A Rash of Songs

This Sunday, a particularly rainy day,  at the Museum of the Legion of Honor, Sylvia Rhine '78 (Carleton) and Eric Redlinger, the members of Asteria, gave a lecture on and played music from the court of Charles the Bold (sometimes known as 'the Rash'), Duke of Burgundy. The Duchy of Burgundy in the Late Middle Age was the richest "country" in Europe, and treated as an equal to the kings of official countries. Charles, as many generals have done, thought his campaign would be quickly done. He spent more than a year trying to take Neuss. A man of his stature had to be an accomplished warrior, host, and diplomat, so the delay in taking the city forced Charles to set up a court just beyond the field of battle. There he welcomed embassies with the gravitas necesssary for a man of his station, but he also entertained his guests and retainers. He had three minstrels, the three greatest in Europe, and he commanded that there be one new song every night. If the song failed to please him, he would execute the performer -okay, that last part is false, but the rest sounds like something out of Arabian Nights!

In the lecture before the concert, Sylvia Rhyne and Eric Redlinger discussed the impossibility of truly knowing the sound of medieval music. Some differences, nonetheless, could be ascertained - medieval music was composed of individual melodies that formed chords rather than chords per se; the music did not use meters (though of course notes had varying lengths). The dominant use of marriage as a political tool made amour de loin (love at a distance) the most common form of amour (Le Corps Sen Va, Antoine Busnoys). Medieval music was private and personal, but could be heard throughout the chateaux. Although it was personal, it did not use names, but preferred to idealize humans (Plus jay le monde regarde, Robert Morton; De Tous Biens Pleine, van Ghizeghem; Au gre de mes yeulx, Antoine Busnoys) and anthropomorphize abstract concepts (Allez Regrets, van Ghizeghem) The texts of medieval music were exquisite, expensive, and heart-shaped - although the last feature may be the result of the container reflecting the matter contained. Rhyne and Redlinger abbreviated the concert due to the impending and regular organ recital.

The concert featured compositions by the three composers (Antoine Busnoys, Robert Morton, and Hayne van Ghizighem), an anonymous composer, and Charles himself. It was lovely and soothing - perhaps too soothing, for a darkened room!

I'm recording the text of the planned concert here, since I find the songs beautiful in sentiment as well as performance - and a guy can never have too much love poetry as a miles amoris. Si je parle franCais, je pourrai les lire facilement. Certes, cette language est plus facile que le franCais anglo-normandais que je lisais a Saint Andrew.

Plus jay le monde regarde (Robert Morton)
Plus jay le monde regarde
Plus je voy mon premier chois
Avoir le bruit et le vois
De los de grace et de beaulte

The more I have seen the world
The more I see my first choice
To have the nobility and the voice
Of things of grace and beauty.
Quant ce vendra (Antoine Busnoys)
Quant ce vendra au droit destraindre
Comment pouray mon veul constraindre
Et mon cueur faindre a mon douloureux partement
De vous mon leal pencement, a qui nulluy ne peut actaindre.

When it comes to true torment
How shall I contain my desire?
Even my heart falters at my sad parting
From you, my loyal, whom it is not possible to reach.
Allez regrets (Hayne van Ghieghem)
Allez regrets vuidez de ma presance
Allez ailleurs querir vostre acointance
Assez avez tourmente mon las cueur.

Go, Regrets, depart from my presence.
Go elsewhere to find your company
You have tormented my weary heart enough.
Sur Mon Ame (Anonymous)

De tous biens pleine (van Ghizeghem)
De tous biens pleine est ma maistresse
Chacun luy doit tribut donneur,
Car assouvye est en valeur
Autant que jamais fut deesse.

 My mistress is full of all good things.
Each to her should be a giver of tribute.
For she is as appeased in worthiness
As any goddess was.
N'auray-je jamais mieux (Morton)
N'auray-je jamais mieux que jay
Suis je la ou je demeurai,
Mamour et toute ma plaisance?
...N'aurez vous jamais connaissance
Que je suis tout votre et serai?

Will I never have better than I have,
Am I here where I shall remain,
My love and all my pleasure?
....Will you never have knowledge
That I am and will be wholly yours?
Le souvenir de vous me tue (Morton)
Le souvenir de vous me tue,
Mon seul bien, quant je ne vous voy.
Car ie vous jure, sur ma foy,
Sans vous ma liesse est perdue.

The memory of you kills me,
My one good, when I do not see you.
For I swear to you, upon my good faith
That without you my joy is lost.
Gentilz gallans (van Ghizeghem)
Gentilz gallans soions toujours joyeux
Et je vous en prie tres humblement
Et si servons les dames loyaulment
Sans reposer le vray cueur amoureux.

Noble swains, let's be alway joyful,
And I beseech you very humbly
And thus let's serve the ladies loyally
Without relaxing the true loving heart.
En voyant sa dame (Busnoys)
En voyant sa dame au matin
Pres du feu ou elle se lace
Ou est le cueur qui ja se lasse
De regarder son beau tetin.

Upon seeing his lady in the morning,
Near the fire where she rests,
Where is the heast that would relax itself
From observing her beautiful breast?
Au gre de mes yeulx (Busnoys)
Au gre de mes yeulx je vous ay choisie
La plus acomplie qui soit soulx les cieulx.

At the liking of my eyes I have chosen you
The most accomplished woman who is under heaven.
Ma Dame Helas (Charles the Bold)

Le corps sen va (Busnoys)
Le corps sen va et le cueur vous demeure.
Le quel veult faire avec vous sa demeure
Pour vous vouloir aimer tant et si fort
...A vous servir jusques ace que je meure.

The body leaves and the heart remains with you.
That which wants to make its stay with you.
From the desire to love you so strongly and completely
... To serve you until I die.


Ma dame trop vous mesprenes (Charles the Bold)
Ma dame trop vous mesprenes
Quant vers moy ne vous gouvernes.
Aultrement qui l'oseroit dire, dire?

My lady, you hurt me too much,
When you do not steer my verse.
Otherwise who would dare to speak?

Turkey Day Tumpang

I was relaxing from Thanksgiving setup by finishing the current lesson in the online Bahasa Malaysia course - I'd wanted to practice some hieroglyphics, but I'd already put away my notes on where I last ended in Chapter XXXII of the Book of the Dead. The subject of Lesson 21 was 'di mana' ('where?'), and, more generally, locative expressions. The Bahasa Malaysia words for left and right ('kiri' and 'kanan', respectively) must be a nightmare for folks like me, who often confuse left and right! But the most relevant word for the holidays is 'tumpang', which can be used in three ways: 1) in phrases such as "boleh saya tumpang tanya?" "do you mind if I ask you a question?" 2) "to stay at a relative's or friend's place for the night" 3) "to get a lift in a car", possibly from a friend or relative. This polysemy speaks volumes about Malay and Malaysian culture, and serves as a friendly warning about one-to-one translation!

Through Rose-Colored Lenses

I've been reading a great book, Through the Language Glass by Guy Deutscher, whose previous book, The Unfolding of Language, holds an honored spot on my bookshelf - after the dictionaries, of course. The first part of Through the Language Glass addresses the history of color perception, starting with the British Prime Minister Gladstone (a politician in an era when keen intellect was not viewed as a sin) through the modern day. Although the modern progression of color terms is associated with exotic cultures, the pomegranate in the Garden was Gladstone's observation that Homer, known for his graphic similes, used a remarkably small palette (violet, dark, and pale green). I always imagined the maiden Chloris as having eaten something disagreeable! A language will always have a white/light vs. black/dark distinction; next comes red, the color of blood (from which word the term for "red" is often derived) and ripe fruit; then green or yellow, the color of unripe fruit; yellow, green, and blue follow. Blue is a latecomer, perhaps because few things in nature are vibrant blue. Perhaps we need a captive Smurf breeding program - I'm not sure the blue midgets have returned to the DC universe yet. Just as some languages favor when something was done (tense) against how something is viewed (aspect), so too some languages favor brightness over wavelength separation. Other languages prefer to split the colors in various ways - Russian distinguishes light blue from dark blue and Welsh grey-green from vibrant green. There is an entire amusing story behind the bluish tint of green Japanese traffic!

Regular readers of my blog (or, really, anyone who's seen my Favorite Books list on Facebook) will know I have a taste for dystopias, so it is no surprise that I have read Louise Lowry's The Giver. In that dystopia, all are equal, sharing the same birthday and identical gifts. On one particular birthday, all members of an age cohort receive a red bike. The adjective "red" is only attached to the word "bike", and the only sort of "bike" is a "red" one. It's clear from the narrative that the bikes are, in fact, bikes, but here is the question: if "red" and "bike" are always paired, does "red" actually mean anything in this context? Are they completely colorblind or is red the last remaining vestige of color perceived by their dulled senses? Apparently Lowry did her research! After I had read one of Deutscher's paragraphs on the color/shade orange, I examined the orange juice in the fridge and it was indeed a rich yellow rather than true orange. I had never noticed that before, and after my experience with ejective p in basic Korean  vocabulary, I realize how many things individuals gloss over to cope with the overwhelming data stream that is life.

I'm saving Deutscher's discussion of "an ant is on your south foot" languages for another post, since someone else has brought up such matters recently.

Royaneh 2011

*Sorry about the delayed posting - I was going to post it earlier today. Share and enjoy!

This was going to be the year when I spent the whole two weeks at Royaneh: it didn't quite work that way, but it came close. After a late doctor's appointment (the appointment was late, not the doctor!), I came up to Royaneh mid-Thursday. I recieved an enthusiastic welcome and settled into my usual location near the sweet aromas of the latrine.

The dining hall was packed, so much so that the camp staff had to eat outside or elsewhere. The reason for this overflowing cup? One of the camps in the Sierra was still under three feet of snow (a phenomenon which I can well believe, since I'd just been at Tahoe and marvelled at the remaining snowpack), and the troops which usually camped there had taken refuge at Royaneh. One of the interesting side effects of this generosity was the overlap of numbers, and a curious insistence on initials after troop names. For once, we shared a number with another troop.

Thursday was skit night, and our guys had chosen a familiar skit. The problem was this: it was familiar to the Scouts in the troop, but not to the rest of the camp. It is difficult to involve the whole troop and have a focused skit.

