It is not an easy feat to open a bank account in Scotland. You have to provide the perpetually unsatisfied bank employee with all sorts of documents that are supposed to, at least in theory, prove that you are you and that you keep your dirty underwear where you say you do. By definition, you are bound to come back at least three times, as they will always come up with something new everytime you think you have everything they wanted. Anyone who dealt with beaurocracy knows that it's one of the main laws at work here...
Today, happy as a bird, literally singing on the street as I was approaching the university offices, I was expecting to receive a document, printed on pretty official university paper, proving that I was a student. I went inside, got the piece of paper in question and noticed with amusement that the term adress and home adress are the same and they are both in Poland. And, on top of that, it wasn't exactly a Polish adress: it was a hybrid between my family's adress in Poland and my adress in Amsterdam, where I was living before moving to the UK. Most of it was Polish with the exception of the post code which was Dutch. It was, apparently, a somewhat misguided attempt at computing a mean of my two confusing foreign adresses. Since I was of Polish nationality and lived in the Netherlands only for a few years, this new hybrid adress reflected correctly my geographical sense of belonging, giving most of the space for the Polish and living only a bit for the Dutch. In an uncanny statistical way, it reflected my place in this world of pain and suffering.
Since I was waiting for that gem of the document for 3 weeks, I decided to swallow the little mistakes it contained and, still in a good mood, headed towards the branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland. There I met the same unnervingly calm and cheerful employee, under the name of Laura, who proceeded to explain to me why this time, to her enormous regret, my account couldn't be opened either because of this and that document missing. I felt blood rushing to my cheeks as I got more and more irritated and made some sarcastic comments about bringing the X-ray of my chest next time, just in case. As I was getting all worked up she was getting calmer and calmer, making me think of these psychological training of how to deal with difficult people that the stewardesses have to go through. Then, as I was deflating somewhat because of her lack of cooperation in getting angry, she had a moment to (oh bad luck) scrutinize the documents once more and noticed the hybrid adresses in the university letter. She couldn't of course tell they were hybrid (that spicy little detail I kept for myself) but she did notice that it appeared also as my UK adress... Oh bother..
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Tasting an instant
Wislawa Szymborska, Nobel prize 1996
Photograph from September 11
They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.
The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.
Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.
There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.
They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.
I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.
________________
I looked for that poem because of the 9/11. When I found a website with her poems I couldn't stop reading them all, in all posible translations. A lot of them seem to have been inspired by a photograph, by a fleeting idea, by a momentary impression. They capture an instant in a marvellous way, letting you feel the emotions, letting you taste that moment, however sad it might have been. Here's a couple of the poems I've selected:
________________
Cat in an empty apartment
Dying - you wouldn't do that to a cat.
For what is a cat to do
in an empty apartment?
Climb up the walls?
Brush up against the furniture?
Nothing here seems changed,
and yet something has changed.
Nothing has been moved,
and yet there's more room.
And in the evenings the lamp is not on.
One hears footsteps on the stairs,
but they're not the same.
Neither is the hand
that puts a fish on the plate.
Something here isn't starting
at its usual time.
Something here isn't happening
as it should.
Somebody has been here and has been,
and then has suddenly disappeared
and now is stubbornly absent.
All the closets have been scanned
and all the shelves run through.
Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.
The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.
What else is there to do?
Sleep and wait.
Just let him come back,
let him show up.
Then he'll find out
that you don't do that to a cat.
Going toward him
faking reluctance,
slowly,
on very offended paws.
And no jumping, purring at first.
Translated by
Joanna Trzeciak
Terroriste, il regarde
La bombe sautera dans le bar à treize heures vingt.
Il n'est pas maintenant que treize heures seize.
Certains auront le temps de sortir.
Et d'autres d'entrer.
Le terroriste, lui, est déjà del'autre côté de la rue.
Cette distance le préserve du mal,
Et puis quelle vue ! Comme au cinéma.
La femme en blouson jaune, elle entre.
L'homme en lunettes noires, il sort.
Les gars en jeans, ils causent.
Treize heures diz-sept et quatre secondes.
Le plus petit, le veinard, il enfourche son scooter,
Et le plus grand, il entre.
