A selection of new literary writing and translations created for the Lit & Luz Festival by Krista Franklin, Rocío Cerón, Pergentino José, Jazmina Barrera, and Julietta Cheung.
Dialog dimensions: Small piece of languages combined bodies
Dimensiones del diálogo: pequeños cuerpos combinados de lenguas
By Krista Franklin and Rocío Cerón
Krista Franklin
August 2021
Where in the body does
memory reside?
How many centuries
has your eye seen?
Whose pain moves
through your wrist?
Whose laughter nestles in the bottom
of your left lung?
How many ways has the body
been played?
Not just yours, your body,
not just yours.
Whose miscarriage
of justice lives in your spleen?
Rocío Cerón
Agosto 2021
Dónde habita el cuerpo, un tiempo, un territorio,
un gesto, la sangre toda que devuelve el canto.
Noche incendiaria,
clama por las voces del padre muerto.
Lo que delinea el tiempo: zorzal ardiente
al paso de la mujer de larga cabellera.
Lo que se dice dentro del agua, se oculta.
El lenguaje vuelve líquido todo secreto de familia.
La voluntad de lo sensible es una península que lleva,
entero, el nombre de su rostro
(líneas y memoria, surcos de paisaje vertical, lazos).
El sol calienta la casa. La casa es una fórmula de palabras.
Krista Franklin
September 5-12, 2021
Where does the body live, a time, a territory,
a guest, the blood of all that revolves around the song.
Incendiary night,
clamor for the voices of the dead father.
What delineated time: ardent zorzal
the pathway of powerful women.
What sayings lay destitute on the mouth of water, hidden knowledge.
The twirling liquid tongue of all the family secrets.
The volition of the sensible is an island of tears,
Enter, the name of your face
(lineages and memory, circulate the passageways of the afterlife, lazily).
The sun heats the house. The house is a formula of words.
Rocío Cerón
Agosto-Sept 2021
Hacia los siglos, la cazadora, la recolectora, la observante.
Una legión de voces y alientos que designan heredad.
¿Qué pervive en los cantos, en la coda infinitamente repetida
de lamentos y libertad?
En la cabellera de esa mujer se hilan todos los pensamientos,
las renovaciones del lenguaje:
En el último temblor de la madrugada se escucharán alisos, brezos,
en el rabillo del ojo nacerán las nuevas tierras.
Y el cuerpo de ella, sentido que hace cuerpo, cuerpo que da sentido ante las aguas,
será nombres y apellidos en un continente de susurros.
El rictus de la guerra será sombra.
Territorio de bocas húmedas y saliva galopante donde una prisa lentísima
musita la palabra
miedo.
Krista Franklin
October 14-17, 2021
Make the sigils, lover of the chase, the recollections, the observations.
A legion of voices and heredity alienated from all the designations.
What are the perversions in the songs, in the infinitely repetitive codes
of lamentations and liberty?
In the imagination of this woman all the thoughts are borne,
the renovations of language:
In the ultimate timbre of the madrigal we hear listless, breath,
in the rabid eye is the embryo of new territories.
And the body of her, sentient body, body of the sentient waters,
say the names and apparitions in the sorcerer's continent.
The rictor of the war of dreams.
Territories of humid mouths and galloping saliva where a slow prism
musics the word
Fear.
Rocío Cerón
Octubre 2021
Regularidad y frecuencia,
escena preparada para que suceda así,
espontáneamente: cuando todo se apaga, sólo queda
observar.
Despeja el aire, cascada trófica, depredadores y follaje,
ríos –redes donde la luz acierta–;
sigue hacia abajo
encontrarás variaciones vocales,
viaje y variación de un afecto.
Miríada de objetos y trabes, ilusión de volver hacia el origen
–nunca más que ilusión, sólo eso–: deseo en el deseo,
en el núcleo del deseo mismo.
Opaca opción donde siempre
habla el silencio.
