tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188170444795138592012-01-17T06:58:14.573-08:00Adminnoreply@blogger.comBlogger701100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-24272806166601702852011-06-29T19:10:00.000-07:002011-06-29T19:51:03.172-07:00

I have previously mentioned various versions of my favorite Russian song, Polyshko Polye (Полюшко Поле) here and here.I've just found out about the Arabic version called Kānu Yā Habībī (كانوا يا حبيبي) by Fairuz of Lebanon, arguably the most famous singer in the Arab world. A very Russian song sung this way is very, very interesting.Incidentally, the first Arabic song I've learned to sing (as

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-77695048866543149972011-06-16T13:46:00.000-07:002011-06-16T14:29:12.719-07:00

Sigh ...This reminds me of the time when I spoke very little English, didn't know much about the American culture or the West in general, and struggled every single day to communicate as an adult through 5th grade level English vocabulary (while trying to retain some dignity). It doesn't matter whether it's done out of good intention; it's exactly this type of humor that embarrassed me, shamed me

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-67250540831553649532011-05-23T17:14:00.000-07:002011-05-23T17:26:16.075-07:00

This is from an Italian TV program: a song sung in gibberish designed to sound like American English.A Thai news anchor reads the news in Thai with British accent. (Just so you know, without the subtitle, I wouldn't understand a word she's saying. And I speak Thai.) Hilarious.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-43432845111562564622011-05-21T18:00:00.000-07:002011-05-21T18:02:35.443-07:00

Quiero que sepasuna cosa.Tú sabes cómo es esto:si mirola luna de cristal, la rama rojadel lento otoño en mi ventana,si tocojunto al fuegola impalpable cenizao el arrugado cuerpo de la leña,todo me lleva a ti,como si todo lo que existe,aromas, luz, metales,fueran pequeños barcos que naveganhacia las islas tuyas que me aguardan.Ahora bien,si poco a poco dejas de querermedejaré de quererte poco a

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-46538417519063492862011-05-15T18:22:00.000-07:002011-05-15T18:36:27.498-07:00

I read "The Green Banana" by Donald Batchelder for the first time when I was in high school and it has stuck with me ever since. It was the first time in my life when I started questioning where the center of the world is for me, where it is for others, and what all that means; it was also the beginning of my interest in learning about other cultures beyond foreign languages.Have you read it?You

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-19071453647814882702011-04-26T18:20:00.001-07:002011-04-30T18:20:06.653-07:00

I have shared with you a few versions -- from the most traditional to an instrumental version by a Turkish musician -- of my favorite Russian folk song Polyushko Pole (Полюшко Поле) in an earlier post along with some background information on the song. Last week, I stumbled across this version from 1969 which I'd like to declare my number one favorite to date. Enjoy.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-274483896214513152011-03-25T19:11:00.000-07:002011-04-10T07:50:02.687-07:00

The commentary is in green.Bennie and the Jets (Elton John, 1974)Hey kids, shake it loose togetherThe spotlight's hitting somethingThat's been known to change the weatherThe singer is using the interjection "hey" to get the attention of a group of human beings between the stages of birth and puberty. The following imperative is a command for them to collectively cause something ("it") to move

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-43100381150701225252011-03-05T07:01:00.000-08:002011-03-07T13:04:49.185-08:00

Sure, people confuse, mislead, and lie to each other all the time. But it's particularly sad and disappointing when the deception is completely unnecessary. These jumbo-size mini M&M'S® cookies on display at a national chain bakery/café (which will not be named as the point of this is not to name and shame) are a good example.I'm not sure if you can see that the cookie in the front has

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-80425602738569577932011-02-24T17:38:00.000-08:002011-02-24T17:40:00.476-08:00

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie trackI go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minuteAnd look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.I know this

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-47780062404785985552011-01-16T10:30:00.000-08:002011-08-04T09:41:22.434-07:00

