The season’s reason
Was pagan Germans’ marking
Winter’s equinox
[ americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan ]
Showing posts with label german. Show all posts
Showing posts with label german. Show all posts
30 November 2018
12 October 2012
on words, briefly
As part of my daily self-betterment routine, I make an effort to spend some time each day studying the following books: The Guide to Self-Sufficiency by John Seymour, Economics in One Lesson by Henry Hazlitt, The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White, Dictionary of Word Origins by Joseph T. Shipley, Sallust as translated by John C. Rolfe, and an Universal-Sprachführer Neiderländisch (universal language guide for Netherlandish) by Langenscheidt. (I also read other books, mostly science-fiction and American classics, for leisure.) In the course of my studies, I am frequently reminded of the plasticity of language, noting the changing of words over time; studying in multiple different languages (German, Netherlandish, English) keeps my tongue nimble and my brain's speech centers primed.
For the most part, words change less than one might think; cat does not start meaning dog overnight, nor will the average user of language dream up new words or new meanings, pulling definitions from the misty aether. I have noticed, however, that society can change the weight of certain words profoundly, sometimes within a brief span of time. Take, for example, the word retard. While I was growing up, and until about a few years ago, this was a mostly soft slur flung at individuals displaying a comical lack of good judgment; persons casually using the word retard could expect to go about their business unmolested and without fear of being sat down and spoken to sharply about the damage they were causing to persons with disabilities. Today, however, even mentioning the word retard will cause any know-it-all soccer-mom or her snot-nosed spawn who happens to be in earshot to scold the offensive party with righteous indignation, the color rising in her face, the pulse quickening in her veins. Cocksucker is another word that works very nicely to describe someone who displays a distinctive lack of compassion and a propensity for ruining the fun for everyone else; the word has nothing to do with persons who actually suck cock, be they male, female, or something in-between. Today, however, other ugly words – nigger, chink, whore, slut, cunt, fag, or kike – stir up a forest of waggling fingers as soon as they leave someone's mouth, whereupon the grizzly-moms are at a body's throat, tearing into him with a passion all but lacking from the rest of their lives. (These busybodies are so hyped up about keeping everything nice that they judge every word coming from any and all suck-holes, leaping forth in the manner of steel traps within milliseconds of having detected an offensive remark.)
What I am at root trying to say is that words are only throaty grunts, nasal buzzes, chopped whistles, and blunt chirps; they have only as much power as we give them; they only mean what we think they mean because we agree – each and every day – to define them the same way as everyone else. I therefore urge the reader to remember that the next time someone else uses a word not to his liking, he can choose to understand it as something completely different, thinking cat for dog or green for orange; to allow other people to control our minds, to allow other people to dictate the conditions of our Happiness, is to blame the Universe for our sorrows and to hate other people for the contents of their minds, which is on some level just as bad as hating on other people for having been born with disabilities or with skin-tones slightly darker than our own. The world is not a nice place, and the sooner we understand and accept that, the sooner we can get on to minding our own business.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
For the most part, words change less than one might think; cat does not start meaning dog overnight, nor will the average user of language dream up new words or new meanings, pulling definitions from the misty aether. I have noticed, however, that society can change the weight of certain words profoundly, sometimes within a brief span of time. Take, for example, the word retard. While I was growing up, and until about a few years ago, this was a mostly soft slur flung at individuals displaying a comical lack of good judgment; persons casually using the word retard could expect to go about their business unmolested and without fear of being sat down and spoken to sharply about the damage they were causing to persons with disabilities. Today, however, even mentioning the word retard will cause any know-it-all soccer-mom or her snot-nosed spawn who happens to be in earshot to scold the offensive party with righteous indignation, the color rising in her face, the pulse quickening in her veins. Cocksucker is another word that works very nicely to describe someone who displays a distinctive lack of compassion and a propensity for ruining the fun for everyone else; the word has nothing to do with persons who actually suck cock, be they male, female, or something in-between. Today, however, other ugly words – nigger, chink, whore, slut, cunt, fag, or kike – stir up a forest of waggling fingers as soon as they leave someone's mouth, whereupon the grizzly-moms are at a body's throat, tearing into him with a passion all but lacking from the rest of their lives. (These busybodies are so hyped up about keeping everything nice that they judge every word coming from any and all suck-holes, leaping forth in the manner of steel traps within milliseconds of having detected an offensive remark.)
What I am at root trying to say is that words are only throaty grunts, nasal buzzes, chopped whistles, and blunt chirps; they have only as much power as we give them; they only mean what we think they mean because we agree – each and every day – to define them the same way as everyone else. I therefore urge the reader to remember that the next time someone else uses a word not to his liking, he can choose to understand it as something completely different, thinking cat for dog or green for orange; to allow other people to control our minds, to allow other people to dictate the conditions of our Happiness, is to blame the Universe for our sorrows and to hate other people for the contents of their minds, which is on some level just as bad as hating on other people for having been born with disabilities or with skin-tones slightly darker than our own. The world is not a nice place, and the sooner we understand and accept that, the sooner we can get on to minding our own business.
