Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
La verda flago de Esperanto! / The green flag of Esperanto!
Google elektis ĉi tiun daton por honori Esperanton ĉar hodiaŭ estas la 150a datreveno de la naskiĝtago de L.L. Zamenhof, kiu kreis la lingvon. Malgraŭ tiu fakto, vere ne gravas je kiu tago Google honoras Esperanton, la grava punkto estas ke milionoj da homoj, grandegaj amasoj, preskaŭ la tuta (komputilon uzanta) mondo vidos la verdan stelon kaj neeviteble klakos ĝin. Tuj ili lernos la bazajn punktojn pri LLZ kaj lia lingvo.
Google chose this date to honor Esperanto because today is the 150th aniversary of L.L. Zamenhof's birthday, the man who created the language. In spite of this fact, it really doesn't matter on what day Google honors Esperanto, the important point is that millions of people, huge masses, nearly the who (computer using) world will see the green star and inevitably click on it. Instantly they will then learn the basic points about LLZ and his language.
Dum monatoj mi penis informigi miajn samuniversitatanojn pri nia lingvo per malbelaj sed funkciaj afiŝoj, fiksitaj tra la kampuso. Varbi grandajn amasonj da homoj ne gravis al mi, simple informigi ilin. Mi memoras ke kiam mi unue lernis pri Esperanto, mi iom koleriĝis ke neniu antaŭe informigis min pri ĝi, kaj tial mia celo estas ke la lingvemaj homoj de UCSB evitu tiun kruelan faton. Mi sukcesis interesigi almenaŭ unu homon. Imagu kiom Google povus. Dank' al Google!
For months, I've been trying to inform my fellow college students about our language by way of ugly but functional signs posted across campus. Recruiting large numbers of people didn't matter to me, rather simply informing them. I remember that when I first learned about Esperanto, I got a little mad that no one had previously informed me about it, and so my goal is that the language minded people at UCSB avoid that cruel fate. I succeeded in interesting at least one person. Imagine how many Google could interest. Thank you Google!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Látinghal, rog ang! “Stop, you demon you, stop!” The cry rang out in the sudden silence of the chill night. The wind had died completely. Húla never hesitated: even in his state, he knew that the cry wasn't aimed at him. As he ran through the fields surrounding the village, he could see torches and Wombáts rushing to and fro. What finally broke into his panicked mind was the realization that they were clustered around a shop... his shop! He hurried to the door, terrified that something should have befallen his livelihood. He was met at the door by his apprentice Twóva. Húla, wó! É thímbanwo! “Húla, oh, it's horrible! You won't believe it!” “What is it Twóva, tell me, is someone hurt?” “Oh, it's even worse! A giant Túpló got in somehow! Oh, Húla, it ate all the Spundlemuffin dough!” The good baker sank to his knees, his face whiter than his apprentice's flour stained hands. “Don't worry though, snúltel Phluphún was locking up his back door across the alley just as it made a break for it, and beaned it with a kettle! It won't get far!” To the Twóva's sruprise, this news didn't seem to cheer the baker any, but rather inspired a strangely suspicious look on his face. Without saying a word, he dashed away into the night.
Húla hurried through the dark streets of the town, and doubted that he could take much more of this dashing about in the wee hours of the morning, not at his age at least. When he was a young Wombát, he had always been game for a late-night jaunt, but these days.... His reverie was broken when he realized that he had reached his destination: the fort on the hill above town. There seemed to be some commotion here, too. Húla saw the Wombát that he recognized to be the company surgeon, who was latching up his medical chest. “Doctor, what happened here?” “Well, it's the oddest thing, now that you ask. The watchman found young Phólatip passed out at he bottom of the perimeter ditch, stark naked! And on a night like this! Young ones these days, sometimes I just don't know.... He also seemed to have picked up a solid knock to the head along the way, so I put him to bed with a hot water bottle. He'll be better by morning.”
“So from then on, I knew that Phólatip was a weretúpló. I was terrified to be alone with him, to the point that I never could bring myself to set foot in my own shop on Thursdays... I had to have Twóva see to all the business then. I held my peace for years out of fright. But I'm telling you now since Phólatip has been transfered back up to Híz, and since this is some mighty fine medh! Cheers, Mr. Bund!”
