Clarke's Third Law

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic ~ Arthur C. Clarke

When I was a little girl, I used to explore my grandparent's basement.

It was a treasure trove to a child with an overactive imagination, and everything in it was ripe for discovery. My grandfather's workbench was a high tech mystery. Mechanical odds and ends warring with pieces of old radios and televisions, surrounded by tools that I knew none of their purposes. There were black and white family photos filling an entire antique suitcase. The frames whispered of undiscovered family stories, the players mere shadows in sepia tones. Odd geometric paintings my mother painted in high school that I used to puzzle over, trying to decipher the meaning. And then there was, to me, the pinnacle of the collection: my grandfather's National Geographics.

He had been collecting them since the late 60's. Lined up in a bookcase, a chronological archive of the last 30 years of scientific achievement and discovery. I used to browse them, and I remember the day I found the December 1969 issue.

Man Walks on Another World proclaimed the title. I sat there on the basement floor, unaware of the cold tile and the dim light, and poured over the old magazine. Interspersed between retro ads, I read the details of the first lunar landing, written when they were still fresh, exciting, and new. I marveled at the photos of the astronauts, the lander, the things they collected. I carefully read the transcript of the entire mission, the words that first traveled back from the surface of the moon.

And in the back of the issue, still untouched almost 30 years later, was an old 45. I found a record player, and listened to the bumps and beeps that emitted from the small record. Eyes closed and mouth open, huge retro earphones encasing my small head, I listened in awed silence to the recordings picked up from the first lunar landing. I was sitting down in a cramped basement, but surrounded by the the infinite sounds of space.

From very early on, I have been fascinated with the idea of space and space travel. Influenced, no doubt, by a father with a penchant for science fiction, I dreamed of space exploration. I was enamored by the idea of it; living and working in space, seeking out dangerous and unknown locations, exploring the very limits of what we already know. An adolescent fascination that grew into a mature love of the same subject matter.

I believe its my wanderlust that had fuelled my continued interest in space and planets. Or perhaps it was my childish fascination with the infinite of space that grew into a love for travel. But whatever the case, interest in space is, I believe, a natural consequence of a desire to travel.

Compared to even a mere 300 years ago, our world is small and constantly shrinking. The result of civilization and advanced technology. Categorization of the world means the limiting of uncharted territories and unexplored plains.

But in space travel, we can rediscover that excitement. When we do finally make our way into space (and I have no illusions of it being anytime soon) it will be as explorers. Like men who boarded billowing ships to sail to distant parts unknown 400 years ago. But we will replace the endless sea with the vaccuum of space.

Perhaps this is the child in me speaking again. An idealistic viewpoint at best. We are hardly anywhere near the technology for light speed travel, a necesity for realistic space travel, and our nearest star systems are light years away. Internal stability would also be necessary for organized space exploration, and there are too many problems on our own planet to worry about looking to others.

But perhaps that's the very reason why we should. With most news devoted to the usual round of economic troubles, political dissonance, and impending disasters, there was a story that flew under the radar a few weeks ago that brought out that little girl again. The one who used to watch Star Trek on her father's knee, and hide away in her grandparent's basement listening to recordings of space.

A mere twenty light years away, astrophysicists have discovered the first habitable planet outside our solar system.

Orbiting a nearby red dwarf star called Gliese 581, researchers at the University of California, Santa Cruz and the Carnegie Institute of Washington have discovered the planet Gliese 581g, nicknamed Zarmina. A rocky planet about 4 to 5 times the size of earth, it orbits within the "habitable zone" around the star. In other words, a place where there is liquid water, temperatures friendly to life, and enough gravity to hold onto an atmosphere.

Not that life there is identical to Earth. Gliese 581g is tidally locked with its star. This means that, not unlike our moon, during its 37 day orbit one side of the planet would always face the sun, while the other side would be locked in darkness. Neither is ideal, but there would be a terminator zone; an area of eternal twilight where night and day meet.

