Monthly Archives: November 2012

plunger

You are a plunger if you plunge – if you lunge into the water, or fall like a plumb line: fill your lungs and dive in, and sink like lead. The direction is down, the image liquid; you may plunge into work or conversation or adventure, but it is like splashing into a lake, or a big bowl – perhaps of punch. The sound of a body entering deep liquid at speed: “plunge” (first, of course, you jump – and “jump” is like a sort of reversal of “plunge”, sonically: the voiced affricate ge or j, the central vowel and nasal un or um, the voiceless bilabial stop p… a difference is that there is a liquid l in plunge). And you do not make a plunge; you take the plunge – always one, and definite, and taken.

Usually, of course, the you that is a plunger is not a person. There are a few things that are called plungers, and they generally operate with a piston action – as in a coffee press, or a switch that one operates by pushing down on. Anything can plunge, but a plunger is conceptualized as having a piston-like shape: a larger head, circular but flattened or cup-like, and a long handle, extending back like a motion line in a cartoon. You could shoot it like an arrow. A suction-cup arrow.

A suction cup is, of course, what we think of most on the end of a plunger. Your toilet is clogged and you need an unplugger to purge it. You take the plunger and plunge into the work: plunge it into the disgusting water, lunge forward and pull backwards repeatedly; it intakes and expels like a lung (or something rather less worth naming). Push down u pull up n and repeat until the lump loosens and gurgles and chugs down, expunged. It may take some work. If the plunger is not of good quality, the rubber may lose flexibility in the cold water and simply break after a time, the rod punching its way through the cup. I had to go buy a new one today. How annoying.

Plunger, like so much of our vocabulary, has been brought back in a knapsack from a trip to France, pressed into service like a souvenir French press; the French word is plongeur, and the French for the verb plunge is plonger. The trail follows a curving route downward to Latin and plumbum, “lead” (Pb), as in a plumb bob or other leaded line cast and suspended. (I will avoid commentaries on lead bellies and plum bums.) In fishing terms, if you plunge, you drop in like a sinker.

And you can drop a plunger in a sink, too; they’re not just for toilets. Any clog in a pipe may be susceptible to forcing by compressing the water column with an abrupt pumping action. Oh, yes: plungers may look like suction cups, but they often suck at suction, so to speak; they are much more effective in the pushing part, typically. Which is suitable: when we think of plunging, we just think of the entry. Can you even tell me an equivalent word for exiting the body of water?

fry

The streams of word country are sizzling with fry. Freyja has worked her magic, that goddess of love, beauty, and fertility, and will be back for her portfolios of war and death later. Now Frigg has bestowed motherhood on the waters (no naughty jokes about Frigging, please). The inchoate caviar has dehisced into a whitewater of whitebait. The Old Norse seed fræ has become first those eggs and now the young fish, the myriad glittering flutterings swarming the riffles and rills: the fry, stirring.

Oh, how they coruscate in the sun filtered through the water. You can see the flip of the fins in the f and the flick of the tail in the y; you can feel in your mouth the urge to fly, the recoil and wide hurl and return to the original liquid and glide, [fraɪ]. Yes: it is your tongue, the fry. Your native tongue, ever swimming in the stream of your mouth, ever longing to fly free, ever spawning.

And diving deep, deep sometimes. That vocal slouch, the low final growl, “creaky phonation,” vocal fry, something more common than we notice but lately often associated with young women, sounding like a rehearsal for senescence, the recollection of Freyja.

But words and tongues last variously long. Some fry early in the sun. Some get burned out, try and try until they’re fried. Some are elected for electrocution and fry: the char in the chair of elocution. Some are a flash in the pan, fish flesh in the pan, our native tongue battered and twinned with its forever frenemy: French fries too. The Old Norse word meets its Latin doppelganger, scion of frigere, and fry fry. Is it even Steven?