Treize heures dix-sept et quarante secondes.
La fille, elle arrive, un ruban vert dans les cheveux.
Seulement il y a un bus qui passe, et on ne la voit plus.
Treize heures dix-huit.
Plus de fille
Est-elle entrée, l'idiote, ou bien non,
On verra quand ils auront sorti les corps.
Treize heures diz-neuf.
Plus personne n'entre.
Il y a juste un gros chauve qui sort.
Mais on dirait qu'il fouille encore dans ses poches et
à treizes heure vingt moins dix secondes
il revient chercher ses misérables gants.
Il est treize heures vingt.
Le temps, qu'est ce qu'il traîne.
Ca doit être maintenant.
Oui, maintenant.
La bombe, elle saute.
Il giorno 16 maggio dell'anno 1973
Una di queste numerose date
che non mi dicono più niente.
Dove in questo giorno sono andata,
cosa ho fatto — non lo so.
Se nei paraggi avessero commesso un delitto
— non avrei alibi.
Il sole ha brillato e si è spento
fuori dalla mia attenzione.
La Terra ha ruotato
senza menzione nel taccuino.
Mi sarebbe più lieve pensare
di essere morta per breve tempo,
piuttosto che pensare di non ricordare niente,
anche se ho vissuto senza interruzione.
Non ero infatti uno spirito,
respiravo, mangiavo,
facevo passi
che si sentivano,
mentre le impronte delle mie dita
dovevano rimanere sulle maniglie.
Mi riflettevo nello specchio.
Indossavo qualcosa di qualche colore.
Sicuramente alcune persone mi hanno vista.
Forse in questo giorno
ho trovato un oggetto perduto prima.
Forse ho perduto uno trovato in seguito.
Mi ricolmavano sentimenti e impressioni.
Ora tutto questo
Come puntini tra parentesi.
Dove mi sono rincantucciata,
dove mi sono nascosta —
è anzi un'arte niente male
togliersi dalla vista a sé stessa in questo modo.
Scruto la memoria —
forse qualcosa nei suoi rami
addormentato da anni
si alzerà repentinamente battendo le ali.
No.
Indubbiamente pretendo troppo,
esigendo perfino un secondo.
Noticias del hospital
Echamos suertes quién debía ir a verlo.
Me tocó a mí. Me levanté de la mesa.
Se acercaban ya las horas de visita al hospital.
No respondió nada a mi saludo.
Quería cogerle de la mano, la apretó
como un perro ambriento que no suelta su hueso.
Parecía como si le diera verguenza morir.
No sé de qué se habla con alguien como él.
Nuestras miradas se evitaban como en un fotometraje.
No dijo ni quédate, ni vete.
No preguntó por nadie de los de nuestra mesa.
Ni por tí, Juancho, ni por tí, moncho, ni por tí Pancho.
Empezó a dolerme la cabeza. ¿Quién se le muere a quién?
Exalté la medicina y las tres lilas del vaso.
Hablé del sol y fuí apagándome.
Qué bien que haya peldaños para salir corriendo.
Qué bien que haya una puerta para poder abrirla.
Qué bien que me esperáis en esa mesa.
El olor a hospital me provoca náuseas.
Bufo
Passará primeiro o nosso amor,
depois cem e duzentos anos,
depois estaremos de novo juntos:
um actor e uma acritz,
os predilectos do público,
fazem de nós no teatro.
Pequena farsa em verso,
dança – um pouco, muito riso,
traço certeiro de costumes
e aplausos.
Estarás irresistivelmente cómico
nesse palco, com esse ciúme,
essa gravata.
Eu de cabeça perdida,
e o coração e a coroa,
coração a rebentar,
a coroa sempre a cair.
Lá nos vamos separar,
rejuntar, a sala a rir,
sete montes, sete mares
entre nós imaginar.
E como se fossem poucos
os fracassos e a dor,
com palavras nos batemos.
Faremos a reverência
e a farsa terá seu fim.
Vão dormir os espectadores
contentes até às lágrimas.
Viverão muito felizes,
domesticam o amor,
um tigre vir-lhes-á comer às mãos.
