The etymology of “redemption”

I can’t help but look at a word’s older meanings when trying to understand the concept it represents. Without cultural (i.e. sociohistorical) context, any word is flat and drab. In this particular case, I’m tempted to think of coupons, rather than souls or minds, if I don’t bother to think etymologically. Picking apart the Latin construction, we get two basic parts:

1. re(d)-, an extremely common Latin prefix meaning essentially “again” or “back to the original place”
2. emere, a Latin verb meaning “to buy,” itself consisting of the prefix e(x)-, meaning “out of,” and merere, “to deserve” (cf. English “merit”).¹ Together, then, as emere, it means “that which is earned.”

It seems, then, that redemption is a later purchase, the delayed derivation of value. And this makes a hell of a lot of sense.²

The philosophy of “redemption”

My latest realization in this line of thought, by which I mean the understanding of suffering, is that I’ve been searching for a Grand Unified Theory of Belief. Much like how comparative mythology fascinates me by pointing out isomorphisms in folklore across significant cultural boundaries, theology is interesting to me only in the singleness of its various forms. It sounds obtuse, irreverent far beyond the point of atheism, to say of the multiplicity of religious belief in the world, “It’s all the same.” But often, that’s precisely how I feel.

One of the most important themes in understanding redemption, in my mind, is that of return. There is progress, yes—much like the “If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way” philosophy³—a progress that implies deviation and therefore growth. But more important than that, there is an eventual homecoming, a point at which the wayfarer returns to the point of departure, and discovers in the process that home is everywhere. (At the risk of sounding didactic, please remember that Daoism’s 道 means “way” or “path”.)

Circles, arcs, bends, and loops

It seems to me that this discussion of redemption, while certainly encompassing broad swaths of philosophy and theology, is mostly a messy stew of linguistics and numerology, of geometry and divination. This is unfortunate in terms of ease of understanding, but fortunate in terms of fun.

All the curvatures listed above (viz. circles, arcs, bends, and loops) can be understood in different ways, specifically as referring to space (e.g. arc) or time (e.g. loop). This is an expected byproduct of the spatiotemporalization so common in Western cultures, and consequently seen throughout the English language. For the sake of clarity, I’ll define each curvature according to its use in the present argument.⁴

1. circle: A process or concept exhibiting unity, whether spatial or temporal, in form or function
2. arc: Progress whose path indicates transverse velocity (i.e. the presence of any vector both nonidentical to, and acting upon, the initial trajectory)
3. bend: Permutation to an otherwise straight trajectory which introduces curvature, thereby increasing the distance traveled (i.e. path) in a discrete but nonlinear fashion
4. loop: A reiterating process exhibiting a constant semantic structure which varies only in its temporal displacement

The confluence of these shapes and concepts forms the path to redemption.

The circle, as an entity both spatial and temporal, is the recognition of the illusion of difference. The presence of infinity in the recursive symmetry of the circle is a mark of divinity. The absolute oneness of the circle approaches nonness, yet cannot reach it in its silence.

The arc is often the straightest path possible. It represents the presence of plural forces in the structuring of the path, the eternal inertia of past direction, even after the future path has been chosen. A well crafted arc is beautiful and efficient, a joyous yet purposed teleological ride.

The bend is a change in the path. It can turn a line into an arc, or a circle into an ellipse. It is the purposeful modification of real elements in order to arrive at a finite future. Over time, a bend can be thought of as periodicity or oscillation in a waveform.

The loop is a careful reconsideration of an attempt, amounting essentially to “How about now?” The attempt must work at some point. Given the constant restructuring of the path, the loop constitutes stored memory. It can reattach to the past, and thereby affect the future.

Spirals, helices, vortices, and circles

Now, further spatialization of the already temporal concepts discussed here yields new concepts ripe for our understanding. If 道 is to be understood as a 1-dimensional component to redemption, i.e. the path (or line), then the previous section detailed the 2-dimensional constructs of the system. This section deals with the 3-dimensional concepts of redemption.

Of course, 道 differs substantially from a mere 1-dimensional line; its quality of a path mandates consideration in terms of at least two dimensions, to include time with direction, resulting in progress and perspective. And certainly at least “loop” from the 2-dimensional category above demands time, and therefore that list can be understood as consisting of 3-dimensional objects. By the same logic, the concepts discussed in this section could be seen as either 3- or 4-dimensional paths. (This will be the last time this dimensional transformation is carried out.)

Enter the definitions.

