Scribe's back...

Dear Gentle Reader,

Yes.

It is true.

Your humble scribe's back.

Svelte and handsome, too. As seen above and here.

The rest of the body is tired, but, mostly, well.

Health is OKish, mind is fineish, and my hangover from a birthday bash the other day is mostly goneish.

All this means that your humble scribe has returned to a position where he is able to write, again. This would be a standing position followed by a seated position.

And, as your humble scribe has been gone so long, he has much to write about. He even has the energy to do the same.

Today, though, a quick overview.

You've seen the back....

Now, a side (instead of the more usual aside).

Before I bring us around to the front, though, and up to date, I must warn you all...

Somebody has to lose weight.

8 kilos (17.63 pounds) (!) were added across the length and breadth of Germany during a two week blur of cheese and chocolate excess.

Unfortunately, those 8 kilos were only added to your humble scribe's breadth; Germany's breadth and width remained unchanged, although cheese reserves were depleted.

Following this caloric cataclysm your humble scribe returned to Hong Kong with your Heroine.

The incredulous stares of Pommes, your Hero, should have alerted your humble scribe that something was wrong. But, no, ignorance and folly strode hand-in-hand together and the progress of the belly would continue unchecked.

For the following month your humble scribe lay (mostly supine, sometimes prone) and indulged in what seemed like insignificant quantities of chocolate and ice cream.

My feet, apparently, shrunk.

I thought they were shrinking because I saw less and less of them.

Then, I noticed that my belly had grown.

Slowly, I realized that something was wrong.

Finally, when health had returned to its former home with your humble scribe, your humble scribe went swimming in the shark-filled seas around Hong Kong.

And, whilst contentedly paddling around, I stopped, involuntarily, with sharp pains in my belly and a thrashing in the water around my legs and arms...

I had beached myself upon an unseen, upthrusting coral.

The thrashing was the pain-driven spasming of my arms and legs, jerking in surprise.

After slicing my hands by pushing myself off of the coral, and pulling my belly out of the coral, I looked like this...

Actually, this was me much later.

And, really, this was all done by a sessile coral.

Neither mobile Pommes, nor a Hong Kong shark, is to be blamed, even though both of those scenarios would have made a better story... or at least a less embarrassing story.

Being beached on coral is a bad way to realize that you have grown too large; those little coral polyps are vicious, both on their way in and on their way out.

After involuntary marine liposuction I knew that things had to change.

Fingers are gaining strength, as I return to blogging, and chocolate has been forsaken.

What else is new? Well I'll leave most things for another day and another post.

But, I was a bit startled to note that my itunes account has 46,015 resident tracks (we buy a lot of cds).

So, I thought, some music ought to be shared.

Today, I offer a sample of what your Heroine refers to as happy music...

Prince Nico Mbarga wrote and recorded one of Nigeria's most popular songs, Sweet Mother, back in 1976.

It soon became one of Africa's most popular songs, is West Africa's most popular song, to date, and we love it here in Hong Kong, too.

Sweet Mother is a infectious highlife piece.

Highlife music is a Ghanaian musical style from the beginning of the twentieth century with both leading horns and multiple leading guitars, which eventually spread throughout West Africa.

Sweet Mother also has elements of Cameroonian/Nigerian rhythms from the historic Igbo Kingdom as well as Congolese inspired guitar patterns.

When things get us down, we put Prince Nico on. I should have put this on two months ago.

Listen and know why we love Prince Nico Mbarga so very much. The lyrics of Sweet Mother are not the happiest, but the music teaches one to keep a sunny disposition no matter what is happening, and to focus on the now, rather than tomorrow.

If anything can make you feel good while your taut belly is straining at stitches to the rhythm of your heart, it is Prince Nico's music. Enjoy.

Click to hear Sweet Mother by Prince Nico Mbarga

Click here to buy the cd directly from Rounder Records, the publishing group that has been bringing Prince Nico Mbarga to those of us who live outside of Nigeria. Thank you, Rounder, I love your roster of artists.

