Tag Archives: word tasting notes

teledu

There’s a lot to be said for distance learning.

For instance, I can go online and learn about animals I’d never heard of a few minutes before. I can look up articles and I can watch videos. I can find out, for instance, that there’s a creature in Indonesia that looks like a badger but is really related to skunks.

I could also go to Indonesia and have someone tell me about these creatures there, at some distance from them. Maybe I could see one a little ways away in the forest. That might still be distance learning, sort of.

Or I could come closer and closer. And then, within a certain radius of the badger-looking beastie, I could discover just how much like skunks they really are. I would get a direct personal experience of their scent-spraying abilities… still at a distance from them. Which, I guess, would also count as distance learning. Not only because I’d be learning at a small distance (and a greater inconvenience), but because I’d be learning to keep my distance.

Such are the dimensions of teledu.

No, teledu is not formed from tele, as in television, referring to distance, and edu, as in education (from Latin e, ‘out of’ – as in e pluribus unum – and duc– ‘lead, draw’). It is not a word for distance education. The du is pronounced like “do” or “doo,” not like “due” or “dew” or “d’you” (actually, in the speech of a Canadian like me, do, due and dew all sound the same, but I know there is a difference for many other people). The word, as a whole, is taken from Malay.

Yes, teledu is the name of that badger-looking skunk relative from Indonesia. It’s not the only name of it. It’s also called the Sunda stink badger, Malay stink badger, Javan stink badger, and Indonesia stink badger (there’s another kind of stink badger, the Palawan stink badger, or pantot, which is native to an island in the Philippines).

I can’t give you a direct experience of the smell of the teledu – just as well, I’m sure. But I can give you a look at it. Just turn on your television – ha, I mean click on the video below – and see one wandering around in the night, harried by a flashlight and video camera, though not quite to the point of spraying. And there’s your teledu distance education.

fnast

Oh, man. What do you do when the going gets fast and nasty? When you can hardly get a word out, and when you do, it’s two? Imagine running for the bus or climbing up a long flight of stairs. You might fancy a bit of finesse, but that’s defenestrated in inifinitesimal time. No, you’re trying not to breathe out too hard – biting your lip, putting your tongue tongue tip to the top of your mouth – but at the last you have to open up for a moment before sighing to stop and inhaling again. Now, how do you express that?

Old English has a fantastic word for it hiding in the attic: fnast, once spelled fnæst. OK, the noun fnast can mean simply ‘breath’, yes, but the verb fnast means ‘breathe hard, pant’. It’s passed out of common usage (centuries back, in fact), but can’t we press it into service once more?

I know what the problem is. We don’t start words with /fn/. If a word starts with /f/ it has to be followed by /l/, /r/, or a vowel. That’s just a rule. The exceptions are words that we (those of us who even know them) treat as lexical circus freaks: fnarr fnarr, ftang, fhtagn…

The fnny, I mean funny, thing is that these are sound combinations we have no trouble making when we want to. I mean, most of us are physically capable of making pretty much any sound that features in any language – everyone has the same speech organs, after all – but many of us just plain can’t make ourselves do certain things. Start words with ng, for instance: the ways I’ve heard English speakers say (or, rather, fail to say) the name Nguyen are almost mind-boggling. But give just about any English speaker an old book that uses the “long s” form, which to our eyes looks like an f, and just to be funny they will readily say “ftop,” “fnort,” “fkin,” and so on. They would have trouble with Italian ſbagliato just as with sbagliato, yes; some combinations are harder. But not /fn/. It’s just something we, y’know, don’t do. Anymore.

Well, we could. I don’t see anything important stopping us. I think I shall finagle ways to utter fnast until I have finally fnasted my last fnast. As ought we all – exercise is good.

need-to-know

These word tasting notes are strictly need-to-know.

