It's Winter

Not quite yet, but on more than one level…

It feels like it: it was in the mid forties last night and made for a delightful night’s sleep. So much so that I’m incredibly groggy and disoriented right now. It was very cold in my room when I woke up because I went to bed with the ceiling fan on AND the windows open. Oh well. The A/C was off anyway.

Super-cool piano tuning man, or we’ll call him Ichabod Crane, came and fixed my piano. It sounds so nice now. He said he really liked the model I had, that it was very well built and it would last forever, as he had seen some of the same that were very old and held their own.

I didn’t realize how out of tune the Wurly was. The sound quality was pretty sorry, and as he tuned it, it all cleared up. The notes were so wolfy, especially below middle C, that there was this growl (that was kinda cool for playing real loud grungy stuff in the bass but that I won’t really miss now that it’s in tune) when you played anything down there. Now the notes are actually intelligible and sound clearer. It’s more enjoyable to play… much more.

So much so that I started playing something that I dismissed as too difficult a few months ago. It’s also called “Winter,” (except I don’t have some of that first ten or fifteen seconds down cuz it’s not in the book). It sounds crisp and clear (relatively speaking) on the new’n’improved Wurly and that’s exciting. My cousin had a friend who did a more complex version (more true to the real thing than what’s in the book) for a piano recital) and he started to learn it. It’s a great piece and is coming along well, and I may have another chance to go see the Bechstein this weekend and give it another go, although I’m thinking of playing the little bro (the 7’) than the concert grand… not so intimidating.

I’m going to go enjoy the weather all day today… au revoir.

Lincoln Memorial: 6

“Well, I’ve been here thirteen years now. No big deal, really, because I’ve got no other plans. I like it here.”

“That’s very impressive. Most diners aren’t even open for thirteen years, and you’ve held a job that long? Congratulations.” He realized she wasn’t terribly busy, but seemed not to want to talk much, so he started again: “You must have seen a lot of changes over the years. What’s changed the most since you’ve started?” He was trying to get her to open up to him. He could tell clearly that she did not have any close acquaintances, or if she did, they were in the form of cash registers and aprons. He looked at her left hand, and there were no rings, and there were no other signs of family or human interaction.

Before she could answer the question, and he could see her preparation to respond, she was called away, and headed toward the kitchen almost violently. Mr. Horner paid no attention at first, but soon heard shouting and ruckus from behind him, as he had turned to look out over the diners and through the windows that looked out over the street. He turned back to see what could have been going on, and as he did, he could see through the food window that something had been ordered wrong, or that there was another error somewhere, and also that Polly’s response was not favorable. In fact, she was yelling at a young man who was nearly in tears. She grabbed him by the back of the arm and dragged him around behind a corner where they couldn’t be seen; they were still heard, however, and when the tirade stopped, she came out from behind the corner red-faced and clearly trying to regain her composure. The young boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, was foreign and in tears. Mr. Horner could not immediately decide whether to make eye contact with his former acquaintance. She deserved to be acknowledged for what she had done, but she also did not seem to deserve that much human interaction. To further confirm that conclusion, she leaned up against the back wall of the kitchen and lit a cigarette, not relaxed, not passively, but as if it were the lifeblood that kept her heart pumping; it went beyond the act of smoking: it was vile, the greatest act of dependence and craving, and she nearly trembled until it reached her lips. It didn’t take Mr. Horner long to sum her up differently than he had before, and he was also quite sure (that is to say, he knew) he needed to see no more of her than to know what she was like as a person, for he had seen her react in what she thought was privacy. He took the last sip of his coffee, which had become cool and bitter, and left a dollar bill on the table. He walked out.

As he reached the street again, he turned around to see what had transposed since he left. He saw that Polly had gotten the dollar he left and it would have only been appropriate for any average person to look up to acknowledge their customer had left, especially when it was so obvious to even the less discerning person that the (former) customer was standing just outside your window, waiting to see if you would make eye contact. She did not, or not within the brief moment that Mr. Horner would have allowed her to. He walked on, and with the five or six steps he took on the sidewalk and around the corner, any bit of anger or resentment slowly turned into disappointment and sadness. Not for him and the failure to open up to her, but for her failure to recognize kindness when it is shown, and to take it upon herself to donate this damaging mentality to others. He walked around the corner to his right, down a small alley, and this wall (to his right) would have been the wall to his left when he was sitting inside the restaurant, except there were no windows along it. Most of this side would have been the kitchen, and therefore it was all brick. He knew there would have been a few booths on the other side of the wall, and continued around until he reached another corner. The brick wall ended abruptly to go down what looked like an alleyway, but it stopped. It was simply a square space made by the backs of three of the units. The one to the right would have been for the diner. He stepped over some soggy cardboard boxes, walked around some barrels of grease and by a dumpster to reach the rear kitchen door. It was a double door, and was very heavy, as it was made of solid metal. One half was open, and he could smell and hear the sizzling of grease. He knew that if he weren’t careful, Polly would see him, and it would become obvious what he was doing. He waited outside until he heard her voice, and it was far off. He fairly jumped inside the kitchen and looked to his right, where the scolded boy would have been. He was standing over a large industrial range, preparing omelets. He had just finished an order, and there seemed to be a lull in his work. He turned away from Mr. Horner, but did not seem to see him. Mr. Horner waited for him to turn so he could see his badge, and then whispered “Yong…” The boy heard him and looked that way, and Mr. Horner motioned for him to come outside. He took a quick look around and started walking toward the door.

Why?

I think I have found the world’s most useless must-have. I want to know where the people are that made this, as well as the location of the people to whom they marketed. Lewis Black said it best: they should “all wear aluminium foil so we know who you are.”

A New Friend

More than one, actually, but this one isn’t a person. It is called the C. Bechstein Model D 280 Concert Grand Piano. I played her today. I Dunno had to go get his glasses, and I took him. We were nearly there and I saw the piano store I wanted to go to months ago to get a heads up on where I could play a harpsichord. I told him we’d have one more errand before we went home. Got the glasses; they’re great. Walked inside the store, and if you haven’t read (rather, since you haven’t read) this great interview with a world-renowned pianist, you won’t be familiar with the discussion about the specific personality she feels each (handmade) piano has, etc., and it was entirely awesome to be in a room full of pianos (something like this one). I walked straight ahead until I met one of the salespeople. I couldn’t have looked to be that interested a party, what with my Jimmy Buffet t-shirt and flip flops on along with a sinussy brother in tow (yes, sinussy, because it’s only appropriate to double the last consonant before adding –y), but I was approached and talked shop for a while. We looked at a few of the pianos in the main part of the store, and they were all Kohler & Campbells. I asked him what else they carried. He gave me a funny look and took me to the next room. There was a Steinway, a Knabe or two, and a few Seilers, which are supposed to be extraordinary. I asked him (of course, and with a little bit of a sinister grin) if he had and Bösendorfers. He looked at me as if (and without needing) to say “are you kidding? Who do you think we are?” and asked me to follow him. There were two pianos in this room. I walked down an aisle that led to a monstrosity on a stage of sorts, only demarcated from the rest of the floor because it was hardwood and not carpet; it was not raised. There lay the Bechstein, and accompanying it was (unfortunately) one of the most hideous things I have ever seen. It’s called the Suspension, and all I can say is the one on my car looks cooler than this thing. It played pretty well, but was just hideous. It’s the kind of thing that should be the size of Washington’s head on the quarter and go inside a snow globe with a bunch of (also miniature) metallic-ish things.

Anyway, the Bechstein was unbelievable. I told him about the Kawai I had played (which I thought was nice) and he almost looked at me with pity. This thing is 9’2” long, which makes it an inch longer than the aforementioned pianist’s Bösendorfer 275’s (two of them, to be exact). Supposedly Bösey is having some financial trouble and isn’t as great a piano maker as I’ve been told (rather, have read), according to (we’ll call him) I Like Seiler. I played a few of the things I knew on the Bechstein, especially (and obviously) those with booming bass lines. It was just perfectly clean, in tune, and responded to anything. It was a thing of beauty. I’m almost willing to say, though, that the B 210 had a more comfortable feel; maybe it was just more broken in. I played a poor, poor Steinway they were giving away for nearly nothing. It was sorely abused and needed some TLC. Anyway, ILS made a comment that I was playing octaves between my thumb and ring finger; I guess I never thought about doing that, but it’s far more comfortable than using my pinky. Long story short was we talked shop and discussed pianos and dealers and such, and I was told I could come back whenever I wanted to play whatever I wanted (that wasn’t already sold). And I didn’t even have to speak any foreign languages.