There, bathed in the reddish gold of dusk, would be the ideal conditions for life to thrive. Atmosphere enough to keep water liquid, gravity not too heavy, and a temperature we would neither freeze nor boil in.

But the ifs, whats, and hows pales in comparison to the significance of such a discovery. Definitive proof that planets that can support life, at least as we define it, exist elsewhere in the galaxy. And since there is one practically in our intergalactic backyard, it must mean that such a thing is fairly common.

And that is the seed of excitement, the core of the inspiration such an idea can produce. Since then, I have seen an outpouring from people about this new planet. An article in which a physicist proposed developing a type of engine that could get us there in about 6 years. People imagining colonies and human life aboard this planet. Every day people postulating and dreaming once again of space, and our future as an infinitesimal part of the awe-inspiring whole.

I am part of a time, and a generation, that looks to the next hour instead of the future. We live in the day to day. We save, selfishly worrying only about our own immediate future and comfort, and not what can lay beyond. Concerned only about the self, we are blinded to what we can achieve as a whole.

And something about that is a colossal shame. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be a child in 1969, and feel like all of space and time was out there before me. To steal from an eminent writer, that is such stuff as dreams are made on.

Steve Vogt, the UC Santa Cruz astrophysicist who discovered the planet, gave an interview to the website io9. In it, he talked of the amazing odds against a planet like Gliese 581g even existing. I believe it also sums up why it is so awe-inpsiring:

It's hard to make this obvious in a soundbite but the universe is a vast place and most of it is totally unavailable for life as we know it. There are two things in the universe you can't get around: Temperature and gravity. So if you are in interstellar space you're at 2.7 degrees kelvin. Your atoms are hardly vibrating and you're not going to be alive. Life as we know it can't survive. So you have to be near a star. That's good, but stars have gravity and you can fall into them. Your only hope is to be near a star but not falling into it – you need an orbit. And that's magical.

And that is magical. Not only in its very existence, but also in what it can inspire in a generation that no longer thinks of space.

Hopefully it's enough for us to once again look to the stars, and dream of a future out there amongst them.

Steve Vogt's Interview with io9

No Dawn, No Day, I'm Always in this Twilight

Despite the many asides into the inner working of my mind and frequent boring intellectual pursuits, this blog is from time to time a travelogue. And I fear it's been far too long since I have done any travelogue-ing.

But I recently spent two weeks back in America. And as great as it was to be on home soil, visit friends and family, and subsequently gain ten pounds from all the eating I did, I made a short stop on my way there I feel the need to mention.

I spent a quick day and a half in Taipei. From my short time there, I come to realize most people visit Taiwan for the beautiful natural attractions. But despite being stuck in the city, I actually loved the Republic of China's capital.

Taipei is the type of Asian city I love. The ones that are strewn throughout Southeast Asia, vibrant with color, palm leaves, and buildings just a touch run-down. There is an unpinned feeling in the very air of these places. A dirty, gritty quality just below the surface that makes the place seem more bustling with life than most.
Japan is bustling, no doubt, but it's a sterile bustling. High-tech, modern, shallow - nothing is allowed to age. Places are constantly torn down to make way for boxy, utilitarian buildings. Barring the traditional areas set aside for such things, the cities of Japan are clean, sleek, modern, and boring.
But Taipei is old, and far from perfect. Retro buildings with art-deco arches that were new 50 years ago, but since then have gone to seed. Now they are worn, but full of character. Walking along the streets in the twilight, I found myself drawn to the street vendors, the scent of their food strong and the smoke from their carts thick enough to be atmospheric. I couldn't help peeking down and along each dirty backstreet alley. My eyes raised towards older buildings in violent teal and salmon pinks, overgrown with both plants and laundry. The signs of constant life, forever moving along, but leaving a marked trail in its wake.
And that, to me, is what makes places like Taipei special. Nothing matches, but everything fits together. Each and every street, building, neon sign sits for years, gaining both cracks and personality. The small dents and bits of rust that proves a city is truly alive.

