My Picasa albums contain samples of work, school or 'just for fun' projects. It ain't sexy -which is why I haven't put it all on DA- but if you're still reading you must be bored - so might as well take a look.
Beware the Literal TranslatorI sat today, watching a PBS documentary on the late Lalo Guerrero. His song Barrio Viejo [wma] touched the strings of my heart with its poetry.Beware the Literal Translator by *bupaje
The chorus begins with
Which translated literally is simply
But a more accurate translation, based on the nuances of his tone, usage and sentiment would be
My Old Neighborhood (which I love)
That is why viejo means old or old man but used by an affectionate child to his father really expresses my old man whom I love.
Which brings me to my warning to beware the literal translator.
Who is the literal translator? He is that person who understands the letter of the law but not its spirit. The man whose knowledge promotes superiority rather than wisdom. The public servant who serves hims
I Am a RockI am a rock.I Am a Rock by *bupaje
With jagged and sharpened edges I defy the sand.
It is a sea surrounding me. Always it pushes, scratches, whispers ....
I do not know what it wants - nor does it matter. It is only a seething mass of sameness. I rise above it. I am a rock. I am unique. I endure.
The sand assaults me. It drowns me in its crushing embrace, then, suddenly, it exposes me. It rides the howling wind and crashes futilely against my adamantine surfaces. It is all in vain. My defenses are unshaken. I cannot be vanquished.
Secure in my strength I sleep, and I dream.
I awake, and I am alone. How did this happen? Once the horizon was filled with other rocks jutting defiantly at the sky. I did not speak to them, but I knew they were there. It gave me comfort. Now, there is only sand, and smooth rock colored lumps where once they stood.
I am afraid. My craggy prominence's have become gentle burls. My massive bulwark smoothed away by the strokes of billions of tiny laborers whose voices
Where is the home of sadness?Where is the home of sadness? It lies within me. I have tried to evict it, turned off the electricity, denied it sustenance and it refuses to leave. I have forced the sun to shine, trying to blast light past the yellowed shade and the soiled green curtains. They seem a weak barrier, yet only a wan and sickly haze is allowed in.Where is the home of sadness? by *bupaje
I walk around this enigma, this hole that sucks the warmth from my world. It is an anomaly. It intrudes on the pleasant green and blue of my surroundings. It is a stain. A wound, Death. I have looked in the door and seen the room. It is filled with dry and dusty furnishings. It whispers for me to leave the sun. To rest.
I hear my son playing on the hill, his voice dreamlike. Startled, I let go of the door and back away. My feet had crossed the threshold. I step backward again, crushing brittle grass. I do not dare to turn. Again I step, yet still feel the pull of the room urging me to enter. I pump my arms and step faster, my back to the sun, my face to the shad
What RemainsWhen at lastWhat Remains by *bupaje
we leave this world
our lives are polished
by the tender hands
of loving memory.
Gone the dust
of insignificant fights
the rare cross word
and our tiny failings
the smudges and the prints
that marred the luster
of our souls
until at last
all that remains
is the essence
of our lives.
What will be revealed of us
in remembrances final cleansing?
will we shine like gold or silver?
or will we flash
like gilding paint
soon brushed away
by time's careless hands?