Horace, Epode 1.3: Trying to Keep My Latin Skillzzzzzzzz

I"ve left behind teaching Latin and started a new tech-y future in which I analyze all of the data ever and come up with 42. Well, maybe not that last part. I definitely won't be doing Latin on a daily basis anymore, though, so in an effort to keep up my language skillz, I'm trying to sit down once a week and translate a little bit. This week, I found Horace's Epode 1.3, in which he expresses his dislike of one of my favorite foods: Garlic. Seriously, how can you not love garlic??  Well, Horace didn't, as you shall see below. (Latin friends, please let me know if you find any egregious mistranslations! Even though I'm not getting graded, I'd still like to get my translation right). 

If anyone will have broken

the old throat of their parents with an evil hand,

let him eat garlic, more harmful than hemlock.

Oh hard guts of the harvesters [of this plant]!

What is this poison that rages in my belly?

Surely the blood of a viper, 

boiled with these herbs has not slipped by me? Or,

has Canidia tragged out an evil banquet?

When Medea admired,

before all the Argonauts, their shining leader, 

she rubbed this all over Jason,

about to fasten the yolks unknown to the bulls;

With the gifts having been smeared with this stuff, 

she fled, having punished her rival, on a winged serpent.

And not ever has such a steam of the stars

sat upon parched Apulia,

nor has a burning gift ever scalded

the shoulders of capable Hercules.

But if ever you long for something so funny,

Maecenas, I pray,

your girl puts up her hand up in front of your kiss,

and lies down on the other side of the bed.

Parentis olim siquis inpia manu
      senile guttur fregerit,
edit cicutis alium nocentius.
      o dura messorum ilia.
quid hoc veneni saevit in praecordiis?
      num viperinus his cruor
incoctus herbis me fefellit? an malas
      Canidia tractavit dapes?
ut Argonautas praeter omnis candidum
      Medea mirata est ducem,
ignota tauris inligaturum iuga
      perunxit hoc Iasonem,
hoc delibutis ulta donis paelicem
      serpente fugit alite.
nec tantus umquam Siderum insedit vapor
      siticulosae Apuliae
nec munus umeris efficacis Herculis
      inarsit aestuosius.
at siquid umquam tale concupiveris,
      iocose Maecenas, precor,
manum puella savio opponat tuo,
      extrema et in sponda cubet.

(source: The Latin Library)

Labor: Some Musings

Erin’s contractions are coming faster now; the graph shows the peaks and valley of her body’s work and the baby’s heart rate pounds through them on the monitor, accelerating every once in a while as he apparently rolls around in my sister’s tummy.

Its been a slow start. She checked into the hospital last night, the night before her due date, expecting maybe to have a baby sooner rather than later. Or maybe that was just me.

I feel at a loss right now. This ability of female bodies, of my body, to create and nurture life is one that I’ve always taken for granted. Yes, I took sex ed. I watched every bloody amazing scene of The Miracle of Life. I am familiar with the basic outline of my own fertility. But as I watch Erin breathe slowly through the pain of her labor, I realize how little all of that academic knowledge means. I am one step closer to experiencing that work and those mechanics myself, and yet that last step is a huge chasm of ignorance and doubt and fear. Could I even have a baby? So many women seem to have trouble these days. You hear about it when you’re talking with your girlfriends. So and so are trying, but its been a while. So and so miscarried. So and so and so and so and you realize that this thing that you’ve always assumed your body does naturally without effort is a very effortful thing indeed.

I wonder about how having babies has changed throughout the ages. I’m sure basics are and will always be very much the same. Conceive. Gestate. Contract and relax. Broken water. Pushing, breathing, pain. But that work, I think, isn’t something that can be understood until you do it. I feel very much like an outsider watching Erin breathe through her contractions. I understand the mechanics, yes, and the reality of what those mechanics are is much more real to me now. But Mom will understand the most; and the nurse Suzy, who is so knowledgeable and kind. They are both on the other side of that chasm.

Erin’s face relaxes and she snoozes for a while, at least until another contraction takes hold of her. Right now, she is resting, gathering strength for the labor to come. Labor, I think, in the truest sense of the word.

Update: This post was written on May 1st, 2014. On May 2, after 36 hours of labor, Erin gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Hunter Luke. He is absolutely perfect!

