Swahili Builders

Well you see I have this book here called "Teach Yourself Swahili". It seemed an unlikely thing to need to teach myself, and it was only 10 pence so I got it for fun. Anyway, I was having a quick look at it to see what kinds of phrases they use. Old phrasebooks and language courses can be quite funny. I didn't notice anything hilarious but the phrases used do have a certain local colour which is lacking in its "Teach Yourself French" and other, more normal, counterparts - things like "Is there a snake in the hole?" Which looks strange at first but when you think about it it's probably fairly useful.

So I happened to notice that the word for "build" is "jenga". And it turns out that is the origin of the name of the game Jenga. So now you know something new!

Poem

Are Limericks easy to write?
Can you write them at night, without light?
I tried it for ages
But mixed up the pages
Now my Limerick's gone completely wrong and I can't finish it properly.

The Language of Music

It's hard to explain impossible things to you.

But the reason one person writes to another is that there is something he needs to tell that person, something which he thinks the other person doesn't know. The only problem is that when a fact is an unknown fact, it is hard to understand. In fact it may be impossible to understand - it will take a lot of problems and hard work to finally see what it was. Sometimes, indeed, you can't just tell someone the answer they need, because they won't understand without actually discovering the answer for themselves. That's why we have symbols like mazes and spirals. Labyrinths were popular in ancient art. Popularity comes when something resonates with many people, no matter what the intention behind it. In this case, the Labyrinth is a journey you must follow until it is solved - there is not normally a short way through.

The Labyrinth is a part of the ear, too.

When we hear music we can identify patterns. Without them, it would probably be noise. But as long as we can fit the sound to a pattern we feel there is some sense behind it. We keep creating possible patterns to fit to the stimulus, trying to find a match for one or more templates that we have stored, or creating a new one based on the incoming material. So although I said we try to find a fit, really we are creating the pattern that we hear. The sound is what it is, but the pattern is our own. Listen to noise and see how soon you start to hear words. They may not be there as such, but we are looking (listening) for them.

So we may find there is sense at the first hearing of a piece of music. That depends on what experience we have. Whatever the case, we will try and we will find something. But you might end up saying, no, I just couldn't make anything of it. Like the ladies in the Wigmore Hall who laughed at the 'wrong notes' in a Webern piece - which was written in 1899! I was there, you can believe me.

There are "dissonant" cases where the music is too different from the listener's internal templates and antagonism results. Of course, the dissonance is not necessarily a question of some dissonance in the music's harmonic idiom - I was referring to the dissonance between what they are hearing and what they might expect to make sense, or what they have heard before and got used to. But on the whole the music one hears is mostly more or less familiar - you tend to recognise it as music, and more particularly as "our music". Statistically we are more likely to hear music we already recognise, of course - because statistically we will stay in more or less the same place.

Recognition comes then, somewhat or a lot. You can tell there is a loud bit coming up because it starts getting louder. It started quiet so you know it will be quiet for a bit. Or after learning a bit more, you know that if it is quiet, it might stay quiet or might SUDDENLY get loud. You start to learn what the options might be. And if you know a bit about music you might here where the harmony is going. You might recognise the sort of "subject" the composer is thinking of. Of course there is not a subject, it is music not words, but there are associations and special patterns we notice. It might be something clear like the sound of a bird (the cuckoo in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony) or something ambiguous like the sound of water or wind in a Schubert song. It might be a topic like "military" (Chopin Polonaise) or "exotic" (Debussy Pagodas) or "academic" (Handelian fugue in Mozart or Beethoven). Whatever it is, you learn, and then finally you understand. It can take repeated hearings to get there though - although most do not try after the first attempt. And sometimes there is no attempt! (What are the chances of success there I wonder?)

All of these insights come with practise and understanding. Some come with learning and knowledge.

They say that a child's mind is a clear mind. They say a child will see the obvious when everyone else convinces themselves otherwise or trips themselves up in tangles of thought and blind guesses. That's why there is the famous story of The Emperor's New Clothes. Maybe it's funny, I don't know. I'm sure no-one believes it could ever really happen. But that's the shock you get when you realise it's happening all the time. Look at what people are doing around you now. A little or a lot, helping or un-helping, but they are certainly taking a lot of different approaches to the maze of their life. Certainly the mazes are different, but can all the people be right? The child says: I thought you had to get to the centre. (Does that mean it is easier than it seemed?)

Yes, you try to hear some sense in the sound coming in. But we are in luck, because the person who created it all - the composer - put sense in at the beginning. So we are in with a fighting chance!

