Tuesday, November 17, 2009

The Romance of Language

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that rail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'

-
T.S. Elliot excerpt from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

"It is impossible to say just what I mean. . ." Ironically, I know just what J. Alfred Prufrock means. Speech is a burden to my soul. I believe I accomplish it as well as the next man, and perhaps better on paper but it frustrates me just the same. I do not wish I were better at speaking or writing; I wish it were not necessary. And it is not the action of speech itself that galls me. I am not a lazy communicator. If anything, I am too much of a perfectionist. So what, then, do I mean? That if I had my way in the world (thank goodness I do not) you would never have to ask this question of anyone. Minds would meet in the absence of all things besides perfect being and its expression in perfect thought.

If you are reading this, then my wish has not been fulfilled. You still have the wonderful freedom to misinterpret me, and I have the privilege of writing ambiguous sentences. Praise be to God, for leaving the romance in our language.

Yes, there is romance in our language, and it is the romance that flusters. Every sentence flirts with a host of different meanings. Some words are associated with one another so that they can best be called friends. Others will court one another until they become synonymous, and then finally philander into entirely different meanings. This is the way of words and who am I to stop them?

Monday, November 9, 2009

I, like Big T, have a wise younger sister.

As has already been said by better men than I, my sister is smarter than me. And sweeter. Which, if you know me, you know isn't that hard, and if you know my sister, you know how much of an understatement that is.

Don't forget that sleep is not a sin. Please get some rest.
(from an email)

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Purification in Delos

I was just reading in "T-Diddy" (our good friend Thucydides, Book 3.104 if you want to know) how the Athenians purified Delos.

"All the remains of those that died in Delos were removed, and for the future it was commanded that no one should be allowed either to die or to give birth to a child in the island; but that they should be carried over to Rhenea" which is near to Delos.

What I'm really concerned about is that part about people not being allowed to die or give birth on the island. This raises a few questions in my mind, and I'm sure it does the same in yours. The birthing part is pretty simple, it's weird but it's simple. They just put all their maternity wards on this island of Rhenea, problem solved. Also, people generally know when they're going to have a baby. There's a few signs to look out for (but keep your guesses to yourself). So, when those signs present themselves they send them over to that other island. But what if the signs were just missed? This happens you know.

Delos Purification Authority: Excuse me maam, you aren't about to have a baby here are you?

Woman in labor: I know, I know I saw the leaflets; I'm not supposed to give birth here. But I didn't know I was, and now I am.

DPA: I'm sorry maa'm but you are going to have to go to Rhenea for that. I can't allow you to have a baby here.

Dang, shucks for her. What a hassle.

And what about people dying? There had to have been more cases of ambiguity then. I mean, after a certain age I guess they just ferried the old people to Rhenea, and the same with the sick. I'm guessing there were no beds designated as "death beds" in Delos. But what about the odd person who started dying unexpectedly.

DPA: Um. . . Sir, you look like you could die any minute now. When did this start?

Dying man
: About. . . ten minutes ago. . . I can hardly breathe.

DPA
: Well dying's not allowed here, you're going to have to go to Rhenea. I shouldn't have to tell you this.

DM
: Rhenea? I heard it's terrible, I want to die here.

DPA
: Too bad, that's the law.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

I make irrelevant comments because it's late.

Read somewhere between tonight and tomorrow morning:

The remaining cells die via apoptosis (programmed cell death).

Yeah, biology textbook. Point is this:

wouldn't Programmed Cell Death be the greatest name ever for a Techno Punk Rock Band?!

I know, right? Now you can return to what actually matters in your life.