Friday brought the usual flurry of requests for me to sign this and initial that, and the reassurance that a two-week troop can provide more opportunity to complete partials. One of the merit badges offered that week, the surprise badge of the summer, was Nuclear Energy, which did not seem to me a "camp badge", but then, how many people are qualified to teach it? Another badge, Scouting History, seemed questionable. I may, however, be biased, as one of the requirements made me realize how long I have been involved with Scouting. Closing campfire caused the usual cognitive dissonance among the two-weekers, but (as always) everyone had to go to it. The new stage is very nice, although the random appearances of dogs in the background was a little distracting. Jay from Aquaneh, as usual, was master of ceremonies for final honors for tattered flags. At the first closing campfire of the summer, he seemed a little suprised at the dearth of veterans among the Scouters.

Saturday morning came, and the list of completes and partials was announced. The number of merit badges earned has increased with the consolidation of Mammals and Fish and Wildlife into the two-badge class "Fwammals". The other troops left, and some left quite early, so only our troop, and the troop with our number times three remained. The morning was devoted to the Junior Leader Training, which involved a larger number of scouts than I had anticipated. The session wnet well, for the most part, and sparked certain ideas for imporvement which I jotted down. The afternoon was split between swimming (in the pool, not at Romans Plunge) and CAPTURE THE FLAG! The teams were split, and the traditional boundaries had a slight modification due the troop times three. The bugle indicated the end of each round. Yes, some people contracted poison oak; the showering considerably delayed the start of the campfire, at which the Staff formed a Idol-like panel. Perhaps next I shall judge the Staff skit as they judge those of the patrols.

On Sunday morning, the Troop did not sleep in as long as they wished. The Scout's Own was slightly different - there were two speakers, one Scout, one parent. Several patrols used the time saved from an organized signup for Merit Badges to complete the cairn hikes from Saturday.

Monday saw a return to classes. It seems to me that the Scouts are busier with badges than when I was a Scout at Royaneh, a bit more ambitious. The biggest change, however, was this: for the first time, I was one of two adult leaders, not overshadowed by Joe Ehrman or Bruce.

Wednesday it rained, shocking the disbelievers who had never seen rain at Royaneh and though my description of a three-day rainy stretch the tall tale of a Troop alumnus. The classes were held in the halls and in the Chiefs' Lounge. Unfortunately, Wednesday was also Competition Night, held in the mess hall rather than the newly rebuilt Ralph W. Benson amphitheater. The rain had stopped, but it was too late to move back to the amphitheater. Most of the events were the same, and the competition was lively, but the judge of one of the events declared every contestant a winner. This did not sit well with the Troop, which felt that a proper competition has either a winner or a loser.

On Thursday, I held a Star conference for the First Class scouts who had passed our pre-Star conference test. That was an interesting experience. I asked the three candidates to plan various aspects of an overnight camping trip, given the landscape around Pioneers with which they were familiar.In retrospect, I should have said that they were leading a group, not merely going themselves. The trio put together a solid plan, I also held a Second Class conference for another Scout whose condition prevented him from attending Swimming MB. At this point, I no longer remember what the skit for Skit Night was.

On Friday night, of course, the Troop Feed happened. The Staff kept a lid on the number of camp counselor guests, and the food was delicious. The most memorable feature of this year's Troop Feed, however, was the post-prandial guitar sing-along which lasted far longer than we would usually allow. It was the sort of camaraderie you can't create.

Possession and Poetry

One of the books I purchased at Archon 35 in St Louis was The Handbook of Science Fiction Poetry by Suzette Haden Elgin, the author of Native Tongue and creator of the allegedly woman-friendly language Láadan (more on that thought later, if I remember). I was not planning to write any English-language (or even Láadan) poetry, but I did want to know her thoughts on the techniques of poetry to improve my prose. One section in particular caught my eye. Elgin points out in this section that every English sentence and word has a “phantom sentence” underlying it, and that the more liberal rules of poetry expose that truth more effectively than prose. The construction of a science-fictional or fantasy setting requires more exposition than a real-world fictional setting, and nowadays much of that must be discreet. I'm a fan of the old-fashioned expository speech, thanks to the amount of 1930s and '40s books I read as a kid, but that taste seems rare now.
 

The use of the word “orphan” implies two dead parents, and thereby can hang the tale. Add the word “homeless” to “orphan”, and the phrase suggests that the lack of a roof is connected to the lack of parents, although it need not be (perhaps the family was homeless beforehand). If you write the sentence “The homeless orphan was crying”, you have added definiteness (a specific orphan), a contrast (is there an orphan was has a home? Is there someone who is homeless but not an orphan?), and an action that implies a cause (why is the homeless orphan crying? Homelessness or dead parents need not be the cause of the orphans' sorrow.).

Romney's Run

There's been a lot of talk recently about whether Mitt Romney is Christian. Romney's membership in the Church of Latter-Day Saints does not endear him to the Evangelical Republican base. From the standpoint of the "mainstream" churches, also, Romney is not in fact Christian, since Mormons follow a second revelation of Jesus Christ, and a new revelation is the sign of a false prophet. The Republican reluctance to endorse Romney, however, is a bit surprising: the Evangelical Right is willing to work with non-Evangelicals and non-Christians in movements such as the pro-life movement. The confusion, it seems to me, stems from a conflation of two roles: the leader of the Republican Party and the President of the United States. It would be interesting to learn if the controversy over Romney in any way reflects the discussions during the Kennedy campaign.

Indecent Propositions

The other day, I dedicated some time to actually reading the San Francisco voters' pamphlet. A lot of people want to be mayor of San Francisco. The number of propositions is fairly low, but every one of them must be read carefully. In one of them, the final line of the proposal sheds a different light on the preceding sentences, a light which reversed my decision. Such surprises are good in drama, but in politics, and particularly in a system allegedly designed to be friendly to the public, such surprises are dishonest and sneaky. Only in government is it good form to attach unrelated matters to a bill on a different subject. The other feature of propositions which confuses and annoys me is the number of opposing propositions. Even if I understand and agree that Proposition X is a good idea, it is impossible to tell what the interaction of Proposition X and Proposition Y will be. I vote on individual propositions, but the effects are multiple.

Harmonia Altaica

The other day (well, a while ago now), I was reading about the Altaic hypothesis and examining a chart of sound changes that included the changes from Altaic to Old Japonic (the ancestor of Japanese, the languages of the Ryukyu islands, and possibly the extinct Gaya language of South Korea). The Altaic hypothesis is that a large variety of language families, of which the most famous is the Turkic and the most vicious is Mongolic, are the descendants of a theoretical language, Altaic, which did not have vowel harmony, but did have features that created vowel harmony in the descendant languages. Vowel harmony, the process by which only certain vowels may appear together in a single word, implies a reduction in the numbers of vowels (since most vowels in a vowel harmony language “pair up”), and the pattern proposed for the creation of Old Japonic halves the numbers of vowels to one low, one mid, one back, and one front. Both the back and the front are intrinsically high. A separate common phenomenon, discouraged and disparaged in that oddball language English, is onomatopoeia, the imitation of the sounds of creatures and phenomena in the words that mean those creatures and phenomena – a good example is Bahasa Indonesia 'susu' 'milk', from the suckling sound of babes.

If Old Japonic had both onomatopoeia and vowel harmony, the extremely high proportion of like vowels in sequence in current Japanese would seem less strange, as would the inability of the earliest phonetic scripts to recognize the true differences in the eight-vowel system of Old Japanese. The Turkic runes, the oldest form of native Turkic writing, incorporate the vowel harmony system into the structure of the mixed alphabet/syllabary, but do so awkwardly and incompletely.

Copts and Mobbers

The recent news that Egyptian mobs attacked a Coptic church distresses me greatly. The excitement of the Arab Spring has faded, when Egyptians were united against Mubarak, and normal, ugly political discourse has reasserted itself. The fundamental problem with many rebellions is the lack of a cause for which it is fighting. Attacks on Copts are not a new phenomenon in contemporary Egypt, but such rioting and unrest provides a pretext by which the allegedly provisional military government can cement its base or weaken its opposition. If the mobile vulgus is busy attacking non-Muslims (in which case Christians will have to do in the absence of Jews), then it cannot attack the true and established opposition.

Archon 35: A Personal Retrospective

I'd better write this before I begin to forget the details!

I'd dipped my toes into Wondercon several times (whenever I wasn't camping that weekend), and I recently went to WorldCon in Reno; I'd even been to St Louis before. This was, however, my first Archon. I didn't announce my status ahead of time too publically - too many horror stories about maltreatment of noobs. I loaded up on books in the hallway, but didn't buy so much in the dealer's room - I'm a bibliophile, not a collector. The Science Fiction Poetry Handbook by Suzette Haden Elgin is good! I'm also caught up on Avengers history in time for the movie, in case there are any continuity nods. I had a nice chat with Sara Harvey, whose book Convent of the Pure I bought at WorldCon but have not read yet (the cover is far too salacious to display in public). I also bought a modern pulp hero story - the equivalent of steampunk. Unfortunately, pulp heros tend to be popular in rough economic times.

The panels I attended had the following themes: Superman, Firefly, Dr. Who, steampunk, and writing panels. The Superman panel proposed that he was a distillation of several characters (Hugo Danner, Doc Savage, etc.) and not original at all. But then, that is also the description of Casablanca! The Who panel was more interesting for meeting people (I am tired of Rory and Amy!),  especially Paul, Rosemary, and Beth, but the Firefly panel was livelier. Firefly is a good example of a show where the quality made a short run a lasting work. The steampunk panels were fascinating, and, as I posted on the FB Archon site, taught me an appreciation of steampunk. The writing panels were very informative - Rachel Neumeier had interesting points, and I may have to thank Michael Tiedemann for his advice on non-monetary social status markers. One of the downsides of the panels, however, was the level of rudeness among the audience. Such poorly socialized convention members are one of the reason that science fiction, fantasy, and gaming are in public disrepute.

The costumes! O the costumes! The costumes were fantastic. The emphasis was fantasy or steampunk. Some of them were ill-advised or made when the wearer was thinner. There was a lot of cross-dressing (most notably the group who dressed as the X-Women), but Beth reminded me that I live in a strange little bubble where cross-dressing is more acceptable than other cities. I watched the Masquerade, which was amazing - some contestants must have spent a fortune. My favorite costume was a tie between the Weeeping Angel and Kasey MacKenzie's Kaylee (Firefly) outfit.

The parties went into the early morning, but my disdain for drunken idiots and my inability (even in college) to pull an all-nighter prevented me from partaking much.