You’re probably familiar with that term, need-to-know. It showed up in the 1950s and has grown in use quite steadily ever since. It came out of the world of intelligence – by which I mean spying. Information of great value and great vulnerability couldn’t be shared with just anyone; in order to maintain proper security, avoid compromising lives, and keep the value of the information, only those who had a direct line-of-duty requirement involving the knowledge would get the knowledge.

It also came to be used in contexts of other restrictions. If, for example, information was costly to disseminate – perhaps it required hundreds of pages of reproduction back at a time when reproduction was expensive (or, as still happens, it required payment of rights at a confiscatory level) – it would be reserved for those who had a compelling case for knowing it.

Of course, once a concept or tool is available that allows control and domination, those who like to control and dominate will latch onto it. Need-to-know becomes need-to-no: the holders of knowledge need to say No to people who ask for it, even if there’s no risk to revealing and no important advantage to concealing. Or it becomes knead-to-know: you have to massage the holders of the information, rub them just the right way. It is they, after all, who determine what need is. And sometimes it is kneed-to-know: if you ask, you will get kneed in the groin in the process of finding out.

So you have a world of knowledge that is like navigating a library by flashlight, like going through a maze and drawing cards to determine each turn, like walking through a vault full of safe-deposit boxes with just one little key. This is the world where intelligence is don’t-tell-igence. If someone else needs you to know, you can, but you probably can’t because they probably don’t.

My world of intelligence is a little different. I believe intelligence is best served by knowing as much as possible. If I spy with my little eye something that is at all interesting, I must learn more. To me, opening a dictionary or encyclopedia or doing other research is not a chore, it’s Christmas morning. Knowledge is a gift, and may we all be gifted. If I am told I do not need to know, well, I can’t even – as the saying goes, there are not enough evens to can. It’s uncanny! I am not trying to be some gnostic; I simply seek the holy gnosis – which is knowing. Knowing, for instance, that the gn in gnostic and gnosis and the /k/ and /n/ in can and uncanny and know (the k used to be pronounced) are cognate (whereas the gn in cognate is not cognate with them!), and all those words and many more in many languages trace to the same origin. Knowing that need was first a noun referring to requirement or necessity, the compulsion of circumstance – which might, in many cases, just be a stronger version of desire. A need may be the compulsion of existing with a mind seeking knowledge and needing to be fed. Who determines what need is? When it’s my blog or my life, I do.

So these word tasting notes are strictly need-to-know because I strictly need to know.

I operate on a need-to-know basis. I need to know everything.

I’ve said that a few times. More than a few. Someone finally asked me to put it on a T-shirt. So I did. Coffee mugs too. You can buy one (and another one for a friend). They’re reasonably priced. Visit cafepress.ca/sesquiphernalia.

losel

This word has a tidy near-symmetry. The l’s bookend or bedpost it – perhaps arms in the air, or bare banners or sticks or burnt-out torches. But doesn’t it look like one of the letters should be different? Perhaps swap in an r?

To make lorel? Certainly. Lorel and losel are synonyms, and the pronunciation is the same except for the middle consonant (losel is said like “low-zl”). They’re both formed from the past participle of leese. A more familiar form may be the actual participle, loren or lorn.

You know? As in lovelorn?

That means someone who has lost love. Lorn means ‘lost’ or ‘bereft’. Leese means ‘lose’. Someone who is lorel or losel, or who is a lorel or a losel, is lost. I don’t mean that they’ve had a GPS malfunction. I mean they are a ‘lost soul’, lost to the powers of perdition. They are worthless, a scoundrel, a blackguard, a sellout, not to be relied on for anything good. They have dedicated their life to damaging others for their own profit or perversity.

In short, a losel is someone you and I would probably call a loser.

