Sunday, May 11, 2008

Of beanies and the not-chill

Not suprising is that the term `my bad` first appears in an entry coming in from California, but what might shock the archivist in you was that it happened in a pine cabin in 1872 on the shores of what was then known as the Polinap river. Sam Wadlund was a candlelight scribbler, as are so many.

Left some grit round the rim of the chamberpot afer I emptied it this morning, Jenna noticed forenoon and called me out. I had some on her though, and said, 'Whose was it that I found yesterday all deerlike pellets and crushed newsleaves?'

'That certainly wasn’t me, I haven’t in a day.’ And she closed in on me with the fact of it, when her hands stuck my ribs quick I had to say, 'Twice my wrong action, twice my bad!'

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

On the theme of Portugese loneliness... isn’t there a word for that?

One of the reasons, past kidnappings aside, the beatings with bars of l’occitane soap wrapped in sheets of uncountable threadcount aside, why we live underground is because even in donkay, even in roughshod and openspaced American donkay there are people that act in the belief of a donkay culture when they talk to you, a misguidence which has probably always exisited in the young and a miscadence so clear that it has even been publicly attributed to animated penguins, if we recall correctly.
For us, to be in a room and have a guy lurching forward in sickly compatriotism to ask you awedly if you have read the Joao chronicles, and worse, inferring it, worse again because you have, well it can turn you off.
That doesn’t mean that the obsessive journal kept by Joao Pessoa, a Portuguese trader who stayed on in China to have a family, hasn't been read by most in the academy, and usually in their teens.
He wrote a song a day, song dedicated to his below-mentioned wife and son, the latter of which seems to have left before age 10 to be a fisher-tote, common at the time, and indeed this selection comes from what is called the post-rai section of the cronicles, rare in that it’s written in Portuguese, when most from this period are in a phonetic written form of the local dialect personal enough to remain as of now undeciphered, though admittedly few have tried, or so we divine from our own absolute lack of effort in those years, especially when compared to the rate of soilage occuring to the swiped linen tablenapkin kept crumpled under the academy bunk mattress.
In public, the songs, invevitably occupying the same niche as 'outed' member Ruben Dario, are often sung into the fruity silence of a woodpaneled room by a whisky-toasting academy member, maybe bourbon or red wine substituted, though perhaps for the company, our bellys always wrong for the drink.


Sabes quem,
Veio visitar a mim?

Foi o,
Ele ta lindin.

Nos sabiam’
Que ele ia pro mar,

Mas Lin-jin,
Eh gustosin,
Quando ele ta no lar.