If people left Sunday, they missed the flying shark.

The Doubletree, where I stayed, was nice, connected to the Gateway Center (sans Aboriginal teleporter) by a bridge over a ditch. Nothing fancy, but flyover country seems to remember that it is a hospitality industry.

Rain, Again

Il pleuve. Llueve. It is raining. Weather often isn't anybody's fault, unless you count Greek peasants who believe the Earth is Zeus' toilet bowl. Weather doesn't have an agent (look at how people complain about it!) and often has no patient either, provided you don't run around in thunderstorms with a kite. Since the weather is an event without mover or moved, languages with mind-boggling conjugations often have only a few forms in the third person singular (he/she/it) for “it rains”. I've even heard that a few languages forgo a verbal form of 'rain' and leave only a noun – it would not surprise me if such languages demanded a subject for their sentences, the reverse of the court of an unjust king. Under normal circumstances, rain falls from the sky to the ground, so the sentence “Rain comes down” does not appear strange.

In ancient times, these forms made sense; weather happened. If certain weather was predictable according to the season, that did not indicate any understanding of the cause. Even today, the weather forecast is shockingly uncertain compared to the “stricter” sciences. Has the greater understanding of the interaction of humus clouds and human crowds brought us to a point where the tempestuous agents of human nature ought to be acknowledged, in speech as well as thought? I'm not claiming some strong version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which for me is more a tool of creation than dissection, but if people in uncomfortable positions use the passive (“mistakes were made”) to eliminate personal responsibility, why not use the reverse to promote responsibility?

Sales & Services

Written before the trip:

I'm flying to St Louis tomorrow for Archon. It's also Rosh Hashanah. I'm not Jewish, but I know how important the High Holy Days are in the tradition. I've also been listening to NPR, one of whose segments focused on the financial straits of members of synagogues. If I have understood the situation correctly, this is the time of year when many temples collect membership fees, partially via the sales of tickets to High Holy Days services, but many Jewish men and women who in better times readily paid for their tickets cannot pay this year. Although I'm sure it's a mitzvah to provide a ticket under these circumstances, the idea of selling tickets to a day of obligation is very strange. It's true that my Anglican tradition used to rent the forward aisles to various prominent families (including some of my ancestors), but the entire church was never declared off-limits to humbler and poorer congregational members in good standing! I find it hard to believe that the Jewish tradition would deliberately discourage Jews from going to temple, so I must be missing some element here that is clearer to one raised in the faith tradition.

New Colors

As I was handing out the Ray-O-Han awards, I couldn't help thinking that the 100th anniversary of the troop is fast approaching. I'm definitely sticking around for that landmark! Of course, the centenary will require a new color, and the passing of the magenta bar. We could go with the standard centenary color, but we don't have to - magenta is not the 75th anniversary color, after all. This is merely my personal poll, but I'd like to know what colors Troop alumni thinks should top the green of Leadership and the red of Tradition.

Beasts, Bass, and Bob

Pirahã (native name: xapaitiiso) is a language spoken by less than 400 people in the Amazon. Daniel Everett, who has studied the language extensively, has made some extraordinary claims about it which are much disputed in linguistic circles. I'm not interested right now in the more contentious ones, or delving into the prononciation.



What does interest me is the pronominal system. The first and second person singular are ti3 and gi1xai3 respectively (the superscript numbers represent tones, with 1 being the highest). There are numerous third person singulars, of which hi3 is animate human (and apparently default masculine). The most common first and second person plurals are combinations of the singular persons; first person plural inclusive is ti3 gi1xai3 (first + second), first person plural exclusive is ti3 hi3 (first + third), and second person plural is gi1xai3 hi3 (second + third). The plural also has forms using a suffix -(a)(i)tiso – I'm not sure what causes the variation between ti3a1ti3so3 (first plural), gi1xa3i1ti3so3 (second plural), and hi3ai1ti3so3 (third plural, possibly exclusively human).



There are at least five third person singular pronouns (possibly derived from nouns, as many third persons around the world are), which break down into a simple binary chart. The highest branch divides animate from inanimate; inanimate singular is a3. An animate-inanimate distinction is the first divison one would expect if any division is made. The next division, human versus non-human, is also a common divison. The human pronoun is hi3. Humans come in two varieties, male and female (it would be inappropriate to quip about Genesis here, since the Piraha~ have an aversion to myth), and the specifically female pronoun is i3. Non-humans come in two varieties also, but the division is not between male and female, but aquatic and non-aquatic. The aquatic pronoun is si3, the non-aquatic i1k. If you lived in a land that flooded twenty feet every year, you'd be interested in this distinction!

Canoe Trip 2011

Recently, we went on the fall canoe trip on the Russian River. The group was a little top-heavy in terms of age, but bonding is bonding. The trip, sadly, is no longer a two-day water trip, although it is an overnight - every night you pitch a tent counts for camping! We embarked below the campsite, and headed out. I'd been practicing my oar strokes in a wooden canoe on a relatively sheltered part of Lake Tahoe, so it took a while to adjust to the current and a battered (but fortunately not leaky) metal canoe. My power was better than my control, but my old sailing instructor at Tahoe could have told you that. The water in the river was much higher than the warm, green, scummy ride of last year, and the riverine topography now included additional broad shallows that extended under the bushes. This is a trip on which I am glad I am shorter than the average Caucasian male! We ate a bit later than I had anticipated, but everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Yes, there were swamped canoes and at least one lost paddle, but nobody was hurt in the process.

The campfire in the evening featured songs, skits, and yells, including a canoe-themed skit. No doubt the boys , were they writing this, would spend more time on the campfire than I shall. The next day we awoke and breakfasted. Since we can no longer do the stretch from Asti to our campsite, Sunday has become a day for some early fall skill advancement, in this case knots. I trust this stood the Scouts in good stead at the next meeting, where they worked on lashings.

The Scout's Own format has evolved somewhat, and now there is a Scout perspective as well as a parent speaker. I like this structure, because it gives the Scouts ownership over the service (I don't know what else to call it) without obscuring the focus of this part of the trip. If the Scout's insight varies from the superficial to the profound, I could say the same of a sample of homilies.

Credo and Quechua

Recently, I went to a talk at St Dom's on changes in the English translation of the Mass (I always did wonder why the Catholic CHurch, which should know its Latin backwards and forward, translated the first word of the Creed "We believe"). All the talk of why the Creed uses "we" or "I" and how Christian know what they know made me think, and not just about the Creed itself. On Memorial Day, I took a road trip with a friend and a priest, a man of Quechua descent specializing in indigenous theology.

Now, Quechua is a tongue with both clusivity and evidentiality. Clusivity is a recurring linguistic feature of this blog; it's the difference between we = you and I (inclusive) and we = I, but not you. Inclusivity (and, I suspect, a desire to separate the Church from the "personal Jesus" Evangelicals) was the goal of the inaccurate translation of "credo" as "we believe". It seems to me that if the Nicene Fathers had intended the first person plural they would have used it.

They certainly chose to use it in the phrase "crucifixus etiam pro nobis" "He was crucified for our sake" (a benefactive!), but how is it rendered in Quechua? It happens that I don't read Quechua well enough to tell which form "muchurqa" is (the Creed is never a fair comprehension st, since one already knows what it says) - I know more about the verb forms than the pronominal ones. It could go either way - inclusive to indicate that God's plan of salvation is for all, or exclusive to indicate the authority of the Catholic church. If I want to know, I suppose I'll have to find a Quechua grammar and dictionary. I did find this link:
http://www.yoyita.com/Quechua/Rosario/Inini_credo.php

The other interesting feature is evidentiality, the mandatory marking of how you know what you know. These epistomological endings, I expect, would have an impact on the composition of the Creed - one of the reasons the Pirahã of the Amazon have not been converted is an unwillingness to belive in more than second-hand information. Some languages have more flexibility than others in evidentiality, and I believe that Quechua is on the harder end. I wonder what Aquinas looks like in Quechua!

WorldCon Reno

Last weekend, I went to WorldCon in Reno (for which I had signed up due to proximity). I had a blast! I'd been to WonderCon in San Francisco several times, but I'd never committed to a con before. It was amazing. I met several folks (especially from the Language Creation Society) whom I only knew from online, and could fully relax the guardedness of the science fiction fan among the general populace. The authors were friendlier than I expected, but I guess that comes of being a fan before a writer. I certainly didn't expect to meet a Vatican City astronomer! I also saw Paul and Rosemary, whom I will see again in the fall. The Hugo Awards were fantsstic, although the comedy was mediocre. My only regret is that I only went for Saturday and Sunday, but next year I'll go to Chicago for the entire con.

The Drowned World

On the lake, the water levels varies from year to year, no longer regulated by nature, but by artifice and treaty. The snows of this winter which filled the coffers also filled the lake, so much so that most of the rocky beaches are underwater and the woody plants of yesteryear stand, slowly drowning. Down at Bristlecone Beach, where Christ the King holds its Bible study, where banks of rich purple flowers bloomed last year, there is no longer a peninsula, not even an island, but only green and dying trees and a sign forlornly sticking out of the water like ruined tower off the Anglian coast.

Birthday

That was quite a birthday! My cousin, Zach, and his girlfriend, Katie, came up for the festivities on Thursday. On Friday, we tried for the river, but in the morning the raft company had not opened, so we decided to go on the boat around the lake. Katie had never been on the lake, although her friend had been to Tahoe may times. We went over to Thunderbird Lodge, the stately manor founded by the heir to PG&E and Richmond/Sunset real estate, former circus performer, and 1905 earthquake hero. The old woodie Thunderbird II was nowhere in sight.

We continued down the Nevada side of the lake and stopped at a cove and a group of rocks. Three of us jumped, and as usual, were stripped of our breath by the bone-chilling temperature. Two of us adjusted fairly quickly. We swam to the rocks and climbed up on them. The rocks were as warm as the water was cold; unfortunately, somebody had tagged the back of the rock.

Once we were back on the boat, we went southward, past the clothing-free beach. Since we had enough gas, we headed across the lake to Emerald Bay. The heavy snowfall of this winter, still abundantly evident in the peaks of the Tahoe Rim, had filled Emerald Bay nearly to its greatest extent, so that the water was a marine blue rather than emerald green. The waterfall behind Vikingsholm, usually a trickle at this time of year, was visible from the mouth of the bay as a foaming white spray. As we travelled around Fannette Island, I told the others about Mrs. Knight, who owned Vikingsholm, and her predecessor Cap'n Dick, who used to row to Tahoe City for drinks and rowed back drunk every night. Nobody wanted to swim to the island with me! The one unfortunate effect of the high water was this: the travel lanes in and out of Emerald Bay were not as idiot-proof as usual (and a lot of idiots go on vacation). The return trip was uneventful, except for gas.