1. spiral: Curve  originating at a central point, around which it revolves and from which it grows progressively more distant; notably passes through same radii again and again, but at different and discrete points each time
2. helix: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding circle on two axes; essentially a circle with an “activated” third (z-) axis
3. vortex: A 3-dimensional curve congruent with a corresponding spiral on two axes; essentially a spiral with an “activated” third (z-) axis
4. circle: A 3-dimensional progression functionally constant on two axes; the most constant of all shapes and thoughts, even more so than a line, given that the circle revisits space in displaced time

And the expanded discussion.

The spiral remembers but diverges. Its progress in difference is fueled by fear of the past, by the yearning to change. In its excellence in a single plane, it is blind to, and therefore bound by, infinitely more.

The helix remembers and honors. Even in its adherence to tradition, however, it cannot help but evolve: it continually remakes itself in its own image, or in the image of the thought which preceded it. Nevertheless, it excels in only a single dimension, and remains bound in two.

The vortex, for all its striving, is trapped in its aspiration. It is defined by the nature of the progress it once made, and perpetuates the sins of its father, which it long ago became.

The circle in three dimensions contains the potential to rewrite itself.⁵ It exhibits loyalty and purpose, fidelity to the ineffable cause of self without context: Monism.⁶

The spiral remembers and wanders. Wandering can be ordered.

The helix remembers honor. It is resolute, like a crystal lattice. Its strength and eternity allows for change outside itself: within.

The vortex cannot consume its origin.

Shapes, lines, times, and rhymes. The indivisible is invisible. The effort serves; having made it through, we are both younger and older.

We cannot go back. Nevertheless, we must try.

1. See entry for “exempt” at EtymOnline.
2. Interestingly enough, Exodus 21:8 uses the word to refer to the buying back of slaves!
3. See the previous post, an excerpt from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed.
4. There is nothing remotely mathematical about these definitions. They were made up and hammered into shape specifically for the sake of this discussion. As such, they might differ considerably from their more traditional forms.
5. Cf. death code, Oroborus.
6. Cf. Einheit, zⁿ = 1, ت(وحيد), 一神教.

In the time leading up to my recent graduation, I’ve been doing landscaping work on weekends in order to pay the bills. I took a few weekends off to graduate, but I’ll be picking it back up this weekend to keep myself afloat economically, until something bigger and better comes along.

There is something unreal about this type of work. Work of the hands. Moving earth. Touching all different types of life and telling them where to go, where they can best be provided for. Although all of this stuff is unquestionably grounded in the real, it goes—for me—beyond the physical form and instills meaning. There is a reason that the gardener is, as a character, a literary device unto itself, and I’m just beginning to understand that.

A few weeks ago, while working in a housing development, mulching beds, an old man came outside to make some special requests. I obliged, and he came out again and tipped me $20. Later, he yet again came outside, and sat down to watch our crew working. He asked me how long I’ve been doing this type of work. I said, oh, I don’t know, that it’s seasonal work and altogether maybe ten years, just over the summers.

He told me a story about how, when he was “my age,” whatever he took that to be, he had a job working a combine harvester. Made a dollar an hour, I’m pretty sure he claimed. He loved that job. But eventually he found a better job in a glass factory, making three times the money, with benefits, too. He took it without hesitation. He worked the new job for three days, then quit and went back to manning the combine.

“So, I understand why you do the work you do.”

He seemed to think there was great wisdom in there somewhere.

I don’t yet pretend to appreciate the depth of what that man was trying to communicate to me, but flavor of the message is still with me. It’s as though I entered the room during the dying fall, and while I don’t have a prayer of knowing on what chord the piece ended, the overtones haunt me. In the old man’s words I heard the memory of still older words:

My words have ancient beginnings.

This was translated from 言有宗, literally “words have ancestors.” I’ve found myself over the past year or two becoming so open-minded and philosophically promiscuous that I think I’ve crossed back over into conservative territory. I seem to believe that at some remote point in history or prehistory, some person, whether mystic or shaman or prophet or scholar, did indeed figure out the nature of reality, or at least came damn close. The odds that I’ll encounter such an individual in my lifetime, face-to-face, are rather slim, though, so I’ve turned to exegesis.

And landscaping.

In spe (και ημέρες)

The title of this post comes from a short essay by Denise Levertov, in which she discusses the process of nurturing belief through the carrying out of good deeds. At least, that’s what I think it’s about—I only read the first page of it. It was enough to inspire me. I suppose you could say I believed it.