Amazon.com iTunes

Tschuess,

Chris

i don't think that's how it works

Dear Gentle Reader,

As you know, I am on a hiatus for another couple of weeks, but I broke down and looked at the interweb, today, briefly.

...You know know that I love food, and the slightly odd...

Here is a site that I enjoy for the creativity of its Keeper, Andrew Bell.

In response to Andrew's mental menagerie, in particular to Andrew's beastie for today, I offer words... ...a haiku look through the e-glass at this scribe's internal landscape/looking-glass:

Profuse persiflage

blooms on the mental landscape,

releases burst pods

See you soon.

Tschuess,

Chris

To life

Dear Gentle Reader,

I have returned to Hong Kong, but not yet to this e-world.

A brief e-glance at the e-mails e-piling up and e-spilling over is not a sufficient e-return, but, it will have to suffice until the end of October.

It appears, though, from my email inbox, that there has been some concern that my noggin might have been scooped clean in my absence from blogville.

Fear knot...

(An oblique R.D. Laing reference?) No, let me try again...

Feer nought...

(No, that could mean becoming a companion of nothing [feer is an archaic form of fere, from Middle English, which has one meaning of companion and companionship]... but this would convey the wrong idea...)

Rats. Maybe something did go wrong with the brain pan oil change.

Wait, I have it...

Fere not.

Perfect. My noggin [the implicit subject] has not fallen, or become anything else, like detached [the Middle English "feer" can also mean to fall by right, to become].

Harkening back to potential concerns about the potential scooping of my brain...

...It (my brain) was not (scooped clean).

It was sudsed and rinsed, with German beer, but that was medicinal... ...to keep those neural connections shiny.

So, all is well. And the beer in Northern Germany was terrific; after a few glasses my brain definitely felt shinier.

I have to write this post, you see, because some of the pictures of sliced sections of my brain, which I have previously posted, left some readers perplexed.

You were in good company.

A few doctors were perplexed, too.

But, no brain removal programme has been agreed to. Yet.

...At least, not that I remember...

Anyway, I haven't looked at blogs, and I will continue to hold off until the end of October when I officially return.

But, after perusing a few emails in the inbox, I decided that I ought to clarify my condition as some of my recent postings have been a bit ambiguous.

My ambiguity has been with reason, but there is no need to go into those reasons as the only thing that conclusively has been shown to be wrong with me has been (note the past tense of the verb) an overly fat wallet. Everything else is just a syndrome or a condition.

Fortunately, medical techniques have been shifting my fiscal burden into the experienced hands, and, presumably, safer wallets, of medical professionals.

Soon the fiscal alleviation protocols shall be complete and the proddings and noddings, dicings and slicings, prickings and stickings will, presumably, come to an end.

I will be grateful.

So, with that in mind, I look forward to returning to this space, and to many regular life spaces, with the zesty attitude of a hipster dancer rather than the slightly morose attitude that was beginning to afflict me.

So, long story short, all is (mostly) well, and I appreciate the comments of concern I have received, and I apologize for worrying you, if I did.

In conclusion, and returning to the opening image, I propose a toast...

לְחַיִים! (La'chaim!, or "To Life!")

Tschuess,

Chris

With love, Pommes

Dear Gentle Reader,

That silly humble scribe is off again.

What a whinger.

And, it looks like I will be looking after him while the Heroine is off at work.

That means no photos of me popping up, this time.

But, I figured I could leave you with a capacious shot of yours truly, to tuck into the cockles of your hearts and warm your dreams while you sleep.

Miao,

Pommes

3WW (CXLIII)

Dear Gentle Reader,

It's 3WW time, again.

Although I pulled the plug on blogging, for two months, just a few hours ago, I may stay current with 3WW, just because it usually makes me quite happy.

3WW I do just for me.

Current circumstances mean that not only will I not be posting much, besides 3WW, but, I know I will not be reading anything on the web until the end of October.

So, I apologize to all the fantastic 3WW (and other) posters--I will come visiting again in October when I can.

In the meantime, I consider this brain food, and my brain could use some, right about now.

This week (CXLIII) the words are glare, lustre, and threat.

Further, as usual, each haiku gets its very own American sentence title.

