Wednesday, December 14, 2005

So, how long does it take to publish a calendar?

Well, it took me about 10 hours to choose, play with and finalise the images and another 2 hours to upload them on lulu.com, research UK public holidays and press the publish button. The whole process was a lot less painless than publishing a book of poems.

I am now the proud publisher of The Rik Calendar 2007 - a perfect gift for people to give to people they need to give a present to (but not spend more than $10 - $15 on) but cant be bothered to think in more detail about what the present should be. Stock up now for xmas 2006!

Oh, and you can view the 13 images I chose for the calendar here. Enjoy!

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Conlang spotlight: Solresol

I've decided that there's not enough conlanging on this blog. Conlanging - as an artform, as an obsession, even as a social tool - is one of those things that end up as a mild curiosity in miscellany books or blogs. Well I think conlanging deserves better, not merely because it's my other hobby but rather because inventing and presenting a constructed language is a massive labour for their creators - who mostly (until the last 10 years or so) worked at their art/obsession/social tool outside the mainstream of polite society: a secret vice indeed, as Tolkein once referred to it.

But where to start? The obvious place would be with that Granddaddy of all conlangs, Esperanto. But I have issues with Esperanto - which have been summed up far more concisely than I could manage by others such as Justin Rye. And in any case I don't see much point in starting a series of blog articles on conlanging in such a negative way.

So instead I'll start with Solresol - a language that predates even Esperanto, and stands at No 10 in the 2005 Top 200 Conlangs List on langmaker.com. The best article I've read to date on Solresol comes courtesy of Paul Collins writing in Fortean Times, and other articles are available by typing "solresol" into Google.

A conlang, in my opinion, cannot be separated from the conlanger who devised it. One is a part of the other, even in the most commercial of products. For those rare conlangs that survive the death of their creators, there may be opportunities for supporters to imprint some of their own hopes and desires into the language, but the core language remains the coded thoughts and desires of that creator.

So what of Solresol's creator? Jean Francois Sudre was French, born in the last, stuttering years of the French monarchy before the revolution washed the streets of Paris in blood. Sometime between Napoleon Bonaparte's final exile to St Helena and Sudre's arrival in Paris (in 1822), our hero had started thinking about communication and language in a different way to other people - though given that he didn't arrive in Paris until the age of 35 his fascination may well have started much earlier. Anecdotal evidence from many conlangers seems to indicate that many catch the conlanging bug around the same time as they catch puberty - which also seems to be the time when children lose the ability to pick up languages easily. If so, then it is possible that Sudre's fascination with conlanging can be dated back to a time in French history when everything was changing: measurements, institutions, rights and freedoms - even the calendar for four years or so. If the world was changing, then why not language itself?

Sudre studied music at the Paris Conservatory and later became a music teacher. While at the Conservatory the first glimmerings of the conlang madness in our hero began to emerge into the public domain. Sudre developed a code - not tied to his native French language but rather to the letters of the Latin alphabet - which could be played on musical instruments. Tonal in form, this invention demonstrated its ability to pass messages across greater distances than the human voice could achieve. This attracted the attention of the French military, and led to Sudre developing another code - the Telephonie - for their use.

But codes aren't conlanging. Solresol took its time to emerge from Sudre's mind, and made its first tentative steps in the world around the end of the 1820s. Much of it's inventors remaining life was dedicated to perfecting the language, and promoting it's use as a universal language.

So there's the potted history of Solresol, the first of many attempts to devise an effective International Auxillary Language (IAL) during the 19th century. But how does it perform as a conlang? And how is it presented today?

The best place to view the conlang on the web is probably the Solresol webpage maintained by Stephen L Rice (though that page hasn't been updated since 1997). This page links to an html-ified version of Boleslas Gajewski's Solresol grammar published in 1902, offered both in the original French and an English translation. There are also links to some dictionaries and other resources relating to the conlang. The website is more than adequate for its purpose, simple in layout and free of unnecessary images. It is also small enough not to need a comprehensive sitemap or navigation system. The original book opens as a single webpage. If I have one criticism it would be that the page has not been updated for more than 8 years - a link to more recent articles on Solresol (such as the FT article) would have been very welcome.

The conlang itself remains unique in many of its features. I've always been fascinated by the number of ways Sudre devised for communicating the language: it can be spoken, played on a musical instrument, semaphored, displayed on flags, written in Latin and in its own alphabet, and even painted in stripes of colour! This is entirely possible because the language limits itself to just 7 constituent "letters".