What speaks to me about this philosophy is that I genuinely believe that certain types of work will sustain and satisfy, and others will not. Others can even lead one far astray.

Where I’m at right now is the first time I’ve ever really had to decide how I can best interface with the world. Is it wrong that I don’t really care whether Verizon uses Twitter to provide better customer service? Is it illogical that I’d sooner work for a major marketing firm than canvass for Greenpeace? I have substantial misgivings about even the Peace Corps.

It seems the only option left open to me is graduate study. I want to be a professor. To put it quite simply, I can’t imagine any other job allowing me to keep up the ritual of reading and writing I’ve envisioned for myself as necessary for cultivating a healthy soul. So I’ll spend the next year or so piecing together journal articles with the sundry professors who will hire me a month at a time to edit their work.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get my hands dirty one of these days.

Last night, while training home with some friends after watching an incredible performance of classical guitar at a coffee shop in a suburb, it was somehow decided that it would be interesting to hang out with friends while not using verbal communication. I believe this was inspired by Jordan’s comment, “Man, I wish you guys didn’t speak English.” He seemed to feel that our not speaking the same language would help him achieve insanity, which is definitely one of his most solid goals in life.

We discussed the terms of the experiment while walking to get something to eat. We pledged that once we’d procured 40s and ‘za, the experiment would commence. (While we naturally wanted to start it as early as possible, we thought it’d be inexcusably rude to try to order food without using words.) It was decided that sounds were legal, but referencing any phonemes already existing in any established language (of which any of us had knowledge) was not.

There was much debate surrounding the use of gesticulations. Ultimately it was agreed that while nearly every physical gesture is culturally constructed and therefore constitutive of language, a high degree of abstraction of which would imply associations with verbal communication, certain gesticulates should be made legal, as we did not trust ourselves to avoid them: squinting to convey lack of comprehension; a widening of the eyes to mean surprise; and of course nodding of the head to mean “yes” and shaking to mean “no.”

What surprised me about the experiment is how fluidly we four were able to communicate with each other. I made a your-mom joke, and everyone got it—and we were all stunned at how that was possible. A few hours into the evening, I expressed to one friend that our rapidly codifying system of grunts and gestures was for all intents and purposes identical to our regular spoken language. In other words, it didn’t end up feeling much like an experiment at all, once we got into it. We realized that the next step was to attempt to hang out with no verbal communication, and no nonverbal communication.

Naturally that’s a concept we can approach only asymptotically at best, but I’m intrigued at the chance to try. Somehow I’d expected that the language experiment we ran last night would test my motives to hang out with my friends; for example, if we can’t talk to each other, what else is there? What do we do? But talk we could, because, as it turns out, most of the meaning we have of each other is assumed and might reside within ourselves.

We even renamed each other.

So, I feel I’ve learned a lot about how languages evolve. It was like a crash course in memetics. I highly recommend the experiment to anyone at all curious about communication theory, or merely who’s introspective. Maybe someday I can impose it on a class during a 3-hour session. That would be fun.

The strokes

According to the literature and instruction I’ve encountered, every movement of the brush on paper in calligraphy falls into one of eight categories of strokes:

1. Dian or 點: Also known as the “dot,” this is the most fundamental stroke, and is contained, at least to some degree, within all the others.
2. Heng or 横: Horizontal stroke, present in nearly every character. Ends with dian.
3. Shu or 竪: Basic vertical stroke, forms the core of very many characters. Is very often the first stroke in simple or very complex characters. Begins with dian.
4. Gou or 鉤: The “hook.” Essentially an ornamental application of dian to finish off a shu.
5. Ti or 提: A lifting motion, almost always used in tandem with a complementary stroke (such as the wan in the example below).
6. Wan or 彎: A gently curved stroke, beginning, as usual, with dian. Often found in the bottom part of a character or radical.
7. Pie or 撇: Short, simple stroke, similar to dian and often used to complement it (for example, in 立).
8. Na or 捺: A weighty press with the brush, dragging out into a blade-like tip. The most dramatic stroke. Can take up a great distance and therefore allows for great expression (for example, as the bottommost radical in 近).

Interestingly enough, there is a single Chinese character that shows every stroke in action: 永 or yong. It means “eternal.”

Picture hijacked from the Wikipedia article on the Eight Principles of Yong and retouched for readability

In my first calligraphy class, I spent a lot of time grokking the dot (點). I drew dot upon dot upon dot, strung them all up in a row, made pyramids out of them. I had to at the least feign an attempt at mastering the dot before moving onto more complicated characters—which I did eventually manage to do.

