Abyssinians

Quick one, just to register. Last night we went down to Brixton to see these three old men, ‘thirty four years later’. What a fine thing!

The Rise of the Househusband and the Subsequent Collapse of the Modern Household

A simplified tale calling for a new ’smart sexism’ for the sake of mutual well-being…

And so women decided it wasn’t fair. And indeed it wasn’t. Why would men get to go to work while women stay home looking after the children? Why would men get to pursue an exciting professional career while women get bored taking care of the house? Doing the laundry, ironing and sewing, doing the cooking, the dishes and the cleaning in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, and in the bathroom… simply not fair.

Of course there is a lot of overlap between the traditional division of ’social classes’, but generally speaking, it appears that neither the upper nor the lower class women really had to worry much about the issue. The former always had plenty of resources and therefore time to employ other people to help with such mundane tasks while they could spend their time and money as they pleased, at least to some extent, perhaps looking after the house in a more administrative fashion only. The latter would simply have no choice but to work all day as well in order to help complement their working men’s modest incomes so that together they could just about make ends meet. Even though, on top of that, lower-class women also invariably had to deal with all the housework and evening child care, at least their men also worked hard on the heavy-duty tasks such as building and/or refurbishing their property, as well as taking care of all the maintenance of the wiring, the pipes, etc.

The rest of the households, on the other hand, seemed to float somewhere in between, oozing fragility from both sides, often finding themselves in a complex structural conflict. The women wouldn’t necessarily have to labour and could therefore nurture more elaborate professional aspirations. These, however, were only seldom accomplished, for although their incomes were sufficient to provide the household with a decent standard of living, they were far from abundant, which meant most of the housework simply couldn’t be delegated to third-parties so to speak, thus being left almost in its entirety to we know who. Women, naturally.

As the so called ‘modern’ societies evolved though, generation after generation, women fought hard, conquering their space,  and gradually began to perform more active roles in various spheres, increasingly sharing ‘the important responsibilities’ with men. Excellent. All that gave a real boost to the liberated women’s self-esteem. Wonderful. But let’s not forget: the laundry was still there, the cooking was still there, the washing-up, the sweeping, the vacuuming, the wiping, the scrubbing, and of course, the kids. So what was the solution to be found? ‘Wholesharing’ appeared to be the answer, that is, both partners dealing with everything, including the expenses. Equal rights and equal obligations. Both work and share the bills, the shopping, the cooking, the dishes, the laundry, the broom, the mop, the hoover, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom(s). Sounds fair enough. Certain aspects could even be negotiated according to individual affinities for certain things, or aversions, for that matter. For instance, some women might not want to deal with the rubbish or changing light bulbs, whereas some men might be too clumsy to sew a button back on, left-handers in particular… The ironing might be completely left aside, and as for the kids, well, instead of being thoroughly and lovingly raised full-time by their parents, they’ll have to stay somewhere else with someone else, and in the absence of a grand-parent, it will have to be a stranger, who could be very professional, trustworthy and everything, but who will never be the parent, and it is a fact that this has a considerable impact on the child’s upbringing. Yes, it does.

Surely enough there are exceptions which, as the wise will know, only serve to confirm the rule, and as stated above, this is a rather simplified model of representation, just as they do in physics, or perhaps more precisely, with kinematics, you know..? For example, in developing countries, such as Brazil, where the cost of labour is still relatively low, a significant portion of the middle-class households is fairly able to employ people to help them with some of the housework, at least periodically. In the UK and in most EU countries, however, middle-class households wouldn’t even contemplate the idea of having a cleaner, let alone a maid or a gardener! What? A carpenter to manufacture tailor-made furniture? Don’t make me laugh! Just get your shit from IKEA and bloody DIY* between cups of tea throughout the whole weekend, and then tell everyone how proud you feel about it, ‘mate’! Whichever reality you happen to find yourself in, though, the truth is only one: This paradigm shift towards the ‘wholesharing’ mode of housework distribution does not seem to have a very beneficial effect on the households in general in the long run, and this is probably the most apparent reason for the substantial rise in the divorce rates of ‘modern’ societies over the last decades. Today women take no shit and simply walk out on their partners, (and indeed they are quite right to do so), and this largely contributes to the sharp rise on these rates. However, this is pretty minor if compared to the deeper, but perhaps not so blatant impact that ‘wholesharing’ appears to be having. Increasingly more decent, gentle and respectful men seem to feel rather unhappy and often unable to deal with what has been referred to as a chronic feeling of ‘demasculinisation’.

Now, the problem is that such a feeling has been mistakenly attributed to the fact the they now share the aforementioned traditionally feminine domestic tasks, whereas the real trouble of this story is actually something else: Today, ‘modern’ men haven’t got a clue about the traditionally masculine domestic tasks such as dealing with pipes, wires, bricks, cement, wood, etc. Stuff that men from the past generations would have been able to deal with reasonably well, and so they invariably end up having to resort to third-part professionals, whose work is actually becoming more valuable than ever. Having to rely on other people without being able to afford it is pretty bad, so why don’t they just get to grips with the issue and simply learn these basic skills? Well, because there’s daily housework to be done and their female partners obviously can’t handle everything on their own because they also have to get up early the next morning to go to work as well, and of course they’re not going to give up their promising careers to only cook, wash and clean instead. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t be fair, would it?

The fact that women have conquered their space is a great accomplishment and things in general seem to be moving towards total equality, but let’s face it: there is a very dangerous gap there, which must be fulfilled urgently. The astounding number of emotionally and psychologically disturbed children in modern societies is a direct consequence of the incredible low levels of attention, love and affection these kids receive during this most important part of their lives! Someone in the household should give up their professional interests for the sake of their children, and the natural choice would be that women did so for the obvious physiological reasons. Eventually,  roles might be swapped, but a parent must be there for at least half of each weekday interacting with their loved ones and actually bringing them up, as opposed to merely picking them up from somewhere and just kissing them goodnight.

Gender equality is a beautiful thing, but we also must acknowledge that men and women are naturally different in many ways, and that such differences are actually a very positive thing! ‘Modern’ societies are probably halfway through this transition towards this we-do-not-know-what paradigm, and this should last round about a century or more. The negative aspects of this turn are increasingly more evident, but there may be time to reverse this, obviously not to what it used to be, and still is in some circles, but rather, to a more nuanced form of what I choose to call ’smart sexism’.

Smart sexism simply entails the recognition and acceptance of the very obvious fact that men and women are different (hence their being called men and women, and not men and men, or women and women, for instance). Besides obvious, it may sound rather vague at this point, and indeed it needs to be developed, but the idea is a pretty basic one really, and it actually seems pretty absurd to realise the extent to which this is so commonly overlooked. Let’s not just promote equality and respect differences. Let’s also make a positive thing out of such differences! History shows us how unfair humanity has always been, but it mustn’t feel like chips on the shoulders of the previously oppressed! Good luck, ‘modern society’!

* do it yourself

What is the difference between knowledge and wisdom?

Knowledge is understanding that tomato is a fruit.

Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

Simple as that.

War Heroes my arse!

do not click

I don’t mean to offend anyone and I truly respect the pain of those who lost their relatives or close friends, but I must say this poppy thing really pisses me off. Some people might argue that due to the fact that I am Brazilian, I am not able to grasp the full picture of what Remembrance Day stands for. Well, I, on the other hand, believe that this is precisely the reason why it might be a lot easier for me to see through and beyond all this cunning ideological crap so naturally supported by the vast majority of politicians, as well as those in the media. Of course there are exceptions, but the extent to which all this is so simply taken for granted is just unbelievable. As my great friend Luiz Perri informs me, in Churchill, Hitler, and “The Unnecessary War”: How Britain Lost Its Empire and the West Lost the World, controversial figure Patrick J. Buchanan thoroughly reviews how Churchill managed get away with all his clumsy steps which led to Britain getting involved in the conflict, nevertheless entering history books as an unquestionable hero despite all the catastrophic developments. There is, of course, plenty of arguments to try and explain that it was actually unavoidable that Britain got involved, or even, that it was justifiable. It is indeed a rather complex issue, so let’s not bother going down those winding roads and let’s just make it blunt and simple instead: What goes on these days is totally unacceptable for all sorts of reasons. Britain’s economy is going down the drain, there is no money to invest in health or education, unemployment rates are soaring, and yet, billions continue to be spent on the most stupid and unjustifiable wars of all times, not to mention the obvious misery, violence and destruction brought to civilians, as well as all those silly soldiers who proudly and readily accept the nobility of their role. And neither politicians, nor journalists dare overtly challenging this taboo. What a ‘bloody’ nonsense.

Don’t tell anyone, just listen!

I’d like to share this one with the non-Brazilians, in particular:

…And this one goes especially, but not exclusively, to the Brazilians:

This is not meant to be a music review so I’m not going be talking about the haunting melodies of Roscoe or the really cool trivia and stuff I found out about Midlake. Nor will I be commenting on the extensive career and remarkable genius of masterful Tom Zé, so if you fancy them, go on and look them up yourself, you lazy f¥€%!

Soundcloud, which I only came across about a month ago through my friend Mozhev, was certainly not made for this, and I don’t really know (or want to know) how tough they are these days in terms of the laws regarding copyrights, so I cannot predict how long this is going to be on there, but to be honest, I really don’t believe I am doing anything wrong! After all, what’s so bad about sharing a couple of carefully selected tunes in order to contribute to the intercultural perspectives of a few friends and acquaintances who read this only every now and then? This is not theft, is it? I even bought the CDs, both of them, as soon as they were released, I swear! And these embedded lovely musical waves look so cool as well, don’t they?

Larry Lessig has actually got a very interesting view on the issue, really worth checking out, as I already mentioned here. Perhaps I should just consider not allowing these wonderful, exquisite tracks to be downloaded, but then people wouldn’t be able to listen and appreciate them while on the go in their cars, on the tube, on their bikes, or even while cooking, so I don’t know… I guess I need to reflect upon this a bit more… In the meantime, don’t tell anyone, just listen!

Fair trend?

With Cadbury’s new smart move, going fair trade, their profits are set to rise substantially. Let us hope that a decent share of the harvest is passed on accordingly. After all, that’s what people believe to be happening when they opt for such products, innit?

Unfortunately no one at Cadbury seems to be considering to offer some form of gratuity to those who continue to spread the word out of sheer kindness… shame… It’s just that the soundtrack is once again spot-on! And the video is also pretty cool again, so I had mention them again!