The roll call parade ground where boys, trained to kill, are sent to meet the same...

Men, mustered, blustered;

fear shone through their glaring eyes.

War's lustre dimmed fast.

Strutting onstage too old, too big, too out-of-rhythm; pole dancer fears...

The crowd glared, threatened

to boo, throw booze--the lustre

of young flesh had worn

She'd read too much Tolkien, that free spirit did not want the ring's burden...

His purchase... a threat,

that lustrous gold... servitude,

She glared, said no, left.

Tschuess,

Chris

To return to the Monday Poetry Train click here.

To return to 3WW click here.

Perspective and distance

Dear Gentle Reader,

With the title of today's post, one would expect a discussion of how the apparent size of objects seems to decrease the farther they are from the observer.

Further, it would make sense that a historical overview of Brunelleschi (1377-1446) has been indicated; especially Brunelleschi's seminal contribution to perspective in Western art.

Brunelleschi, after all, devised an apocryphal peep-hole camera to find, and replicate, vanishing points in his art.

By finding the vanishing point(s), and connecting the lines from the observer to that(those) vanishing point(s), Brunelleschi could work out how large objects could be, or, rather, how small they should become, to make their visual representation seem more realistic to the observer.

In a word, Brunelleschi developed perspective.

But, sadly, dear souls, that is not to be.

As René Magritte (1898-1967) famously said of his painting of a pipe, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" or "This is not a pipe".

However, this post does have to do with vanishing points and perspective.

Yesterday, I showed you some different perspectives of my interior, physical world.

One set of results that your humble scribe recently received indicated that your humble scribe would have to disappear. Again.

Probably until the end of October.

And then I should really and truly be back.

Or e-back.

Sorry. That is just the way that things go.

Nothing serious. Muchly.

And there is some lovely travel that has been planned, and will still be happening, but my results mean that I, again, have to spend a bit more self-time.

Who knew that a blogger would need even MORE self time?

Apparently I need to work on perspective, more.

Or vanish.

Anyway, hopefully I will see, or e-see, you all again.

If you don't return, then I will be bugging my eyes out to try to resolve your e-images.

And, believe me, me with bugged out eyes is not pretty....

Tschuess till the end of October 2009,

Chris

The interior world; the value of perspective

Dear Gentle Reader,

Who is this tiny brained man?

Certainly not the author?

No? Yes?

Say it ain't so...

Perspective is revealing for all of us, and not just the rein and rudder of painting, as Leonardo da Vinci, said.

(OK. Leonardo actually said "La prospettiva è la briglia e timone della pittura.")

(OK. Because when Leonardo wrote he used mirror writing [upside down and backwards], the actual quote looked even more different. Still...)

(...There is no need for my little-brained pedantry to continue, is there? As you can see from the introductory picture, your scribe is obviously small brained and focuses on the minutiae, the minutiae still being within his scope of thought...)

The slice of life that that you reveal to others, or yourself, shapes others' and your own perception of yourself.

Below, a visual representation of this idea as a magnetic resonance imaging machine slices my brain through various angles.

I'll only show four more images.

I promise.

(I have scads of these (hours of being a subject), but more would be too much, I fear.)

Self-Image No. 2 of 5

Note the bigger brain, but smooth interior. ...Please let that be corpus callosum...

Nice sclery eyes, too.

Self-Image No. 3 of 5

Pinocchio with a rear entry wound from a stray nail and Geppetto's mallet, perhaps?

Self-Image No. 4 of 5

Ah. The blind man.

Finally, a great big convoluted brain, but no eyes to gaze on the outside world.

Telling, no?

Self-Image No. 5 of 5

(The most dignified of the series, no?)

Finally, muscle tone both inside the skull, and resting upon it.

...Big hind brain, too... ...Obviously a man...

Bear in mind that all these shots are just a few millimetres from each other, and the last image is only a few degrees of perspective away from Mr. Little Brain of the opening image.

Perspective; not just a vanishing point, even if the media treats it that way.

Tschuess,

Chris

Self portrait (two views after the last photo)

Dear Gentle Reader,

Apsu and Tiamat were the primordial (Babylonian) progenitors of the universe.