Stroke order

The next point of concern was learning how to arrange all the strokes into a coherent whole. As should be expected, there’s an elegantly simple set of rules governing how to form characters. From the reading I’ve done on the subject recently, it appears that these rules primarily founded on practicality, meaning that they intend to facilitate ease of writing while ensuring clear expression. For example, characters are drawn from top to bottom, with halving strokes (shu or 竪) last, as in the character 車, below.

Image taken unaltered from the Wikipedia article on stroke order

What I found most fascinating is that since Chinese was traditionally written top-to-bottom, right-left (whereas English is left-right, top-to-bottom), the stroke order seems geared toward that mentality. China has incorporated small adjustments to stroke order in their revision of the writing system in order to accommodate for the contemporary practice of writing horizontally rather than vertically. As ever, Wikipedia knows tons about this.

Taking it home with me

Of course, the techniques I was taught for calligraphy with a brush necessitate some translation for writing with a pen in my notebook. A pen hardly allows for the level of expression that a brush does, making the na (捺) stroke substantially less fun, but I’ve found that I compensate for this lack by paying closer attention to the acceleration of curves in my writing. It’s like a whole new cursive.

Most stunningly, it’s made me completely reevaluate the way I approach writing things by hand in English. I’ve decided to dedicate some time to refining my penmanship in English, just because I realized how absolutely awesome it could be if I took the time to develop it.

I’m very happy I’ve started down this road.

Rather early on in my stay here, I caught word of a calligraphy club at our university. I made sure I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like that, and attended the first one I could. I learned a hell of a lot in just one session.

Since that experience I’ve gone on to read a lot about Chinese characters, from calligraphic technique, to character composition, to input systems on electronic devices.

In the coming days I plan to post a small series handling each of these categories.

Till then.

Oh, and by the way, the title of the blog post contains a 3 in cuneiform: 𒐈. If it’s not displaying correctly for you, you can use this awesome site to help yourself out.

That is, of course, if you give a damn about having cuneiform display correctly on your computer. Which you probably should.

It didn’t work properly for me at first, either, but since I use Ubuntu, setting it up was as simple as typing in “cuneiform” and clicking a button.

Oh, free software, how you delight me!

In terms of translating the name of the city, I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I have an idea. I’ve consulted with an American here who knows much, much more Mandarin than I—he’s studied it for about two years and is conversationally quite proficient—and he wasn’t able to nail it down at first. The first character, 中, usually means “middle” (the word for “China” in Mandarin is 中國, which literally means “middle country”). The second character, 壢, doesn’t have an entry in any dictionary I’ve tried, but if you remove the leftmost radical from it, which is 土 or tǔ, the character becomes 歷, which means “to pass through” or “to undergo.”

土 or tǔ means “earth” and is present in the words for “cultivate,” “soil,” “land,” and “territory.” So all together, 中壢 seems to mean something like “middle passage through the land.” And honestly, if you take a look at the geography around here, it makes sense that the city would be named that.

Makes sense, no?

Anyway, I’ll throw up some more pics soon. I just wanted to offer a more formal introduction to the city first.

The first trip I took up there, a Friday, my application was declined. The reason given was that they at the consulate wanted to know more about the curriculum at the university in Taiwan I’d be attending. I didn’t see why that was important, of course, and still don’t, actually, but, not having access to The Big Book Of Important Shit like these people evidently do, I figured it was best to take their word for it and bring back whatever they asked for. My acceptance letters to the program from both my unversity in the U.S. and the university in Taiwan were simply insufficient to convince these people of my intention to attend classes there. OK, super.

So I made a second trip. This was on the following Wednesday, the only day of finals week at my university that I didn’t have an exam. I brought with me my life history on paper. I had e-mails from every party involved in the matter, written confirmation of disbursement of my scholarship, bank statements corroborating a deposit of equal value, acceptance letters, Cheetos, a written statement from my mom saying how awesome I am—there was no way they could turn me down.

The girl helping me through the application process seemed to think the same. Then she slid the whole mass of papers back to me and said, “You also need two photos and you don’t have those.” I slowly touched my finger to the pictures I’d placed on her desk along with everything else. She seemed a little annoyed that she’d have to go through with the application process, but the papers were slid back across the table and the photos picked up.

“These aren’t the right size. We cannot use them and so the application is invalid. You will have to come again.”

