Author Archives: sesquiotic

ART.

This is the fifth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

Frank (not his real name) is walking in new, good-looking shoes, cap-toed lace-ups. They sharpen up his look, add a dash of crisp acidity to the smooth off-whiteness of his clothes. He is almost visually fit to walk next to one. If he could keep up. One moves quickly.

He is also riding waves peaking at intrigue and troughing at fear. He is in a place new to him, following a person who was unknown to him only an hour before; his name is refusing to surface, words and parts of words are blinking on and off in his mind like broken Christmas lights or sliding around like magnets on a greasy fridge, he has no money and is increasingly indebted to this sylph of smoke and glow, and he has an overriding desire to play whatever game it is is going on between him and one, even if someone gets hurt in the end.

And then he wants to go home. And fill in the blanks. Continue reading

NOVELTY

This is the fourth chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

The forest is still slowly chasing this end of the street, but they’re at a city, no mistake, and not much walking will put them in it well and proper. The air here is a dingy wet rag that was used to overscrub the buildings and then wrung out. It smells of dirt with experience. The concrete in the sidewalk is so grainy and crumbly it must be gluten-free, but it supports as much weight as it has to. The doors look well kicked, the walls well leaned on. But the people are too busy living their lives to be picturesque. Frank is following one down the street. One is a vision: a squirt of squid ink swirling in the viscous atmosphere. Frank, by contrast, is pale putty in Ralph Lauren cotton and muddy Rockports.

Whatever part of town this is, whatever town at all, Frank does not recognize it. On the other hand, it’s a dull walk of an obtuse part of an hour to get to this shoe store, so Frank can’t see how it could be a dream: at least in those the boring trips are shortcut. This has much newness, or — oldness, to it to keep Frank vaguely diverted: it’s not as though he k— all this was here and is re—ing his acquaintance.

Damn. The synonym trick was going so well. Is this a curse for his constant quest for —ness? For…

The shoe store is not a — store. It is old and it is in an aged building on an experienced street. It does repairs, too. It has a sign:

NOVELTY

Ah. Continue reading

one

This is the third chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

“…one.”

The slender fingers settle on Frank’s right shoulder, the lean arm wraps around behind his neck, and a tall, lithe body swings around and hops up onto his lap. A face in an arrangement of white base and black accents is now almost too close for Frank to focus on, and close enough for him to hear a swallow – the sausage tip – followed by a soft voice. Continue reading

INN

This is the second chapter of my month-long work of fiction, NOV.

Soil. Dirt. Mud. Pedolith. Step, —, —, —. From above, drip, —, —. And in the nose what you may call the pleasing scent of petrichor or the mucky pong of mud.

Not far? OK, — far. Duly —ed: that has varying con—ations.

And these shoes: How did Spoiler get them that distance into this lexical jungle without a speck on them? Like someone from a movie.

But the first building at the emergence from vegetation into habi— bears an invi—, a welcoming set of letters: INN. Continue reading

NOV

This is National Novel Writing Month, #NaNoWriMo. For a while I’ve had a hankering to write some fiction, but I have so many other things going on it’s hard to make the time. I’ve decided to use NaNoWriMo as my excuse: for the month of November, I’m going to be writing a work of fiction, one chapter at a time, in place of my regular word tasting notes. Each chapter will start with a photo of a word.

It won’t be long enough to be a novel. Perhaps not even a novella. But never mind.

I’m calling it NOV.

Nov.

What happened?

He can’t rem—.

Something hit him, or he hit something. His mind is dism—ed. He is trying to rekindle the fires of awareness from the dim —s of…

Wait. A piece here. He was reading something. It was… volume number 5? No. It was a —el, a —ella, nothing more in—ative than that…

Dammit! He feels like a —ice at this.

He looks up. Words. He is in his library. No. He is not. The words are not bound here. They are free, bounding across the earth and growing on trees. Words and parts of words. His library has been re—ated now stop that what goes in that gap are these words —atures no they are more printed than e—uted that’s not it either; if only he could rem—

It hit him. Continue reading

Hallowe’en (word review video)

Today I’m reviewing Hallowe’en. Not Halloween – just the version with the apostrophe.

phragmites

This word doesn’t belong where it looks like it belongs. Or it does, depending on where you think it belongs.

It sure looks like stalagmites, doesn’t it? You know, the stone spires in caves that stick up from the floor? (The ones that hang down from the ceiling are stalactites. As a kid I learned from some CBC kids’ show that stalactites have to hang on tite, while stalagmites grow up with all their mite. Of course they don’t; like coffee and comments sections, they increase drip by drip. But it’s memorable.)

