"I don't understand a word you're saying, bastard!"

A bizarro, bizarro weekend behind me. Well, technically there are thirteen more minutes left of it ahead of me, but as I don't intend to move a goddamn inch, I consider it a done deal. I attribute the whole atmosphere to the Being John Malkovich movie I watched with Talmadge on Friday. The secretary in the movie does not understand a single word of anything spoken at her and claims everybody has a serious speech impediment. It must be catchy, for that's how I felt from then on. Confusion all round all weekend, for no good reason
The first and most significant show of this fascinating phenomenon appeared at the Trader Joe's. Shopping merrily away with the very same Talmadge, someone snagged her full shopping cart while she wasn't looking. Not to be found again, we made rounds all over again. I had the strangest encounter at the checkout. Two plain American, accent-less shop assistants were scanning and bagging my produce, attempting a jovial conversation. I didn't catch the first sentence. Didn't hear the second sentence. Didn't understand the third sentence. It was all jibberish. "I don't understand a word you're saying, bastard!," I wanted to yell at them all frustrated. Finally I understood one sentence, as the cashier was scanning a cantaloupe. "You could sure use a cantaloupe, Miss!" said the bagger. Uh, well, did not quite get where he was going with it, but I was very grateful to hear meaningful words. I smiled the best I could, looking around furiously for Talmadge to come save me. Girl behind me suddenly drops her shopping basket and runs after some older gentleman. She returnes in a minute or two all flustered: "That was Jim Shearman!" OK, that's wonderful, should I know him? "I thought he was dead for over a year! I read an obituary and all that, there was a wake for him at work - I worked with him!" .... awkward silence.... "Must have been Jim Searman than that died. I have to call everyone again!" Well, I stumbled the hell out of there.
On the way home I get a call from my ex. Haven't spoken to him 'live' since July, when I packed my bags and moved out. He has bought new wheels for my bicycle as a token of gratitude for all my hard work I put into his house last year (nothing major, just painting, redoing kitchen and bathroom from scratch, and turning a dump uncared for for over ten years into a beautiful garden). He is coming over to install the wheels. Interesting stuff. He has this amusing habbit of surprising me with random items - either stuff I left behind, or a new CD, or tomatoes I planted in now his garden - left in front of my door, no note, no nothing. Doesn't surprise me as I know him like my old socks (and believe you me, we Eastern Europeans are very clingy to our old socks and know them far better that we should), but it surely puzzled my roommates a great deal. But anyway, I prepare mentally for the Grand Meeting. It goes way better than I expected. A bit of awkwardness and nervousness, but generally a lighthearted, even fun time working on the bike. There was one worthwhile, even precious moment to cherish forever and ever amen. As I was crouching down putting the tire on the wheel frame or whatnot I remembered he had a recent surgery in his nose. Deviated Septum. The cause of Constant Sniffling that, I admit, drove me absolutely beserk at times. They had to break the bones inside and all, sounded painful. So I ask about it, he tells me how it went. Next thing you know I am gazing up his nostrils to see the sawn-in plastic splints. I can't see anything, I have to get real close and stare inside with all my might. How beautifully bizarre. My heartiest recommendation for all reconciliation meetings: peer up each other's noses! Endless fun, a solid ice-breaker, guaranteed!
In any case we survived, bicycle survived, roommates survived. Some plants were harmed in the process, but they were rightfully restored to their owner. Himself planted two packs (herds? clumps? batches?) of red flowers in the front lawn of the ex-house recently. Sometime this morning he sees this red flash on the street. A woman walking with two clumps of red flowers down the road... He looks out the window and sure enough... his red flowers are gone! He puts on shoes hastily and chases the woman down, confronting her face to face about them. "Oh, I didn't realize they were yours! Francis from upstairs told me I can come pick them up if I want to." No Francis lives in the house. He contemplates for a second or two if he should make the thief lady plant the flowers back, but contends with snatching them away, which prompts the woman to flee the crime scene. Strange world out there today, I tell you.
In the evening I go outing with Kris. Shays, as usual. Our favorite dive bar. Music is not particularly loud, but I don't understand a word she's saying! At least she's not a bastard. Two men sitting outside suddenly engage in a lengthy sit-down fist fight, nearly pushing the window in. They stare at each other from an inch distance, hurling insults every which way. We all watch, astonished. They never stood up for even just a second. As such fights go, they ended up in a brotherly embrace sipping beer together.
Today we ventured with Jina to find a cafe where we could work for awhile, as neither of us is capable to work if left to ourselves at home. After much circling only to find each and every cafe full to the brim we settle on Dado Tea in Central Square. Freaks and nerds, but interesting tea and coffee. Though interesting is not always good. I promise to never be adventurous when it comes to coffee again, ginger coffee is just a bad idea. We worked close to one full hour before they shut down. Most of it we listened to a woman with a real speech impediment talk loudly about her mother, who is dirt poor, a Jehova's witness, Menonite, Moonist, and god knows what else. I feel very safe back at work where nothing odd or harmful can come my way in my little corner. Now that this weekend is officially over I hope the constellation of stars will change favorably so that the curse of writer's block, beyond wild procrastination, and utter confusion and weirdness are all beasts of the past. And speak clearly. For I don't understand a word you're saying, bastard!

