Me gusta bloguear cuando estoy un poco borracha

This in honor of the fact that (a) in 1991 I got a B.A. in Spanish language and literature and (b) there is a shortage of Spanish teachers in the U.S. and (c) hoy me preguntaba si podría enseñar español aunque casi no hablo español desde hace 1991 (mil novocientos noventa y uno). ¿Porqué no?

Also, because after a long day of errand running I found myself in the former red light district of town just at rush hour. I thought, “why put myself into this traffic again?” and instead went to one of my favorite restaurants here, one where I customarily celebrated the submission of grades with some colleagues. Not this year — and not ever again. So why not? And had a great meal. And a few drinks.

Fish, Veracruz-style

It was one of those meals I’d have loved to have shared with Mr. Armitage. Fresh salsas; ceviche; pescado a la veracruzana; two margaritas with salt. Mmmmm. For a man who really likes food, this would have been a superb meal, from the look to the smell to the texture and feelings on the tongue — the sour, crunchy vegetables, the soft fish, the salty capers and olives, the slightly chewy rice, and of course the booze that’s so cool and citrusy going down and then moves right back up to the brain. Mmmmm. Mr. Armitage, I’ll be your woman who really likes food. You’d have loved this meal. And you’d really have loved to have been eating it with me!

Ceviche, Mexican-style.

And so I was feeling really loosey-goosey when I got back — I did wait until I was road-safe — and started reading poetry into my computer. Well, really I was reading to Mr. Armitage. Don’t ask me why I thought I should start reading him poems. No idea. Next time I should probably have a michelada instead; they’re a little less potent than margaritas.

First: the poem that sold me on the Spanish language. Mr. Armitage, this poem is so beautiful it just makes you want to crinkle up inside! We read it in my fourth semester of Spanish instruction, as a reward for learning tons and tons of verb conjugations that are only used in archaic sources or in Spain (never along the U.S.-México border where I studied, hence we spent a semester learning things that most people we knew would never ever say or understand if they heard them). The professor said that just reading this one poem would make all of the torture of learning those verbs worth it. He may have exaggerated. It is a pretty poem, though: Soneto X, by Garcilaso de la Vega. Here’s a native speaker reading it, and here’s me reading it, just a little drunk:

The text:

¡Oh dulces prendas, por mí mal halladas,
dulces y alegres cuando Dios quería,
Juntas estáis en la memoria mía,
y con ella en mi muerte conjuradas!

¿Quién me dijera, cuando las pasadas
horas que en tanto bien por vos me vía,
que me habíais de ser en algún día
con tan grave dolor representadas?

Pues en una hora junto me llevastes
todo el bien que por términos me distes,
llevadme junto el mal que me dejastes;

si no, sospecharé que me pusistes
en tantos bienes, porque deseastes
verme morir entre memorias tristes.

[Servetus rough prose translation — the poet ruminates on some things he’s found that remind him of a dead lover — the “you” of the poem is both the woman and the souvenirs of hers that he sees: Oh sweet guarantees, found through my misfortune, sweet and happy when G-d wanted it so; You are together in my memory, and conspirators with her in my death! Who would have told me, I saw myself in the past hours in such gladness because of you, that some day you would have to appear again to me with such serious pain? Since, in one hour together you took away all the good that you gave me bit by bit, take away the sickness that you left me. If not, I will suspect that you put me in such happiness because you wanted to see me die among sad memories.]

Then I thought, hey, why privilege the Spanish-speaking readers? I should also read a German sonnet into the machine as well (warning: questionable language). This is just funny. Mr. Armitage, if you knew German, you would think this poem was really funny!!!!

Here’s the text:

Materialien zu einer Kritik der bekanntesten Gedichtform italienischen Ursprungs (Robert Gernhardt)

Sonette find ich sowas von beschissen,
so eng, rigide, irgendwie nicht gut;
es macht mich ehrlich richtig krank zu wissen,
daß wer Sonette schreibt. Daß wer den Mut

hat, heute noch so’n dumpfen Scheiß zu bauen;
allein der Fakt, daß so ein Typ das tut,
kann mir in echt den ganzen Tag versauen.
Ich hab da eine Sperre. Und die Wut

darüber, daß so’n abgefuckter Kacker
mich mittels seiner Wichserein blockiert,
schafft in mir Aggressionen auf den Macker.

Ich tick nicht, was das Arschloch motiviert.
Ich tick es echt nicht. Und wills echt nicht wissen:
Ich find Sonette unheimlich beschissen.

[Servetus’ rough prose translation — to appreciate this poem fully it may help to keep in mind that it’s written in the form of a sonnet — : “Materials for a critique of the most well-known poetic form of Italian origin”: I find sonnets so very shitty, so narrow, rigid, somehow just not good; it honestly makes me really sick to know that someone who writes sonnets, that he has the guts to do this kind of stupid crap even today, just the mere fact, that some guy does this, can really spoil my whole day. I’m a little crazy about it. And the wrath about it, that such a fucked up shyster gets in my way by means of his wanking creates aggression in me against the guy. I don’t get what motivates that asshole. I really don’t get it. And I don’t really want to know. I find sonnets incredibly shitty.]

And then, I thought, hey, what about all the English speakers? So I decided I’d read Mr. Armitage a sonnet by Shakespeare, one of the ones in which the poet begs the object of his affection to reproduce so that his beauty can survive. DO NOT ask me to translate this into Spanish or German, I’m still too drunk.

Here’s the text:

Sonnet 13 (William Shakespeare):

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day
And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
You had a father: let your son say so.

[Servetus’ rough prose translation: Yeah, Mr. Armitage, I want  you to have a baby. Seriously. The thought that you wouldn’t pass on those genes? A bit horrifying, to be quiet frank.]

Apologies for all the languages I butchered here. I did my best but I’m not a native speaker, and I’ve got no training on how to read Shakespearean sonnets. (You should hear me read French … bwahaha!)

oh, and Mr. Armitage — you are more beautiful than a Shakespeare sonnet. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more handsome and more sexier. And, ok, more temperate, too, as it was 99 degrees Fahrenheit here today. Hope it’s cooler than that wherever YOU are. Don’t forget to have a child, ok?

OK, tomorrow back to sober Servetus.

Ahora me voy a casa. ¡Hasta mañana!

~ by Servetus on June 4, 2011.