The Dark Night of the Soul

Hey, everyone. I decided to do something different this week. I finished a long translation project that got pretty grueling to do toward the end, and to partly celebrate and to partly remind myself what I like about translation (you know, so I keep doing it), I decided to translate a poem I've wanted to translate for a long time... Sólo por ganas.
It's a poem by San Juan de la Cruz, a mystic Catholic. Though I'm not really Catholic or Christian at all, I've alwayd found this poem touching. I translated it preserving some of the rhyming and keeping to a 5a,8b,5c,5d,8b scheme with a nice rhythm.

Actually, I made one error that I only noticed after I had recorded, so you better bet I'm going to just leave it to the intrepid reader to find rather than rerecord this shit.

No.

For how little time I had, I'm pretty happy with the results. I recorded an audio clip of me reading it if you'd like to hear the rhythm out loud.

La noche oscura del alma De San Juan de la Cruz   Canciones del alma que se goza de haber llegado al alto estado de la perfección, que es la unión con Dios, por el camino de la negación espiritual.	The Dark Night of the Soul By San Juan de la Cruz Translated by Adam Wier Songs of a soul joyful for having reached the highest level of perfection, union with God, through spiritual negation
En una noche escura con ansias en amores inflamada, ¡oh dichosa ventura!, salí sin ser notada estando ya mi casa sosegada. A escuras y segura por la secreta escala, disfrazada, ¡oh dichosa ventura!, a escuras y en celada, estando ya mi casa sosegada. En la noche dichosa, en secreto que nadie me veía ni yo miraba cosa sin otra luz y guía sino la que en el corazón ardía. Aquesta me guiaba más cierto que la luz de mediodía adonde me esperaba quien yo bien me sabía en parte donde nadie parecía. ¡Oh noche, que guiaste! ¡Oh noche amable más que el alborada! ¡Oh noche que juntaste Amado con amada, amada en el Amado transformada! En mi pecho florido, que entero para él solo se guardaba allí quedó dormido y yo le regalaba y el ventalle de cedros aire daba. El aire del almena cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía, con su mano serena en mi cuello hería y todos mis sentidos suspendía. Quedéme y olvidéme; el rostro recliné sobre el Amado; cesó todo, y dejéme dejando mi cuidado entre las azucenas olvidado.	On the darkest night With amorous longing inflamed, (O blessed fortune!) I left unnoticed, My house now having been tamed. Darkly yet safely, Slipped down the ladder unespied (oh blessed fortune!) Darkly, cunningly, My house now being pacified. In the blessed night, In secret, completely unseen, And seeing nothing With no light to guide But the one that in my heart gleamed. It's what guided me Yet truer than the midday light To where awaits me One I knew so well, To where no one appeared in sight. O night guiding me! O night kindlier than the morn! O night who joined both Lover, beloved, Beloved in Lover reborn! My bosom, whose flow'r That only for him is it kept, Is where I stroked him And the cedar boughs Blew cool air as he lay and slept. The wind through crenels As gently his hair I did comb, And his hand serene Wounding my collar, Shook all my senses to the bone. I stayed, I forgot, My face on the Lover reposed, All stopped, I let go Of cares and of woes That in the lilies laid disposed.

Adam and Alexis Do Nirvana

Last week I had an adventure in nature with my favorite partner in crime, Alexis, here in Colombia. You might remember from a previous entry about one of the best parties in Cali, which, as luck would have it, is having a repeat this Halloween weekend. We went to a nature reserve called, fittingly, Nirvana.

Alexis lives in Palmira, which is a city right outside of Cali. I'd never been to Palmira. It's not mentioned in my guidebook, so I didn't have high expectations, but like I've mentioned before, it's not always in big cities that you'll find adventure. And I think that's especially true for Colombia. Nature here is, in all its mega-biodiversity (that's an industry term), amazing.

All the nature!!!