Oh, yes, there’s that r swapped in, probably where you were expecting it in the first place. We tend now to see life as a game that we are supposed to play to benefit ourselves and others. If someone treats others badly – as objects from whom to take without consideration, for instance – we often call them a loser, even if they have objectively gained considerable wealth (which is often treated as evidence of winning), because they have lost our respect, and because we entertain the idea of defeating them. In some cases people have aligned themselves with causes that justly lost legal or military conflicts over their inhuman treatment of others, effectively joining a club of obvious literal losers, but in other cases they have simply made careers of depradation, and whether or not they have yet been convicted of anything, we all know they deserve to be.

But in past times the worldview in our culture was dominantly one of a celestial contest between the forces of good and evil (never mind that the determinations of what was good and what was evil were often made for strongly human reasons by strongly human persons whom most of us now would not esteem). It wasn’t a question of whether the person had won or lost the game of life; it was one of whether Satan and his sirens – perhaps I should say his Loreleis – had succeeded in tearing the person away from the righteous path and towards the pit. Not “You played badly” but “You were badly played”; not “You are a loser” but “You are a lost one – a losel, a lorel.”

It also opens the idea of winning them back, while at the same time not implying that winning is the most important thing – being won is.

abstract

What’s the take-away on abstracts?

Ha. Abstracts are the take-away.

An abstract can be any of several things, of course. It can be a short statement at the beginning of a paper or dissertation saying what the gist of the effort is – the synopsis, the tl;dr, the elevator pitch, the take-away. It can be an epitome, a microcosm or essence or distillation of a thing – when you take away all the variable excrescences, it is what you still have. It can be a work of art with most or all representation taken away – or should I say it has bits of what you can perceive taken away from all the other bits and presented in a purified form. Continue reading →

postcard

How do you say postcard?

I don’t mean “How are you supposed to say it?” I mean “How do you say it?” I know how we’re supposed to say it. The citation form, as linguists call it, is /ˈpoʊstˌkɑrd/ (or, with a standard British accent, /ˈpəʊstkɑːd/). But that’s not the everyday form of it. Listen to yourself say it: you almost never say the /t/ in there.

Which is fine. It is thereby uttered more efficiently, which is also a point of using postcards: they are smaller and lighter and more quickly sent, supposedly. They also limit the text that can be included, thereby reducing the burden on both sender and receiver. As a message a postcard is a quick salutation, a social nicety nicely discharged. Postcards are lately increasingly displaced by Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, but there’s still something about physical evidence – and a tangible, durable, non-ephemeral form.

The evidential nature is key to a postcard. It says you were there. And it shows where there is, what it looks like. Not what it looked like to you when you were there, though. Not what you would have taken with your own camera (cell-phone or otherwise). Look, you just can’t get a good shot without all those doofuses (doofi?) and their stupid cars, cars, cars in the way. (If there are people or vehicles in postcards, it’s because you can always expect to see some people or vehicles there and these ones are no longer individuals but tokens standing for a general type – postcards are the opposite of reportage.) And the light is wrong and the sky is wrong and blah. This is one reason people still buy postcards even if they seldom mail them to anyone: the photos you take on your trip, no matter how good a photographer you are, will never be as perfect as postcard pictures, nor as close to memory. Besides, you’re busy taking pictures of your family and friends standing in front of the things you’re there to see. Evidence, remember? But a postcard shows what it’s supposed to look like. A typical view. Its citation form.

Except that postcards take on the aspect of memories, and we know that memories distort, exaggerate, simplify. While the uttered forms of words are generally reduced from their citation forms, the citation forms of places are typically reduced from their experienced forms: vivid and uncomplicated.

Vivid and uncomplicated. That is the essence not just of the subjects and compositions of most postcards but also of the colours in them until more recent decades. I’m quite fond of old postcards – I don’t collect them, but I love seeing them online on sites such as messynessychic.com. And they have a look that stands out. The colours are often somewhat faded and yellowed with age, but you can still see that the exigencies of inexpensive printing in quantity meant that the inks were very contrasty, and so the blacks are often a bit thick and punchy, and the colours are vivid and uncomplicated. There’s a lot of colour but not a lot of subtle variations in the colour. In technical terms, they’re very saturated but lacking in colour depth. The earliest colour postcards are even more so: they were black-and-white photos with colour added, so of course the colour doesn’t have a lot of detail – the black ink gives all the detail.