I am convinced that we can understand music purely by paying attention to what the composer has put in it. That's the approach I took when I wrote about Evryali, and it's how I try to understand music on a daily basis. The significance of this is that it doesn't matter how much you know before you get started. Knowledge came down to us because other people noticed things; that means we can notice them too. But it will take a long time if we try to understand the knowledge AS WELL as the music. That's two jobs, you see. Fortunately I have tried to understand the music, afflicted with only a slight knowledge of the technical processes involved. (That's not a joke, I really don't know much!). That's why I'm here today to tell you where to look.

The first time I noticed something important about music was in a Mozart symphony last year. It wasn't a good performance (maybe that's why I noticed it). The symphony was called "The Jupiter", but I don't think that matters because I don't like the "I know it all" approach to music: Ah, The Jupiter, yes, of course. Beethoven's second Razumovsky Quartet, yes. Opus 106, a masterpiece. It does annoy me rather, you see this is talking about music without mentioning the music. Perhaps it is not talking about the music? I know it's helpful to use labels so we can know what is being discussed, but these are the names on the filing cabinet. They are the names on the files. They are not the contents of the files. Inside are lovely golden sounds without names. Songs without words that sing in my heart.

I forget exactly what it was in that Mozart symphony. I think it was a movement in the harmony. I realised he was doing something really funny, moving somewhere no-one could have predicted. I wondered why no-one was laughing. I think it was because they were hearing "A Mozart symphony" - the one in their heads, perhaps. You don't need Sherlock Holmes to tell you that the best Mozart symphony comes from Mozart, not from us. By some twist of fate, that was actually what I was hearing. Yes, no incompetence on the part of the conductor or players prevented me from hearing what the composer had put into the music. It was all there, and it always is in any piece or performance.

Music is highly cultural, you know. There is a lot to learn about. But as it happens you don't particularly need to learn any of it. If you are responsible and care about the music and why it exists then I think it won't hurt to try learning a bit. But you have to listen first.

I listened, and I am now telling you this:

A master composer knows his job and tries to get better at it.

The best composers didn't stop when they had had enough, or when they thought they were good enough. They continued changing.

In these cases, the golden secret inside centre of the music was what led the creator - it was what they were trying to communicate! In the other cases, the composer got tired and his forms started writing themselves, though there could still be flashes of inspiration. It could never dry up completely (some music leads me to doubt this but it is true)

The secret was called ecstasy. Did the composer want to be a composer, or could he not stop being a composer? "Ecstasy" is a word that means being outside yourself. What is outside? Whatever we don't already know. Other people. Other places. Other ideas. Mistakes. Answers. Genius.

Whatever you think about music, I think we all have to agree there is some kind of vision involved in it. Someone wants to communicate something, and that is their vision. It can be predictable, clichéed, or previously impossible - a surprising thing of brilliance and power. With skill, the vision becomes clearer.

That vision is present in every part of the work, and through the opposition between the parts we can appreciate what it is. (The word for an arrangement of parts is composition)

You won't at first know what a piece of music is saying. It's important to remember that it isn't saying anything. As long as you can say it in words, you are not there. You can talk about it but you have to live it to see it.

With repeated slow careful exposure to music you can learn to feel what it really is. Your mind is not understanding it, your heart is not feeling it, but these senses may be involved.

Remember what I am telling you: it is real. Music is real. There is a real reason for it. It is not something in a book or on a CD, it is something outside you, coming in. Also remember that if you were lost in a labyrinth, you might forget your journey. The outside might seem dark and unfriendly. Think then of what it's like to find the way through the maze. Find the end, and you see you were the one who had gone outside. Really the music is inside. People who don't listen are stuck outside. When we hear it truly, we are all joined up again. Or starting to be.

Primo Levi was in a prison camp. Then he sent us a message through his books so that the world would change. James Clavell was in a prison camp. He did the same. He did a good thing too, because he loved the people who imprisoned him. That is how he was set free. Any others who still hated them were still prisoners, weren't they? And Ronald Searle was in the same camp. He had to carefully hide his drawings while he was there. He sent us messages too.

There is a well-known analogy that life is like a bird flying through a lighted hall. It is light for a moment, then it is dark again. That's silly, because although I can see what it means, I think they are looking at it from the wrong side. Think what the other birds are thinking. Wot is that bird doing stuck inside that dark hall when we are all out here?

I spoke of prisoners because when we are stuck or lost, what we need most is a way out. Sometimes it is all we can do just to survive. There isn't much sign of life outside the prison. But one day a message comes.

To understand the message is all we need to do.

It is not obvious. But it is there. If you can love it, then you are hearing it.

This is the language of music.