That story is for later. (Also there is a new Just Because link)

 

 

 

Lincoln Memorial: 5

Mr. Horner walked out of the pharmacy door with his right hand in his pocket, jingling his change, and his left hand buttoning the top button of his jacket. He felt like smiling, but didn’t, and stopped at the end of the curb. He looked down the way he had come, back north toward home, and then to his left, west, toward the industrial part of town. It was clear that this street, Gamble Street, did not lead toward the affluent part of town. Even where he was, still inside the city proper, but on the southern end, this was one of the roads that everything backed up to: there was no street frontage, no storefronts, no shops or homes, but essentially a back alley road that was a two-way street instead of a one way thru street. He didn’t want to go down it, but felt like he should for that very reason. He eased his feelings by making a mental note to do that another day, maybe Tuesday.

Delaney Street ran to the right, and it led completely out of town, toward the farming community, and there was nothing to do out there, nor was there any way to get there in any moderate length of time without a car. That was immediately dismissed. He had already decided not to take Gamble, couldn’t go back north toward home, and wasn’t going to the farming community. He continued to head south on McLean, like he was doing before, but only one block, so he could walk a few blocks west without taking Gamble. He would then head north on one of the presidents’ streets so he wasn’t retracing his steps. This would eventually lead him to Wilkinson’s, which was a few blocks northwest of his home, but farther than he had been that morning. Virtually no time had passed for Mr. Horner to calculate his next move, but to him, it seemed an eternity.

As he walked down McLean Avenue, he noticed something about the brick buildings on either side of the road; this far down the street, outside of the nice residential and rebuilt part of town, some of the older buildings were abandoned, the windows broken in or shattered. Some of the brick sills still shelved shards of glass that were dirty and colored from the time they’ve spent exposed to the weather. Most of these buildings were factories, and therefore were built higher than most of the other shops or houses, and Mr. Horner couldn’t look inside the windows; rather, all he could see was the ceiling as they were too high off the ground to look anywhere else. He saw that the wall ended a short walk ahead and then resumed. He walked down to see that a set of stairs had been recessed inside the building, and walked up them just enough to look at the floor. It had some remnants or other of manufacturing products and materials, but they were so old he couldn’t even tell what they were. As he looked closer, he realized that they were badly charred, and the building was no longer in use from some structural damage from a fire. He reached into his pocket and flicked a penny inside the building and it clinked and rolled a few feet on the concrete floor. Mr. Horner walked back down the stairs and headed south as he was before.

He was a little bit disappointed with his solitude. He was heading away from the city, and even though it was to get back into the city without backtracking, he felt as if he were wasting time. There were no people around and he was walking alone. He stopped what he was doing and turned around. He walked back up the stairs he had just come down and looked down the other end of the building. There was light coming through the other side. He decided to cut through the building instead of walking around the empty blocks. He hurried through, not running or jogging, but sure not to spend any unnecessary time in a burned building. He came out the other side and there were people. Only a few of them, but cars were passing by, and there were some businessmen walking up and down North Street. He had only come over one block, but the difference was noticeable. He waited until anyone that would have seen him come from the building had already left, and headed back north.

Now feeling a little better about his progress, and also realizing he was getting closer to Wilkinson’s, as well as the time when he could actually go there, he started walking, and stopped to go inside at a diner on his right. It was a greasy place, one where breakfast was served all day, and the silverware was almost expected to have smudges, and the table would certainly be sticky. Mr. Horner walked in and sat at far end of the bar. People around him were eating waffles and pancakes, and it seemed that most of them had been there for a while. He was somewhat secluded from everyone else, and he waited for the waitress to approach him. She looked to be a woman who would consider this her career, and therefore also seemed to consider it entirely normal if people did not greet or address her before giving their breakfast order. Mr. Horner moved his head to be able to read the rest of her name, as part of it was covered by the lapel of her work blouse, a blue and white vertically striped short sleeve shirt. She had curly blonde hair, and it appeared that it would have been curlier if Mr. Horner had come in earlier in the morning. She was probably younger than she looked, and he said “Hello, Polly,” and was about to continue with a request when he stopped and asked, “Is breakfast still being served?” Knowing it was, he looked up from the menu at her and smiled as he waited for her response. He watched closely the look on her face, and he was first met with some disdain and irritation, which changed to pleasantness as soon as she looked up from her dirty counter.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Oh, good. Well, I’ll just have a cup of coffee for now. I may have to leave soon.” Polly asked him how he would like his coffee, and he pretended to debate, and decided on having it black. She poured him a cup of coffee and walked away. Mr. Horner looked around near her work station. She was the cashier, and he looked for trinkets, pictures, magnets, or something that belonged to her. He saw along the back wall a few plaques that had peoples’ names on them. He saw one with the first name Larry “T,” but could not read the last name. He saw Larry at the other end of the bar at the stovetop. His plaque was for employee of the year. He saw a few more below those, but couldn’t find those employees at work today. Below that was a plaque with a picture on it that was clearly Polly, but it was a few years old. He looked closer at it, and it was to commemorate her tenth year as an employee. He was very surprised, not that she would keep a job, but that anyone would have such tenure, if it could be called that, at a breakfast diner. They usually didn’t even stay open that long. He was sipping on his coffee and had picked up a section of the newspaper in which he was not interested when she came back by. He coolly dropped the newspaper onto the counter from where it had been suspended in front of his face. He swallowed the coffee he had just sipped and asked her about the plaque.

Das ist blöd... and recruiting PrePoly's

It’s been an entire week since I’ve posted. And even longer than that since I’ve actually talked in my post.

So new things:

Installment 5 of Lincoln Memorial is in the works. (I don’t know if you guys realize I’m writing this as we go; it’s not all done. Y’all are about as in the know with the story as I am, minus the general outcome.)

I went to the Aquarium. Beautiful.

Writing letters in Turkish to send to people. Met a lady that can proofread them for me.

Learning (not only Turkish but)(probably just SOME) Persian. Have some literature and books and things and some people I need to be able to speak with that I met last weekend with The Doctor, and now I have to learn Persian. I tried to finagle Kimi Stewart to learn a language with me. Here’s why:

I went kayaking on Sunday (that’s not why). My old babysitter (still a great family friend) and her husband are in the Spanish congregation and every year they invite about twenty people or so to go kayaking. This year, however, their boss’s niece (I think) was coming as well. Only thing is, she’s from Germany. She speaks English very well, but I couldn’t help myself. With about a week’s notice and a crash refresher course from Frau Adorable I felt somewhat confident in my German. (Also, I Dunno helped me with some flashcards on the way up there that day). Anyway, I realized on the kayaking trip (all six miles of it), that spending time with a bilingual for a reasonable amount of time (with a small foundation already built), you can very quickly become comfortable (conversant, not fluent) in that language. It made for a very enjoyable (relaxing at times, at times not) six mile journey. The German girl was very pleasant and we talked about languages and school and stuff. Very nice. But back to Persian. I decided from this, as I mentioned earlier, that spending some considerable time with somebody that speaks (or, less desirably, is learning to speak) another language well, is invaluably beneficial to your learning the language yourself. Because we can’t GO to Italy or Romania or Turkey just to learn the language, we have to try to replicate total immersion as best as possible.

That having been said, how nice would it be to have a few friends learning a few different languages, or even just one, and be able to work off of one another. Now, it won’t be as easy as German, because in that case, she was fluent, and I already have some working knowledge of the language, so it was very productive, but you people need to help me out. Learn another language, set aside a few bucks and buy some CDs and a few books, and check out some online radio or podcasts, get some literature in that language (because it’s only printed in 265 langauges), and get cracking. You’ll be all the better for it, and hey, you may even enjoy it. I’m somewhat sad to say that Russian has taken the backburner recently, and I seem to be getting more unfamiliar with it on a daily basis, but that wouldn’t be the case if H’n’B would pony up and work with me on it. (Don’t take that too seriously, H’n’B; it’s just a suggestion). So y’all decide individually what y’all are gonna learn and get crackin’.