As Apsu said to his wife, Tiamat, in the Babylonian creation myth, the Enuma elish--when speaking of their children, the first pantheon of gods:

"Their ways are verily loathsome unto me. By day I find no relief, nor repose by night..."

And, therefore, the two progenitors set about to annihilate their progeny.

Genocide, which I have previously recounted the etymology of, is an old concept for mankind, even if it is a young word.

But, the twentieth century saw more than its fair share of genocides, such as the Cambodian genocide of the 1975-1979.

I did not intend to be gratuitous with my usage of the images of skulls and bound bones in last Friday's post.

I stand by that image; I do not believe it was gratuitous.

As individuals, and as members of various communities, we all have many perceptions of ourselves.

While we likely recognize some aspects of ourselves accurately, we do not always acknowledge other aspects.

In order to grow and to overcome various pasts, as people, as communities, as nations, and as world citizens, we need to embrace these pasts and not try to eradicate memory or awareness of them.

I am a firm believer that wishing things away does not make it so. However, the closing image of Friday's post was an ugly image for which I gave no warning.

Today, in response, one slice of a self-image:

THE MONSTER WITHIN...

(the one who can take pictures of loathsome things, I suppose...)

(...which would imply a potentially monstrous, post-Jekyllandhydian duality as both subject and photographer...)

Tschuess,

Chris

No remembrance = No memory = No life

Dear Gentle Reader,

Yesterday, I posed two questions based on Chairman Mao Zedong's (1893-1976) "paper tiger" bombast injected into the global cold war debate of the 1950s.

What would it look like if half a country went missing? And, who chooses which half?

Generally speaking, especially in the modern West, it is hard to imagine half a country missing.

Many parts of the developing world, unfortunately, do not have such difficulties.

They just look around them.

A case in point would be Cambodia.

One third of Cambodia's population was killed, from 1975 to 1979, by the Khmer Rouge under the leadership of Pol Pot.

Why would such a thing be done?

As one of the Khmer Rouge slogans went:

"To keep you is no benefit; to destroy you is no loss."

Who was killed?

Only the government workers.

And the religious people.

And the professionals.

And the tradespeople.

And the intellectuals--such as anyone who had had any schooling. Or wore glasses. Or lived in a city. Or used any post-industrial revolution tools.

Or anyone else who didn't toil in the fields and live in a village.

...

When you don't meet the people, it is hard to fathom their losses.

Especially as most people try to minimize it and forget about it. After all, with survivors, a difficult thing to bear in mind, sometimes, is "How did this person survive?"...

Nonetheless, there are many survivors who were victims.

Remember the boat people? Those refugees who flooded to our shores three decades ago, desperate for hope and sanctuary?

This is why they fled and what they fled...

The New Regime

by Sarith Pou from the book "Corpse Watching"

No religious rituals.

No religious symbols.

No fortune tellers.

No traditional healers.

No paying respect to elders.

No social status. No titles.

No education. No training.

No school. No learning.

No books. No library.

No science. No technology.

No pens. No paper.

No currency. No bartering.

No buying. No selling.

No begging. No giving.

No purses. No wallets.

No human rights. No liberty.

No courts. No judges.

No laws. No attorneys.

No communications.

No public transportation.

No private transportation.

No traveling. No mailing.

No inviting. No visiting.

No faxes. No telephones.

No social gatherings.

No chitchatting.

No jokes. No laughter.

No music. No dancing.

No romance. No flirting.

No fornication. No dating.

No wet dreaming.

No masturbating.

No naked sleepers.

No bathers.

No nakedness in showers.

No love songs. No love letters.

No affection.

No marrying. No divorcing.

No marital conflicts. No fighting.

No profanity. No cursing.

No shoes. No sandals.

No toothbrushes. No razors.

No combs. No mirrors.

No lotion. No make up.

No long hair. No braids.

No jewelry.

No soap. No detergent. No shampoo.

No knitting. No embroidering.

No colored clothes, except black.

No styles, except pajamas.

No wine. No palm sap hooch.

No lighters. No cigarettes.