Rogue beast

Mobile phones (cellphones) can be used to send text messages (SMS). In predictive text mode, the phone guesses what word you are trying to write (sometimes not very well, if it doesn't have the word in its dictionary). More than one letter of the alphabet is allocated to each key, so even if you know what you are typing, the phone doesn't! That's why we get messages that say "I'm on a cup" (=I'm on a bus) or "See you at mine" when you mean See you at nine!

Obviously the phone manufacturer has decided which word is the most likely for each combination of keys. Very good and clever. So how is it that when I type 9-6-5-3 it picks, not "woke", but...wolf? How likely is it that I'd be saying something about a wolf more often than saying when I woke up? It's very odd.

Or did Little Red Riding Hood lose her phone?

Spelin

My spelling worries me at times, and it's not my fault at all.

There is so much written material being produced using the English language today, most of it by unqualified people, that I have become infected by this superinundation of verbal effluvia (ha ha, I just said that to test my word-power!).

You can say,"We don't want to lose our powers of description". But the word "lose" is one of the words we have already lost, I'm afraid. And I'm the loser now that language use is looser, because what I see very often is the word "loose" when people mean "lose". And I get so used to seeing it that when I see the correct spelling I see it as a mistake. Something looks wrong!

Either we must throw away all the dictionaries and abandon English to the hyaenas, or...something must be done. (Ha ha again, I just felt like saying that - it's very dramatic!)

Today I feel I have helped the cause through not making errors and putting in a bit of effort to give my sentences a measure of moral fibre. However probably now nobody can understand what I'm saying so I'd better mess around with it until it looks a bit more normal. Is there perhaps a tool I can use that un-spellchecks this document? It could be more easily done by just easing the tension in my concentration. Just relax the attention a bit and everything might flow the normal way.

We've nothing to lose once we let it loose! (Because it is already gone!)

(PS I will keep writing in the "making an effort" style if you don't mind).

Goodbye! (For now...)

Surf Rescue

Johann Weißmüller was born in Freidorf which at the time was in Austria-Hungary but is now near Timişoara in Romania. Very soon he moved with his family to America. He was a good swimmer and trained hard while he worked as a bell hop at the Plaza Hotel in Chicago. It all worked out very well when he won his first Olympic swimming title in 1924 (Paris). In all, throughout his career he won five Olympic Gold medals and one Bronze, and broke sixty-seven world records. He never lost a race.

And then he became Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle.

Johnny Weissmuller was the Tarzan I remember from the films. They were black and white, and had lots of interesting things happening. I remember the Elephants' Graveyard, trains of native bearers carrying the white man's luggage, Cheeta the chimpanzee, giant spiders and their deadly webs, and the strange fauna of the jungle. There was always a dinosaur somewhere in the jungle for some reason. It was a Dimetrodon, I seem to remember. And don't forget that Tarzan could speak to the animals too. "Ungawa!" meant something. "Simba!" meant something too. It is Swahili for Lion and he said it to lions so that makes sense.

Let's go back in time and find out something else.

When Johnny won his first Olympic medal, he beat someone. That person was called Duke Paoa Kahinu Mokoe Hulikohola Kahanamoku and he came from Hawaii. When you hear the phrase "The Big Kahuna", you now know that it originally referred to him.

Duke (named after Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh) had set the world record that Johnny broke in 1922 (that was before they met at the Olympics). He won many medals himself, but is more famous as the inventor of modern surfing. He experimented with many improvements and alterations to surfboard design but his best-remembered board was the one he called his "papa nui". It was 16 feet long and weighed 114 pounds (4.8m, 52 kg). That was the board he was using on the day the big waves came, one of which would take him from surf zone to surf zone in the longest ride of his life. Let's hear him tell about it now.

But the day I caught 'The Big One' was a day when I was not thinking in terms of awing any tourists or kamaainas (old-timers) on Waikiki Beach. It was simply an early morning when mammoth ground swells were rolling in sporadically from the horizon, and I saw that no one was paddling out to try them. Frankly, they were the largest I'd ever seen. The yell of 'The surf is up!' was the understatement of the century.

In fact, it was that rare morning when the word was out that the big 'Bluebirds' were rolling in; this is the name for gigantic waves that sweep in from the horizon on extra-ordinary occasions. Sometimes years elapse with no evidence of them. They are spawned far out at sea and are the result of cataclysms of nature -- either great atmospheric disturbances or subterranean agitation like underwater earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.

The danger lay in the proneout or wipeout. Studying the waves made me wonder if any man's body could withstand the unbelievable force of a thirty- to fifty-foot wall of water when it crashes. And, too, could even a top swimmer like myself manage to battle the currents and explosive water that would necessarily accompany the aftermath of such a wave? Well, the answer seemed to be simply -- don't get wiped out!

