In this corner...

I begin this post with a picture of a toilet, not because everything I do is scatological (hehe, poop, funny) but because I think it properly sets the stage for what I'm about to discuss.

Those who know me are well aware by now that I study poetry, perhaps even do so for a living (ha!), so I have over the years made contacts with other morons of my ilk. We like to pass the occasional bit of information (read "gossip") with almost childlike giggles, because we realize what we do is entirely meaningless.

I was made aware recently of a fandabulous new site on the interwebs, or whatever it is you whipper-snappers call it these days, so hip, so daring, so fucking NEW that it will like totally blow your mind, man. That site is Quickmuse.

"What is Quickmuse?" you ask. Each week two well known, well respected, well traveled, perhaps even well bred (you should probably read this all as "well trod") poets battle it out in the most grueling of media: lyric poetry. Contestants are given 15 minutes to improvise a bit of verse on a theme or passage supplied by the groundbreaking folks at Quickmuse. They then post the finished poet on the Quickmuse forums for all to see and judge. Apparently, quickmuse fever has so gripped the nation (i.e. you guys, the US), that a reporter from the world renowned New York Times saw fit to write a piece about it.

I have to say, it's been a long time coming. I have often sat in crowded, smoke filled cafes wondering to myself what it would be like if there were a venue where dueling lyricists could duke out like the troubadours of old. Maybe each poet would compose verse spontaneously before a live audience, whose favorable reaction would determine the winner. I even had this crazy idea once for a movie about a young poet rising from obscurity in Chicago or New York or Detroit to prominence amongst his fellow lyricists. The battles would be set against the backdrop of his struggles to achieve financial solvency and escape the trap of poverty he was born into.

That would be pretty sweet, but I suppose for now Quickmuse will have to suffice.

Mr. Donuts Musings

Yet another installment in things that come out of Nicholas' brain:

So Tawara avoids excessive explication; there isn't a single note in her text to explain why it is one poem was translated this way and that one another. all the reader has to go on is Tawara's stated intention that she wishes to communicate something of the poem's 匂い (nioi) to the kind of reader who may not be familiar with intricacies of poetry written in the classical style. yet, with this ignorant audience in mind she gives nothing but Akiko's verses and hers with little to link the two besides the mere fact of proximity and little to distinguish whose is whose besides the fact one is written in literary Japanese and the other isn't.

おもひおもふ今のこころに分ち分かず君やしら萩われやしろ百合

鉄幹を思う心に差はなくて君が晶子か我が登美子か

thinking/yearning now in my heart I'm wondering/doubting
whether you're the white clover and I the white lily...

with Tekkan in my heart and no clear state of affairs,
are you Akiko, and am I Tomiko?

So bare, so spare, so evenly matched this translation, this modernization if you must pedantically insist, interrupts and intrudes upon its original. there is nothing here to defend Akiko from Tawara's insistence via nudity that one can be reasonably equated with the other: no notes to reveal what Akiko might have had in mind, no annotations to give the lie to what Tawara has perpetrated, no third voice in the text (with the possible exception of the ignorant reader) to make sense of what has transpired in the maddening silence of an otherwise blank page.

Tawara takes the tabloid writer's approach to revelation. having saddled herself with the artificial constraint of re-presenting Akiko's 31 syllables with 31 of her own, she has little recourse but to name outright those people whom Akiko has concealed beneath the elaborate floral vocabulary that runs throughout the Midaregami. of course, Tawara can't necessarily be faulted for making use of nearly a century of scholarship that revealed long ago how the word "white clover" stands for Akiko, "white lotus" for her husband Tekkan, and "white lily" for her friend Tomiko, whose amorous relationship with Tekkan has peaked the interest of more than one literary historian. Tawara can be forgiven, then, for naming Akiko and Tomiko for the benefit of Our ignorant reader, as their floral counterparts do make an appearance. but the inclusion of Tekkan's name is suspect at best. The subject of おもひおもふ is not explicit; is Tawara trying to read Akiko for us? what is an ignorant reader to do? what if not knowing was the point all along? Tawara provides her reader with no consistent guide through this morass as 3 poems later she decides to keep the floral nomenclature intact. it is possible Tawara intends to make up for her fit of yellow journalism by pointing to the literal use of these words on top of their figurative usages. Though in the following poem, she reverts back to naming Tomiko outright.

