Myspace blog: Thursday, September 18, 2008
So this particular word-whore must have evolved in a fashion atypical to most humans... I know, I know: who would be surprised by such an admission from moi? In all my language questioning, in all my searching, there is apparently an entire facet to language development that I've never even considered--that of gesture. I've played the whole 'word'/'speech' game (chicken vs. egg) without giving due attention to a third, highly plausible option: that of physical communication. There seems to be an entire school of thought that language originated neither in verbal NOR written forms; rather, it began as hand signals, arm sweeps, and other physical expressions etc.In written research, the explanation arises that "gesturing" was seen by some scientists as too lowly a predecessor to spoken language; accepting signing as a valid means of expression leaves a less clearly-defined boundary between "us" (the intelligent, powerful humans) and "them" (the 'lesser' animals). In short, linguists find it more convenient to say that the gifts of advanced communication and abstract expression are what make us superior to and distinct from all other living beings.But the book I'm reading for my Anthropology class has led me to consider this third idea. Its arguments and examples are impressive, but I can't help but feel completely blindsided by this one. How did I miss this all-important component?All I can say in my defense is that, due to my romantic (dare I say 'illicit'?) involvement with words, I rarely rely on gesturing to the extent that some people do. My mom, for example, is nearly incapable of communicating WITHOUT using her hands. It's really kind of funny to watch. We've experimented with trying to get her to sit on her hands while she talks, and she's never made it further than 1 1/2 sentences before the hands pop back up and in motion.But I write. I write a LOT. and I speak. OFTEN. And all the research that says that humans revert to signalling/signing when words fail them (when they're too excited, when speaking another language where translation proves difficult, when exasperated with trying to get a point across...), but such is not my personal experience. I mean, I do think that I am an 'animated' person, but if I can't say it in words, I grunt or scream or moan or breathe audibly in some way. Gesturing is NOT my default mechanism.Add it to the list of my oddities.How do you say what you want to say? How 'evolved' are you?! :)
Currently reading : Next of Kin: My Conversations with Chimpanzees By Roger Fouts Release date: 1998-09-01
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
As 'we' say in NOLA, this is fixin' to...
Yep. This is fixin' to get a bit messy. I've officially decided to stop really organising these little blobs of spontaneous brain combustion. I know, I know--they weren't really organised to begin with.
It's just about to get less organised, if that's even a possibility.
I am consoled by the fact that absolutely no one reads this, so the damage should be minimal...
... Incidentally, how does one say "fixin' to" in another region of the country? I guess it's the equivalent of "gettin' ready to," or perhaps "about to."
But it's so much more charming in the South, especially paired with equally charming colloquialisms, e.g. "I'm fixin' to go make groceries."
For more Southern fun, 'ax' us why we go 'by' places instead of 'to' them. (I'm thinking it has something to do with the old adage "the point of the journey is not to arrive.") And so... we go 'by' your mama's house, 'by' McKenzie's Bakery, 'by' K&B drugstore. You'd think we never make it inside. :P
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
"listen to what the drum said"
In Kenya, certain mountain dwelling tribes use drums to communicate messages from one area to another. There are metric and tonal patterns used to send warnings about danger (say, the imminent presence of a pride of lions headed in a certain direction), played on a pair of what we would term in Western music 'kettle' drums.
This goes even further into my argument, as I originally only considered the realistic possibility of music communicating less 'literal' or 'specific' ideas (eg feelings of love, melancholy, enthusiasm, etc).
Through drumming, these tribes also interpret their own spoken language on a more humanistic, 'expressive' level. The example I witnessed was the recitation of a native poem, first spoken, then 'repeated' on the drums. But the drumming was not merely 'imitating' the rhythm or pitch; it was, to the native speakers, literally 'saying' the line, simply without the use of a mouth or vocal chords. In short, the drum was 'speaking' the lines. This was an idea I had not previously considered.
I was also struck, more generally, on the concept of a certain phoneme borrowed in Western music from an older, African 'language' tradition--the polyrhythm. While teaching the class the concept of the polyrhythm 2 against 3 (two in the time of three, or vice-versa), both I and the teacher simultaneously explained "once you know how it sounds and feels, you just HAVE it" and it sticks forever. This is not unlike the process in learning a language where one must recognise the phonemes of his/her own language as a child (which we do instinctively, just as we instinctively 'exclude' other sounds even though our bodies are capable of producing them--sometimes even more easily than we produce those of our own language). During second-language acquisition, the biggest boundary for most people is the conquering of the phonemic boundary--to make the native sounds naturally, intuitively, as a native speaker does. Grammar can be learned, rules and exceptions can be memorised, vocabulary can be studied, but phonemic understanding is the key to fluency and ease of communication.
The example of the 2:3 fits into the same category as learning the sounds of, say, aspirated and unaspirated /b/ or /p/ for English speakers. Instinctively, we actually produce both variations of each of these letters, depending upon their placement in a word. But screw with the placement (putting an unaspirated b or p as an initial, for example) and many, likely most, native English speakers would have an extremely difficult time reproducing the sound spontaneously. It would take concentration and effort, not because we are not capable of doing it, but because it seems unnatural to us in that usage. If you want to learn certain dialects of Indian languages, though, you'd need to be able to both hear and speak those differentiations instantaneously and fluidly.
Our 'Western' minds are perfectly capable of playing a 2:3 pattern, but the effort required for most of us to 'know' the sound and feeling of it is fairly formidable for some. African musicians must think we look like idiots for struggling with it--it seems to come 'naturally' to them. Why? Because it is a part of their language, both musically AND, as it turns out, literally.