From the shore you could see those high glassy ridges building up in the outer Diamond Head region. The Bluebirds were swarming across the bay in a solid line as far northwest as Honolulu Harbor. They were tall, steep and fast. The closer-in ones crumbled and showed their teeth with a fury that I had never seen before. I wondered if I could even push through the acres of white water to get to the outer area where the buildups were taking place.

...Bushed from the long fight to get seaward, I sat my board and watched the long humps of water peaking into ridges that marched like animated foothills. I let a slew of them lift and drop me with their silent, threatening glide. I could hardly believe that such perpendicular walls of water could be built up like that. The troughs between the swells had the depth of elevator shafts, and I wondered again what it would be like to be buried under tons of water when it curled and detonated. There was something eerie about watching the shimmering backs of the ridges as they passed me and rolled on toward Waikiki.

I let a lot of them careen by, wondering in my own heart if I was passing them up because of their unholy height, or whether I was really waiting for the big, right one. A man begins to doubt himself at a time like that. Then I was suddenly wheeling and turning to catch the towering blue ridge bearing toward me. I was prone and stroking hard at the water with my hands.

Strangely, it was more as though the wave had selected me, rather than I had chosen it. It seemed like a very personal and special wave -- the kind I had seen in my mind's eye during a night of tangled dreaming. There was no backing out on this one; the two of us had something to settle between us. The rioting breakers between me and shore no longer bugged me. There was just this one ridge and myself -- no more. Could I master it? I doubted it, but I was willing to die in the attempt to harness it.

Instinctively I got to my feet when the pitch, slant and speed seemed right. Left foot forward, knees slightly bent, I rode the board down the precipitous slope like a man tobogganing down a glacier. Sliding left along the watery monster's face, I didn't know I was at the beginning of a ride that would become a celebrated and memoried thing. All I knew was that I had come to grips with the tallest, bulkiest, fastest wave I had ever seen. I realized, too, more than ever, that to be trapped under its curling bulk would be the same as letting a factory cave in upon you.

This lethal avalanche of water swept shoreward swiftly and spookily. The board began hissing from the traction as the wave leaned forward with greater and more incredible speed and power. I shifted my weight, cut left at more of an angle and shot into the big Castle Surf which was building and adding to the wave I was on. Spray was spuming up wildly from my rails, and I had never before seen it spout up like that. I rode it for city-long blocks, the wind almost sucking the breath out of me. Diamond Head itself seemed to have come alive and was leaping in at me from the right.

Then I was slamming into Elk's Club Surf, still sliding left, and still fighting for balance, for position, for everything and anything that would keep me upright. The drumming of the water under the board had become a madman's tattoo. Elk's Surf rioted me along, high and steep, until I skidded and slanted through into Public Baths Surf. By then it amounted to three surfs combined into one; big, rumbling and exploding. I was not sure I could make it on this ever-steepening ridge. A curl broke to my right and almost engulfed me, so I swung even farther left, shuffled back a little on the board to keep from pearling (nose-diving).

Left it was; left and more left, with the board veeing a jet of water on both sides and making a snarl that told of speed and stress and thrust. The wind was tugging my hair with frantic hands. Then suddenly it looked as if I might, with more luck, make it into the back of Queen's Surf! The build-up had developed into something approximating what I had heard of tidal waves, and I wondered if it would ever flatten out at all. White water was pounding to my right, so I angled farther from it to avoid its wiping me out and burying me in the sudsy depths.

Borrowing on the Cunha Surf for all it was worth -- and it was worth several hundred yards -- I managed to manipulate the board into the now towering Queen's Surf. One mistake -- just one small one -- could well spill me into the maelstrom to my right. I teetered for some panic-ridden seconds, caught control again, and made it down on that last forward rush, sliding and bouncing through lunatic water. The breaker gave me all the tossing of a bucking bronco. Still luckily erect, I could see the people standing there on the beach, their hands shading their eyes against the sun, and watching me complete this crazy, unbelievable one-and-three-quarter-mile ride.

I made it into the shallows in one last surging flood. A little dazedly I wound up in hip-deep water, where I stepped off and pushed my board shoreward through the bubbly surf. That improbable ride gave me the sense of being an unlickable guy for the moment. I hoisted my board to my hip, locked both arms around it and lugged it up the beach.

Without looking at the people clustered around, I walked on, hearing them murmur fine, exciting things which I wanted to remember in days to come. I told myself this was the ride to end all rides. I grinned my thanks to those who stepped close and slapped me on the shoulders, and I smiled to those who told me this was the greatest. I trudged on and on, knowing this would be a shining memory for me that I could take out in years to come, and relive it in all its full glory. This had been it.

