While I bought this album for my brother soon after it released, this morning was the first time I'd heard anything from it...
From "Morning yearning" - Ben Harper, Both sides of the gun
My fingers touch upon my lips
It’s a morning yearning...
Pull the curtains shut try to keep it dark
But the sun is burning
The sun is burning
The world awakens on the run
And we’ll soon be earning
We’ll soon be earning
With hopes of better days to come
That’s a morning yearning...
Another day another chance to get it right
Must I still be learning?
Must I still be learning?
Baby crying kept us up all night
With her morning yearning...
Like a summer rose I’m a victim of the fall
But am soon returning
Soon returning
You’re love’s the warmest place the sun ever shines
My morning yearning...
KFOG's "Acoustic Sunday" selections this morning evoked my own disparate, impossible to fulfill yearnings
-All of the songs played with such warm notes that hearing was insufficient and my hand reached for the display, wanting to physically feel the music and bring its warmth to my chest.
-The sensory experience of the capuccino I drank on my way home would have been more complete if taste and smell and heat could have been combined with the sound of it swirling in my mouth and then flowing down my throat.
StradaSo, the capuccinos here are heroin in a cup. I have one almost every Sunday and the first sip is like reward and forgiveness at once. Ordering is almost as good. Here at Caffe Strada in Berkeley I can order "Un capuchino sin espuma" ( Spanish, "without foam") and not get a snotty, patronizing reminder (like at Peet's, for example) that a capuccino, "by definition" calls for foam. Yeah, I know. In fact, most of the Italian I know is coffee-related. But, the barista at Strada doesn't lecture me. He just makes it. Perfectly. Every single time. And he and the others on shift at that time take that foam I don't want on my capuccino and plop it onto my ego, speaking to me, automatically now, in Spanish.
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Investigación/resultado inesperado/3 semanas de lágrimas detenidas por fin derramadas 8/9/07 (still)
Hacía investigación y por las palabras "prostitutas" y "México", supongo, me salió una página (en que se menciona una sola vez la palabra "prostitutas", paseante, como esas mujeres mismas) de confabulario (13/12/04) en que reprodujeron una parte de Der Wind kommt vom Westen. Amerikanische Reisebilder, (trad: Rafael Muñoz Saldaña...¿sería El viento viene del oeste?) de Sándor Márai. El hecho de que el autor es húngaro no tiene menor significancia, pues lo es también la familia de mi mamá. Yo no lo esperaba...no lo buscaba...pero como todo lo que pasa por alguna razón u otra, lo necesitaba y alguien me lo mandó. Re-reproduzco los segmentos claves abajo.
I was doing research earlier and because of the words "prostitutas" and "México", I suppose, a page (on which the word "prostitutes appears only once, as if in passing, like those women themselves) from confabulario (13/12/04) came up in which they'd reproduced this excerpt from Der Wind kommt vom Westen. Amerikanische Reisebilder, (trans.Rafael Muñoz Saldaña...would it be The Wind Comes from the West?) de Sándor Márai. That this author, like my mother's family, was Hungarian has some significance, I think. I did not expect this...I wasn't looking for this...but like everything that happens for some reason or another, I needed it and someone sent it to me. I re-reproduce the key segments below. While I do not wish to translate it in this space...if you'd like to know, please ask me.
Tijuana
El escritor húngaro Sándor Márai se suicidó en el exilio en 1989, pocos meses antes de que las fronteras de Hungría se abrieran. Tras la caída de la Cortina de Hierro, su obra, vetada en su país esde 1948, se equiparó con la de los grandes escritores en lengua alemana. Uno de sus pocos pasatiempos, desde el precario refugio de San Diego, California, donde pasó los últimos viente años, fue viajar a México. Herido de muerte por la historia del siglo XX, Márai hace en este documento, que por primera vez se publica en español, un recuento de la afinidad que sinitó por esa cicatriz abierta que es la frontera.