Also impressive is the systematic way Sudre tackled the problem of devising words for the language. Words of 1, 2 and 3 "letters" are used for the structural parts of the language, and for common words. Most of the rest of the words are of 4 syllables and are divided into groups according to the first letter of the word - "The class of DO belongs to man, to his faculties, to his good qualities and to food.", "The words beginning with FA are are set apart for the country, agriculture, war, the sea, and travel.", etc.

There are, in my view, difficulties with the language. The method chosen to distinguish various parts of speech by means of accenting the first, second, third or last "letter" reads as very messy, especially when tied in to the shenanigans to differentiate masculine from feminine nouns, and plurals. It must work in some way as Sudre demonstrated the conlang in public on many occasions and managed to gather a large number of supporters (and speakers?) during his lifetime, but without comprehensive audio or visual examples it's difficult to see how the system pulls itself together.

And in the end, Solresol wasn't up to the job its creator intended for it. Other people developed other IALs which, either through design or better marketing, outperformed and outcompeted it. The conlang survived its creator by no more than 40 odd years, by which time it's supporters could probably fit into the proverbial telephone box. Only the books remain, and a few stattered references to the endeavour across the wastes of the internet.

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Rik's Art Gallery

Enough of posting piccies to this blog! Enough of Flickr!

Instead, I've created a gallery space on my website where I've put on show many of my image manipulation experiments over the past few days. Feel free to visit, and comment if you're so inclined.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

Kookaburra


kookaburra painting
Originally uploaded by adleyrik.
Another photo from the zoo where the parrot was caged, this time blurred a touch and stuck on canvas.

Caged parrot


caged parrot painting
Originally uploaded by adleyrik.
More explorations of the Gimp - this is a close-up photo of a parrot I took earlier this year, oilified and put on canvas

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Workout

Another first draft for my Olympic series:

Workout

Healthy fitness - an exercise
in barrenness to row the gym
that broods beneath the streets
of Victoria. I stretch and lift
in rows plugged into video,
music, heartbeats clicked
in numbers charting courses
across programmed terrains;
compete to lift an extra
second, kilo, beat the loser
dribbling sweat next door -
torture myself in direct debits.

St James's Park at night is lit
with coloured bulbs, their beams
stretching limbs of bare trees
into alien architectures. I break
the empty peace of pelicans
with steady breaths, heels lift
and reach across the grass:
a momentum alone in the cold air.
This is competition, the chase
to catch canada geese, to lap
the lake, to sneak between
the drizzly London mist.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

December

December 1965: This is my second christmas, but the first I can explore crawling and walking. I have no memory of it - grandparents and siblings may have been involved. I think this is the year I got my first book of poetry: Mother Goose, but I could be wrong on this one.

December 1970: Being six years old, I get extremely excited by the thought of christmas - the advent calendar, decorating the house a week before the big day. I spend a lot of the time looking in the catalogue at the presents I somehow know I won't get. During the day I go to infant school - I'm an old hand at school now as I've been there since my fifth birthday. I can read: my favourite books are wind in the willows and winnie the pooh. I even enjoy the poems. I can also do sums, which helps because the money is changing, new pence instead of old pennies. For christmas I get a train set which my dad bought from a friend who knows a friend who works in a factory that makes them. Packaging not included.

December 1975: I'm in my last year of junior school, which is kind of frightening. Things are changing: where once I shared the bedroom with three brothers now I share it with just the one. I have two grandparents left, soon to be one. For my last birthday I decided not to have a party as that sort of thing was for kids. My favourite book of poems is Old Possom's Book of Practical Cats, and I'm reading Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons series, and Willard Price's Adventure series. To be honest, I've read all of the children's books in the local library several times over.

December 1980: If last christmas was strange, with me sleeping on various people's sofas after mum left home, then this year is stranger as dad moves out to live in a caravan in a field next to some stables. Ever the dutiful son, I visit my dad on christmas day before returning for dinner with the rest of the family. I don't remember what I got for christmas this time around: somehow it just doesn't seem important anymore. Instead I spend a lot of time drawing maps and inventing a language, putting the real world out of my mind.

December 1985: I'm unemployed and living at home. After 2 years at college I'm the proud owner of a Higher National Certificate in applied biology - meaning I'm qualified to do lab work. But there is no work. Lots of people I know are unemployed - we meet up on Wednesdays to go to the benefits office together. To do something with my time I've joined the local athletics club: athletics will come to dominate my life for the next 30 months. I go training on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and on Sunday mornings - and I rarely miss a session. These are wierd memories, a wierd time.