I was by myself, but never felt alone. The city itself was my company.

English is Bizarre, Part II

Welcome back. You'll be hearing enough from me in a second, so let's get started, shall we?

Where we left off last time: Britain was being invaded (again), the Celts were being persecuted (again), the Vikings were causing trouble (again), and a whole lot of linguistic gymnastics occurred.

Part 2: Normandy Comes to Call

in which William earns his Moniker, or why we still hate the French

Oh, the Normans. Their influence on what England is today is unquestionable, and frankly, astounding. Music, architecture, law, property rights, military practices: name a discipline, and you'll find the Norman hand in it. They even brought us the Plantagenets, probably my favorite screwed up royal dynasty. (A category with stiff competition, for sure. But thanks to Eleanor, John, two Richards, and all three Edwards, their history reads like a particularly frothy soap opera.)

Or a 1968 Academy Award winning Film

But with all these advancements beginning in the 11th century, one of their greatest contributions was the radical change in the English language.

William the Conqueror, as his name implies, conquered England in 1066, a feat which has not been achieved since. Of course the Spanish and French have tried multiple times, as did the Germans, but William's campaign was the last successful one. Not bad for a man whose title before conquering a country was William the Bastard.

I like to think it's because he's such a dashing rouge and not because of illegitimacy.

That in itself is amazing, as is the fact that William united all of England under a single ruler and dynasty whose decedents still rule today. No one had done that prior to that point in time. We went from the Romans and the Celts squabbling in the 2nd and 3rd century, to the heptarchy of the 8th and 9th, rounding out with the Anglo-Saxons and Danes fighting a tug-of-war over the crown of England in the 10th.

But sailing across from the ducal of Normandy with a tenuous claim as Edward the Confessor's heir, the Norman-French William conquered both the warring factions of the Anglo-Saxons and the Danes. Laying a massive slap down at the Battle of Hastings and killing Harold II, he took the crown and united the country by force into a single kingdom. Scandinavian influence was banished from English politics indefinitely. Thus, England as we know it was born.

Harold, after he met William. He's the one with all the arrows in his head.

We also saw the biggest evolution of English since the advent of the language. For after the Norman Conquest, Old English developed into Middle English.

A simple statement, but take a moment to think of what that really means. The whole language evolved into something completely different. It was not something so simple as archaic words versus modern ones. Like reading a Regency Novel today and needing a dictionary at your side to find out what entailment means.

No, English became a whole new language. A large portion of the vocabulary, spelling, and usage completely altered.

And how could it not?

England now had a French speaking monarchy, aristocracy, and clerical hierarchy. One of the first orders of business was to remove all those who were English-born from every peerage and position of power. No one who ruled spoke English as their native tongue, and business was conducted in French. So of course English would adapt significantly along with the ruling class.

In 1080, this dictionary would not have been necessary.

Borrowing heavily from Norman-French vocabulary and spelling, the people of Britain anglicized numerous French words. English kept the same syntax of a Germanic language, but the vocabulary, the heart and soul of language, altered. In essence, the whole landscape of the language changed, based upon the class differences between those who spoke Old English and those who spoke Norman French.

I think this point is best illustrated with a simple example: our words for meats. If you speak English, you know we have different words for the animal when it's alive, and when it is served to us. A pig is served as pork, chicken as poultry, cow as beef, and sheep as mutton. We know this, but have never bothered to question why. In fact, we take for granted that very few other languages do this. This anomaly comes directly from Norman England.

The people slaughtering the animals, the farmhands and cooks handling the meat, called it by the old English names. Swīn (swine), cū (cow), cīcen (chicken), scǣp (sheep), etc. But when it arrived on the table of the French speaking hierarchy, no doubt lovingly prepared, they called it by the old French words: porc, boef, pouletrie, moton. They never saw it as an animal, but only as meat on their plates.