Another feature of many older postcards, usually absent from more recent ones, is captions on the pictures. Oh, you can buy postcards with very splashy florid writing proclaiming Miami! for example, but the older ones had more detailed captions, sometimes even whole sentences, printed on the picture or beneath it.

So. On the front you have the vivid and uncomplicated citation forms of the sights you see. There may be a pithy statement. On the back you get to write some anodyne distillation or simple evidentiary salutation. The contents vary; the classic is “Hawaii is fun, wish you were here,” but my personal experience ranges from one relation who, on at least one occasion, copied text from a tourist brochure just to have something to write, to another relation (an extremely close one, often inches away) who has at times fit 200 or more words of travelogue on a standard postcard.

As may be known, I like taking pictures. I decided lately to do a series of photos of Toronto done up somewhat like old postcards, with the simple colours, the contrasty blacks, the aged look, the on-photo captions. Because why not. I also kept strictly to a 4-by-5 size, although I did allow some of them to be vertical (a little bit of a cheat). I put a number of them on my Flickr on Saturday. On Sunday I went to the Art Gallery of Ontario and found – and bought – a little book of mid-century postcards of unremarkable sights around Britain, titled Boring Postcards. It was obviously meant to be.

Here are a few of my postcards from Toronto. The captions may be slightly different from the classic style. Oh well.

kenspeck, kenspeckle

Sometimes a word brings more – or other – than you can expect. It may present itself proudly as though its sense is conspicuous, but you are as like to feel henpecked as to ken it.

Take a look, for instance, at this pair, which are obviously related; they have the same origin and meaning, but one gets the little –le suffix, making a spatter of speckle from speck (which to me is as readily a cured meat as a spot, but that’s the way my mind goes). If you know what ken is, well, then you ken it. So does that mean this word means ‘know your bacon’ or ‘know your spots’?

No, that would make it mean more like ‘perspicacious’, when it actually means more like ‘perspicuous’. “As kenspeck as a cock on a church broach” is a Yorkshire saying quoted in an 1855 glossary cited in the OED. Just as these words look outstanding, their sense is ‘stand out’ – and not necessarily in a good sense. Just… be conspicuous. “He was… a kenspeckle figure in the neighbourhood,” someone had the temerity to write in The Lancet in 1971.

Is kenspeck a funky modification of conspicuous? It’s not impossible, but there are no known printed instances that show a link beyond the surmise from similarity. There’s actually a very closely resemblant word in Norwegian – kjennespak – and Swedish – känspak – and it has a related sense: ‘quick at recognizing’. But, as the OED says, “the change from the active to a passive sense makes difficulties.” Nonetheless, as nauseous as it may make you, such transformations have been seen elsewhere.

But why would the word come from a Scandinavian language to English? Don’t forget that northern and eastern England was invaded by, and under the control of, Danes and Norwegians around a millennium ago. Scandinavian languages have had a very substantial effect on English – notably on place names, but also on common usage (our pronoun they is taken from Scandinavian; the Anglo-Saxon third person plural was hie). That effect is more pronounced in the north of England.

Oh, yes. If you know either or both of these words already, then you’re probably Scottish or northern English. That’s really where they’re used, when they’re used at all. But I suppose you could press one of them into service, if you don’t mind that the word form is quite kenspeck but the sense is not so kenspeckle.

funky

Hey. You wanna see something funky?

Yeah, see.

I know, I know. Funky is something you hear or something you smell. Bear with me. You can’t smell this blog, right? And if you could it would not smell funky.

