The Deal » English

Rudd continues to wonder what time it is

jayhat — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 22:27:23 +0000

Rudd said: “What time is it.”

“You keep asking,” he said, without glancing down.

“Well I keep wondering.”

“Then maybe you should have brought a watch.”

“I don’t wear watches.”

He still hadn’t glanced down. “It’s a quarter past two.” A beat. “In the afternoon.”

“No it’s not,” Rudd said. The sun was setting. “Stop being an asshole.”

“How would you know, Rudd? Do you have a watch you aren’t telling me about?”

“Asshole,” Rudd said.

“Not much longer now,” he said.

“How would you know?” Rudd said.

“Because you wouldn’t be so nervous about the time if there was a lot of it to go.”

Rudd nodded. “So what time is it, then?”

“Half past two.” A beat. “In the afternoon.”

“Asshole,” Rudd said.

As they stood in silence as the sun set over the horizon, in the distance smoke billowed like a signal, a plume that trailed into the twilight like snake skin.

“You know what comes next?” he said.

“Nope,” Rudd said. “I rarely do.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

Apparently, the sorts of things kids learn about in the future occassionally leave something to be desired.

jayhat — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 21:48:56 +0000

The dull light shown through the ruffled curtain, lazy as it washed across her face, her pale features only slightly more defined than they otherwise would have been if silhouetted.

And far less mysterious.

She had a book in her hand that should have been The Bible. Instead, it was a worn classic, its bound edges since unglued, pages loose-leafed and brown with age and wear and stain. The Peculiar Writings of Gus the cover proclaimed, an irony since there was notoriously little Peculiar or Written about Gus. But year after year, class after class, people continued to read about Gus, for whatever reason who knows.

The problem with many classics

jayhat — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 22:31:07 +0000

When people read the classics, they’re often slowed by the language, complain about the piousness of characters, etc.—when I read the classics, I often wonder how so many authors existed in linear worlds with linear characters who grow in linear ways and tell stories that unfold linearly.

The world is circular for a reason, and clouds dot the sky and merge and form bigger clouds, and rivers form deltas and twist and have things called rapids.

I’ve never met a woman who only wanted a man, and I know of no man whose only desire is money. I have friends and colleagues, but none of them exist only to my end, and they have me, and I exist to no one’s end.

And my story has little to do with their story, other than the fact that my cloud or the water in my river or—whathaveyou—happen to merge or bump or touch at some place or another.

On form

jayhat — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 19:13:23 +0000

I used to baffle myself thinking about artists who seemed unconcerned with form. Or rather, when I saw something that should have otherwise been a decent piece of art, I wondered why authors and painters and musicians and sculptors chose to degrade their creations by stepping out of character or—short of that—why they failed to recognize these certain things. I wondered how they could be so arrogant or blind or distasteful or ignorant. It was infuriating, really, to see such potential squandered because someone didn’t have the right eye or—short of that—someone didn’t have the right person advising them or—short of that—someone didn’t the wherewithal to recognize a good piece of advice.

Many who I quarreled this point with argued that the beauty of these works were in their imperfections, that beauty—in its nature, they argued—is only obvious because it’s so rare.

I saw such points as cop outs.

There’s so many imperfect things already, why give us one more.

* * * *

I realize now that form doesn’t exist in nature—it’s a construct and to deconstruct a construct it is to thrust oneself forth into a gaping paradoxical abyss.

I realize now that art, in its purest form, has no form because it has no nature except to be that—of nature, and nature is a formless, directionless, irrational beast. To control her, to understand her, to predict her—fruitless. To even try is as ignorant as it is stupid.

That’s the truth.

A Lesson on Grammar

jayhat — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 04:22:59 +0000

In English, an obviative form of a verb is used to differentiate two otherwise ambiguous third-person pronouns. For instance, the sentence “Melanie borrowed Linda’s car” can be expressed as “She borrowed her car,” or even more ambiguous, “Melanie likes what Linda likes” can be expressed as “She likes what she likes.” So, an obviative form would likely be a marker—some sort of affix—used to differentiate “she” from “her” or “she” from “she.”

Of course, in English we don’t have an obviative form. We allow for the ambiguity, relying on the speaker—or writer—to avoid using pronouns in ambiguous situations. So, for the cost of a single, extra rule of grammar, we pay by having a limitation imposed on the language.

The reason I bring this up—other than to show that English has its limitations—is to point out that we have words in English that exist only as a means to express things we don’t do.

“Obviative” is an English word that describes something we don’t do in English.

I use this to illustrate the fact that, while there are plenty of things that we do that don’t make sense, there, too, are plenty of things we don’t do that do make sense. But we still don’t do them.

In both cases, change comes with rationality. Or reality.

Or a gentle prod from someone who cares.

I attempt to prove the existence of reality

jayhat — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 22:03:28 +0000

I think, therefore I am.

I am, therefore I do.

I do, therefore I act.

I act, therefore things happen.

Things happen, therefore things change.

Things change, therefore there exists something outside myself.

There exists something outside myself, therefore I am not alone.

What, no schwa?

jayhat — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 15:58:42 +0000

It’s interesting to me that in the English language we have all sorts of sounds that our letters shouldn’t naturally make. We take words from other cultures–if cultures exist–and integrate them into our own without respect for whether or not these words are pronounceable given our previous set of sounds. And, rather than integrating new letters to represent these new sounds, instead we appraise our established set of letters and decide which one is closest.

Most people don’t write, yet, we refuse to change our written language because we imagine words to be something stagnant, constant, quantifiable. We imagine that we can put a o- next to a u- next to a g- next to an -h and we can learn to pronounce it the same way we always have, independent of the fact that we never have, that we pronounce things differently, all the time, over space.

Even more interesting to me: We generally ignore sounds we’ve used since the language first diverged from German.

And not just sounds we use every once in a while. I’m not talking about eñes or umlauts.

Get this: The schwa is the most common vowel in the English language.

Languages are the cornerstones of cultures–if they exist. How a given people interact with their given language tells you much about who they are, as a people.

So, what I’m saying is, extrapolate.

Extrapolate, people.