Since we had missed lunch altogether, Zach, Katie, and I went into town and got a slice of pizza to tide us over. Later, Mom, Dad, Zach, Katie, Aidan, Kirsten, and I went to the recently reopened Hacienda del Lago. It was nice to have the place back, although the bar that they built for the (former) tapas bar places takes up a lot of room that used to be seating.

After dinner, Zach, Katie, and I went to The Blue Agave to kill some time before the movie, and ran into Aidan and Kirsten. Zach, Katie, and I then watched Captain America, which all of us (even Katie) enjoyed. Marvel is doing a good job of tranferring its interwoven narrative to the screen.

On Saturday, Aidan, Kirsten, Zach, Katie, and I floated down the Truckee (since the rafting had opened the afternoon of the previous day). The extra water that had been added that morning made navigation more hazardous, since the rocks which usually showed were underwater and all the gunk which heretofore had lain on dry, or least slight damp, land, had risen up and headed downstream in the current. Several groups of enormous size hit the river, so we had to avoid the logjams. I got suburnt, but it was a great last part to my birthday "weekend".

New Blog

Tomorrow is my birthday, so it seems an auspicious time to launch my new blog, The Tahoe Tongue, on the pre-settlement Washo language of the Tahoe basin. I plan to update it weekly while I work through Jacobsen's primer and beyond. I'd appreciate feedback on the clarity of the linguistic descriptions, since I want to make it as accessible as possible.

A Long Way From Wemyss

Recently I learned that my Scottish forebears, the Bealls, were exclusively from one village in Fife. Wemyss, the village in question, is pronounced "Weems" and derives from the Scots Gaelic noun uaimh, which means "cave". There are certainly many caves near Wemyss, some of which were inhabited in the Neolithic Age and feature typically frank drawings. My ancestors, the Bealls, derive their surname from the Scots Gaelic noun beul or beal - the "extra" a or u indicates a broad, rather than slender, final consonant. This feature reminds me of a comment of Tolkien regarding Elvish spelling of English, namely that an elf such as Legolas would spell "bell" as "beoll". beul means "mouth", either that of a river or a person, and as an adjective, may refer to physical location or rhetorical skill. It seems to me there is a third option: in a place that is named after caves, why couldn't beul refer to the mouth of the caves instead? Since one regional cave in particular is famous for its rock drawings, the family that lived at the mouth of the cave would have a unique appellation.

Voyage of the Dawn Treader

I recently watched Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third and (sadly) last installment of the Chronicles of Narnia movie line. The solid beginning arose great hopes in me, since the visual signature was definately Narnian, not Lord of the Rings nor Harry Potter. I can forgive the rejiggering of plot necessary to sustain a movie, since the literary form is more tolerant of episodic narrative than its cinematic cousin. The plot device was weak, albeit an obvious one (what aristocrat doesn't have a sword?) The mysterious fog seemed a bit more contrived. The addition of a second female passenger seemed gratuitous. The longer dragon-stage of Eustace, however, was used to good effect, especially since the conversation between Aslan and Eustace in the book is profound, but would not translate well to film. That brings me to my final point: the Christian elements were minimal and well-hidden by conflicting desires to capture both the Christian and the secular market. The salvific (and generally non-Evangelical, non-Apocalyptic) Christian element, though objectionable to many, is the thematic signature of the Chronicles of Narnia, as integral to its setting as Quenya and Sindarin are to Lord of the Ring.

Summer Hike

On Saturday morning in the parking lot, the sky over the City was gray, and there was some doubt whether it would lift in the East Bay as well. The intrepid hiing group, nonetheless, set off. It was still cool by the time we reach the Little Farm in Tilden Park, but not truly overcast. We hiked up to Memorial Grove, which was very windy and seemed distinctly ungrovelike to me. It resembled more strongly Dun Aonghas in Inishmore, although the viewing platform was in better shape. From the viewing platform, one could vast swaths of the East Bay and at least two reservoirs. After we had rested there, we descended to the actual grove, planted by the Rotary Club (an organization I know little about). Then we completed the short loop via a path that provided more shade. All of us went over to the Little Farm and patted the cows, although some were less than happy about cow slobber and the surprising sharpness of cow tongue.

The Lincoln Lawyer

I rented this on a misunderstanding: I thought this was the film, recently lauded on NPR, about the trial of the woman who sheltered John Wilkes Booth and his conspirators. By the time I realized my error, I had already returned home. The Lincoln Lawyer is a tightly scripted thriller about a defense lawyer whose cases intertwine. I especially enjoyed this film for two reasons: firstly, I come from a family infested with defense lawyers; secondly, said defense lawyers know Hell's Angels (some came to my aunt's funeral), and the group features prominently and more or less positively in the film.

Canoeing

This summer, in view of the absent Canoe Training trip in the late spring, I've pulled out my wooden canoe and taken in out in varying conditions. I welcome the shelter provided by the point and the boat field, but a lake (especially this one) does not have a direction of flow, which means you have work to move in any direction. The swells and winds are unpredictable, but there are enough obstacles (birds, boats, and rocks) to challenge my navigation skills.

The usual course is southwards first, between the rocks at the lakeside tennis courts and buoy field, outside the buoys at the pier which (in theory) prevent boats from ramming into the pier at high speed, down to the old pier near the end of the point, and back almost to the starting point. From there, I go around a smaller point that used to have rocks jutting out of the water, past the summer swimming raft off which I used to push my cousin Victoria, past the other summer swimming raft, and around back to the starting point. The round trip is a third to half a mile. Sometimes I reverse the direction.

In calm waters, I'll often overestimate the power of my strokes and have to correct for it; my old sailing instructor used to say the same of my tacking. The canoe, fortunately, has no draft whatsoever, so any rocks lurking six inches under the surface cannot threaten my craft.

I Once Was Blind, But Now I See

I probably should be at a Maunday Thursday service right now, but the thought of washing someone else's feet is repulsive. So, in lieu of my bid for a book club meeting, I will share my thoughts on disabilities awareness.

As I was walking to class the other day, a group of admitted students came around the corner. All the students were blind, outfitted with red-and-white canes rather than guide dogs. One of the effects of my romantic history has been a heightened awareness of persons with disabilities in public settings. I stepped out of the way and let them pass.

This brief encounter remained in the back of my mind as I attended classes. After class, I picked up a university paper. One of the articles addressed the plight of persons with disabilities in light (pun intended) of the recent power outage. I shall skip over the fact that I probably know the cause and the foreman of the human cause of the power outage. Several students with disabilities that restricted and eliminated their movement were stranded when the power died, since the elevators did not work.

This highlighted the lack of an overall university plan for evacuation of students with disabilities. On the one hand, the university budget is tight, and the needs of the students are great, so a sparse distribution of human resources is not unexpected; the recent closing of a local bookstore (Thidwick Books) due to a somewhat petty threat of an ADA lawsuit disinclines me to use extremely harsh language. On the other hand, students with mobility issues have no choice about classes on the higher floors of the building. One suggested solution is a designated gathering area on each floor for the students with disabilities, but this solution does not work so well if any fire is involved.

What disturbs me most, however, about this incident, is the following sentence: “Students with disabilities who do not receive assistance from classmates and faculty ...” It is possible that this sentence refers to those persons with disabilities whom the classmates and faculty cannot help due to equipment issue (although one would think a university would have plenty of strong lads and lasses to move heavy equipment). If, however, the writer does indeed intend the verb “to do” rather than “to can”, it betrays a flaw in human nature even more than university policy. If one shares a class with a person with a disability, one should be willing to assist him or her if asked, If removal from the wheelchair is necessary (and here my Baden Powell obsession betrays me), there are carries designed for such purposes which do not require a long time to learn.

Ultimately, all of us who are able-bodied should be more aware of the needs of persons with disabilities willing to help when asked (because one of the side-effects of having a disability is a certain level of assertion obnoxious in the abled but necessary for those who are not).

Big Hike 2011 - Alamere Falls

I said I would write about the hike to Alamere Falls, and a Scout is trustworthy, so here it is. I should also point out that the addition of another Scout leader, more experience in photography than I, has exculpated me from the lack of photos herein.

We passed the bird sanctuary, and parked when we ran out of road. The weather was grey and chill, but everyone was in high spirits. We started walking north on the Coast Trail, past the picnic tables where less hardy souls might stop. The vistas of the ocean were stunning, and our path lay between a steep above and a steep below. There were several lakes along the Coast Trail, although most remained hidden from view, and those which were visible were small, even by the broad definition of the West. There was an element of track and field in our journey, for the recent deluge had brought down several trees and created stunted versions of the lakes along our path. None were so bad as the time my fellow trekkers discovered the end of a reservoir across our path, but they were big enough to present a dilemma. The haste of youth compelled many to keep a pace that forbade natural observation; the flora and fauna along the way were varied and denizens of mutiple biomes. There was plenty of miner's lettuce.The soup made from it is bland, but at least has less chance of poisoning the ravenous 49er than improperly prepared acorns.

We descended to Wildcat Camp, where we ate our lunch. The weather was still chill and windy. After all had finished their repast, we went down to the beach, or tried to. The path ended in a wide stream, impossible to cross without removal of shoes. Although such an action is one of the hazards of hiking, the temperature did not incline me to do this as a first option. One of the boys, however, leapt down from the collapsed mudbank and sank up to his knees. Others, less eager to cool their legs and feet, discovered the path across a higher and smaller part of the stream using logs: even here, a judicious leap was necessary.

The stroll along the beach to Alamere Falls was refreshing as a change from the usual packed dirt trails. The boys wandered close to the water and suddenly fled (with varying degrees of success) from the inrushing waves. The. Alamere Falls is a mile south of Wildcat Camp. It is forty foot high, and the recents rains had swollen it. The beach was very narrow here, so that the more timid boys had to retreat to the rock shelves below the cliff to remain dry. It reminded me a bit of Henneth Annu^n (although according to past Scouts, I should be in Orthanc, since they cast me as Saruman).