Also, stay tuned for future KÓGESH SILAWA.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wó! Ingar líz lábles! Lákhrest! “Agh! Don't hurt me! Help!” The frighted Wombát cried, huddling in cold mud of the path, clutching at creepers. Hearing his voice, the shadowy form stopped short, it's sword arm still outstretched. It seemed to hesitate, as if unsure. Líz é Húla lé? “That's not Húla, is it?” The form asked, clearly very surprised. “Yes! It's me! Don't hurt me! Who are you?” He asked. “Húla, it's me, Phólatip. I buy bread from you every Thursday afternoon.” The baker climbed carefully to his feet, wiping his hands together on account of the mud. “Phólatip, really? Is that you? What on earth are you doing out here? More to the point, why did you try to kill me?” The other Wombát looked sheepish. “Oh, nothing. I thought... well...” “What?” “Nothing! Let's you and me head into town while we can.” Húla was getting cold standing still, and so was not one to argue.
The two trudged on in silence, but the Baker (a good deal sobered by his run-in on the path) could not help but notice that his companion was getting increasingly nervous and seemed somehow ill at ease. Phólatip, who was a soldier stationed at the small hill fort above Smórg, was not in uniform, but was girded with his sword belt and sword, the handle of which he would fumble with intermittently. As they continued along the path towards the town, the situation worsened until Húla could tell that Phólatip could barely stand for the nervous tremors that were wracking his frame. Just as the concerned baker was about to ask the soldier what was bothering him, Phólatip halted sharply in his tracks and began to flail wildly. To Húla's infinite astonishment, the other Wombát then ripped of his cloak and trousers despite the cutting wind, and flung his sword belt aside. Húla stood stunned, frozen with shock, as he watched his friend give him one last panicked look over his shoulder then tear off into the dark pines above the trail to the east.
Húla bent to examine his companion's abandoned possessions with ideas of picking up his cloak and then trying to find the poor Wombát, who was obviously in the grips of some brain fever or other, but when he touched the material, he leaped back as if bitten by a snake. A look of pure terror crossed his poor face as he staggered forward. He broke into as fast a run as his stubby limbs would allow. As he thudded down the hill towards the few dim lights left burning in the sleepy village, all that an observer could have understood of his terror stricken babble was the word óló... “Stone!”
Sunday, December 6, 2009
KÓG SILAWA - A TALE OF SILAWA
É inanemd búrzmór kwe méd... It was a dark night and a wet one for Húla the Wombát to be drunk out on the moors north of Smórg, but he didn't have a choice, not really. He had to be at his ovens early in the morning, every morning, if he wanted to earn a steady living. Húla was a baker, and he looked like a baker. He was large about the middle, which showed that he was probably a good baker because he enjoyed his work, but he was also deceptively strong from heaving the sacks of flour which he turned into bread, muffins and buns for the people of the hamlet of Smórg, which is south west of Tilinggást, across the moors. It's a snug sort of place, nestled in the foothills at the edge of the Southern Woods, but the moors open away to the north and northwest, and so the autumn winds that come sweeping in from that direction are felt keenly. When the wind is up, folks tend to stay by their fire. It was just such an autumn night that Húla was trying to find his way back home across the moors.
It had been a pretty good party though, he had to admit. It had been held at, (let's face it, he thought as he stumbled along in the dark, it's still being held,) at the large estate of one of his best customers, the wealthy and prosperous farmer called Bund. Every year farmer Bund hosted a blowout round about the time of Spundlmass to honor the broaching of his casks of new medh. This was not an event to be missed, since, as everybody in Smórg and its surroundings knew, mead of the Bund mark was the finest on the moors. Nor was it an event often well remembered, for much the same reasons. All pleasures aside, though, Húla knew he had to start the Spundlemuffins early the next morning to meet the holiday demand, which was why he had left the party at about midnight, just as it was getting good.
Húla reflected on this as he trudged along the ill defined path that skirted the base of the foothills. At intervals, paths broke off to the left up into the forested glens in the hills where villagers gathered firewood or hunted, and a few hardy charcoal burners and the like dwelt permanently. Better them than me, thought Húla, as he passed one, peering off into the gloom. The stars were bright between the scudding clouds, but there was just a sliver of a moon, so the gloom was as thick as potato soup. The wind howled across the moor, keening eerily over the ridges studded with ancient standing stones, some stilled scored on their leeward sides with forgotten symbols. Because of the wind, Húla only heard the unmistakable sounds of hurried footsteps clattering down the path from the glen until they were almost upon him, and it was far too late to react.
More out of surprise than fear (he was drunk, after all), he flung himself to the ground. And suddenly, out of the gloom thundered a huge form, brandishing a sword in front of it!