Myth of Arrival

In the oldest poem, in The Epic of Gilgamesh, the warlord of the city Uruk, the part-man part-god Gilgamesh, has become a tyrant. His people suffer and cry to Heaven for justice and Anu, father of all, hears them and instructs Aruru, mother of creation, to:

“go and create
a double for Gilgamesh, his second self,
a man who equals his strength and courage,
a man who equals his stormy heart.
Create a new hero, let them balance each other
perfectly, so that Uruk has peace” (Mitchell, 75)

Soon rumors are heard of a wild man with hair down to his waist, some shadowy twin of Gilgamesh running with gazelles and lions, running naked through the forests. So a high temple priestess, Shamhat, the holy daughter of Ishtar, is sent out into the forest to tame the beast, to bring the god-beast Enkidu to face Gilgamesh.

Shamhat

I grow tired of their gossip. They condemn
me. What fool would listen to such stories
told by men? What did you think? None of them
have had to offer up their own bodies.
Men change so little. You hear “temple whore”
and grin. Enough. Already you displease.
The truth is this: when I walk through that door
I am not I. She claims me. Her furies
and her passions are mine. Just how many
of you are connected to the Divine?
Just how many of you even believe?
Not one? At least I have that dignity
to be her daughter. I know what is mine;
a faith deeper than what you can conceive.

Enkidu

I – and all the animals fled from me –
am – I became all because that woman
in her red corset kissed me. Suddenly
I was human. Now. I know. Now. Human.
She kissed me and all the animals fled.
She named me, gave me a name. She even
taught me love. I love – I loved her. I bled
for her. I did all this for her. Passion,
hunger, desire – all my first. Who can
say no? Now. I know. Now. Blissful. I was
hers. Bound to her. Blissful to hers. Spirit.
Hers. Soul. She was Shamhat. My love. I am
this. All because – I became all because
of that high priestess in her red corset.

Gilgamesh

O soul. O friend. O one true friend. I wait.
We will go into the cedar forest.
We will know both joy and grief. All my hate
shall calm like the sea after a tempest.
My one true friend. I wait for you. Hurry.
Your love waits. Deeper than any dim lust.
You said I was arrogant. I humbly
agree. And you said I was the crudest
of men. Yes. Let us go now. Hand in hand.
The world is ours. The gods love us. Dearly
I love you. How can love ever offend?
I will follow you down into the land
of death if I have to. Never leave me.
My soul. My dearest friend. My one true friend.

***

Work Cited:

Mitchell, Stephen. Gilgamesh. New York: Free Press. (2004)

I am falling in love with static; that terrible hiss and pop on the radio one hears in-between stations. If you examine the lives so many people who have, through sheer force of ego and alcohol alone, given us so much art that resembles static in shape and sound, it is a wonder why more of us don't simply hit the bottle, sniff glue, get high off those fat magic markers and write down whatever it is we are experiencing at the moment.

After all, it is not so much whether you have talent or an ear and eye for beauty or even (as in my case) the ability to string two notes together to make anything resembling harmony — no, the key is simply to put your work forward as how it is suppose to be and let others eat it up. It is not so much the 1960s idea of Theater of Pain, rather it is Theater of Static; this is a white noise age, after all; one that lives by the creed "everything must mean something," which, when you get down to it roughly translates as: "who are you to judge that this isn't brilliant?"

So let us not judge. Let us just put things forth as the way they should be. Here I am following in the footsteps of John Cage, one of my favorite functional alcoholics. For those that the name doesn't ring a bell Cage's greatest achievement was his 1952 composition 4′33″. Simply put, it was an entire performance where not a single note was played. "Although 4′33″ in fact consists of the sounds of the environment that the listeners hear while it is performed, it is frequently erroneously perceived as four minutes, thirty three seconds of silence."