It’s even Stephen – Stephen Fry. The British wit of eternally youthful mind loves to let the fry free on the river of his tongue. When he expatiates on language – a celebration of the spangling brook of lexis and syntax and a condemnation of those who would dam it and damn its fly fishers – the stream of his consciousness enjoins and enfranchises us all to become what I would call streamkeepers of the language, protecting against those who would poison the discourse, fostering its fecundity, mothering its multiplicity.

Fry is free. Literally: the family name Fry is related to its German homophone frei, “free”. Fry is free, and the fry are free, and as they are free to leap to a fry height we are free to sauté in the fry pan, to catch and taste and enjoy our Freiheit, our freedom. It is love, beauty, and fertility; it is seed, caviar, and it is the million young; it is the ways of ending and cooking and the side dishes; it is firm definition finding itself friable and soon frittered; it is the war of words and the death of tongues. As you shiver in the river you sit with Shiva. But all is fervid and free in the cycle of change, this incessant gallimaufry.

mediochre

I was reading a snotty restaurant review on TripAdvisor today (you can count on at least one snotty review no matter how good a place is), and I saw the word mediochre in it.

I’m sure most of you are thinking, “That’s mediocre. There’s no h in it.”

And indeed the person was not talking about a forgettable shade of drab. Nor was he making a pun. More’s the pity; it’s a perfectly good pun, and it’s not the first time it would have been made. In fact, it even has its own Urban Dictionary entry: “A shade of dark yellow that just isn’t living up to its potential.”

You can get more than 37,000 Google hits for mediochre, but most of them are not colour puns. No, they’re evidence of the effect of the weirdness of English spelling. In some languages, if something is spelled differently from how it sounds, you doubt the spelling; in English, the stranger variant is often likely to be assumed to be the more correct one. English even gets it in the neck – there are many people who assume that it’s spelled kneck.

Well, it’s not as though they lack precedents; there’s knock and knick-knack and knuckle to set a pattern for kneck. And for mediochre there’s euchre, sepulchre, Christmas, catachresis, and of course ochre. Since we don’t have a reliable, consistent system of spelling, if we’re unsure of a spelling, we think of other words of similar sound, and we will prefer the ones that stand out somehow.

Which is why mediocre is such a put-down. The definition of mediocre is supposed to be “middle of the road, neither good nor bad”; it comes from Latin mediocris, from medius “middle” and ocris “mountain, peak”, from Greek ὄκρις okris “point, protuberance”. So midpoint. The peak in the middle. The Romans didn’t have Gaussian curves, but the image is pretty much right on: the mediocre is the median, that big mass in the middle. It just happens that we generally despise that big mass in the middle. That’s where the shiny iron of excellence gives way to rust, and fails to “exceed expectations.” (Somehow we always expect that our expectations will be exceeded, and if something doesn’t exceed expectations, then it doesn’t live up to expectation. It’s a sort of Lake Wobegon Effect.)

So if someone writes “The food was mediocre,” it means “The food was really disappointing.” That TripAdvisor review I mentioned was a one-star review, not a two-star or three-star review. A mediocre talent is the worst kind: not good enough to be at all good, but not spectacularly, entertainingly bad. Mediocre stands right in the middle, and none of us want to be right in the middle, it seems, just not living up to our potential. We want standouts, exceptions. And, similarly, we want words with weirder spellings, silent letters and so on.

We want, in short, to paint the town red, not ochre. Well, rather, we want someone to paint the town red. Most of us do not really want to extend ourselves and take the risk. But we really do like those exceptions. Ochre is nice enough for decorative purposes, with its muddy yolk colour, and its name derived from Greek ὠχρός okhros “pale yellow” – nothing to really jump out at you there. But it’s, you know, rust. Literally – ochre colouring comes, historically, from iron oxide. You need some vivid accent colours to go with it, or you get a sort of ochlocracy (mob rule) of the middling.