The elegists were not the first to veil the amorous objects of their poetry (be they direct or indirect), but with them the practice became relatively standardized. Ovid had Corinna, Tibullus had Delia, and Propertius had, err... whoever it is Propertius had. if Our understanding is correct, the practice is in fact quite straightforward: all one need do is compose as if she were writing to her lover--name and all--then immediately prior to publication substitute a metrically identical name. if this follows, at some point Catullus' "vivamus, mea Clodia, atque amemus" became Our "vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus." similarly, if Juliet had wished to keep her love a public secret, perhaps instead of "O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?" she could have substituted "O Julio, Julio, wherefore art thou Julio?" though now the simple substitution has become anything but. the overarching existential question in Juliet's speech (why does it matter so much that you are a Montague and I a Capulet?) is compounded by a new frustration (why, if your name is so important, must I call you something else?). is she, in the end, merely talking to herself? after all, what is Julio if not the masculine (perhaps less diminuitive) reflection of her own name?

A few notes: 1) The word nioi is most commonly used in modern Japanese to mean "scent," but its aesthetic range is not limited to the olfactory. A better description would be any of the ephemeral qualities that radiate off something (e.g. shine, taste, scent, sound, etc.). 2) The real genius of Akiko's poem lies in the doubled verbs (omoi-omou and wakachi-wakazu), as they mirror the doubt made manifest in the second half of the verse. In my mind, not-knowing is the point or at least a large degree of doubt. 3) I wrote most of this while sitting in a Mr. Donuts in Kanayama.

Hai's and Lows


It's possible, I think, to have an entire conversation in Japanese saying nothing but "hai," but of course the better half has to supply the impetus for the conversation to continue. I know this is possible in German, though more commonly in triplicate, "ja ja ja." And that would seem peculiar to our resident Hispanistas, who may or may not have read that as laughter. But yes men in Japanese have the pleasure of throwing out their affirmations in single bursts, much more like semi-automatic weapons. German machine guns were more efficient.

It's impossible to describe how happy Hamamatsu makes me. It has one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, a yearly kite festival I can't miss, and generally speaking better weather. Sure it gets hot there, but the humidity isn't as oppressive as here, and the constant rain seems more a logical result of living by der river Ocean (der, because Okaianos is masculine, Mike, not because Fluß is). Rain here in Three Rivers (i.e. Mikawa) makes it seem as if it has always been raining and will continue to until the end of time. It's funny you guys should comment on my paleness in that photo Colleen took of me on the beach, as I left that day with a pretty wicked sunburn. Even painfully ruddy skin can't detract from my paradisal vision of Hamamatsu.

It seems I was pretty down on poetry today:

"I can't shake the the notion that poets are compensating for something; and it seems bold poets, err... "strong" poets are the worst perpetrators. if I were one to guess, I'd call it a foolish attempt to beat back the suspicion that poetry is truly insignificant.

The power to destroy or remould is freely used by the greatest poet, but seldom the power of attack. What is past is past. If he does not expose superior models, and prove himself by every step he takes, he is not what is wanted. The presence of the great poet conquers--not parleying [sic], struggling, or any prepared attempts. (Whitman from the preface to the first edition of Leaves of Grass)

Whitman is a specter who looms just as hauntingly over lyric composition (Pound) as he does over lyric criticism (Bloom). The great poet celebrates himself, and sings himself, and what he assumes you shall assume, for every atom belonging to him as good belongs to you. The strong poet is overbearing, a bully, the kid in your 3rd grade class who acted out for the sole purpose of stealing attention from you and your genius. The strong poet refuses to concede that the poem lost out to the song a long time ago, in fact that the former was never ascendent over the latter; the poem has never been much more than the song's ponderous, inbred cousin. Of course, this distinction only holds so long as you believe lyric and lyrics name fundamentally different things. Whitman didn't."