On the way, I read a little bit of Cien años de soledad (A Hundred Years of Solitude). This is literally the fifth or sixth time I have started this book over. Something has always interrupted me and stopped me from ever continuing again: School assignments, moving apartments, ambulance sirens, shiny objects, food. But I'm determined to finish it this time. All 450-ish pages. It's a gesture to the Colombian gods to show them that I'm making an effort in hopes that they'll bless me with more vegetarian food options or less crowded rides on the MIO buses or drivers who give the right-of-way to pedestrians.

Once in Palmira, I met up with Alexis, and we went into a small corner shop for some food. I tried to order a papa aborrajada, and it went something like this:

"Buenas tardes."
"Buenas tardes, me gustaría una aborrajada."

"¿Qué?"

"Una aborrajada."

"¿Qué?"

That's when I turn to Alexis with helplessness in my eyes, and he orders for me. She tells us to hold on a minute.

"Why doesn't she understand me?"
"I don't know."

But yeah, I do know. It's because I'm foreign, and I don't speak Colombian Spanish... Or maybe she was just a fucking idiot. 

I guess that was a little mean. If I say "just saying" at the end, does it sound less mean?.. That woman was a fucking idiot.... just saying...

Okay. Maybe with a smiley?... That woman was a fucking idiot... just saying... J

Good enough.

"¿Usted es de aquí?"

"No."

"¿De dónde es?"

Should I tell her the truth? Should I tell her I was from Jupiter? Should I pretend I like I don't understand?

"Es un secreto." 

And then I smiled diabolically as I locked eyes with her and took my potato.

It turned out to be a good potato, so she was safe... for now...

After that, we took a gypsy cab to somewhere outside of Palmira and began a long, uphill walk to the nature reserve. It took us around two hours in the midday sun, but it was worth it because... BUTTERFLY GARDEN!

They were everywhere! All sorts! All sizes! Even chrysalises! It was wonderful, but as I was marveling over the butterflies, especially this big blue one that was intent on playing with us for a while, something was chilling me to the bone: the call of some apparently large bird. Birds are psychotic creatures and are not to be trusted under any circumstances. Take it from me. I learned the hard way.

Eventually, I worked up the courage to face my fears. I had to. The butterflies were watching, and I'd never live it down. It turned out there were caged parrots near by, and we even exchanged a few words together. And though they seemed friendly and I almost believed they might have even been well-intentioned, benevolent birds, I knew that deep down, under those rainbow feathers, lied a heart of darkness filled with an ancient evil that dates back millions of years. How else do you think all the dinosaurs went extinct? Some say meteors, but I know what really happened. Murdered. By pecking. I've seen the truth in their beady, emotionless eyes. The eyes of a killer.

Need I say more?

After that, we hiked through all sorts of stuff. Hobbit-like, earthy underpasses, narrow paths on the sides of mountains, and a little native hut that someone built and put cardboard cut outs of indigenous people inside looking upset with their lot in life. And who can blame them really? I mean, I'd probably be pretty depressed if my people were massacred too. I got upset for a week when a rain storm destroyed some potted plants I had put outside for some sun once. That's about the same thing in my book.

And after about five hours of hiking, we had climbed high into the mountains, and the view was amazing, and for a moment, the woman who made me feel ridiculous, the failed attempts at reading Cien años, the suicidal drivers, the rude people pushing me on the MIO, the wickedness of all avian-kind didn't matter. There was just this great expanse of green and blue, clouds and dirt, animals and plants. Life. Without the bullshit.

Who Here Loves A Good Standardized Test?

Well, a weight has finally been lifted from my shoulders. Last Friday, I took Le Test de Connaissance du Français as part of my TAPIF (Teaching Assistant Program in France) application. Most people applying have the luxury of just sending a college transcript with a few years of French courses and a recommendation from a French professor and call it a day, but since all of my French courses were in either high school with the incomparable Mme. Donley or in independent language insitutes (shout out to Jordan, Mouda and Julia at Fluent City in New York!), I have to take another route: standardized testing. What fun.