And, likewise, your food has to have some spark of genius or insanity, or it’s just yuck, crap. Not that there’s any great spark of genius or exceptionality in using a middle-of-the-road word as a putdown. And, ironically, misspelling words in some exceptional way under the influence of other words with nonstandard spelling is an entirely too common and unexceptional thing to do. So a review that criticizes food for not going that extra mile as being “mediochre” is… well… need I say it?

bulrush

She sits by the reeds and reads. The water flows by, bluish, burbling, past the hedge of sedges. She leans on a bush, a shrub; behind is the brush land, subfusc, scumbled with stubble and rubble. But words grow even here. Words flow from the water; words grow in the tall grass, the cattails, these bulrushes. Grow? Well, she doesn’t know. They catch them, the words, and she plucks them out and dines with her eyes and mind.

Does she have the right to seize the incipient words? Is it not bullish, hubristic? An act of piracy, or papyrusy? Were they not meant for bigger things? Ought she not to blush?

She would sooner shrug. Send not to know for whom the words flow; they flow for thee, and they are filtered by these bulrushes. The water rushes them along and they are caught in the rushes, like the dailies from filming: words upon words. She needs no rush of motion; this other rush, that says hush as it soughs in the breeze, is only a coincidence of sound: a plant. Who planted it? Oh, these things just grow. They grow large, large as bulls.

And she grows, grows old, second by second, watches time and the words pass, reads by the reeds, reads the reeds. She does not seek a knot in a bulrush, as the Romans said: I mean, she does not look to make difficulty where there was none. But there are knots, and involutions, and forms that hold different senses, and Möbius strips of bulrushes. Thefts of form: piracy, papyrusy. She recalls “The Pipe-Player” by Sir Edward William Gosse:

Cool, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat,
The young brown tenor puts his singing by,
And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try
Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers meet;
O swart musician, time and fame are fleet,
Brief all delight, and youth’s feet fain to fly!
Pipe on in peace! To-morrow must we die?
What matter, if our life to-day be sweet!
Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh
Along the Sacred River will repeat
The echo of the dark-stoled bearers’ feet,
Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie
Your swarthed and withered body, by and by
In perfumed darkness with the grains of wheat.

Time will roll on, but every moment is a new birth. She has been impregnated by Etaoin Shrdlu, an act of lexical intercourse, and her gravid thoughts spawn new language, but still she wants a word that has some flesh.

Oh, the words are solid enough. When they are caught by the papyrus – this is what bulrush means here; there are so many things bulrush can mean, cattails, other sedges at the edges of bodies of water – when they are caught by the papyrus, they are visible, they darken the nature. But their every movement is a dance in her own mind. What she desires more is a new breath. Her word-love, the Morpheus of morphemes, uses only hers. And this Morpheus is a Möbius Morpheus, for he can hold the same form and change who he is. So she, holding her form, seeks to change who she is, by extending herself… to whom?

And then she hears a brushing, not a susurrus but a friction, as of paper, or future paper, rubbing against more of the same. She leans, kneels, walks on hands and knees, pushes aside the bulrushes. And sees a small boat, a boat made of bulrushes. A little papyrus ship, with a passenger, barely three months old. Not yet speaking. But so many words to come, inchoate, borne on this potential paper, breathing. What you may find in the bulrushes.

evite, Evite, evitable

The party, this time, was chez Maury: an evening of liquor, words, and liquor words. Most of the usual suspects from the local Order of Logogustation were there. I was surprised, given the paronomastic potential, not to see our local vulgarian, Ross Ewage, in attendance.

“I thought,” I said to Maury, “that he would inevitably be here, given the theme.”

“In fact,” Maury said, “he turned out to be evitable. Advertently so.” He gave a wry smile and sipped his Collingwood. Then he added, “Although only just. Thereby hangs a tale.”

“Whose tail?”

“Marilyn’s. And I have learned a lesson about not using arcane and archaic vocabulary too freely.”

Marilyn Frack. This was sounding entertaining – as long as I wasn’t the one being discomfited.

“I happened to be talking with Edgar,” Maury continued – he meant Edgar Frick, the other half of the leather-clad duo of incessant lasciviousness. “I said I was going to be hosting this party – I don’t know why I was talking with Edgar about this, but really, Ross may be evitable but Marilyn is inevitable.” He sighed. “Anyway, he asked whether Ross would be coming. I said we should evite him.”