From the Glass and a half full’s Channel:

Zingolo is the first single from Glass and a Half Full Records.

Download via iTunes: http://bit.ly/Avspc

Cadburys share of profits from the sale of the track go to the charity CARE International.

Ghana is the heart of Cadbury Dairy Milks Fairtrade Cocoa and so the track celebrates all things Ghanaian: its people, its rappers, its dancers, its cultural figures and, of course, its cocoa beans.

So turn up your speakers, get down and ZINGOLO!

http://www.youtube.com/user/glassandahalffull#p/a

Cannabis

do not click

51 Gould Street, Bondi Beach, Sydney. Summer 1996, 2 o’clock PM, after college. Eva and Maria from Stockholm and Fernando from Piracicaba are sitting on the carpet in the living room, sort of like in a semi-circle facing Mune (むぅね, pronounced “moo’ne”) from Tokyo, who’s sitting in the rocking chair, holding a bottle of Tooheys Extra Dry and lecturing about how he had seen hell up close and personal and learned the lesson. Fred from Araxá had gone to the bookies as usual to try and make up for the ever-amounting losses from previous weeks, but no one actually knew it at the time. Marcella from São Paulo had been quick to sort herself out sexually and was also out, having fun with young John, the English kung-fu fighter, whereas none of the boys from 51 Gould Street had scored yet and, as a matter of fact, some would take a long, long while to do so. Susan, also from São Paulo, had got up not very long ago and gone to the beach with her Israeli boyfriend Moshe and his friends before going to work. Robêrto and Geuvásio from Ribeirão Preto were still due to arrive in a couple of weeks’ time.

Mune’s account sounded really scary and it was largely enriched with detail as the intrigued listeners asked questions about hell itself. At the same time, however, it sounded so distant from their reality that they could never imagine that just over a year later Robêrto would have taken his own journey straight to the heart of hell for good, only just occasionally popping out to say hello to society and the world and then sinking back again no matter how hard his family and friends tried to pull him back. Similar events also appear to have taken place more or less at the same time in London, but at least, in both cases, their protagonists were somehow still around,  as opposed to Valdemar’s friend from Goiânia whose unusual name escapes me now, who blew his own brains out, or Luciana’s brother, who simply hanged himself. Extreme cases indeed, all four of them. Proper film stuff actually happening in real life. Some say that at some point in their lives these gentlemen would have developed psychotic schizophrenic traits anyway, so cannabis would have only acted as the catalytic element for a reaction that was genetically bound to happen, therefore it might be disputable whether those were in fact cannabis-related illnesses and deaths. Yet, over the course of the following decade, many other friends and acquaintances of those youngsters gradually gave up the college habit, often straight after having  reportedly stood on the edge of their mental cliffs where they were able to take a nice glance at hell, managing to swiftly turn around just before also leaving sanity behind. Many others simply quit for not being able to combine it with their increasingly more demanding professional daily routine. A few, however, carried on until these days, some of which doing it in a more recreational fashion at weekends and special occasions, while others, rather more regularly,  sometimes even on a daily basis, precisely  to cope with the stress of their increasingly more demanding professional life, they say. But at the very top of this odd pyramid (or should I say bottom of the cone?), lies an even smaller group of people who proudly sit there, compulsively smoking cannabis throughout the days and the evenings, day in, day out.

Classic characters such as Pedro and Man from Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke and The Dude from Cohen’s Big Lebowski for example are, without a shadow of a doubt, hilarious stereotypes, and like all stereotypes, they are extrapolations fully based on real life. Now, when you actually know people in real life who actually resemble these characters because of the lifestyle they lead, that can be a lot more tragic than it is comic. A real shame and a total waste of everything, that’s what it is, really, for some of these people are well educated like so many never had the opportunity to be, and they have got such a great potential, but unfortunately they find themselves stuck in this eternal limbo, staring at life passing by as they burn another spliff then eat some crap, take a little nap, wake up, smoke another one to go to work for a few hours doing some shit job, not because they’re not qualified, but because it is the first thing that appeared right in front of their noses and it is too much hassle to look for something more decent, and the mind is so rusty and confused for being used so little that it becomes like an enormous task to fill in a simple application form, let alone write a cover letter, and therefore it becomes a lot easier and simpler and more ‘comfortable’ to carry on doing this shit that only just provides enough cash for the weekly rent of some shit-hole, some crap to eat and of course, dope, loads of it, to cope with all this shit until the glorious day good fortune might strike again, ah what the hell!

OK, that might have been a bit of an overreaction there, so at this point, may I stress that this isn’t always the case with the members of this ‘alternative’ group, aka the potheads, for some of them happen to be lucky enough, at least temporarily, to be working in the so called entertainment industry, which can be fairly profitable, and which tends to allow for the frequent use of substances that appear to stimulate one’s creativity, providing inspiration through various levels of distortion of reality, so to speak. And there is a logic for this. It’s historical and (counter?)cultural. There is actually plenty of logic and reason for this. There have always been countless examples of fabulous forms of artistic expression inspired by some sort of state of inebriation, from Blake and Pessoa to Borges, Huxley, Antonioni, Hendrix, and Marley of course, just to name very few. There are also countless examples of such inebriating substances widely used in various sorts of rituals, from the most mystic and obscure ones such as some of the peyote-fuelled Mexican tribal fire dances, to a mere plate of pasta with a bottle of red wine with your partner for instance. There have been endless debates on their harms and benefits, governments have tried to sort out drugs into different groups, regulating some, banning others, then legalising those that had been previously banned for one reason or another, subsequently outlawing others that used to be legal and so on, but for the point I am trying to make, legality of cannabis or anything else is actually irrelevant. However important and complex this debate may be, the fact is that it is harmful and therefore it can fuck you up. But of course, it totally depends on who you are. So I’d like to ask you a very simple question: who are you? After all, cannabis is certainly harmful, but then so is alcohol. And tobacco. And coffee, and painkillers, and chips, Coca-cola, ketchup and mayonnaise, salt and sugar, mobile phones, sunlight and darkness. Just as well as they can all be quite pleasurable, can’t they? And this is the key thing, it gives you pleasure, lots of it. It’s great to feel good and relax and laugh and chat and stuff, and when you’re under the influence, all that is intensified, excellent, but you wouldn’t wake up and have a shot of Vodka or Gin in the morning, would you? It would be a bit worrying, wouldn’t it? So how come some people believe it can be perfectly acceptable to have a joint on a daily basis, moments after getting up and before breakfast, do you know what I mean?

Trouble is that cannabis has acquired over the years a false good reputation of something cool that only brings positive things to the people and to the world without any significant consequences. It is nice for the environment because it is natural and hemp has been used for various things since the dawn of times. When people smoke it, they never get violent and feel like fighting or speeding at the wheel, as opposed to alcohol. It isn’t as addictive as other drugs and it doesn’t destroy you like other drugs do, for it doesn’t cause physical dependence. It can be used therapeutically to ease pain, enhance appetite, bla, bla, bla…

All that may well be true, but so what? Statistically and comparatively, the consequences of using cannabis on a regular basis might be minimal, but individually, the impact can be considerably more severe, oh yes. If you can’t handle the amount and the frequency you do it, cannabis can potentially fuck you up just about the same way alcohol or any other drug can (but not necessarily will), especially considering that you’re not aware of the impact it has had in your life and the fact that you insist on considering cannabis not to be a drug! Perceptions are certainly changing and thus so are the laws as well, obviously because people are realising that they can make shit loads of money out of it in the first place, but like I said before, for the purposes of this text, law is what matters the least, after all, giving up weed to stop contributing with crime is almost like giving up meat to stop contributing to animal slaughtering. It just doesn’t work like that.

Grass (1999) in particular, a Canadian documentary on the history of the United States’ so called war on marijuana, is an interesting example to take a look at in order to show what I’m trying to say. Narrated free of charge by notorious activist Woody Harrelson, with superb soundtrack by Mark Mothersbaugh, loaded with hilarious archival footage  from governmental anti-drug propaganda, the film has become a cult within the cannabis ’subculture’. Grass takes a macroscopic view at the history of governmental drugs policies and the excessively negative impact they have had upon society in general, and of course, the lives of cannabis users in particular. However, a second more thorough look at it may reveal to the more observant viewer quite a few generally overlooked, yet very relevant negative comments, not on the use of cannabis per se, but rather, on its abuse, that’s the word. I said, on its abuse, that’s the word…

Yes, it is a drug and if you abuse it, it fucks you and your life up big time and if you are not able to use it moderately, perhaps you should consider quitting, how about that? Saving money, sleeping less hours, feeling a little more active, the prospect isn’t so bad, come on! Seriously, England is pretty good in terms of that, so it’s not that difficult to kick the habit, once you’ve admitted to have a problem with it. It’s actually pretty simple, I mean, it is not as simple as rolling and lighting up a joint, but it’s still pretty simple: all you have to do is pay a visit to your GP and have a word with him. But it is very important to be honest with him and discuss a specific treatment for cannabis. All the treatment is free and confidential, so there’s nothing to worry, except doing it!

Of course the NHS is primarily concerned with physical health itself rather than motivational issues (see below), but getting clinical help doesn’t require one to develop lung cancer or schizophrenia! Drugs (legal or not) certainly have their place in society and the decision to make use of them, and how much,  and how often,  has to be individual. Some people make the deliberate choice to, as a friend of mine poetically puts it, “live life with the hand-brakes on”, but in order to do that, one must take into account whether he has enough torque to live like that! Some people do, that’s a fact. Others don’t, and they get stuck. Is that too difficult to realise?

So, finally, I hope this works as intended, despite the somewhat reactionary tone. It is really the only thing I can do which might work as the wake-up call that it is high time that you went look for clinical help! What? Clinical help?! No, man, what the fuck?! Yes, that sounds scary, eh? So better think it sounds silly, isn’t it? Cannabis… who on Earth would think that clinical help might be needed for cannabis, mannnn? Well, so it is, and if you go for it, it will certainly change your life completely, my friend. But the first step is you accepting that cannabis is ruining your life as a whole. And I do apologise for all my blunt sincerity, but this is the best demonstration of how much I like you and how much I care for you, my brother! Now, if you still don’t know who you are, or more likely, pretend that this isn’t with you, then I rest my case.