場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit
06 July 2012
on hoarding
For many years – nay, for the entire time I knew him – I considered my father to be a hoarder of goods, not necessarily clinically-obsessive, but more along the lines of a pack-rat. Born in New York City in 1934, his childhood was likely shaped by the shortages and scarcity that so greatly plagued America while she was fighting the German and Japanese Empires; he learned from an early age the need to pick up and store all items of even the slightest utilitarian or financial value, that eleven dimes had to be squeezed out of every dollar, and that such things as could be, would be reused, reworked, and recycled.
And so it was throughout my childhood that I grew up in a household in which broken things were often jury-rigged until they once again worked, in which random nuts and loose bolts were stored in plastic containers just in case they might be needed someday, in which all options were exhausted before one fired up the car and drove to the hardware store. And, so, I am not surprised when I catch myself retrieving stray things-of-worth from busy roadways, waiting for traffic to subside before dashing out to retrieve a somewhat rusty pair of wire-snips or a ½-inch metal hose clamp, items that I refurbish, reuse, or store away.
Until recently, I did not however act in this fashion, preferring the now-standard path that many Americans seem to take of throwing out most everything – even items in perfectly good working condition – certain that, tomorrow, when they actually do need them, they will have enough money to buy brand-new, Chinese-made replacement items (which, especially with specialty items, may be available only when the shop opens in the morning). Until my eyes were re-opened recently to the enormous value of such things as with which my deceased father filled this dacha's basement and out-buildings, I too thought of those things as trash, as superfluous goods, as six decades worth of proof that hoarding was a bad thing. Now, however, after mowing this property's acres with a muscle-powered, cast-iron push-mower, and after spending the last eight months moving my body through space-time on a bicycle (and, incidentally, after hewing more closely to the teachings of Lao Tzu), I find that my estimation of what I once thought of as clutter has changed dramatically.
For example, the pile of old magazines that has sat on a shelf in the barn for the last twenty years turned out to be a few dozen, successive copies of Organic Gardening magazine; since starting to read them, my appreciation for and knowledge of Nature-friendly, low-impact methods for growing edible and pretty things has grown substantially, much as have the crops in my gardens. Also, the various medium-scale farming and landscaping devices that have been hanging around collecting dust all these years turned out to be exactly the types of things one would need to turn this property's best south-facing slope into a productive field, whereupon might grow fuel to run engines, fibers to clothe bodies, and food to fill stomachs. Furthermore, the bamboo that has grown here in abundance after my dad shoved a single shoot of it into the ground in the late 1970s is a plant whose utility knows few bounds; add to these blessings the many fruit and firewood trees that have been allowed to grow as tall as they wanted to grow, and this oddly-shaped little chunk of land fast resembles a perfect place for self-sufficient living. Perfect, that is, for an able-bodied yet otherwise worthless individual looking to make use of piles of heaped-up clutter, such as myself. So, if there is any moral lesson to this article, it is that viewing things from within different frames of mind can often reveal their hidden, secret worth. So open those peepers, elasticize the mind, and keep that head on a swivel. Mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
And so it was throughout my childhood that I grew up in a household in which broken things were often jury-rigged until they once again worked, in which random nuts and loose bolts were stored in plastic containers just in case they might be needed someday, in which all options were exhausted before one fired up the car and drove to the hardware store. And, so, I am not surprised when I catch myself retrieving stray things-of-worth from busy roadways, waiting for traffic to subside before dashing out to retrieve a somewhat rusty pair of wire-snips or a ½-inch metal hose clamp, items that I refurbish, reuse, or store away.
Until recently, I did not however act in this fashion, preferring the now-standard path that many Americans seem to take of throwing out most everything – even items in perfectly good working condition – certain that, tomorrow, when they actually do need them, they will have enough money to buy brand-new, Chinese-made replacement items (which, especially with specialty items, may be available only when the shop opens in the morning). Until my eyes were re-opened recently to the enormous value of such things as with which my deceased father filled this dacha's basement and out-buildings, I too thought of those things as trash, as superfluous goods, as six decades worth of proof that hoarding was a bad thing. Now, however, after mowing this property's acres with a muscle-powered, cast-iron push-mower, and after spending the last eight months moving my body through space-time on a bicycle (and, incidentally, after hewing more closely to the teachings of Lao Tzu), I find that my estimation of what I once thought of as clutter has changed dramatically.
For example, the pile of old magazines that has sat on a shelf in the barn for the last twenty years turned out to be a few dozen, successive copies of Organic Gardening magazine; since starting to read them, my appreciation for and knowledge of Nature-friendly, low-impact methods for growing edible and pretty things has grown substantially, much as have the crops in my gardens. Also, the various medium-scale farming and landscaping devices that have been hanging around collecting dust all these years turned out to be exactly the types of things one would need to turn this property's best south-facing slope into a productive field, whereupon might grow fuel to run engines, fibers to clothe bodies, and food to fill stomachs. Furthermore, the bamboo that has grown here in abundance after my dad shoved a single shoot of it into the ground in the late 1970s is a plant whose utility knows few bounds; add to these blessings the many fruit and firewood trees that have been allowed to grow as tall as they wanted to grow, and this oddly-shaped little chunk of land fast resembles a perfect place for self-sufficient living. Perfect, that is, for an able-bodied yet otherwise worthless individual looking to make use of piles of heaped-up clutter, such as myself. So, if there is any moral lesson to this article, it is that viewing things from within different frames of mind can often reveal their hidden, secret worth. So open those peepers, elasticize the mind, and keep that head on a swivel. Mahalo.
場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit
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