December 1990: 20 months of the civil service feels more like a community service sentence. I've promised myself I'll do no more than 5 years in London. I have a new boss this month, fresh from university, so wet behind the ears I'm tempted to drown him in the shallows around the nape of his neck. My new skills of paper management have been honed to a fine degree, and I am in charge of over 1,000 files. To keep me quiet, my line managers have given me the job of summarising them all, identifying key papers for a precedence book. Who would have thought the management of highways consultancy contracts could be so exciting? But the most exciting thing for me this month is the decision to move into new accommodation - my very first bedsit, in Islington, rent £45 a week. The gas fire leaks, the bathroom is shared. But I'm on my first steps towards sorting out the wreck of my life. I'm even beginning to write poetry that doesn't make people automatically cringe when they hear it!

December 1995: This is my third December with my lover, and after the excitements and ructions of the first two years we are beginning to settle into each other, accepting each other for what we are rather than what we want the other to be. December has a theme this year, and everything has to be Victorian - even the wrapping paper. New year will be spent in the Canary Isles. I'm working at the Highways Agency on private finance stuff, and enjoying the solidity of a job not about to collapse under my feet. I'm drinking a lot, too - my partner and I can clear a bottle of (cheap) whisky a night. I have just finished editing Magma 6, a poetry magazine which I helped establish a couple of years ago with colleagues attending Lawrie Smith's poetry writing evening classes. Things are beginning to look good.

December 2000: I'm bored of rain: it's rained all year and it's raining still. I'm working at the Department of the Environment (currently called DETR) on waste policy, which amazes me in some ways - I sometimes wonder what happened to all the people I went to college with. And I'm still with my partner, rarely an argument breaking our companionship - we broke our drinking habit a few years back and we've been tobacco free for over 9 months. This will be the first christmas just by ourselves, no guests for christmas day, which suits me fine as I can spend more time online in the poetry newsgroups or extending my website.

December 2005: Life is good. I have a job - indoor work. I have a 12 year relationship. I have a blog: you're reading it. I have a book of my poems published through the wonders of the web. I have no idea what the future's going to be like, but I intend to fully enjoy the good bits. Life, after 40, has started.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Serving the Muse

A poem, I think:

Serving the Muse

I chose to dine at A's establishment:
a restaurant well marked for style, panache
and quality, a place for nourishment
of soul and sense - at least they kept the trash

at bay when one's inclined to eat good food -
or so I was informed. I ordered boar
and settled back to contemplate the crude
parade of riff-raff shambling past the door.

"My deeply felt apologies," a voice
beside my elbow murmured. Looking down
I saw the chiselled bones of service hoist
into my view. "Why so?" I asked, a frown

across my brow. "We've had to bar the boar,"
the waiter cringed: "It charged around the place
creating havoc, carnage! Such a chore
to clear the mess - we turfed it out, disgraced!"


Nonplussed, I checked the menu once again.
"What else is there to eat?" The old man smiled,
his lips a gruel of soup. "The chicken, plain,
is rather good - a filling dish, par-boiled."


"But rather boring, I'd have thought?" He shook
his head and said: "You do not understand, young sir,
but plain is best - no sauce to hide the look,
no herb or spice disguising taste! The bird

served bland delights the plate. Just try a breast
or two."
I was intrigued, I have to say:
"You use no salt? No stuffing? Just undressed?"
"Oh yes!"
he said. "It is the only way

to exercise the muse! We don't allow
ingredients to spoil the meal, the chefs
must work in peace and comfort - once the row
of discontent is banished, gone, they're left

with harmony in which to hone their skills
and arts! A space where they can learn to shape
their honest, soul-full heart-wrought chicken meals
to feed our guests: a dish you can't escape!"

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Pitcher plant in bathroom


Pitcher plant in bathroom
Originally uploaded by adleyrik.
The staghorn fern has just aquired some competition. We picked up this magnificent pitcher plant from the flower stall in Hackney's Narrow Way a couple of days ago, and have decided to hang it from the shower rail above the bath. With a bit of love it might grow into something capable of scaring small children.

Staghorn fern in bathroom


Staghorn fern in bathroom
Originally uploaded by adleyrik.
This is the monstrosity that greets me every morning and evening when I go to clean my teeth. The fern hangs directly over the bathroom sink, and has been festering in this spot for over 3 years now. It is a full-size staghorn fern (of undetermined species) and quite clearly enjoys its prime position in front of the window. Sunlight? Who needs sunlight in their bathroom!