If Alamere Falls was like Henneth Annu^n, then the way up to the top of the falls was truly like the Pass of Gorgoroth (the movie version). The way up was hidden from a casual eye, steep and inconveniently stepped, and it would be inadvisable to look down. I would not recommend a second ascent, but everyone reached the top safely, and none will forget the experience.
The challenge of Alamere Falls, however, was not over. In order to reach the trail, it was necessary to leap across a deep channel, where a careless misstep would result in a twisted ankle at best. Some boys hesitated in their calculations, but eventually everyone made it across. It is sobering to think that this was a normal obstacle for my pioneering ancestors.

The weather worsened, as though the sky gods (and I don't know the name of the Miwok or Ohlone one) had been restraining themeselves until we were all homeward bound. The rain poured down and down, and did not cease. We were all eager to reach the shelter of the cars, but I marvelled at the sight of an ill-prepared trio headed out. One of the trio was carrying a city umbrella and wearing shoes more fit for Temple than trail. His female companion did not look pleased. I feel sure that their lack of preparation will strain their relationship. I was cold by the time we reached the cars, and made a note to protect my core more thoroughly next time.

'Comites' Before 'Clodia'

Catullus' poem 11 continues his post-Lesbian life. If poem 8 is Catullus enduring the psychological travails of the breakup, poem 11 is his drunkenly exaggerated thanks to his friends, followed by a relapse into bitter anger.

Furius and Aurelius seem to have assured Catullus that they have his back, in a "bros before hoes" manner, and suggested a road trip. Although the actual suggestion is more likely to have been a trip to Baiae rather than Bithynia, Catullus exaggerates this offer to cover the entire world. It is unclear whether this is happily drunken fraternity or a test born from Catullus' lingering insecurity. The epic language and scale of the proposed world tour (11.2-12) could suggest either possibility. A world tour, however, is not what Catullus wants his friends to do; what he really wants is the delivery of an abusive message (11.15-24) to his former lover.

This message begins somewhat elegantly (11.15-11.17), as though it were a neoteric poem within another neoteric poem. The last word of 11.17, "moechis", marks the descent into abusive language. First, Catullus refuses to believe that Lesbia's sexual liaisons could have any element of true love (11.18-20), and then witholds the love he alone possesses (11.21). The last image of the poem, a flower in a field which has been fatally damaged by a plow (11.22-24), indicates not only sexual congress and the generation of a precious and beautiful thing, but also an affection that is dying, rather than dead, in Catullus' heart.

Shining Suns

Catullus, in the eighth poem of his collection, has encapsulated the complicated feelings of a messy breakup. The poem opens with a wonderful expression (8.2), which may or may not be a proverb:

quod vides perisse perditum ducas
"what you know has died you should consider lost"

This is excellent advice, but cold comfort to one who had lost something precious.
Such sentiments, rather than sufficing - it is only the second line, after all -, spurs Catullus to dwell on what is lost. The perfect tense of "fulsere" establishes the connection of the past and present, while the following imperfects provide a sense of both pastness and frequency; it is notable that Catullus is the passive partner in these activities.

In line 8.9, Lesbia has rejected Catullus; Catullus retains his feeling of impotence, and even his attempts to get her back (8.10-13) are impotent and his self-pity pathetic. He must announce his renunciation of her to make it stick. The embarrassing antics of jilted lovers trying to revive the sparks ("soles") of a dead relationship is mixed with wavering self-confidence.

In lines 8.14-18, Catullus turns from strengthening his own resolve to degrading that of his former lover. Although the descent into rhetorical abuse is a stylistic demand of this poetic genre, it is also a realistic psychological depiction, the dark side of the irritating presumption of a unique relationship that lovers often display. It is testimony to the passion of the relationship that Catullus ends the poem not with a final sting to Lesbia, but one last reminder to himself (8.19).

Ad rem Aegyptiae intelligendam

One of the forms of the Egyptian verb, and one which we recently studied, is called the "pseudo-verbal" form. This consists of a limited number of prepositions followed by the Egyptian "infinitive". The citation forms for the most common pseudo-verbals are transliterated conventionally as "Hr sDm", "m sDm", and "r sDm". Although it is difficult to describe concisely an English structural parallel, students of the Romulan tongue might find a better comparison between the Egyptian pseudo-verbal form and the Latin gerundive.

In this case, the Egyptian forms "Hr sDm", "m sDm", and "r sDm" correspond (with due allowance for prepositional semantics) to the Latin forms "de aliquo audiendo", "in aliquo audiendo", and "ad aliquid audiendum". The Latin trio, however, is crippled in its syntactical ability compared to that of the Egyptian, which can support a complex noun phrase.

Since the meanings of the constructions differ, I am presenting this as a mnemonic rather than a detailed grammatical analysis.

Strangers Passer-ing In The Night

Ash Wednesday, and instead of penitence my thoughts turn to the passer poems (2 and 3) of Catullus. Since I was assigned poem 16 for St Valentine's day, I must wonder if the class is not meant as some sort of cosmic counterpoint. Maybe it's just part of the Chairman's plan (Philip K. Dick is always a good source of metaphors for the action of the Powers that be).

What can we make of poems 2 and 3? The first is a mock hymn, the second mock dirge, both of which follow upon the heels of poem 1. If poem 1 is a dedicatory epigram which provides the name of the dedicatee, the genre, and a devout desire for the work to last, then poem 2 is an invocation to the mortal goddess of the work. If poem 2 announces Catullus' infatuation with Lesbia, poem 3 describes its irrevocable end. These poems are as programmatic as poem 1 by providing the plot, such as it is, of a work characterized by variatio.

The passer, whose msgical companions pull the chariot of Aphrodite, appears only in these two poems because he has encompassed the entire book by being the book itself. The passer also represents the amores in the sense of physical poetry. That which Lesbia holds in her lap, to which she offers a finger, that which is a beloved comfort to her is the material on which Catullus' poetry is written. If we subscribe to this interpretation, the non-passerine lines 11-13 are not an aberration of overzealous annexation, but rather an appropriate comparison between the passer of Lesbia and the golden apple of Atalanta, both of which were instruments of unbinding girdles. The passer in poem 3 encompasses both the death of the poet as passer and the death of the poetry itself as evidence of a still-living affair. The terms with which the poet eulogizes the passer are actions characteristic of the lover (although the comment about being closer than family acquires ambivalence if Lesbia and Clodia are the same). The imprecation against Hades can be both metapohorical and literal: both the death of a pet bird and a love affair are things which cannot be undone.

Best of the Bath-Thieves

I am greatly enjoying re-reading Catullus, although his subject matter often restrains me from public translation (at least aloud) into English. The two poems of which I speak here are poems 15 and 33, which share the hendecasyllabic meter and themes of breach of trust and travelling (forced or otherwise).

Poem 15 is about breach of trust. Catullus has entrusted his lover (I apologize for the euphemisms, but I know a few minors have found my blog before) to Aurelius while Catullus goes travelling. If I were inclined to attribute absolute historicity to individual poems of the Catullan corpus, I would say that Catullus displays extremely poor judgement in his choice of close friends - but then who knows how many of these violations Catullus himself committed? Lines 6-8 display an chummy elitism that suddenly descends into obscenity
in lines 8-9. This eloquent vulgarity continues to the end of the poem, where the ubiquitous labial plosives and nasals (p, b, m, ph) accumulate in the final insult of the poem (lines 17-18):
"quem attractis pedibus patente porta,
percurrent raphanique mugilesque"

In poem 33, Catullus wishes the titular bath-thieves, whose pricipal predilection to cutpursery is an inherent breach of trust, and whose other predilections are not fit for American minors to discuss, would leave Rome. The alliteration here is focused on p and q/c - the p's in particular are used to good effect(along with n) in the final lines (7-8):
"notae sunt populo, et natis pilosas,
fili, non potes asse uenditare?"

Hebrew, Hebrew Everywhere

This morning at church, soon after the service had started, the Hebrew words within me rose. It is a peculiar sensation, and perhaps one applicable to me alone, that once I learn a sufficient amount of a language, the words arise unbidden in appropriate contexts. The trigger this time was the Hebrew/English Sh'ma, in Max Helfman's setting. Once my mind was primed, it was easy to think "Shalom aleichem" at "Lord be with you". If you have learned some basic Biblical Hebrew, the linguistic structure of the Psalms (in this case 27:1, 5-13) is glaringly obvious. My mental translation is partial and in places doubtless ungrammatical, but it is remarkable how many phrases in the service are automatically translatable - I already have switched from hearing 'Alleluia' as a rote response to an imperative plus the Name of the Most High.

Washo, Simplified

I posted recently on my mental test of Washo, but it seemed appropriate to separate the results of that test from some speculations which arose from the difficulties experienced, cross-fertilized with thoughts from John McWhorter's Great Courses lecture series "The Story of Human Language" and some browsing of articles on Riau Indonesian. As I scoured a my gray fields for words in Washo, I thought to myself that simplified languages (creoles, mixed languages, and pidgins) start with a reduction of vocabulary to essentials. I recalled the words for "eat", "drink", "go", "have come", and so on, but remembered little of the specialized vocabulary. I remembered the words for "tree" and "rock", but not the species of those genera. The other possible simplification which I noted (but resisted for the sake of completing my test) was the difficulty in remembering the subject-object prefixes. Were I not such a diligent amateur linguist, I might have decided to forsake the daunting prefixal pine barrens in favor of the independent pronouns, easier to use. Why say "labali'a'" "he shot me", when you can say "le bali'a'" "he shot me", without having to consider the appropriate subject-object prefix and vowel harmony? I love the complexities of language, but that choice is based in aesthetics not pragmatism.

In reality, I could not imagine a mixed language developing which contained Washo as a component: the native speech community was too small and the Ute-Aztecan tribes around the Washoe formed a dialect continuum which offered a much better selection for a lingua franca - I am considering it for a Scout campfire. The Plains Native American seem to have preferred to learn Hand Talk (Plains Indian Sign Language) rather than yet another language with medium-complexity words such as "milelshymshihayasha'esi" "We two will not cause you to wake up."

A simplified Washo (and I am aware that the Washo with which I am familiar has already been simplified) would have the following features: it would be SOV, use independent pronouns where possible, and possess a reduced vocabulary. It would proabably use new words for negation and causation, since the current suffixes are too grammaticalized to survive (this isn't Esperanto, after all!). The glottal stop and the voiceless sonorant and liquids would disappear.

