And then as you learn the radicals, you can start intuiting the meanings of kanji you might not have encountered before. Or not. Some are pretty idiosyncratic rather than intuitive.
"In Japan, there are only 2,136 Jōyō kanji (lit. commonly-used kanji), which are the ones taught in school, though literate people usually know more."
On my morning walk today, begun before dawn and finished shortly after it, I heard a bird calling "Jeremy! Jeremy! Jeremy!" from a tree in front of the tallest apartment complex in town.
It's great that Google can give you answers to natural conundra like this.
The ornithologically-inclined seem to come together in a consensus that what I heard was a Carolina wren.
But when I listen to this recording of a Carolina wren, it's not quite there. I don't think the consensus was correct. I found a site where someone was asking for help with identifying what must be this exact species of bird. Because this person specifies that the articulation of the name "Jeremy" is almost perfect, very human-like. And you really have to imagine hearing "Jeremy" in that recording of the Carolina wren. It's not that close. So I don't think that's the right species of bird. Also, the person who posted the same query which I had wanted to pose specified that he only hears the bird between six and seven in the morning. And this would have been exactly the time I heard this bird, just after six a.m.
Other suggestions were that the bird might be the Eastern towhee or the common yellowthroat, but when I listened to song recordings of these birds online they did not seem to match up. I did learn one of the species of wrens can be heard chattering "teakettle, teakettle, teakettle." Why are these bird calls so often in the form of trinities?
The bird made me think of a childhood friend. Funny how memories are summoned.
Strange how we run into people. I was on social media and saw the name of one of my Flickr contacts in a tease for a New Yorker article that was floating down the screen, clicked on it, and it turned out to be authored by Pulitzer-winner Gregory Pardlo.
This documentary should please Kubrick fans, who are always eager for more insight into the working process of the director, arguably one of the greatest filmmakers in living memory.
It’s an anecdotal documentary, a series of tales told by Kubrick’s longtime factotum, Emilio D’Alessandro.
It’s such a treat to see inside Kubrick’s mind, his daily struggles with detail and exactitude, both in art and in life. He maintained large estates and these were filled with animals Kubrick had charitably taken in (even a donkey that was going to be put down). The animals were clearly loved and treated well.
There was a note (one of thousands Kubrick had scrawled to Emilio over many years) that hit a nerve. It was a note worrying about the possibility of fire at the director’s estate. Should such a tragedy occur, Kubrick explained, Emilio was to put the cats in one car and the dogs in another and to transport them to the neighboring estate. If you’re the owner of several cats, you’ve doubtless had this nightmare play out in your head and probably come to the same conclusion and makeshift solution. I’ve had this same “cats in the car” nightmare before.
About those notes: Emilio has apparently preserved every single note Kubrick ever scrawled or typed on the back of an envelope or piece of scrap paper. These notes are featured throughout the documentary. Kubrick was apparently a very demanding but very kind and generous employer, and one senses that the respect Emilio held for Kubrick was reciprocated. Clearly, a friendship arose from this close working relationship. When Emilio’s son was gravely injured, Kubrick offered to pay for his child to see one of the best doctors in London at the time.
Emilio’s devotion to Stanley strains credulity at times. It was a 24/7 job. Like Kubrick himself, the man was a workhorse and a marvel of efficiency. He really sacrificed his own family life for Kubrick. Doubtless, this helped Kubrick focus on his art. So arguably Stanley helped improve Kubrick’s art. And he gave three years notice when he did finally decide it was time to get back to family life. Three. Year’s. Notice. Imagine.
In the world, or behind the world,
my child nearby is concealed: Among the high, free-ranging plants At the edge of the bluff,
Or, on the red stone-crop below,
Dead, immortally hidden from view.
A cloud comes over;
Seeking a child within leaves
Or a child whose home is the cloud,
I feel the sun strongly divide
Into life and death. Lightly, at the change, someone laughs.
More charged than this wind not to speak,
Lest he fall from his life on the sound Of my voice, I come, Drawn into his waiting game.