I of course proceeded to explain that they were so totally the right size that the International Bureau of Weights and Measures had written me requesting to house one of them in some basement in Paris as the fucking SI standard for passport photo. My argument was less than persuasive.

Fortunately—according to her—I wasn’t to fret, because replacement photos could easily be obtained from a photo store that was just around the corner from the consulate. Not half a block away! I’d shown up at a reasonable time, so it looked like I could go get new photos, then come back and finish the application in plenty of time, same day. Great, right?

It should not have surprised me that the photo place, literally two doors down from the Taiwanese Consulate—a single Starbucks weakly fractured the aura of assocation between the two establishments—was run by Taiwanese people. I waited behind a persnickety woman for a while, before an employee stepped in from the side and asked me what I needed. I said a photo for a Taiwanese visa, and she responded with pleasure, as though it were an exceedingly simple task. She showed me to the photographer in the back.

It should be noted that the nice man taking my picture grinned and gave me a thumbs up as I snapped a pic of this sign with my cell phone.

After snapping a few shots and showing them to me for comparison, so that I could choose the one with least glare on my glasses, the man plugged in his camera and began to crop the photos on a computer. He then printed them out and cut them up, I believe cropping them even further. Whatever. He assured me he was very familiar with the requirements for “next door.” No surprise there.

The friendly old photographer hands me my two freshly cut photographs in an envelope and sends me off to the register up front. When I get there, the helpful cashier with a great New York accent reasonably supposes, “American passport?” I said no, that actually they were for a visa for Taiwan. He yells, “Oh!” and with a single button press on the register, my total flips from $6.00 to $14.50. For two photos. I recalled that I’d paid $9 in Philadelphia for six photos, which I still believed (and still do believe) were the right size.

These new ones I got were indeed exactly the same as my old ones. I only got two with my purchase, though, so I couldn’t take one home to show to friends, as two were required by the application. Bah.

So I pass by the Starbucks and head upstairs at the consulate again. I turn in my photos. The woman is very pleased with me, presumably because of how willingly I gave $14.50 to her cousin or brother or uncle, and says my application is now complete. She fills out a “visa pickup” form, handwrites in 4:00pm, and dismisses me for the time being.

I wander around that section of New York—right next to Bryant Park and the NYPL, for those interested—for a bit, and make it back by 4:00pm on the dot. The woman who helped me earlier that afternoon looks very upset and motions me over hastily to ask what I’m doing here. I point to the time on the paper she’d given me, and she points to the date, which was the day after. Oops.

On my third trip to New York, several days later, I picked up the visa without a single incident. Well, actually, there was one slight issue, but the people in New York assure me it’s not a problem: my visa is good for only 60 days, when my trip will last substantially longer than that.

Oh, well. At least I have something to let me into the country!

Usage Note: In recent years the verb sense of dialogue meaning “to engage in an informal exchange of views” has been revived, particularly with reference to communication between parties in institutional or political contexts. Although Shakespeare, Coleridge, and Carlyle used it, this usage today is widely regarded as jargon or bureaucratese. Ninety-eight percent of the Usage Panel rejects the sentence Critics have charged that the department was remiss in not trying to dialogue with representatives of the community before hiring the new officers.

I’m all for revival of archaic forms of words, but I guess this rejection makes sense. It’s also led me to find out that both the American Heritage Dictionary and Merriam-Webster have entries for “bureaucratese,” yet Google is still oblivious to this.

Also, if you are considering ever using the word “dialogue” in any sense in the future, please heed this:

dialogue
c.1225, “literary work consisting of a conversation between two or more people,” from O.Fr. dialoge, from L. dialogus, from Gk. dialogos, related to dialogesthai “converse,” from dia- “across” + legein “speak” (see lecture). Sense broadened to “a conversation” 1401. Mistaken belief that it can only mean “conversation between two persons” is from confusion of dia- and di-.

It really bothers me when people try to correct me for using “dialogue” to refer to a discussion among many people.

Back in the States, I’ve already taken two quarters of Mandarin. The coursework was primarily in Pinyin, which means I didn’t really learn many characters. My pronunciation was decent, though, as I was fortunate enough to have a professor from Taiwan and one from Beijing. I got the best of both worlds, so to speak.

Here in Germany, I took an additional course in Mandarin, which assumed knowledge of characters. Pinyin was used exceedingly sparingly (basically whenever I asked the professor to write something in Pinyin). It was in some sense a crash course, and I had to learn at least 200 characters for the final exam, which I ended up getting a B on.