Washo Review

As I was waiting for a friend this weekend at a BART station, I found myself with substantial time on my hands. After I had paced up and down a few dozen times, I decided to do a mental review of the Washo vocabulary I knew. This was a true test, as I had neither the book from which I learned it nor the dictionary which I created for the terms I had learned. I decided to start with the verbal roots (although there is no true distinction between verbal and nominal roots in Washo), since verbs are often associated with actions, and perhaps my muscle memory would aid the big grey muscle in my skull. The verbs went well; I could conjure up most of the basic verb roots, even if I temporarily flipped the verbs in the wake/sleep contrast. I even went over the reduplication process for certain plurals, although some verbs, such as 'dance', did not lend themselves to such project.

I experienced some difficulty in remembering the various movement verbs, of which there are many in Washo, more than in Russian. My eye for language patterns tells me that all these movement verbs are ultimately connected, but I lack a sufficient overview to analyze them properly. It was difficult to generate several, and I am sure I missed few: perhaps this reduction is typical of individuals who do not speak a language well (and, Lord knows, I stumble over the words of the Washo tongue). It is nice to distinguish between various means of locomotion, but a simple 'go' will suffice.

As confident in my verbal score as I could be without recourse to a lexicon, I decided to try to conjugate a verb for every combination of subject and direct object. Although this task was made simpler by the lack of grammatical number marking on the verb, a characteristic of many Native American languages, I had to pick two verbs because the subject-object prefixes differ if the root begins with a consonant or vowel. I was successful save in one regard: I could not recall the prefix for 'he Xs me' if the root began with a consonant. Nonetheless, I decided that I had passed my test with an A-, considering how long it had been since I studied the material.

(I notice that I have not finished the drafts of posts on the Washo language regarding vowel coloring and the development of subject-object prefixes. I need to remedy that and add something on the reduplication process of Washo.)

Duty and Responsibility

I find myself in a solemn mood returning from The King's Speech, an excellent movie about George VI (Bertie) and his stammer. Although the focus of the movie was Bertie, I find my mind turning to the themes of responsibility and duty in the face of challenges. Sometimes we earn the rank bestowed upon us; sometimes we are not worthy of it. In either case, our duty is to perform our office as well as we are able, and not to shirk our obligations. If we neglect our appointed office, we make a mockery of our post, bring shame upon ourselves, and reduce our symbols of office to shiny trinkets not more valuable than a shiny tourist pin from the pier. Responsibility and duty means placing the needs of others before that of oneself, and by helping others we advance ourselves in experience and character.

MLK Hike 2011

I had hoped to post my first post of the year sooner, but unforeseen events interfered.

The first Pioneer trip of the year - a three-day, two-night trip to test the mettle of youth and parents! After a late start, we arrived at our starting point in Henry Coe State Park, the second largest state park in California. The elevation gained by car was quickly lost by foot as we followed the trail to Poverty Flat. First, however, we followed Fish Trail, which led over hill and dale and had a conspicuous absence of fish. Several creeks brought false hope, which were cruelly dashed two or three times. The ascent from the ultimate creek to the ridge spread out our line of hardy travelers, but the reward at the crossroads was a well-earned lunch. This time of repast also allowed a chance to repair and reinforce faulty footwear before one stitch became nine.

Once we had surmounted the ridge, the descent to Poverty Flat began. Those timid souls who have not experienced the joy of hiking may not know this, but a continual downhill trail is in many ways harder on the soles than any other vertical-horizontal combination. I have seen worse, however, in the scree of the Sierra.
Before we reached Poverty Flat, we had to cross a stream two or three times, an omen of the next day's journey. The crossings were challenging, but not terribly so.

The Poverty Flat campsite (for Poverty Flat itself lay above us) was on the floodplain of a small mountain stream and lacked any of the amenities familiar to car campers, save for the world's cleanest outhouse in the middle of nowhere. The night air down in the hollow was extremely cold, but we had almost enough light to read, thanks to the nearly full moon which shone in icy glory high above.


In the morning cold and damp, we arose, refreshed and reinvigorated, and consumed hearty breakfasts in preparation for the day's journey. This was the longest day of our trek, since a camper observing the Outdoor Code must camp where the campsites are, rather than bivouacking where he pleases. Our first ascent of the day followed the old cow trail out of Poverty Flat to a crossroads. After another steep descent, we reached a confluence of two creeks, whose combined flow led into the ominously named "The Narrows".

Here a decision had to be reached: whether we ought to go up, around, and down the hill to China Hole, or brave The Narrows. Apparently the tortoise we found there had waited longer than his life allowed. After much spirited debate, and information from fellow travelers who had come from China Hole, we decided to go through the Narrows. This would prove a challenge to the younger and older members of our group. The older Pioneers showed their skill in helping others across the more difficult stretches, despite a few spills here and there. The scenery within the Narrows was certainly dramatic. After we had passed two rocks that reminded me of the Argonath, a formidable challenge presented itself: wading knee-deep water or climbing a slick rock to reach the stepping stones further down. All eventually made it across, and only one simple crossing of a smaller stream remained.

China Hole was a pleasant resting spot, where we took lunch and dried the equipment made wet by our Narrows traverse. A different group, who had descended from the campsite where we had yet to ascend, was disporting itself in the water.

The ascent from China Hole began steeply in the shade, then sun, but soon changed into a steady climb through buckbrush, planted to stabilize the hill after the 2007 fire. There were patches of oak, but even the most ardent naturalist would be hard-pressed to remain excited about another half-mile of buckbrush high enough to qualify for the Hampton maze. Eventually we reached the turn off, which would have allowed us to come from Poverty Flat much more readily, but then where would one's sense of adventure be? Adversity reveals character, after all.

Our campsite on Manzanita Point was slightly closer to car camping than that of the previous night (this one had tables and firepits). There was no wind and the damp so evident in Poverty Flat did not exist here. Many Pioneers decided to sleep under the stars. Ironically, I, who am known for shunning tents whenever possible, had set up my tent in false expectation of having to share it. Once I had set it up, it seemed a shame to not use it.

The one disadvantage of Manzanita Point was the water supply. Whereas in Poverty Flat we had ready access to a moving stream, here we had to draw water from a brackish artificial pond slightly down the road. Doubtless this would have seemed a small inconvenience to our ancestors, but it was a new experience for many of the Pioneers, and they organized a task force to collect water. Inexperience with such inconvenience made a another expedition necessary, and one insightful young man made yet a third trip.

That night we had a proper campfire, although the program was rather short. I acceded to telling a ghost story, but begged for a couple of minutes to compose my narrative. It was not my most polished effort, but it sufficed, I think. I would certainly be willing to try again, given more time to prepare.

On the third, we rose again and broke bread. The early morning reveille helped to some degree with a quicker departure, but what happened in the end I cannot say. I had volunteered to go ahead with the water crew. Once the group united and continued on its way home, there was some grumbling about yet another ascent, which would have been anticipated (intellectually, if not emotionally) if the map had been studied more carefully. The younger Pioneers, however, plodded steadily along, trusting that they would reach the end of the 16-mile journey. We reached the cars, changed, and returned to the city.

Flashlight Hike 2010

This Saturday, a few (a very few) hearty souls set out for the Marin Headlands. The day was cloudy, but not particularly cold and free of rain. We ascended the first hill to the battery, where they have filled in the gun emplacement where once strange fish swam in dark waters. The view of the ocean was spectacular, and the crab boats did not seem so far apart from that lofty height. We continued to climb; the light began to dim, and the crab boats transformed from black dots to distant phosphorescent jellyfish. The path above the main road runs along the ridge, passing by the magazines filled with darkness and dank pools of water, lookout posts bereft of camouflage netting, and the collapsed roofs of old military shelters. These relics of coastal defense were the ideal sights for boys not yet brainwashed by the aggressively pacifist educational philosophy of our time. We continued to climb, and reached the Nike missile base. The fallen slabs of concrete platforms, which were in evidence last year, had been removed, and the site was safer, if no less windy, than it had been. After we had supped, we descended and increased our pace on the second leg of the trip. The trail was free of ruts, but noetheless steep in sections. Fortunately, we made the right choice at the fork where a wrong turn would double our overall travel distance. When we were walking along the side of the road, the party bus stopped for us, but we declined such softness and ease in favor of the long path to doughnuts and cocoa.

Gender Matters

All too often, English-speaking students of European languages detest the "gender" (really noun class) systems of the language, and in seeking to dismiss that which they neither understand nor love, declare the system irrelevant. A system of noun classes, whether composed of three or fifteen sections, may be confusing to second-language learners, but the distinct features of a language are never irrelevant to its native speakers. Pope Benedict XVI's recent announcement about the use of condoms illustrates this point. The original book was written in German, the native tongue of the Pontiff, but translated into Italian. In the German, the word used to indicate rentboys and their ilk is "der Prostituierte", a masculine noun, but in Italian, "la prostituta", a femina noun. The use of the masculine noun in German led some to assume the Pope was referring solely to the members of the Theban Legion, while the Italian use suggests it applies to women alone (since Italian, true to its sensual nature has specific words for male companions). Although a quick glance at LEO reveals that the German masculine noun may encompass both genders, much to the dismay of the feminists and Riistoj, this error in understanding shows the distinctions which noun classes provide to their tongues.

(For those of you who must know, the Pope said his comments applied equally to the sexes, and condom use is merely a lesser evil than sentencing a fellow human being to a slow death through your own carelessness).

Camaldoli, Camaldola!

On Sunday, I met a monk, and not just a monk but a genuine hermit who had reentered the wicked world to write a book and share his knowledge with the world. This anchorite was a member of an obscure branch, the Camaldolese, of the Benedictine Order. This branch, about which I previously knew nothing, had been influenced by the Cluniac reforms, but did not take the step of forsaking their Benedictine brothers, as the Cistercians did. Though few in number, the members are filled with faith, if this monk was any indication. We had a pleasant chat about the desert fathers and eremitical training; the life of a hermit is one which cannot be assumed lightly or without much thought and prayer. It is not a life to which I aspire, but God calls us all in different ways!

O Pioneers!

While waiting for the Junior Woodchucks to organize themselves one Saturday morning, the tourists, joggers, and general vagabonds were passing by and descending to the Temple of Knowledge or entering San Francisco's sacred groves. One gentleman, however, of robust years stopped and seemed glad to see our merry band. His reason, however, was different from the usual one; he was not contemplating Scouts and Scouting, but rather the Young Pioneers the Communist doppelganger of Scouting. This gentleman grew up in East Germany, a thoroughly Communist state, and apparently missed the sight of uniformed patriotic youth. The differences between Pioneers and Boy Scouts were apparent in his misunderstanding of Scouts; or perhaps he was overlaying his experiences on a quite different program. His emphasis was on joyful and enthusiastic patriotism, rather more strongly than ever was said in our legion.