I couldn’t help myself at the thought of going to the aquarium: I knew that in the city, at the world’s largest aquarium, I would see some foreigners. I put the “Good News,” booklet in my cargo pants pocket and carried it along. For those of you that haven’t been, it’s breathtaking, unlike anything you’ve ever seen, even for somebody whose family has a 40-year diving tradition. It’s indescribable, so I won’t try, but you must go see it for yourself. It’s very well done, well built, well organized, and was not crowded when we went. Very leisurely and awesome. Anyway, I, of course, met these two women in the cafeteria who were from Ethiopia. I just walked over and asked what language they were speaking, and it was hysterical because they said “an Ethiopian language,” as if I wouldn’t have known which one it was, so I responded with “Amharic or Tigrinya?” and they were shocked. One responded and asked me if I spoke Amharic, and I said no. They also spoke Arabic and Oromo, the latter of which I am not as familiar with. Anyway, I talked with them for a while and they were very nice.

What else? You all know about Turkish… I’ll talk about that later.

I’m working on Lincoln Memorial as I can, and may have it up by this evening. I’ve taken a few weeks off of running, and am starting up again today, so that’ll be nice.

 

Lincoln Memorial: 4

It was only after their nice conversation and Herman’s reaction to it that Mr. Horner realized the impression he had given. Apparently Herman thought of him as either the owner of the home or the real estate agent. This seemed unprofessional on Mr. Horner’s part, for he didn’t want to be untruthful. It seemed this could cause some complications if it carried on. It was nothing to worry about now, though, because Herman was had gone out for a smoke. Mr. Horner had decided to join him to explain the situation, despite his aversion to all things that involved smoking. He peeked his head outside the front door, but only after seeming to excuse himself from the rest of the group, who were not necessarily watching him as much as they were following his lead, you could say. He looked outside, and Mr. Bernstein was gone. It had started to drizzle, and Mr. Horner stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed on his way in, but there were a few spider webs in the corners where the front door was set in about six feet. There were no spots on the concrete from the rain where he was standing, and he stepped out and turned in each direction to see if his acquaintance was standing in the rain somewhere. He was nowhere to be found.
Mr. Horner walked back inside and most of the group had gone upstairs. Only three had remained on the main floor, and were still in the library when Mr. Horner came back inside. His initial reaction was to leave the house and be about his business, but he was spotted. A gentleman in metal-rimmed spectacles came toward him and had the Aeneid in his hand. He was clearly interested in Latin, or was a teacher of some sort. They had a brief conversation. Mr. Horner saw no gain to this conversation, but did not want to be rude or dismissive, so they talked briefly, and he eased the man’s inquiries about his own interest in the language and its history. In a calculated, but not even in the slightest bit noticeable, move, Mr. Horner rather interrupted and suddenly acted as if he had just remembered something very important. He asked the man, Mr. Garland, as he then found out, if he had four quarters in exchange for a dollar. He shook the man’s hand warmly, gave commendation about their brief discussion, and with a hearty wave and a goodbye to the other visitors, saw himself out the front door into the steamy street the rain shower had created.
For a brief moment, he had forgotten what he was going, and paused to see that he had just missed stepping in a puddle. He hovered his foot over the surface of the water until he just felt it touch, and then he moved away, and dropped a penny in the water; he waited for the distinct plink of the coin hitting the surface of the water and the concrete. He walked south, the direction he was heading before he stopped to see the home. He reached the intersection and quickly scanned it for anything of consequence. There was nothing, but he saw some phonebooks at the corner of the street. These were of consequence, though. He looked at them. They were clearly the new phonebooks, because they were still wrapped in plastic bags. He repeated “phonebooks, phonebooks, phonebooks…” and walked on.
He needed to get to the corner opposite him, so he first had to cross heading south, then, waiting his turn again, walked east to the corner drugstore. It was still a little too early for lunch, not because of the time; it was almost noon. It was only because he wouldn’t get home (hopefully) until around five o’clock, and he didn’t want to have to get something else between lunch and dinner. It would ruin his appetite.
He had some business to take care of here, though. He had read about it in the paper, and now was a good time to take a good look at it. He went up and down the aisles, giving only brief glances to the billboards that hung above each of them, stating the contents. He found the pharmaceuticals, and went through eyes, ears, nose, throat, but couldn’t find what he was looking for. He went to the cash register, and no one was there yet. He saw the new phonebooks behind the desk here, too. Mr. Horner helped himself to a peppermint out of a jar that lay on the counter. He put a dime down in front of him and rang the bell. The cashier, a stout German-looking man with thin gray hair rushed to the counter and greeted Mr. Horner. Mr. Horner told him he had taken a mint, and wanted to pay for it before he forgot. They were five cents for two, so he grabbed another, and then a third, and put those two in his pocket. He slid the dime across the counter and was given three pennies in change.
“How else can I help you today?” said the clerk.
“Well, I saw an ad in the paper for some non-smoking product. I’ve been told by my wife that I need to leave cigarettes, or she’s leaving me. I haven’t been able to quit, and I saw your ad in the paper for a medicinal aid of some sort. It’s not on the shelves, though…”
“Well, yes, sir,” said the clerk, with an air that he was confident of his answer. “It’s meant to take the place of the need for cigarettes with natural substances, and slowly break a smoker from the need to smoke. The only problem is, it’s being shipped from California, and it’s late. It should come in some time later. I could…”
“I see.” Mr. Horner interrupted, which was very unlike him. He started almost confrontationally by saying “Here’s the problem,” as he leaned on the counter.
“I’m going to be out of town all of next week, and I don’t know how long it takes something like this to work, but I’d like for it to be at my house by the time I get home. I won’t have time to come by and get it when I get home because, you see, I’m down here today on business. Can you ship it? I can pay for it all now.”
The money exchanged hands, and it came time to get the name and address the clerk would be sending the product to. Mr. Horner tore off part of a napkin and wrote down a name in bold letters. He handed it to the cashier and explained:
“I’ve just moved into the area, and don’t know if my new address is being used yet. Here’s my name. Look it up in the new phonebook and use that address to ship it. It’ll get to me that way. If not, you can call my number. It’s on there, too.” Mr. Horner handed the napkin to the cashier, and bid him goodbye with a wave. The cashier did the same and said “thank you, Mr. Bernstein! Have a nice day!”

Midnight Snack

I wasn’t feeling very well last night, and sat down to watch television. I watched two or three episodes of Dirty Jobs because that Mike Rowe is hysterical. Turns out he’s also a professional opera singer, and used to perform with the Baltimore Symphony. Who’da thunk it? Anyway, there was a really neato program on the History Channel that came on afterward about the Dragon’s Triangle. It came on at 8 pm. I fell asleep at 8:30 and woke up around 9:30. I Dunno was asleep very near a bag of chips that I’m sure he grabbed before napping. After some difficulty in waking him up, I finished off the chips, and we went upstairs. I promptly went to bed, as I hadn’t yet woken from the fog I was in during the nap. It was one of those very intense naps where you awaken to realize you don’t know where you are, what you were last doing, or why. I knew I pay for this, and would probably wake up in the middle of the night. I was asleep before 10 pm.
I slept very hard and got some good rest. I rolled over this morning and checked the time to see if I should sleep in or go have breakfast. It didn’t look too dark outside, and I squinted to look at my clock across the room. I thought it said 5 am. I figured I’d sleep a few extra hours and go back to bed. I squinted harder. It was 2 am. Surprise!
Having subconsciously planned on this happening, I went downstairs and got myself a huge glass (jug) of water and some saltines. I turned on my lamp and grabbed my reading glasses. Armed with my Urdu binder, textbook, and a good pen, I stayed up until about 4 studying script and vocabulary. It was excellent. I started feeling tired again, and laid down with my MP3 player to listen to some tunes before bed. Some of my favorite albums came up on the random playlists and I listened and silently sang along. I also decided there were a few more songs I was going to try to learn. I went to sleep with a small amount of difficulty and woke up around eight. It was like one of those weekend days where you wake up at seven or eight and watch an hour of television, and then go back to sleep for a few extra hours. It was delightful.
In other news, I updated the “just because,” link, and for those of you that are keeping up with it, there will be a new installment of Lincoln Memorial later this afternoon (doubtful) or early tomorrow (more plausible) if not tomorrow evening (almost definite).
I slept very hard and got some good rest. I rolled over this morning and checked the time to see if I should sleep in or go have breakfast. It didn’t look too dark outside, and I squinted to look at my clock across the room. I thought it said 5 am. I figured I’d sleep a few extra hours and go back to bed. I squinted harder. It was 2 am. Surprise!

Having subconsciously planned on this happening, I went downstairs and got myself a huge glass (jug) of water and some saltines. I turned on my lamp and grabbed my reading glasses. Armed with my Urdu binder, textbook, and a good pen, I stayed up until about 4 studying script and vocabulary. It was excellent. I started feeling tired again, and laid down with my MP3 player to listen to some tunes before bed. Some of my favorite albums came up on the random playlists and I listened and silently sang along. I also decided there were a few more songs I was going to try to learn. I went to sleep with a small amount of difficulty and woke up around eight. It was like one of those weekend days where you wake up at seven or eight and watch an hour of television, and then go back to sleep for a few extra hours. It was delightful.