“And for some reason,” I said, “you assumed that Edgar would know you were using the old verb meaning ‘avoid or shun’.” (It’s from Latin evitare.)

“Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson used it. Edgar is a well-read man. But he is also more used to current usage.”

“So Edgar sent him an electronic invitation,” I said. Of course Evite is a specific website, but it’s being generalized like Kleenex lately, surely to the annoyance of the owners of Evite.com.

“No, he wouldn’t have done that; he wasn’t in charge of the invites. But what he did do was mention it to Marilyn. What he said, however, was ‘Maury wants to send Ross an Evite.’”

Maury paused to let that sink in for as long as it took him to toss back the rest of his glass of rye. Then he reached over to a bottle of Balvenie on the nearby sideboard and reloaded. Wheels were still turning in my mind.

Maury raised an eyebrow. “Marilyn decided she would be the Evite.”

The penny dropped.

“Did she bring Edgar as an Adamite?” I asked.

An Adamite and an Evite, you see, are a man and a woman (respectively) who dress as Adam and Eve did. Which is to say with no – or very little – clothing.

“She may have asked him,” Maury said, “but if she did, he demurred, and she wasn’t adamant.”

“So she went over to Ross’s place…” I said.

“Unannounced,” Maury said, “and wearing only stilettos, a thong bottom, and body paint that looked like her usual black leather outfit.”

I clutched the sideboard so as not to collapse with laughter. Raising my glass of Old Sam, I managed to catch my breath to say, “That sounds like a rum thing!”

“It just happens,” Maury said, drily, “that it was a bit of a rainy day. And Marilyn’s paint was, shall we say, delible.”

“So by the time she got to his place” I said, “it was beginning to streak?”

“And so was she.” He nodded and sipped his drink. “When she reached his door, it was running. Shortly thereafter, so was he. And that –” he raised his glass – “scotched that.”

Thanks to Duane Aubin for inspiring this. As to his wondering why evitable and delible fell away while their negatives persisted, I cannot say for sure what inclines us more to the words that refer to permanence and inescapability, although the negatives seem always to have been more used in English and appear to have entered the language first as well. It’s something worth more digging…

rondeau

We come around a round like o
Because what goes returns, you know
If mouth does not, then letter will
If letter not, mouth fills the bill
It always comes – it goes to show

That history’s a poem so
Involved in form we follow though
We think it free but if free will
We come around

In verse we make our garden grow
We do – forget – repeat – the flow
Is water in a turning mill
Or swirling step we dance until
As line turns back to make rondeau
We come around

This is a rondeau: a poem that comes around. Round like the o, round like your mouth when you say the eau. The poem is a fixed form, set as if to music – and there is also a musical form called rondeau. The word rondeau recalls round and French ronde, related words; by accident it also carries water, French eau.

The form has a most famous exemplar, one that is not so much a dance as a returning remembrance. It is the poem that is read everywhere in Canada – I don’t know where else – every Remembrance Day, November 11:

In Flanders Fields
by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Either way, we come around.

The madder matter of t’s and d’s

One of the most common “have you ever noticed” things people like to make mention of in English pronunciation – especially North American English pronunciation – is how, in many words, such as matter and betting, “we say ‘t’ as ‘d’.”

I put that in quotes because that’s what people say.

It’s not really true.

Actually, we say them both as a third sound. It just happens that this third sound, to our ears, sounds more like [d] than like [t]. (By the way: I’m using the linguistic standard of putting a sound in brackets, [t], if it’s the sound we’re actually making, and between slashes, /t/, if it’s the sound we believe ourselves to be making whether or not we actually are making exactly that sound. So “hit it” will always be /hɪt ɪt/ but not always [hɪt ɪt].)

Here, I’ll prove that we don’t say it as [d]. Say the following, slowly and carefully, perhaps as though you’re speaking to someone who is hard of hearing:

I’m not kidding about the reckless betting.