loosing my mind

i have just received a letter. it was a letter sent out by my very self. it was address-less, except for a sticker with my return address.
yesterday i attempted to put a heap of newspapers and magazines into refrigerator. you know, to recycle them. naturally. we went shopping recently and they wouldn't fit.
every morning i fill up my water bottle, and every single morning i leave it right there on the counter.
i poured orange juice into my cous-cous.
i send wrong emails to wrong people.
once i start driving, i automatically take oxford street and then kirkland, even if i'm supposed to go the other way altogether. taken over by some mysterious automatic overdrive, i don't make sense to myself anymore.

and i cannot write didley squat. a serious writer's block. perhaps that explains it all. or vice versa, i lost my mind and i will never be able to write again.
life....so tough.

The Huns are Coming! The Huns are Coming!

I was absolutely stunned and fascinated by a short piece of news from Hungary this morning: Huns are seeking recongnition from the Hungarian Parliament. "Say what? What the hell is going on?!" was my initial gut reaction as I sprang to my feet. I am utterly confused. There is virtually no way of tracing anyone's origins to before the year 500AD in Hungary, chronicles and records were not preserved from that time. Besides, there were many 'identity' talks in the past fourteen years - mostly revolving about the status of the Roma and of the Jews-quibbles whether they are a national minority or an ethnic group, or neither. But the Huns? Where the bazmeg are they coming from? I immediately dove into the web, found the article, and read it closely. Aha. The Parliament is passing a new act on minorities.The newly-found Huns expect that their recognition in the Parliament will fail, but are ready to take their case all the way up to the European Court of Human Rights. Why is this strange new grouping so adamant about their rightful fight? Wham! Here they plunge in out of nowhere without warning and send us scrambling to read up on the old Attila the Hun and his tribes, scratching our heads and cranking our brains about the legitimacy and authenticity of their claimed identity.
Why now? Well, let's see what's out there. If they are recognized, it is likely they would be entitled to some cultural, educational, and financial benefits under the new bill (which I have yet to read, so I am merely speculating). They will also have a chance to organize their own minority local self-government under the Minority self-governments acts (a Hungarian specialty - minorities with significant presence in certain regions can elect their own representatives, gaining autonomy to decide matters pertaining to their minority status - language, primary schools education, cultural activities, you name it). I would suspect that the recent membership of Hungary in the European Union also sped up the budding of the Huns' identity. The pool of available resources to groups of all sorts has widened. EU has funds for ethnic, cultural, religious minorities, for regional development, all of which are up for grabs to the able and willing.
So what? Well, nothing, really. Good for them. I just find it fascinating how much a policy, national or international, can influence people's identities. Ever since we started counting everyone and keep meticulous records of ethnic, cultural, religious groups in national censuses (censi?), identities of those sorts skyrocketed in importance. Whoever was a plain Pressburger, started to feel more and more Slovak, Hungarian, or German. The quantification gridlock, as Benedict Anderson beautifully accounts in his Imagined Communities, plunged colonized countries into turmoil of rampant nationalism and power struggles within the newly formed states. And increasingly in the West and in the 'rest' alike, the numbers represent power in civil rights movements, access to decision-making and resources, legitimization of demands.
None of that makes the sense of identity less genuine to people. It is embraced, becomes personal, attached to our emotional core. It is not to be doubted or questioned. Neither it should be. Whatever drives people to express themselves creatively, to become responsible citizens and take part in shaping their own future, should be heartily encouraged. I assume many of the Huns feel very strongly about being Huns already, or perhaps always did, but no one told me until now. But each time I encounter news of this sort, I wonder: how much are we truly ourselves? How much of how I feel and think about myself is dictated from the outside without me ever realizing it? If all that was taken away, would I still recognize myself? Who am I in a nation-less, religion-less, gender-less, money-less, institution-less and thus formal education-less universe?
Not to get philosophical - it does not lead anywhere. I hate when people get that way, makes me shudder. Just sharing my fascination, wishing the Huns well in their struggle for recognition, and keeping my eyes on Central Europe. Let's see who comes next. I personally would like to see Ostrogoths, Visigoths, and Gauls emerge from the ashes. Others are welcome to apply. Perhaps all that plundering and pillaging, killing and raping hundreds of years ago, can be finaly forgiven and these groups reconciled. Salvation could be just around the corner. Hallelujah!