__________________________________________________________

From the NHS website:

Helping yourself

The first and most difficult step for people who misuse drugs is to recognise that they have a problem, and then admit that they need help to deal with it.

Some people realise that they have a problem but find it hard to stop taking the drug, even though they are aware of the consequences. Others may need someone else to help them realise that they have a problem.

Many adults drink alcohol, but it can become a problem if they begin to misuse alcohol by drinking it too often or in too great a volume. People can find it very hard to stop drinking alcohol  and this is known as “an addiction”.

People can also become addicted to drugs. We often think of people being addicted to illegal drugs like cannabis or cocaine, but people can also become addicted to drugs they have on prescription, such as painkillers or sleeping pills.

Life as a carer of parents who are misusing drugs and alcohol can be very difficult. The person using drugs or drinking might try to hide their addiction from their closest friends and relatives and may even get annoyed if people try to talk to them about it. Their behaviour can be quite unpredictable at times – they can get angry or scary (especially if they are craving alcohol or the drugs they take).

Alcohol and drug addiction are like illnesses – they are not anyone’s fault and it can be hard to stop someone from taking drugs or from drinking. Talking to someone who misuses drugs or alcohol can be difficult – especially if the person using drugs or drinking doesn’t feel that they have a problem. Choose a time when the person has not been drinking or taking drugs to chat about the situation and explain how they feel about the situation.

Getting help with alcohol or drug problems

People using alcohol or drugs may worry about what will happen if they ask for help. There are lots of people who can help. A good place to start is with the local family doctor (GP). They will be able to make a referral to a specialist drugs and alcohol team.

Treatment and support

The drug and alcohol team might suggest that the person using drugs and alcohol has a “detox”, which helps the person with the addiction to stop using drugs or drinking. They may go to see a local counsellor to help them work through their problems. Alternatively, they might go to stay in a rehabilitation centre during for the same reasons. Support groups, such as Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous, are also useful for the person with the addiction to meet others who are in a similar situation.

You should ensure that you get help for yourself too. Sometimes dealing with drugs and alcohol (and getting better from them) can take months, or years, and you should talk to a trusted friend or teacher, another relative and also make sure that they are getting support from a local young carers service.

Ultimately, it is down to your friend or relative to get help – only they can make the decision that they want to do something about their problem.

All you can do is be there to support them. Make it clear that while you are worried about them and unhappy with their behaviour, you still love them as a person.

____________________________________________________________________

would have taken his journey straight to hell

The King

Enjoy this classic performance while I finish editing a text on dope. The real king, the one and only, o Rei Roberto Carlos at his best in: Você não serve pra mim (“You’re not good enough for me”), 1967. Music by Renato Barros (who?). Film: Roberto Carlos em ritmo de aventura (1968), by Roberto Farias (who?). Quality!

Tabasco!

Da route: (click twice) to enlarge (twice)

Been longing for it for so long! Two years ago booked the flights and had to cancel last minute because of appointments. Last year, same thing. This time I shouldn’t really go again with so much to do, but there’s no way this is going to be put off any more! No, no, no, no… no f¥€&¡%9 way!

The Games

Talk about The Games? What about The Games? Some fuckers will make shit millions. Some millions, in turn, will be in deep shit. Nothing new anyway. Yet, we remain hopeful. Always!

Single Take

Posted by a friend of mine on Facebook, just thought it would be very kind and nice of me to share with you…

Incredibly well choreographed and rehearsed single-take lip-dub video, shot by the students of communication from the University of Quebec. Soundtrack, erm, “I gotta feeling”, by The Black Eyed Peas*…

*DISCLAIMER: Ah, nevermind.

Histories to Hide

This afternoon my excuse for not engaging with my thesis was a little stupid widget I was trying to implement on this page in order to enable Brazilians who don’t read English to get a (pretty insipid) taste of what I’ve got here. As discussed before, Google Translate is still rather limited on the one hand, but on the other, it will facilitate to an enormous extent the translating work that I will have to do at some point, and in the meantime, my dear tutor and informal third supervisor Maria Aparecida Baccega can get in closer contact with some of the stuff I am attempting to develop over this side of the Atlantic. As a matter of fact, Google Translate seems to be slightly more accurate with academic texts, perhaps just because of the mere ‘fact’ that academic language aims at being more precise… (not?)… Either way, each automatically translated paragraph can be manually modified and the changes work as wikis potentially contributing to subsequent better translations. Yes, one could certainly say that we’re working for Google for free and that all this massive growing body of knowledge is, in theory (practice?), their property, but while we are not getting charged for it, I am not that bothered, are you?

So… after spending hours sailing the seas of codes, I very proudly managed to implement this little appliance on the left side of this page, with a little flag and everything… Did I waste my time? Well, perhaps in a way, but by performing this small operation I learned a lot about HTML and JavaScript. Of course I wasn’t writing the actual codes, but rather copying and pasting bits and pieces inside other codes provided by other people, and all that was pretty straightforward, thanks mainly to the visual/HTML tabs of the fantastic WordPress text editor!

But yes, the point is that I simply couldn’t get any work done for my thesis today. I was also on a hangover for a pretty good reason: My friend, musician and sound editor Moisés Matzenbacher, aka Mozhev, got married yesterday, so yes, that didn’t help either, but hey, it’s weekend and one deserves to have some fun every now and then! It was actually a hell of a party, even though I had to leave quite early. If you’re into minimalist psychedelic progressive nu jazz eletronica so to speak, click on the player above to experience the hypnotic Histories to Hide, a nineteen-minute compilation of his work produced between 2002 and 2007 and which I am now listening to for the third time in a row. It’s definitely not easy listening, as the brilliant samples from 16′53” onwards state very clearly in Portuguese. Unfortunately to the non Portuguese speakers however, “Google Audio Translate” still hasn’t been developed…

The Curious Case of the Turkeys

Has anyone ever wondered about the possible relations Turkey/turkey and Peru/peru might bear? Sorry, I just can’t help it! I’m fascinated by (not to say obsessed with) issues of this sort and I simply just can’t get enough!***

I’d thought that probably no one had thought about this one matter in particular, for very few people seem to give a shit about such linguistic trivialities, but to my surprise, the fabulous ‘ignorance fighter’ Straight Dope had already investigated the case pretty thoroughly back in 2001… Yes, I suppose it could be said that pretty much anything one may think of will have already been discussed at length before, and I am sure these latter words have also been said before… Anyway, from the series Selected Readings to Entertain your Evening, “The Curious Case of the Turkeys”, aka “Is turkey (the bird) named after Turkey (the country) or vice versa?”, is reproduced below to your potential delight, with the very last paragraph especially dedicated to one of my best friends and great silly pun lover, Caia.

November 27, 2001

Dear Straight Dope:

With the recent earthquake in Turkey, I started to think about the fact that there’s a bird and a country named the same thing. How did each get its name? And are there any other countries named the same as animals or food? Is there a place named Chicken?

— Aron Siegel

Here’s all I know for sure: Despite several crackpot theories to the contrary, the bird was named after the country, but in a very roundabout way so that the details are uncertain. Oh, one other thing I know for sure: No European should ever have been allowed to name any New World species. The Aztecs, who kept domesticated turkeys for hundreds of years before the Europeans arrived, had a perfectly good word for the bird in their Nahuatl language: xuehxolotl, which, of course, is pronounced. Don’t ask me how it’s pronounced, but I’m sure it can be done. If the Europeans had been smart enough to stick with the original name, there would have been no need for me to write this Staff Report, and on Thanksgiving we’d sit down to “xuehxolotl with all the trimmings.”  Oh, the things that might have been.

First let’s talk about the country. Turkey was named for the Turks, believe it or not. Turk can mean either “a citizen of the modern state of Turkey” or more broadly, “an individual of the Turkic-speaking people.” The many Turkic languages are spoken not only in Turkey but also in a large area of central Asia and in northern Siberia. The real question is the origin of the name Turk. The word is essentially the same in many languages, including English, Turkish, Arabic, and Persian (Farsi). It probably comes from some Turkish root, but there’s no consensus on which one. It may be one root meaning “strong” or “vigorous” (according to the American Heritage Dictionary) or it may be another meaning “the people” (according to the Encyclopedia Americana).

There are a couple of other theories of how the country got its name, both wrong. The first has it that the country was named after the first leader of the Turkish Republic, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk. But like most Turks, Mustafa didn’t have any surname at all until 1934, when he chose Atatürk (“Father of the Turks”) for himself. He had already given the country its western-influenced name Türkiye several years earlier. During the period of the empire, the Turkish name for the country had nothing to do with the Turks. Rather, it was named for the Osman (Ottoman) dynasty that ruled it. Another theory has it that the English named the country after the bird, as a taunt. But the country was already called “Turki” or “Turkeye” in English by 1275, hundreds of years before the bird was known in the Old World. Now I’ll give you the bird. It’s likely the first bird called “turkey” in English wasn’t the familiar Thanksgiving fowl (Meleagris gallopavo), but a smaller domesticated bird originally from sub-Saharan Africa: (Numida meleagris), which we now call the Guinea fowl. This bird was introduced to the Mediterranean in ancient times and was known (as a rarity) to the Greeks and Romans. It was named after the mythical Meliagrides, who were the sisters of Meleager and who were turned to birds after his death. This bird seems to have disappeared from Europe and was reintroduced from west Africa by Portuguese traders at the end of the fifteenth century. If this bird was from Africa, why was it called “turkey” in English? Probably because it was introduced to England by so-called “Turkey merchants” who traded with the Mediterranean region, including the Ottoman Empire (which then controlled the eastern third of that sea). A similar confusion caused another New World species, maize or corn (Zea mays), to be called “Turkey wheat” or “Turkey corn” in England.

M. gallopavo was introduced to Spain from America sometime between 1498 and 1526 (but most likely before 1511), and thence to England sometime between 1520 and 1541 (but probably before 1530). It too was named “turkey” in English, perhaps because it was confused with N. meleagris, or because it was likewise introduced by Turkey merchants. In citations from the Oxford English Dictionary, “turkey” dates from 1541, but it is unclear which species is meant. Among unambiguous citations, the N. meleagris meaning of “turkey” beats out the M. gallopavo meaning by only three years (1552 vs. 1555). The OED doesn’t say so but according to Schorger, the word has also been used to describe other birds the males of which use tail displays, such as the peacock. It is even possible that “peacock” was the original meaning of the word in English, but that seems unlikely. For the same reason, the capercaillie (a kind of grouse) has sometimes been called a peacock (pavo) in Latin as well as “turkey” in English.