It also looks like sparagmites, which are kinds of sandstones, conglomerates, and other fragmental rocks. Hmm… frag-mites. Only it’s phrag. As in phragma, a partition in the bodies of some insects. Or phragmocone, the chambered part of the shell in certain cephalopods. Or phragmoplast or phragmosome, which are subcellular things that show up during cell division in certain plants.

That phrag. It seems simultaneously erudite and ludicrous, perhaps even crapulous. It makes me think of attempts at locution while the mouth is stuffed with a rag. But no. Nor is it something to do with fragments. It does have to do with dividing, though. It comes from Greek ϕράγμα ‘fence, screen’.

So is a phragmite a fence kind of rock, then? No. It’s not a rock at all.

I first saw this word in an article in the New York Times. The sentence in which I saw it was “Friends of Ms. Vetrano said she ran frequently with her father along the trail, which is lined by the tall reeds known as phragmites.”

So. A phragmite is a kind of reed.

Nope. Wrong again.

A phragmite isn’t anything. Phragmites is a kind of reed. Yes, it’s a fake plural. It’s pronounced like “frag mighties.”

And what kind of reed is it? It is a common reed. In fact, it is the common reed. That’s its normal English name: the common reed. The author of the story might as well have just said the trail was lined by tall reeds.

Phragmites is everywhere. Its geographical spread is described as “cosmopolitan”; it’s a native species pretty much all over the globe. But at the same time, in North America it is described as an invasive species. What?

Well, there are different kinds of these reeds. Phragmites australis is native to North America, whereas Phragmites australis is an invasive European… what? Can’t see the difference? Oh, yeah, well, there are subspecies. The kind that was already here before the Europeans arrived is subspecies americanus. The other kind is the standard Eurasian kind. They look just slightly different – the Eurasian kind tends to grow in denser stands, have denser seedheads, and be lighter and bluer in colour. The main way you can probably identify it is that, unlike the americanus kind, it doesn’t grow mixed in with the other plants; it tends to crowd them out. Yeah, the native species was living here nicely, getting along with everything, and then the Eurasian kind came across the ocean and starting taking everything and crowding all the rest out. Even though they’re the same species. Huh.

I’ll tell you one thing: rocks don’t do that.

Look! It’s a noun! It’s an adjective! It’s a number! No, it’s…

My latest piece for The Week is an introduction to that double-agent class of words, there in the numbers but not of the numbers: quantifiers.

Singular or plural? It’s complicated.

bigly (word review video)

It’s time for another word review! Some people will say that I can’t do a word review of bigly because it’s not a word. I say they are bigly mistaken. Take five minutes and see for yourself.

jubilee

Blow a horn! Shout for joy! Celebrate seven times seven times! Break the chains! Let the land and the people rest! Forgive all! Light a flame!

Where shall we light a flame? Hmm… how about on some cherries?

Chef Auguste Escoffier created the dessert we call cherries Jubilee (cherries flambéd with kirsch and served on ice cream) for the diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897. Why was it a jubilee? A jubilee, in this sense, is a special celebration to mark a landmark anniversary (as, for instance, of the beginning of a reign): silver for 25th, gold for 50th, diamond for 60th. That is transferred from ecclesiastical special years: in the Roman Catholic Church, every 25 or 50 years there is a special year of universal pardon and remission of sins – pilgrimages are involved, to Rome of course – and other special jubilees may be declared in other years as well.

The Catholics in turn got the idea from the book of Leviticus in the Bible. The people of Israel were prescribed to have a sabbath year every seven years: the land was to lie fallow, to regenerate. After seven cycles of sabbath years, there was to be a jubilee year, when not only would the land lie fallow but slaves would be freed and property that had been sold would revert to the seller. It was to be a year of rest and restoration. And it would be announced by a blow on a ram’s horn during Yom Kippur.

A ram’s horn? A ram was, in the Hebrew of the time, yobhel; the announcing of the jubilee with a ram’s horn was, apparently, what gave it its name. But when that came via Greek to Latin, the word that should have been jobelæus appeared as jubilæus, almost certainly because of the pre-existing Latin verb jubilare ‘shout’ and its noun jubilum. So a year of liberation and rest became readily associated with shouting for joy. Everybody celebrate and have a good time! Jubilate! (Which comes from jubilare, not jubilæus.)

And, of course, observe the turn of an important year. In Alberta, two large auditoriums were built – one in Calgary, one in Edmonton – to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the province, in 1955. They are called the Jubilee Auditorium (specifically the Southern Alberta Jubilee Auditorium and the Northern same same same). I think that was where I first saw the word jubilee. But it shows up in all sorts of places. I especially like it when it shows up with cherries.

For me, though, its significance right now is that I have completed seven times seven years of my life, and today I have embarked on my fiftieth year (at the conclusion of which, in one year, I will be 50 years old). So, naturally, I took an extra day off from work to make a nice, restful long weekend of it. Now let’s see what I make of the rest of the year…