E nós eternamente lá iremos indom
nós de barretes com guisos,
em seu fino retinir
de um jeito bárbarro ouvidos.
Tradução de Júlio Sousa Gomes
Przy winie
Spojrzał, dodał mi urody,
a ja wzięłam ją jak swoją.
Szczęśliwa, połknęłam gwiazdę.
Pozwoliłam się wymyślić
na podobieństwo odbicia
w jego oczach. Tańczę, tańczę
w zatrzęsieniu nagłych skrzydeł.
Stół jest stołem, wino winem
w kieliszku, co jest kieliszkiem
i stoi stojąc na stole.
A ja jestem urojona,
urojona nie do wiary,
urojona aż do krwi.
Mówię mu, co chce : o mrówkach
umierających z miłości
pod gwiazdozbiorem dmuchawca.
Przysięgam, że biała róża,
pokropiona winem, śpiewa.
Śmieję się, przechylam głowę
ostrożnie, jakbym sprawdzała
wynalazek. Tańczę, tańczę
w zdumionej skórze, w objęciu,
które mnie stwarza.
Ewa z żebra, Venus z piany,
Minerwa z głowy Jowisza
były bardziej rzeczywiste.
Kiedy on nie patrzy na mnie,
szukam swojego odbicia
na ścianie. I widzę tylko
gwóźdż, z którego zdjęto obraz.
Constructing a language
I want to recommend a great book to you guys, it’s ‘Constructing a language’ by Michael Tomasello. It’s a fascinating story of how exactly kids learn their first language, how do they figure it out.
Tomasello is a psycholinguist and is one of the stars of the Usage-based approach to language acquisition that claims that the Universal Grammar concept of Chomsky is nonsense (ie humans are not born with a innate set of grammatical rules) and that language acquisition is achieved by using the general cognitive abilities such as pattern recognition. There is evidence for it too: it turns out the infants only a few months old (before they are saying their first words, ~at the age of 1 year) can do pattern recognition in strings of pseudolanguage such as this one:
bidakupadotigolabubidakutupiropadoti
[notice that as you read this you can recognize ‘words’ quite easily]
Babies that are 8-moths old specifically react if they are presented with ‘words’ from that string afterwards, such as ‘tupiro’ for example.
They can even make generalizations and create abstract categories of words. If you give them a lot of pseudowords such as these: wididi, delili (syllabic structure ABB) they would be more sensitive to similarily constructed words in the future. Isn’t that amazing?
Monday, April 03, 2006
Hoaed!
I was sitting in a cafe drinking camomille tea, reading like a good student, disturbing no one. My table was next to the table of some gentelman that was apparently waiting for someone who didn't seem to be showing up. He asked me what time it was: it was only quarter past. I felt like I needed to say something. He doesn't seem to be coming, I commented. He took it as an invitation to talk and asked me what I'm doing. I told him about my exciting convertion to a linguist. We talked about it for a while (he seemed interested) and then he said: wait a minute, I have something that I'm trying to solve for 10 years now, maybe you could help me. He reached for his bag and rummaged in it to come up with a notebook. From there he fished out a small battered piece of paper which said:
HOAED NISATR ND LEOR G N SOMOEANCO
He askes me if I know what it might mean. The only thing I could come up with was Somoa but he shook his head. The text comes from 1616, he explained, and was written on a sash that was was presented as a gift to his great great [...] grandfather together with a ceremonial priest's cloak. He showed me the photo. It was a very beautiful red cloak with golden ornaments and a prominent golden cross on the chest.
His ancestor lived on one of the Moluccan islands and the gifts where presented to him by Flemmish merchants that were travelling to the Moluccan islands for spices (the islands were at the time the only place in the world where nutmeg and clove could be grown and an object of intensive rivalry between Dutch, Spanish, English and Portuguese merchants). The name of one of these merchants was Erik de Vlamingh. That is all he knows, he explained.
From 'Spice: the history of a temptation' by Jack Turner:
The first Dutch ships called at the North Moluccas in 1599, returning to Amsterdam low in the water from the weight of the cloves they carried: 'So long as Holland has been Holland', one crewmember claimed, 'such richly laden ships have never been seen'.