The TCF is like any other standardized test with time limits, multiple choice questions, lots of pressure, and bubble sheets. I arrived at the French Aliance about a half hour early since I had never been to the northern branch in Cali, and they seemed pretty strict about not showing up even a minute late, a refreshing change of pace in Colombia. After I had checked in, I felt myself starting to get nervous. The big day had finally come. But I knew my nerves would be a surefire way to sabotage, so I turned on some Coeur de Pirate. Because I challenge anyone to keep stressing out with that cute little voice singing in your ears. And sat there, waiting for the next thirty minutes, watching other people arrive for their tests, all of us collectively freaking out but unsuccessfully trying to play it cool.

At 8:45 a.m., we were allowed to enter the room. And by we, I mean me and one other guy. Apparently everyone else was taking the TCFQ. Why? I have no idea. I guess Quebec should be prepared for a Colombian invasion because there were quite a few people taking it and it's only good for immigration applications to Quebec.

When he entered, I greeted my companion in Spanish, and he greeted me back in French, so I made the only possible conclusion I could from his "Bonjour:" "Oh shit, this guy's probably like fluent and shit. What the hell am I doing here?" But I had already relinquished my cellphone to the proctor and with it, Béatrice Martin's voice. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I counted my breaths. Applied Buddhism.

The proctor, who was quite friendly and strangely familiar, explained that the oral section would be first.

Aw, shit....

I wish I could tell you how I did, but it really all a blur. Actually, the moments I remember where when I became a bit unfocused, wasn't listening to the clip (which we only get to hear once) and kicked myself as I let my subconscious guide my pen to whatever answer magically seemed right, like a kind of French dowsing. I had practiced this section before on Radio France International's website, but I didn't realize how fast paced it would be. My strategy of being able to skim the choices before listening went out the window about every other question, and I can't really tell you how I think it went. Maybe that's a small mercy on some nameless guardian angel's part; I'm prone to mental flagellation.

After that was a quasi-grammar section, which I suppose went alright, and then reading comprehension, which was pretty easy, relatively. Suprisingly, the guy who had inadvertantly intimidated me into nothingness with one word couldn't finish the reading comprehension. When the proctor called the end of the test, I was casually checking my answers, and he had begun to beg for more time. And I remembered how useless it is to go around comparing yourself to other people.

I left the test feeling "okay," which is acceptable considering that the questions ranged in difficulty from A1 to C2 on the Common European Framework. Since my evaluation at the Alliance put me at B1.2 and my aim for this test was B2, quite naturally, some of it was going to be out of my reach. Now I have to wait between one and two months to see if this feeling is justified. Those were the two difference answers I got when I asked how long they would take.

Now that this test, which has been looming over me for months, is over, I'm looking forward to my new freedom. Up to now, and since about the time I arrived in Cali, I have been taking almost two hours of classes Monday through Friday at 6 a.m., meaning I wake up around 4 a.m. every day. (See also: dedication.) Then in the course of the day, I have been doing two hours of practice, mostly listening comprehension. Lather, rinse, repeat for two months. But no more, folks. Sweet freedom. More time to explore Cali and Colombia. But what do?... I hear there's a cafe in San Antonio playing French movies every night this months.

I Just Gave My Last Fuck

AM I PRETTY YET?

My life is finally starting to take off here, everyone. And it's about fucking time! My job at the Pontifica Universidad Javeriana is now in full swing with all conversation clubs, office hours, class visits, and private coaching sessions are set in a routine. But that's not all, folks, I've got all sorts of fun things happening: The Test de Connisance du Français is coming up this Friday, and I'm studying really hard, like four hours a day hard, and actually noticing a big improvement in my listening comprehension and speaking abilities! On the physical fitness front, I'm running pretty regularly again, saving Abel Township from zombies as the one and only Runner #5, and you would be surprised how good some zombie busting is for relieving stress. I've also decided to start doing bar workouts because I'm getting a little bored with plain old weights these days. Besides, all the hot guys in the park I run at are doing it, and I want to be one of the cool kids too. I'm also trying to wrap up the translation of The Russian Nights, which fell into purgatory amidst all the life changes. God bless patient authors. And last but not least, I'm starting to feel comfortable living in Cali, which is leading to less withdrawn, hermit-like activity and to getting out of my apartment more.