In Taiwan, however, the characters are very different from the characters used in mainland China.

Regarding the trip to Taiwan in the fall, I recently received a placement exam for Chinese via e-mail. I thought, “No sweat!” and popped it open. I actually laughed out loud when I saw it. First question:

(   )今天是李小姐的生日,王先生___她吃飯。

1. 送
2. 請
3. 買
4. 賣

If you know the answer, hook me up in a comment, OK? Because I sure as hell don’t.

Fuck traditional characters.

Recently I was speaking with an American who mentioned a commercial that mocked German accents in English. That’s right up my alley, so I YouTubed it. Behold.

Classic, no? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this kind of accent around here, and I’ll never grow tired of it. In fact, I think I’ll adopt it when I’m back in the States. I bet it gets all the ladies.

Speaking of getting all the ladies, I love this guy, Stefen Raab. The name of this song is “Maschendrautzahn” which just means chain link fence. He uses a sample of an old lady, I think from Hessen, saying that word as his chorus. I love the song because it’s simultaneously mocking and celebrating the American lifestyle, like all contemporary German culture, and it’s also mocking and celebrating the goofy accent of the woman. One commenter on the video writes the word as she says it “Moaschendrahtzoaun.”

While trolling around on YouTube, I also found a pretty decent video of a German doing accents in French, Italian, American English, and Spanish. The American sounded slightly too French to me, but of course I’m picky, because nobody can do an American accent in German like I can.

OK, three video threshhold reached. If you’re interested, do make sure to check out Arnold Schwarzenegger doing interviews in German. He’s Austrian, so his German does sound a little silly to me, but it really puts his accent in English in context.

Please let me know vat you sink of ze videos.

Here in Germany, I’m quite proud of my linguistic ability. German is far and away my strongest foreign language, so I can have some serious fun with it. (I still suck at Bavarian, Frankish, and Swabian, so don’t go there.) Although I still have a deplorable American accent, I’m quite fluent, and can joke and converse freely. When I first got here, it was quite a challenge for me to learn casual, slangy German, as I first learned the language on paper, and had no experience speaking it or even hearing it be spoken.

Some of the Americans here have a different perspective, and have picked it up mostly through conversation, not by combing through Goethe line by line or translating poetry for fun. These individuals are completely lost when it comes to differentiating between the dative and genitive case, who are clueless when it comes to proper declension of adjectives, because Germans typically slur over that stuff when speaking. To quote Mark Twain:

I say to myself, “REGEN (rain) is masculine–or maybe it is feminine–or possibly neuter–it is too much trouble to look now. Therefore, it is either DER (the) Regen, or DIE (the) Regen, or DAS (the) Regen, according to which gender it may turn out to be when I look. In the interest of science, I will cipher it out on the hypothesis that it is masculine. Very well–then THE rain is DER Regen, if it is simply in the quiescent state of being MENTIONED, without enlargement or discussion–Nominative case; but if this rain is lying around, in a kind of a general way on the ground, it is then definitely located, it is DOING SOMETHING–that is, RESTING (which is one of the German grammar’s ideas of doing something), and this throws the rain into the Dative case, and makes it DEM Regen. However, this rain is not resting, but is doing something ACTIVELY,–it is falling–to interfere with the bird, likely–and this indicates MOVEMENT, which has the effect of sliding it into the Accusative case and changing DEM Regen into DEN Regen.” Having completed the grammatical horoscope of this matter, I answer up confidently and state in German that the bird is staying in the blacksmith shop “wegen (on account of) DEN Regen.” Then the teacher lets me softly down with the remark that whenever the word “wegen” drops into a sentence, it ALWAYS throws that subject into the GENITIVE case, regardless of consequences–and therefore this bird stayed in the blacksmith shop “wegen DES Regens.”

Speaking German is a real party and a half. Although I’ve repeatedly assured friends here not to stress about these grammatical trivialities in casual conversation, as der, die, das, and dem pretty much all become dɛ when speaking quickly, there’s something alluring about mastering such absurd complexity. Understandable.

Well, it turns out that at least in French, native speakers can’t make up their minds about gender.

Fifty-six native French speakers, asked to assign the gender of 93 masculine words, uniformly agreed on only 17 of them. Asked to assign the gender of 50 feminine words, they uniformly agreed only 1 of them. Some of the words had been anecdotally identified as tricky cases, but others were plain old common nouns.

[...]