Silence, static, they are simply the opposite of each other. The point here is not whether we should or should not champion Cage and Cage's performances; it happened, it's over and now it is part of history (end of discussion). No, the point is that because of what Cage did, tuning the radio into endless silence as it were, that frees us now from having to spend years and years developing that classical base that allowed performers in the past to experiment from. Why bother? After all, this is how it is suppose to be; if it sounds or looks disjointed or boring or even hideous the problem lies with the viewer and listener, not with the composition and composer.

Perhaps our new creed can be: if it can't be done in twenty minutes why bother? … after all, who are we to say that is not brilliant?

One of the draw backs of the book I have put out is that it is not a bilingual edition. It is wholly in English. I am not as knowledgeable as I should be with copyright law but there is debate as to how much of Garcia Lorca's work is still protected under copyright law.

One interpretation of the law states that, "A translation is a derivative work, and only the copyright owner can authorize a translation that will be distributed. This envisions a work that is translated into another language and distributed in parts of the world where that language is spoken. Derivative works are infringing if they are not created with the permission of the copyright holder." However, prior to the passing of the United States 1976 Copyright Act, many "copyrighted literary works, movies and fictional characters are soon to pass into the public domain due to their 56 year maximum copyright terms."

In other words, the book of Federico's poetry I was translating from, published in Buenos Aires in 1945, has passed the 56 years of copyright protection (it's been 63 years since 1945) and so, theoretically, has passed into public domain. However, what makes this insanely complicated and the reason I left out the original texts was that the Garcia Lorca estate in Spain has been attempting to reestablish copyright ownership over some of Federico's poetry in American courts. The attempt was made in 2006 and so far (as far as I can tell) there has been no verdict. It is one reason I put out the book now, since it falls into this gray zone of legal doubt. But I want to be in good faith if suddenly the Garcia Lorca estate is successful and retains copyright protection. I suppose if I was getting my book published through a large publishing house then I could find out what I could do and not do; self-publishing comes with its own dangers, it seems.

I thought that one way of getting around the whole issue of using original texts or not, but keeping the book true to the idea of a bilingual text (what I really, really want) is to present two translations, one in English and one in a third language, say Italian or French. I am terrible in languages (even English) but I have friends who offer me suggestions once in a while and if I was successful I could offer something to the reading public no one (to the best of my knowledge) has done. Sure, you can go down to Barnes and Noble and buy an English translation of Federico's poetry but an English and Italian and Chinese (with one version in Eastern Armenian thrown in)? That would be worth $9.99 I think.

So here is three new experimental attempts at reworking Garcia Lorca's Adivinanza de la guitarra. One in English:

Riddle of the Guitar

At the round
crossroads,
6 maidens
dance.
3 of flesh,
3 of silver.
Dreams from yesterday pursue them,
but they are held fast by
a Polyphermus of gold.
Ai!, the guitar!

In French:

Devinette de la Guitare

Au carrefour
tout rond,
6 jeunes filles
dansent.
3 de chair
et 3 d’argent.
Les songes d’hier les cherchent,
mais elles sont
au bras
d’un Polyphème d’or.
Ai!, la guitare!

In Italian:

Indovinello della chitarra

Nel rotondo
crocicchio,
6 donzelle
ballano.
3 di carne
3 d'argento.
I sogni di un tempo le cercano,
ma le tiene avvinghiate
un Polifemo d'oro.
Ai!, la chitarra!

And in Portuguese:

Adivinanza de la guitarra

Na redonda
encruzilhada,
6 donzelas
bailam.
3 de carne
e 3 de prata.
Os sonhos de ontem procuram-nas
porém têm-nas abraçadas
um Polifemo de ouro.
Ai!, guitarra!

I have been working on a version of Federico Garcia Lorca's famous poem, Romance Sombambule, or, roughly translated, The Sleepwalker Ballad. Several friends have looked at it and said that it was a good attempt. I must give thanks to France Isabelle, Shirley, Mistletoe
and Elle! You all gave me fantastic advice and the poem wouldn't be ready for general consumption without all of you, my friends!