Lô laxhio
por Pergentino José
Lô laxhio, en el rostro de la tierra
Nzis laxhio, la espalda de la tierra
Lend laxhio, en el vientre de la tierra
Lô laxhio plo ndóbyal nit, la ciénaga sagrada
Cahokia
Láx, ciudad
Yês dó, pueblo sagrado
Mbdánd, nuestros ancestros
Láx làs mbe’l do’, ciudad de la serpiente sagrada
Bònee, nudo fuerte.
Yês gól, Pueblo Viejo
Mend mbzié nañed ntéj mend lend. Benta ntéjna mbe’l do’. La deidad que no se puede nombrar. Solo diré la serpiente sagrada.
Nkuau, extranjero
¿Chò nak nkuau?, ¿quién es el extranjero?
Ndubdó, lágrima sagrada de la tierra
Ndubdó, grano de maíz
Yàgua, comida
Yô, casa
Yôblí, casa de lodo.
Mao cha nzo go’ ¿Vive alguien en esta casa?
Ròyô, la boca de la casa
Nzis yô, la espalda de la casa
Léndyô, el vientre de la casa
Los montículos de las cavernas, ndubre yô lend kèlio
Ciudad montículo, láx plo ndobrè yô
Cahokia
El montículo de la gran serpiente, lò laxhio plonak làs mbe’l do’
Los desplazados, mend nkuínd tóbza
Los migrantes, mend mbla’lisna
Mao cha nzo go’, ¿Vive alguien en esta casa?
Nzaja mblúxza mber nguàb mblúx nzána. Nos exterminaron como a los faisanes.
Yatii, desgracia.
Yatii, árbol que se quiebra
Re mend tiemp lò mend, nuestros ancestros
Cacao, toy
Mbis toy na njuand nanzi, granos de cacao y copal
Colhuacan, el lugar de los que tienen ancestros.
Hemos extraviado el camino para volver a nuestra tierra, ntabna néd nrio tónd lasna.
Lo que era, lo que es y lo que será.
Mbdó nzind, mbdo yèd
Fumamos hojas de tabaco para recordar a nuestros ancestros.
La tierra
por Pergentino José
Spanish to English translation by Gerónimo Sarmiento Cruz
Lô laxhio, on the face of the land
Nzis laxhio, the back of the land
Lend laxhio, on the belly of the land
Lô laxhio plo ndóbyal nit, the sacred swamp
Cahokia
Láx, city
Yês dó, sacred people
Mbdánd, our ancestors
Láx làs mbe’l do’, city of the sacred serpent
Bònee, strong knot.
Yês gól, Old People
Mend mbzié nañed ntéj mend lend. Benta ntéjna mbe’l do’. The deity that cannot be named. I will only say the sacred serpent.
Nkuau, foreigner
¿Chò nak nkuau?, Who is the foreigner?
Ndubdó, sacred teardrop of the land
Ndubdó, corn grain
Yàgua, food
Yô, house
Yôblí, mud house
Mao cha nzo go’ Does anyone live in this house?
Ròyô, the mouth of the house
Nzis yô, the back of the house
Léndyô, the belly of the house
The mounds of the caves, ndubre yô lend kèlio
Mound city, láx plo ndobrè yô
Cahokia
The mound of the great serpent, lò laxhio plonak làs mbe’l do’
The displaced, mend nkuínd tóbza
The migrants, mend mbla’lisna
Mao cha nzo go’, Does anyone live in this house?
Nzaja mblúxza mber nguàb mblúx nzána. We were exterminated like the pheasants.
Yatii, disgrace.
Yatii, tree that breaks.
Re mend tiemp lò mend, our ancestors
Cocoa, toy
Mbis toy na njuand nanzi, grains of cocoa and copal
Colhuacan, the place of those without ancestors.
We have lost the way back to our land, ntabna néd nrio tónd lasna.
That which was, that which is, and that which will be.
Mbdó nzind, mbdo yèd
We smoke tobacco leaves to remember our ancestors.