And yes, that is going in my topics paper.

To Mickles and Mencia, with love...

What follows is an excerpt from my topics paper especially dedicated to probably the only two people who read my blog besides Colleen. Enjoy!

I bought a bottle of Itoen Ooi Ocha for my lunch before leaving for Hamamatsu to attend their annual kite festival during the Golden Week holidays. On the bus to the beach where the giant kites would fight it out, I fidgeted with the strange day glow green bottle, that is until I noticed the following haiku written on the side.

大晦日今年も地味にそば食べる
omisoka kotoshi mo jimi ni soba taberu
on New Year’s Eve: this year too I’ll eat my noodles plain

だれが来て私の心をノックして
dare ga kite watashi no kokoro o nokku shite
someone’s coming but my heart does the knocking

今急に大きな海が見たくなった
ima kyuu ni ooki na umi ga mitaku natta
now all of a sudden I got the desire to see the open sea

these three poems appear on a half liter bottle. as one might expect the two liter bottle has more poems, though the exact number varies in my experience between seven and ten. the size of the bottle does not set an absolute limit but rather a somewhat flexible upper and lower bound. statistically speaking, then, the smaller bottle is a smaller text in terms of the number of verses.

there is no real consensus among classicists if the Catullan corpus as we have it constitutes a whole book in the sense of liber, that is one whole papyrus scroll. a great deal of research has been done by papyrologists such as Birk Oddink as to what the upper and lower bounds of a papyrus scroll text would be, but the results are neither definite nor terribly enlightening for our purposes. it is partially Catullus’ fault. he refers to his own work as a libellum, the use of which diminuitive has led some to express the opinion that the “polished off book” (libellum… expolitum) of the supposed dedicatory verse in fact only comprises poems 1-60 of our corpus or some combination of that and the other shorter verses, namely those in elegiac couplets. this opinion takes libellum to be literal, “a small book,” and is largely dependent upon a reading of Cat. 1 as an entirely sincere dedicatory verse.

Cornelius, to you: for you were accustomed
to think that my trifles were really something
since then, when you alone among Italians
dared to scribe every age in three volumes
learned, by Jove, and thoroughly wrought.

If We are to believe this dedication to be sincere, We also need to assume that Catullus values qualities like doctus and laboriosus. This Catullus, this seeeeerious Catullus, this member of the same fraternal orders as the “old, learned, respectable bald heads” reveres the voluminous product of extensive historical research and desperately yearns for its approval. This Catullus has something of an inferiority complex; this Catullus defers to power; this Catullus would write a “little book.”

diminuitives are tricky things; certainly We might take them literally. there’s no reason not to. but anyone with half a brain knows they have an adjacent sense as well, a usage that indicates a degree of one’s concern for the diminished object rather than mere size. I am fairly certain no one would mistake “you poor little thing” for “you small object of limited financial means.” what then, if libellum has little or nothing to do with the size of the liber? does this Catullus really think his trifles are trivial? would docta be a little more than dogmatic, and is “laborious” more than a mere cognate? Who is this Cornelius, anyway, and why would this Catullus be using his tomes for anything besides doorstops, table props, or paperweights? The only other memorable use of the word carta in our Catullan corpus refers to them as shat on (cacata).

Three Different Things

I have been intermittently working on a new version of my topics paper, as the one I previously submitted was not exactly received with flowers and virgins. So I, being the me that I am, decided to go for something even weirder, because I don't take too kindly to criticism like "you need to explain this more." Some initial reactions to this new thing to which you shan't be privy have been along the lines of "you're all over the place."

A flash animation.