In other news, I updated the “just because,” link, and for those of you that are keeping up with it, there will be a new installment of Lincoln Memorial later this afternoon (doubtful) or early tomorrow (more plausible) if not tomorrow evening (almost definite).

Lincoln Memorial: 3

As Mr. Horner walked back past his home, he decided not to get too far from the city center. He had planned on going to Wilkinson’s for lunch, but was on his way already, and would get there too early for lunch. That was no problem. He saw another house for sale, but this one was even better than the first: it was an open house. He saw a few cars outside and knew that the real estate agent and a few interested parties would be there. The outside of this particular building had copper gutters, and the windowsills were painted a thick white. As he walked closer, he noticed that they had obviously been painted a number of times and that gave the building a rustic look. He liked rustic, and walked around the opposite side of the two sets of stairs to approach the front from the far end. He stood on the landing, just outside the range of the covered area before the front door, and looked up. The sky had gotten a little darker, and it looked like it may rain. He looked around and went inside, but not before admiring some of the window boxes that hung a few floors above him.

He walked in to see more that attracted his attention: the floor was done in hardwood, with the antique style boards that were five inches wide instead of two and a half. They were stained a deep ebony color, and looked almost black, but were just light enough to notice the grain in the wood. Despite the dark color of the floors, the interior looked neither dark nor desolate. The ceilings were high and painted stark white. Some of the walls were brick, and created a very handsome look with sconces and other wrought iron things on the walls. There was a brick half wall around part of the dining room with old-ish style columns that met the ceiling. That was to the left, and he jingled his pocket as he walked by.

Mr. Horner hadn’t noticed that people had started to notice him, not with surprise, but a sense of awareness that he was standing in the foyer and hadn’t moved for a while. He walked around to the right where there sat a baby grand piano; that was a room unto itself despite the fact that there were no walls that set it off as such. There really weren’t many walls on this floor: the only ones were those that surrounded the staircase, which was rather centered among all the rooms, with walls all around it. This place was very large. It had a full first floor and a few bedrooms on the second. Mr. Horner walked past the piano and beyond that was a very open family room, with a fireplace and elegant antique furniture that was very attractive and appropriate, without making anything look old. There were some gold picture frames and candle holders in this room, and he thought of his wife. He would have to bring her here, but he was too busy today.

The family room, sitting area and all, centered around the fireplace, was probably twenty feet long, running toward the rear of the building. At the end of this was a library. Again, it wasn’t a room that was walled off, but it was in the far right corner of the first floor and Mr. Horner, or anyone for that matter, immediately recognized that when they got to that corner, the function of the area had changed. There were only two walls of books, and they formed a corner. There were two very plush leather chairs that faced either of these walls, with a table between them. He liked how the room was professional and relaxing without being ostentatious. He decided to take a look at the books, and immediately he noticed a few that were leather-bound, very fancy looking. They had all been taken out recently and weren’t really put back. They were Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, and Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, along with Cervantes’ Don Quixote. He picked up the Metamorphosis, and opened it up. He was delighted to see that, not only was it not dusty, it was studied and was in Latin. He opened it up and began reading. He was glad to find this copy; it was a good translation, one done by one of the foremost Latin professors of his day. He had read seven or eight lines, and then realized, as did the other visitors, that he had begun to read out loud. He didn’t seem surprised, and neither did the other visitors, for some had gathered around to listen. Mr. Horner continued until he felt satisfied and put the book aside. He looked at Don Quixote and the others, and realized that they were all in their original languages. He opened up Don Quixote to the famous windmill scene. He reached into his pocket and put a coin in the binding, not too hard, not even to mark the pages it lay between, but enough that it would stay where it was. He closed it gently and put it away. He introduced himself confidently to a short, prematurely balding man with large glasses. The man said his name was Herman and he began to ask Mr. Horner a few questions about the age of the house and Mr. Horner began to discuss the “period,” of many of the “pieces,” He described the age of the hardwood, the period of design of the doorways, and elaborated on the carvings and ornamentation of the furniture, explaining why it was designed as such and where it probably came from based on that. They walked around a bit more, and discussed the real estate market locally, the trend for much of the housing lately, and where Herman Bernstein had come from. It was a nice conversation, but was terminated when Mr. Bernstein went outside to smoke. He didn’t look like a smoker, but he went outside. John Horner did not smoke, and was rather disappointed that his new acquaintance did.

No longer in the stone age

So I finally decided to add all the links to my sidebar. All of our friends in the community are on there with one addition- the "Just Because," link. Think of this as my version of Jon Stewart's Moment of Zen (or not at all). I'll (probably not) change this link about once a week or so to a web page that I like or spend/spent time on for whatever reason. It's either something I enjoy reading about, a very cool website, a time waster, something entirely goofy, and I'd be willing to bet there will be a few Xhosa grammar guides or a Nepali phrase book looming in the future. So that's something I decided to do, and comments to that regard can be directed to the most recent post. Yippee.
Just another small way for everyone to enjoy ForeignWords.
Also: I'm in the final stages of finishing up a story of mine. I sent it to one of my editors whose been reading it all along, and when I get the final word, I MAY start posting installments here. If I don't, please be assured you will get your own personal copy if you so desire (and are nice to me [after reading it]).

Sala Kahle (that's Xhosa for goodbye... do your own research)

An epiphany... Actually, a Kawai

I was out and about on Friday doing what I do, and I was with The Sister Who Shall Remain Nameless. She has been calling for a while on a gentleman who she said has a nice piano. A lot of pianos are 'nice' because people toss that word around a lot (a la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). I thought nothing of it, but then about a month ago, Br. Seersucker went with her and I got the skinny on the piano. He said the man has a Kawai, and that he told him it's worth about $50,000. Needless to say, that piqued my interest. The nicest piano I've ever played is a Baldwin baby grand, and at the time, I couldn't even really play (anything). I still can't. Anyway, I made it a point to tell Sis. Nameless that I wanted to meet this man and his piano. I did just that last Friday.
We walked into the house and turned to the left to see his Kawai. (This is about as close as I could find. This one is a 7' grand, and his is only 6'10".) It was beautiful. Beautiful. He was kind enough to notice the drooling awe-inspired look on my face, and offered to let me play. I have a Wurlitzer, and it's great for what I know and how well I play. I'm telling you, though, this piano was remarkable. I set my fingers to the keys and struck a chord, nothing fancy, just a major chord. It was the voice of angels. The clarity, depth, and resonance were outstanding. Obviously the difference between an upright and a grand piano are going to be night and day, but the depth and feeling she had was amazing. It seemed no matter how loudly or softly you played, you still had not reached the border of its ability. I got more comfortable, and played a few things I was familiar with, and he knew the words to a few of them, particularly the intro and first few minutes of Icicle (of course), and as I became comfortable with it, got a little more aggressive and realized how smoothly it played in any register at any volume. The feeling (in trying to relate it to someone who doesn't play piano) is like a little boat drifting gently across a pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. Not really. [Plagiarism?] It's like being in a very nice sports car as compared to a Ford Pinto (or other lemon of choice). With said lemon, you can throw the pedal to the floor, and you feel nothing. There's no power there. It's very shallow. In an expensive Italian sports car, you don't even have to reach fourth gear to feel the power and depth a car like that has.
I could have spent all day playing scales, chords, and arpeggios, and would have been happy. The owner sat down when I got up and played some Chopin pieces that were incredibly impressive. He talked as he did it and described the differences between his piano and some others. He said he liked his piano on the whole, but enjoyed Steinways, Bösendorfers, or Bechsteins for different qualities. He displayed some of these, and said he had played all of the above. He also explained very well the benefits of a hand-made instrument (which would be lost on someone who DIDN'T have a decade of professional instruction or more years of professional concert experience under his belt). He said that he could play seven Steinways (or Böseys) blindfolded, and have someone assign a number to each one. Playing them for a few minutes each, he said he would have no difficulty returning to a piano at random and identifying which of the seven he had just played. This is because of their individual qualities and characteristics, which all come from not being mass produced. Remarkable.
The nice thing about his Kawai, and it may have been the people, the surroundings, etc., was that it wasn't intimidating. Much of the quality and character of a $100,000 Steinway would be lost on a novice and it would be intimidating to play someone's Steinway in their home, or at a dealer. It's like telling Einstein where to subtract, or trying to paint alongside Vermeer or Van Gogh. The Kawai was inviting; it wasn't so advanced that you couldn't enjoy it or appreciate it. Someone that enjoys cars may have no idea how to drive a Formula One racecar, but this I was able to appreciate. She was inviting and enjoyable and you could actually appreciate the craftsmanship and quality of a piano like that. I would feel almost asinine playing a Steinway, but this was very enjoyable. I had to call and share this with a few people. You just don’t understand.