No morning coffee. No afternoon tea.

No snacks. No desserts.

No breakfast [sometimes no dinner].

No mercy. No forgiveness.

No regret. No remorse.

No second chances. No excuses.

No complaints. No grievances.

No help. No favors.

No eyeglasses. No dental treatment.

No vaccines. No medicines.

No disabilities. No social diseases.

No tuberculosis. No leprosy.

No kites. No marbles. No rubber bands.

No cookies. No popsicle. No candy.

No playing. No toys.

No lullabies.

No rest. No vacations.

No holidays. No weekends.

No games. No sports.

No staying up late.

No newspapers.

No radio. No TV.

No drawing. No painting.

No pets. No pictures.

No electricity. No lamp oil.

No clocks. No watches.

No hope. No life.

A third of the people didn’t survive.

The regime died.

...

And, if they didn't flee, or were not fast enough, or lucky enough...

Tschuess,

Chris

3WW (CLII)

Dear Gentle Reader,

It's 3WW time, again.

And I've been AWOL, or MIA, for a while.

This week (CLII) the words are fracture, noise, and vanish.

Further, each haiku gets its very own American sentence title.

8:16 am, 6/16/1945, Hiroshima.

Fractured atoms sear

shadows still. Noise vanishes.

Then the wails begin.

To Arne, my favourite CERN Doctor/Physicist/Computer Guy.

Death(f?) metal--wild noise--

rejoices, fractures fear, but...

tympani vanish.

Quand la facture arrive et je ne trouve pas ma portefeuille... Merde! Putain!

The bill comes, but, (noise!)

my wallet has vanished! (sob)

Fractured, I wash plates.

Tschuess,

Chris

To return to the Monday Poetry Train click here.

To return to 3WW click here.

Not what you want to read or hear; Who chooses which half?

Dear Gentle Reader,

"Even if China lost half its population, the country would suffer no great loss. We could produce more people."

Speech given by Chairman Mao at the Moscow Meeting of Communist and Workers' Parties (18 November 1957)

What would it look like if a country lost half of its population?

Who chooses which half?

Tschuess,

Chris

A light on the future? Or the past? a.k.a. The atom bomb is nothing to be afraid of...

Dear Gentle Reader,

"The atom bomb is nothing to be afraid of. China has many people. They cannot be bombed out of existence. If someone else can drop an atomic bomb, I can too. The deaths of ten or twenty million people is nothing to be afraid of."

Reported Minutes of a Conversation between Chairman Mao, of China, and Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, of India, during Prime Minister Nehru's visit to Beijing (23 October 1954)

...The power of scale...

...and a callous heart...

I would hope that things have changed...

Tschuess,

Chris

Signs of the times a.k.a. Order in China

Dear Gentle Reader,

What does this sign mean?

Was it an order?

A suggestion?

A warning?

I have no idea.

Caution... teleological enlightenment ahead?

White hole approaching?

Oncoming anti-tunnel?

Highly reflective surface coming up?

This way to Nirvana?

Beware the big chunk of concrete on the road?

I have no idea.

But, it threw my imagination into rambunctious overdrive.

The next two photos, both from the same sign post, were much easier for your humble scribe to decipher.

The first series reads, from left to right...

1. Pedestrians are permitted to cross here, but they should be careful (they give drivers a target to aim for and, simultaneously, a reason for drivers to stay awake and focused when driving).

2. Horse-drawn carriages (possibly hearses for the pedestrians) are allowed on this street.

3. The third sign allows both heavily-laden trucks and tractors to use this road.

Presumably, the third sign on the post, because of its vertical juxtaposition of two massive vehicles, also indicates permission for the citizenry to hold monster truck rallies on this street (vehicular altercations where one vehicle attempts to crush and drive over other vehicles for non-North American readers).

Three rules were evident, here. Maybe four.

And, everyone seemed to follow them, but this proves very little about order in China.

After all, people, if given permission to do something, may do that thing. However, not doing something that you have been given permission to do is proof of neither order or disorder.

That said, many pedestrians seemed a bit shy about using the crosswalk, or even attempting to cross the street...