First words
by Jazmina Barrera, Translated from the Spanish by Lizzie Davis
Silvestre has just turned one year old and, although he already says a few words, today signs continue to predominate among us. It is fashionable to teach babies over six months of age sign language, so that they can communicate before they can pronounce certain words. Within a few months, babies already understand many things, but they do not have the physical ability to say certain words, and they do, instead, to make signs with their hands. With Silvestre we intended to try that method, but we never found the time. What we didn’t know was that he was going to teach us his own symbolism of gestures and signs. For example: when he wants us to sing, he moves his arms up and down. When he pulls his hands to the ground, it is because he wants us to carry him, and when he raises his hand to his forehead (a gesture derived from his occasional stumbling) it is because something is wrong.
He started talking a couple of months ago. His vocabulary is growing rapidly and I know there is going to come a day when it overflows. Someday, our language of signs and gestures, with which we understand each other so well, will be overtaken by the equivocal empire of words.
Rivka Galchen says in her book Little Labors that when her daughter started talking, misunderstandings began. Up to that moment she believed she understood her daughter better than anyone, but with her spoken language she discovered that she perhaps did not understand her so much after all, or she did not fully understand her. That's where the confusion began. With Silvestre I have a similar and different feeling. His words are few and unique, and I can still list them and say many things about each one of them, about their nuances and connotations that only those of us who see him daily know. To this day, this is his full vocabulary, along with some onomatopoeia and gestures that work, I think, as words:
Mom and Dad (mamá y papa)
They say that mom and dad sound almost the same in all languages, because they are the easiest syllables to pronounce. Silvestre said them by chance all the time and then those borucas were charged with intention. Sound and people gradually became associated, until one day I was a mother and Alejandro was a father. There was no first time; these first words were built over the days and months.
In The Metaphysics of Pipes, Amelie Nothomb tells the story of a girl who begins to speak at the age of two. She spent her first 24 months immersed in a kind of plant life from which she awakens thanks to the piece of chocolate that her grandmother gives her to taste. When she turns two years old she begins to familiarize herself with the words, and very soon she understands a great deal, although she cautiously prefers not to use them. For a long time she debated the choice of the first word she will say, because she knows it is crucial, and she consciously chooses to say mom. She does it, says the narrator, not out of love or attachment, but out of convenience and courtesy.
Horse (onomatopoeia)
After Mom and Dad came the horse: a click of the tongue with the palate that is repeated two or more times. Silvestre had never seen a horse, he had never heard it gallop, he only knew the images, the drawings from his children's stories. It made you want to believe what Plato said, to think that the drawings reminded him of a horse that he knew from another world, a perfect horse of which all those images were imitations. When he saw a real horse, a pint mare, in Santiago de Chile, he showed neither fear nor surprise. He seemed to recognize it quite naturally and allowed the owner to carry him up and walk with him, while he clicked his tongue in time with the mare's pace.
To put him to sleep, I sing to Silvestre a song that my mother used to sing to me. The original singer is Paco Ibáñez and the lyrics are from a poem by Machado. It tells the story of a boy who dreamed of a horse, and whenever he woke up, he thought that the horse had escaped him again. When the boy grew up, he came to the conclusion that “everything is dreaming, the dreamed horse and the real horse”. Many times, when waking up from a long nap, the first thing Silvestre does is the sound of the horse.
Take it (ten, in Spanish)
Of famous characters we often know their last words and almost never the first, probably because they deviate very little from Mom and Dad. But the third word is essential. Yes, it is very hazardous, but there is already a minimum freedom of choice. There is something oracular, something foreshadowing in the third word. Silvestre's was the second person imperative of the verb take. Around the time he understood how to drop objects (it is said easy, but it is a whole accomplishment), he learned to hand them to another person, and learned that the word for that transaction was "ten." It soon became a between us: accepting an object from him and almost immediately giving it back to him, always saying “ten” again. He began to use "ten" as a synonym for "give me" as well, with ambiguous results. When spending time with other children, Silvestre realized that ten was a one-way verb, that the things he gave were almost never returned to him.