What, by the way, is a funky smell? Not everyone uses the word for smells anymore. But if you do, you know it. It’s the smell like something wild crawled under your house for a long, long, long nap. It’s what you get if game farm animals take over the game farm. It’s the aroma of Normandy farmhouse cheese, or rutting badgers, or Uncle Phil after he’s been out at his hunting camp for a week. It’s earthy.

It used to be smoky. The verb funk, not really used now, meant – in the 1700s and into the 1800s – ‘blow smoke on someone’. It seems to trace back to Latin fumicare. From that we got a more general noun sense of ‘strong smell, stink’. And so something that’s funky is really… earthy. Unwashed. Down and dirty.

Which is how it got into music. In the early-to-mid 1900s, jazz musicians used funky as a term for a really down-to-earth approach. Not rarefied, delicate, pensive, airy. Nope. Getting into the dirt. Hit that bass and play some heavy lines that get you grooving down. We’re talking syncopation here that sets you grinding. By the time of James Brown in the 1960s, funky music had become funk music, a distinct style, and Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye – and lots of others – really made it popular everywhere.

Meanwhile, there are a couple of other apparently unrelated funks. There’s the one that means a state of depression or cowardice, as in blue funk. And there’s one that’s not used anymore, meaning ‘spark’ – its cognate is still there to see in German, and you’ll hear it in Beethoven’s 9th: Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium – ‘Joy, beautiful spark of Gods, daughter from Elysium’.

Well, funky music is not cowardly, nope, though it can in another sense be blue. But it does have a spark. A lot of sparks. And some of them are sparking up the cigarettes and cigars being smoked in the clubs where funk is played. And some of them are coming, with smoke, from the fingers of the musicians.

I heard a lot of funky music on Friday night. Aina and I went for a walk along Queen Street East here in Toronto for the Beaches Jazz Festival. I took my ears. And my camera. And, consequently, quite a few pictures. Now you look and see. They had some funky lighting and I got a little funky with the colours too. By which I mean grooving, sparking, vibrant, and earthy. I don’t know if it captures the feel of the music or not, but man, I tried.

If you want to hear what these bands sound like, I’m telling you the name of each before the pictures so you can go to their sites and have a listen. (And click on any image to see it larger on Flickr.)

The Achromatics

(That second one is the real-life colours, no adjustment.)

Quincy Bullen

Funny Funk

Elise LeGrow

(That last photo is unadjusted real-life colour.)

opulent

Who does not love a touch of opulence now and then? To lie back on flocculent cushions in a luculent, florulent, aurulent room, eat succulent fruit, and become, glass by glass, gloriously temulent? If only one might not thereby become crapulent (not to say flatulent) and corpulent.

But such is the nature of riches. What seems opulent may be fraudulent. Too much enrichment can turn cinerulent and pulverulent. Who is temulent will become truculent and stridulent, even violent; what was luculent becomes lutulent; the puberulent takes on the aspect of the purulent; in the end the esculent is feculent. U lent your dignity and discretion to time, and may have gotten some interest in return, but at the last it is frustulent.

Well, it doesn’t have to be that way, but do be careful. Exceptional riches – and their manifestations – are by nature an imbalance, even if one we seek to preserve. We use opulent nowadays mostly to speak of ostentation, glamour, shameless diamond-dripping luxury (though ideally not fugxury), but its origin is wealth itself, not the optics thereof. When James Madison, advocating a senate for the United States of America, said “They ought to be so constituted as to protect the minority of the opulent against the majority,” he meant that the senate should exist to check the possibility of rich landowners against having their wealth seized by the much larger number who worked the land – that is to say, who produced what “the man who is possessed of wealth, who lolls on his sofa or rolls in his carriage,” enjoys.

And thereby hangs the duality of the root of opulent. It traces to Latin ops, ‘power, resources, wealth’, which is an etymological sibling to opus ‘work, labour’. They both trace back to a Proto-Indo-European verb root meaning ‘work, produce in abundance’. Of course if you work hard and produce in abundance and keep the fruits of your labour, your life will be opulent. If, on the other hand, you work hard and keep only a portion of the fruits of your labour, while much of the rest goes to someone who gets a similar share of the work of many others, your opus will produce their ops.