I'm writing this on a night when I feel inexplicably heartbroken. Nothing and no one has broken my heart, really, but somehow "heartbroken" seems the only fitting adjective. It's a haunting, hollow feeling you have after having lost something -- a feeling of being defeated without even having a chance to fight. It's the feeling of being in a situation the outcome of which seems to have been

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-35612183319127052182010-12-11T17:06:00.000-08:002011-04-30T18:19:43.468-07:00

Polyushko Pole, Полюшко-поле, (the speaker is speaking to and of the field -- his motherland -- with such tenderness expressed through the use of the diminutive полюшко, and "O, Field, My Little Field" is probably the closest dynamic translation that captures that sentiment) is a song about the Russian Red Army.It must be noted, however, that this song, composed by Lev Knipper and Viktor Gusev in

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-37241697503819870452010-12-07T10:33:00.000-08:002010-12-07T10:36:13.996-08:00

There are no handles upon a languageWhereby men take hold of itAnd mark it with signs for its remembrance.It is a river, this language,Once in a thousand yearsBreaking a new courseChanging its way to the ocean.It is mountain effluviaMoving to valleysAnd from nation to nationCrossing borders and mixing.Languages die like rivers.Words wrapped round your tongue todayAnd broken to shape of

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-51446119142828713652010-11-29T14:18:00.000-08:002010-12-06T13:56:35.381-08:00

This Thai idiom, naam lod taw pud (น้ำลดตอผุด) literally means, "when the water recedes, stumps emerge."It paints a picture of a river -- any kind of body of water -- at high tide when all you see is the surface of the water. You have no idea -- nor do you pay attention to -- what lurks beneath.Alas, what goes up must come down. Soon the water recedes, exposing things which have previously been

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-22747703368718122412010-11-25T18:09:00.001-08:002011-11-12T07:26:01.080-08:00

Nostalgically, I grabbed my worn-out copy of Biblia Hebraica off my bookshelf this afternoon and started flipping through it. Then I realized that I had placed a bookmark at the location of poem #136 in the collection of ancient Jewish poetry known by its Hellenized name, the Psalms. It's a thanksgiving poem. And today is thanksgiving in the US. Uncanny. I still can't recall why I placed my

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-21010373950530818732010-11-16T16:34:00.000-08:002011-08-04T09:34:00.584-07:00

It happened last summer. On a Wednesday. In the afternoon.I'd just relived my youth through an amazing lunch at the old-fashioned Le Normandie at the Mandarin Oriental which was concluded with not just one, but two pieces of anything I wanted from the dessert cart. They were served in a pool of crème anglaise with chocolate and mango coulis hibiscus flowers per my request. I was happy.What does

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-80492916103674152542010-11-12T17:07:00.000-08:002010-12-11T17:21:42.425-08:00

We desire the way a twice-poisoned dog eyes a third piece of meat. - Philip Milito

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-7549205584772353362010-11-04T12:26:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.425-08:00

This post was supposed to go up on February 14th, 2010. Alas, I was too busy being anti-Valentine and making pig ear salad that I never got around to writing it. And I can't really explain the procrastination, because it's not like it's a long post that requires a lot of thought; what I had to say could be said in, like, 5 sentences tops.Anyway, did you know that in the Graeco-Roman world, the

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-68150855517394531702010-11-01T11:47:00.000-07:002010-11-12T10:20:27.865-08:00

My reader, Sam, has suggested that I start a series on Thai idioms, and immediately I:Thought that was a brilliant idea.Was a bit miffed by the fact that it was he who thought of it and not I around whom the universe should revolve if it hasn't already.Thanks, Sam. To you I dedicate this first post in the series.Our first Thai idiom has been around for as long as I remember. You know how many

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-6305157313370062472010-10-07T10:32:00.000-07:002010-10-29T09:11:38.337-07:00

The Thai language is, in many ways, one of the easiest languages in the world to learn. Its grammatical structure is dead simple, requiring little more than the ability to string uninflected words together in the right order. No conjugation. No tenses. No persons. No genders. No voices. No cases. No morphological changes whatsoever.True, there are 44 letters and tons of vowels that go all over