"Hungarian Huns bid for new status"
By Nick Thorpe
BBC correspondent in Budapest



Hungary's MPs will hear an application from a group of people who claim descent from Attila the Hun and want recognition as an ethnic minority.
The Hun swept across Europe from central Asia in the 4th and 5th Centuries AD, conquering territory as far west as modern-day France.

But after Attila's death in 453, they disappeared from the history books.

Attila is still a popular name, but the emergence of a group of 21st Century Hungary Huns is raising eyebrows.

Question of identity

Branded the scourge of God by the peoples he conquered in southern and western Europe, Attila the Hun has had a better press among the Hungarians, the Turks and other related peoples.

Nearly 2,500 people have so far identified themselves as Huns on a petition presented to the Hungarian parliament's national elections committee.

Under Hungary's 1993 rights of national and ethnic minorities act, that is enough for their application to be considered by parliament.

A Hun spokesman, Gyorgy Kisfaludy, told the BBC that to be a Hun today was a matter of feeling and cultural identity.

He expects this attempt at parliamentary recognition to fail.

But he says the effort will have served their long term goal of reclaiming for the Huns their rightful place among the peoples of the world, alongside the Kurds, the Basques and the Scots.

More progress

Second long bike ride of the year. I climbed up the 'curse at the map-maker hill' in one go. Ha! I did, however also knock off a six year old off his bicycle. He made a gracious half a circle in the air, almost in slow motion. Then his little body plopped on the grass. He was unharmed, just startled. He looked at me as if I was the Devil impersonated, with clouds of fire and smoke behind me, horns on my forehead, and a spiked tongue. Which I do not have, though this ensemble would surely come in handy at times. Say, when I'm late for work, or don't have a chapter or a project finished on deadline. That is, I could use it every day.
I met some protesters in Davis Square on the way home, demanding that someone should divest from something, am not sure who or why. Not the clearest poster in the world, though they seemed very adamant about it. I thought of stopping to ask, but at that point all i could think about was hot shower and food. I have my priorities...

Progress

I can now climb the mother hill on my street with four beers and a hamburger in my belly on my bicycle. Hellz yeah!

Today I have witnessed a rare event, a miracle even. Harvard University students, mostly from Kennedy School of Government, awoke from slumber and instead of thinking what kind of a juicy position will they land after they graduate, they put their energy behind organizing to stop genocide in Darfur. As a result of their pressure Harvard University today divested from PetroChina, whose parent company is closely tied to the Sudanese government, accused by the United States of waging a genocidal campaign to suppress rebels in Darfur. (We shall not get into discussion about U.S. government not acting upon pronouncing the events in Darfur genocidal, thus rendering the term 'genocide' a mere judicial term instead of a call for action...).
More importantly, HU students also joined Swarthmore College students in an initiative Genocide Intervention Fund.
This fund is different from aid groups and other non-governmental organizations in the area. It is set to directly support the African Union troops that are already on the ground in Darfur or are ready to deploy, but lack necessary resources. AU troops, albeit with their own imperfections, are now the only tangible way to stop killing, mass rape and torture in Darfur. Many African countries have the 'horsepower' and are willing to send regiments immediately, if resources were available. They aren't.
U.S. is spending $2.3 million in Iraq per day, yet is currently deciding to cut the peacekeeping budget by 2% (bill is in the Senate). UN is not sending troops to Sudan. Nor is NATO, or any non-African country. AU is all we've got. Realizing that it is taking too long to get money from developed countries, GIF is supplementing what governments should be doing and hopes that it will shame them to provide assistance more rapidly and more adequately.
Tomorrow is the 11th anniversary from the beginning of genocide in Rwanda. One million people died in a span of 100 days. GIF is starting a 100 days of action, during which it is hoping to raise one million USD and send out one hundred thousand letters to Congress representatives, U.S. administration, government leaders of the world. I have just parted with and equivalent of a few nice pairs of shoes (and I love shoes dearly). Tomorrow is the STANDfast day: give up one purchase you would normally make and donate that money to GIF or other organization working in Darfur (umm, except the Sudanese government or Janjaweed militia, mind you). You can send donations and learn about other things to do on their website (www.genocideinterventionfund.org). I sound as if they were paying me, but it's quite the opposite.
Read more in an article about GIF in today's Boston Globe
Adopt a peacekeeper