The second series of signs, on the same pole, was more useful from an order/disorder perspective.

The second series of signs reads, from top to bottom...

1. Exploding trucks are not permitted on this street.

2. You may not use your horn.

It is true that we saw no exploding trucks on this street.

If that is proof of order, then so be it.

We did, however, see a truck filled with dozens of rusty propane tanks, the squat barbecue types, stacked four or five levels high in the back of a truck...

We also heard horns, which was useful, as we were (foolishly) trying to use the crosswalk...

Some rules are, apparently, more honoured in their breach than in their observance.

And enforcement appeared to be non-existent, even though police were around.

(It's China. Police are always around.)

Over two thousand years ago, during China's second imperial dynasty, the Han Dynasty (206B.C.-220A.D.), there was a Chinese Emperor named Wu the Martial (漢武帝).

Wu the Martial reigned from 141 B.C. to 87 B.C.

Emperor Wu the Martial is well remembered in China for both the physical growth of the Han Empire, what we now think of as China, under his leadership, and for his skill at governance and administration.

Emperor Wu also had great bureaucrats and policy analysts; Mandarins, if you will, to help him govern well. They determined what laws would be effective, and then the armies, omnipresent police (this is China), and magistrates both imposed and maintained laws and order to govern wisely and well.

But, sometimes, needs change.

Within three years of Wu the Martial's death the situation in the Han Empire had changed significantly. The civil service continued to draft laws, but they were not always enforced, or enforced evenly.

In 84 B.C., state policy regarding state monopolies over iron and salt was discussed and written down by Huan Kuan (桓寬), one of Emperor Wu the Martial's Mandarins, in "Discussions about Salt and Iron" (Yuantielun, or 鹽鐵論).

Huan Kuan observed that society never suffers from a scarcity of laws, but, rather, it suffers from a lack of political will to enforce those laws which it does possess.

I completely agree with Huan Kuan.

Huan Kuan further suggested that it was fatal to a nation to pass laws and then to not implement those laws.

I agree, again.

China, today, has more laws and orders than it has ever had in my memory as a businessman, international mediator and arbitrator, lawyer, traveller, and observer.

But, I am not sure how the law and order front is doing.

It certainly cannot be easy for truck drivers, horse drivers, pedestrians, and, especially, drivers whose trucks are about to explode, to determine where certain actions can and cannot occur.

[Even if it is reasonable to regulate exploding truck areas and non-exploding truck areas which I am not conceding, at this point in time.]

When a reasonably intelligent traveller standing at the side of the road, scratching his head, with all the time in the day at his disposal, cannot figure out what some of the signs, visual indicators of laws, might mean, how can a poorly-paid, underfed, overworked, minimally educated worker be expected to perform better? Especially while that worker is driving a truck or a tractor or a horse or an explosion waiting to happen?

Further, the situation worsens when one considers that, despite the growing repleteness and completeness of the available laws in China, few are ever enforced. Unless someone has an axe to grind with you. Or the state apparatus, or an apparatchik, want something of yours...

Laws and orders do not equate to law and order.

With that, and with no other conclusion, I sign off for today.

Tschuess,

Chris

P.S. I'm in China, again, for a few days, so I will not be able to respond to any comments until next week.

Lost in translation...

Dear Gentle Reader,

That last post was meant to be shorter.

Arriving at Shenzhen airport (in Guangdong Province, just North of Hong Kong), on a recent trip, heading to Yunnan Province (far further North, but still only halfway up the country), we became worried about how long the authorities wanted us to stay, judging by the admonition to slip on the pillars around us...

Was this marketing for the local orthopaedic surgeons, or a bad translation?

Xiao xin (小心)(Careful/Be cautious), Chris... don't go there...

Much later, long after being disconcerted by the warnings, or the commands, in the airport, we would climb the belfry in Dali, Yunnan Province, to be frightened, again...

The belfry in Dali houses the Nanzhao Jianji bell, cast in 871 A.D.

First off, the belfry in Dali is not the big cultural deal in Dali, Yunnan Province.

Historically, and historically/culturally, the big deal would be the Three Pagodas of the Chongsheng Temple.

