Poem: Lighthouse at Night—Alfonsina Storni

January 22, 2024 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Poem: Lighthouse at Night—Alfonsina Storni

Lighthouse at Night
Alfonsina Storni
Translated from Spanish by Jim Normington

The sky is a black sphere
and the sea is a black disc.

On the coast the lighthouse unfolds
its fan of light.

Who is it looking for endlessly in the night
as it turns endlessly?

If it looks into my heart
it will find a dying heart.

Look at the black rock
where my heart is nailed.

A raven tears at it without stopping
but it no longer bleeds.

Don’t Call Me Mister

January 17, 2024 | Filed Under History, Things I Think About | Comments Off on Don’t Call Me Mister

Doing some research on Rachel Pollack, I found this article, “Don’t Call Me Mister You Fucking Beast”, a piece written by the Transvestite, Transsexual and Drag Queen group of the GLF at some point in 1972. It was transcribed to hypertext from Come Together – The Years of Liberation 1970-1973 by Autumn. According to Morgan Page, the authors include Rachel Pollack and Roz Kaveney. The site notes: “No copyright claimed on any of the transcriptions uploaded here. Please enclose transcription credits and remarks where possible. This is a community effort. IP is bullshit.”

Before you get upset about the language in the article, remember this was written in 1972, with the vocabulary available at the time.

What leapt out at me:

“Certainly one thing becomes more and more clear as we come together; pass or not pass, we can’t let anybody tell us what we are. One sister said that after six months of psychiatric treatment she discovered that no one knew her like herself. We can’t let anybody tell us we’re men, when we know we’re women. As Holly Woodlawn once said in New York, ‘Don’t call me mister, you fucking beast!'”

I can hear Rachel reading these words out loud, proudly, calmly, and fiercely.

Thank you, Rachel, for inspiring people everywhere to be their authentic and best selves.

Standing in a Garage

January 15, 2024 | Filed Under Things I Think About | Comments Off on Standing in a Garage

Going to church no more makes you a Christian than standing in a garage makes you a car.
~ Garrison Keillor

And going to bløts no more makes you Heathen than standing in a garage makes you a car.

Showing up is a start, but then what do you do with the experience afterward? Did you learn something to share? Did you learn something about yourself that you can work with to make a change? Were you moved to a new level of connection with your kindred, community, or deities that prompted you to make or renew a commitment?

Showing up, singing songs, and passing the horn is fun, but fun is not the only goal—you could go to the movies or play miniature golf if your only aim is fun.

We spend time in ritual, in study groups, in other community activities to learn from each other, to learn about ourselves, our gods, and other entities, and to learn about what being Heathen looks like on a daily basis in real time and real life. We find ways to manifest our values in our words and actions, so that what we say and do is congruent with our beliefs. We do better at being the people we aspire to be, and do better at inspiring others to be their best selves.

A photo of an empty garage, with the moving door closed.

 

Pantographia: Containing Accurate Copies of All the Known Alphabets in the World

January 14, 2024 | Filed Under History | Comments Off on Pantographia: Containing Accurate Copies of All the Known Alphabets in the World

Our friends at the Public Domain Review have posted Edmund Fry’s Pantographia: Containing Accurate Copies of All the Known Alphabets in the World from 1799. It contains 405 alphabets from 164 languages. PDR notes that, “To get these letters into print, Fry carved each one onto a steel punch, which could be pressed into a copper matrix for printing. It took him sixteen years, four thousand punches, and an estimated ten thousand hours of labor.”

The title page of Pantographia, printed in fancy lettering with the printer's logo.

Some of the alphabets are the ones you would expect from an educated gentleman of the late 18th century—Latin (12 options), Greek (39 varieties!), and Phoenician. There are many surprises, however, including North American Indigenous languages fitted to the Roman alphabet (awkwardly, many times), six varieties of Arabic, and many languages noted as “a dialect of” some far-off land that we know today by another name, e.g. “The Sandwich Islands”, which we call Hawaii).

The book uses the Christian Lord’s Prayer as its example text for almost all of the languages, an understandable choice for the time of publication. It includes a few vocabulary words for some languages, which have a few common words (mother, father, house), but the differing words reveal more about the culture the language is from, and Fry’s perspective on that culture, than Fry probably intended.

Pages 244-245 feature the “Runic” alphabet of Iceland:

A scan of the 1799 book showing a set of mixed runes, Fry's notes, and the Christian Lord's Prayer in Icelandic.

 

If you have any interest in alphabets, languages, or historical books, I recommend checking out the uploaded book—it’s fascinating, and I enjoyed it greatly!

 

Poem: Sorrow Is Not My Name—Ross Gay; Read by Jubi Arriola-Headley

December 28, 2023 | Filed Under Poem for Hela | Comments Off on Poem: Sorrow Is Not My Name—Ross Gay; Read by Jubi Arriola-Headley
Sorrow Is Not My Name
By Ross Gay

—after Gwendolyn Brooks

No matter the pull toward brink. No
matter the florid, deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything. Look,
just this morning a vulture
nodded his red, grizzled head at me,
and I looked at him, admiring
the sickle of his beak.
Then the wind kicked up, and,
after arranging that good suit of feathers
he up and took off.
Just like that. And to boot,
there are, on this planet alone, something like two
million naturally occurring sweet things,
some with names so generous as to kick
the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon,
stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks
at the market. Think of that. The long night,
the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah.
But look; my niece is running through a field
calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel
and at the end of my block is a basketball court.

I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.

      —for Walter Aikens

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