No problem making /t/ and /d/ different there, right?

Now say it quickly, as quickly as you reasonably can, maybe two or three times in a row.

Those d’s and t’s seem to be pretty much the same sound now, right? All d’s, perhaps?

No, not all d’s. Say this slowly and carefully, perhaps as to someone who is having a hard time hearing you:

I’m not kidding about the reckless bedding.

Before, when you said “reckless betting” quickly, there was no problem with a hearer knowing you were talking about gambling. But when you say the [d] clearly, that’s out the window; you’re now talking about crazy quilts and sheets. You can’t say “bedding” clearly and be taken for saying “betting” under normal circumstances.

We tend to think that we’re saying it as [d] because most of us don’t have a letter to associate with what we are saying it as. But I’ll tell you what we’re really saying it as: a thing linguists call a tap. The tongue just taps the alveolar ridge without really stopping the airflow. We sometimes make a flap, which is when the tongue taps on the way past rather than bouncing off. A tap is like in “better” (said quickly and casually); a flap is like in “editing” (said quickly and casually). The International Phonetic Alphabet symbol for a tap or a flap is [ɾ].

Does that look like a partly-formed r? As well it might. Some speakers – particularly those with accents we might think of as “proper” British – will use it for /r/ in the middle of words, as in “very horrifying.” North Americans, who aren’t used to saying /r/ that way, often represent this as a d as in “veddy British.” But it’s not [d]. It’s [ɾ].

Here’s how sounds work in language: Every language has a set of sounds that are considered to be distinctive – swap in a different one and you have a different word (or a non-existent word). These distinctive sounds are called phonemes. Do not confuse these with the letters of the alphabet. For instance, c is a letter that can stand for the phoneme /k/ as in can, /s/ as in ice, or even /tʃ/ in some loan words such as ciao. On the other hand, /k/ is a phoneme that can be represented by c as in can, k as in kill, ck as in kick, ch as in school, q as in question, even que as in unique.

But a sound that is considered to be distinctive may have several different ways of being produced, depending on where it shows up. We just happen to hear them all as versions of the same sound and thus interpret them all as the same sound by habit without generally noticing that there is any difference. Take /t/, for instance. Say the following words:

ting sting matting mattress mat mitten

Each one has a different version of that /t/. Linguists call these different versions phones (as if that word didn’t have enough meanings already). The system of phones is phonetics, while the system of phonemes is phonemics. (Phonics is not a word linguists use.)

Put your hand in front of your mouth and say “ting sting.” You might feel an extra puff of breath on “ting.” If you say “pill spill” you will feel much more of a puff on “pill.” We put those puffs on voiceless stops (/k, t, p/) when they’re at the very beginning of a syllable – but not if there’s /s/ before them at the start of the syllable. Those puffs are called aspiration.

That’s two of the six different variations on /t/ – what linguists call allophones of /t/. I’m sure you can hear the different allophones in “matting” (with the tap) and “mattress” (with “mattress” the /tr/ together sound like “ch” plus “r”). Now how about “mat”? The difference with that one is that we don’t release /t/ when there isn’t another vowel or liquid after it – we just hold it closed. Usually we just close our throat (glottal stop) and sometimes we don’t even entirely touch the tongue to the roof of the mouth. If you have /n/ after it, as in “mitten,” just the nasal passage releases, unless you’re speaking carefully or formally.

All of these are thought of as /t/. All of them are heard as /t/. But they really do differ. In some languages some of them are treated as distinct sounds. You know how speakers of some languages can’t say “beat” and “bit” differently? That’s because those two vowels are allophones – different phone realizations – of the same phoneme in those languages. Well, we’re like that with things like the difference between aspirated and unaspirated stops.