Thus, the Modern English words for animals are derived from Germanic roots, and the culinary term for the meat itself derives from Middle French.

Which is absolutely rocking.

Meat: both delicious and informative.

But English words do not have a basis merely in Germanic languages and French. Anyone can tell you that many words have a large basis in Latin. The various flourishes and embroideries on the section of our textile that is Middle English. Many words with Latin roots entered our lexicon during this time.

Why? The influence lies, as with most things in the Middle Ages, with the church.

Not exactly a time of widespread learning in Europe, the monks who did keep up scholarly practices did so in Latin, the lingua franca of the time. Since this was the case, when monks in England wrote in their own vernacular, what did they do when they did not have an English word for the term they were trying to describe? They fell back on the only other language they were used to writing in: Latin. That is why so many new words from that time were derived from Latin.

"We shall call this insect centipede, because hundred feet is simply ridiculous."

Therefore Latin, and to a certain extent Greek, became connected with education and learning. This connection never faded, and intellectual elitism continued the practice well past the middle ages. In fact, it is why it still continues today. It is the reason so many English words, especially those that are technical or scientific, are constructed based on Latin and Greek roots. And why biology class can be like a Latin lesson at times.

So there we were in the Late Middle Ages, writing in Latin and mixing in French. But as this time in history drew to a close, we saw the last great section added to our project.

In 1450, Modern English began.

Next time: Shakespeare, Gutenberg, Johnson, and a whole slew of people you might remember from history class.

English is Bizarre, Part I

It all started with beamish.

Not the concept of beamish, though a lovely notion. That whispers of bright things and blazing smiles. No, not the idea, but the word itself.

I think beamish is a beautiful, if not somewhat dated, word. I can't imagine using it in everyday speech and not sound like a transplanted Romantic poet, or at the very least an over-zealous drama student.

But I have always held a secret love for words. I use trifecta and quandary in casual conversation. Ever since I began writing poems in the third grade, the thesaurus has been a constant source of both information and delight.

(For those wondering, my first ever poem was called The Black Cat, about a mysterious cat at a Halloween party. It was about four stanzas long, had a simple ABAB rhyme scheme, and Mrs. Hempstead let me read it aloud to the class.)

And since that time of elementary school poetry, every word I come across seems like a new discovery. Old words, standard words, obscure antonyms and ones just entering the lexicon. Each and every one unique in the tapestry that is the English language.

To me, there is a certain beauty in the numerous variations and choices language affords. Despite the simplicity of a concept, there may be an abundant array of words to express it. From formal speech to casual slang to archaic expressions, the one you choose invariably colors the meaning.

The words used to put a name to an idea as varied and colorful as peacock feathers.

I love the way language rolls off the tongue; the harsh stops or gentle rumblings of dialect. Whether I understand it or not, I love the music of speech, as well as the life to it.

For language is alive, as much as anything else can be. Constantly changing, constantly evolving, adapting to the time and place in which it lives.

And the pieces that make up the whole are the words, original meaning and origin obscured by the commonality of use. Each one a small mystery, one whose secrets we whisper to each other every day.

Linguistics is, in my opinion, a fascinating discipline. It is a science that is also somewhat of an art, for a certain creativity is necessary to study it. A particular understanding of humanity, for it is a science of both sounds and people. And ever since I began teaching English, the observations of outsides had made me examine the words of my mother tongue in ways I never had before. But nowadays, I find myself explaining the latin roots of centipede, and that the anglicization of French words is why foyer is not pronounced the way it is spelled.

For history, and its people, shape language. No matter the science, the categorization, there will always be something deeply human about it. Even if you've never studied syntax or phonology, when a nonsense word is said, we just inherently know that it is wrong.

Which brings me back to beamish.

