The Translator

For Amy, the girl of my dreams.

In the dream, on a plain, a golden hour landscape of rolling hills, treed and speckled with stones arranged by the ancients, sunned in affirmative warmth, lies the altarpiece to the goddess' description, an obelisk painstakingly carved in the forgotten language.

Any dutiful translator, pursuing the masculine task--the Demiurge's challenge--of interpreting this awe-struck corporeal missive to the feminine ideal, fails in the thesis of his unrelenting ambition. Yet, the credentials of the failed, the magnitude of artisans beset in trial, the unyielding determination of the faithful, marking the blissful sacrifice for which the fallen set their timeless goal, acclaims the dissipated memory to this unnamed Astarte.

Despite the intractible inscription and the obscure myth of it's creation, a legend accompanying this chiseled alphabet of woman, claims that while sons of Prometheus have held the secret of the words in their minds, none could fully sustain that knowledge over a long course of life. That while attaining a moment to lie beside her offers merit to any life-pursuit, no physical container can hold the realization of the goddess-transciption. Yet the enumerated listless, toiling in failed attempts, honors her, as does the mythical fraction of the successfully expired.

The philosopher-poet, discoverer of the forbidden language, translated to the vernacular, the single sentence of the partial account of the altarpiece's appearance. Though embellished with the author's egoistic annotations, the precedent tome, in a small section on a mystery-cult's ritual, left this fragment on the origin:

In her melancholy, she passed from earthen body to a destination beyond the mirrors, leaving only the engraved promise to the mortals and the matron-deity.

This narrator, son of a translator's son, in a piteous attempt to grasp the message of the characters of the universal lady, has uncovered the simplest word in a comparison of the forbidden tongue cross-referenced to the undocumented: stars. That logotype, sculpted on the sixth line of the scribe's monolith, inhabiting a small grouping of characters near the upper left of the tablet's surface expanse belies neither itself, nor the juxtaposed knowledge of the earthen scrawl.

The identified word, taunts the logophilic scholar of the scrutinizing sun, reveling the berth of its phrasing, the deciphered dawning and frenetic embrace of the mirror-maiden's eternity. The son of promethian scribes, in diligent pursuit through sidereal shades and summered simulacra, emblazons an imperfect description, an atavistic fantasy of the goddess' composition, a satisfying repose to expend his mortal time.

At moonrise, in ignorance and frustation of puzzling her words, the protagonist-student dreams, nightly, that she--like her word--is made of stars; a luminous form, a calculating wit, a vengeful temper, a seraphic depth, an unintimdated spirit, an indomitable loveliness, an intoxicating voice, an infinite empathy, shimmering through eyes like the setting light from across the galactic vastness.

(c) 2007

Summer Doldrums

It may be flooding down in Texas, but the summer doldrums have been giving me the blues for a few weeks now. Several friends moved away, leaving me to make new ones, which I have. I could always use a few more. Living on a shoe-string budget makes makes trips a little bit more painful than they used to be, but I'm taking a big group of friends to the Ranch this weekend. That should be fun.

I did sense something change between myself and the girl of my dreams, who moonlights at the Harp on Friday and Saturdays. For so long, I've had the sense that she didn't really like me, but the other night I was kind of talking to her about bar business and it just seemed different. Maybe its a change in me, not her. I'm trying to write something inspired by her, to give to her, that might make her feel good. ("Her" shows up a lot in that sentence.)

Six weeks to school starts and I can't wait--yes, I'm such a nerd I'm dying to take calculus. Despite that, I'm actually fun to get drunk with. I keep going back and forth about whether or not to go for an MBA or a grad degree in Economics. But, I feel close to a decision. Two of my friends who have MBAs have encouraged the Econ degree and a third who is just a fellow academic, also thinks that is the right direction for me. Ah, but what do I think? Well, they all pretty much said the magic words for me, "you get to be happy with what you are doing." Agreed. The draw to the MBA is about money mostly.

So far the best album I've bought this summer is the new Wilco disc, Sky Blue Sky. It's a bit of a roots album for the band; opting for a stripped-down sound over the heavy production of the last two albums, they have created a work that references a lot of 60's and 70's era rock. It's mostly love songs, and can be--like many Wilco albums--a little bit on the slow side of the spectrum. You can hear several cuts in the current batch of VW commericals on TV.