« July 2009 | Main | September 2009 »
August 27, 2009
Nearly Christmas ...
Although it is only late August, I can see from my office window that the leaves on the sycamore outside are turning yellow, and that, of course, leads me to think about Christmas. So I thought I'd share with you a few unusual Christmas carols I've sung over the years ...
The words are 12th century Latin, the tune German, ca. 1360. The whole thing, when done correctly, is guaranteed to send a shiver up your spine.
Personent hodie
voces puerulae,
laudantes iucunde
qui nobis est natus,
summo Deo datus,
et de virgineo ventre procreatus.
In mundo nascitur,
pannis involvitur
praesepi ponitur
stabulo brutorum,
rector supernorum.
perdidit spolia princeps infernorum.
Magi tres venerunt,
parvulum inquirunt,
Bethlehem adeunt,
stellulam sequendo,
ipsum adorando,
aurum, thus, et myrrham ei offerendo.
Omnes clericuli,
pariter pueri,
cantent ut angeli:
advenisti mundo,
laudes tibi fundo.
ideo gloria in excelsis Deo.
Attributed to Richard Smart, Rector of Plymtree in Devon some time in the mid 15th century, this is, apparently, the first known Christmas carol to personify Christmas ...
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
’Who is there that singeth so?’
’I am here, Sir Christëmas.’
’Welcome, my lord Christëmas,
Welcome to us all, both more and less
Come near, Nowell!’
“Buvez bien par toute la campagnie,
Make good cheer and be right merry.”
A perennial Danish favourite, it was composed in 1848, with music by Emil Hornemann and words by Peter Faber. Faber was an interesting character, being a poet and scientist, and had worked with H C Oersted (who established a link between electric current and magnetic fields, among other acheievements). He was appointed Director of Telegraphy in Denmark in 1852 when a project to lay a line between Elsinore in Northern Sjaelland and Hamburg was initiated, and before telegraphy had much of a hold in the country. He remained in the post for 25 years as the length of telegraph line grew to 2,800 km and the number of stations to 200. He died in 1877 of pneumonia contracted during a tour of inspection. Faber was also, apparently, Denmark's first recorded amateur photographer.
Højt fra træets grønne top
stråler juleglansen
spillemand, spil lystigt op
nu begynder dansen.
Læg nu smukt din hånd i min
ikke rør ved den rosin!
Først skal træet vises
siden skal det spises.
(High up on the tree's green top
gleams the Christmas star
Let the music play loud
and the dancing begins.
Put you hand nicely in mine
Don't touch that raisin!
The tree must be admired first
before that can be eaten!)
Se, børnlil, nu går det godt
I forstår at trave,
lad den lille Signe blot
få sin julegave.
Løs kun selv det røde bånd!
Hvor du ryster på din hånd
Når du strammer garnet,
kvæler du jo barnet!
Peter har den gren så kær,
hvorpå trommen hænger
hvergang han den kommer nær
vil han ikke længere.
Hvad du ønsker, skal du få
når jeg blot kan stole på
at du ej vil tromme
før min sang er omme.
Anna, hun har ingen ro
før hun får sin pakke
fire alen merino
til en vinterfrakke.
Barn, du blir mig altfor dyr
men da du så propert syr
sparer vi det atter,
ikke sandt, min datter?
Denne fane ny og god
giver jeg til Henrik.
Du er stærk og du har mod
du skal være fændrik.
Hvor han svinger fanen kækt
Børn, I skylder ham respekt
vid, det er en ære,
Dannebrog at bære.
O, hvor er den blød og rar
sikken dejlig hue!
Den skal sikre bedstefar
imod frost og snue.
Lotte, hun kan være stolt
tænk jer, hun har garnet holdt!
Det kan Hanne ikke,
hun kan bare strikke.
Børn, nu er jeg bleven træt
og I får ej mere.
Moder er i køkkenet,
nu skal hun traktere.
Derfor får hun denne pung,
løft engang, hvor den er tung!
Julen varer længe,
koster mange penge.
Posted by daen at 04:08 PM | Comments (0)
August 25, 2009
Goodwood Revival
Just four weeks until the Goodwood Revival ... I have ordered an RAF uniform (military surplus) which hopefully should do the job ...
Posted by daen at 02:30 AM | Comments (0)
August 24, 2009
I should have more faith, I know
So we did it again. The Ashes belong to England for the second time in four years. Is the drought broken? Are England on the ascendancy again? Will the Australian selectors think about including spin-bowlers next time? We did it this time without KP, but can we do it without Freddie in 2010? Can Stuart Broad keep bowling like that? So many questions, but a 197 run margin is pretty convincing - I wish it had been a more solid win than 2-1, but a win is a win, as they say.
Posted by daen at 05:39 PM | Comments (0)
"Halcyon Days" - interviews with classic computer and video game programmers
Halcyon Days is based around The Giant List of Classic Game Programmers, a list that has floated freely about the net since 1994 and whose official home is at the Dadgum Games web site. Before reading the interviews, browse through the list a bit, and read about the conventions used.