Lincoln Memorial: 2

There was always a taxi waiting at the corner of Fiftieth and Virginia, and he was playing with a coin in his hand as he rounded the corner to see him standing there. He dropped it suddenly, and heard it fall, but didn’t respond. He opened the door to the taxi and sat down inside. He sunk into the backseat as he told the cab driver where he was headed; he inconspicuously looked toward the spot where he was standing when the coin fell from his hand, trying to see something, and he wasn’t sure if he did or not, but he said something under his breath.
Having reached his destination, he got out and paid the cab driver exact change plus tip, thanking him warmly and making grave eye contact that said, “Please have a good day.” Smiling now, he walked past a woman who was pushing a baby carriage and she dropped a bundle of mail that was under her arm as she reached to put the sunshade over her baby’s eyes. He stopped to pick it up and put it in her diaper bag, but not before reaching into his pocket and jingling the bottom where everything had collected. He made friendly but impersonal conversation with her and saw her on her way. As they parted ways, he mumbled something under his breath. He didn’t eat too much at home, and therefore decided to stop and have a chilidog. He had a good strong stomach and could handle beans, chili, cheese, hot sauce, and onions at 9 am on an empty stomach. He paid the stand owner in exact change and leaned against the stair-rail of a vacant apartment front as he ate. He looked across the street, starting at the bottom and following the rows of windows that reached many stories above his head and looked to get smaller as they went. His eyes reached the top and he saw the clouds moving steadily by, and in the small space between the tops of the buildings that surrounded him, the illusion made him dizzy. He looked down across the street again and there was a stairway leading up to an apartment complex. It was really a small set of stairs on either side that met halfway up on their way to the front door, creating a T-shape. The top of that T created a brick wall about shoulder height with a flowerbed at the bottom where there stood a for rent sign. He finished his brunch and walked across the street carefully. Once there he walked up the stairs and saw the lock box on the doorknob. The trim and the door were painted a bright white and fit snugly together, feigning that the apartment inside was in better shape than it truly was. His eyes followed the jamb from the bottom left, all the way around the top, and down to the bottom right. He found a suitable spot and reached into his pocket. He stuck a penny in between the door and the jamb where only half was showing. Heading down the first few stairs, he was staring directly down his street and had never noticed the view from this point before. It was a little higher and farther away from the street itself, and allowed for a nice view. Mr. Horner was compelled to walk back down in that direction, even though his original intention was to head east and then north on 110th. He was now at the bottom of the stairs and took a flyer out of the box, folded it perfectly and put it in his coat pocket. Now on the sidewalk, he saw a penny at his feet and picked it up. Looking at it, he noticed the texture was rough on the front, as if it had been run over in the street. He rubbed it with his thumb as if smoothing it out, and put it in his other pocket. He looked to his left and right, and saw automobiles in the street, but calmly walked across in the intervals between the cars heading in opposite directions.
As he was walking back down his street, he was nearing his house and simply walked, doing nothing until he was a block or so away. He wondered if his wife had left yet, and made a birdcall that he knew could be heard from her window. A few seconds later the kitchen light blinked on and off, and he walked on by.

Lincoln Memorial: 1

John Horner was always composed. He was very sharp and well-put together. Everyone felt they knew him, but no one knew too much about him. They knew that he was always kind and wasn’t much for the fancy things; he felt life was simpler without them. He walked almost everywhere.
Mr. Horner would have made a nice grandfather. He was very patient, extremely generous, and was always in the mood for a game or story of some sort, but never got carried away with anything. He was never overemotional or overbearing, and it seemed that everything in his life was in perfect harmony. He always gave the impression that he enjoyed the things he had, but that he would still be very happy without them. His happiness was not dependent on his possessions, and sometimes it seemed, on anything else, but he always valued everything.
He was an older man, and quiet; the type you would like to have as your local baker or barber, who was always welcoming and engaging, but not if you weren’t in the mood for it. He wasn’t easily noticed in a crowd; he didn’t stand out, and he liked it that way. You could tell he had had experience in life and knew what he was doing, but he was soft.
He and his wife had recently moved to the city, and they were renting a nice apartment from an Italian woman probably only a few years older than themselves. In their older age, the Horners didn’t need the upkeep a house would require, and the apartment was charming: the exterior wall was brick and had some solid wood shelves hanging on it between the windows that looked out across the street. You almost felt as if you could reach out across the street and touch the next building over, but it was quite a ways across. They were on the third floor, and the sounds from the street were muffled, although they could still be heard if you were quiet, or if the windows were open. They liked it that way, and the weather was usually nice enough that they could have the windows open, and the sounds that made their way up the walls served as background music, for they didn’t have a phonograph or television set. They didn’t need technology to entertain themselves, and Mr. Horner loved to read the newspaper. Mrs. Horner would knit or read, and she enjoyed her home so much she really didn’t have to do much of anything to be quite content for the day. She knew her husband would be home at the end of the day and they would have dinner and talk about what he did that day, or take turns reading out of their latest book.
It had been a nice evening outside and the windows were left cracked all night. Mr. Horner always slept better in a cool environment, and slept well he did. He didn’t have a hard time getting up, though, and was out of bed as soon as the clock struck seven. He was never lazy or groggy. Due to his level-headed nature, he never did things in excess, and was always able to have a nice balance: he was never up too early or to bed too late, and never overexerted himself, or was so lazy that he became groggy. This made for a healthy balance in his life so that he did not get burned out because, as he and everyone knew, he was getting older.
Mrs. Horner was already awake and was downstairs making her coffee. She had eaten breakfast and was on her way up when Mr. Horner was on his way down, dress pants in hand. He looked at her on the stairs, and, handing them to her, said, “Not too many today, if you please.” She smiled. He was downstairs by the time he heard the noise she was making. He was pouring coffee into his favorite mug, almost more suited for beer; it was copper coated, and it made your hands smell funny if your palms were sweaty. He heard the sound of clinking metal upstairs, and it made him smile. He hurriedly had his coffee and a wheat muffin, dry, and went upstairs to dress. His wife handed him his pants and she went into the laundry room to iron a few things. He picked out a shirt and tie, modest ones. They were blue and mild. He set them out on the bed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
He was ready to go, and as he walked downstairs, his pockets jingled. He picked his car keys out of the small bin that lay next to the garage door. He told his wife goodbye and she stopped what she was doing until he left. His car used to be a high-end luxury automobile, and he was proud of it at one time. He didn’t feel that way now. He felt it was like him, a classic, something from the days when things were simpler and easier. He walked to the car, opened the door and sat down inside. The leather bench seat caught him and bounced a little. He opened the garage door and started the car. He stopped for a moment and reached into his right-hand pocket and shook it to make a noise. He turned the car off and put the keys in his pocket. He stepped out of the car and shut the door, walking out of the garage and down the driveway. He looked back at the house over his shoulder and waved to anyone who may be looking. It was almost like it was then.

Obviously... Just kidding

You Passed 8th Grade Spanish

Congratulations, you got 6/8 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Spanish?

That's a good age...

You Are 26 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Which is worse?

Your Musical Tastes Match: Dale Earnhardt Jr.

See his whole playlist here (iTunes required)

What Celebrity Matches Your Taste in Music?

This is the second time I took it. The first time it was Nicole Kidman. I only changed two answers. Hmmmm...