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-38549865060053606592010-10-05T11:15:00.000-07:002010-10-06T11:54:30.142-07:00

The commentary is in green.A Horse with No Name (America, 1972) On the first part of the journeyI was looking at all the lifeThere were plants and birds and rocks and thingsThere was sand and hills and ringsDuring the initial stage of his journey, the singer was looking at various forms of living beings both in the animal and plant kingdoms. Geological objects and unidentified miscellaneous items

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-7288774801368190212010-09-19T17:41:00.000-07:002010-09-20T08:39:26.076-07:00

Nominalization = Turning a verb or an adjective into a noun.The process is fairly straightforward for the native speakers of English. You take a verb or an adjective and make a noun out of it.In some cases, this can even be done without any morphological changes.For example:A - How could you insult (verb) him like that?B - What?! You've got to be kidding me. That was an insult (noun)?! It was

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-10924821128018980592010-08-17T17:28:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.426-08:00

In writing about food, I sometimes find myself in a quandary.On the one hand, I just want to focus on the food. On the other hand, as a linguist, I can't just turn a blind eye to issues that have cropped up from time to time in the course of writing about food.Case in point, the knowledgeable Mr. @GarySoup of Full Noodle Frontity recently tweeted: "Amazed that foodies still don't know (or don't

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-87589675185129602152010-07-30T12:20:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.427-08:00

Whenever a budget cut rumor starts flying, people in the humanities division walk around with their hearts thumping nervously.No need to get into details or the politics of it all, as that's not exactly the point, but if your world involves -- even indirectly -- this kind of thing, you know what I'm talking about.Have the studies of ancient languages become irrelevant?Just a few moments ago, a

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-38066323058761631902010-07-27T19:15:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.428-08:00

The other day, I had in my hand a bag of seasoned dried seaweed, my favorite snack, when someone asked (pointing to the writing on the seaweed bag), "Japanese?" "Uh, no, that's Korean," I answered. "Looks like Chinese to me," came a response. "It's Korean," I said, briefly explaining to her the difference between the Chinese and Korean scripts and how one easy way to tell them apart was that

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-19169505061405059822010-07-13T05:24:00.002-07:002010-12-11T17:20:06.177-08:00

July 13th, 2010Dear Library Whose Name Will Not Be Mentioned:I'm mad. Oh, yeah, I am. I can count with my two (now trembling) hands the times when I'm angry enough to confront someone. This is one of those times.Why? I checked out a book. I returned it before the due date. Then I got a notice saying I didn't. I called and was spoken to in a manner and tone of voice usually reserved for

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-2029790618862077702010-06-13T14:56:00.000-07:002010-06-13T18:34:55.964-07:00

A thought went up my mind to-dayThat I have had before,But did not finish,--some way back,I could not fix the year,Nor where it went, nor why it cameThe second time to me,Nor definitely what it was,Have I the art to say.But somewhere in my soul, I knowI've met the thing before;It just reminded me--'t was all--And came my way no more.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-3087385169647969792010-06-02T11:18:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.428-08:00

Shopper:Contributed by foodieprints: "Code of ethics #1 "I will not drive over other shoppers or their children to get to the checkout first."Quite simply, if the sign says "Express Lane: 10 Items or Less," that's what it means. There are no hidden meanings to be sought. Don't try to be philosophical.And, no, your six individual cans of soup don't count as one item, your six-pack beer or six

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-49817047301661770612010-06-01T18:45:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.429-08:00

"... Have you ever been loved? I bet you have been loved so much and so deeply that you have become blasé about the enormity of the grace it confers. So let me remind you: To be loved is a privilege and prize equivalent to being born. If you're smart, you pause regularly to bask in the astonishing knowledge that there are many people out there who care for you and want you to thrive and hold you

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-13424962997217777452010-05-08T18:03:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:20:06.178-08:00