There are other theories of how the bird got its name. John Smith (of Pocahontas fame) is sometimes given credit for naming the birds he saw in Virginia “turkey,” having confused them with the Guinea fowl. But as we have already seen, both birds were established in England decades before Smith was born in 1580. Another story is that the bird was named after its caruncle (wattle), which is sometimes blue, the color of Turkey stone (turquoise). Okay, but just because you like “Turkey in the Straw” doesn’t mean you have to grasp at straws trying to explain the name.

Another story is that Christopher Columbus named it tuka, after the Tamil word for “peacock.” (He may or may not have been the first European to see a real turkey; the credit sometimes goes to Pedro Alonso Niño or Vincente Yáñez Pinzón, but it’s less certain that the birds they saw in earlier years were really turkeys). It’s hard to imagine why Chris would choose a Tamil word when Spanish already had a perfectly suitable word for the domesticated peacock, which was not at all uncommon in Europe at that time. But in fact he named the bird he saw in Honduras in 1502 not tuka, but rather gallina de la tierra (“ground chicken”).

But the peacock theory isn’t entirely fantasy. In the early days, there were dozens of different names for the turkey in Spanish, but the one that finally caught on was pavo, which originally did refer to the peacock. To differentiate it from the turkey, the peacock is now called pavo real in Spanish (which could be translated “royal turkey,” and coincidentally this is exactly what I call my brother-in-law). The two birds may not look very much alike to us, but the association isn’t completely unfounded:

• They act the same. The males of both the peafowl and the turkey spread their tail feathers in mating displays, though the turkey’s display is much less impressive.
• They sound the same. Both of them have unpleasant calls, a fact noted by the writer Motolinía who visited Mexico in the sixteenth century.
• They taste the same according to at least three early reports, including that of Columbus.

In addition, there is a related species found in Central America, the ocellated turkey (Meleagris ocellata, also called Agriocharis ocellata), which resembles a peacock in having eye spots on its tail feathers. It may have been this bird that the earliest Spanish explorers saw, or it may have been any of several other birds of the region that have been confused with the peacock. This confusion is a big part of the uncertainty of exactly when M. gallopavo was introduced to Spain.

English is not the only language that incorrectly associates the turkey with Turkey. Welsh borrowed the English usage and calls the bird twrki. But it is interesting that many other languages incorrectly associate the bird with other countries. In many languages (including Turkish and French), the bird is called by names indicating it’s from India. This may derive from the confusion between the East Indies and West Indies that was rampant in those days. In fact, one of the early Spanish names, gallina de las Indias, means “hen of the Indies.” But other languages (such as Dutch and Danish) are strangely specific in calling the bird by names indicating the bird is from the Indian city of Calicut. At that time, Calicut was the most important city for the trade between Europe and India. So it would not have been unreasonable for Western Europeans to assume that anything exotic came from Calicut, or more generally, from India. Incidentally, “calico cloth” is also named after Calicut.

In Portuguese, the bird is called peru, despite the fact that the bird was not introduced to Peru until after the Spanish conquest. The most reasonable explanation for the association is that the bird became popular in Portugal shortly after Pizarro conquered Peru in 1532, and the Portuguese made a natural assumption. In Brazilian slang, peru can also means “penis,” which must make life interesting along the Brazil-Peru border. One word for the bird in one of the several dialects of Hindi is also peru or piru, which is probably borrowed from Portuguese. That makes sense, since the turkey was introduced to India by the Portuguese (sometime before 1612). Another suggestion, discounted by Portuguese etymologists, is that Portuguese and Hindi both borrowed the word from a Tamil source. Tamil again? It’s hard to understand the fascination Tamil holds for the inventors of false etymologies. Maybe they figure most of us can’t speak it and so will believe almost anything about it. In case you were wondering, in Tamil the bird is called by names meaning “sky chicken” or “foreign chicken,” but neither name looks anything like tuka or peru.

Lest you think the scientific name of the turkey makes more sense than the common ones, it is my duty to inform you that it is perhaps even more messed up. Meleagris gallopavo is composed of the names of three different birds, none of them the turkey. Meleagris was the ancient Greek name of the Guinea fowl (mentioned above). For hundreds of years, European naturalists believed the turkey was a kind of Guinea fowl, for reasons that are not entirely clear. Gallopavo was one of the early Spanish names for the turkey (often spelled gallipavo). Gallo- comes from gallus, the Latin word for the common barnyard fowl (chicken), Gallus domesticus. And -pavo comes from Latin word for the blue peacock, whose scientific name is Pavo cristatus. The Spanish apparently gave it that name because the bird combined several traits of the two birds. Some later naturalists took the name too literally and assumed the turkey was a hybrid of a peacock and a chicken or of a rooster and a peahen.

Other foods that share names with countries? Well, there’s chili or chile (as in pepper) but it’s not etymologically related to the name of the country Chile. Guinea is an obsolete shortened form of the edible “Guinea fowl” (mentioned above). And from the Brazil nut tree (named after the country) we get brazils (or Brazil nuts).

If you’ll accept geographical features smaller than nations, you can make a whole meal out of places. You could have a Bologna and Cheddar Sandwich with Dijon, and a cup of Java to wash it down. You could even serve it on fine China. And since you asked, there is a place called Chicken, Alaska (pop. 17). There’s also an airport in California called Chicken Strip. No word on whether it’s tender, juicy, and golden-brown. I could continue in the same silly vein, but that would be beneath the dignity of the Straight Dope. I’m not Ghana do it.

Aw, who am I kidding?

Oman, all this talk of food is making me Hungary. Iran over as soon as I smelled your cooking. Jamaica nuff for me? Why, yes, I would like some coffee. Just one Cuba sugar, though. You’re out of cream? Why don’t you just milk Macao to get Samoa? Bring me some booze instead. Lots of it, because I really want to Taiwan on. This is what you call food? It’s nothing but Greece. Waiter, Czech please!

*** Now, much less trivial and rather more compelling is Empire of the Words: A Language History of the World by Nicholas Ostler. Just in case you’re interested, I highly recommend it!

Interlanguage

Last week I was presented with a small sample of what this peculiar phenomenon called interlanguage leads to, as I read and marked the sociolinguistics essays that a few of my students unfortunately had to resubmit. Some of these essays contained authentic examples which were naturally and unwarily laid out as they developed their own paragraphs discussing whatever issues they had set out to do. One of those MA students though, quite aware of such interlinguistic interferences, attempted a discussion and provided a long list of such words and phrases combining various aspects of her first language in relation to the English language, which in turn brought back amusing memories of  English speaking friends trying to speak Portuguese while visiting me in Brazil, as well as of myself visiting other countries and attempting some hilarious dialogues in the local languages.

A speaker of a second language, no matter how fluent and experienced, will always be prone to fall into this ‘neurological trap’ so to speak. Interlanguage could be described as a short-circuited combination of certain aspects  from two given languages. What often happens after one has learned a second language and happily thinks s/he is fully able to converse with any native speakers of this language is, to some extent, pretty much the same as what often happens when English speaking Americans from the USA, to be precise and not redundant, visit Britain; or likewise, when Brazilians visit Portugal and Spaniards visit, say, Mexico or Argentina. The result of such encounters is highly likely to be comic. And it isn’t just because of people’s ‘accents’ or because of the homographic and the homophonic homonyms, or the so called minimal pairs, you know, respectively, those words with the same spelling and different pronunciation (i.e. row, pronounced /roʊ/ or /raʊ/, and wind, pronounced /wɪnd/ or /waɪnd/, depending on the case), those with different spelling and equal sounds (i.e. see/sea, write/right, week/weak), and those which sound so similar that non-natives barely notice the difference (i.e. live/leave, thank/tank, sheep/cheap).

When people translate their ideas and thoughts from their first, native language (L1) to a second language they are making use of (L2), it isn’t just the meanings of words that are translated, but the ‘grammar’ of the person’s L1 is also translated to the L2 in point, thus potentially causing various types of (usually minor) disruptions in the process of communication, such as for example:

• disruptions of phonological nature – different sounds or phonemes represented by the the same letter in different languages or even the non existence of a certain sound in a certain language, such as th in Portuguese or ão in English, or for that matter, the ‘Brazilian di‘ which sounds like the English gi, as the English mockery “Giovanni went to Piccagilli” demonstrates;

• disruptions of morphological nature - different parts of a word or morphemes such as prefixes and suffixes mistakenly transferred from one language to another (e.g. Brazilians saying theorically, instead of theoretically, or experient, instead of experienced);

• disruptions of syntactic nature – words in a sentence placed in a different order from the norm native speakers of a given language would do (e.g. Brazilians asking questions such as you are tired?,  instead of are you tired?, or placing adjectives after nouns as in the shirt blue is more expensive, instead of the blue shirt…);

• disruptions of semantic nature – meanings of words differing from what a certain user of a certain language might think they do (e.g. explore vs. exploit,  sensitive vs. sensible), or even employing words or phrases from a given L1 which (still) don’t happen to exist in a given L2 and thus make no sense when translated (e.g. Brazilians using the word cooper to refer to jogging; or saying for instance that a music, instead of a song, looks like Madonna or whatever, instead of sounds like…);

• disruptions of pragmatic nature - meanings of sentences or acts of speech in L1 context mismatching those of the L2  (e.g. a joke which makes no sense; some sort of unusual greeting or farewell; different rituals of politeness providing the wrong impression, i.e. the speaker is rude or camp, the speaker is flirting or harassing, etc).

On this basis, certain phrases and idiomatic expressions simply won’t work if translated to another language literally, as it can still be seen rather frequently in subtitled films, even though this has improved considerably. This is the case, for instance, with make a mountain out of a molehill, whose equivalent in Portuguese is to make a storm in a glass of water; or the straw (that broke the camel’s back), whose Portuguese equivalent would be the last drop (in the glass of water), or even to pad something out, which in Portuguese is to fill sausages, as illustrated a few weeks ago.

Now, ‘the curious case of kick the bucket‘ is one that stands out, for the same idiom is found both in English and in Portuguese. Their meanings, however, differ completely: A person who has kicked the bucket in English is dead, whereas if you kick the bucket in Portuguese, you go crazy, as in spending all your money on a trip, a new car, six pairs of shoes or anything you really shouldn’t; or as in stuffing yourself with picanha, or getting completely wasted at a party or something, etc. The Portuguese equivalent to the English kick the bucket is bater as botas, which literally, would be something like to hit the boots. Nonsense!