Because of the way it lengthens the consonant n, ten has a metallic timbre, it sounds like a copper bell.
Walter Benjamin made a huge list of the first words of his son Stefan. In a journal that he kept for several years, he also noted funny or peculiar expressions that the boy used. For example, one day he saw sunlight on the floor and said that the sun "had painted the floor."
"The first significant word he said was 'silence.' He raised his finger, like Dora did, when she said 'hush' to him." Since I don't know German, I read Stefan's spontaneous expressions translated into English. Who knows what they will be like in the original German, but at least I know that some variation of “silence” ('qui-a') was Stefan's first significant word (it is not clear what Benjamin means by “significant”, but I I think it must be the third word). It seems beautiful to me to begin the very long speech of a life asking for silence. It's like Stefan is asking the world for his attention before he starts speaking. It's a story worthy of Beckett. Beckett's third word must have been "silence" as well.
My third word was water. I don't know what that means, probably just thirsty.
Cat (gesture)
Cat is not a word and not an onomatopoeia, it is the gesture that is made with the hand to attract a cat: a dance of the fingers with the palm of the open hand. We taught Silvestre that with that gesture he could call Chimino, the cat that lives in his aunt's house. Chimino has not once responded to that call. Part of Silvestre's daily routine is to chase that cat, call out to him, and watch him run and run away, over and over again. It is his first experience with unrequited desire.
Elephant (onomatopoeia)
Before the spontaneous syllables, Silvestre became an expert in trumpets. He did them at full speed or slow, in a very wide spectrum of registers and tones. So he had no trouble imitating the sound of elephants with a high-pitched trumpet. The elephant should not be confused with the dove, which Silvestre interprets with a similar trumpet, but uttered in a slightly lower tone.
Toucan
This is so far the only animal that is represented with the corresponding noun: toucan. Although it is almost always only the second syllable: can. Crows, flamingos and penguins have also been called by that name, so, in his worldview, toucan would be a broader taxonomic classification. It seems to me a lucky mystery why of all the animals in the kingdom he chose the toucan, which appears only as a secondary character in a couple of his illustrated books. Either way, I celebrate the acquisition of one of the most beautiful and colorful tropical birds.
Rooster (onomatopoeia)
The rooster makes cocó, short for cocorocó, because he still does not know how to pronounce the i in the most widely agreed in Spanish quiquiriquí.
Dog (onomatopoeia)
The dog is a kind of cough. The onomatopoeia that we suggested (the classic woof woof) did not seem appropriate to him. And he’s right, the barking of dogs is much more like a human cough than the happy woof woof, which seemed to him a bad idea. Although Alejandro says that what Silvestre imitates is a very prudent dog, who wants to intervene in someone else's conversation.
Tiger (onomatopoeia)
The tiger is a roar. The lion is a roar that we perceive identical but perhaps for Silvestre it is not. When we were in Santiago and his father in Sao Paulo, he heard Alejandro's voice on the phone and took it from me. Alejandro asked him how the tiger does and Silvestre uttered the roar. It was, officially, the first telephone conversation of his life.
Grandma
The three syllables of this noun were not easy, but the presence of her maternal grandmother in Silvestre's life was so important that it was necessary to invoke her. Buela, is the solution he found, and he almost always says it at high volume, perhaps so that she can hear it as far as she lives, in the house next door.
No
It is repeated in chains, sometimes short and sometimes very long: nononononono. So that we can’t doubt the message.