It was the time when The Dutch and the British were beggining to question the Spanish and Portuguese dominion at sea. Around 1605, the Moluccans went from Portuguese to Dutch hands. But the the battle was far from over, the English were also extremely interested in the islands. A huge role in this war was played by Sir Francis Drake, a pirate and an adventurer on the orders of the British crown. As a consequence the islands were occupied by both superpowers and were a source of continuous conflict. As Jack Turner writes:
One English merchant in the Moluccas reported that the Dutch 'grew starke madde' at having to share the proceeds from the Moluccas' clove and nutmeg.
Finally, a treaty of Breda in 1667 was signed, according to which the Dutch control over the Moluccas was traded for their recognition of English sovereignty over a territory they have seized from the Dutch. This territory was then called 'New Amsterdam', better known today as New York.
HOAED NISATR ND LEOR G N SOMOEANCO
He askes me if I know what it might mean. The only thing I could come up with was Somoa but he shook his head. The text comes from 1616, he explained, and was written on a sash that was was presented as a gift to his great great [...] grandfather together with a ceremonial priest's cloak. He showed me the photo. It was a very beautiful red cloak with golden ornaments and a prominent golden cross on the chest.
His ancestor lived on one of the Moluccan islands and the gifts where presented to him by Flemmish merchants that were travelling to the Moluccan islands for spices (the islands were at the time the only place in the world where nutmeg and clove could be grown and an object of intensive rivalry between Dutch, Spanish, English and Portuguese merchants). The name of one of these merchants was Erik de Vlamingh. That is all he knows, he explained.
From 'Spice: the history of a temptation' by Jack Turner:
The first Dutch ships called at the North Moluccas in 1599, returning to Amsterdam low in the water from the weight of the cloves they carried: 'So long as Holland has been Holland', one crewmember claimed, 'such richly laden ships have never been seen'.
It was the time when The Dutch and the British were beggining to question the Spanish and Portuguese dominion at sea. Around 1605, the Moluccans went from Portuguese to Dutch hands. But the the battle was far from over, the English were also extremely interested in the islands. A huge role in this war was played by Sir Francis Drake, a pirate and an adventurer on the orders of the British crown. As a consequence the islands were occupied by both superpowers and were a source of continuous conflict. As Jack Turner writes:
One English merchant in the Moluccas reported that the Dutch 'grew starke madde' at having to share the proceeds from the Moluccas' clove and nutmeg.
Finally, a treaty of Breda in 1667 was signed, according to which the Dutch control over the Moluccas was traded for their recognition of English sovereignty over a territory they have seized from the Dutch. This territory was then called 'New Amsterdam', better known today as New York.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
The advantages of having a Very Thick Book handy
To earn some extra money I started giving Spanish private lessons. I said to earn some extra money but I don't charge enough to cover my daily coffee consumption, I confess it: I'm doing it for pleasure. Especially now that I'm officially a budding linguist...
Yesterday I was sitting in a cafe with one of my students, a very nice guy with whom I feel we have a lot in common in the way we look at life. We were talking exclusively in Spanish; he can speak it very well and to an ousider we probably look just like two friends having coffee together. As we were approaching the end of our lesson he asked me if we could revise some grammar next time - he felt he was making too many mistakes. I disagreed completely and started convincing him that what he needs is practice and as a proof that I'm right I started waving with a Very Thick Linguistics Book that I happened to have with me. He looked at the book to make sure it was thick enough and admitted that I was right.
Of course I was!
Yesterday I was sitting in a cafe with one of my students, a very nice guy with whom I feel we have a lot in common in the way we look at life. We were talking exclusively in Spanish; he can speak it very well and to an ousider we probably look just like two friends having coffee together. As we were approaching the end of our lesson he asked me if we could revise some grammar next time - he felt he was making too many mistakes. I disagreed completely and started convincing him that what he needs is practice and as a proof that I'm right I started waving with a Very Thick Linguistics Book that I happened to have with me. He looked at the book to make sure it was thick enough and admitted that I was right.
Of course I was!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
My brain and I
How do you learn a new language? Do you learn separate words or whole phrases? How do you think your brain is doing that? How does it arrange the information?