Because of these intricacies, developing a decent software that automatically translates texts such as those from pages on the internet is quite complex, but it appears that the new current participatory paradigm is the perfect, though never definite, solution for this. Firefox indicated and demonstrated this and Google has provided substantial evidence with so much stuff that it is actually incredible to see how so many people people can just sail along and simple take everything for granted! Anyway, as the meta-image below shows (to bilingual speakers of Portuguese and English), there is still a lot to be improved, but they’re certainly heading heading in the right direction.

Click (twice) to enlarge (twice)!

We may still get a literal translation to Portuguese of he has kicked the bucket on Google Translate, but we already get kick the bucket in English if we write bater as botas there, so probably tomorrow it will have already been improved. As a matter of fact, I could help them improve that even as I write these lines. Isn’t that amazing?

Yet even more amazing though, one might say, is the unbelievable briefly aforementioned inertia Microsoft has submerged itself into… Honestly, I just don’t get it! I mean, it isn’t my company or anything, but it is fair enough for one to wonder what the hell is going on with those guys! Uncle Bill must have got sick of all this shit and now wants to enjoy life. He has written his name in the History of Humanity, he’s quite happy with what he’s achieved and that’s it, end of the story. I mean, take Office Live Spaces, have you tried using that shit? Well, I have and I got into some serious deep shit using that shit, you don’t want to know. What a piece of shit that shit is! Now, compare it with Google Docs. It isn’t ideal, far from it. But it’s miiiiles ahead. It’s so much faster and lighter, dynamic, and the whole way of thinking is completely different, so… anyway, I’d better stop here cause I’m just going too far and getting nowhere, aren’t I? Excuse me, what? Apple?! No, no, no, no, please, let’s not even consider going down that road!

If…

…we hear every year that

“it has rained today what normally rains in the whole year”

and we know that this isn’t the only day it has rained in the year, and we also know that it will certainly rain more during the course of the year, then isn’t it just the case that it simply rains more than what people think it does?

Innit?

“Dialogic Spaces” – Dialogic Education and Research Group

As I rush to submit my annual monitoring and progression report on my PhD, I leave here a quick note about an interesting post on a very interesting research group I came across and which I reproduce below. It was posted by Mariis Mills on her weblog Exploring Dialogic Didactic Design, which contains interesting texts and information as well as links, all related to some extent to the media-communications-language-education academic community in Denmark. A couple of years ago I spent a week at Roskilde University where I attended a rather profitable doctoral course in Discourse Theory and Discurse Analysis. I intend to return to Roskilde for a few days in November/December, this time to present a paper on my ongoing research, at the FMKJ Course on Applying discourse theory and critical discourse analysis in the study of media, images and film. Let’s hope I can make it!

June 29, 2009 · Leave a Comment (to Mariis)

On Monday June 22^nd I had the pleasure of participating in the first meeting in a study group “Dialogic Spaces” aimed at exploring dialogue from various perspectives within educational research and practice. The group was initiated by Assistant Professor, PhD Thorkild Hanghøj and several of his colleagues all from Dept. of Curriculum research at the Danish School of Education. Thorkild specializes in educational gaming and will incidentially join me at the Master in ICT and Learning (MIL) in the fall in our ICT and Educational Design module. Coming from Aalborg University’s Dept. of Communication I’m very happy to get the opportunity to collaborate with this group of researchers who all have such very strong foci on educational research. Besides Thorkild the following people are part of the group:

• Lars Birch Andreasen – E-learning; netbased education; virtual learning environments, Netmediated communication and collaboration.
• Lisbeth Frølunde – Multimodality theory and visual culture, Design and development of digital learning and play materials.
• Jeppe Bundsgaard – Educational Theory and Curriculum in relation to the Danish Subject and Information Technology, Critical Discourse Analysis.
• Mads Haugsted – Mother tongue and didactics; verbal communication, colloquial language, speech skill.
• Christian Brund – just started as a PhD Candidate with a project on the role of the teacher in relation to educational gaming … no link yet

Together we cover a wide range of research interests but with the concept Dialogic we have found a common denominator.  Dialogic is most commonly attributed to the work of the Russian philosopher, literary critic and scholar, Mikhail Mikhailovich Bakhtin and though his work will play an important role in our endeavors it isn’t an exclusive Bakhtinian group.  We spent our first meeting stating our interests in using Dialogic perspectives, defined the organization and goals of the group and finally discussed a couple of papers (Dysthe. 2006 & Wegerif. 2006) both focusing on the use of Bakhtin in educational research. So far we’ve decided to meet f2f once a month in the fall primarily to discuss literature hoping that these dialogues! will inspire all of us in our future work. Further down the line we hope to be able to hold public seminars and finally write an anthology covering especially, but not exclusively  Scandinavian Dialogic perspectives within educational research and practice which also means that we will invite international colleagues to come join us.

I was first introduced to Bakhtin in the early 90’ies when I studied literature for three years, but it has been years since I actually used his ideas and concepts more explicitly. In spite of this, I do find the Dialogic perspective interesting on multiple levels in relation to my current PhD research:

• Ontological level – according to Bakhtin living is participating in an ongoing dialogue and I couldn’t agree more. Accepting dialogue as ontological premise naturally influences the main purpose and the main processes of education; empowerment as preparation for and – as it is the case in HE/FE -  continuation of democratic, participatory citizenship. This way of thinking and practicing education very much aligns with a Scandinavian approach to both education and research in general and with exploration of new social media in particular (e.g. Rheingold. 2008 on Participative Pedagogy for a Literacy of Literacies).
• Epistemological level – as a consequence of the ontology it is through dialogue with both ourselves and the surrounding world that we’re able to create meaning. Thus, as educators we need to focus on teaching students how to engage in the dialogues through which knowledge is constantly being constructed, deconstructed and reconstructed (Wegerif. 2006:60). It’s also worth noticing that if we accept the dialogic premise, the main mechanism for learning is taking the perspective of another in a dialogue (ibid:64)!
• Methodological level- up until now I’ve been reluctant to coin my methodological approach, usually just stating that I’m applying some sort of Action Research. However, I recently decided to try to apply and further develop a methodology called Dialogue Design which was developed by three of my colleagues from the MIL steering committee, Janni Nielsen, Lone Dirckinck-Holmfeld and Oluf Danielsen (2003) back in the late 90’ies in relation to a large European research and development project on Multimedia and Network in Co-operative Research and Learning (MANICORAL). This particular methodology, based on different types of Action Research, puts forward dialogue and mutual learning as guiding principles.  Dirckinck-Holmfeld and Nielsen are also my PhD supervisors, and I will be spending most of the fall with Nielsen at Copenhagen Business School focusing on this part of my PhD work.
• Didactic/pedagogical level – as teaching and learning space SL offers many possibilities of engaging in dialogic activities. Communicating simultaneously via both text and voice, incl. via avatar (as embodiment) and context are probably the affordances I currently find most interesting and I anticipate Bakhtin’s polyphony concept and his ideas on intertextuality (both in multimodal variations) will be useful in my attempt to theorize/analyze and design for such phenomena.

In applying a Dialogic perspective on my PhD I’ve got a sense of coming full circle and I’m really looking forward to an inspiring fall with extended readings and lots of dialogue … yeah It also means that I’m in the process of editing my PhD page here on the blog … it’ll be back sometime during the summer.

/Mariis

References

Dysthe, O. (2006): Bakhtin og pedagogikken – Kva ein tidlegare ukjend artikkel fortel om Bakhtins pedagogiske praksis. IN: Norsk Pedagogisk Tidsskrift. 06/2006

Nielsen, J.; Dirckinck-Holmfeld, L. & Danielsen, O. (2003): Dialogue Design – with Mutual Learning as Guiding Principle. IN: International Journal of Human-Computer-Interaction. 15(1)

Wegerif, R. (2006): Dialogic education: what it is and why do we need it? IN: Education Review, vol. 19, no 2.

BTW

Stephen Downes recently directed my attention to a post on Streams vs. Blogs written by Jay Cross. In this post Cross reflects on blogs stating that:

Blogs are author-centric in a world that’s increasingly about relationships. Blogs are slanted toward me, me, me, me, me; the net is inexorably moving to us, us, us, us, us. Dialog trumps monolog.

While I do agree that some blogs tend to be very author-centric the few blogs/bloggers I chose to follow on a regular basis are highly Dialogic in my point of view. Adapting a Bakhtinian view engaging in dialogue with oneself can be very fruitful and furthermore the very nature of blogs (the intertextuality and the multiple voices coming forward through extensive linking) exemplifies a connected perspective on relationships and dialogue in a networked world.  The mere fact that I learned about Cross’ post via Downes shows my point. Granted that the premises for dialogue have changed dramatically, it still is dialogue to me … Nonetheless, I do agree with Cross that new services gradually will change the way we communicate, but like Downes I will not stop blogging any time soon – it’s just one way of communicating among others

I Have a Filling

sausage filling

Yes, I am. Of course I am. Padding this page out for being short of time once again… So what? At least this time I am doing it in a clever metalinguistic way, ha-há! Or should I say ‘a clever interlinguistic way’? Hm? How about that?

Forgotten People, Unforgetable Music

Certain tunes can be played anywhere in the world and barely no one will fail to recognise them. By the same token, very few people are actually able to tell who sings or plays these notorious, omnipresent compositions. This is certainly the case with “Dreadlock Holiday” for instance. British rock band 10cc was formed in 1972. Their music can be described as a mixture ‘art rock’ (i.e. Roxy Music), and ‘progressive rock’ (i.e. Yes, Supertramp). Their creative and innovative ways of exploring music inspired and influenced numerous bands, but for one reason or another their (10Ccc’s) success ended up being overshadowed by their contemporary counterparts. Interestingly enough, the greatest survivor from 10cc’s musicography is a reggae-styled tune.