Silvestre
The pronunciation of his name was complicated, but he found a syllable that, duplicated, forms a general idea of the whole: Tete. He uses Tete to talk about himself, particularly when he sees a photograph of him or looks in the mirror. He always says it in a high pitch, sharper still on the first syllable. In general, when he addresses other children, or refers to them, he uses that high-pitched timbre, just as children's voices are high-pitched. Although in the case of his name I think the tone rather replicates the enthusiasm with which we call him. It is as if he himself was excited to call himself. Although grammatically incorrect, for sheer emphasis makes you want to stress Tete in the first e: Tete.
Arabesque
When he was very young and cried, the only thing that managed to distract Silvestre were the delirious imitations that his father made of someone speaking a invented language with arabesque inflections. He would stop crying and look at him. According to Alejandro, that look meant "I'm sad, I want to cry, but father went mad and that is infinitely more serious." It was not clear that Silvestre liked the imitation, but it did puzzle him. And if the imitation ended, he would resume crying loudly. Now there are times when he launches into a stammering soliloquy and it really seems that he speaks a different language. Those soliloquies (he doesn't seem to be waiting for an answer): they really sound very similar to the invented language that his father improvised.
Coda
I have a memory of when I was four or five years old. My mother is in the front of the car, driving, and I am sitting in the back seat. From there I raise my voice to ask her the meaning of the word pantheon. It is where the dead are buried, she replies. I had imagined a bakery. The cellar of a bakery, perhaps. I keep thinking about the possible relationship between the loaves and the dead, and the bread of the dead, and then I think that there are many words that I still do not know, but that one day I will know them all. Being an adult, I thought, meant knowing all the words. I believed that for a long time. I do not know when I realized that this was impossible, but I did not imagine this happening to me now, to know all of someone else’s words.
Saying that you speak the same language as someone else is always exaggerating a little bit. There will always be words that you do not share and definitions or associations that differ. But with Silvestre, now, I feel that yes, we speak the same language.
Every Voice Contains Walls
By Julietta Cheung
In 1969, in a room in Massachusetts much smaller than the one we are in now, the American composer, Alvin Lucier, took to a microphone and began to speak. He told his absent spectators where he was (sitting in a room), what he was doing (recording the sound of his voice and playing it back), and his plan (to carry out the procedure until the resonant frequencies of the room overwhelmed the sound of his words). It is not the kind of oratory performance or script that could be characterized as arousing. You might think that the audio recorder, speakers, amplifiers, and multipliers in the room were his only audience. Each time they played back his voice, Lucier was heard again. And again and again, his captive audience replied to each playback by playing it back.
Some might call this an exercise in narcissism—to hear his own voice repeated, amplified, and multiplied as if to orchestrate a chorus of his self-affirmation. But that wasn’t his point. The more his voice met a response that repeated it, the more it became unintelligible. The room where he was sitting had made its presence heard. With each amplification of Lucier’s voice, every surface and every angle in the room responded too as if to say that his vocal insistence to affirm his presence had been met with equal resistance.
Architecture, acoustical physics, and the reasons for vocalizing—these are the basic elements in Lucier’s dialogue with the room. A similar scenario can be observed in the natural world. Certain species of animals, like bats, dolphins, oilbirds and swiflets emit clicking sounds. These are sonic bursts meant to bounce off the surfaces of bodies and things in their vicinity. Like beacons on reconnaissance missions, their voices echo to map their environment. Each sound that returns confirms the shape of the space, the location of obstacles, and even the positions of friends and foes—to the left or the right, near and far, sooner and later. As the sounds given and received describe the staging of their survival, unlike Lucier, the intent of their calls is to transcribe the script in advance of its potential enactment.
Pitch, rhythm, tone, and volume. These describe the geometries of our limitations, which also contain the possibilities for our ideas to be registered. Many of the spaces in which we speak today are constructed in another time, by some other people, and for purposes that some of us still believe are necessary. They are built for certain words to be said and for the ways they should be heard. And when those words resonate in their typological enclosures, we could intuitively reenact our familiar relations. But do we want to hear our stories told in the same rooms, knowing that what we’ve been saying will end up distorted or dissolved? What if we take apart their walls? How might we convene?
