I’m yr boss why do our politicians make . . . a . . . skip driver’s license exams in 12
this is all abt we speak English--
if ye wanna live here—learning were only given that test in English
if I am—maybe the businessman in me
but will save money & it makes it
as it to you . . .
i angry next time there please tell me what day
we had dozen by
weekend these days
she much the same donji
June much past you please be keenly
even BBC do
the year 29 next day
do you know
do we need to be United States v
you still down no mas que don’t tag me
breed and then he stay me do you
does your the pie
we not the wine you spoke before the
the movie in the United States the
Anaheim 93 and miss great my see
and believe you know nor should be I’m see
do not delete Jan
mucho to come now to use to speak English yes
the and my
stay and you
greedy Jew these United States
the the west
press my hike
when it’s my
angry the United States you
angry my huh
good morning Porsche currently if you want to get a george’s driver’s license
about thirteen different languages to choose from but have no back bill passes
that number could be whittled down to just one he was so mad die in thirty
nine to 11 votes state senators have already passed legislation that says
before drivers take to the road on the nerd
they will have to stop by the DMV and take a driver’s exam
in English the bill’s sponsor says it’s a matter of public safety
you know where the signs are there above the how ways that we travel all
and if you see a sign that says rode out car crash up for a at
are some morning you need to be able to read that time
but critics dispute claims about public safety and today groups opposing the in
was only requirement will be gathering at the Capitol
hoping to convince members of the house to not pass the controversial bill
at think that house speaker de sakte with strong leadership as well as
governor Perdue’s 22
act with strong leadership to make sure that this economic development killer
doesn’t pass outs
senator Murphy disagrees even though the opposition to the bill
is mounting it’s not discrimination is public safety has nothing to do with
has nothing to do with economic development or lack of economic
development it has all do
with public safety on our roads that justifications that the senator has
given for it
are unfounded again public safety concerns are not an issue because not a
single Public Safety Officer the state’s
for any local jurisdiction has testified in support of this bill
doesn’t know 67 actually
from last legislative session it passed both the Senate
and the house but could not be agreed upon
before the session ended their protest gets underway
around 9:30 this morning we will be here and bring you much more reporting live
downtown Atlanta toma parry outside news all right thank you to come up
Uploaded on Apr 7, 20
Abnaki, Achinese, Achumawi, African, Afrikaans, Ahtena, Alabama, Albanian, Aleut, Algonquian, American Indian, Amharic, Apache, Arabic, Arapaho, Arawakian, Arikara, Armenian, Assamese, Athapascan, Atsina, Atsugewi, Aymara, Azerabaijani, Aztecan, Balinese, Balochi, Bantu, Basque, Bengali, Berber, Bielorussian, Bihari, Bikol, Bisayan, Blackfoot, Bulgarian, Burmese, Caddo, Cahuilla, Cajun, Cambodian, Cantonese, Carolinian, Catalonian,Caucasian, Cayuga, Chadic, Cham, Chamorro, Chasta Costa, Chemehuevi, Cherokee,Chetemacha, Cheyenne, Chibchan, Chinese, Chinook Jargon, Chiricahua, Chiwere, Choctaw,
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Belinda is second-generation Puerto Rican
lives in Spanish Harlem
Spaha as gentrifying realtors around 116th call her barrio
Belinda’s perspective as she comes of age in NYC
ages nine to thirteen
her adventures with friends around the Barrio
sees a dead body on 126th when she’s ten . . .
her family’s overdetermined acculturation
narration as it follows “linear” path of becoming American
Belinda’s hermano in prison
another the military
Belinda’s growth into womanhood . . .
Belinda’s subtractive schooling
immigrant and minority and expected to lose her strength
her family, deny her roots
for her “educational development”
subtract her language
and her maestra Ms. R . g . e .
picked up her chalk
wrote the morning’s assignment
bonita Belinda’s fear of that rule
no Spanish allowed in Ms. R . g . e .’s classroom
“None of that." Blink.
“If you are ever going to be good Americans speak. Like. Me.
“You’ll never amount to anything unless you learn.
“You want to be like your parents?”
“Is that what you want?” Waiting . . . for an answer . . .
“No Ms. R . g . e .”
And Belinda looked at her brown hands
“When I was a child we could look up to our parents . . .”
And Belinda said to herself
Mami esto no es no es no es
this story . . . repeats
looks up at the flag
hears horns honking outside
Spanish in the wind
and imagines her mother cleaning
B. Wright says
& her back--
pursuing Antigonus. B.
book fails more.
& that word
you just used.
B. Wright brown coat:
on left forearm
heard a fly
buzz. paper skin
sprinkled with nutmeg.