Why do we do this? Economy of effort. A /t/ is a voiceless alveolar stop. We don’t always retain all those characteristics of voice (voiceless), place (alveolar), and manner (stop); we’ll stick with whichever is sufficient to make the sound recognizable while not having to make too much effort to say it, and sometimes we’ll add a little more distinction where needed. So at the start of a word, we add that puff of air to make it clearer that it’s not /d/. We don’t need to do that after /s/ because we never say /sd/ at the start of a word. In the middle of a word like matter, we just keep the place and a similar manner, but we don’t stick too closely to the voicelessness or the hard stop. At the end, as in “mat,” or before a nasal, as in “mitten,” we reduce it to a different stop (glottal) that takes less effort to say. That’s also what some people (notably some British people) do when they use a glottal stop between two vowels, as though “matter” were “ma’er” (or “ma’ah”). The quality of being a voiceless stop is enough; the other two voiceless stops (/k, p/) don’t reduce to a glottal stop in English.

So those are the allophones of /t/. What you need to know is that sometimes two different phonemes have, in some contexts, the same phone as an allophone. Most “short” vowels in English reduce to a neutral unstressed vowel [ə], for instance. The case in point today is [ɾ], which can be a version of /t/ or /d/ (or, in some kinds of English, /r/).

We think of voice as the difference between /t/ and /d/. But they’re stops – how do you voice a consonant when your air flow is stopped? You don’t, really. You know the difference between /t/ and /d/ mainly by how the sounds before and after behave. Say this:

mad mat

In “mad” your voice keeps going right up until you say the [d], but in “mat” you cut off a moment sooner. You also say the vowel a bit shorter.

Now say this:

The madder matter

The difference is very subtle, isn’t it? But you may say the [æ] before the /d/ a little longer than before the /t/, and you may cut the voice out just a little for the /t/ version. It’s not really enough to be sure about when you’re listening, but there may be that small effect of the sound you’re thinking about when you say it.

On the other hand, you might really say them both the same way.

It just happens that that way will not be with [d]. It will be with [ɾ].

evopropinquitous

Things I learned as a word taster:

You have never seen them all.

One reason you have never seen them all is that they keep making new ones.

“They” being those words, themselves, which you will find in compromising positions when you least expect it.

Yes, I know that words exist entirely within people’s minds, and in usage contexts, as socially agreed constructions, and always as each individual’s impression of something received, which means that word DNA mutates at least a little with every transmission. That doesn’t really matter. That poltergeist you are sure doesn’t exist is still smashing a flowerpot over your head. And it does hurt. The stitches you get are, curiously, real. Likewise, people will respond to a word that they recognize as a word even if it’s never existed before and may never show up again. See classiomatic.

Morphemes matter less than you think they do. All those copter and oholic words should have taught you that. Once people forget where a word came from, rhythm and phonemics and recognizable sequences matter a lot more than which bits that were put together to make it. And people forget more quickly and readily than you think.

Take a word like evolution. You know how emotion is shortened to emo sometimes? It sure makes sense to shorten evolution to evo, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Tell me what other word that evo could make you think of. Exactly. But now tell me what evolution comes from. The word, I mean. What’s its evolution? How did it turn out that way?

Once upon a time (way more than once, in fact, but let’s go with that), there was a Latin word, volvere, “turn, roll”, and a Latin prefix, ex, “out, out of”, which shortened to e in some cases. They got together, as these things do, and made evolvere, “roll out, roll away, unwind, unfold, etc.” You might say “turn out”. And when someone needed a word to apply to things in nature that changed, to talk about how they came to turn out as they turned out, this seemed like a perfectly good one. Evolve. Noun, evolution. It’s not really evo plus lution anymore than solution is so plus lution. But that doesn’t really matter, actually, because even people who know Latin would rather make words that aren’t ugly. Everyone wants a pretty baby. Words want pretty babies too. And we like it best if we can recognize the parents on both sides. Word paternity tests can be so vexing. This is why we say chocoholic rather than chocolatic.

Some words, though, are just too delicious to cut up. You want the whole thing on your tongue. Take propinquitous. And propinquity. I’m sure that there are many people who think that these words are delicious. I know of at least two: myself and Christopher Schmitt.