No puedo decir por qué, pero siempre había querido venir alguna vez a México —como si aquí hubiera algo muy personal para mí. En la vida de cada hombre hay anhelos, invocaciones y estímulos así de nebulosos.
Todo lo diferente que me rodea es para asirse y olerse...En esta ciudad fronteriza se mezcla permanentemente la vida de los dos países: a diario decenas de miles de mexicanos atraviesan la frontera para trabajar en las granjas y fábricas de Estados Unidos...
Tengo algo en común con México. Ahora lo experimento con fuerza...¿Qué me importa a mí todo eso? No lo sé, pero ahora siento con fuerza esta cercanía...
El paisaje es desierto y ondulante. Una calle lleva, por treinta kilómetros, al balneario de Rosarito. El vehículo avanza a tumbos entre las rocas. Piedras muertas de todo tipo, montañas calizas de color óxido. En Rosarito el hotel es un grupo de edificios encalados que recuerda a una mezquita árabe, en medio de un jardín tropical con palmas y cactos...
Encuentro alojamiento en un motel cercano. Las construcciones en la costa están por completo despobladas. Un empleado y un perro me acompañan al cuarto... Los periódicos locales en español e inglés hacen del enfrentamiento en Rosarito todo un acontecimiento. Uno de los diarios locales muestra en la primera plana a los turistas víctimas de los hechos roncando sobre las mesas de bacará. Hojeo un folleto —lo conseguí en Los Ángeles. En él los propietarios del hotel en Rosarito, ahora detenidos, les prometen a los turistas en la primera plana: Rosarito Beach! Where modern conveniences and Mexican old world charm are happily blended. Los americanos que esperan allí seguro tendrán otra opinión sobre el “old world charm”. Aquí, donde en la cercana ciudad de Las Vegas hay toda una industria oficial del juego, les será difícil entender el valor de húsares que tienen los mexicanos...
En un mercado se apilan montones de frutas tropicales y verduras que huelen a la selva, flores de olor penetrante, narcótico, en una enloquecida mezcla. Una iglesia barroca, amplia y rematada con una cúpula, cuyos muros están pintados de blanco níveo y azul claro, está bien barrida, lavada y limpia. En los nichos se mezclan santos lastimeros. Los creyentes no andan caminando por aquí, más bien se deslizan de rodillas sobre el suelo de piedra...
El perro del hotel espera ante la puerta y se me pega. Todo el largo mediodía, y también después del mediodía me acompaña por la costa. Es un animal pequeño y sarnoso, alegre y despabilado, con ojos inteligentes. Este perro es el único ser vivo que conozco en México, y un buen camarada. Nadie nos acompaña en la costa del océano. Frente al hotel todavía están en disposición cómica y feroz los soldados mexicanos armados, y vigilan a los presos de la mesa de bacará.
Con el perro paseo lejos a lo largo de la costa, en dirección a Ensenada, una localidad cercana más grande. Hacia mediodía, la marea decrece. Permanezco horas sentado a la sombra de un cerro de arena en la playa vacía; el golpe de las olas arroja siempre a la orilla nuevas conchas y caparazones, arañas de mar muertas, extraños crustáceos. Divertido, el perro juega con las conchas de los caracoles y los caparazones de los cangrejos. Luego se sienta junto a mí y observa largamente y sin moverse el Océano Pacífico, ese constante movimiento, ese poder feroz, terco, incesante, que nadie desafía, y siempre es blando, pero más sólido que cualquier material firme...
Regreso a Tijuana. A la luz del día, en la desnudez de la rutina cotidiana esta ciudad fronteriza electrificada, cocacolizada, ungida con las convencionales fachadas estadounidenses, muestra sin velo lo que las luces de la noche habían pincelado de manera incitante: a saber, qué poco ha cambiado en su esencia la vida en el transcurso del siglo pasado...