Pittsburgh: The Dance (in moments)

On Friday night, Sara took me to the James Street Gastropub and Speakeasy for a dance. We were both excited, she because of the band, the super amazing awesome Boilermaker Jazz Band, and I because I was dancing in a new scene and that's always exciting. The evening lived up to every single expectation I had for it and then some. I was so happy I don't even remember a coherent order of events, so here's the evening as I remember it. In moments.

I'm out of breath as the first song ends. Jared leads me into a low dip and I laugh.

"Wow, that was awesome, let's do it again!" "Right now?" "Sure, why not!" And we dance another because its just that awesome.

Balboa shuffling across the floor.

Recognizing the dull, somewhat dingy whiteness of a well-loved pair of Aris Allens from across the room and knowing I'm in for a treat when the lead they belong to leads me onto the floor.

Pushing it and crossing over, because that's what Frankie would've done.

Kelvin kick-ball-changing in that oh so L.A. style and leading me into a swing out that, if people still did, could be called "California" rather than "Savoy."

In a rare moment of not dancing, I'm impressed at Johnny out-Tolkiening me with his language skillz (sic) rather than his dance ones.

Leading a newbie and hearing "You know, I think I get this now. Do you teach this?"

Realizing how fast the floor is after nearly losing it on more than one occasion.

The first hot note of the Boilermakers.

Nearly, but not actually dying dancing with Jared to "Rugcutter."

BALBOA BALBOA BALBOA. Ralph is smooth as silk the second time around and I relax into lollies and come-arounds.

Closing my eyes, thinking and then saying, "was that a triple basic? Dayum, this boy is good." And then him laughingly telling me that he had actually just messed up. Coulda fooled me.

Wishing I had brought my heels, even though I'm an amazon in them, because I would love to be digging in for some sweet Bal styling.

The smooth as butter cream swing out with John Paul (at least I think that was his name...who knows at a lindy dance?)

Funky blues dancing with John (John? I think so), even though my sexy blues face is basically a grin and I can't stop looking at my feet (eye contact during a blues dance is a dangerous thing).

Twisting my skirt back around after so many toss-outs.

Switching lead and follow with a funny kid in a red shirt...gorgeous follow, but a more improvisational lead than me. After a while, he is firmly in the driver's seat because dang, he's fun to follow.

Remembering scissor kicks and breaking them out whenever I think of it.

Asking the band for "Smooth Sailing" but sad when the Boilermakers don't know it. Oh well, the next song is just as good.

Putting my hair back up for the fiftieth time because I'm dancing so hard.

The thrill of meeting new dancers on a gorgeous (fast) floor with amazing music.

Thanks, Pittsburgh dancers! I had an amazing time and I hope I get to dance with you all again sooner rather than later!

Oh, Fickle Muse!

I meant to be writing about a dance in Pittsburgh. I will get to that, I swear, but this is what happens when you sit on the patio at Raging Sage in lovely weather.

The small patio at Raging Sage is full today. The burble of voices mixes around me and orange blossoms cover us all with sweet smells. Can you blame us all for taking this beautiful morning out in the Arizona sun? This is the land of Never-Winter, where Summer is never ever far way. While the rest of the country shivers in the dark and in the cold, we bask in warmth, and house finches and mockingbirds sing, adding their voices to our shared happiness.

Soon, of course, we won't be joyous. Sooner than we want or expect, Never-Winter will end and Summer will return, almost certainly with force. After all, he has only barely been held back this year. Even as I soak in the warmth of spring sun, I can feel him. I can feel him scaring away our deep freezes and drying out our soft winter rains. He is nudging us toward what I think will be a dictatorial season of stifling heat. There are joys there too, but they're fleeting and few: the blast of heat after spending too much time air-conditioned, the first sip of icy beverage in 100+ degrees. But too quickly Summer dries out those small joys. Or forces them out of you through your pores in sweat that evaporates so quickly you don't know it existed.

So I will enjoy this beautiful spring morning all the more knowing (though maybe not admitting to myself) that it is fleeting and will too soon be trampled under the heel of cruel Summer.

Pittsburgh: Impressions*

*There will be quite a few Pittsburgh posts in the next few days, and about more specific events. Like the so awesome swing dance. And the amazing random Mexican food restaurant we found and the great company that we went there with. And the joy of having good friends. 