& no don’t think
look like Vik Shklovsky.
Carlos the Conque—”
“. . .”
humid American mind. &
how much an epic?
Fifty, fifty-five? Per
square foot, of course.
“. . .”
& dig this, I
for the goat:
This darksome goat,
fuzzy scrotum hanging
B. Wright hands
me a hand-rolled
hairs spilling. observe
B. Wright writes: My
& that word you
just used. You
impose yourself. B.
Wright writes & B.
& that word you
just used. You
imposing—you impose yourself.”
B. Wright speaks
another sort I
maintain. poet, make
me desire to do
the MAKEITNEW of MAKEITUSED. B.
Wright, where’d you
get those little red shoes?
too: Oh, I’m
of the species all right.
I write: Arrive at Che’s
to find sun-
shiny redheaded B.
Wright wearing sandals.
Ask her how many
freckles her body has. B.
Wright says millions.
Lifts her shirt’s tail
like someone sprinkled
her skin with nutmeg— B.
Wright, I hear, sells
hot-dogs at the
ballpark in Tucson.
—B. Wright writes: B.
Wright, your brown
coat next to me:
buttons. Emily Dic--
 B. Wright speaks: “Ahe mehrmoor thoo th houls wndoh yo eetneder poignth ov th rehkord—thoo th szlachpahlm h.r yojr berethslyce wihn thoo th defphasinbereth takerd neithernt p.n stahck th nood hjope et es sawry bereth rimouldid. ‘fhor luhve of th fhibré’ . . . kondoos mhe whunimbrase wit yoo. Vehrmelleon r.g whunst.r, a ph.nest.r whith richenessmeld.
“Charerhampes mattod whun ower whalk, plezhor o levin bereth thoo l. th shandalere, liddel l.f l. spaddre o whork ahnd lase. (Sahd gud-b. m.ferendes, chompinaros ov m.l.r.f, thoo yhor shohrt deskobhal: ahnd m. ahnd ch th t.cheeng nker ov thoo th wirrldaly ov th ohldsoret m.. rimaigns thoo th sopberring bereth rhippd fharohm yhor zenteans.) Philgerem ahnd sterongaly l..t ahnd en phondenes, thoo figs, thoo th strrahtizf.d smhoke ov a n.vle. Yhes pulasingu a sqw.r . . .
“B. yhor intent b.b.b.. breath see the sickness wehen h.t thoo th pain dhanses seceding icely remhind verses ov sitee ov th c.p. Pig. & she drank her water from a dirty trough likewise, this makes for the making of something, how do you feel about obscenity?”
“I wonder where got his fear of thunderstorms. It is almost unknown to the male Italians I have met.”
314, letter to Weaver.
Regarding an earthquake:
“Some phenomena of nature terrify me.
“One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutandry grammar and goahead plot.
[. . .] Do you not like anything I am writing. Either the end of Part I Δ is something or I am an imbecile in my judgment of language. I am rather discouraged about this as in such a vast and difficult enterprise I need encouragement.
Mr Pound wrote to me urgently from Sirmione (lake of Garda) that in spite of my dread of thunderstorms and detestation of traveling I went there bringing my son with me to act as a lightning conductor.
This thunder of Joyce’s is hardly the “dry, sterile thunder” of Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” (5.341).
Eliot’s thunder speaks Hindi:
'Datta, dayadhvam, damyata' (Give, sympathize, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka--Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.
The Hindu fable referred to is that of gods, men, and demons each in turn asking of their father Prajapati, "Speak to us, O Lord." To each he replied with the one syllable "DA," and each group interpreted it in a different way: "Datta," to give alms; "Dayadhvam," to have compassion; "Damyata," to practice self-control. The fable concludes, "This is what the divine voice, the Thunder, repeats when he says: DA, DA, DA: 'Control yourselves; give alms; be compassionate.' Therefore one should practice these three things: self-control, alms-giving, and compassion."
Pound letter to Joyce: 228:
I will have another go at it, but up to present I make nothing of it whatever. Nothing so far as I make out, nothing short of divine vision or a new cure for the clap can possibly be worth the circumambient peripherization.
Doubtless there are patient souls, who will wade through anything for the sake of the possible joke . . . but . . . having no inkling whether the purpose of the author is to amuse or to instruct . . . in somma . . .
Pound to Joyce:
That evening & all night the tempest raged, at 4:25 such peals of thunder burst on Desenzano, as I though c. portend only the arrival of Vulcano Daedalus, attended befittingly with pomps & trumpets.
“Words move into words, people into people, incidents into incidents like the ambiguities of a pun, or a dream. We walk through darkness on familiar roads.