I never caught another wave anything like that one. And now with the birthdays piled up on my back, I know I never shall. But they cannot take that memory away from me. It is a golden one that I treasure, and I'm grateful that God gave it to me.

Duke appeared in 13 films in various parts, and in 1925 he used his surfboard to rescue eight men from a capsized fishing boat in heavy weather in Newport Beach, California.

It's nice to know that exciting things happen sometimes. Also that fun can be useful. Playing is not just a waste of time!

Manxman

Ned Maddrell died on December 27th, 1974. He was the last native speaker of Manx, the language of the Isle of Man (in the sea between England and Ireland - have a look!)

Here is a quotation from a newspaper article about him written around 1959 (I can't tell you what newspaper it's from because I found it on the internet where everything has no source and is either true or not, though mostly not)

Ned Maddrell, who went to sea at 13, found he was able to keep his Manx "alive" by talking to Gaelic-speaking sailors on British ships. He was brought up in the remote village of Cregneash, where "unless you had the Manx you were a deaf and dumb man and no good to anybody."

This was not the case in the towns. "Nobody there wanted to talk Manx, even those who had it well. They were ashamed, like. "It will never earn a penny for you," they said". Ned is a sprightly old man, a trifle deaf but very proud of his role as one of the last native speakers. "They have tape recordings of me telling legends and stories in Manx," he said "in Ireland and in America and in places you never heard of."

You can hear Ned speaking on this page.

They have revived Manx since then, but like Cornish and Hebrew, it is likely not the same language now we have lost the connection. Still, a good variety of languages is positive I think. I mean, it gives me something to write about, and linguists something to argue about! Oh yes, and it gives people something to talk about at home - in their own language!

The Hag

I remember a funny thing. It must have been around in the 1980s or 90s. It was a kind of coffee. It came in a jar, and on the jar was the name of the coffee: Café Hag!

What is Hag?

–noun
1. an ugly old woman, esp. a vicious or malicious one.
2. a witch or sorceress.
3. a hagfish.
[Origin: 1175–1225; ME hagge, OE *hægge, akin to hægtesse witch, hagorūn spell, G Hexe witch]

—Related forms
haggish, haglike, adjective

—Synonyms 1. harpy, harridan, virago, shrew.
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.0.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

So you see why it was a bit strange. Here it is (I could only find a German picture but it is similar):

Yes, that is the Hag! What a funny thing to sell in England. But as we know, there are lots of product names that haven't travelled well. Remember Coca-Cola (the cocaine-free sugar drink)? In China they picked a translation that meant "bite the wax tadpole" or "female horse stuffed with wax". Now it is called "happiness in the mouth", I hear. In Taiwan they said "Pepsi will bring your ancestors back from the dead" (Come alive with the Pepsi generation). Jolly Green Giant (something to do with frozen vegetables) in Arabic means Intimidating Green Ogre. Clairol's Mist Stick (for hair curling) is all about manure in German.

So what is Hag all about? Well I can tell you now. It was the first decaffeinated coffee, created through a process, invented by Dr. Ludwig Roselius, which was patented in Germany in 1906. Dr. Roselius supported numerous artists as well as one called Adolf Hitler (he met him in 1923) so you can put that in your cup and stir it too. Café Hag, OK, "HAG", pronounced Haaaahhhhg in the adverts, comes from Kaffee HAG, the original German name, which is short for Kaffee-Handels-Aktien-Gesellschaft. Which means something like Coffee Company. So no hags there. Kaffee-Hexen-Aktien-Gesellschaft would have been better (made by witches).

The French name was Café Sanka (sans-caffeine, san-ka: caffeine-free) and this name was used in the US, where Roselius had been selling his Café HAG since 1914, but he had his company and trademark confiscated by the Alien Property Custodian since it was the First World War and he was now an ENEMY!

So you see the dangerous and exciting world of coffee! Now you know why everyone shakes after they drink it.

Who or What is Chopin?

Who or what is Chopin?

How often do we think of France or French things in connection with this composer?

To me, it seems that there are a lot of French connections in the mind. Well, he did live in France mostly so maybe that is not surprising...but he wasn't French, was he?

Or was he actually a "French Composer"? He lived in France, he is sometimes considered a/the precursor of Debussy and the Impressionists, on classical compilation albums he is generally played by somebody with "François" somewhere in his name (in my experience), his name appears often as "Frédéric François Chopin", and while the French are of course perfect and don't need any help from outside (except for using 98% English words with "le" in front of them), I think they like to keep a connection with this man. The French Composer, Chopin. Actually, his surname is French, isn't it. Well, that's not his fault.