Being a food blogger, I get asked every now and then what my most favorite thing in the world to eat is. I don't like that kind of question. But I have my answer ready every time that happens.The most favorite thing in the world to eat for me is anything half-eaten I found in the refrigerator when I got home from school. This is probably not a very good answer since it's based on hindsight and

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-75251857755556095542010-05-07T13:53:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:20:06.179-08:00

I'd never attended mass before in my life. Well, until recently. Being in Montmartre which is in the vicinity of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, I decided this would be the place to experience my first mass. Riding on the funicular, my heart fluttered with expectation.The service started with the pipe organ music that was clearly designed to create a sense of awe and reverence. Priests and altar

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-50583149348153339892010-04-26T18:43:00.000-07:002011-01-17T20:04:55.466-08:00

While Part One discusses what I believe to be a futile attempt to apply the pluralization rules of the original languages to borrowed words that have entered the English vernacular, Part Two (uh, yeah, this one) suggests where that vigilant energy could be better spent.___________________________________________*As a food writer, I use the word "sauté" a lot in my writing. And every time I look

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-3113514148144551972010-04-25T13:15:00.000-07:002010-04-25T14:55:45.790-07:00

When I too long have looked upon your face,Wherein for me a brightness unobscuredSave by the mists of brightness has its place,And terrible beauty not to be endured,I turn away reluctant from your light,And stand irresolute, a mind undone,A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sightFrom having looked too long upon the sun.Then is my daily life a narrow roomIn which a little while, uncertainly,

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-18850762859062859862010-04-24T16:12:00.000-07:002010-04-24T16:13:25.577-07:00

This door you might not open, and you did;So enter now, and see for what slight thingYou are betrayed.... Here is no treasure hid,No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroringThe sought-for truth, no heads of women slainFor greed like yours, no writhings of distress,But only what you see.... Look yet again--An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.Yet this alone out of my life I keptUnto myself, lest

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-15856851321105358192010-04-23T07:15:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.430-08:00

From time to time, I go back to my old food blog posts in the archives and reread them just for the heck of it. Much to my dismay, I always -- always -- find stupid mistakes: grammatical errors, typographical errors, missing words, duplications, etc. And while it doesn't surprise me for I think someone who's stupid enough to compose all of her posts online (as opposed to in, say, Microsoft Word)

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-29597331717334402682010-04-19T06:38:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:20:06.180-08:00

On Saturday, I, along with the rest of the world, heard the news report on an embarrassing typo in an Australian cookbook, Pasta Bible, which contains a recipe for spelt tagliatelle with sardines and prosciutto that calls for freshly ground black people as supposed to black pepper. I thought it was silly. I didn't pay that much attention to it. To be honest, it wasn't all that funny to

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-67052744751317303202010-04-18T19:49:00.000-07:002010-04-18T19:54:13.546-07:00

A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart—That sat it down to rest—Nor noticed that the Ebbing DayFlowed silver to the West—Nor noticed Night did soft descend—Nor Constellation burn—Intent upon the visionOf latitudes unknown.The angels—happening that wayThis dusty heart espied—Tenderly took it up from toilAnd carried it to God—There—sandals for the Barefoot—There—gathered from the gales—Do the blue

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-77536864789564460962010-04-12T08:58:00.000-07:002010-04-13T06:56:19.699-07:00

This subject has been on my mind for quite some time now, but the complexity of it had kept me from tackling it even in the most informal manner. Until now.Several weeks ago, one of my Twitter followers retweeted a frustrated-sounding tweet from someone who didn't like the word, "tamale." To paraphrase the tweet (since I didn't bookmark the URL and it will take too long to search): "There's no

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-30030859414485717582010-04-09T18:18:00.001-07:002010-04-09T18:18:58.043-07:00

To what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?Not only under ground are the brains of menEaten by maggots.Life in itselfIs

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-23623762500202932192010-04-04T19:01:00.001-07:002010-08-03T07:14:09.231-07:00