There’s an even more interesting twist in Ayoun’s native-speaker results. Her native speakers fell into two groups: 14 adult speakers and 42 teenage speakers. On most grammatical tasks, for all intents and purposes, teenagers’ native-language abilities are identical to adults’ abilities. But when she broke down the gender-assignment task results by age, she found that teenagers showed considerably more variation than the adults. On the 50 feminine nouns, for example, the 14 adults all agreed on 21 of them, while the 42 teenagers agreed on only one: cible, ‘target’. Of the 93 masculine nouns, the adults agreed on 51 of them, while all adults and teenagers agreed on only 17 (of 93!!)

Must be all those damn lolcats. (I would so love to see lolcats in French.) While it’s quite easy to have a “damn teenagers” attitude about this, I’ve found it quite remarkable here in Bavaria how many of my German peers seem able to flip effortlessly between blessed High German and whatever dialect is native to them (e.g. Bavarian, Frankish, Swabian). While it could be construed that such frequent transition would facilitate the proliferation of variation and inconsistencies, I must note that the young people I speak with very consciously categorize their speech patterns. In other words, they know that in High German it’s “die Butter,” and that only the goofy old Bavarian people around town say “der Butter.”

Polyglotism has a lot going for it, to be sure. I’m not convinced, however, that it contributes as substantially to the occurrence of linguistic variation as monolingualism does. Either way, I’m damn glad to know that it’s “wegen des Regens.”

So eloquently rendered.

You, neighbor God, if, during these long nights
I should disturb you with loud knocking—
So it goes. Because I rarely hear you breathe
And know: you’re alone in there.
When you need something, and no one’s there
To give you a sip from the cup of water you’re fumbling for:
I am always listening. Give the smallest sign.
I’m right here.

Only this slender wall is between us,
Merely by chance; it very well could be that:
A single cry from you or from me—
And it would crumble
Without so much as a whisper.

The wall is made in your image.

Your images stand before you like names.
And if my light should escape me
And the depths of me thereby recognize you,
Then deflect it with the brilliance of your form.

And my sanity, rapidly waning,
Is without home, broken off from you.

Maddening.

Because I love you, tonight
I came to you, so wild and whispery,
And so you can never forget me,
I robbed you of your soul.

It is now with me and belongs to me completely
Through good times and also bad;
From my wild, burning love
Not even the angels can save you.

Wouldn’t that make a killer metal song?!

Cry My Name!

decimation
1549, from L.L. decimationem, from L. decimare “the removal or destruction of one-tenth,” from decem “ten.” Killing one in ten, chosen by lots, from a rebellious city or a mutinous army was a common punishment in classical times. Earliest sense in Eng. was of a tithe; decimate has been used (incorrectly, to the irritation of pedants) since 1663 for “destroy a large portion of.”

It was actually this article in the Oxford University Press (USA) blog that tipped me off to the error of my ways.

I wonder how many people silently snickered as I regaled them with tales of how I “decimated” the opposing army in Command & Conquer 3. Really, I guess, I’m wondering how many people snickered specifically because they knew this etymological trivium. I’m guessing not too many.

Oh, well. I’m off to get decimated at Hofbräuhaus tonight, as I’ve got further studying to do this week, and can’t afford to get annihilated.

Because I’m throughly uncultured, I thought it was a prank somehow, and considered submitting it to Digg. That suspicion of mine also reveals a cripplingly weak understanding of closed versus open systems in content production. Did I think somebody had clicked “Edit this article” on the thesaurus entry for “ignorance” and added this weird phrase? Sheesh.

So I wreak my Google Fu and find out that the term refers to an article from 1957 by Jean Shepherd entitled “Night People vs. Creeping Meatballism,” in which the author attempts to persuade his readers to combat consumer culture and learn to laugh it out the door at every opportunity. (View a high-quality scanned version of the article here.) Here’s a snippet.

The average person today thinks in certain prescribed patterns. People today have a genuine fear of stepping out and thinking on their own. “Creeping Meatballism” is this rejection of individuality. It’s conformity.

[...]

The guy who has been taken in by the “Meatball” philosophy is the guy who really believes that contemporary people are slim, and clean-limbed, and they’re so much fun to be with… because they drink Pepsi-Cola. As long as he believes this, he’s in the clutches of “Creeping Meatballism”. He’s a “Day People”. Let me give you some examples of “Creeping Meatballism” at work..

