My Name

I guess you are kind of curious as to who I am, but I am one of those who do not have a regular name. My name depends on you. Just call me whatever is in your mind. 

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps it was raining very hard. 

That is my name. 

Or somebody wanted you to do something. You did it. Then they told you what you did was wrong—“Sorry for the mistake,””—and you had to do something else. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps it was a game that you played when you were a child or something that came idly into your mind when you were old and sitting in a chair near the window. 

That is my name. 

Or you walked someplace. There were flowers all around. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps you stared into a river. There was somebody near you who loved you. They were about to touch you. You could feel this before it happened. Then it happened. 

That is my name. 

Or you heard someone calling from a great distance. Their voice was almost an echo. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps you were lying in bed, almost ready to go to sleep and you laughed at something, a joke unto yourself, a good way to end the day. 

That is my name. 

Or you were eating something good and for a second forgot what you were eating, but still went on, knowing it was good. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps it was around midnight and the fire tolled like a bell inside the stove 

That is my name. 

Or you felt bad when she said that thing to you. She could have told it to someone else: Somebody who was more familiar with her problems. 

That is my name. 

Perhaps the trout swam in the pool but the river was only eight inches wide and the moon shone on IDEATH and the watermelon fields glowed out of proportion, dark and the moon seemed to rise from every plant. 

That is my name. 

And I wish Margaret would leave me alone. 

Composed by Richard Brautigan; copied, pasted and posted, with love, of course, by Homeless with a Laptop, That is my name.

Я хотел бы...

Я хотел бы родиться во всех странах, быть беспаспортным, к панике бедного МИДа, всеми рыбами быть во всех океанах и собаками всеми на улицах мира. Не хочу я склоняться ни перед какими богами, не хочу я играть в православного хиппи, но я хотел бы нырнуть глубоко-глубоко на Байкале, ну а вынырнуть, фыркая, на Миссисипи. Я хотел бы в моей ненаглядной проклятой вселенной быть репейником сирым — не то что холеным левкоем. Божьей тварью любой, хоть последней паршивой гиеной, но тираном — ни в коем и кошкой тирана — ни в коем. И хотел бы я быть человеком в любой ипостаси: хоть под пыткой в тюрьме гватемальской, хоть бездомным в трущобах Гонконга, хоть скелетом живым в Бангладеше, хоть нищим юродивым в Лхасе, хоть в Кейптауне негром, но не в ипостаси подонка. Я хотел бы лежать под ножами всех в мире хирургов, быть горбатым, слепым, испытать все болезни, все раны, уродства, быть обрубком войны, подбирателем грязных окурков — лишь бы внутрь не пролез подловатый микроб превосходства. Не в элите хотел бы я быть, но, конечно, не в стаде трусливых, не в овчарках при стаде, не в пастырях, стаду угодных, и хотел бы я счастья, но лишь не за счет несчастливых, и хотел бы свободы, но лишь не за счет несвободных. Я хотел бы любить всех на свете женщин, и хотел бы я женщиной быть — хоть однажды... Мать-природа, мужчина тобой приуменьшен. Почему материнства мужчине не дашь ты? Если б торкнулось в нем, там, под сердцем, дитя беспричинно, то, наверно, жесток так бы не был мужчина. Всенасущным хотел бы я быть — ну, хоть чашкою риса в руках у вьетнамки наплаканной, хоть головкою лука в тюремной бурде на Гаити, хоть дешевым вином в траттории рабочей неапольской и хоть крошечным тюбиком сыра на лунной орбите: пусть бы съели меня, пусть бы выпили — лишь бы польза была в моей гибели. Я хотел бы всевременным быть, всю историю так огорошив, чтоб она обалдела, как я с ней нахальствую: распилить пугачевскую клетку в Россию проникшим Гаврошем, привезти Нефертити на пущинской тройке в Михайловское. Я хотел бы раз в сто увеличить пространство мгновенья: чтобы в тот же момент я на Лене пил спирт с рыбаками, целовался в Бейруте, плясал под тамтамы в Гвинее, бастовал на «Рено», мяч гонял с пацанами на Копакабане. Всеязыким хотел бы я быть, словно тайные воды под почвой. Всепрофессийным сразу. И я бы добился, чтоб один Евтушенко был просто поэт, а второй был подпольщик, третий — в Беркли студент, а четвертый — чеканщик тбилисский. Ну а пятый — учитель среди эскимосских детей на Аляске, а шестой — молодой президент, где-то, скажем, хоть в Сьерра-Леоне, а седьмой — еще только бы тряс погремушкой в коляске, а десятый... а сотый... миллионный... Быть собою мне мало — быть всеми мне дайте! Каждой твари — и то, как ведется, по паре, ну а бог, поскупись на копирку, меня в самиздате напечатал в единственном экземпляре. но я богу все карты смешаю. Я бога запутаю! Буду тысячелик до последнего самого дня, чтоб гудела земля от меня, чтоб рехнулись компьютеры на всемирной переписи меня. Я хотел бы на всех баррикадах твоих, человечество, драться, к Пиренеям прижаться, Сахарой насквозь пропылиться и принять в себя веру людского великого братства, а лицом своим сделать — всего человечества лица. Но когда я умру — нашумевшим сибирским Вийоном,— положите меня не в английскую, не в итальянскую землю — в нашу русскую землю на тихом холме, на зеленом, где впервые себя я почувствовал всеми.