Most of my knowledge about Pioneers comes from two sources: a book on Scouting and similar programs throughout the world, my college Russian teachers, and (believe it or not) the Russian fantasy series Nightwatch. The emphasis on patriotism instilled in Young Pioneers (their uniforms are neat, but then Nazi uniforms look sharp also) is the self-same jingoism that the president demanded and the BSA refused during the war years of the 20th century. In other countries, such as the Maldives, the patriotic angle may come into play more; certainly, all these organizations, if well-run, contain an element of outdoorsmanship, and potential leadership.

I was too distracted by my duty in loco parentis to engage in extended conversation with the German gentleman, but it would be fascinating to hear from someone who actually was a member of the Young Pioneers.

West Saxon Side Story

After the Beowulf performance, I found myself doubting my memory about certain features of the Anglo-Saxon language (I dislike the term Old English, as it implies more comprehensibility than it ought). So I took myself to the library to refresh my knowledge of Anglo-Saxon grammar and phonology. The most peculiar feature of Anglo-Saxon, in comparison to other Germanic tongues, is something called "vowel breaking", which affects the already rounded vowels /ae/, /e/, and /i/. By virtue of this process, the aforementioned vowels gain a following schwa and the new spellings /ea/, /eo/, and /io/, orthographic sequences which contribute the written aesthetic of the Anglo-Saxon tongue and confound the poor freshman studying pre-Norman history.

After I had relearned the constructed pronunciation of these diphthongs, both short and long, it occurred to me the peculiar (to my ear) vowels of West Country English owe much to vowel breaking. West Country English derives from the West Saxon dialect of Anglo-Saxon and it was that dialect which had the greatest degree of vowel breaking. When I was at boarding school, I had many opportunities to hear the staff using their West Country dialect, which I did not understand but nonetheless did not hold in contempt. At that time, I knew little about it except that these dialects tended to give voice to the voiceless consonants at the beginnings of English words; thus "fox" comes from the main dialect of Middle English, but "vixen" (a female "fox") comes from the West Country.

More recently, it also occurred to me that the perennial problem of English-speakers learning a Continental tongue, that is, the ubiquitous admonition of teachers and textbooks to pronounce long vowels as "pure" rather than with the characteristic semi-vocalic glide of the Englishman, may have its origin in vowel breaking. Although West Saxon exhibited the greatest degree of vowel breaking, none of the Anglo-Saxon dialects lacked it. This is speculation, however, and I do not presume to have evidence sufficient for a conference presentation.

Shadow Caitlin

Recently, I went to a new science fiction book club, for which I had read Robert J. Sawyer's WWW:Wake, whose human protagonist is a blind teenage girl. Although the book itself was mediocre, I found the assertiveness of the blind girl to be realistic, even while her genius was not. The world of blindness is filled with dangers, ranging from the annoying to the deadly, and those who must navigate such a world often develop superb analytical skills. They also often develop an assertiveness bordering on rudeness, since most sighted people have never had consider the challenges the blind face. As my uncle once told me (in more colorful terms than I dare post here), you can't put one over on a blind person; reading non-visual cues is a way of survival.

The genius of the protagonist did irritate me slightly. Although all teenagers, at least part of the time, think that they are the smartest person on Earth, the tendency for any computer-savvy teen in a work of fiction to be a genius is absurd. The temporal exigencies of television programs mandate a facile ease with computing, but a written book need not bow to that god. Perhaps this is a example of Clarke's Law, not between men and godlike aliens, but between author and much younger character?

Hwaet!: Review of Beowulf

Sometimes I forget how blessed I am to live in the Bay Area, with its plethora of theatrical options. On Friday night, I went with L. to Beowulf. I had planned to meet up with a fellow member of the SF Language Lovers Meetup group, but the exigencies of getting to the theater prevented this. The performer, Benjamin Bagby (whose name makes me think of the Hobbit), sat on a spare stage. A screen with supertitles hung over him; I am not sure which translation he had chosen. The performance was abbreviated to 90 minutes, since a full retelling of Beowulf would require the time my ancestors only had in the miserable wet winters. Bagby's voice was resonant and varied according to character and timbre of conversation - this is not an easy task while maintaining the metrics of epic poetry. Bagby took frequent breaks to refresh his throat, but the pauses were well worth the results. As Bagby continued to recite, I began to recognize more words without reference to the supertitles; this task was made easier by my familiarity with the plot. The performance was old-fashioned story-telling at its best.

Election Day

Today is election day. I have already voted, but some reflections on voting are in order. Voting is both a privilege and a duty. The deprivation of voting privileges in circumstances were others do not suffer the same disability is painful, especially when the decisions affect you. Think back to your childhood: were there not times when your parents overruled your desires? Were you not frustrated by this? This denial of will, however, is appropriate for parents, since the child is not wise enough to make an informed choice. It is no accident that many systems which lack elections invoke the parental model of governance. The Little Father of Russia brooked no subordination.

If the right to vote is granted to the people, then they are not political children, but political adults. The inventors of democracy, the Athenians, understood this: our word "idiot" comes from the term for a citizen who refused to participate in the affairs of the city. As political adults, it is the duty of citizens to be as informed as possible about the decisions of this election cycle. This reason, along with the possibility of fraud, is why I do not support same day registration. The ballot, especially that of California, is complex, so I would give dispensation if someone did not vote for every position and proposition, as long as the ones on which the citizen voted are ones about which the citizen has informed himself as best he can.

The confluence of events, or one might say, my wyrd, has conspired that on the very day I am attending a reconstructed live performance of Beowulf, I learned about St. Chad, who is the alleged patron of elections. Ever dutiful in my pursuit of truth, even at the cost of a delightful pun, I looked into this matter. According to truthorfiction.com, there is no patron saint of elections, which is suitable: elections, after all, in the hands of God, preferably via the High Priest using the Urim and Thummim. Saint Chad, or Ceadda, however, is a real person, probably the youngest brother of Cedd (also sanctified), Cynibil, and Caelin. The alliteration of the names is an Anglo-Saxon practice, but their etymology is Celtic, suggesting a mixture of (presumably aristocratic) Celtic blood into the Anglo-Saxon ruling class. All four brothers were ordained, and two (Ceadda and Cedd) became bishops. While the careers of the brothers bishop is worthy of note, the more important data here is the two domains of the paternally-connected patron saints. Ceadda became the patron saint of astronomy, while Cedd became the patron saint of interpreters. The vagaries of English diachronics ensured some confusion between the two, and either could be construed as Chad (note the later spelling), patron saint of elections.

I have been preparing for this evening's live performance of Beowulf by rereading passages from my glossed text of Beowulf. A glossed text is anathema to serious scholars, but has certain advantages. The reader is more engaged in the text than he would be when distracted by paragraph 11.17 of the grammar or technical terms. A glossed text might work better when the reader already knows the story. The glosses in this edition do not resolve the kennings, but rather allow the reader to familiarize himself with the typical components. The actual plot of Beowulf is spare, so much of the beauty of the poem is in the style. The constant variation of components for indicating the same item is a vehicle of poetic utility, but I do wonder if it is not the ancestor of some modern English style. Could the admonition of high school English teachers that one should not use the same word for the same concept multiple times in a row owe some of its force to the love of inventive language seen throughout classic English literature?

People's Republic of Parasitism

In the course of my daily wanderings, I acquired a New Amsterdam Times. The international section contained an article on the latest shipment of food and aid to North Korea from the South.

The amount of food is paltry compared to the needs of the country, but the international implications disturb me. Ordinarily, I would extol feeding the hungry as a virtue, but the discord between the North Korean philosophy of juche and the begging of the North Korean government is stark. The Kim dynasty uses foreign aid as a way to propagate its regime while claiming self-sufficiency. Although the Christian aid groups behind the food delivery have noble hearts, the North Korean distribution mechanisms ensure that the food will go to those whose loyalty matters rather than those who are the hungriest. The suggestion of localized distribution is ananathema to a regime which believes in power and half-hearted Potemkin villages. Clothe the peasants, not the emperor!

A Poem

Westfield dome on Friday night
Near the Playstation exhibit
Fools dancing to neon lights
To Mama Commerce is the profit.

Unto the Third Generation

In light of Kim Jong-Eun's promotion to four-star general and official heir apparent (as official as it's going to get, anyway) and the simultaneous promotion of his aunt, I started thinking about the inherent stability of hereditary tyrannies, of which the government of North Korea is an excellent example, and remain skeptical about the duration of the regime. Regencies are dangerous times for any dynasty, and military support during such times can be a destabilizing force. On the other hand, the North Korea military is in a favored position, so it might contribute to a stable regime.

The history of tyrannies, however, does not inspire optimism. Most tyrannies collapse in the third generation if they have not already been overthrown. There is no chance that the North Korean populace will rebel - in fact North Korea reminds me of Apokalyps - but power struggles are possible even within a one-policy state. The economic structure of the country is so damaged that I suspect it will collapse quickly and messily when the final straw is loaded.

The Doors of Perception

Oct. 21, 2010:
One of the items in the paper today (yes, I still occasionally read the dead tree daily) is the announcement that archaeologists have discovered . what may be the oldest door in Europe. The Methuselan mahogany is estimated at five thousand years old, and hails from Switzerland. The locale of the find is not surprising, since the lakes of the Helvetian Republic have revealed many archaeological treasures. The chief archaeologist, Niels Bleicher, describes the antediluvian door in somewhat effusive terms. Certainly, the door must have been sturdy to weather five millennia of environmental abuse, but I do wonder: how much of the description of ancient artifacts is in self-defense. I prefer stairs to cellar doors, and would hesitate to dismiss an artefact as insignificant due to its basic utility, but hoi polloi might well say, "Who cares? It's just a door, even if it is well-made." Yet it is the simple things of a culture that tell you the most: individually wrapped slices of synthetic cheese and unbiquitous redundant and downright insulting instructions tell you more about American culture than the the abstract of an ivory tower thesis on trash. The facile dismissal of ordinary things, although the result of knee-jerk anti-intellectualism, can lead to an equally erroneous reaction of overstatement. The archaeologists, in counteracting the public dismissal, place a greater emphasis than is warranted on their discovery. Although this reaction is not restricted to antiquarians (since everyone who believes in reincarnation wants to be a king, not a catamite), it seems that the more "ordinary" the object, the greater is this tendency.

