Comments on: More Borgesian Recursions http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/2010/01/29/more-borgesian-recursions/ A little bit of that and this Tue, 04 May 2010 18:54:04 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.9.2 hourly 1 By: Frederick Trenchard http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/2010/01/29/more-borgesian-recursions/comment-page-1/#comment-319 Frederick Trenchard Mon, 01 Feb 2010 20:16:24 +0000 http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/?p=440#comment-319 I wrote this today - enjoying the 500 word format - and on reading your warm words of welcome decided to transfer it to your blog. I had hardly walked half a mile when I heard footsteps running behind me. Turning to see who it was I saw the taverner’s son, a boy of some fourteen years. He gesticulated with great vigour but what he meant by it all I did not know. I stopped and he came up to me. It was soon clear that he meant I should go back to the tavern. With a heavy heart I turned back, retracing my steps through the flat, empty landscape of this part of Uzbekistan. When we reached the tavern there were three men there in uniform. Policemen, I thought. What could they want? Only one of them could speak any English and even he had a very limited vocabulary. I gathered that a man who shared my surname, Dockrel, had recently passed through this frontier post in the company of a young woman of European appearance and a Mongol. This couple, if couple they were, were accused of abducting a child. Putting two and two together and multiplying the result by the square root of ‘q’ they had convinced themselves that that this Dockrel man and myself were brothers and were organising an illegal international adoption scheme. This Dockrel man, however, was not, I gathered, of European appearance, and his passport showed him to have been born in Vancouver Island, whereas I was born in Toledo and look with my fair skin and greyish eyes pretty much like any other man of European stock. ‘But,’ said the policeman when I pointed this out to him, ‘you are carrying a rucksack on your back; the girl, who was of European appearance just as much as you, was also carrying a rucksack.’ Having presented these irrefutable facts, he smiled and uttered the last words I expected to hear in a part of the world as remote in time and space as this one was from the dimly lit streets of Edwardian London: ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’ ‘Elementary, my left foot, Mr Holmes!’ I exclaimed in a multiplicity of disbelief and foreboding. If this was the best that forensic science could come up with in the part of Uzbekistan where I had landed up – in a pure spirit of touristy inquiry, I may add – what kind of breakfast could I expect to have brought to me in bed when I landed up, as I surely would, in gaol?. The policeman’s eyes lit up. ‘So you know the writings of Conanovitch Doylevski, the celebrated Uzbek writer of detective fiction?’ ‘You must be joking my busy friend,’ I replied. ‘The stories of Sherlock Holmes and his famous sidekick Dr Watson have been told and retold for centuries in the dim light of the gas lamps that illumine our London streets. They date from a time when no one in my country had ever heard of Uzbekistan and the Golden Road to Samarqand and likewise no Uzbek knew of the existence of our great smog-filled metropolis.’ The policeman looked at me with a look of preternatural perspicuity. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You are preparing to present your defence against my charge of conspiracy to kidnap an Uzbek infant on the grounds of diminished responsibility for your actions due to loss of marbles. Well it won’t wash here, my friend. Looking for lost marbles is the national pastime of Uzbekistan but that doesn’t prevent the authorities whose long arm I am from clapping my compatriots into jail at the rate of several thousand a day.’ ‘That is true,’ I said. ‘I read about it in Wikipedia.’ Knowing that nothing talks like money talks, I put my hand in my pocket and drew out a note in the local currency to the value of twenty thousand Uzbeks. ‘Here, take this,’ I said warmly shaking him by the hand. ‘And God save Uzbekistan/ Long live Uzbekistan/ and its President.’ I wrote this today – enjoying the 500 word format – and on reading your warm words of welcome decided to transfer it to your blog.