Евгений Евтушенко. Медленная любовь. Домашняя библиотека поэзии. Москва: Эксмо-пресс, Яуза, 1998.

STATEMENT OF WHY I TURNED DOWN REAL MADRID’S OFFER TO PLAY IN PLACE OF CRISTIANO RONALDO w/ Spanish translation

 There’s been a lot of controversy in the news lately as to why I turned down Real Madrid’s offer to play in place of Cristiano Ronaldo.  Some are saying that it’s because of money; others are saying that I’m not good enough to replace Ronaldo; and others say that it’s because they wouldn’t give me the number 7.

I’m here to clear the air. None of the above reasons are correct. The fact is that I have other commitments to include playing for the Castle Knights F. C. once my Achilles tendon injury heals.  It’s been over 7 years and I’m still not fully recovered.

And that’s where the real reason begins:  I was racing up the stairs to a courthouse to file papers with only 5 minutes to spare. As I bolted up, I felt a great tear to my lower leg and I couldn’t walk well.  I hobbled and limped to get my papers filed; and, of course, I made it. 

As I drove home, suddenly I felt a warm feeling all over my leg… and it did not hurt anymore.  As I was making dinner [heating a frozen pizza in the microwave] a friend stopped by. I told him that I sprained my ankle.  He looked at my leg, now swollen green and purple; he said “That’s no sprain. Go to the hospital.”  

After examining my leg, the doctor said:  “I think you’ve popped your Achilles tendon from the calf muscle.”  It didn’t sound good.  They put me on a splint and set a consult with an orthopedic surgeon.

The orthopedic surgeon confirmed that my Achilles tendon had popped from my calf muscle.  He then told me that if I was a multi-million-dollar athlete like Cristiano Ronaldo, they’d operate immediately.  But since it was just me, they would give me a splint to wear for about six weeks.  So I said: “Fucking Ronaldo. I would never play for Real Madrid anyways.”  

So when Real Madrid made their offer… and that’s the real and true story.

By:       Homeless with a Laptop, that is my Name

            Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя

DECLARACIÓN OFICIAL DE LA RAZÓN QUÉ RECHAZÉ LA OFERTA DEL REAL MADRID DE JUGAR EN LUGAR DE CRISTIANO RONALDO

Ha habido mucha polémica en las noticias últimamente en cuanto a por qué rechazé la oferta del Real Madrid de jugar en lugar de Cristiano Ronaldo.  Algunos dicen que es por el dinero; otros están diciendo que no soy lo suficientemente bueno para reemplazar a Ronaldo; y otros dicen que es porque no me dieron el número 7.

Estoy aquí para despejar el aire.  Ninguna de las razones anteriores son correctas.  El hecho es que tengo otros compromisos para incluir jugar para los Castle Knights FC una vez que mi lesión del tendón de Aquiles sane.  Han pasado más de 7 años y aún no estoy completamente recuperado.

Y ahí es donde comienza la verdadera razón: corría por las escaleras a un tribunal para archivar papeles con sólo 5 minutos de sobra.  Mientras me atornillaba, sentí una gran lágrima en mi pierna inferior y no podía caminar bien.  Cojeando y arrastrando para conseguir mis papeles presentados; y, por supuesto, lo hice. 

Mientras conducía a casa, de repente sentí una sensación cálida en toda mi pierna... y ya no dolió. Mientras hacía la cena [calentando una pizza congelada en el microondas] un amigo pasó por aquí.  Le dije que me torcí el tobillo.  Miró a mi pierna, ahora hinchada de color verde y púrpura; él dijo "no es un esguince. Vayas al hospital ".  

Después de examinar mi pierna, el doctor dijo: "Creo que has reventado tu tendón de Aquiles del músculo de la pantorrilla".  No sonó bien.  Me pusieron en una férula y pusieron una consulta con un cirujano ortopédico.

El cirujano ortopédico confirmó que mi tendón de Aquiles había estallado de mi músculo de la pantorrilla.  Luego me dijo que si yo era un atleta de varios millones de dólares como Cristiano Ronaldo, ellos operarían inmediatamente.  Pero ya que era sólo yo, me darían una férula para llevar durante unas seis semanas.  Así que dije: "Desgraciado Ronaldo. Yo nunca jugaría para el Real Madrid de todos modos. "  

Así que cuando el Real Madrid hizo su oferta... y esa es la real y verdadera historia.