A couple of days ago I was talking with a brilliant linguist about just that subject. He believes strongly that we store whole, ready-to-use phrases rather than single words. He gave me an example in Italian: 'mi da fastidio' (it annoys me, bothers me). I speak some Italian but that was the first time I have heard this expression and I had only a vague idea what it might mean. Later on in the discussion he repeated it once more. The next day I was walking in the center of Amsterdam (where I live), deeply lost in my thoughts and suddenly I've heard:
'blah blah blah mi da fastidio blah blah'
The phrase 'mi da fastidio' reached my perception like a bullet and even though I wasn't paying attention to what the people around me were saying I managed to hear that phrase perfectly. My brain fished it out of the noise of the busy Amsterdam street as if it was only waiting for it, as if it was extra sensitive for it.
It seems to me that after I learn a new phrase my brain becomes sensitive to that phrase for a certain period of time (let's call it a trial period). If in that time I will come across this phrase again my brain will react with: Wait a second, I've heard that phrase just yesterday! That must mean it's an important phrase!
[And indeed, 'mi da fastidio' is used frequently. Apparently the Italians like to complain...]
If I don't come across it after the trail period is over the phrase would not get a high rank in my memory.
A couple of days ago I was talking with a brilliant linguist about just that subject. He believes strongly that we store whole, ready-to-use phrases rather than single words. He gave me an example in Italian: 'mi da fastidio' (it annoys me, bothers me). I speak some Italian but that was the first time I have heard this expression and I had only a vague idea what it might mean. Later on in the discussion he repeated it once more. The next day I was walking in the center of Amsterdam (where I live), deeply lost in my thoughts and suddenly I've heard:
'blah blah blah mi da fastidio blah blah'
The phrase 'mi da fastidio' reached my perception like a bullet and even though I wasn't paying attention to what the people around me were saying I managed to hear that phrase perfectly. My brain fished it out of the noise of the busy Amsterdam street as if it was only waiting for it, as if it was extra sensitive for it.
It seems to me that after I learn a new phrase my brain becomes sensitive to that phrase for a certain period of time (let's call it a trial period). If in that time I will come across this phrase again my brain will react with: Wait a second, I've heard that phrase just yesterday! That must mean it's an important phrase!
[And indeed, 'mi da fastidio' is used frequently. Apparently the Italians like to complain...]
If I don't come across it after the trail period is over the phrase would not get a high rank in my memory.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Learn Italian with Italian perverts
The lengths I would go to learn a language...
Yesterday I was chatting in Italian with Italian native speakers. They do it because they wanna get in my pants and I'm doing it to practice my Italian. I don't know who's worse: me, because I'm using them for my educational purposes or them, because they are depraving my innocent soul of a language student...
Yesterday I chatted on skype with some guy that wanted to pay me 1500 euro for having sex with him that night. He asked: Preferisci prenderelo da dietro o davanti? And I was excited because now I knew how to say 'from the front' and 'from behind'! I also used this opportunity to investigate his motives. It turned out that his main source of excitement was that the woman would become his accomplice, would agree to have sex with him with an excuse of money, an excuse because what what she really desires is a night of pure passion but she's not daring enough, she needs this excuse to push her on the other side of sin. He said:
Il fatto di avere questa complicita' con lei mi eccita e anche il fatto di non sapere se lei l'ha fatto per i soldi o per la passione.
[The fact of having this complicity with her excites me and also the fact of not knowing whether she has done it for the money or for the passion]
Yesterday I was chatting in Italian with Italian native speakers. They do it because they wanna get in my pants and I'm doing it to practice my Italian. I don't know who's worse: me, because I'm using them for my educational purposes or them, because they are depraving my innocent soul of a language student...
Yesterday I chatted on skype with some guy that wanted to pay me 1500 euro for having sex with him that night. He asked: Preferisci prenderelo da dietro o davanti? And I was excited because now I knew how to say 'from the front' and 'from behind'! I also used this opportunity to investigate his motives. It turned out that his main source of excitement was that the woman would become his accomplice, would agree to have sex with him with an excuse of money, an excuse because what what she really desires is a night of pure passion but she's not daring enough, she needs this excuse to push her on the other side of sin. He said:
Il fatto di avere questa complicita' con lei mi eccita e anche il fatto di non sapere se lei l'ha fatto per i soldi o per la passione.
