20 minutes and three seconds

"Translati... an... th... Hop... o... languag..."
Only for lazy monkeys:
http://docs.google.com/View?id=ddq3n9sm_4cfdjzpfc

Longer final version:
http://docs.google.com/View?id=ddq3n9sm_5hqdsc82q

Esperanza

Translation and the Hope of Language –
http://docs.google.com/View?id=ddq3n9sm_3fm92jhgr

A long time apart from now, or may be not so terribly long, after all, there’s a place. In feeling it resembled a small village, though in truth its inhabitants had given up with any kind of census. They knew, someone somewhere out there knew exactly… In appearance the town resembled something you might see in a smart-aleck post card: a spoof of a picturesque European villa, in contemporary architecture. Does something come to mind? Perhaps the phrase itself rings a bit comic, like healthy fast food. The buildings one sees on the streets beginning to dominate blocks, looking all squares, sharp angles. The inhabited versions, cheap, of all metal and glass sky scrapers, which sport bricks or cement in place of glass, that somehow, anyhow, looks plastic. May be it’s the unnatural bright colors, like in Berlin, or the pale ones in south Italy. One wonders if the colors only take away the relief of obscurity for the eye.

Esperanza. Esperanza. Her name moved around her, this way and that, like a new thing. Walking barefoot, there were only images in her mind. And words, like images, bright and crisp on her tongue. She had no intention to speak them aloud, but sometimes they spoke. People smiled, as they’d always had. Some nicer than others. Those woman’s front teeth, for example. They, themselves, told many stories about victories and lack and riches. The sun shone through in patches, though there were no trees, which Esperanza didn’t really notice, and the rays appeared to her to be playing with her. She chased them. Jumped with the stray cats and dogs and rats and geckos out of the way of the sun only to try to jump into their path the next moment. The words that escaped from her might remind one of butterflies, suddenly flying out of a seemingly closed bud, or birds, moving in a …. from the top of a tree, or a fox coming out of her hole in the middle of winter snow. Neither causal nor accidental, intentional nor directionless, they moved like the visualization of a song across the way. At least, so it felt, without seems, to Esperanza...

Birthday Happy!!

29 giugno 2009

Caro Berlusconi,

Oggi Le scrivo la prima lettera. Come era prima consueto pregare o esprimere un desiderio a nostro signore, prima ed ora ancora ci si lava la mattina le ascelle o i piedi, così, con tanta simile consuetudine comincio oggi a scriverle una lettera al giorno, per un anno intero. Vi saranno contenuti i miei desideri e i miei sogni, un po’ di rabbia e le tante esperienze quotidiane. Come i bambini alle fate, le esprimo per prima cosa i miei tre desideri ed il primo forte forte: vorrei tanto che Lei non muoia prima che questo progetto veda luce. Sarebbe un disastro. Non che aspiri alla Mondadori, che eppure non disdegnerei. Vorrei solo che questo figlio non sia infelice, una raccolta di lettere mai arrivate. Ogni scrittore si deve porre il problema del suo interlocutore, io che scrittrice non sono mi limito col problema del mio destinatario.

Menu: Caprese

Oma to Oma: Summer’s First Song

-- For my tzaitchik to grow, fast annd radiant, and hop up springing!

Come now, naked girl, take your clothes, leaves,
rays, tie them ‘round your waist and neck,
like a good girl.

Come summer now, naked one, strolling ‘bout
the ground like a home emptied of shame,
and all eyes filled with salut
fly to you settling on your bare skin
like one-day butterflies.

Come now, naked summer, give the green
its yellow due and the bees their fuzzy hew
and the fruit their bright luster
so the plants’ stems grow strong and tall
to support the weight of a full harvest.

Come now, summer, naked girl unharmed
strolling unscathed the roads and long days’
nights, greeted just by benevolent cheers,
wrapped only in the the light’s long arms
protected as if by swords unneeded, the rays
melt into braids hanging low-down, south
around the body, tickling just a bit the back and breast.

And no man will say a rude word to your passing,
sweet girl, for the words in his throat
will turn into birds and fearing to chocke
he will throw them up in a funny wordlessness
and each time thence he opens his mouth for
an incompetent insult, his jaws will snap
so hard and tight, they won’t open again for a fortnight.

And moving unabated, your eyes will bless
the dirty and the humble (children), waiting
and calling you with all the muster
a gentle othermother can bestow:
my naked summer!