I went to an English department enkai on Friday night at a yakitori restaurant in Toyohashi. A couple of teachers I haven't seen since they left at the end of the last school year showed up, so I had a chance to chat. I was bald when I last saw one of them, Ozawa-sensei, and she commented on how much longer my hair is now (not much at all, really). She also remarked how she thought I looked better without hair; I do not agree. I asked her to explain why she thought so. Her explanation: "perhaps it is because you have a beautifully shaped head."

The Arbiters of Cool

Whether we like to admit it or not, we do tend to judge each other on the most insignificant things: taste in clothes, in food, in music, in movies, in books, even in other people. I've always felt a little ashamed for liking the things I do, as if someone in my position were always supposed to utter things like "[i]'ll use Miles as an example, since you bring him up. Miles' stinker is that pile of shit known simply as 'Doo-bop.' And I think you see a similar problem with Ahmad (admittedly, i haven't listened to the Olympia concert album, so I don't know). Most of the album is painful to listen to, because Miles seems to be struggling against rather playing with the hiphop beats that underline each track. 'Duke Booty' is probably the only tolerable track, because Miles sheds his typically punctuated style in order to better simulate the 'flow' of MCs with his horn. So, it sounds like rap without words, which could be interesting if explored thoroughly." When anyone who knows me is aware I'm much more likely to say something like this.

So, a person of my refined character (cough, mumble mumble) would be expected to enjoy something of this caliber (also, interestingly, the inspiration for the photo of Shiina Ringo JD adored in places we're not allowed to talk about until the trial's over). I'm fairly certain even this wouldn't damage my hip rep too much. Though I have a feeling that by no means should I have any affinity for this, with the possible exception of a certain ironic attachment--ah, always the Iron E! The truth is Otsuka Ai, the very epitome of genki, reminds me that there is in fact a warm, fuzzy core to my cold black soul.

So I went to see The Da Vinci Code this morning (yes, this morning, 9am in fact) with Colleen, Kobayashi-sensei, and his son Koya. It was... well... in word... if I must... ok. I have not read the book, I have no intention of reading the book, and I found it rather plodding at times. Colleen assures me that a significant chunk of the book was cut out; even so, I thought a lot more could have been removed. One of things I always appreciated about the Lolita novel and movie is how Nabokov understood that it was okay for them to be different. Oops, there I go liking something I should.

I wonder if 嫌われ松子の一生 (Memories of Matsuko) is something I merely want to see or if it's something I'm supposed to want to see?

Schooling and Being Schooled

Ok, let's begin with a quick poll, seeing as the vast majority of you reading this blog can pretty much instinctively tell what does and does not sound funny in English. Which of the following would you choose:

3D C.G. is now a necessary part of visual productions such as movies, games, and animation.
3D C.G. is now a necessary part of visual productions, such as movies, video games, and animations.

Post 254 is basically me being a dick to someone who had poorly translated the above phrase. Post 256 is another person "correcting" me. The BBS in question is 2ch (pronounced two-chan), a sort of tribute to old school internet protocols that refuse to die here. This thread is one of many in which people request a phrase in Japanese to be translated into English. I'm particularly fond of trolling these threads in the ENGLISH [sic] section of 2ch, because the Engrish you can encounter there is often of mind-boggling proportions. Back on topic: I tried to reason with 256, pointing out that 1) a comma is in fact not necessary 2) "video games" can be inferred from "games" and 3) animation is not a countable noun and thus cannot have a plural under normal grammatical conditions. Reason didn't win out, so I dropped the I'm-a-native-speaker-you're-not card and things quickly settled down.

Of course, peculiar English stemming from literal translations is not specific to the Japanese. Off the top of my head I can think of a poorly versed Frenchy spouting something along the lines of "for to do" or the slightly less awkward "I call myself." After typing it, I realize the latter of those two is more obviously hypothetical.

