Friday, July 18, 2008
Spanish Language--A History
The Spanish speak a language named after themselves, called Spanish, which makes sense. The English and French do the same. Mexicans, however have a slightly more confusing practice. They speak a language called "Spanish," but it is not at all related to the European language. Mexican Spanish was actually created by the Incans, who used the brutish language to describe their religious practices in the form of cave art stretch back millions of years before Pangaea broke apart. They also invented zippers and nacho cheese.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Exordium
My sister’s screams pierced the darkness and echoed through the chambers of our house. I was pacing up and down the upstairs corridor outside her bedroom, hat clenched in my trembling hands. Three sickly candles rested upon a hallway table, their shallow flames guttering and casting trembling shadows that surged and withdrew over the walls like beachbreak. I tread the hall until my unease grew unmanageable. I approached to knock upon the door to my sibling’s chamber when it opened. Holding an oil lamp, a mousy girl with greasy hair and large dark eyes slipped out into the hall and shut the door behind her. It was the Midwife’s Helper.
“I’m not to let you pass,” she said as I backed away, “but to assure you that your sister is receiving the best care available under these circumstances.” Her imperative delivered, the girl’s expression softened. “You can do nothing to aid or comfort her now” she said quietly. The underglow of her lamp altered the girl’s young face into a grotesque mask. A scream rent the air. “Listen, you must...” I said, stepping forward, but the Midwife’s Helper defensively put up her hands, barring my encroachment. She was a frail thing and I considered forcing myself past the girl.
Just then the door opened again and the Midwife, face flushed, slid into the hall, forcing her tremendous bulk through a gap which she had deemed acceptable for me to peer through. Her rosy forehead shone in the lamplight.
“You are not permitted to enter,” she said straightening the threadbare rag which covered her graying hair. She wore a dingy apron spotted with fresh blood. “I’ll not lie,” she said, “your sister’s condition is grave. There have been certain unforeseeable complications and her hold upon this life is now precarious. Very precarious indeed. I cannot allow the presence of anyone but myself or my trusted assistant” she said clapping the girl on her shoulder and knocking her forward. The Midwife straightened and thrust out her voluminous breasts. “I am,” she said, “as I can only stress, your sister’s sole chance of survival in this dire hour.” The Midwife bent forward slightly and threw her plump, ruddy forearms behind her back. At first I thought out of some foreign gesture of courtesy, but she was only retying her apron. The Midwife’s helper lifted her lamp over our heads as the woman adjusted herself. The Midwife patted the girl on the shoulder, more gently this time, then turned abruptly and squeezed back into the bedroom. The girl watched her depart, then turned back to me and stared with black pig eyes.
Unable to bear the mute gaze of the Midwife’s assistant, I departed the hall and slunk downstairs. I stumbled numbly to the entrance of my study and stood in the doorway. Above the mechanical whirring of a wall clock I could hear my sister’s sobs and the dull metronome of the Midwife’s assurances. “There, there, child. There, there, child.”As my sister’s shrieks began anew, I started to pace purposelessly from room to room seeking some unknown solace. But in every portion of the house I passed the sounds of her agony seemed to grow louder and louder. No sooner would I reach some far end of a distant room than would the shill cries of my sister seem to rise out of the dim woodwork or echo out the fireplace. Whether this was because of some acoustical anomaly, or whether because an of increased intensity of her labors, or even due to some personal loss of nerve, I could not tell. Her cries saturated the air. It seemed to me as if the house itself was in sighing in torment. I felt feverish and suffocated, unable to find a room to draw breath. Half-mad, I burst from that house and fled my sister’s screams. I ran like a mindless animal out into the night and the cool swaying of the forest. I ran until her shrieks faded and became no more than a child’s cries pitched upon the wind. I ran until utter exhaustion claimed me.
“I’m not to let you pass,” she said as I backed away, “but to assure you that your sister is receiving the best care available under these circumstances.” Her imperative delivered, the girl’s expression softened. “You can do nothing to aid or comfort her now” she said quietly. The underglow of her lamp altered the girl’s young face into a grotesque mask. A scream rent the air. “Listen, you must...” I said, stepping forward, but the Midwife’s Helper defensively put up her hands, barring my encroachment. She was a frail thing and I considered forcing myself past the girl.
Just then the door opened again and the Midwife, face flushed, slid into the hall, forcing her tremendous bulk through a gap which she had deemed acceptable for me to peer through. Her rosy forehead shone in the lamplight.
“You are not permitted to enter,” she said straightening the threadbare rag which covered her graying hair. She wore a dingy apron spotted with fresh blood. “I’ll not lie,” she said, “your sister’s condition is grave. There have been certain unforeseeable complications and her hold upon this life is now precarious. Very precarious indeed. I cannot allow the presence of anyone but myself or my trusted assistant” she said clapping the girl on her shoulder and knocking her forward. The Midwife straightened and thrust out her voluminous breasts. “I am,” she said, “as I can only stress, your sister’s sole chance of survival in this dire hour.” The Midwife bent forward slightly and threw her plump, ruddy forearms behind her back. At first I thought out of some foreign gesture of courtesy, but she was only retying her apron. The Midwife’s helper lifted her lamp over our heads as the woman adjusted herself. The Midwife patted the girl on the shoulder, more gently this time, then turned abruptly and squeezed back into the bedroom. The girl watched her depart, then turned back to me and stared with black pig eyes.
Unable to bear the mute gaze of the Midwife’s assistant, I departed the hall and slunk downstairs. I stumbled numbly to the entrance of my study and stood in the doorway. Above the mechanical whirring of a wall clock I could hear my sister’s sobs and the dull metronome of the Midwife’s assurances. “There, there, child. There, there, child.”As my sister’s shrieks began anew, I started to pace purposelessly from room to room seeking some unknown solace. But in every portion of the house I passed the sounds of her agony seemed to grow louder and louder. No sooner would I reach some far end of a distant room than would the shill cries of my sister seem to rise out of the dim woodwork or echo out the fireplace. Whether this was because of some acoustical anomaly, or whether because an of increased intensity of her labors, or even due to some personal loss of nerve, I could not tell. Her cries saturated the air. It seemed to me as if the house itself was in sighing in torment. I felt feverish and suffocated, unable to find a room to draw breath. Half-mad, I burst from that house and fled my sister’s screams. I ran like a mindless animal out into the night and the cool swaying of the forest. I ran until her shrieks faded and became no more than a child’s cries pitched upon the wind. I ran until utter exhaustion claimed me.
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