the poster?

Having acquired

Having acquired 60 minutes of internet connection at Oslo Airport, and with only 10 to go, i decide to write a few sentences here, after having skyped with my family in Argentina and facebooked a little with Liz, whom i'll be meeting in Budapest.

Weird to think that internet connection is bought, immaterial as it is. What is one buying? Bandwith... But really, there's no band, and the width we're talking about is not truly measurable in the metric system. What is the material make-up of what i'm buying?

What i'm really buying is the possibility of doing something. In the end, that's what it comes down to: when you buy food, you buy the possibility to continue to fuel your body. When you buy a car, you pay for the possibility to move faster and at your whim from one place to another. And so on and so forth.

Air will be paid for, also, when someone comes up with the idea of scrubbing all the shit we've put into it with factories and cars.

Steamer in a Snowstorm (1842, William Turner)

Franco Sacchetti (1330? - 1400)

Passando con pensier per un boschetto,
Donne per quello givan fior cogliendo,
"To' quel, to' quel" dicendo,
"Eccolo! eccolo!"
"Che è, che è?"
"È fior alliso."
"Va' là per le viole!"
"Omè, che 'l prun mi punge!"
"Quell'altra me' v'aggiunge."
"Uh! uh! o che è quel che salta?"
"È un grillo."
"Venite qua, correte:
Raponzoli cogliete."
"E' non son essi." "Sì, sono."
"Colei, o colei,
Vie' qua. Vie' qua pe' funghi."
"Costà, costà pel sermollino."
"No' starem troppo,
Chè 'l tempo si turba!"
"E' balena."
"E' truona."
"E vespero già suona."
"Non è egli ancor nona."
"Odi, odi:
È l'usignuol che canta:
Più bel v'è,
Più bel v'è."
"I' sento... e non so che."
"Ove?" "Dove?"
"In quel cespuglio."
Tocca, picchia, ritocca,
Mentre che 'l busso cresce,
Ed una serpe n'esce.
"Omè trista!" "Omè lassa!"
"Omè!"
Fuggendo tutte di paura piene,
Una gran piova viene.
Qual sdrucciola,
Qual cade,
Qual si punge lo pede.
A terra van ghirlande.
Tal ciò c'ha colto lascia, e tal percuote.
Tiensi beata chi più correr puote.
Sì fisso stetti il dì che lor mirai,
Ch'io non m'avidi, e tutto mi bagnai.

Cecco Angiolieri (1260? - 1312)

Incredible! Over 700 years ago! How did they let him live?

S'i' fosse foco, arderei 'l mondo;
S'i' fosse vento, lo tempesterei;
S'i' fosse acqua, i' l'annegherei;
S'i' fosse Dio, mandereil' in profondo.
S'i' fosse papa, sare' allor giocondo,
Che tutt'i cristiani imbrigherei;
S'i' fosse 'mperator, sa' che farei?
A tutti mozzarei lo capo a tondo.
S'i' fosse morte, andarei da mio padre;
S'i' fosse vita, fuggirei da lui;
Similmente faria da mi' madre.
S'i' fosse Cecco, com'i' sono e fui,
Torrei le donne giovani e leggiadre,
E vecchie e laide lasserei altrui.

If I were fire, I'd torch the world;
If I were wind, I'd storm it;
If I were water, I'd drown it;
If I were God, I'd send it to the deep.
If I were Pope, I'd then be happy,
To have swindled all Christians;
If I were emperor, do you know what I'd do?
I'd straight away chop everybody's head off.
If I were death, I'd go to my father;
If I were life, I'd flee from him;
I'd do the same with my mother.
If I were Cecco, as I am and was,
I'd take the women who are young and graceful,
And leave for others the old and the ugly.

La Compiuta Donzella (1250? - 1300?)

Not much is know of this poet; even her real name is lost. "Compiuta Donzella" means simply "Accomplished Maiden". She wrote in Toscanian dialect, which was later to became Italian, sometime during the second half of the XIIIth century. This sonet begins sweet, talking about lovers in spring. Then, on the eighth verse, it adds sadness to the sweetness.

A la stagion che il mondo foglia e fiora,
Accresce gioia a tutti i fini amanti,
Vanno insieme alli giardini allora
Che gli augelletti fanno dolci canti,
La franca gente tutta s'innamora,
Ed in servir ciascun traggesi innanti,
Ed ogni damigella in gioi' dimora.
A me n'abbondan marrimenti e pianti.
Chè lo mio padre m'ha messa in errore,
E tienimi sovente in forte doglia:
Donar mi vuole, a mia forza, signore.
Ed io di ciò non ho disio nè voglia,
E in gran tormento vivo a tutte l'ore:
Però non mi rallegra fior nè foglia.

During the season when the world leafs and flowers,
It brings joy to all pure lovers,
They go together to the gardens whenever
Little birds make sweet songs,
All free-hearted people fall in love
And every man brings himself forward to serve,
And every maiden lives in joy.
Except for me, for whom miseries and tears abound.
For my father has put me in a quandary,
And often keeps me in terrible pain:
He wants to give me, against my will, a husband.
And I for such have neither wish nor want,
And in great torment live I at all hours:
Thus, neither flower nor leaf gladden me.