There is nothing at all wrong with being French. Ask a Frenchman!

So this would not be a problem in itself. Unless of course it were to turn out not to be accurate.

You see, I always believe there is a real "hidden character" to every composer, or every piece of music (since composers change sometimes, if you're lucky). We listen to CDs and play in competitions and it all sounds like general "Piano Music" - or if someone wants to sound like they have a personality then they can do extreme things with the music like making sudden explosions, playing very fast or slow, etc. etc. - and at all times there is only a little bit of a distinction made between the feeling or character of the different works. I suppose the emphasis is on the piano playing, in fact, which seems like it would make sense. But given a choice between hearing the music of the composer or the music of the pianist, which would you choose? You see what I mean.

So to me Chopin was always maybe a little bit boring or something, a bit hard to grasp what it was all about. It seemed to have no particular style of its own, since it was THE style of the most popular piano music ever written. It got so famous, it had become a headline with not much personal contact to be had. Marilyn Monroe often did that kiss for the cameras, and that was "Marilyn Monroe", but was there more? I'm sure Marilyn was in there too somewhere. Oh, and Norma.

My understanding of Chopin got somewhere when I was looking in the book "Chopin: Pianist and Teacher" which I think is a useful book and I recommend it, although I don't have a copy myself. In this book there is a picture of a page from Chopin's teaching diary (he started at 8 in the morning!), and what gave me a big clue was how he had written the days of the week. On Wednesday it said "Pon."

What is Pon.? It is short for Poniedzałek - Polish for Wednesday. I know we already knew Chopin was from Poland but seeing, in his own writing, that he thought in Polish meant I now understood that he was a distinct personality with his own character. He wasn't French, he was a human person who came from Poland and was Polish. Nobody is entirely national, you can't just characterise music as "Polish" because there are always other influences and directions it takes. Particularly with Chopin who had a lot of input from Italian Opera and Bach, to mention two.

Just seeing "Pon." didn't tell me much about this composer. But it helped me realise that there was something to find out.

I think clues are valuable. There is always a clue in there somewhere if you are patient and listen.

Now I think of Chopin in the same sort of "drawer" as Bartók. It helps me, it may not help you, but I hope this helps somehow!

(Now one often sees his name written "Fryderyk Franciszek Chopin", which I'm sure is not the full story either - but then we can never be completely sure of having the full story on anything - we have to keep looking just in case!)

Ellipsis...

I'm just popping out to Germany for a bit, do you need anything? A pint of Milch, a loaf of Brot?

Back soon!

Cat Milk

I've talked about whale milk before.

But in the supermarket round the corner from my house, they sell something called "Cat Milk". I always wondered what it is. Is it milk for cats, or milk from cats?

Someone else has had the same thought.

Why can I not tell if this is serious or not?

I mean, when it says "Goat Milk" it is milk from goats, not milk for goats.

Well, maybe I will never know...

On the day I see a cat going round the shop with its shopping list in its paws, I will finally understand!

Expert Expounds as Expected

Derek Mitchell, an international security expert, described the incidents outside the White House as " a huge embarrassment".

He added: "The Chinese wanted to beam back to Beijing pictures that are perfect. But most of the White House preparations of pomp and pageantry were poor."

Read it again: "The Chinese...beam back to Beijing/pictures that are perfect....preparations of pomp and pageantry were poor".

??

Is this deliberate?

b_ b_ to b_
p_ that are p_
p_of p_ and p_ are p_

??

Derek Mitchell, an international security expert, is either a bit of a media professional and thinks alliteration will Make his Message Memorable, or he is naturally blessed with poetic skills that he doesn't know about!

Tailoring Article

Here is an excellent article I read today. Written by Thomas Mahon of Savile Row, it describes what to look for in a bespoke tailor.

Read what he says at the end - what to look for and what to watch out for:

Don’t be convinced by the narcotic effect of labels, they mean nothing. Have your eyes and senses tuned. Don't trust the glossy magazines for your info, they are writers, not cutters. Their world is about PR, not about the actual stitching.

No journalist ever had to spend seven years as a proper tailor's apprentice. Their agendae are different from yours.

I think it would be unfortunate to describe a tailor's mind as 'cutting'. I mean, it would be unfortunately unintentionally unfunny. But I think these words are certainly very sharp.

I always admire anybody who knows their job. There are so few of them. But each is a genius in his field. Or approaching it.

The best will admit that they are very far indeed from this. But they might admit to being capable of something, occasionally.