A big part of why I'm feeling more adapted here is because people have stopped trying to speak to me in English as much. You might recall a past entry in which I expressed some frustration about this, particularly when I speak to someone in Spanish and the response (of a few different people) is been, "No hablo inglés." I started noticing a few weeks ago that this hasn't been happening, and I've been trying to think of why that is.

Wisdom from the RDJ

I think a good deal of it has to do with confidence. I'm a lot more confident about my Spanish skills than when I first arrived. It's funny because for the few months I've been here, I don't feel like I've really actually improved all that much, just that the rust that has accumulated since Spain has finally been dusted off. Ironically, my nervousness, in part, was due to fearing that they would respond to me in English, which I think created a self-fulfilling prophecy. My nerves made me speak poorer Spanish than I'm really capable of and because of that they would speak to me in English. I was also afraid that I would use words they didn't use or that they use in a different way than I've been taught. However, you can only give a shit about these kinds of things so long before you're just like what the fuck ever man. And I think it was the moment that I didn't care if an accidental tío or vosotros slipped out or that some ignorant Colombian would respond to me in English or tell me they didn't speak English was the moment that things started to improve. Just goes to show you how pointless worrying is.

Now flash forward from the basket case of nerves I was to last week when I was ordering something at my school's cafeteria, and some guy was like, "Where are you from?" (in Spanish). And of course, I was in my head like, "oh shit, here we go again...."

"The United States."
"And what are you doing here?"
"I teach English."
"What level?"
"No level. Just conversation clubs, private lessons, visits to other classes, things like that."
"Ooh, how long have you been here?"
"About two months."
"And you already speak this good of Spanish?"

"Oh, thank you.""Where did you learn it?"
"Oh, I studied mostly in high school and college. And then I lived in Spain a little bit, but not very long."
"Oh wow, and your parents, where are they from?"
"Indiana. The US."
"Oh wow." To the girl at the register: "And look what a nice accent he has."

And me in my head: "Well, that's a first."

That had never really happened before. Normally the only people who tell me I speak Spanish well are guys that are hitting on me, and of course, I don't really believe them because, you know, sex. And then it came to me: I didn't give a single shit that whole conversation. Like not even a little dried up turd that has stayed too long in your intestines so your body reabsorbed all the water from it. Not even a fart.

So beautiful, so free....

And that's when I realized that almost no one speaks to me in English anymore except my advanced students and the other English teachers (for obvious reasons). All because I couldn't be bothered to care anymore, because I gave up. Paradoxically, like a Chinese finger trap, the moment I stopped struggling was the moment that it all started working out.

Don't get me wrong. It still happens here and there. There are still people who have made up their mind that I can't speak their language simply because of the way I look or because I made a tiny mistake when my mouth is moving a little faster than my brain, but it's at an acceptable level and I don't walk around constantly feeling like an outsider. It's not that I "feel Colombian," like some other people claim when they move to new countries. I will never feel Colombian. I will never be Colombian, but I feel allowed to participate, and that's all I wanted all along.

This is Not an Entry (Ceci n'est pas une entrée)

Hey, everyone. I had an idea for an entry and it was a really good one, but it's been a busy week. Good busy. I'm exhausted. But good exhausted. So I decided to do something a little different for this week's entry. I have this playlist that was intended for someone a while back, and I've thought about sending it to said person for the last three months. The thing is that when you think about something that long you sometimes lose your nerve. And sometimes you start to wonder what's the point. I don't think there's any point to send it. I'm not sure what I'd want to accomplish by sending these. I don't think it would end up in anything good.

So suffice it to say this collection of songs will remain unsung to the ears for which I intended them. But I worked hard on it, and I thought I'd share it with you all. Why not? It's some good music. Perfect for, ahem.... certain occasions...

Maybe these songs will reach their destination after all. As far as I am concerned, I'm doing nothing more than holding out my hands and allowing the wind to pick them up and carry them off to wherever they may land, germinate, and perhaps, if they're lucky, bloom.



If this playlist doesn't work for you (i.e. you don't have Spotify installed), click the button on the top right corner, and it'll give you a link to listen at. Or click here to listen with Spotify's webplayer.


Till next week, mes amis.