This goes even further into my argument, as I originally only considered the realistic possibility of music communicating less 'literal' or 'specific' ideas (eg feelings of love, melancholy, enthusiasm, etc).
Through drumming, these tribes also interpret their own spoken language on a more humanistic, 'expressive' level. The example I witnessed was the recitation of a native poem, first spoken, then 'repeated' on the drums. But the drumming was not merely 'imitating' the rhythm or pitch; it was, to the native speakers, literally 'saying' the line, simply without the use of a mouth or vocal chords. In short, the drum was 'speaking' the lines. This was an idea I had not previously considered.
I was also struck, more generally, on the concept of a certain phoneme borrowed in Western music from an older, African 'language' tradition--the polyrhythm. While teaching the class the concept of the polyrhythm 2 against 3 (two in the time of three, or vice-versa), both I and the teacher simultaneously explained "once you know how it sounds and feels, you just HAVE it" and it sticks forever. This is not unlike the process in learning a language where one must recognise the phonemes of his/her own language as a child (which we do instinctively, just as we instinctively 'exclude' other sounds even though our bodies are capable of producing them--sometimes even more easily than we produce those of our own language). During second-language acquisition, the biggest boundary for most people is the conquering of the phonemic boundary--to make the native sounds naturally, intuitively, as a native speaker does. Grammar can be learned, rules and exceptions can be memorised, vocabulary can be studied, but phonemic understanding is the key to fluency and ease of communication.
The example of the 2:3 fits into the same category as learning the sounds of, say, aspirated and unaspirated /b/ or /p/ for English speakers. Instinctively, we actually produce both variations of each of these letters, depending upon their placement in a word. But screw with the placement (putting an unaspirated b or p as an initial, for example) and many, likely most, native English speakers would have an extremely difficult time reproducing the sound spontaneously. It would take concentration and effort, not because we are not capable of doing it, but because it seems unnatural to us in that usage. If you want to learn certain dialects of Indian languages, though, you'd need to be able to both hear and speak those differentiations instantaneously and fluidly.
Our 'Western' minds are perfectly capable of playing a 2:3 pattern, but the effort required for most of us to 'know' the sound and feeling of it is fairly formidable for some. African musicians must think we look like idiots for struggling with it--it seems to come 'naturally' to them. Why? Because it is a part of their language, both musically AND, as it turns out, literally.
Monday, October 6, 2008
sound, sound, sound
Okay. I admit it. What I'm really trying to do is discover a more efficient, accurate means of communication. I believe that the most effective mode of expression, aurally speaking (no pun intended), is a blend of what we term 'language' and what we consider 'music.' I can't figure out how to express it accurately yet, but I've been working on this, subconsciously, for years I think.
It has something to do with the way that music can tap into emotions that words completely miss. (e.g. I can tell you about love, I can describe to you the feelings of love, I can relate stories of when I experienced or showed love, but this doesn't bring you closer to feeling/experiencing love yourself. However, I can play you a piece of music, genre undecided, that taps into some emotional realm within you and you begin to cry and say, "Aha! That's what love feels like.")
In short, music IS a language that communicates on a more primary level things that we cannot efficiently express in words. This is not a new concept.
What interests me is the fusion of 'music' and 'language;' the perfection of a communication that would comprise more directly the elements of both. The causes of misunderstanding are communication problems--misused words, misunderstood phrases, outright lies even, a lack of ability to wield the weapon we lovingly refer to as spoken language.
What would the elements of this language be? What does human language need to bring it to this next level of usage?
More on this later...
the Sound is Music?
At what point does speech cease to be 'speech' and become 'music' instead? At what point does any sound cease to be 'sound' (generically) and come to be considered 'music?' This is a 'word' problem, a 'labelling' problem for me. (Could it be considered in some odd way a sort of 'category' mistake? I have trouble understanding that concept, though I feel it fundamentally... I just can't seem to apply it appropriately.)
A dripping faucet in the kitchen sink--'music?' If it is maintaining a constant, metric sort of repetition and accompanied by the drone of a refrigerator humming, is that music? And what if there's a woman or a cook, singing/humming to herself absent-mindedly, in that kitchen? Surely I could notate that, and it becomes a cohesive 'piece,' a reflection of the music of life of the domesticated American woman--her 'anthem' of a sort. Where do you hear that line drawn? (Not that I'm presuming that one can 'hear' a line being drawn, per se) :P
Just curious.
A dripping faucet in the kitchen sink--'music?' If it is maintaining a constant, metric sort of repetition and accompanied by the drone of a refrigerator humming, is that music? And what if there's a woman or a cook, singing/humming to herself absent-mindedly, in that kitchen? Surely I could notate that, and it becomes a cohesive 'piece,' a reflection of the music of life of the domesticated American woman--her 'anthem' of a sort. Where do you hear that line drawn? (Not that I'm presuming that one can 'hear' a line being drawn, per se) :P
Just curious.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Language AND Culture
Tonight in class, my Language & Culture professor was discussing the various idiosyncrasies of English grammar. She got on a roll about irregular plural forms (mouse/mice) (goose/geese) etc. and I found myself thinking that, for so many reasons, the plural form of spouse really ought to be 'spice.'
Thursday, August 21, 2008
new word for the day: equi-mal
I've invented a word (again), but this time it makes complete sense aside from my own personal preference.
Equimal. It means to consider two or more options to be undesirable; they are 'equally bad,' hence: equimal. Kind of like the upcoming presidential election. I consider both candidates to be equally undesirable--equimal, yes?
Don't bother looking for it in a dictionary anytime soon...
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