One Afternoon at a Bank

At  two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon I was at the local branch of a bank.  I had to cash a check otherwise I wouldn’t have been there… I didn’t expect many people to be there; but I was fifth in line.  There were five teller windows, but, naturally, only one was open.

The line was pretty diverse: a tall, young black guy who looked bored; a middle-aged black lady who looked tired; a young white guy holding a child of about two in his arms; an elderly white woman who kept looking around; and me. 

Methinks “Only one teller window open, figures.”  “They’re probably trying to save money by keeping personnel to minimum staffing—at the expense of customer patience and convenience."

As we stood in line buried in our own thoughts and lives, suddenly the little boy, cried out loudly:  “Daddy, Daddy”

“What is it, son?” His father asked with mild curiosity.

In a most happy little voice, the child asked, “Daddy, Dracula bite neck?”

We all burst out laughing: the tiredness, boredom, and other worries of our day melted away; we were no longer strangers but one happy family.  We all started chatting about TV shows, children, families, patting the little boy, etc.  I could only wonder what the little boy watched on TV, but suddenly even Dracula sounded like a great guy in the child’s happy little voice.   Made my day, and everyone else’s.

Whenever I’m sad, I remember this story, and it never fails to make me smile.

By:       Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name

            Бездомные с ноутбуком, это мое имя

           

Monday Visions on the Rearview Mirror of a Car

Another Monday driving to work… I took different a route just to change to scenery.  I’m lucky to have the opportunity to change the roads I drive in; yet wind up in the same place…

         Anyway, as I stopped at a traffic light, I looked at the rearview mirror.  There was a red Toyota SUV of some type or other.  In the Toyota was a middle-aged guy, little chubby, hunched over the wheel of his car.  He did not look happy. I wondered what his life was like. 

          Sitting next to him was a young girl.  She was about 12 years old.  The man, whom I assumed to be her father, did not look at her or otherwise speak to her.  It was then that I noticed that she had earphones on as she began to slightly shake her head to some music or other… She had a cherubic little smile on her chubby cheeks as she ever so slightly swayed…

          The vision in the mirror changed completely… Only a happy family can make a child feel like that.  The guy was no longer an angry-faced driver… but a Dad driving his kids to school… the grimace was but a moment in time…

        The light turned green and I drove away.  I was so happy that the young girl was not being yelled at, but was happily listening to music even with her grumpy-looking Dad…

It was a very nice day…

True story

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name
   Бездомный с ноутбуком, это мое имя

Marx-Engels on Hangovers as Evidence of Dialectical Process

I must admit that I’ve never expected to find humor in ‘The Collected Works of Marx and Engels’; but … never say never.

In a discussion on dialectic transformation of quantity into quality, V. Afanasyev observed that “quantity and quality are interconnected; in the process of development imperceptible, gradual quantitative changes pass into basic, qualitative changes.  This transformation takes form of the leap.  This is the essence of dialectical law of the passage of quantitative into qualitative changes.”   Marxist Philosophy, by Victor Afanasyev, Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 3^rd Ed. 1968, p. 113.

Interestingly, Friedrich Engels offers a great example in “Dialectics of Nature.”  Marx-Engels Collected Works, Vol. 25, New York: International Publishers, 1987.

The law of the transformation of quantity into quality and vice versa… in nature, in a manner exactly fixed for each individual case, qualitative changes can only occur by the quantitative addition or quantitative subtraction of matter or motion (so-called energy.)”  Id., p. 367.

The sphere … in which the law of nature discovered by Hegel celebrates its most important triumphs is that of chemistry.  Chemistry can be termed the science of the qualitative changes of bodies as a result of changes quantitative composition. Id., p. 359

What quantitative difference can be caused by the quantitative addition of C₃H₆ is taught by the experience if consume ethyl alcohol, C₂H₆O, in any drinkable form without addition of other alcohols, and on another occasion take the same ethyl alcohol but with a slight addition of amyl alcohol, C₅H₁₂O, which forms the main constituent of the abominable fused oil.  One’s head will certainly be aware of it the next morning, much to its detriment; so that one could even say that the intoxication, and the subsequent “morning after” feeling, is also quantity transformed into quality, on the one hand of ethyl alcohol and on the other hand of this added C₃H₆.”  Id., p. 360

  

This confirms that the experience of Soviet communism was theoretically correct: The intermediate step between socialism and communism is alcoholism, a qualitative change [at least in theory]. 

As a practical matter, I suppose that it depends on what you drink.  I offer, purely in a spirit of scientific curiosity, a bottle of Chivas Regal to that end.

By:  Homeless with a Laptop, That is my Name
        Бездомный с ноутбуком, это мое имя