I had hardly walked half a mile when I heard footsteps running behind me. Turning to see who it was I saw the taverner’s son, a boy of some fourteen years. He gesticulated with great vigour but what he meant by it all I did not know. I stopped and he came up to me. It was soon clear that he meant I should go back to the tavern. With a heavy heart I turned back, retracing my steps through the flat, empty landscape of this part of Uzbekistan. When we reached the tavern there were three men there in uniform. Policemen, I thought. What could they want? Only one of them could speak any English and even he had a very limited vocabulary. I gathered that a man who shared my surname, Dockrel, had recently passed through this frontier post in the company of a young woman of European appearance and a Mongol. This couple, if couple they were, were accused of abducting a child. Putting two and two together and multiplying the result by the square root of ‘q’ they had convinced themselves that that this Dockrel man and myself were brothers and were organising an illegal international adoption scheme. This Dockrel man, however, was not, I gathered, of European appearance, and his passport showed him to have been born in Vancouver Island, whereas I was born in Toledo and look with my fair skin and greyish eyes pretty much like any other man of European stock. ‘But,’ said the policeman when I pointed this out to him, ‘you are carrying a rucksack on your back; the girl, who was of European appearance just as much as you, was also carrying a rucksack.’ Having presented these irrefutable facts, he smiled and uttered the last words I expected to hear in a part of the world as remote in time and space as this one was from the dimly lit streets of Edwardian London: ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’ ‘Elementary, my left foot, Mr Holmes!’ I exclaimed in a multiplicity of disbelief and foreboding. If this was the best that forensic science could come up with in the part of Uzbekistan where I had landed up – in a pure spirit of touristy inquiry, I may add – what kind of breakfast could I expect to have brought to me in bed when I landed up, as I surely would, in gaol?. The policeman’s eyes lit up. ‘So you know the writings of Conanovitch Doylevski, the celebrated Uzbek writer of detective fiction?’ ‘You must be joking my busy friend,’ I replied. ‘The stories of Sherlock Holmes and his famous sidekick Dr Watson have been told and retold for centuries in the dim light of the gas lamps that illumine our London streets. They date from a time when no one in my country had ever heard of Uzbekistan and the Golden Road to Samarqand and likewise no Uzbek knew of the existence of our great smog-filled metropolis.’ The policeman looked at me with a look of preternatural perspicuity. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You are preparing to present your defence against my charge of conspiracy to kidnap an Uzbek infant on the grounds of diminished responsibility for your actions due to loss of marbles. Well it won’t wash here, my friend. Looking for lost marbles is the national pastime of Uzbekistan but that doesn’t prevent the authorities whose long arm I am from clapping my compatriots into jail at the rate of several thousand a day.’ ‘That is true,’ I said. ‘I read about it in Wikipedia.’ Knowing that nothing talks like money talks, I put my hand in my pocket and drew out a note in the local currency to the value of twenty thousand Uzbeks. ‘Here, take this,’ I said warmly shaking him by the hand. ‘And God save Uzbekistan/ Long live Uzbekistan/ and its President.’

]]> By: Hugh http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/2010/01/29/more-borgesian-recursions/comment-page-1/#comment-318 Hugh Mon, 01 Feb 2010 15:00:04 +0000 http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/?p=440#comment-318 Thanks so much Fred! A snapshot of a traveller's isolation among those whose language he couldn't speak, finding new meaning in his experience undistracted by communication with others or their communication with each other. I remember experiencing that dreamy quality when stopping at a small town for the evening while riding my bike through France. As odd as it may seem to you, I don't speak much French, though to my fortune the owners of the hotel at which I stayed, spoke English. The hotel was across the street from a children's school yard. I remember going for a walk in the evening among quiet streets with a golden sunset and the stone fortress wall; waking in the morning to the sound of children making their way to school, and then departing soon after, all the while with a sense that for all the people there, I could not really engage in conversation with them had I chosen. I think the 500 word story vignette is a great format. It's also a fun challenge to create a complete story in with few words. I'm inspired now to read a little of the Rubaiyat... Thanks so much Fred! A snapshot of a traveller’s isolation among those whose language he couldn’t speak, finding new meaning in his experience undistracted by communication with others or their communication with each other. I remember experiencing that dreamy quality when stopping at a small town for the evening while riding my bike through France. As odd as it may seem to you, I don’t speak much French, though to my fortune the owners of the hotel at which I stayed, spoke English. The hotel was across the street from a children’s school yard. I remember going for a walk in the evening among quiet streets with a golden sunset and the stone fortress wall; waking in the morning to the sound of children making their way to school, and then departing soon after, all the while with a sense that for all the people there, I could not really engage in conversation with them had I chosen.

I think the 500 word story vignette is a great format. It’s also a fun challenge to create a complete story in with few words. I’m inspired now to read a little of the Rubaiyat…