The absolute first thing I noticed about Pittsburgh was its bridges. How could one not? Downtown Pittsburgh takes up a hilly wedge of earth bounded on the north by the Alleghany River and on the south by the Monongahela River. They meet at a point to become the Ohio River and that's where Pittsburgh started, so of course there are dozens of bridges. As a desert kid, even though I grew up on a river, I've never associated bridges with water. Mostly just with dirt. So imagine my delight, as Sara drove us through a hillside tunnel into the city, when the sparkling lights of dozens of bridges appeared, reflecting in a golden shimmer on all that water.

The second thing I noticed was not the cold weather or the bluff hills, but the runners. Let me preface this by saying that during my stay, Pittsburgh was enjoying a spat of warm (ish) weather. The highs were in the 50s, still pretty damn cold to my thin Tucson blood, but apparently, a welcome respite from the below-freezing temperatures the Yinzers had been experiencing. Our first morning, I bundled up in my fleece, my (borrowed) down parka, and topped the whole thing off with a rain shell to keep out the wind. It became clear after only a few moments that I was monumentally overdressed. Not for myself. I was toasty and warm in my layers, but not too warm, as the breeze was brisk enough to keep my cheeks cool. Perfect. But apparently not to the acclimatized runners of the 'Spurgh. The first couple of runners seemed underdressed to me, but not to a wholly unreasonable degree. Running tights, hats, big fluffy socks. And, you know, they were running after all. But after I saw not one, but quite a few of them jogging nonchalantly down the icy streets in shorts and t-shirts, with nary a thought to the cold wind smacking at my ears, well, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. Cold is weird. So are people who run in it. 

My other impressions of Pittsburgh were fleeting, but I loved all the brick buildings and the (neo?) gothic Presbyterian churches everywhere. The roads were winding and there were little shops everywhere, mostly because I don't think there was room for the sprawling shopping centers I'm more familiar with out west. We traipsed around Lawrenceville, The Strip, Shadyside, the Southside, Oakland, and just sort of soaked in the city. Saturday, my last full day in town, we saw all of it laid out in front of us from Mt. Washington. When walking wasn't really an option (seriously, the wind was killer), we'd hop on the bus and watch the city go by, alongside the regular (non-tourist) folks.

Those folks were all friendly and welcoming and seemed genuinely interested in starting a conversation. Mostly they talked about Pittsburgh and with so much enthusiasm that you couldn't help but feel that way too.  I never really felt like a tourist, except for my insistence on wearing my puffy parky everywhere. And that was really cool. Well done, Pittsburgh, well done.

It is very depressing "Inside Llewyn Davis"

Inside Llewyn Davis is probably the most depressing movie I've ever seen.

I don't usually go for depressing movies. I saw Schindler's List, but that's at least got Schindler trying to save people. Life is Beautiful was light at times, but god, the ending. As endings go, Ethan Frome has it beat. And lets not even talk about addiction movies. The one scene of Requiem for a Dream I've seen (if you're wondering, its the one with Jennifer Connelly and another woman entertaining a circle of yelling men) was dark enough I didn't want to go back and watch the rest.

Inside Llewyn Davis isn't depressing like those movies. There's no big villain, like the Nazis, killing innocents, no addictions, no accidents of fate. There are just the everyday blues. But unlike everyday life, there's no hint of sunshine, literally and figuratively (the movie takes place in New York City in the winter). The literal lack of sunshine didn't bother me so much as the complete lack of anything good in this movie.

Maybe good isn't the right word. The acting is good. The music is sublime. More impressive, all the music was recorded live; Oscar Isaac really is that talented (and is also now one of my many celebrity husbands). The cinematography is lovely and gray. There's a cat. A couple of them, actually. And there are funny moments. I actually laughed out loud a couple of times. But the story itself is unrelentingly sad. Llewyn is undeniably talented, but its like he really is the Midas of shit (as Carry Mulligan's character tells him). Nothing, abolsutely nothing goes right for him. He reacts like anyone might in the face of such a hostile universe: with hostility right back. And so the cycle of shit continues. For two hours.

The only light is the music, but its not doing what's its supposed to do for Llewyn, which is make him money. And so eventually, even that sours. That's what makes this movie so depressing, I think. Llewyn isn't willing to compromise his musical integrity and he's so talented that he shouldn't have to. But that's not how the real world works and its certainly not how the world in the movie works.