This post is brought to you by all the Easter messages in my e-mailbox and Twitter feed on this fine Easter Sunday.Without going into the mind-numbingly boring details, hallelujah is from Hebrew הַלְּלוּיָהּ and "hallelujah" or "hallelu jah" is the more only correct transliteration. If you can help it, use the spelling hallelujah, not the Hellenized alleluia.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-76648298195175679572010-03-23T08:27:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.430-08:00

I wrote this in 10 minutes when I was very hungry. Excuse the convolution.The web version of The Daily Telegraph reports today of a finding by a group of Cornell University researchers indicating that, based on the sizes of the bread and plates shown in The Last Supper, food portion sizes have "progressively grown by up to two-thirds" in the last millennium.The group has cited the portion sizes

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-72953119871588851312010-03-21T17:05:00.001-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.431-08:00

My Twitter followers have asked me why it's so important that I know whether the B in tabbouleh is doubled. I think some of them have unwittingly followed me without a full knowledge of how anal I can be when it comes to English transliteration (also referred to as Romanization) of foreign words. My condolences, but no apologies, go to them.Also, it's a long story as to why I couldn't just pick

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-76413701995641234152010-03-16T19:23:00.000-07:002010-12-11T17:21:42.432-08:00

On March 14, 2010, the Twitterverse went nuts over a New York Times Op-Ed piece titled, "It's My Party and You Have to Answer," by Rand Richards Cooper. Links to the article were tweeted and retweeted ad nauseum. The article must have struck a chord with people as it seemed everybody was talking about it.In the article, Cooper bemoans the fact that people, including some of his friends, have

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-60723669863877305042010-03-13T15:53:00.000-08:002011-05-25T19:15:15.828-07:00

Under the harvest moon,When the soft silverDrips shimmeringOver garden nights,Death, the gray mocker,Comes and whispers to youAs a beautiful friendWho remembers.Under the summer rosesWhen the flagrant crimsonLurks in the duskOf the wild red leaves,Love, with little hands,Comes and touches youWith a thousand memories,And asks youBeautiful, unanswerable questions.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-67325431669692613892010-03-08T19:56:00.000-08:002010-12-11T17:20:06.182-08:00

Calf's Head"Soak it in cold water for an hour, take out the brains, scrape the head, pin it lightly into a floured cloth, and boil it in six quarts of water. Tie the brains up separately in a cloth. Boil the head two hours, then add lights, liver, and brains and boil two hours more. The large bones will now come out of the head.Put into a quart of the boiling liquor half the liver chopped fine,

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-23691593885883224132010-03-06T16:44:00.000-08:002010-03-06T17:40:02.504-08:00

St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, concerning the death of his best friend:"... quo dolore contenebratum est cor meum, et quidquid aspiciebam mors erat. et erat mihi patria supplicium, et paterna domus mira infelicitas, et quidquid cum illo conmunicaveram, sine illo in cruciatum inmanem verterat. expetebant eum undique oculi mei, et non dabatur: et oderam omnia, quod non haberent eum, nec mihi iam

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-19339152873646494882010-02-20T17:03:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:07:35.035-08:00

If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year,I ’d wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I’d count them on my hand,Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out,

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-10211435503994132462010-02-19T06:04:00.000-08:002010-02-19T11:45:43.816-08:00

Note from the Buffalo: Although pseudonyms are used here, any similarity to actual persons is not coincidental. If this sounds familiar to you, well, then it's probably you I'm writing about. I'm looking at you, Josh. - The BuffaloDepending on the way I feel about the person, my reactions upon receiving a message in a foreign language that is clearly a product of free online translator range from

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-32221230852878479622010-02-16T05:50:00.000-08:002011-06-16T14:09:57.361-07:00

My college part-time gigs included, though were not limited to, teaching Thai on a one-on-one basis to expats living in Bangkok and serving as live interpreters for foreigners conducting businesses in Thailand. For the most part, I loved what I did. And earning some cash in the process certainly didn't hurt.Teaching Thai to expats was fun and very educational. For the first time, I learned to