I was walkin’ down the street
Concentratin’ on truckin’ right
I heard a dark voice beside of me
And I looked round in a state of fright
I saw four faces one mad
A brother from the gutter
They looked me up and down a bit
And turned to each other

I say
I don’t like cricket oh no
I love it
I don’t like cricket no no
I love it
Don’t you walk thru my words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet

Well he looked down at my silver chain
He said I’ll give you one dollar
I said You’ve got to be jokin’ man
It was a present from me Mother
He said I like it I want it
I’ll take it off your hands
And you’ll be sorry you crossed me
You’d better understand that you’re alone
A long way from home

And I say
I don’t like reggae no no
I love it
I don’t like reggae oh no
I love it
Don’t you cramp me style
Don’t you queer on me pitch
Don’t you walk thru my words
‘Cause you ain’t heard me out yet

I hurried back to the swimming pool
Sinkin’ pina coladas
I heard a dark voice beside me say
Would you like something harder
She said I’ve got it you want it
My harvest is the best
And if you try it you’ll like it
And wallow in a Dreadlock Holiday

And I say
Don’t like Jamaica oh no
I love her
Don’t like Jamaica oh no
I love her oh yea
Don’t you walk thru her words
You got to show some respect
Don’t you walk thru her words
‘Cause you ain’t heard her out yet

I don’t like cricket
I love it (Dreadlock Holiday)
I don’t like reggae
I love it (Dreadlock Holiday)
Don’t like Jamaica
I love her (Dreadlock Holiday)

This is certainly the case with “Kung Fu Fighting” as well. Jamaican born singer Carl Douglas also ended up becoming a classic one-hit wonder, despite his great potential.

Oh-oh-oh-oh…Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they fought with expert timing

There was funky China men from funky Chinatown
They were trapping when up, they were trapping when down
It’s an ancient Chinese art, and everybody knew their part
For my friend, ain’t you a stiff, then I’m kickin’ from the hip

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they fought with expert timing

There was funky Billy Chin and little Sammy Chong
He said, here comes the big boss, let’s get it on
We took the bow and made a stand, started swaying with the hand
A sudden motion made me stiff, now we’re into a brandnew trip

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they did it with expert timing

Oh-oh-oh-oh…

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting, those kids were fast as lightning
In fact it was a little bit fright’ning, but they did it with expert timing

Kung Fu fighting, had to be fast as lightning…

Now, on a slightly different note, I have a great friend from Maracaípe, Pernambuco, Brazil. Marcão owns a bar/restaurant on this paradisiac beach where I once lived and worked barefoot for over a year. We haven’t seen each other or even spoken since January 2004 when I went back to Pernambuco to visit my sister who, at the time, used to work as a veterinarian on a project for the preservation of manatees at the Aquatic Mammals Centre in a relatively near and not so charming village called Itamaracá. (Breathe…) So anyway, last Summer my friend from London Carlos Mayoral had the pleasure to spend a few days in Maracaípe and thanks to him I managed to get a bottle of the tasty single malt Glenfiddich 12 carefully delivered to Marcão. Now, who would ever imagine that singer and songwriter Carl Douglas, author of “Kung Fu Fighting” had a double who leads a calm and peaceful life by the beach in Maracaípe?

Big Rider Marcão

Time Management

Skill number one I must develop urgently. Time keeping also used to be a major issue in my life, but I can say I have improved considerably since I moved to a much less tolerant country in terms of that. Time management, on the other hand, has remained the biggest challenge ever… Frankly speaking, it’s got to do with what my friend Limão once said: the eternal fight against sloth which is life… Yes, the deadliest of the so called seven deadly sins! But overcoming that is just one of the fundamental pillars one needs to build in order to manage time effectively. The only consolation is the fact that most people in the world also seem to struggle with managing their time. Nonetheless, I really look up to those who are so able to do it in such a skilful manner, and I shall learn from them! Soon.

Yes, this is an attempt to justify the unjustifiable! So, come on now ♪ let’s move it ♫ move it ♫ so, come on now ♪ let’s move it ♫ move it ♫! Like I say, I haven’t been good enough to manage my 24 daily hours in order to make some room to knock off a decent article on a weekly basis as I intended to, and so here I am, padding it out, or as they say in Brazil, ‘filling sausages’! Yes, there are priorities, but we all know that there is always some spare time to be spent on pleasurable crap which can be more or less useful and rewarding, and ultimately we make the choices… I should keep on trying anyway, for I do not wish to end up like my frends from No Caso, Senhor hahaha, HUAHAHAHAHA HAHA HAHAHA ha-ha, ha… erm, sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed about that, it wasn’t even funny, I know, I know, I KNOW, I SAID I’M SORRY, OK?!

Old School Chocolate

The ‘new’ Cadbury advert by Fallon released early this year became some sort of fever here in the UK, with thousands of ordinary people reenacting the commercial on Youtube, as well as artists and celebrities doing their parodies on TV. The whole production of such a gem is, without a shadow of a doubt, immaculate, but what really stands out is the ’soundtrack’:

It is a just shame that those people who ‘dig’ music for such purposes usually tend to go uncredited. “Don’t Stop the Rock” is a tune by Freestyle Evolution from 1986, but I didn’t really know or remember the original:

The first reference that actually came to my mind as soon as I saw the commercial a few months ago was the one and only Bomb The Bass, arguably one of the pioneers of British House Music. AKA Tim Simenon, back then, was just a young lad from Brixton who had produced and released his tracks with his own pocket money after completing a sound engineering course, but was to become hugely influential until these days as one of the top masters of the art of sampling and mixing:

House Music actually started in the US, more precisely in Chicago, Detroit and New York and, as a matter of fact, when “Beat Dis”, the first track by Bomb The Bass, was released in London, it was disguised as an independent EP from New York so that it might attract more attention, according to NME. Still, its immense success was for eighteen-year-old Simenon a rather unexpected and pleasant surprise. Freestyle Evolution, however, belong to a somewhat different ‘musical movement’ categorised as Miami Bass, which was influenced by the hip-hop of Afrika Bambaataa from the Bronx, NY, even though Freestyle Evolution also acknowledge  Karftwerk as one of their major influences. Miami Bass is actually said to be the origin of Funk Carioca, which also appears to be turning into a global music phenomenon, some say:

Influences, resemblances… sometimes it’s difficult to tell, but it is always fascinating to take a close look at the gradual evolution of all sorts of genres throughout history and how people carry on experimenting, re-working, re-making, re-mixing, re-building, re-creating, re-presenting!

P.S.: By the way, I have downloaded the audio from the Cadbury “Eyebrow” commercial, and have been using it as the ringtone of my mobile phone.

Cacofunetics

Explaining jokes always seems a bit daft, especially if they were originally told in a different language. Let alone when they are based on puns. This is actually the case, but I’m going to run the risk nevertheless and tell three stories about three men from Coniandale Road and their respective names:  Thomasiu Crane, Thomazt Urbates, and Jacinto Pinto Aquino Rego. No, I’m not joking and as a matter a fact I won’t be able to comment much on their deeds, for their names are actually real.

Craneland

Well, sort of. Young Thomasiu’s surname for instance wasn’t really Crane, but he was originally from the Ukraine. Thomasiu was one of those rare types who really ’shouldn’t be there’, in the sense that there were plenty of reasons for him not to be there. He’d come from a very fortunate background, had had the benefit of a good education, had a full-time job, but more importantly, Thomasiu hadn’t really deserved to have got what he’d got for what he’d done. Or had he? He’d been sentenced to one year of imprisonment for trespassing and criminal damage, which many think is alright given the fact that one is usually released on parole after having done half. Truth is though, once there, even a week is too long. After all, who wants to be deprived of his liberty? Thomasiu did seem like a nice kid with no apparent malice whatsoever. He’d recently graduated from business management back home and decided to travel the world before getting a permanent job, just like many have done, myself included. London is usually a good start due to the (then) cheap flights and the relatively good opportunities for making money. He was a big fellow and got a job in construction straight away so that he could also keep fit while making money, and he worked and partied just as hard for nearly a year. He then bought his round-the-world ticket and was due to leave London off to New York first then Hawaii and Thailand within two months from that fateful dawn. They were walking back home after a night out celebrating life and as the sky gradually became more colourful and their state of inebriation diminished, the imposing silhouettes of those monsters at the building site where they spent most of their days suddenly seemed to have hypnotised them. After a long staring pause they looked at each other grinning simultaneously. “Are you thinking about the same thing?”  Laughter. “No fucking way, dare you!” “A hundred quid?”  Laughter. “A hundred quid!”  Laughter. “Go on then, get the flag!”

Young high-spirited boys, too much energy accumulated and a dash of bad luck is all it takes. Thomasiu tied the Ukrainian flag around his neck like a cloak and climbed the crane all the way up to the very top, literally hundreds of feet high, completely drowned by his excitement and totally unaware of the life-threatening risks of such an inconsequent act. He hung the flag on the tip of the machinery arm and started shouting off the top of his lungs “FUCK ENGLAND, YOOHOO!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”

They do say that trespassers will be prosecuted, and in fact it didn’t take very long for a couple of police cars and a fire engine to arrive on site with the sirens on. Apparently someone had seen the duo climbing the gate and phoned the police. They let the boy on the ground off but took Thomasiu to the police station, and at that point he was still enjoying himself  so much that he never really thought he was just about to swap his one-year round-the-world trip for a one-year round-the-corner stay behind bars.

At Coniandale Road they called him Mr. Crane from the Ukraine.

***

Older Thomazt had a more unfortunate and rather embarrassing story, and his comic full name was in fact tragically prophetic. Mr. Turbates was the authentic  nomad type; he was about 35 and had been travelling the world for almost 20 years. He had worked on king-crab fishing boats in Alaska, he had worked in the rice paddies of Thailand and he had picked fruit in the Australian fields. He had slept in many streets and Salvation Army shelters and when he arrived in London his first job was to sell Big Issue Magazines. He was a tall, dark and handsome man and he had a charismatic smile which provided the impression that he was always in a good mood. As soon as he heard that some people earned pretty good money by walking the dogs of the wealthy ones in Kent he bought some decent clothes,  did some interviews and eventually got the job. One of his clients was an old lady who had an incredibly sexy and attractive daughter in her early twenties. It was one of those rare sunny days in British Summer. Thomazt had just entered the property to get hold of the three greyhounds and as he crossed the upper garden along the swimming pool he just couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her lying there, completely naked, sunbathing by the pool. He hadn’t had sex in a long while and got a little overexcited, so he ran to the loo downstairs in the basement and relieved his sexual tensions right there, on the spot, fantasising about what he had just seen.