Movers and Shakers…

Or destroyers of all we know to be good in this world? You decide. It seems that there was a time (not ONE collective time in history, but a time for each entity) that something (everything) was at its best. Then people go and “fix” or “improve” it and it may take a while, but we soon realize the “way things used to be” was much better. Restaurants, towns, movies, prose, paintings, coffee. It’s easy to “improve” something and ruin it. Have you ever had a sketch or painting or sculpture (or whatever you do) that you really liked, but realized maybe it needed a few more touchups before you could be really proud of it? And those two extra brush strokes or that one cut fairly ruins your art? And there’s no ctrl+z, or edit-undo on canvas. People “revamp” the menu at restaurants, or get new coffee, and even if the old stuff wasn’t excellent, it was the old stuff and that’s why we liked it. Even if the “better” stuff sometimes tastes newer or fresher or whatever, it’s just not the same.
I think the feeling of a town cannot be lost in any fewer fractions of a second than when the roads are repaved/widened and traffic lights are added. My little town is the setting of my first (ostensibly) completed story about a new high school kid that lives in this town. The story is set in the town about sixty years ago, so it certainly does have a quality different from today, but not much. I am making a few final touches (I think not so unlike the final brushstrokes mentioned above… that’s okay, I’ve got two different versions, one of which is the original, the one I like. The other is the one I’m messing with, somewhat to my chagrin), but I think Little Town, even today, has largely the same qualities about it that it probably did many years ago. There’s the stoplight at the library, but that one doesn’t bother me. The intersection they just totally rebuilt and added the intersection and such is the big killer for the area, but if you ask me, that intersection is really outside of the heart of Little Town anyway, because it’s all residential at that point.
Anyway, it’s just funny how nothing is what it used to be. What right now, at this very moment, is the best it will be before somebody gets to it? Who knows? I did get word that the local bakery near the Hall that also serves pizza has very good coffee, roasted/ground/blended explicitly for them. Yummy.

Start Something

Nothing deep or introspective here. I want to start my own business. I know I’m kind of self-employed (but not) because Dad started something and I’m working with him and it’s a family affair type thing, but I’d like to put a hobby/passion/talent of mine to use for revenue producing activities and manage it, run it, grow it, etc., put some of myself into something. Too bad none of my hobbies/whateveryoucallthems are conceivable options for such an enterprise, but I would really really like to have something like that to my name. It would be very nice to do. There’s something about that that I really want to be able to do, but in what capacity? (((none)))

You can't make one word out of 'friends' and 'shenanigans' (unless it's shenanifriends) but I tried

One of the brothers that was on the dive trip with us last week emailed me a bunch of photos of the trip. For all of his haphazard snapping, some of them are quite artistic. I don’t think they were intended to be so, but backgrounds and stuff make them look like they’ve already been cropped and sized and stuff. They’re quite good. Anyway, I just got them and I haven’t even been home three days yet, but I’m looking at these and it already seems like it’s been a long LONG LONG time since the trip. Here’s why.
I seem to have difficulty continuing to be friends with people that were once only acquaintances. There have been a number of occasions lately where I spend a great amount of time with somebody in a very short period of time, (i.e. not really knowing someone very well and going to Florida with them for a week and really having a good time). That having been said, I feel like once that happens, there is never a means by which to keep in touch with someone I know I get along with really well without seeming sappy or nostalgic. Know what I mean? It always comes off (I think) as this let’s-keep-in-touch/it-was-real/we’ve-seriously-bonded type dorky thing, where it’s really a hey-had-a-blast/we-should-do-it-again/it’s-cool-to-make-new-friends situation. Know what I mean? Because I don’t have a whole lot of close friends, as in seriously close friends, and maybe I’m not supposed to (and do too much other stuff to have any), but that rather irks me. Especially friends my age… The people I spend most of my time with are between 35 and sixty-something, which means the AVERAGE age is like, people older than my parents… That’s not to say there aren’t benefits of spending time with people older and wiser than you, but that gets old (literally) after a while. I get along fine (usually) with (mature) people my age, but I really don’t know that many of them.
So now that I’ve just spilled my guts on all that, let’s have a share of something that could be a weekly treat…
-Shenanigan: Trickery, underhand action, intrigue, skulduggery.
“You’ll most commonly encounter this word in the plural. It seems to have originated in California at about the time of the Gold Rush, though it was first recorded in print only in 1855. In the years since, it has been spelt in about a dozen different ways, though recent dictionaries have settled on the version above. Where it comes from is still a matter of substantial dispute; the first five dictionaries I consulted gave four different origins (Oxford Dictionaries—as so often—opting for the ultra-cautious “origin unknown”). The word looks Irish, and there was no shortage of Irishmen in the California diggings, so it’s plausible to suggest the Irish word sionnachuighm as the source, meaning ‘I play tricks’, which is pronounced roughly as ‘shinnuckeem’. Others argue it comes from an East Anglican dialect word nannicking for playing the fool. Yet others guess at a link with the Spanish word chanada for a trick or deceit, which is another half-way plausible source, considering California’s history. Yet another theory was put forward in 1948 in American Speech for an origin in German schinnagel for a nail that holds the rim to the wheel, which produced the German slang terms schinageln, to work, and Schenigelei, a trick. As the man behind the market stall said, you pays your money and you takes your choice ...”

So you can throw this thing...

Apparently the all important results are easy to fake... like a Polygraph (not -glot)...

Significant posting after The Show

Vart tog vägen vägen? Vi åker på en åker!

You Should Learn Swedish

Fantastisk! You're laid back about learning a language - and about life in general. Peaceful, beautiful Sweden is ideal for you... And you won't even have to speak perfect Swedish to get around!

What Language Should You Learn?

I tried this one a few different ways, because there were a few that could have gone either way, but I got the same answer both times. Does laid back mean I'm indifferent (certainly not!) or that it doesn't take a ton of effort? You tell me... I like Swedish anyway...

Attack Banana?

Incase you have never seen this one, it's resurrected from the dead. We did this one in high school and it became wildly popular. I was originally "Angry Plaid Spork-Flinging Wildebeest," but that seems to have changed. Check it out. I love this one.

I'm pensive... I like that word

Your Blogging Type is Pensive and Philosophical

You blog like no one else is reading... You tend to use your blog to explore ideas - often in long winded prose. Easy going and flexible, you tend to befriend other bloggers easily. But if they disagree with once too much, you'll pull them from your blogroll!

What's Your Blogging Personality?

Welcome to me

I'm back in town, obviously. I'm highly pleased with the splendid job that H'n'B did with my blog whilst I was gone, and if you want details of the trip aside from the conversations with the dolphins, please ask. There were many exciting stories, some involving sharks and guns, and guns and sharks, and drama, and bones, and beer, and boats, and weather, and a general happiness not to be wherever else we would be had we not been where we were. (a la Cap'n Jack).
Speaking of which, (and this segment does horrible injustice to my thoughts on things at length, but to give you a beginning to my mental wanderings) as I was reclining at the helm of our new boat on a dive in which I could not participate for various reasons, I began to ponder. Facing southeast, away from land, one sees nothing but ocean. What sort of life does one live when he only comes ashore once every month or so (i.e. 19th century pirates)? What sort of life does one live when he lives on the ocean in modern times? There is a distinct something about people that have lived any (moderately) large portion of their life on the water, and this is what I want to analyze throughout the course of the next few days, with focus on a few specific people I know who are to serve as case studies. This is all in the light, though, of a certain other thought, which I feel convinced I had a discussion with someone about this very thing before I left, but it being this: one's ability to project oneself into a situation or circumstance and see the consequences (be they good or bad) is a quality/ability that is (or should be) highly valued. So, in this light, how would a maritime upbringing change you as a person? The ocean is a breeding ground for so many qualities, and to name a few, they are: an incredible use of common sense, a sense of duty, a sense of responsibility and maturity, respect in various forms, and a very strong quality of self-sufficiency and assertiveness. I'll discuss all these later with all the time I WON'T have this week while I'm catching up on things. I know it's very disjointed and sounds like anything but the narrative-type thoughts running through my head, but that's what happens when you sleep in a car for fourteen hours... mmhmmm.

Foreign Literature Greats

The Polyglot loves to discuss the "greats" of English literature - people like James Joyce, Hemingway and Poe. He's even posted lists of the greatest works of English literature so that we can go out and enlighten ourselves.

Well, I too, like great literature. I've been struggling as to how to communicate to you all who I think are the "greats" of foreign literature. I searched the web for inspiration. I found a site that so thoroughly explains these powerhouses of foreign writing, that it just doesn't make sense for me to rewrite it all. Instead, I provide you with this link. Go forth and enlighten yourselves.

Just Click Here, Mehsha

Musings

Not too long ago (just down the page, in fact), The Polyglot related his personal journey through old writings. Poly was able to look at these scribblings in their context. I believe there's much to learn from evaluating what you wrote about as a young person. You get a sense of who you were then compared with who you are now. You clarify the path your life has traveled. You can say, "I am at point N now because I turned left at point C, completely missing points D, E & F. Ah, but point J! That was a nice little spot, glad I saw that."