My appreciation of American culture just leveled up. I guess it makes sense for a thesaurus to include this entry as a synonym for “ignorance,” but I definitely have a problem with the fact that there’s no dictionary entry for it:

There are no dictionary entries for creeping meatballism, but creeping is spelled correctly.

Fantastic. Thanks a million for that one, Dictionary.com, you useless piece of trash.

Now, the most interesting aspect of my forays across the information superhighway was that I found out that I really should know who Jean Shepherd is. He’s the mastermind behind the movie A Christmas Story, having written both the novel on which it was based and most of the screenplay. Unfortunately, the film is on neither the top 100 films nor the 100 funniest films list put out by the AFI. That’s a damn shame, though it kind of curiously affirms Shepherd’s creeping meatball theory.

I also found an article in Time covering Shepherd’s radio antics, dated 1956. (He obviously talked about this night versus day person thing a lot, as the article quotes definitions of creeping meatballism not found in the 1957 version.) The article discusses Shepherd’s being alternately banned from and quickly regiven access to airwaves in America. To complement this, there’s a New York Times article from 2000 which details the influence his work wrought across American media, taking a look at the generous memorials given him, by journalists as illustrious as those responsible for NPR’s All Things Considered.

Now please excuse me while I go shoot my eye out.

I said, “Scheiße!”

That’s right. I was all by myself, and I said “Scheiße,” instead of “shit.”

This might not mean anything to you, but it means the world to me.

Get out of my brain, Germany!

Pretty 1337, huh? I’m so glad someone was googling “beer pong in German.”

Also, keeping in the spirit of the title of this post, are you confident you know what “pong” means?

pong  [pong, pawng]
–noun
1. an unpleasant smell; stink.
–verb (used without object)
2. to have a disagreeable smell; stink.

[Origin: 1915–20; of obscure orig.]

Interesting! Found it out by searching for “beer pong” on LEO, and getting “miefen” back for “pong (Brit.) [coll.].” The entries reference each other, which pissed me off, but fortunately Dictionary.com came through and now I know what “miefen” means.

You mief, dude.

Check out this story about babies exhibiting social intelligence.

The babies were sat on their parents’ laps and shown a display representing a character trying to climb a hill.

The climbing character, which had eyes to make it human-like, was either knocked down the hill by an unhelpful character (a toy of a different shape and colour) or pushed up the hill by a helper cartoon figure (another shape and colour).

After watching the “puppet show” several times, each baby was presented with the helper and hinderer toys and asked to pick one.

All of the 12 six-month-old babies tested and 14 of the 16 10-month-olds reached out to touch the helper character rather than the anti-social one.

Researchers controlled for various aspects of appearance in order to be certain the babies were really making their choice based on who helped. This actually doesn’t come as a very big surprise to me, but it’s definitely nice to have some evidence that points to such reasoning being present in infants less than a year old.

Next up is a poorly conceived study that claims men are motivated by superior wages. First off, duh. Second, there’s no control group! The entire sample is composed of men, 38 of them, and yet the researchers claim their results applied to men rather than to humans in general. Now, this could just be shoddy reporting, but why would the researchers only select male participants?

In the study, 38 pairs of male volunteers were asked to perform the same simple task simultaneously, and promised payment for success.

Both “players” were asked to estimate the number of dots appearing on a screen. Providing the right answer earned a real financial reward between 30 (£22) and 120 (£86) euros. Each of the participants was told how their partners had performed and how much they were paid.

[...]

A wrong answer, and no payment, resulted in a reduction in blood flow to the “reward region”. But the area “lit up” when volunteers earned money, and interestingly showed far more activity if a player received more than his partner.

This indicated that stimulation of the reward centre was not merely linked to individual success, but to the success of others.

Finally, I found a nice 10-page write-up on the pronunciation of “Thanksgiving.” Apparently the word has pretty much always been accented on the second syllable, and it’s somewhat of a linguistic oddity because of that. Who knew? I think my favorite part of the article was these archaic spelling examples:

1539 BIBLE (Great) 1 Tim. iv. 4 For all the creatures of God are good, and nothing to be refused, yf it be receaued with thankesgeuynge.
1535 COVERDALE Ps. xxxix. [xl.] 3 He hath put a new songe in my mouth, euen a thankesgeuynge vnto oure God.
1641 Nicholas Papers (Camden) 10 It was resolved that there shalbe on ye 7th of September next a publique thanksgiving for this good accord betweene ye 2 nacions.

What a silly language English is.

I found this on Word Origins, which has a pretty bitching weekly newsletter on etymology.