Bark

Thomazt wasn’t really sure whether somebody like the housekeeper had seen him in action through the little window or whether he’d left some sort of incriminating vestige behind. The fact is that later in the same evening he received a phonecall from the agency just informing him that his services were no longer required. The next thing he learned a couple of days later was that he was being arrested and charged with sexual harassment. Thomazt Urbates, what an irony.

***

I still haven’t had much contact with Jacinto. He only just got there last week. I was with my colleagues doing induction, which is when we talk about and try to explain the importance of education and then assess the new-comers’ levels of literacy and numeracy so that they can sign up for the courses they might want to do. If they are non-native speakers they are referred to me and I’ll attempt a brief chat in order to try and precise their level of English. As soon as Jacinto realised I was Brazilian he frantically exposed his frustrations with the fact that he had been registered with the name that was on his fake Portuguese passport instead of his real name. Thinking that he was merely concerned about the fact that Mr. Pinto did not quite exist, I replied naïvely: “don’t you worry about that. If that is the name they want to use, it should be their problem, and that should not affect you in any way”, to what he replied with with his fast-paced accent from Ceará which kept on reminding me of Didi Mocó “no, you don’t understand, the name that the motherfucker who made the passport gave me is Jacinto Pinto Aquino Rego and I can’t stand this fucking shit!” It was like an old joke really happening right in front of my eyes, and poor Mr. Pinto looked so cross that there was no way I could laugh about the fact that he’d been given this combination of Portuguese names which even though are real and plausible for someone to have, no one would ever do (well, perhaps in Portugal), for it sounds exactly like saying something like “I feel a cock up my arse” in English.

***

These paronomastic anecdotes brought back some amusing memories of my childhood when I used to think that the iconic Brazilian actors Tarcísio Meira and Ney Latorraca were actually two actresses: Tarci Zumeira and Neyla Torraca.

Nerso

Son of a Jack

Talk about the Jackson? What about the Jackson? He’s overdosed on Demerol and fled the world. Or has he?

Waves

Teahupo'o, Tahiti, French Polynesia.

Desert Point, Lombok, Indonesia.

Grajagan, East Java, Indonesia

Mundaka, Basque Country, Spain.

Over

Under

Hokusai

Rock

Mud

Magma

Lights

Sand

Snow

Clouds

Comet

Mars

Nebulosa

Tomorrow is Summer Solstice Day, and here in Britain this is really noticeable, just as well as the Winter Solstice is. Not only because we are relatively far ‘above’ the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer, but also because people talk about it, people know about it and some even celebrate it. At the home of Newton and Rutherford, and Darwin of course; at the home of Kubrick, Burgess and Orwell; Huxley, Waters, Gilmour and Bowie, it appears that ‘people in general’ know about ‘things in general’. There are often scientific documentaries in prime time, and not only on public television, but also on the commercial channels, how incredible is that? Prime time documentaries. Can you imagine? I wonder if ‘people in general’ also experience things in general besides and beyond knowing about them.

Mathematicians might say solstices are the highest point of a sine graphic. Physicists might even say more precisely that they occupy the peaks of an amplitude modulation graph. Ugh! We, the people from Humanities often frown upon mathematical models and equations, but the truth is that the mathematical sciences are incredibly beautiful and they can describe the world and the universe in an extraordinary way. As a matter of fact, I have always been fascinated by theoretical maths and physics, but when it comes to applying the models and conjectures, I must admit that I, like many people, simply do not have the capacity to master the complex language of  such sciences. But isn’t it amazing to mathematically be able to realise with great precision what fishermen have always known sort of organically? The tides, for instance. They come and go. Every day. But at different times. A little bit later every day, twice. The moon has its phases and is full again every four weeks, always a little bit later as well. And whenever it is full moon or new moon, there are big tides. They go out really far and low, and they come in very high. When the moon reaches either its first or its last quarter, however, there is very little variation between high tide and low tide. And they carry on like that, gradually, they after day, little by little, full moon after full moon, until another peak of another amplitude modulated sine wave is reached: The ’seasonal amplitude modulated sine wave’, which is when there are for instance (obviously depending how far one is from the Equator, just as with the tides) some eight hours of sunlight after noon and also some eight hours of sunlight before noon. Or, in the winter, when there are some eight hours without sunlight before midnight, as well as after midnight. Interestingly enough, such crucial points in our graphs and calendars indicate for some the beginning of summer or winter, but for others, they actually represent mid summer and mid winter, respectively. The middle points between them two solstices will coincide with the equinoxes, which is when there is practically no difference between the number of hours with or without daylight, just like with the tides when it is half moon! One of the equinoxes, obviously depending on the hemisphere one is found, will be signalling the beginning of spring while the other one, the beginning of the autumn. Or would it be mid spring and mid autumn..? And they keep on going.  On and on, round and round, year after year, who knows until when. The Juxtaposed Seasonal and Tidal Modulated Sine Model, aka JUSETIMOSIMO, was developed by the Brazilian applied scientist of rules Eurasio Regis Filho to help better elucidate the mysteries of the quantic universe as whole. No, that is actually not true.

Dancing Sinusoids

Concentric Circuloids

Electromagneticoids

Fractoids

Spectrum of Floyds

Herculoids

Oh, and about the images and their respective (lack of) credits, if you have eighteen minutes to spare, I recommend you listen to the man below. Larry Lessig is his name. He is American and TED is ‘very American’, but it’s just ‘their style’, it’s just ‘the genre’, we kind of ‘expect’ it to be this way… The idea is actually very good, though. And like typical Americans, they know really well how to capitalise upon great ideas. In four weeks time the TED Global is taking place at Oxford and registrations are, erm,  £2,500.

Fine, Britain is the home of Newton and Rutherford; it is, of course the home of Darwin, and it is the home of Kubrick. And Burgess. And Orwell, and Huxley, Waters, Gilmour and Bowie. It often appears to me

Regenrenate

Traditional Brazilian bossa, choro and even classical compositions such as the opera O Guarani, which became forcefully immortalised  after so many decades of good and old A Voz do Brasil. All reworked into spirited and heart-warming top quality early reggae, ska and rocksteady. Definitely worth checking it out, especially if you’re acquainted with the tunes, and particularly if you’re fond of them originals, except for O Guarani, of course! The glorious symbol of the acceptance of the retrograde former colony of Portugal into the prestigious European realm of classical music is an amusing musical parody which brings back memories of those ‘groundhog evenings’ stuck in traffic in São Paulo on my way back home, after a long day at school, college, work, etc. ‘The Voice’ itself is not really so bad and, as a matter of fact, it has recently been fairly modernised and has indeed become considerably less excruciating to listen to. There is a lot of criticism regarding the fact that it is a public service, but I’m not getting into that discussion today. After all, which news programme isn’t biased anyway? Trouble is that if you’re listening to the radio in Brazil between 7 and 8pm, you won’t have much of a choice, apart from the very few stations which, after fighting for years, have been granted ‘the right’ to broadcast the programme at an alternative time on the same day. And the farther you move away from the big urban centres, the less likely it is that you’re going to find anything else to listen to at this time. Of course you can always put a CD on, or your mp3 player or a cassette, depending, but that can be quite annoying when you’re in the mood for radio!

Aeroplane

Talk about the plane? What about the plane? It’s fallen down and crashed into the sea. Or has it?

João Da Mata is gone

Right. This is the first of a series of anecdotes called Coniandale Road, which might one day be published as a book. Yes, one of these brilliant ideas we keep having, but never actually put into practice due to the frantic pace of our daily lives. Or perhaps more likely due to our bad time management skills…

Coniandale Road and its surroundings, circa 1840

One of the things that I do for a living in the UK, while I struggle to complete my PhD in Media and Communications, is TESOL as they say, that is, Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. My learners, however, appear to be for some a bit of an oddity, for the fact that they find themselves currently deprived of their freedom. Foreign offenders, they call them. Some speak very good English, but cannot read or write at all; others have studied the language back home and can read and write reasonably well, but can barely understand anyone; and then there are those who cannot understand, speak, read or write a single word of English. All sorts of unfortunate stories from various parts of the world surround that place. Stories which I never ask about, but quite often hear in detail, for people there often have an almost physiological need to get stuff out of their chest, which does not surprise me at all.

It is not just because João (his name has been altered to protect his privacy) is my countryman that I was struck by his story, for over the last almost four years I have worked in Coniandale Road, there have always been a few Brazilians coming and going. João was just another one who was leaving today. He had been transferred to another institution somewhere up in the Midlands to serve his two-year sentence. Drug dealing. Not a big deal, really, far from last year’s ingenuous Ricardo Farina who had been caught at the airport, with his suitcase packed with lovely Amazonian stone sculptures of parrots, all stuffed up. What had initially seemed like a mere case of smuggling, for customs, actually turned out as a big surprise, for both sides. João, on the other hand, blamed it on the cachaça. Born in its homeland, Minas Gerais, Little John lost his Scandinavian father at a rather early age, but at least him and his beloved African mother were left in good financial conditions. Hadn’t she met his stepfather soon after, that is. Within five years he managed to finish off all her resources, including the house, which had to be sold to pay the debts from his gambling habit. And then he  left. Mother, son and his little half-brother had to move up the hill, to the favelas, home of the deprived, and they had to work really hard to be able to maintain a humble, but reasonably satisfactory standard of living, which would still be occasionally disrupted by the return of the man.

Denis Carrion and Pablo Zambeli

Several years went on and the situation remained unchanged, apart from the fact that despite his slightly short stature and rather light weight, João had turned into some sort of high-octane mixture of João de Santo Cristo and Mané Galinha, not exactly in terms of what these (perhaps not so) fictional characters had been through, but rather in terms of their anti-hero-like personality traits. He had already stood up to the man a couple of times and told him how much he hated him and how slowly he wanted him to burn in hell, but what actually made the man finally disappear once and for all, or rather, for many years to come, was the promise that not so little John had made him. As his mother sobbed and he firmly pointed the gun at the man’s head.

His shoulder-length kinky hair, as well as other characteristic features from his hybrid ethnic background gradually provided João with the looks of someone in between  furious Kirk Hammet from Metallica and cheerful Luís Caldas, Jequié’s king of Afoxé, but of course he wouldn’t listen to any of this shit! João actually enjoyed the Funk Carioca, which his stunning girlfriend danced professionally at the weekend bailes, while he and his mates watched, drank beer, smoked weed and did some lines of coke.