I don't do anything in void and if any of you are interested in better translations here are the two other versions I worked off from, my Chinese being very, very poor; one at douban.com, another at poetry-cn.com.

The nice thing about blogs is they are the "rough draft" you don't mind other people correcting you before you do anything as foolish as trying to publish a very bad mistake (haha).

民谣失眠

绿啊，我多么爱你这绿色。
绿的风。绿的枝桠。
大海上的船哪，
高山上的马。

影子缠在腰间，
她在阳台上做梦。
绿的肉，绿的头发，
冰冷的银的眼睛。
绿啊，我多么爱你这绿色。
在吉普赛的明月下
万物都凝视着她，
而她却看不见它们。

绿啊，我多么爱你这绿色。
霜花的繁星
和那打开黎明之路的
黑暗的鱼一起到来。
无花果用砂纸似的树枝
磨擦着风
山岭, 鬼祟的猫
起, 耸起激怒的。
但有谁来了？从哪儿？
她徘徊在阳台上，
绿的肌肤，绿的头发，
梦见苦的大海。

– 朋友，我想
用我的马换你的房子，
用我的马鞍换你的镜子，
把我的短刀换你的毛毯。
朋友，我从创伤卡布拉关口流血回来。
– 要是我办得到，小伙子，
这交易一准成功。
可是我房子已不是房子，
我也不再是我自己。
– 朋友, 我只希望
体面地死在自己金属床上，
如果可能，
还得有细荷兰被单。
你没有看见我
从胸口到喉咙的伤口？
– 你的白衬衫上
染了三百朵黑暗的玫瑰。
你的血还在腥臭地
沿着你腰带渗出。
可是我房子已不是房子，
我也不再是我自己。

– 至少让我爬上
这高高的阳台;
让我上来，让我
爬上那绿色阳台。
帮助我! 登上那绿色的
月亮的阳台，
那儿水在回响。

二个同志一起
登上高高的楼梯
留下一行泪痕，
留下一行血迹。
多铁皮小灯笼
在屋顶上闪烁
一千个玻璃个水晶的手鼓
刺伤了刚醒的黎明

绿啊，我多么爱你这绿色,
绿的风，绿的树枝。
二个同志伴登上了楼。
长风在品尝
苦胆薄荷和玉香草的
奇特味道。
– 朋友！她在哪，告诉我
她在哪儿你的苦姑娘？
– 她多少次等候你,
她多少次等候你，
冰冷的脸，黑色的头发，
在这绿色阳台上！

吉普赛姑娘漂在池心。
月光的冰柱
在水上扶住她。
绿的肌肤，绿的头发，
冰冷的银的眼睛。
夜亲密得
象一个小广场。
酒醉的宪警，
正在敲门。
绿啊，我多么爱你这绿色。
绿的风。绿的枝桠。
大海上的船哪，
高山上的马。

"i'd make a great crow" ZJC (2008)

Have you ever searched for a friend on mydeathspace? Not to be morbid but I have a history of people disappearing from my life suddenly, without notice. What has happened? One day you're chatting like normal and all of a sudden you realize it has been three weeks and you're still waiting for a letter, a phone call, a knock on the door. I'd go look for you if I knew which direction to turn.

There are so many ways to disappear and so few ways to tell anyone once you are gone.

I will not count the days I want to echo those last lines of Bette Midler's in The Rose (1979) … "Where you going…? Where's everybody going …?" No, I will not.

Morning and nightfall. One more day is done.
If I could come back I'd want wings. To look
for you. All of you. Gone from me. Famine
is at my gate. Enough! I will unhook
the sky. It is enough to miss you all.
Tell me: will you look for me? Only fair.
Go out, look around. Morning and nightfall
and one more day is done. Look for me where
we have been. Look for me where the crows
gather to caw. Watch for me high above
you – a heartbeat brilliant with pitch-black comb
and wing. I would make a great crow. Who knows?
I might find you. Hunt until all I love
are found, yes, until we all make it home.