So, I dug through some of my early writings. I too, remember each piece as a literary masterpiece. Alas, I was overestimating my talents just a smidge. I found a piece from the 8th grade that I would now like to transcribe for you here. Please keep in mind that even though I was in 8th grade, I was actually the age of a 7th grader.

Dear Sally*,

Yo chick! Sup? I saw you under loggia this morning as you was getting off yer bus. But I did not say aything to you cuz the bell had already rang and I had to get to homeroom. Ugh. Homeroom was B O R I N G! First period stunk to. I fergot to do my homework. I going to do it but 21 Jump Street came on and you know I can't RESIST that fineness! Did you see them? They were all fine last night. And, like, fine, fine, fine. Oh fine - yeah, I saw Mr. Gorgeous in hall on the way to lunch. Wow. I wonder if he going to New Edition concert. Did your mom say you will go? No way my mom is gonna let me go. Im dying to go!!!!! Guess I'll will just go skating that night. It is a Friday, right? And maybe Mr. Gorgeous won't be at the concert and he will be skating and I will get to see him while you get to see New Edition. That would be cool. Wow. This is a long note. Gotta go before I get caught writing it. See you after school. Write back. BFF. Wanna spend the night on Friday?

Me.

* Names changed for privacy.

So that's point A. I guess I've only made it to point B or C.

My Feelings on Ships

The Polyglot has tried to explain how he feels when he sits down at a piano. He says that he tried to explain that to me with the feeling of playing pool. That's not at all what he said. What he ended up discussing were the actual physical characteristics of ornate pianos to ornate pool tables. Since we never owned an ornate pool table, I still couldn't relate to what he was talking about. I was just picturing Liberace.

Anyway, he finally made some headway by comparing pianos to ships. Ah. That I can understand. There is something about a ship. It's really undefinable, but I'm going to do my best to discuss how sailing makes me feel.

You see, it's not far down to paradise, at least it's not for me. If the wind is right you can sail away and find ... tranquility. The canvas can do miracles, just you wait and see. Believe me. It's not far to never-never land - no reason to pretend. If the wind is right you can find the joy of innocence again. Fantasy gets the best of me when I'm sailing - all caught up in the reverie. Every word is a symphony. Won't you believe me? It's not far back to sanity, at least it's not for me. When the wind is right you can sail away and find serenity. Sailing takes me away to where I've always heard it could be - just a dream and the wind to carry me. Soon I will be free.

Well, there's a little window into my soul for you. Don't get me started on what happens when I get caught between the moon and New York City!

First Day in the Keys

Well, I was going to write something really witty for my first post here on Foreign Words. But being the control freak that he is, The Polyglot sent me a txt message that he wanted me to post instead. So here, in his own words, is an account of how vacation in Florida is proceeding:

My flight was quite interesting. However, that is not what I want to discuss. I will expatiate upon that at another time. I would now like to relate what happened to me on my first day of lobstering. (Yes, lobster can be used as a verb in the same vein as fish/fishing or crab/crabbing.)

Sunday, August 6, 2006
We'd been out on the ocean for a couple of hours. We had already hit a few spots with marginal success. My father's father (who I can't bring myself to call DeeDah now that I'm an adult) had speared several hogfish in each place we'd stopped. The rest of us had not been quite as fruitful in our search for lobster. Upon reaching this third or fourth location, my father and I Dunno immediately bagged several choice specimen. I was still looking under rocks and coming up with nothing but sand.

I spotted a nice head of coral about 100 feet away from the rest of the group and hoped that I could beat the others to it. Alas, I was disappointed to again find nothing but sand lurking beneath the coral. But just as I was about to resurface, I heard the clicks and whistles of a pod of Atlantic Bottlenose Dolphin. I looked up to see a pod of about 7 dolphin frollicking another 50 or so feet away. I tucked behind the coral head to listen unobserved, simply soaking in the moment. Suddenly it occurred to me that there was structure to this noise. Dare I say it, it even sounded vaguely familiar.

While I wouldn't classify myself as an expert, I have done a little reading on Wikipedia about the Khosian language family, particularly Ju|'hoan. Ju|'hoan contains the 5 traditional vowels that English speakers are familiar with, but based on how they are nasalized, glottalized and murmured, those 5 vowels expand into 30 unique sounds (some experts argue the number is actually higher). As with all the Khosian languages, Ju|'hoan is spoken by a very small number of people located mostly in lower Western Africa - Botswana in the case of this specific language.

Naturally, I dusted off my Ju|'hoan and volunteered a nervous "Hello, dolphin." Well, that is the rough translation. I believe the literal translation was more like, "Greetings mammals with human-like intelligence and fish-like bodies." My second statement was the incredibly trite, "I come in peace." More accurately translated to, "I would like to communicate with you, not eat you." At that point, the alpha-male appeared to signal to the pod that it was time to leave. Thankfully, the alpha-female indicated that she wanted to investigate the "bi-ped with dolphin-like intelligence." After a short disagreement, the alpha-male agreed to accompany her to within 10 feet of my location.

So there I was face to face with two Ju|'hoan speaking dolphin. What should I talk about? First, I hand signalled to them that I needed to surface for air. They seemed to understand my make-shift game of charades. After replenishing the air in my lungs, I came back down with a clear head and a topic of discussion. I decided to witness to them about the good news of God's kingdom. After just a few sentences, the alpha-male stopped me. I couldn't believe that I was being rejected by a dolphin of all creatures. However, instead of rejecting me, he said (again, loosely translated), "Yeah, yeah. We know all about the good news. We're actually on our way home from a convention. There's a little spot in the Bahamas where we can hear the programs quite well echoing through the water. In years past, lots of dolphin converged on the spot, but we have to be careful that we don't draw too much attention these days. This year, my family was chosen to attend. Now we will go back to our home waters and relate the program to the rest of the dolphin population."

You can imagine my surprise. That led into a nice little discussion about the convention program. I asked which was their favorite talk. They both seemed to appreciate the symposium about illustrations, especially the advice on imitating Jesus' illustrations. I asked if they had a favorite illustration. The alpha-female, Ursula, said that she loved the fishing illustrations. They both found it quite comical to be "fishers of men." Although they did admit that these days they don't retell the stories of the apostles letting down their nets quite as often since they have lost so many friends to the tuna fishing industry. Completely understandable.

We had a thoroughly enjoyable conversation covering a plethora of topics: favorite scriptures, water pollution, cell phones, and dolphins in captivity. During our chat, the rest of the pod gathered around us. I was particularly drawn to a sweet older female named Georgette - what a lovely woman, er, individual. Eventually I realized that I'd been away from the boat for over an hour and I had absolutely nothing to show for it - an unforgivable sin in my family. I explained that I was going to be in "hot water" which seemed to horrify them. They very sweetly offered to assist me even though they admitted to never comprehending humans' appetite for lobster. (Evidently, the lobster has a reputation similar to the cockroach amongst other sea creatures.) The whole pod joined in and within 10 minutes I had 45 beautiful lobster in my bag. The alpha-male, Josiah, even gave me a lift half way back to the boat. He wanted to take me further but didn't dare risk it.

In parting, I asked if I would see the pod tomorrow. Josiah answered that they needed to continue on their journey. He turned and rejoined the rest of the pod. As I climbed back in the boat, I looked back towards where I'd left them. I saw them leaping and breaching as a final goodbye.

So, that's his message. Pretty interesting. I can see why he wanted me to post it. Oh, and for the less linguistically gifted, Ju|'hoan is the language the African bushman spoke in "The Gods Must Be Crazy." (I had to look it up.)

What a Ship IS...