[The fact of having this complicity with her excites me and also the fact of not knowing whether she has done it for the money or for the passion]
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
a spriritual atheist
When you are on the right path you will meet the right kind of people and the right kind of things will happen to you. I admit to myself that there is this kind of spirituality out there, although it may only exist as a particular poetic way of looking at life, not as an existing physical force that can be proved or disproved. I don't necessarily think that you need to evoke supernatural powers to explain that. Naturally, good things will happen if you have a positive attitude and you are not afraid to pursue your true interests, your true passions.
I have always been very adamant in my logical, scientific way of looking at things and I don't easily succumb to supernatural explanations of everyday phenomena - I believe that things are simple and I don't need religion to assist me in my understanding of reality. Even though I would not hesitate to state that there is no God, I am nevertheless attracted to poetry and beauty in some of the religious concepts: the concept of good and evil, the concept of suffering for the right moral cause. They make sense to me emotionally, they make sense to me as a feeling human being. Their relevance might not lie in their explanatory power but in their power to make us feel we belong to the same species, in their power to make us understand we are not alone.
I have always been very adamant in my logical, scientific way of looking at things and I don't easily succumb to supernatural explanations of everyday phenomena - I believe that things are simple and I don't need religion to assist me in my understanding of reality. Even though I would not hesitate to state that there is no God, I am nevertheless attracted to poetry and beauty in some of the religious concepts: the concept of good and evil, the concept of suffering for the right moral cause. They make sense to me emotionally, they make sense to me as a feeling human being. Their relevance might not lie in their explanatory power but in their power to make us feel we belong to the same species, in their power to make us understand we are not alone.
Monday, March 13, 2006
linguist in a sauna
I want to become a linguist. To that end, I've equipped myself with some textbooks on the subject and started carrying them around anywhere I go and reading them whenever I get the chance. Say, in a sauna.
Yesterday I went to this hippie sauna and hang-out place where all men are rasta and women sip biological carrot juice. You're supposed to go totally naked and covering your sensitive parts for longer periods of time is against the house rules (if you can see mine, I wanna see yours too). Otherwise the cool-down place near the bar looks pretty conventional; that is if you don't mind naked hairy individuals slurping soup at your table.
I was there with Olga, a good friend of mine, and we just got out of the sauna room and were cooling down next to the cold water bath (not quite brave enough to actually jump into it). There was a naked guy sitting next to us, reading a book. I have noticed in the corner of my eye that he didn't turn the page for quite a while and was instead listening to my and Olga's conversation. When I saw him react to the word 'linguistics' with a sudden turn of his head I knew he must be one of them language fanatics. Later on he picked up my linguistics book which I had left by the bar and we started chatting. In the changing room (he completely dressed, me totally naked) I asked him for his email adress. All the guys in the room were watching us intently, as if saying: Why on earth does HE get to get her email adress?
Tough luck, guys!
Yesterday I went to this hippie sauna and hang-out place where all men are rasta and women sip biological carrot juice. You're supposed to go totally naked and covering your sensitive parts for longer periods of time is against the house rules (if you can see mine, I wanna see yours too). Otherwise the cool-down place near the bar looks pretty conventional; that is if you don't mind naked hairy individuals slurping soup at your table.
I was there with Olga, a good friend of mine, and we just got out of the sauna room and were cooling down next to the cold water bath (not quite brave enough to actually jump into it). There was a naked guy sitting next to us, reading a book. I have noticed in the corner of my eye that he didn't turn the page for quite a while and was instead listening to my and Olga's conversation. When I saw him react to the word 'linguistics' with a sudden turn of his head I knew he must be one of them language fanatics. Later on he picked up my linguistics book which I had left by the bar and we started chatting. In the changing room (he completely dressed, me totally naked) I asked him for his email adress. All the guys in the room were watching us intently, as if saying: Why on earth does HE get to get her email adress?
Tough luck, guys!
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