Because of the nature of the business itself, drug lords are expected to be tough and merciless and they can be quite imposing in the context of favelas which are generally brushed aside by the government even though they represent a great deal of the urban populations. Being used to always having the upper hand can be tricky though, as it usually causes these subjects to become overconfident, especially when they make use of the substances they commercialise, which as a matter of fact almost always is the case. And so the sexy dancer drives the big tough imposing merciless inebriated man crazy with her swift sinuous movements and he wants to have her at any cost. She has a boyfriend but he doesn’t care, after all that is not his problem, or is it, and  he grabs her by the arm. João is watching everything from across the hall:

Leave me alone, you’re hurting me, let go of my arm, what the fuck do you think you’re doing you bloody…

Calm down baby, let me show you something nice, take it easy, I just want to show you what a real man tastes like…

Piss off, she shoved and ran away towards João who approached the scene quite hesitantly. He was fuming, but didn’t know what to do, for not only was he looking at the man in charge, but the man was also three times as big. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down, but then he heard:

Ok, darling, let me know when you get bored of playing with a boy still in nappies, will you?

João simply lost it and quite literally jumped in with both feet and before he even realised, there he lay, battered and bruised on the dance floor. The humiliation was extreme, and he simply couldn’t take it. In two weeks time he would take his inconsequent revenge. On 27 February 2001, Fat Tuesday, Carlos Augusto “Careca” [bald] was shot dead in broad day light and João Da Mata was immediately arrested as he reloaded his gun to discharge once again upon the agonising man who lied on the pavement among the panicking crowd. The police officer who had briskly interrupted  Little John’s seizure by butt-stroking him with his rifle actually knew him and his family and called his mother as soon as they arrived at the police station. The officer used to be their neighbour before they’d had to move up the hill and he did everything he could to make sure Little John was not sent to Cadeião [Big Jail], where Careca’s business partners dictated the rules, otherwise  João wouldn’t have survived to tell his unfinished story. Twenty two years old; seven wasted years of his life ahead. Tough. But it could have been a lot worse. The stepfather he despised got hold of a solicitor who somehow managed to get João remanded on bail two years later, as son as he won the appeal for a retrial, which was obviously doomed, but it didn’t matter, for the idea was just to buy time, so that João could organise everything and leave the country to start a new life, in London, where his mother had some relatives. It may sound rather perplexing that one could actually have done this, and the details are unknown, but indeed that is what happened, and so there was him along with his mother a few days later arriving at Heathrow airport, and five years later in Coniandale Road after being caught red-handed at Heaven.

Coniandale Road for João was like a three-star hotel, as he put it, and even the food wasn’t really as bad as the other inmates painted it. In Swedish prisons, he said, they only give you bread and water, and there isn’t even butter! You can eat all day if you want, and you can have as much as you like, but it’s only bread and water. I’ve never had bread again in my life after the three days they kept me in there because of a stupid street fight, but anyway, if you guys find this place horrid, I suggest you spend a month, just a month, in the prison I stayed in for two years back in Brazil! Twenty two people in one cell, my friend, twenty two people, eleven beds and one toilet, ok?

Really? So what did you do, I mean, did you take turns to sleep?

You must be taking the piss! Of course not! We slept on the floor! The beds belonged to those who had been there longer, and the newest ones had to  get up earlier, clean the floor and make the coffee. Of course we could use the beds sometimes, as long as we paid for it. Actually, that was the only thing that was better there: your family could give you as much money, cigarettes and food as they wanted, so that was pretty good, and the food was pretty good as well, because we cooked it. Oh, and of course, we had the right to have the so called intimate visits once a month as long as we behaved, and in fact, that is where my little boy was conceived, shit, you should see my little boy, he’s six years old already, I’ve gotta go back to Brazil, I’ve had enough of this country, the temptation here is too big because it’s too easy to make money and get carried away… I’ve been talking to my brother and I told him to try and find a nice piece of land in a small town in the countryside and all I want is to be with my missus and my little boy, she’s always writing to me and she’s there just waiting for me, and I know she is cause my brother tells me so!

Isn’t it dangerous for you to go back there?

Well, yeah, that’s why every time I talk about going back to Brazil my mother starts to cry, but my brother tells me that most of those who would represent  some danger to me are dead, you know, it’s a risky business and so these people don’t live very long and that’s why I don’t want to have nothing to do with no shit no more do you know what I mean? But yeah, they know I’m planning to go back and the news always spread quick so yeah, I wouldn’t be able to live in my hometown, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve learnt my lesson, next year I’m outta here and I just wanna be a good boy and look after my family.

And off he went.

Association

Hm, prison. I suppose I’ve got a few stories to tell and a couple of things I could comment on that topic. Should I? Ok, at some point I will, but for now, I should just get back to the other pages of this toy which are, as a matter of fact, a lot more important in the short run, for after a crazy month of hard labour work and minimal academic work, I’ve got loads to catch up, just as usual, and because of this dream that I had, a good many hours were spent on a perhaps useless, but nevertheless delightful mental exercise. Yes, I had this dream we were lying in the orange hammock of a narrow balcony, somewhere nice and warm, though rather dry, and I was singing Bob Marley’s The Lion of Judah, a with all my heart and soul.

Just like all music I listen to, the lyrics always come in second place, no matter how beautiful and poetic they can be, the music will attract me first and then eventually I start listening more carefully to the actual words of a song. The Lion of Judah doesn’t seem to have been published anywhere apart from Time Will Tell, the only decent documentary about the life of Bob Marley, directed by Declan Lowney who, IMDB tells me, happens to be the director of many of the episodes of Little Britain, isn’t that such a small world? Anyway, the dream I’d had, quite a trivial one actually, was probably the mere result of two combined facts: (1) I had been given the previous day a nice blue t-shirt with the picture of good old Bob sitting on a bicycle. I’d taken a shower, tried the shirt on, carried on doing my stuff, and fell asleep in it. (2) One of my best friends from Brazil, Andrea, had sent me an email. Andrea went to school with me and left university half way through just like me to travel the world before finishing the studies. She travelled at least twice as much as I did and ended up marrying Eran from Israel, her soul mate she’d met in India and ‘imported’ to Brazil. Andrea graduated from mechanical engineering at Poli – USP, became a professional photographer and is currently living in remote Macapá, working as a federal civil servant. Quite an interesting profile, one could say. On her email she told me about their last trip to, yes, Ethiopia. She told me about the people, she told me about the colours, and she told me about the clocks. Yes, apparently in Ethiopia, unlike anywhere else in the world, not only have they got their own calendar (they are in 2001), but they have also got their own twelve-hour clock with 1 o’clock being the hour that the sun rises, that is around 7am of our clocks! That means their midday will actually be the sunset, at 6pm, so it is quite interesting to think that a traveller in Ethiopia will see the sun setting as the local clocks point to 12 o’clock, if that makes any sense. My other dear friend and journalist Isabelle Doudou who has always had severe difficulties in terms of understanding how timezones work for instance probably has no idea what I’m talking about, but that’s fine. There was also a ppt presentation on the email Andrea sent me, with lots of photos she had taken, but I was quite busy, so I left the file to open later and went to bed. Then the brain did its job, a small production of this apparently meaningless dream in which I sang the song. The result was just a bit of a shock when I realised at the end of the following day that I had spent over five hours reading about Ethiopia, its kings and queens, the Israelites, Rastafarianism, and bought The Kebra Nagast, which I had never even heard of before. I must also confess that I had greater respect for ratafarianism before I understood its origins more thoroughly, but it doesn’t matter, for Bob always said that was not a religion.

http://georgeumbrasileiro.wordpress.com/2009/05/31/bilabial-clicks-consonants/

Bilabial Click Consonants?

The African Khoisan languages such as Zulu, Xhosa and Swazi make constant use of a series of clicks which represent different consonants:

Indo-European Languages such as English, on the other hand, do not make formal use of such articulations. Yet, they are widely used and their semanticity is well acknowledged. This is just an amusing example of the language beyond the language to illustrate the importance of linguistic studies to be more pragmatic, contextual and discursive so to speak, just as Volosinov had long advocated. From BBC3 Comedy Series The Visit, set in the visiting room  of  “HMP Radford Hill”.

Hm… prison. I suppose I’ve got a few stories to tell and a couple of things I could comment on…

A Portal to Media Literacy

The brilliant things Michael Wesch is up to are most definitely worth sharing and commenting. The link to his weblog Digital Ethnography can be found on the right column of this page, together with other interesting and useful stuff I subscribe to, but I would like to draw particular attention to this video of one of his talks on media literacy and colaborative teaching and learning practices. It is over an hour long, so set yourself some time, sit back with a cup of coffee and enjoy the lesson. Alternatively, nevermind.

Birdmen

Incredibly daring and creative, Red Bull continues to sponsor the most insane and unreal ideas to “give you wings”…

Mugunzá

Mugunzá é nutritivo e faz crescer forte

Assim como caldo de mocotó, aió.

Jeremias, o que era aquilo que tu comias?

Ora, comida básica de todos bóia-frias:

Macaxeira, charque e um quartinho de goró.

WTF

Pela hora da morte

Não complica nem completa

Tenha dó

Você não dá pra poeta.

Date Stamps, videos and other contentless tests

Edited: The tests below refer to another ’space’ of a much inferior quality, not even worth mentioning. Yet, it should remain here for the time being, not only for the purposes of record, but also and perhaps mainly, because the chosen video depicts the greatest football player in action for the greatest football team…

After having lost a good few paragraphs in the infinity of cyberspace for those reasons no one can really explain, I have just managed to configure the software to automatically save drafts every three minutes, something that it should have done automatically without need to be configured. Well, tough!

Another thing to be check out is the lines and paragraphs, as well as the fonts, colours, sizes and different formats. I had tried to embed a video and that was when the thing crashed, which is not a very good sign and I do not really want to comment on that. The video can, theoretically, be uploaded from here through Soapbox which is the Microsoft’s answer to Google’s YouTube so to speak. It just appears to take ages for the uploaded video to be processed, and in the meantime, Writer crashes…

This is enough text for a test, so I shall now attempt to embed the video once again and throw the whole thing altogether on the website. Fingers crossed.

EDITED: Never mind ‘the website’. Microsoft simply does not seem to be able to keep up anymore. Not to mention the problems… So, like I say, never mind…