But, your humble scribe will show you those, the three pagodas, on some other day and some other posting.

And the Nanzhao Jianji bell is housed in the belfry which makes up part of the massive Three Pagodas of the Chongsheng Temple complex in Dali.

So, while the belfry is not a big deal, the Nanzhao Jianji bell in the belfry is a big deal.

The Nanzhao Jianji bell is a rather substantial Buddhist bell (its clarion call purifies the structure and the listeners, when struck, as its purity of tone allows the worshipers to purify their thoughts and therefore sanctify themselves).

The bell stands almost four metres tall, is more than two metres wide at its mouth, and weighs in at almost 16,300 kilograms (16.3 tonnes or 17.97 US short tons).

Now here is the frightful bit of information...

Despite those substantial dimensions, and its hernia-inducing mass, the Nanzhao Jianji Bell was lost.

And they don't even know when.

The loss occurred sometime between 1856-1872 A.D., it is reported.

Yikes.

The idea of losing 16,300 kilograms of bell is a bit terrifying from either a liturgical or an architectural inventory control perspective...

Anyway, the bell was recast in 1997. Here is a "close-up" of one of the six images (each as large as your humble scribe) cast into the bell...

What caught our attention, in the belfry, though, was the notice by the narrow stairs winding up and up (or down and down)...

Good cop, bad cop signage?

I don't know...

The final bit of translation that I liked, however was really just marketing via the mechanism of translation.

This time the object in question was a restaurant sign.

First, though, context...

Yunnan Province is located beside Szechuan Province and Yunnan's residents love their chilli peppers as much as Szechuan's residents love their chilli peppers...

(Aside. Note that while Spanish variants include chili and chile, the Aztecs used chilli and the English, as far back as the mid seventeenth century, were using chilli, also, as their spelling. So that is why I go with this spelling choice.)

Spelling be damned, dried chillis can be found in every market in Yunnan...

And on every street corner...

And in every balanced meal...

So, I particularly enjoyed this particular restaurant sign, aimed, after questioning the proprietors, at foreigners who said that they (the foreigners) wanted plain, as opposed to spicy, food...

Nice bit of translation there... ...after all, behind the sign, you can see the red lantern and the ubiquitous garland of drying chillis...

Tschuess,

Chris

An apology, an apologia, and a brief musing on translations.

Dear Gentle Reader,

This morning I was adjured to cease abnegating my e-life and return to posting.

Hmm?

"You'll extirpate your readership!" your Heroine exclaimed.

...

Who knew that your Heroine read this humble scribe's scratchings?

Who knew that she knew the word extirpate?

Now I have to get the Heroine to start saying aberuncate, as it sounds nicer than extirpate.

(Also, I could claim that I was merely pruning my readership, although aberuncate can mean extirpate, too...)

Anyway, I am back. ...and am pulling an e-Lazarus stunt.

(For clarity, I would consider myself on par with Lazarus, not the other guy...).

...

Why had I forsaken you, Gentle Reader?

...

Out of the country, out of mind, out of health, out of wit, out of words.

Oh, and we had a couple more raft loads of guests at the house.

I also received some unfortunate exam results, a bit late, and, I HATE taking medications. (Although I am, for the record, dramatically pleased with the benefits that Western medicine provides.)

Basically, I was exhausted. (I still am, but never mind.)

So, my absence wasn't really an abnegation of my responsibilities to my e-self, or to you.

At least, it was not a willful abnegation.

It just happened.

Sorry. Please forgive me.

Hopefully some of you will come back, and, hopefully, I will be able to go visiting myself, soon, although I am dreadfully low on an energy level basis.

And, we leave the country again in a couple of days; that may do wonders for my energetic morale, though--travel usually perks me up.

So, today, my apology, my none-too-convincing apologia, and a brief musing on translations. And the first two topics have already been covered, leaving translation, alone.

But it is hard to leave translation alone, when it has, and has had, such a multiplicity of meanings.

In mathematics, a translation is a shifting of co-ordinate values. (Does that show a great deal or a minimum shifting in meaning from how you normally use the word? Hmmm...)