They’re pretty words, of course. Long. Propinquitous has thirteen letters, twelve phonemes, four syllables. It has those pretty p’s and q looking at each other, with their pert prim tops and trim descenders. Two each of i, o, and u. Three letters that go below the body and three that go above. It’s crisp but with a little soft bit, and it starts by popping on the lips but then drops to the back before tapping off the tongue tip. It’s a word that might be proper, might have property, yet might still proposition you iniquitously like a delinquent. Or a pro. It’s a word you want to get near. Word, meet tongue.

Do you wonder, if pro means “for” or “forward” or “before”, what pinquity or pinquitous means? You’ve been fooled again. That pro is there, but only as a progenitor of prope, “near”, which got together on some hazy peach-sky evening with inquus (would you? doesn’t it look dangerous? naahhhh…) just to get even closer. And then their love-child went through French and landed in English. Their love-children.

You thought it would be easy and straightforward. Clear, direct strands of DNA and descent, flowing together side by side like streams of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry ice cream. You thought that when words get together in the little room of your mind with other words, with the curtains drawn, they would just take off their clothes. You had no idea that they would take off some of their limbs too, and mix and match like paper dolls in the hands of a naughty boy. You didn’t expect to be walking through the jungle of words and encounter a full-grown hippogriff or manticore or sphinx.

But now you’re feeding it. And helping it propagate.

Because someone who studies how animals evolve and spread put it there. Just as a lexical embodiment of the fascinations and complications he encounters in the rain forest watching monkeys and getting spit in the eye by them and stepping on electric eels and brushing against poison plants and getting eaten by ants and. Because he wanted to be near to evolution. So he became part of it. His mind, infected with language, succumbed to the will of the parasitic lexis and became the womb for the gestation of one of its perplexing and ecstatic miscegenations. And now he has spread it, this new lexical ornithorhynchus. It has infected me. It has now infected you. Evopropinquitous. Being near to evolution (and evolutionary biology), or inclined to be near to it.

He is Christopher Schmitt. His blog is evopropinquitous.tumblr.com. It is hilarious and true. You will be glad he is there experiencing it and writing about it and you are not.

alcatras, pelican

The pelican does not have an overwhelmingly noble image in the modern world. Comics have undoubtedly had an influence on this: the bird is portrayed as a large, ungainly thing with a great big pouch in its bill that it uses for stowing whole fish. As Dixon Merritt wrote:

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican,
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week,
But I’m damned if I see how the helican.

It matters little or not at all that the word pelican is in its way delicate, with tastes of skin (pellicule) and peels and angel hair pasta (cappellini) and possibly even singing (a capella). The focus is now on the big garbage can of a bill.

Nor would it be served so well now by its alternate name, taken from the Spanish: alcatras. The taste of the prison, named (in archaic Spanish) for the island it was on, named for the birds that flocked there, is hard to get past, even though the word has a certain delicacy that could go either way – hints of scar and sacral but also alcohol and star and perhaps class… Both words have two voiceless stops and that liquid /l/ plus one other consonant, and both have three syllables with a dactylic rhythm. Neither has an easy phonological or orthographical resemblance to the big bird with the big bill. But we still no doubt view it better than we would if it were named, say, grackle.

I say alcatras comes from Spanish because that is its immediate source, but this word, like some others that begin with al, comes originally from Arabic, where al is a definite article. And like most of those others (including alcohol and algebra), it means something a little different from the original – in this case, the source, al gattas, referred to a kind of sea eagle. But an even greater shift shows up in albatross, which also comes from al gattas but with the Spanish influence of alba “white”.

But talking of shifts: this is the bird that is the national bird of Romania (and of the fictional Syldavia in the the Tintin books) and three Caribbean countries, and the state bird of Louisiana; this is the symbol of institutions such as the Irish Blood Transfusion service; this is the bird featured on the coats of arms of Corpus Christi Colleges at Oxford and Cambridge, and used in heraldry as a symbol of selfless sacrifice, vulning, because of its use in Christian iconography to represent Jesus – the sacrifice of a parent for children. And to advert to the eucharist, the consumption of bread and wine as the body and blood of Jesus.