Entre las luces brillantes el regreso a Estados Unidos transcurre por campos ordenados con cuidado. Quiero ir otra vez a México...
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Adding injury to injury...a recipe...the P.O. 8/9/07
Pasta alla...It is the time of summer, especially these long summers, that I begin looking forward to the structure of a schedule and a routine while dreading and bucking the confines they impose.
As this "short" week closed, I also felt some physical effects of the struggle between my internal schedule and the one I must adhere to. My body and mind want to stay up late into the night, and sometimes they do... and then damage occurs, like a strain in my left ankle manifesting on Wednesday, sustained who knows when or how or where. Made it worse by running as usual Thursday and yesterday. If A-Rod can round the bases on his wonky ankle I can jog on mine. On Thursday afternoon/evening, I prepared Pasta alla Norma* and we ate like Pavarotti. As I was using the pyramid grater to shave off curls of pecorino romano, I bore down a bit too hard on the cheese and sliced clear through the nail of the selfsame thumb that got slammed in the car door a mere 2 weeks earlier. Witnesses to both events say that I actually "...didn't scream or nothin'" (-Planes, Trains and Automobiles) despite the caterwauling I heard in my head. (Sobs, whimpers and the usual swear words, plus "Pinche Pecker-rino romano!")
Thumbnail indeed *Norma L-B rode by me on her bike as I was leaving campus and yelled "I turned 50 todaaaayyy!!!"
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I would add capers to a basic recipe, and then it would be a Val original and I could name it "Pasta alla Nessun Dorma" and truly honor the tenor.
Pasta alla Nessun Dorma
1 pound penne pasta
3 tablespoons or so olive oil
1 onion, finely (or coarsely) chopped
3 (or however many you want) cloves of garlic, minced
1 (14oz) can chopped tomatoes and/or chopped fresh tomatoes or halved sus cherrys
1/4 cup finely chopped basil (use fresh or don't make this recipe)
4 small eggplants, cut into 2 inch X 1 inch slices (OK, don't measure them, just make sure they're big enough not to dissolve during cooking and small enough so they cook through on the same night you want to eat this)
Salt & pepper (to taste)
Oregano (just a little)
Red pepper flakes (to taste)
Capers (couple tbsps...however many you want...enough so you can tell they're there)
Ricotta salata cheese or romano, or whatever hard italian cheese you have. I totally recommend buying the already shredded kind or using a Cuisinart or maybe just being totally sober and paying attention when you're grating it yourself.
Fresh basil leaves to garnish (or not)
To make the sauce, heat the oil in a heavy saucepan, and sauté the onions until tender. Add the garlic and hot pepper flakes. Add the chopped tomatoes, basil, oregano, salt and pepper. Stir it up (little darlin'). Add the eggplant. Cook for a long time (30 min. or more) until the liquid is mostly evaporated and the eggplant is soft (will be darker in color than it was when you added it). Add the capers. Cook until the liquid is gone.
Cook the pasta until al dente, drain it and return it to the pan with half the sauce. Cover over medium heat until piping hot, and then serve in bowls, spooning the remaining sauce over the pasta. (Or, if you forget this part, just put the pasta in the bowl and put the sauce on it.) Put the grated cheese on it.
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Damn, these boots were made for walkin'!Went to the USPS today to send back those boots for exchange...I have long wondered why mailing something from the post office, especially a package, fills me with more of a sense of accomplishment than finishing, say, a paper for a class. My propensity to periodically procrastinate (pinche SJ Levine and her chapter on alliteration) important tasks has, at least, the benefit of enhancing and exaggerating that fait accompli feeling.
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Default setting 7/9/07
En este día de los sietes, día de la suerte...
Me faltan ganas de escribir cosas sentimentales pero también me faltan ideas, temas inteligentes/intelectuales/divertidos, observaciones astutas/sarcásticas. Pero, como hay que escribir algo todos los días, aquí pongo este esquema...mejor que nada, supongo, y tal vez mejor que algo...tampoco tengo ganas de traducirlo, pero creo que no valga la pena.