In physics, a translation is a non-rotational shifting of a body from one place to another.

When I travel up to Pingyao, in Shanxi Province, China, or up to the Longmen Grottoes near Luoyang, in Henan Province, my representational location, on a map, will be translated from one series of points to another, but there may be some rotation.

I am hopeful that, as per the method of translation, that there will not be too much rotation on the plane, however, and, especially, on the train...

There are other conceptualizations of 'translation' moving out there in the aether of meaning, too.

When I was visiting Venice, at the New Year, I remarked upon how two medieval Venetian merchants translated the body of St. Mark from its prior resting place in Alexandria, Egypt, to San Marco's Basilica in Venice.

In medieval Europe, translation referred to the movement of the remains of a Saint (like Mark) or of a Hero.

(The Cathedral in Venice claimed the body of St. Mark for itself (for its glory and for the stream of pilgrims who would need to be serviced and sold goods), but the merchants, dispatched to the task of translation by the secular rulers of Venice, 'discovered' that the body would not allow itself to be moved beyond the private chapel of St. Mark's Basilica...beside the Doge's palace...the secular site of power in Venice... and thus San Marco's Basilica became the site of pilgrimage, veneration, and receipts of fees, rather than the Cathedral. Funny how that happens...)

Translation also, in medieval times, referred to the movement of a bishop from one Apostolic See (one dominion of religious and, then, secular power of one particular Bishop) to another.

In later medieval times, translation involved removing the seat of a disease from a sufferer.

Personally, I wouldn't mind that type of translation, but I am happy with the removal of symptoms.

As an aside, many people consider medieval times the "Dark Ages" but there was a significant blossoming of thought, and a rediscovery of much that had been lost.

The Renaissance didn't come from nowhere; it developed with and from , and, in some measure, in reaction to, medieval thought.

Medieval scholars, mostly priests, did a lot of translation as they shifted from one locale, really one Apostolic See, to another.

They didn't need passports for their translations, as there were no border guards, per se, at that time. The monks simply needed funds and/or the ability to feed themselves, or to arrange to be fed, and transported, and sheltered.

Most medieval scholars, however, didn't need to do much translation. They could stay in their cloister, or stay advising their King or Lord or Bishop in his Hall, as ideas moved to them with the few men who travelled. Thus were great ideas translated across Europe.

That geographical shifting of location was all the translation that was required, in the beginning. After all, all educated men (and they mostly were men) spoke and read the same language--Latin.

The unilingualism of academic thought in Europe was one reason why Europe developed European culture.

All European ideas could become known freely throughout the continent as ideas could be readily translated; the geographic locus of awareness of an idea could be readily shifted, or translated, from one Apostolic See to the next and the new idea could be readily understood in its new locale without too much rotation of the underlying concepts.

The reality that the underlying concepts would be unlikely to be rotated in the course of their geographical translation meant that translation, as most of us know it now, was not required.

The translation that most of us know of is that alchemical wonder of imagination and scholarship whereby the expression of an idea is turned from one language to another.

In this way the leaden lump of cross-linguistic incomprehensibility is transmuted to the golden glow of understanding for the listener, or a reader, of a different language than the language in which an idea was initially expressed in.

Your humble scribe loves words.

He just has a problem with language. s.

Your humble scribe is terribly jealous of those who can readily and expertly transform the incommunicable to the communicable (which would be a dangerous things in a bio-medical weapons lab, but is oh so good for the mental meatboxes traipsing around this earth...)

So, today, jealous schadenfreude at a translation gone wrong. (This pettiness explains why I am merely a humble scribe, and not a Hero.)

I frequently see signs, or shirts, or slogans, or descriptions in China that have been translated with unfortunate effects.

But, the following placard, in a museum, took the cake for the most unintelligible translation I have yet discovered, although the underlying gist of Chinese nationalism and cultural pre-eminence is unmistakable...

(In a rare move, by me, you can click on this image to see it larger, to read it in all of its glory.)

Sorry for being away, Gentle Reader.

I'll try to translate myself back through e-space to you, if you will still have me and come visit. And I'll try to make sense.

Tschuess,

Chris