2010 Canoe Trip

NOTE: This should have preceeded the post on camping in the redwoods.

Last weekend I went the annual canoe trip with the Junior Woodchucks. This account is of necessity redacted and changed to protect the names and identities of the (sometimes not so) innocent. Sadly, there are no postable pictures, even ones of yours truly. The Russian river was its usual temperature and color (warm and slightly green), and the contingent of Woodcraft Indians was smaller than I would have liked. This year, however, lacked the swarming invertebrates of last year's trip. Luch was absurdly early, as usual, but that's the boys' call, not mine. The pullout for the canoes was a little too narrow and steep, and there was not quite enough shade. I pulled some water from the river, trusting in my iodine tablets.

In many spots along the river, there was choice: overhanging bushes where thhe current ran, or shadeless shallows where it did not. Fortunately, I had recently and finally disentangled my broad-brimmed hat (not a petasos, sadly) from my travel wallet, which had had remained in such condition since my return from the western Mediterranean, so the spiders in the bushes did not get in my hair.

There were the usual mishaps characteristic of a river trip, but my new dry bag held up admirably. I did not witness every rescue and recovery on the trip, but the two incidents in which I was involved were resolved satisfactorily. In the former case, all the equipment was recovered, and soon the spirit of the unfortunate pair recovered as well. The latter case was harder, since it involved a swift current and large branch; more than one person lost their grip during the operation and had to fight their way back upstream, but eventually the canoe was freed from the embrace of water and wood.

Some other campers had rather unsportingly taken some of our spots when we returned to our campsite next to the Pomo general store, but I suppose some people just don't have a sense of fair play. In any case, we adapted and consolidated and still had enough table for our food groups. The campfire that night was short, since the skits were done according to food group rather than patrol. Everybody already knew the traditional songs, so I was not as creative as I could have been, but I hope I made up for that on Tuesday.

On Sunday morning, we did not continue down the river, as we once did, but we did have a Scout's Own by the river bank. The seating was uncomfortable, but we had a nice discussion of the wildlife we saw on the trip, led by our own Daniel Carter. A stone skipping contest followed the Scout's Own. The swarming insects through which the stones were bouncing had a peculiar obsession with purely vertical movement which still baffles me.

Merks and Turks

The integration crisis in Europe is continuing, both in France and Germany. The absurd and arbitrary nature of French clothing "restriction" has already been covered in this blog, but the most striking recent comment came from Germany's Angela Merkel, who claimed that the Turks in Germany must assimilate to Germany's Christian culture. The failure of assimilation or cultural synthesis is not in doubt, but what was most astonishing was this: that she claimed Germany's culture was Christian. Everything I have experienced and read about European culture suggests that Germany is not Christian, but secular. The Swiss incident earlier this year involving the minarets reinforces this impression. The French, of course, have turned secularism into a religion, although they have mellowed a little since the days of the Revolutionary calendar.

Recently I had a discussion with a friend, who is very religious and seeks the same. One of the attitudes which drives her batty is "culturally religious", in which the alleged member of a particular religion or sect does not hold the associated beliefs, but even ignores the practices. One cannot look into another heart, but one can examine the deeds.

When Merkel refers to German Christianity, she is using "Christianity" as code for "secularism". Although this secularism does not mesh well with the radicalizing form of Islam which the previously rather secular Turks have adopted, using the term "Christianity" is facile misdirection and as intellectually dishonest as American preachers who use "Christianity" as a term for the insidious "Gospel of Wealth".

Redwood Grove Camping

There's nothing quite like a redwood grove for camping. It might be a bit dark beneath the giants (even the new growth), but the canopy provides the closest thing to a good roof that you'll find in the wild. The sparse ground covering is a blessing when you are clearing the area for your ground cloth, and the patches of redwood duff, if you can find them, are delightfully soft. Redwoods, however, feed off the fog, so make sure you have good rain gear!

Beginner's Assyrian

My New Year's resolution is preceeding in fits and starts (sometimes precipitated by my absent-minded professor habit of forgetting where my books are, and sometimes by the plethora of projects on which I am working) but I have begun Beginners' Assyrian, trusting in the similarities to Biblical Hebrew to give me a leg up, not under any illusion that the differences would present challenges.

The first challenge, of course, was the gross mismatch between the radical-based Semitic morphology of the Assyrian language and the determinative- and syllable-based orthography of cuneiform. One of the motivations for the adoption, if not creation, of the Semitic writing system (I suspect) was this mismatch. It was as if the problem with English transcription and translation in both Chinese and Japanese were combined!

The second challenge was the Assyrian reduction of the proto-Semitic consonants under the influence of Sumerian, which possessed a radically different morphology. I had thought the non-pronounciation of 'aleph and 'ayin in Modern Hebrew (which I had been using as my model for pronouncing Biblical Hebrew) created enough difficulties. Assyrian, on the other hand, witnessed the collapse of six proto-Semitic consonants (and waw) into near-indistinguishable phonological effects. Since Assyrian is a Semitic language, however, the tridical structure applies, even if two of the consonants are so weak as so to disappear entirely!

The third challenge was the tendency towards vowel harmony in Assyrian, which appeared also in its sister dialect of Babylonian. Sumerian had vowel harmony, possibly mitigated by tonal differences, but even Hebrew shows evidence of morphologically-specific vowel harmony. Babylonian was the language that replaced Sumerian in that language's ancient heartland, aand thus experienced the greatest level of vowel harmony (although not to the extent that it destroyed the typical Semitic structure), and Hebrew experienced a very low level, but the effect on Assyrian lay between the two. One has to wonder how much of the vowel harmony within the Assyrian Empire was the result of the infamous deportation policies, which mixed many tribes who spoke similar Semitic tongues; thus they shared structural similarities but not necessarily vowels.

Take Me To The Stars

The discovery of a another new planet around Gliese 581, just a score of light-years away from terra firma, shot my mood through the roof. The hyperbole of the astronomer making the announcement (assuming that the journalist did not strategically edit the quote) may be forgiven, since it is tremendously exciting news. The interested public, however, does need a reminder that most life is not on the human scale, and that Kal-El's homeworld probably wasn't in the greatest shape before it exploded.

The casual dismissal of planets unsuitable for sustained human existence, under which category most of the Gliese planets fall, distresses me and strikes me as ridiculously anthropocentric. Already in our system there are worlds covered in ice which may have life in hidden oceans, and if so, it won't be humanoid. Even if such planets lack life until a contaminated probe burrows into their subglacial depths, and even if the worlds of Gliese 581 lack any life, the study of these worlds is valuable in itself. If humanity ever does escape Earth's gravity well, it would be useful to know what sort of resources exist in the great beyond - any interstellar colony would only have what was in the system, after all. Even if humanity remains within the SOlar System and eventually dies out as the nineteenth race on Neptune, study of other worlds would inform us about geology, chemistry, and meteorology. Too bad teleportation is still at the sub-atomic stage!

Snakes, Sinners, and Saints

It's Sunday, so it seemed appropriate that I study the "original language" on this day. I figure the Almighty wouldn't mind if I studied some Hebrew in order to read the words of his book. I am close enough to the end of Ross' "Introducing Biblical Hebrew" that all the reading exercises are taken from the Good Book (in this case, Gen. 2:15-24 at the end of Lesson 49). The repetition of roots in Hebrew oratory seems less absurd than the equivalent King James English. Is this the result of the diversity of forms in Hebrew compared to the paucity of English? Another benefit of reading the passages in Hebrew is the clear identification of prose from verse. This distinction is sometimes lost in the translations into other languages, and prose and poetry often do not fit well into the other genre.

The grammatical form du jour is the Qal passive (herein exemplified by לֻקֳחָה), which the Rabbinic Scholars appear not to have believed to exist, since the standard passive form corresponding to the Qal is the Niph'al. The vocalization for the Qal passive is identical to the Pu'al, but who knows if that's how David would have pronounced it?

On other news, I have moved my "Learn Maltese: Why Not?" (the real title of the book) and its accompanying workbook up to Tahoe. This does not exempt me from including it in my New Year's resolution, but shifts it to next summer's segment of the project. I re-read the grammar sections of the book and understood much more clearly after spending so much of my summer learning Biblical Hebrew.

The Tahoe Tongue: Phonology and Orthography

I wrote this post about half a year ago, so my knowledge of the Washo language and its current state was considerably less, but the sentiments expressed herein remain authentic.

Several years ago, on one of my many visits to the Watson Cabin in Tahoe City, I bought a slim book labeled Beginning Washo, the language of the indigenous tribe which used to camp in summer around Lake Tahoe (in those days, only white people would be crazy enough to live there in winter). I went through the exercises, although too hastily to absorb them. I am afraid that is a common fault of mine, and one of the reason I discuss Washoe here is to pace myself.

More recently, I decided to redo the exercises (there are only twenty-two, after all) slowly and thoroughly, so that I would know the native language of the basin where I spend so much time. My conscience is rather severe about white men learning Native American tongues, especially when the tribe is still extant (as several members of  my favored fraternity know), but all the data I could find on Washo indicated that it was a moribund language. "Moribund" in linguistics, means that a language will soon lack native speakers (the tribe itself still exists). The only website I could find on the Washo language did mention a training camp for the youngsters of the tribe, but it dates from 2000, and the precedents for attempted language revival are extremely depressing. I would rather know something about the language really spoken at Lake Tahoe rather than pretend it never existed.

Another reason I want to learn some Washo properly has to do with the mythology of the Tahoe basin. When I was a child, I was under the impression that there were no native people of the basin, since the Washo, and the same-named lake were clearly in Nevada, and they had only come up in summer. Some of this perception was perhaps due to my custom of spending summers there and winters in San Francisco. The lack of a native mythology bothered me, so I composed some myths about the origins of crawdads and minnows based on the landscape of my summer home. I found the alleged native stories from the mid-20th century Tahoe City World un-credible as authentic stories, as well as patronizing.

When I was quite a bit older, I learned of some of the genuine traditional tales of the Washo, which I appreciated greatly, but I did not become inspired until I found Beginning Washo. My Classical training has taught me about the tight connection of language and culture, and I would not have received a Classics degree if I were not fascinated with language structure.