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-18674090796453967552010-02-13T08:17:00.000-08:002010-04-20T17:43:56.783-07:00

In Documenting My Thoughts on Intercultural Communications: Your "Big Words" Are Not My "Big Words" Part One, I began my thesis on how speakers of English as an additional language (SEALs) and a native speakers of English (NSEs) have different definitions of what a "big" word is (whether or not they realize or admit it).The idea which I had proposed -- albeit incoherently due to me getting sleepy

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-3627129552758456982010-02-02T12:10:00.001-08:002010-12-11T17:20:06.183-08:00

We're still in the middle of a series which I intend to continue. This is just something that I was thinking of last night. And if I didn't document it, it would have gone to the same place where most of my random thoughts have gone -- the cold and abyssal void of the universe.So please bear with me. As you will see when the series resumes, we're not straying far from the subject.On my first day

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-76382211466015511362010-01-28T16:50:00.000-08:002010-01-28T18:57:49.978-08:00

ProlegomenaThe link above leads to the introduction to this series wherein I explained why I felt compelled to document my thoughts on the matters pertaining to intercultural communications. Now you're thinking, "And why didn't you just label the link 'Introduction' or 'Read This First,' you pretentious broad?" But here's why: I am making a point.Unless you have authored multiple books published

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-41421823446443762432010-01-21T11:03:00.000-08:002010-01-29T06:25:34.445-08:00

There was a time in my life when I had to sit through one meeting after another with a group of people whose intercultural experience was a week in Cancun at the most. To say that it was excruciatingly painful would be an understatement. I can laugh about it now. Back then, however, there was nothing hilarious about it. Believe me.Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with having limited

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-30504377633151168202010-01-08T09:49:00.000-08:002012-01-17T06:58:14.625-08:00

As I was drafting my post on Lemon Pudding Cake, my thought drifted to the use of "lemon" as a symbol.Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I find it a bit amusing that, just as many people can't introduce a madeleine recipe without invoking the name of Marcel Proust*, many feel compelled to preface a recipe featuring lemons with one version or another of the expression, "When life hands

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-21892114008207130142010-01-06T10:53:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.251-08:00

He would declare and could himself believeThat the birds there in all the garden roundFrom having heard the daylong voice of EveHad added to their own an oversoundHer tone of meaning but without the wordsAdmittedly an eloquence so softCould only have had an influence on birdsWhen call or laughter carried it aloftBe that as may be, she was in their songMoreover her voice upon their voices

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-13632754437613368672009-12-26T08:43:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.252-08:00

His mind, of man a secret makesI meet him with a startHe carries a circumferenceIn which I have no part—Or even if I deem I doHe otherwise may knowImpregnable to inquestHowever neighborly—Emily Dickinson

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-33537027209049421472009-12-17T11:43:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.253-08:00

It's little I care what path I take,And where it leads it's little I care;But out of this house, lest my heart break,I must go, and off somewhere.It's little I know what's in my heart,What's in my mind it's little I know,But there's that in me must up and start,And it's little I care where my feet go.I wish I could walk for a day and a night,And find me at dawn in a desolate placeWith never the

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-70317630153015266442009-12-13T07:21:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.254-08:00

Break, break, breakOn thy cold grey stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break,

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-20962671159077815042009-12-07T17:01:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.255-08:00

I am in love with himTo whom a hyacinth is dearerThan I shall ever be dear.On nights when the field-miceAre abroad, he cannot sleep.He hears their narrow teethAt the bulbs of his hyacinths.But the gnawing at my heart...He does not hear.Edna St. Vincent Millay

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-62491870361064509312009-12-04T05:21:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.256-08:00

I know I am but summer to your heart,And not the full four seasons of the year;And you must welcome from another partSuch noble moods as are not mine, my dear.No gracious weight of golden fruits to sellHave I, nor any wise and wintry thing;And I have loved you all too long and wellTo carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,I must be gone, steal forth