Mugabeast

Zimbabwe had its parliamentary election results announced yesterday. I find it mind boggling, that ZANU-PF, party that denies an ongoing famine,refuses foreign aid and lets people starve instead,denies access to free press, blackmails and tortures its population into obediance, and is ruled by a tyrant, should win overwhelmingly.
Mugabe is among the last of the freedom fighters - turned presidents in Africa. For that reason alone he is respected by many. Yet his practices were always violent and power-hungry. Even during the liberation movement. He was imprisoned for a long time. Conditions were cruel and inhuman. One would imagine that would spark some empathy in a political prisoner. But like Gomulka in Poland, Husak in Czechoslovakia,and surely many others, Mugabe turned into an inflexible rigid beast, waging politics of oppression and annihilation of opposition. Most of the population remembers his bloody campaign against the Ndebele tribes in 1980s, violent struggles with another clique of liberation movement, and ongoing tactics of handling food aid as tool of coercion. Only the urban youth, not old enough to remember the eighties, dares to form an opposition, often risking their own lives and livelihood.
South Africa and other neighbors endorse the election results, Britain issued a lukewarm statement denouncing the election and Mugabe's rule,I haven't heard much from elsewhere. The talk is about rigged election. It does not matter though, whether it was rigged or not. In an atmosphere of near-starvation, fear for one's life under an ever watchful eye of ZANU-PF, the results don't need to be tweaked too much. One of the world's worst-off countries may just take a turn... for the worse again. It is a frustrating and sad day.

ForeiGner's yaWp

I am and always have been a liberal. In a European sense. I like riGhts. RiGhts of all sorts. Especially human riGhts. But we liberals don't stop tHere. We extend tHem to animals, enviroNment, perhaps even roCks and hay. But tHat is not my main concern right now.My concern is quite particular.
I came to tHis fair land some five years ago. Before tHat I have studied tHis fair language for 15 years. It is a very easy-going, tolerant language in one way. I do appreciate tHat it does not conjugate to oblivion or fuss with future and past tenses like some languages (I sHall not name). However, as a riGhts activist, I cannot remain silent any longer. THere are disparities crying to hiGh heavens. THere is pliGHt, backstabbing, a full out war in tHe EnglisH alpHabet! THe most ignored and unreported open and violent conflict, and it has been raging for centuries.
It all started with tHe 'k'. Whoever snuCk the silent 'k' into EnglisH language, was a cruel conniving brute. Somebody sHould have WhaCked him on his Knees and KnuCkles before he was able to finisH tHe deed. WHat an outrage. WHat a blatant discrimination of a consonant. It sHouLd riGhtfully be pronounced [knees]not [nees] and [knutskles], not [nukls]. How wouLd you feel if you were left out all tHe time? And that is not all. 'C' has been antagonistic against 'K' from tHe beginning of time. It sneaks, creeps and craWls its way in and poses around sounding just like a 'K'. Naturally, tHis leads to resentment and vengeance. How many times have you seen a 'c' kiCked out, tHrusted out of pronounciation by bitter 'k'. Well, [kitskd] out, really. THat's wHat happens wHen you don't sound out your consonants. 'K' in 'KnoCk' is obiously offended by blatant ignorance of its presence, being sHunned from tHe beginning of tHe word. It resorts to usurping tHe spotliGHt at tHe end, KnoCking the 'c' riGht out of 'knock'. 'C' tHen, receding into baCkground, takes it out on notHing suspecting 'S', trying to mess witH our perCeption of sounds. We know you, 'C'! You are a cowardly damNed impostor. It sHould eitHer be read as [retseding], or spelled as 'reseding. This does not constitute good neiGhborly relations at all. It leads to a vicious spiral spinning out of control. 'W', 'T' and 'S' became a sHame of tHe alpHabet, dominating tHe defenseless 'H'. No wonder 'H' souGht allies. 'P' and 'H' have ofTen been seen ganGing up on 'F'. Outright PHallacy! And I couLd go on and on. Letters are Gnawing and tHrasHing at each otHer, forming bloCking alliancies. Often a letter will double its presence in a word for no good reason, a cheap tiCket to fame.
We sHould put a stop to tHis. WHat for? Some wouLd say: "let's just ban the misbehaving letters. THrow tHem all out!" But punisHment, my friends, does not lead to reconciliation. It would swiTch into a war of all against all. Litera literi lupus, as Hobbes wouLd say. We need to bring reason and understanding into tHe alpHabet.
WHat can you do to help, you ask? THat is simple:
Become a mediator! Spread tHe word to oThers. Educate masses about tHe pliGht of tHe alpHabet. Bring tHe consonants back into pronounciation! I suggest we take one letter at a time. Say Three times fast: "KnaCky Knights of KnoWleDge Kneel on KnuCkles of Knot-headed knaves! KnauGhty Knaves!" Ooops, do not get carried away. We would not want to be accused of extremism and tom-foolery of course.
We sHall wiThstand, we sHall overcome!