In the real world, it’s not generally so simple as all that, of course. You might take home less than half the value you produce and yet at the same time have investments that earn interest through labour not your own. You probably have a well-furnished lifestyle within your means because of the less-well-compensated work of others in other countries. Opulence is relative, too: what seems like mere middle-classery to one person in one place could be opulent indeed to someone from another background.

And some wealth is not the fruit of labour at all but just the wild abundance of happenstance. For instance, the Latin suffix –ulent, meaning ‘abounding in’ or ‘full of’ (to use the OED’s definitions), appears on an opulent assortment of words, a lexical chocolate box. Among others, there are aurulent ‘gold coloured’, cinerulent ‘ashy, full of ashes’, corpulent ‘of or relating to a physical body, especially in great mass’, crapulent ‘suffering from excessive consumption’, esculent ‘edible’, feculent ‘made of or full of feces’, flatulent ‘windy, gassy’, flocculent ‘like tufts of wool’, florulent ‘abounding in flowers’, fraudulent ‘fake’, frustulent ‘full of small pieces’, luculent ‘bright, full of light’, lutulent ‘muddy’, puberulent ‘slightly downy’, pulverulent ‘dusty’, purulent ‘like or containing pus’, stridulent ‘shrill, grating’, succulent ‘juicy’, temulent ‘drunken’, truculent ‘fierce, ill-tempered’, turbulent ‘causing disturbence, inclined to disorder’… they’re all perfectly cromulent words.

And a certain amount of opulence is prefectly cromulent, too, within reason. Life should have its ups and downs, its restraints and luxuries. Allow yourself the occasional luxury, especially after a magnum opus… just make it special ops.

juncous

Rush, rush, rush. So much of modern life is rushes. And what do you find in the rushes? What does all this rushing do to us? Junk us, I’d say.

Seriously. At every juncture you find yourself getting reedier and not readier. You’re hardy, yes, but you’re usually swamped.

Well, that’s what rushes are about, I guess. Rushes are, after all, hardy grasslike plants that grow in a variety of conditions but most often in swampy ones. Yes, yes, you can rush to see rushes of Geoffrey Rush’s latest film if you’re in the movie business, or just buy rush seats if you’re the public, but that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about what you find when you were hoping for pussywillows and cattails. I’m talking about juncous plants.

Juncous? That’s the adjective for rushes: if something resembles or pertains to a rush, as in the plant (and no, don’t tell me Plant is Zeppelin while Lee is Rush), it is juncous.

Why? Because Latin for ‘rush’ is juncus. And while rush meaning ‘hurry’ has no etymological connection to rush meaning ‘reedy grassy plant’, juncous may – just possibly – be related to junk. I won’t say it confidently. Here’s the thing: the word junk meaning ‘trash’ (not the one meaning a kind of boat; that has a completely separate origin) began as meaning more specifically ‘nautical refuse’ and originally ‘old or discarded bits of rope’. Usually that earliest sense was in the phrase old junk. Bits of rope, old and worn, probably made of cheap material. What could cheap rope be made from? Rushes, among other things.

But there’s no attestation for that. There’s a gap in the etymological chain. Although the link is plausible, it’s not demonstrated. As the saying goes, etymology by sound is not sound etymology. So while juncous and junk could be related, at the moment it’s just junk linguistics. We don’t want to rush to a conclusion.

But at least we have one thing: in the incessant rushes of daily life, every so often we discover something unexpected that turns out to be big. After all, do you remember who was found in the rushes? The infant Moses, floating in a little boat, saved from the slaughter of the newborns, destined to be raised under the pharaoh’s roof and then to lead Israel to freedom. He started with rushes but then took his time. Juncous, yes, but not junky.