What really bothered me just how often negative shit seemed to happen. And only negative shit. When the end of the movie rolled around, it was like "that's it? Coen brothers, you're just going to show me two hours of unhappiness, and that's it? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THAT?" Don't get me wrong, I get that not everything is unicorns and rainbows and puppies and shit. But there just wasn't any point to this negative shit, there wasn't any story. Llewyn ends up exactly where he started, only with a lot of depressing shit in between. And sorry, that just isn't very compelling. I'm a little tired of the "life is shit, doesn't that suck?" story. Try a little harder.

Please, if you really liked Inside Llewyn Davis for the story and not the gorgeous music, lovely cinematography, or general design of the movie, tell me why. Because as of right now, its the most depressing movie I've ever seen.

An evening with Patrick Bateman

The prospect of another long lonely night stretched in front of me. A movie, its always a movie that saves me from feeling totally adrift. What movie though? Netflix was full of suggestions. A Witty Comedy with a Strong Female Lead? How about a Supernatural Action/Adventure? Perhaps I’d like a film Critically Acclaimed and Based on a Novel? They all slid by as I clicked the remote over and over.

Mansfied Park was out. I’d watched all three versions of it already and in none of them had Fanny Price elicited the warm friendly feeling almost all of the other Austen heroines had. Maybe a Disney movie….but I realized I had exhausted Netflix’s feeble supply after I had finished The Sword in the Stone last weekend. The documentary I had started about sushi was downright depressing, all about how the popularity of Bluefin tuna was basically decimating wild populations. I didn’t even bother looking at Horror.

But as I quickly clicked by, I stopped on American Psycho. I don’t know why, really. There were several reasons. Years before, during a grad school game of charades, a friend had acted out one of the scenes (Pat Bateman checking out his Olympian physique while…entertaining a couple of women) with some of the funniest acting I’d ever seen. I’d read a review somewhere of the book and was intrigued. Yes, it was excruciatingly violent, yes, it was completely explicit in the depiction of that violence and yes, most of that violence was directed toward women. But the word “funny” came up again. And then again, when I read reviews of the movie. Terrifying and funny? “How bad could it be?” I thought, swiftly followed by “I can always turn it off if it gets too bad.”

Right.

Stupid.

Stupid, because movies have been scaring me since I was four years old, freaked out at a friends house after watching Ghostbusters, and then deciding to walk home alone at 4am rather than spend another minute not with my mother. When I was 11, the first ten minutes of It was enough to keep my light on for a week. In high school, the first shower after watching Psycho was almost paralyzing. And it was a good thing I had a roommate in college, because after seeing The Ring¸ I certainly wasn’t sleeping in an empty room with a tv (we turned it around so that it faced the door, as I recall). So it was stupid for me to attempt to watch a terrifying depiction of psychosis (real or imagined) at night by myself. 

When it was done, I thought, “That wasn’t so bad!” The ending was even sort of intellectually stimulating. Had everything been just a vivid fantasy? Or was the society he lived in so shallow that they really didn’t notice how crazy he was? Fascinating! Yes! Rational thoughts! But just in case, I turned on The King’s Speech, hoping that the uplifting tale of friendship and personal fortitude and my beloved Colin Firth's face would help erase from my mind the disturbing images I'd just watched.

With George VI's stammer sufficiently overcome, it was definitely time for bed. But I couldn't bring myself to start turning off lights. Rationality was ebbing away. Quickly. The lovely sound of Geoffrey Rush's Shakespearean recitations was fading away into blood and screams. The quiet of the house was whispering that if I turned off the lights, someone, no, not someone, he would be there. With a nail gun or something else just as horrific. I mustered up my courage "Don't be stupid. He's totally fictional! You locked the doors! Breaking and entering isn't his m.o. anyway! You have the same taste in music! Your cat will protect you!! PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, WOMAN! NONE OF IT WAS REAL!" Clearly, I was grasping at any proverbial straws of courage I could find.

And came up completely empty-handed. Which is how, at age 30, I ended up spending the night with my light on, desperately trying to keep my eyes open, lest an evil (but gorgeous) Patrick Bateman invade. I tried once to turn off the light, but the reality of the darkness pressing in was too much. So the light stayed on. All. Night. Long.  Even my cat was disgusted with me. Seriously?

You'd think I'd learn my lesson, that I would know by now. But then again, I always thought eventually, the irrational fears of my childhood would slip away completely. Nope.

So if I ever mention wanting to watch Silence of the Lambs, no matter how good you think it is, please, please, please,  as you would a child, politely but firmly, with no hint of ambiguity, tell me "No."