I took particular umbrage at 256's last retort. He basically said that he looked through an online dictionary thoroughly and determined that "animations" is the best translation, as if Virginia Woolf's "nothing has happened until it has been recorded" is transformed into "all that has been recorded is all the truth there is." (something of a riposte to a specter of JD, who, I'm certain, is looming over me at the moment) We all know books are never wrong.

I made one of my semi-regular visits to Nagoya University to return some books and check out more. It turns out one was a wee bit late, so the library staff decided to punish me. I thought, "it's just a book; what can they do?" Well, they can suspend my borrowing privileges for 2 weeks. I guess I'll be working on those materials for the Shizuoka Translation Competition for the next couple of weeks.

I made my way back to Sakae after returning all the books to the shelves myself, bought a cup of coffee and a scone, and popped a squat in Central Park to wait for Colleen. A homeless man was yelling at a pair of black cats whom I don't know whether they were fighting or gettin' it on in a frisky catty sort of way.

Another homeless man, zombie-like, collapses in front of me as I look on the scene before me. He rolls over, looks up at me and my cup of coffee, and says "gimme" (ちょうだい). After a little resistance and the realization that I'm not a complete asshole (or maybe the realization that the coffee was now lukewarm), I handed it over to him. I fully expected him to teeter off and drink my cooling coffee somewhere out of sight. Instead, he tells me this elaborate story how his mother left the country suddenly to marry an American and live with him in the states. He stayed in Japan and without a family to support him had a rough time in his teens finding direction or even a simple job. He then launched into how he doesn't blame the gaijin-san (which, I suppose, was for my benefit), because the real problem is that Japanese people don't give a shit about anyone but themselves (this is, of course, not a literal translation, but I want to convey how harsh his language was). Only then did he teeter off as expected.

Earlier, on the train from Nagoya U., I had been reading a weekly news magazine that had an obscene number of advertisements for foreign aid NGOs. As I walked from Sakae to Fushimi, I thought about how I had casually passed them over at the time. I tried to recall just how many there were.

Wishing you were here...


Kisses.

May Day Basketcase

So, brave readers, tommorrow is the first day of golden week, so I'm gonna be off getting plastered somewhere and what not. I'll be back to share the further adventures of GAIJINMAN!!!!!! in about a week.

I first saw Diane Kichijitsu perform last July while Sylwia was here, shortly before returning for my entirely unnecessary stay in Ann Arbor. English rakugo (comedic storytelling) is not exactly a new thing, but it is odd that a Liverpudlian would take it up and become so popular. Rakugo for it's (weak) humor mostly relies on bad puns and addressing people improperly with honorific forms. Diane is no exception but in fact beats you over the head with the rule.

Her new lastname, 吉日, literally means "lucky day," which is a multilingual pun on her first name, which in katakana becomes homophonous with the word 大安, an annotation used on Japanese calendars to mark an auspicious day. This is at the heart of her schtick. Her performances are usually half English, half Japanese, and almost always involve some foreigner having difficulties navigating Japanese society. So, in the English act, a Brit arrives at Kansai International and is shown around by a Japanese friend. The Brit wants to learn a few Japanese words but has trouble making out the pronunciation. Example, if someone thanks you, it's proper to respond "dou itashimashite" which the Japanese friend turns into "don't touch my moustache" for the sake of our hapless Brit.

Similarly, American pilots were taught to yell "mayday mayday mayday" if they were ever to bail out over that great chunk of rock we call Europe (because apparently everyone speaks French?). Apparently this is supposed to be an imperative derived from the verb m'aider. Though from what I know m'aidez wouldn't be grammatically correct. So basically, Americans are so dumb that we have to learn a bastardized method of pronouncing bastardized French. Hurray for US!

However, alternatively, moreover, in opposition to the previous statement, though, I'd like to add that even rote observation of the rules can be taken too far.

N.B. As it turns out the Wikipedia article on katakana was incorrect in several fundamental ways, so I changed all of the most glaring errors. Anymore and I would have had to rewrite the whole damn thing. Stupid internet.