On this day of sevens, lucky day...
I don't feel like writing sentimentally, but I also lack ideas, themes that are intelligent/intellectual/amusing and astute/sarcastic observations. But since I have to write every day, I place this template...better than nothing, I suppose, and perhaps better than something...I also don't feel like translating. Not really worth it...
Escribo desde: La casa, la sala (véase arriba)
El tiempo: Por fin no hace tanto calor...70s
Estoy luciendo: Algo que no me hace "lucir" para nada. Me queda grande la ropa que llevo puesta. Pero...¡me compré un traje!
Estado de animo: Alerta, tranquila, melancólica, un poquito tomada
Libro(s): The Subversive Scribe, todavía...
Música: En este momento de la vida, los boleros y otra música tipo nostalgia -JAJ, Vicente Fernandez, Chavela Vargas, María Dolores Pradera, Agustín Lara, George Jones; y como siempre, de todo un poco
Película: Balseros. La estoy viendo ahora...es algo duro.
Vi a: Aparte de los de siempre...conocí a la hermana de mi vecino, J. Ella vino esta semana, para ciudarlo, supongo. Me dijo que se está mejorando...Vi a la simpatiquísima dependienta en Marshall's...y llevo a varios en la mente y en el corazón
Hablé con: Varios
Antojo: Ninguna
¿Qué pasó hoy: investigacción en la biblioteca Shields. Saqué libros que me ayudarán aumentar el trabajo "Pinche Malinche"
Personas/animales que se destacaron: El hombre francés/senegalés, vendiendo algo para limpiar los lentes en Safeway. Sí, yo se lo compré...porque hay que ser duro estar acá, intentando ganarse la vida...
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Moment of silence for a voice silenced 6/9/07
Domingo and Carreras lead mourning for Pavarotti
1 hour ago
MILAN (AFP) — La Scala opera house fell silent Thursday and the two remaining members of the Three Tenors led a chorus of tributes by the giants of opera, presidents and rock stars after the death of Luciano Pavarotti. A minute's silence was held at the Milan opera house.
Pavarotti had brought opera to the masses through appearances with rock stars and the supergroup he formed with Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras, The Three Tenors.
"I always admired the God-given glory of his voice -- that unmistakable special timbre from the bottom up to the very top of the tenor range," said Domingo.
Carreras added: "The best memories are the ones in intimacy ... We have to remember him as the great artist he was, a man with such a wonderful charismatic personality."
World leaders and the rock stars that Pavarotti rivalled for public attention also paid tribute.
French President Nicolas Sarkozy said: "His artistic qualities as well as his warmth and charisma seduced the entire world."
All of Italy seemed plunged into mourning and Prime Minister Romano Prodi said: "A very great voice of the musical world and of Italy has disappeared."
A passionate football fan, Pavarotti was also remembered by Juventus, the Turin club side he supported all his life."Ciao Luciano, with the black and white heart," the club, which plays in a black and white strip, wrote on its official website.
The world of pop also remembered Pavarotti...
"Some can sing opera, Luciano Pavarotti was an opera," said U2 frontman Bono.
"His opera was a great mash of joy and sadness; surreal and earthy at the same time; a great volcano of a man who sang fire but spilled over with a love of life in all its complexity."
Sting, who also sang with Pavarotti, added: "We lost a great friend, a great voice and the world is a smaller place without the big man".
New York's Metropolitan Opera, where Pavarotti performed nearly 400 times, hailed him as grand opera's "greatest symbol." "Luciano's voice was so extraordinarily beautiful and his delivery so natural and direct that his singing spoke right to the hearts of listeners," said its music chief James Levine.
London's Royal Opera House described Pavarotti as "one of those rare artists who affected the lives of people across the globe in all walks of life."
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I think that when he got "up there", Paloma barked at him!!!
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