]]> By: Frederick Trenchard http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/2010/01/29/more-borgesian-recursions/comment-page-1/#comment-317 Frederick Trenchard Sun, 31 Jan 2010 23:19:03 +0000 http://trainharder.com/blogs/hugh/?p=440#comment-317 For verve and creative imagination my little story will not compare with your thumbnail epic but it is almost the same length. If you read Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat you will find that I am somewhat in debt to him and to his interpreters. A Counter-story for Hugh A golden sun was setting behind me as I reached the border guard’s post. A dusty figure in olive green fatigues told me that I had reached Uzbekistan. "Samarqand," he said " is five hundred miles to east" and he added: "There is tavern in town. You get food there. You rest up for journey.” I picked up my rucksack and plodded down the dingy street of a tin-pot border town. As often happens when one is tired or bored the road seemed go on for ever. I doubted I had chosen the right direction and even contemplated retracing my steps. But then I spotted this house with an open door. Glancing inside I saw a whitewashed room and a trodden earth floor. On the far wall was a counter and behind the counter stood a man of enormous rotundity wrapped in a robe of white wool. I went in. His Mongolian eyes, black and piercing, took me in at a glance and turned away. Fixing my eyes on his sallow inattentive face I asked: ‘Is this the tavern?’ A long silence followed as the man went about his business drawing wine from a great barrel into a series of bottles which he lined up on the counter. What could the place be but a tavern? “Can I have a meal; and stay the night here?” I asked. Another long silence followed as the taverner continued lining up his bottles but at length he shouted to someone in the back room. What he said I do not know but in a few minutes a woman appeared with a bowl of broth, a generous loaf of bread and a bowl of fruit. The taverner gave me a spoon and indicated that the thing to do was to eat. Slurping noisily at the spicy broth and gnawing at the bread I was soon aware of thirst. I made a gesture to suggest drinking and a glass appeared. The taverner took one of the bottles from his line and placed it beside the glass. I poured myself some wine and drank, contentedly. In the silence, with the warmth of the wine inside me and the fatigue of a thirty mile march on my shoulders, thoughts started to stir in my mind: “This is like a dream … The broth, the bread, the wine … This silence turns basic human functions into symbols. I could be an Egyptian communicating mutely with his god across an altar piled high with offerings. Except that I have given nothing. Of course, I told myself, I have chosen the Golden Road to Samarqand and here I am in the land of dreams. My physical hunger suddenly turned into another hunger and another thirst: I wanted dreams to drink and symbols to eat. I wanted meanings piled incomprehensibly up on meanings. The taverner reading my thoughts pointed me to a corner of the room where he gave me to understand that I could lie down and sleep. I spread my futon and lay down. During the night the people came and went talking in low voices in their harsh Mongolian tongue. They did not disturb my sleep though occasionally, roused by a quarrel or some vivid narrative, their speech grew more intense and the gentle buzz became a much louder, more vehement shouting that quickly died away. At length I fell into a deeper sleep that no clamour would have penetrated and knew nothing till dawn’s left hand crept into the grey sky. I heard the taverner calling his family into life. The cock in someone’s backyard crew and from the Minaret the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. Somebody was banging on the tavern door. I found a tap in the back yard to wash under and by the time I had made myself more less presentable the taverner was serving his early morning customers. I paid my bill – an absurd £1 – and left. For verve and creative imagination my little story will not compare with your thumbnail epic but it is almost the same length. If you read Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat you will find that I am somewhat in debt to him and to his interpreters.
A Counter-story for Hugh
A golden sun was setting behind me as I reached the border guard’s post. A dusty figure in olive green fatigues told me that I had reached Uzbekistan. “Samarqand,” he said ” is five hundred miles to east” and he added: “There is tavern in town. You get food there. You rest up for journey.” I picked up my rucksack and plodded down the dingy street of a tin-pot border town. As often happens when one is tired or bored the road seemed go on for ever. I doubted I had chosen the right direction and even contemplated retracing my steps. But then I spotted this house with an open door. Glancing inside I saw a whitewashed room and a trodden earth floor. On the far wall was a counter and behind the counter stood a man of enormous rotundity wrapped in a robe of white wool. I went in. His Mongolian eyes, black and piercing, took me in at a glance and turned away.
Fixing my eyes on his sallow inattentive face I asked: ‘Is this the tavern?’
A long silence followed as the man went about his business drawing wine from a great barrel into a series of bottles which he lined up on the counter. What could the place be but a tavern?
“Can I have a meal; and stay the night here?” I asked.
Another long silence followed as the taverner continued lining up his bottles but at length he shouted to someone in the back room. What he said I do not know but in a few minutes a woman appeared with a bowl of broth, a generous loaf of bread and a bowl of fruit. The taverner gave me a spoon and indicated that the thing to do was to eat. Slurping noisily at the spicy broth and gnawing at the bread I was soon aware of thirst. I made a gesture to suggest drinking and a glass appeared. The taverner took one of the bottles from his line and placed it beside the glass. I poured myself some wine and drank, contentedly. In the silence, with the warmth of the wine inside me and the fatigue of a thirty mile march on my shoulders, thoughts started to stir in my mind: “This is like a dream … The broth, the bread, the wine … This silence turns basic human functions into symbols. I could be an Egyptian communicating mutely with his god across an altar piled high with offerings. Except that I have given nothing. Of course, I told myself, I have chosen the Golden Road to Samarqand and here I am in the land of dreams. My physical hunger suddenly turned into another hunger and another thirst: I wanted dreams to drink and symbols to eat. I wanted meanings piled incomprehensibly up on meanings. The taverner reading my thoughts pointed me to a corner of the room where he gave me to understand that I could lie down and sleep. I spread my futon and lay down.
During the night the people came and went talking in low voices in their harsh Mongolian tongue. They did not disturb my sleep though occasionally, roused by a quarrel or some vivid narrative, their speech grew more intense and the gentle buzz became a much louder, more vehement shouting that quickly died away. At length I fell into a deeper sleep that no clamour would have penetrated and knew nothing till dawn’s left hand crept into the grey sky. I heard the taverner calling his family into life. The cock in someone’s backyard crew and from the Minaret the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. Somebody was banging on the tavern door.
I found a tap in the back yard to wash under and by the time I had made myself more less presentable the taverner was serving his early morning customers. I paid my bill – an absurd £1 – and left.

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