What? Well, the pelican (alcatras, if you prefer) was long thought to wound itself in the breast to feed its young its blood when food was scarce. You see, pelicans have a habit of pressing their beaks against their chests to empty their pouches, and this can look like wounding itself in the chest. Some kinds of pelicans also have red on their bills at certain times, which can look like blood. It is thought that these things, observed, were interpreted as the selfless act.

And thus we have, for instance, this verse from a hymn by St. Thomas Aquinas:

Pie Pelicane, Jesu Domine,
Me immundum munda tuo sanguine:
Cujus una stilla salvum facere
Totum mundum quit ab omni scelere.

Which translates (I’ll use Wikipedia’s version) as:

Lord Jesus, Good Pelican,
wash me clean with your blood,
One drop of which can free
the entire world of all its sins.

That’s a far cry from “I’ll be damned if I know how the helican.” And it’s also a bit of a trip from national symbols to a prison island… But redemption may come again. After all, Alcatraz is now a very popular attraction with beautiful flowers and plenty of birds surrounding its grim buildings.

vuln

Does this word seem somehow wounded? Truncated, perhaps, or otherwise cut? An eviscerated vulcan? Or a vulnerability that has been exploited? Or, if not wounded, then at least tightly wound?

Oops. Did you see what I did there? Tsk. How is a person supposed to know which wound I’m using when I do that? It would be like if we had the same letter to represent both a consonant and a vowel. OK, well, yes, we do, y. But what if we used the same letter for v and u? What if we spelled this word vvln or uuln?

As in fact we used to. After all, v and u have only been treated as different letters for a couple of centuries. They both come from Latin v, which, classically, had a [w] sound as a consonant and an [u] or [ʊ] sound as a vowel (as in “boo” and “book” respectively). Over the centuries, as letters developed cursive forms, there came to be an alternative u shape for v, but the sounds also pulled apart and its consonantal value moved to [v]. So some bright sparks recommended that, rather than having two interchangeable forms of a letter that stood for two different sounds, one form should go with one sound and the other with the other. (This happened with i and j too.) So back in the 1500s, this word could be seen written as vvln, uuln, vuln, or even uvln, though probably not so much that last one.

Fair enough, for three reasons. The second reason is that in some people’s handwriting – mine, for instance – the letter n looks pretty much like the letter u. The third reason is that the standard English pronunciation of this word is represented in the International Phonetic Alphabet as /vʌln/, yet another case of flipping shapes. The first reason – a longer, more important reason, which is why it’s the first but why I’m getting to it last – is that the word comes from Latin vulnus, i.e., vvlnvs (or uulnus), “wound”, as in the noun for what you receive from a sword. It’s also the root of vulnerable, the first syllable of which is identical to today’s word in pronunciation as well as spelling.

So why would we need another word for “wound” when we already have wound, aside from that it can be confused with the past form of the verb wind (which has a similar issue in the present)? It’s not as though we have a special need for another word with a swallowed /l/ in the middle. And actually it seems we wouldn’t need another word; vuln is pretty much not used nowadays. With one little exception. There is one preserve of pretty little archaic and rare Latinate words that is a natural resting place for this word, this vulnerable little fallen angle (that’s not a typo): heraldry.

Heraldic shields, after all, often feature animals. Sometimes those animals are wounded. Well, no, in heraldry they’re vulned – often stuck through with a spear as vuln is stuck through with the l. (I can see this catching on with the role-playing game crowd: “I seriously vulned him with my Ethereum phase-spear.”)

But there is also one bird that is said to be vulning. A vulture? A falcon? No, it’s a bird that is known for constantly picking at its chest, an act that is referred to (in heraldry) as vulning, on the idea that the bird is wounding itself. It’s a bird that happens to have given its name to a famous and forbidding prison. Which bird? The pelican.

What, you’ve never heard of a famous jail named after pelicans? Of course you have, and it even had a “bird man”… I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.