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-39570173863602518332009-12-03T07:00:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.257-08:00

"גם האגרוף היה פעם כף יד פתוחה ואצבעות""Even the fist was once a palm and fingers.""הבדידות היא דלת, חשבתי קיר""Loneliness is a door, I thought (it was) the wall.""אנשים משתמשים זה בזה כמרפא לכאבם""People use each other as a healer for their pain."יהודה עמיחיYehuda AmichaiTranslation by the Zealous Water Buffalo herself.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-49860476874918025132009-12-02T15:19:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.258-08:00

When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain;When I behold upon the night's starred faceHuge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,That I shall never look

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-74708159968537209682009-11-30T12:25:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:53:22.640-08:00

I had withdrawn in forest, and my songWas swallowed up in leaves that blew alway;And to the forest edge you came one day(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,But did not enter, though the wish was strong:You shook your pensive head as who should say,'I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray--He must seek me would he undo the wrong.Not far, but near, I stood and saw it allBehind low

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-4384851529330927132009-11-29T13:30:00.000-08:002010-03-22T20:15:00.904-07:00

Are we a bunch of God's poems?We are, if you're a preacher who passed Greek 101 by the skin of your teeth in seminary or the singer Michael Card.* And what would your biblical proof text be? Of course, Ephesians 2:10. What else can you possibly use? It's the only place where the use of the word gives you any semantic freedom at all for sentimentalization.The logic behind this interpretation goes

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-47542348199179490032009-11-28T18:56:00.000-08:002010-02-20T17:06:14.259-08:00

Each Scar I'll keep for HimInstead I'll say of GemIn His long Absence wornA Costlier oneBut every Tear I boreWere He to count them o'erHis own would fall so moreI'll mis-sum them.Emily Dickinson

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-30555510059018045662009-11-27T08:11:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:53:05.281-08:00

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,With doors that none but the wind ever closes,Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;‘I wonder,’ I say, ‘who the owner of those is.’‘Oh, no one you know,’ she answers me airy,‘But one we must ask if we want any roses.’So we must join hands in the

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-67044220291565614862009-11-26T07:04:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:52:50.572-08:00

Sorrow like a ceaseless rainBeats upon my heart.People twist and scream in pain, --Dawn will find them still again;This has neither wax nor wane,Neither stop nor start.People dress and go to town;I sit in my chair.All my thoughts are slow and brown:Standing up or sitting downLittle matters, or what gownOr what shoes I wear.Edna St. Vincent Millay

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-41876963444322996952009-11-23T18:24:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:52:37.772-08:00

Pain -- has an Element of Blank --It cannot recollectWhen it begun -- or if there wereA time when it was not --It has no Future -- but itself --Its Infinite containIts Past -- enlightened to perceiveNew Periods -- of Pain.Emily Dickinson

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-44106191722748516082009-11-19T08:17:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:51:26.931-08:00

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,That you were gone, not to return again—Read from the back-page of a paper, say,Held by a neighbor in a subway train,How at the corner of this avenue And such a street (so are the papers filled)A hurrying man—who happened to be you—At noon to-day had happened to be killed,I should not cry aloud—I could not cryAloud, or wring my hands in such a

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-2143204152836994562009-11-17T20:06:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:51:01.354-08:00

Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,В душе моей угасла не совсем;Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,То робостью, то ревностью томим;Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.Александр ПушкинAleksandr Sergeevich PushkinEnglish translation here.

Adminnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-518817044479513859.post-44331372067539090182009-11-16T17:15:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:50:28.924-08:00

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,And measles were nice and a lie wasn't a lie,Life would be delight,- But things couldn't go right For in such a sad plightI wouldn't be I.If earth was heaven, and now was hence,And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I'd be in suspense For on such a pretenseYou wouldn't be you.If fear was plucky, and globes were square,And

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