Posted by daen at 05:37 PM
August 20, 2009
Funny signage
I was in Copenhagen last week and met my cousin and her new baby in a cafe at the main train station. There are a lot of casual passersby who probably are looking for a free money changing service (can you split a 100 for tens, that kind of thing), given that it's a major transport hub, so I can see why they would have a sign saying 'vi veksle ikke', which means 'We don't make change' in Danish. But underneath, in English, they had written it as 'We don't change'! It's nice to have some constancy in your life, and if you need to get it from a shawarma bar, then so be it. Although, as my cousin said, it could also be interpreted to mean that they don't change diapers - something that we didn't put to the test!
Posted by daen at 05:17 PM | Comments (0)
The Secret in the Cat
I took my cat apart
to see what made him purr.
Like an electric clock
or like the snore
of a warming kettle,
something fizzed and sizzled in him.
Was he a soft car,
the engine bubbling sound?
Was there a wire beneath his fur,
or humming throttle?
I undid his throat
Within was no stir.
I opened up his chest
as though it were a door:
no whisk or rattle there.
I lifted off his skull:
No hiss or murmur.
I halved his little belly
but found no gear,
no cause for static.
So I replaced his lid,
laced up his little gut.
His heart into his little vest I slid
and buttoned up his throat.
His tail rose to a rod
and beckoned to the air.
Some voltage made him vibrate
warmer than before.
Whiskers and a tail:
perhaps they caught
some radar code
emitted as a pip, a dot-and-dash
of woolen sound.
My cat a kind of tuning fork?--
amplifier?--telegraph?--
doing secret signal work?
His eyes elliptic tubes:
there's a message in his stare.
I stroke him
but cannot find the dial.
-- May Swenson
Posted by daen at 05:14 PM | Comments (0)
The dreaded 5th test ...
If you have work to do, children to take to school, groceries to buy or a cat to kick, then you could swallow the loser's pill and do just that. Or, you could be one of life's winners: sack the wife, expel the husband, shoot the boss and eBay your children: this is where you should be for the next five days.
So says cricinfo.com ... and frankly, I don't hold much hope that this is going to take five days. I reckon it'll all be over by Sunday, myself ...
Posted by daen at 04:51 PM | Comments (0)
August 04, 2009
Existential migration
I've just been reading the Wikipedia article on 'existential migration' which is, apparently:
a concept derived from phenomenological research (Madison, 2006) into the lived experience of voluntary migrants who have chosen to leave their country of origin in order to live as foreigners in a new land.
Existential migration differs from wanderlust, exile, economic migration or other types of involuntary expatriation:
'Existential migration' is conceived as a chosen attempt to express something fundamental about existence by leaving one’s homeland and becoming a foreigner.
As I say, I've been reading the article and I'm a bit baffled. Academic researchers do like categories, don't they? Especially in the social sciences - I guess you have to draw lines around things somehow or other so as to not be overwhelmed, but I think they've missed the mark a bit here.
My reasons for coming to Paris from Copenhagen were complicated. Love was one reason. Getting away from the issues in Copenhagen, some extrinsic, like the weather, and some intrinsic, like my increasingly odd social circle, was another. And, economically, I did get a job here - but I only looked after I knew I was moving anyway.
So am I an existential migrant? In one way, I don't think so. It's intensely irritating to not be conversant, let alone fluent, in the host language of your chosen country of residence. I'm not at all that fond of being a 'foreigner' in a country, especially when natives of the country in question treat you like one.
On the other hand, the experiences you go through when living in another country tell you things about yourself and your cultural biases that you would never have gone through if you'd stayed in the country of your birth. I'd never considered what a creature of my time and culture I was until I heard a bunch of drunken Copenhageners start singing "Fy Fy Skamme Skamme" at a party. Small things, and stuff that can be learned, but the sadness is in realising that you will always be an outsider to those people, and that cultural gaps can be small, but then so are the gaps in drain covers, and you can still lose your keys down them.
On the third hand, apart from the learning experience, there is something oddly liberating about arriving in a country and not knowing anything about it. I remember first coming to Copenhagen and spending many happy times on the bus being pleasantly baffled by shop window contents, because I couldn't read the shop signs, and the science of window dressing has taken off in interesting directions Denmark. It's not unusual to see a bowler hat in a butcher's shop, or cabbages, or bicycles, in a clothes shop window. Also, not knowing what the irritating thirteen year old girls sitting behind you on the bus are talking about doesn't make them less irritating, but it does make it easier to maintain the illusion of listening to birdsong or a babbling stream rather than language. It's only when you begin to understand the language that the illusion is shattered and you realize the true horror of accidentally eavesdropping on Danish teenage love crush gossip. As Douglas Adams wrote, birdsong sounds very nice, but if you actually understood it, it would be nothing more than tedious debates about weight/speed/wingspan ratios and territory.
Posted by daen at 08:52 AM | Comments (0)