25: Young Joyce and thunder:
The thunderstorm as a vehicle of divine power and wrath moved Joyce’s imagination so profoundly that to the end of his life he trembled at the sound. When a friend asked him why he was so affected, he replied, ‘You were not brought up in Catholic Ireland.’
Sometimes during their walks a storm broke out, and at such moments Joyce’s panic was comic. When a friend asked him, ‘I suppose thunder affects your nervous system, Mr. Joyce?’ he replied, ‘No, I’m frightened.’ Weiss, to reassure and divert him, told him funny stories about thunderstorms. But Joyce was not amused; thunder was not to be joked about. Every house, he solemnly lectured his friends, should be equipped with lightning protectors.
Joyce reportedly says to a friend in conversation:
“I’d like a language which is above all languages, a language to which all will do service. I cannot express myself in English without enclosing myself in a tradition.”
In the beginning was the thunder: the thunder set free Religion, in its most objective and unphilosophical form—idolatrous animism.
Here form is content, content is form. You complain that this stuff is not written in English. It is not written at all. It is not to be read—or rather it is only to be read. It is to be looked at and listened to. His writing is not about something; it is that something itself.
THIS IS TO SAY, WHEN A CHARACTER IS DRUNK, THE LANGUAGE IS DRUNK—AS BECKETT ALLUDES, OR WHEN THE CHARACTER DANCES, THE WORDS DANCE.
Budgen: pg. 39:
For Joyce’s purpose no word is unpoetic—none obsolete.
James Joyce gives his words odors and sounds that the conventional standard does not know. In his super-temporal and super-spatial composition, language is being born anew before our eyes.
he has created a language of a certain bewilderment, to be sure, but of a new richness and power for those who are willing to enter into the spirit of it.
The thunder clap, in Vico’s system, the most dramatic manifestation to primitive man of a supreme, incalculable being is there in Part I, however, and students of Vico will be able as the work moves, to completion recognize the second and third and fourth of the Neapolitian’s main ideas, marriage according to the auspices, the burial of the dead and divine providence in the other parts of it. They may be taken as comically foreshadowed in the childish sing-song repeated in one of the chapters that have already appeard, “Harry me, marry me, buy me, bind me.”
[. . .] where in the Portrait and Ulysses the abrupt transitions were from chapter to chapter or from paragraph to paragraph, they are here [in the Wake] from sentence to sentence, from word to word, or even sometimes from syllable to syllable, thus making an unrelieved demand on the attention.
From “The Game of Evenings” by Adolf Hoffmeister:
Joyce says in interview:
Some people will be interested in the origins of words; the technical games; philological experiments in each individual verse. Each word has all the magic of a living thing. Each living thing can be shaped (244-45).
And you all know that it is impossible to translate.
It is possible to make it into poetry—poeticize it with the greatest poetic freedom that you can give it. Work in Progress is not written in English or French or Czech or Irish. Anna Livia does not speak any of these languages, she speaks the speech of a river. 249-50.
draped lonesome slate
suffering rye sky
blued expanse blued
reached writing when
pretentiously deeming precarious
perceived more w. more
everything never yearning
pouring from faces carved
drying trenches ruins
then to unknowns refused
Arizona sunsets reddening night
Georgia humid light
jutting cloud broken gold
learned a learning of nothing
less knew, never
to know, crying metaphor
sky between fingers
myrtle sadness untold
sacrificial symbol partially
found natural imagined world
failing further ignorance
knowing not knowing
& now more than less
longer than less
less than fleeting
all have to remember
twine slowly unfurl
paper dolls in her mind
happy now glossy
feeling raw weekly
pauses home upstairs
windy nights waiting
for trains chills winters
smoking on platform
train over back to Manhattan
bridges iced water
always break always
now stop here to go
you’re welcome for the generous
hot French press this morning
dolls unfurl always break
can always wave with winds
liquid pig cranky cranky
with cans of wine darkly
presented squeal squeal
what did ye say ye do ye
O ye write poems & dance do ye
& do ye do the dances in chants do ye
chances that ye do ye do
O thank ye for the hot French
press falling steam fast
from yr made ceramic
artistic inclinations spilling
nomadic from pockets stashed bits
of expression crumbled
on yr floor next to yr broken
banjo go ahead & go
go go go ahead & go
gone hate will blow into blossoms of regret
& with yr alcohol hate will be one ye know
to be home in yr malice
as yr piano solo ends exceedingly
to grinding notes more often & then not off kilter
broken windows et cetera
Los Maximo Poems
Annals of Aztec demigods, Chican@s more Dedalusians in slouches, Quetzalcoatls in jumpsuits.