The Day The Earth Stood Still, Version II

I've just gotten back from seeing this movie. As in the case of most modern Hollywood films, its 'message' is bland pap, tainted by big business interests (see how long it takes you to spot the windows logo). "Our species should not be destroyed. We ARE nearing a crisis moment, we have almost destroyed the Earth, but it is only in moments of crisis that intelligent species truly change and grow", says the big honcho Nobel price doctor. So what, change will just happen by itself, as if it were a simple force of nature? Who will tell us when the crisis is bad enough? What about intelligence, forethought? Aren't we supposed to be capable of planning and preventing? Isn't that what reasoning is for?

The only concession the movie makes to answering these questions is to casually mention that the big honcho doctor got his Nobel price for his work on the biological advantages of altruism. Some poor writer probably managed to sneak that in.

That we cannot change but in moments of crisis implies that we should wait for crises in order to change. As Naomi Klein says in her book "The Shock Doctrine", governments and powerful individuals have largely been using this idea to impose their own views on society, particularly in the last decade or two... The fact that they've been able to use this 'theory', however, goes to show that there is another side to it, because they had to plan and think ahead to achieve their goals. They PREDICTED what would happen, and even though they were not 100% sure as to what would happen if they tried this or that, they could guess.

So can we, when it comes to evaluating the effects our actions are having on the environment. We're in trouble now, and we're headed for even more. Species and ecosystems are disappearing as a direct consequence of certain of our actions and lifestyles. We must change those now! If we wait, it may be too late! There's too many examples of civilizations that carried on for too long with certain behaviors, as well as cases in which forethought and planning and a willingness to compromise saved the day. Take a look at Collapse, by Jared Diamond, for instance.

Maybe i'm exaggerating in taking this movie as an indicator of the mind frame of Hollywood movie makers. After all, this is not the first story, particularly in SF, where change is only brought on by the moment of crisis... I don't remember the author, but there was this one about a scientist who somehow, having access to a lot of resources, contrived to make it seem like Earth was being attacked by aliens. He sustained the illusion for decades, and in order to fight back the aliens all governments had to unite... By the time the lie was discovered, Earth had become united.

I have no patience with this stuff. It stinks of the "Deus ex machina" syndrome, the mark of really bad Science Fiction. Rather than characters failing or succeeding to solve problems thanks to or in spite of their travails, in the poopy section of the SF world problems get solved by themselves through some silly invention or device... In this case, the theory that we will somehow find a way to save Earth when we come to the edge of having totally trashed it.

It's real sad, though. I think many times people don't get involved in changing the world because they give themselves just this excuse: "things are not that bad after all". I know I've done it. Getting involved in change means giving up things, whether it be time, or goods, or convenience, or money, or power... How much are we willing to give up?

For Don M. - Banned

This is a poem by Mongane Wally Serote, a black South African author writing (mostly from outside his country) during the apartheid years. Poignant, and subtly rythmic, these few verses really caught my attention:

it is a dry white season
dark leaves don't last, their brief lives dry out
and with a broken heart they dive down gently headed for the earth,
not even bleeding.
it is a dry white season brother,
only the trees know the pain as they still stand erect
dry like steel, their branches dry like wire
indeed is it a dry white season
but seasons come to pass.

The pertinent coda seems, thankfully, to be: It did, indeed.

Monday, December 1st, 00:17

Does it signify anything?

Looking back

Look at these expressions, these facial traits. Did they exist only on the artists' mind, or are they an attempt to represent real people, two who once lived and breathed in this planet of ours? Why were they portrayed? What questions did they ask themselves, and what were their everyday concerns?

According to radio-carbon dating techniques, these two miniature human heads were carved on mammoth ivory around twenty seven thousand years ago. They were found at a site in the Czech Republic called Dolni Věstonice, also famous for being the place of origin of the oldest known ceramic in the world. A good example of the latter is the Věstonická Venuše or Venus of Dolni Věstonice. These rests of our deepest past move me deeply. I think of the hands that gave shape to these objects and the hands that may have touched them later. I know I'll never know those lives, but I like to wonder about them and the events that led to these figurines ending up buried in the ground for over 25 millennia.

In 2004 a tomograph scan of the Věstonická Venuše allowed researchers to reconstruct the fingerprint of a child between 7 and 15 years of age who had handled the statuette before the clay hardened and was fired.

The Rape of Children's Minds

That is what most religions must do in order to survive: force themselves on the vulnerable and defenseless minds of children.

A Question of Duration

Apparently senseless parallel lines within an oval of compressed silicate dust, almost like the fossil of an impossibly bloated protozoan. But no, we know better: it is the print a booted foot left on the pocked surface of the moon.

Only 40 years have passed and already we wonder, is this footprint still up there? Has it changed much?

We often read how in the absence of an atmosphere, and without neither weather nor tectonic activity, man made marks on the moon should last eons. Yet, apart from micrometeorites, there are all kind of atomic and subatomic particles colliding against the moon all the time. How long will it take those processes to erase even that tiny mark?

Who will know in ten thousand years the name of the man wearing the boot that made the print?

If it endures a million years, will anyone know the shape of the foot that filled the boot, or what species it belonged to?

Will anybody ever go back up there to see these prints again, or is this picture all we'll ever have? Are they ever to be anything else than the human equivalent of a dog pissing against a tree-trunk? A mere "we were here" sign?

Will they be engulfed by the sun when it goes nova?

Will they survive us, the last sign of our ever having existed, and then at the moment of truth be wiped out by the rocket exhaust of the next species that lands on the moon?

Will they be covered and preserved by a molecule-thick diamond film, on an inhabited moon seeded with sweeping seas of grasses and incredibly tall and limber forests?

Do the men who made them long for those few hours on another world, almost 40 years ago?