What is the reason for writing about tailoring today?

1. I have been thinking about what musicians wear for performing. Including me, obviously.
2. Good information is always good and always helps us, no matter what it is about.

Learning is always possible, and I hope you will be able to learn something from the article.

Last of all, have a look at Mr. Sheppard's Shears.

Picks

Here are two recommendations for you.

One is Don Markstein's Toonopedia, a "vast repository of toonological knowledge", or, in other words, lots of information about cartoons. Very important in my opinion.

I also found an all-around panoramic view of the Forbidden City in China. You need Quicktime to view it (download free here). Just click on a circle where you want to have a look, then when it has loaded, move the cursor and you will be able to see all sorts of things!

I hope you find them interesting. I have just taught my computer to write in Japanese, so you are lucky you can read this at all! It wants me to write only in Japanese and never in English now! Eek!

Why have I done this? Because I have a sideline-blog at mixi. There is not much to read there, also you can't read it unless you are a member! And you can't read it unless you can read Japanese...or can guess the right buttons to click (like me...). But I thought I would mention it!

さようなら！

I would like to think you could read those characters in your browser...I wonder if you can? If not, they say: sayoonara! - goodbye!

Consulate

Remember me?

It was pointed out to me today that I said I'd be back in the blink of an eye. I did imply that it could be a long blink, so I think we can say I have been true to my word there.

Phrasebooks are useful. They are also quite funny sometimes. The old example was the phrase "My postilion has been struck by lightning". Very useful, eh?

I have here Collins' Greek Phrasebook compiled by Christopher Scott and first published in 1964. Perhaps a little quaint because it is old. Perhaps a little frightening as it demonstrates the frame of mind with which the Englishman approached travel in Greece at that time! (Haven't they heard of Byron?)

The Collins series is interesting from this period. Some phrases don't necessarily spring to mind, or certainly not to my mind. The Spanish book tells you how to say "He is a pansy" - a pejorative term for homosexual. I don't think I would say it in English - what are the chances of needing to say it in Spanish?

So let's open the pages of our Greek phrasebook and see what we want to say to the Greeks.

Good Morning.
Good Evening.

It starts well!


I beg your pardon.
Am I disturbing you?
I am terribly sorry.

Already several ways of saying sorry! Very important to the English then, and still is. Sorry!

Too dear.
Very cheap.
Quickly.
Slowly.
Gently.
Look out!
This way.
That way.
I am an Englishman.
What is the matter?
On the contrary.
Very well.
Whose turn is it?
It is not my fault.
I do my best.
Will this do?

A lovely little story. What was happening, you will have to decide. What about "I am an Englishman"? It sounds almost an admission of some shameful secret.

Now for the section called "General Difficulties". Always my favourite! Here we go:

I don't understand you.
Of course I don't, I'm English! We don't have foreign languages, you know. We do have phrasebooks though.

That man is following me everywhere.
Oh no, not that man! He was busy in 1964. Even if he only followed 10% of the people who bought this book.

I shall call a policeman.
I shall stay here.
(Threatening to occupy Greece?)
Help! Fire! Thief!
Who are you?
I don't know you.
I don't want to speak to you.
Leave me alone.
Go away.
That will do!
You are mistaken.
I didn't do it.
I will give you nothing.
It is very annoying.
It has nothing to do with me.
What have I done?
I have done nothing.
I have paid you.
I have paid you enough.
Let me pass.

A bit of excitement!

Many other useful phrases are presented in an interesting way. Those with lightning reflexes can grab their phrasebook, find the section for "Chemist and Hairdresser", read the Greek letters or use the imitated pronunciation system, and exclaim:

The water is too hot, you are scalding me!

I have been burnt by the sun would probably be obvious without the thought being spoken aloud. Also they were expecting it anyway.

A hundred Drachmas to win on...
Betting on horses? You don't get that in modern phrasebooks.

Does this street go to the Acropolis?
Did they ask that on every street?

We can see the travelling English at work fairly often:
I do not want anything with garlic in it.
We do not want retsina.

I have left my glasses in the toilet...
...was a bit puzzling for me. How did they get down the toilet?

Hey-ho, travelling was a strange business for us then. Not for everyone though. And you have to give them credit for trying with the phrases and everything (particularly if he was a pansy - was it the man who was following me everywhere?)

And if it all gets too much, if the prices are too high, the food too Greek, the language not English enough, then there is always one phrase standing by. The phrase of phrases. The cure-all:

Where is the British Consulate?

See you there!