Well, I told H’n’B I would post once more before turning over the reins for a week. So I don’t have a whole bunch to say. I had this whole thing written up about how I think sometimes I can be overbearing about my enthusiasm with certain things, but it ended up sounding far more self-deprecating than I wanted it to, so that’s out. I’ve saved it, and I’ll post it later. Thoughts?
Tonight will be my first GSAM in about a month and the AM part is actually out because I can only stay for dinner. I have to come home, mow the lawn, and finish packing. This time, I have a list. I’m only packing a backpack of essential travel things, so I’ll have my music, my reading material, some Russian reading, some Urdu reading, a few dictionaries, a change of clothes (for a two-hour flight, I know, but you can never be too careful) chargers, some foreign literature incase I come across some cool foreigners at the airport (because everybody knows that’s where they hang out), and my shaving kit (which I kept with me because [first of all, I need most of the stuff in it, but also] it saved room in my suitcase. I need to round up some things in my car (like the new [old] sunglasses) and some hats and ocean type stuff. I’ll definitely be bringing my running shoes, incase I feel ridiculous enough to run (even half) a mile in the scorching heat of summer down there (but again, one can never be too careful). All of that (and more) can fit in my backpack, and that’ll make for a nice non-lugging-luggage flight.
I was asked today (because apparently I’ve become the authority on these things) what happened to Story & Clark, a piano manufacturer that has apparently changed hands a number of times. Anyway, this sister that has one thought the people went out of business, but as you can see, they did not.
What is it about the piano? I know everyone’s sick and tired of me talking about this, but I’ve got a week away from Foreign Words, and I’m going to try to figure this one out. There’s something regal or charismatic or significant about sitting down at a piano and playing something (even a little something) and having somebody go “oh, I recognize that!” Or not even people being around… just the fact that you’re at a piano, especially if it’s a larger piano, like a grand. I tried to relate to H’n’B my fascination with these things, and since she always grew up with a pool table, and we now have one, I tried to explain it in those terms. A pool table serves a purpose: it is entertainment, yadda yadda yadda, but it’s also far more than that. (like was put so well by Capt. Jack Sparrow “That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and hull and a deck and sails. That's what a ship needs. But what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom.”) It’s THE thing in the room, the main focus, and it’s also a piece of furniture. It’s stained and is carved and colored and demands a certain sense of respect, a pool table does, even if just a tiny bit, if for no other reason than that it is such a large, heavy piece of furniture. A piano, on a far greater scale, (aside from uprights or console or whatever you wanna call them) carries that same attitude… yes, attitude, because if you ask CERTAIN pianists (real pianists) they’ll agree that the piano is a living, breathing thing. A piano is carved and sculpted and designed and created and has a certain ~-~ about it, without even being played. It’s true. Harpsichord, (cool sound but) nah… Organ (super cool sound but strange looking and complicated so)… nah. It’s the piano. Check out some of the other links about three posts ago and look at their big, mean pianos, the concert grands or artists’ series… oh yeah.
Anyway, I’m to finish off a few things before I head to GS and then pack and then mow the lawn, etc., but I’ve got someone at the helm for the time being, and I’ll check out all the hilarity and chaos while I’m gone or after I return. I bid you all a happy adieu!

My Language

It was some time after I had written the papers that I pulled them out; memories of old favorite stories and poems from high school, and most of them sat on that shelf across the room from me, in a few textbooks together with my Latin binders.
I always loved writing and by all (my) accounts, was a good writer, and always enjoyed it. Like anything else, however, one progresses, and although the memories are fond, the subjects warm, the writing leaves plenty to be desired. That wouldn’t be the case in the eyes of a ninth-grader, though. He doesn’t know that you use “shall,” in the future only with the first person, and “will,” with second and third. He doesn’t know that a first person conditional statement is “I should like,” not I would like,” or that you never use the first or second person in a thesis or research paper. He will.
The first one was an alternative ending for an Ursula K. LeGuin story that we were to write. Fond? Not necessarily. Others, like “The Right to Rule,” or “The Cause and Effect of World War I,” were history papers and were pretty much unchangeable in the sense that the information itself wouldn’t change.
Literature (especially your own) has a way about it like old embarrassing family photos: in that day, you thought your Wayfarers and big hair (or senseless use of commas and words like ‘rather,’) were HOT. But now looking back, you see in 20/20: your mother was right. You find you have changed so much since having written that thesis or that story; your life is so different, but you remember the feelings, the emotions, the smells: everything that made that what it is, and when you wrote it, you put something in it you didn’t even know existed.
So much emotion, or feeling, or attitude, or persona, is captured in your own writing style, your voice, that you may not realize what it is, exactly, until you let it culture and age in your closet or computer or cabinet and pull it out years later, and then your own language, the subtleties throughout the work, speak to you in your very own language, and you suddenly remember things you didn’t even know you knew or had forgotten.
It is this time machine one encounters when he rereads his old favorites, only to find they had changed completely, just like when you go to your kindergarten class years later and realize the tables have shrunk. They don’t fit like they used to, and you would fix them, but you won’t be using them anyway. Besides, they look good just the way they are.

Packing

I packed yesterday/evening/this morning. I pack much more betterer if I have a list. I make a list of the thing I'll need to bring, especially when the things I need to pack are things I cannot pack until right when we leave, like my chargers and toothbrush and pillow and that sort of thing. Shoes, etc.
I didn't have enough time last night to make the list early enough to pack with it, but basically packed everything I wouldn't be able to buy when I was there, i.e. chargers, audio/electronic stuff. Also anything that cannot go on a plane in a bag that isn't checked luggage. Since I'm driving back from vacation, it's no big deal, but I sent my big luggage with the first caravan this morning. I realized I had packed a few things I should have kept to bring with me when I came, but they were things I wouldn't want to have to explain to security at the airport. I know that sounds really shady, but, for example, I have a radio transmitter for my car so I can listen to my MP3 player while I'm driving. Most people have one they plug into the device and play through the tape deck, but since I don't have a tape deck, that's out. The transmitter plugs into the cigarette lighter and has a cord that plugs into the MP3 player with twelve frequencies that match to certain high/low frequency radio stations that you can tune the radio to. Basic, I know, because Belkin sells a battery powered one with only two settings, and it's CRAP with a capital K. As simple technology as that is, it does look rather intimidating, because it has a LCD display and a fuse, etc. Since I've also got a one-way ticket, there are no further reasons to get myself searched: I'm not checking any luggage, I've got a one-way ticket, and I've got a bunch of electronics... IT'S BECAUSE I'M GOING ON VACATION!!! Whatever. We have to be there so early anyway, I don't want to delay our arrival to our gate.
So here's how I pack. I wash EVERYTHING I have, fold the clothes and categorize them: shirts, undershirts, collared shirts, shorts, gym shorts, sleep clothes, etc. Then I start throwing them into the suitcase (there's a procedure involving ziplock bags and forcing air out, that has a strange resemblance to the vacuum-packed bags in the infomercials, but since I'm not going to buy one of those, we save money and space in the suitcase by doing it with freezer bags), and the clothes that I don't wear as much don't get into the bag until everything else of importance does. Then it's a sudden death elimination of what other semi-nonimportant things I can fit in around the necessary things. I always pack to the brim...
That is all. Packing and I have a love hate relationship, but they both go the same way: if I have the time enough, I systematically pack everything I own (and some of other people's stuff); if I DON'T have enough time, I frantically pack everything I own (and some of other people's stuff). So basically I always pack everything I own (and some of other people's stuff).

Pianos, languages, and Vacation

I don’t have anything pressing to say today, but for all intents and purposes, when do I ever? ALWAYS, if you pay attention.
Things of interest I have recently learned:
1) Persian, by no small technicality, is not a Semitic language. Now, it’s obvious that it’s spoken in the Middle East and uses a variation of the Arabic script (a Semitic language) for its alphabet, but is part of the Indo-European branch of languages, which is a HUGE branch of languages that comprises most of the languages spoken in Europe and the Western world. More specifically, it is Indo-Iranian, or Indo-Aryan, and therefore shares a relationship with more of the languages of India.
2) I really really really really really enjoy running. Really.
3) The “Apple,” headphones I got from Ebay weren’t. They’re crappy as anything, were shipped from HONG KONG, and there’s only two pair in the package. There are some very definite characteristics that the “wannabe” Apple headphones don’t have, and if you’re interested in donating your pair because you don’t like them, let me ask you some questions before you do.
4) There’s a tropical storm heading towards what will be my home for the next week-ish. If you watched The Kids’ Show last night (no, that’s not the name) you’d understand why it’d be nice to have a very smart but socially developing high schooler around right now. Some predictions say it turns north before it hits the aforementioned beloved abode, some say it’s heading for it like bees to honey. Yippee…
5) Bösendorfer pianos are the coolest in the world. I looked up other piano manufacturers (or whatever) like Fazioli, Bechstein, Steinway (obviously) and Kimball (who owned Bösendorfer for a while), as well as Baldwin (who I didn’t know makes as nice a piano as they do), and Bösendorfer is by far the king. They’ve got a great story and have been doing it for a long time. Their limited edition and artist series pianos are out of this world. So I like to pretend I have a half a million dollars (and the room enough) to buy a few concert grands like they’re used books. Whatever. Also worth mentioning that I laugh at myself for having opinions of pianos that cost six figures (with my Wurlitzer in the living room[hooty hooty!]) and admitting that I couldn't play well enough (yet) to justify even sitting down at any of the above.
Happy now?