Bonito

There is no such thing as Bonito. If you read a cookery book that says it is an ingredient in Japanese food, it is wrong. Bonito is the word for fish from the tuna family (Mr. and Mrs. Tuna, and all the little tunas...just joking). But the Japanese food product made from dried fish of this type (e.g. skipjack tuna) is actually called katsuo.

I think this is right. Honto desu ka?

Takk and tak

As part of my travel plans for the future, I'm back to learning Polish. There is this word, 'tak', which means 'yes'. So far so good, that's all quite clear (in some pronunciation you can even hear a bit of a 'd' sound at the start, so you can think of 'da' in Russian and know for sure that this word means yes). But in Norwegian (which we discussed at length, starting on 25th June) the word takk means thanks. I get just a little bit confused as I try to decide whether I'm saying yes or thanks. Solutions: get focused into speaking Polish and not have any other options for the 'tak' sound in my mind; or, concentrate on the different sounds between the two words - which are very different, if you get close enough to see all the differences - and associate different pictures and feelings with each one which will always be there when I use the words.

It may seem a small thing to be talking about. But once you know bits of a few languages, some of the bits can fall into some of the other languages, so I'd like to know what you do about that.

One great linguist (polyglot, or by definition, hyperpolyglot - speaking more than six languages fluently) - the first that I think of - is Richard Francis Burton, the great English ...well, there isn't a word for what he was, he was everything - and everything England was not, so we can be thankful for having him (1821-1890). He was one of the first Westerners into Mecca - he went in disguise, linguistically as well as everything else (you can read about this in Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Mecca). He translated the Arabian Nights (the Alf Laylah Wa Laylah, or "Thousand Nights and One Night") and the Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana - among others. Burton, who was supposed to know 29 languages, was an incredible man who went everywhere and did everything - fantastical, unlikely, impossible, but he did it. He even discovered the source of the Nile. Read something by him or about him. Then have a think about what you have to do to qualify as 'being alive'. Lord Derby said of RFB: "Before middle age, he compressed into his life more of study, more of hardship, and more of successful enterprise and adventure, than would have sufficed to fill up the existence of half a dozen ordinary men".

The First Post - And I've Done It Already

Literally speaking, this is the first post in this blog. It is even called The First Post - two sentences in and already you can see I am a man of my word! We understand each other, eh?

"What's that? The first post? Hmm...", my bonsai-model brain thinks to me,"Isn't 'The Last Post' already a phrase in common use? Wouldn't it make me look awfully clever to make a...I think the word I'm looking for is 'pun', no? Yes, one of those 'puns' would be perfect. That will show everyone what I am made of". Sadly, it shows exactly what you are made of, oh tiny little mind.

One of the great curses of any language is exactly that: the tiny little mind that operates it. We have this miraculous, unfathomable, incredible gift of communication. What impulse is it that drives us to express the miracle of our being through the time-honoured principles and codes of sub-sub-basement, flatline, powerout, autopilot, void and vacuous...local journalism?

I said it. Local journalism! That's real evidence of a communications curse. If you have ever read a local newspaper then I hope you realised there was something a bit wrong, there. Now, I was not put on this earth to perpetrate terrible crimes against humanity, so I won't attempt to recreate the ambience of the local newspaper experience - you will have to see for yourself! Though it was a good curse, for sure, that also produced some of the greatest unintentional comedy writing in print. "He broke his toe drinking squash" and so on to a collapsible bliss of amusement. (That 'toe' quotation was taken from The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, a novel by David Nobbs).

So now every man and woman of fighting age has a blog, I guess water finds its own level and the writing genius in us all rather sinks to the bottom. (Did you see? I was doing it there too! Though these gems were the fruits of the curse of a much superior school of journalism, as you might say, though I sincerely hope you wouldn't, for your sake). What a man's gotta blog, a man's gotta blog! There but for the grace of blog go I! Stop me now.

In short, the better part of my mind feels the awkwardness of finding ready words to write to you. I am conscious that my first choices are often just the easy phrases that come to mind, the result of constant exposure to language that sells, entertains, intimidates, misinforms, but only rarely speaks from the heart. Isn't it a sacred thing to be able to pass on our secrets and give love through words? Isn't it a wonder that we can share the mystery of how we came to be here and how we ever became able to think and speak? Even more, we can think about thought itself and speak about words...

So when you write your blog, remember: the literary rubbish probably floats to the top, so just wait a minute and bash your head against the desk to knock some of it out. Then listen to your heart. That's where the truest words are kept.

This is my introductory post, so I shall be less self-conscious next time. Don't worry, my capacity to appal through words will be unimpaired. But I can say that other posts will definitely be shorter! Most of all, I will do my best to heed my own advice. Anything else would be...NO PUN AT ALL! Hooray!!!