Beamish entered into the lexicon of Modern English in the late 19th century. It originated in the poem Jabberwocky, written by Lewis Carroll. Although a nonsense word, it has since entered into everyday use. Categorized as an adjective, it means beaming with happiness, optimism, or anticipation.

I find it interesting that nonsense words, if they sound phonetically correct, can enter into the language. But what I find even more fascinating is the misconception that Carroll invented the word. He didn't.

In fact, he was three hundred years too late.

Upon further research, it seems that beamish was actually already a word, originating from the 15th century. Perhaps Carroll made it as a portmanteau, as with many other words from the poem, but he did not indeed coin it. Even though, in my opinion, he believed he had.

So in simple terms, that means a man in the late 19th century re-introduced the exact same word that had already been in existence, but gone out of use, three centuries later.

Frankly, that is mind-boggling.

So the niggling of interest took hold of me. I was intrigued by English, with its abundance of words, and more exceptions than actual rules. And what did this interest become? Research, of course!

I claim no authority on the matter. I'm just a girl with an internet connection and an insatiable thirst for useless knowledge. But I take this time to warn you, reader, turn away now if you don't want to hear my love letter to the English language.

For English has as varied a history as its people. And in the same vein, it adopts, conquers, and adapts just as much as the people who have carried it across the world.

So without further adieu, I bring you a post in three parts, entitled:

A Very Abridged and (Most Likely) Biased History of the English Language

A Poor Man's Treatise on the Mother Tongue

(A few things before we begin: I may introduce a few boring linguistic terms that probably sound like alien species or medieval religious texts. But do not fear, they are actual words used in the study of language. I will provide a glossary at the conclusion. Also, since I am a student of history, I will of course connect everything back to the social changes of the time. And probably lovingly so, with a few historical in-jokes along the way. That's just how I roll.)

Prologue: Just like the Bayeux, but I'm No Nun

in which I introduce a solid metaphor, or way too much purple prose

It's easiest, I believe, to think of the English language as a long tapestry. A brightly colored cloth miles long, spread out across a long space. The kind that is faded with age and painstakingly embroidered by hand. The cloth begins varied, and roughly, as all projects do, before taking a general shape. As time passes, different people come along. Each and every one adds another layer to the fabric, stitching their influence with delicate thread work. A new square of cloth is therefore laid down every few years, borrowing from the patches that came before it, but making an undeniably richer design.

So as the years roll along, English stretches and shapes from one century to the next. Long and winding, but ultimately connected. An unbroken experiment in people and linguistics, whose roots and branches we can see as we walk along it.

But every tapestry, no matter how impressive, must start with a single thread. And our tapestry of English is no exception.

Part I: Teutonic Musical Chairs

in which Scandinavia gets restless, and the only real losers are the Celts

Imagine, if you will, a tiny green island in the North Sea. It is a fertile land, with lots of resources and waterways. The weather can be miserable, unless you particularly love rain, but there are much worse places in the North Sea to be. So although a very small place, it is highly sought after. And now, at this point in time, open for the taking.

It is the 5th century, and the Eastern Roman Empire is collapsed. Roman settlements are no longer around, and though a Celtic people still live on the island, they are scattered and divided. The island is practically defenseless against an organized invasion.

These conditions of opportunity of expansion, something that in hindsight seems entirely appropriate, brought about the advent of the English people and language.

English is a borrowing language. One of great flexibility, and over the last 1500 years it has truly cornered the market on sharing and copying vocabulary. The entire history of the language is littered with diversity. And no where is this more evident than in its very roots.

There is not one, but several dialects we now group together and term Old English. They were brought over in the 5th century by the Anglo-Saxons who settled on that green island, in what is now England and Southern Scotland. Though we term them Anglo-Saxons, these settlers actually came from three different Germanic tribes: the Angles and Saxons from where modern day Germany is, and the Jutes from the Jutland Peninsula in modern Denmark.

These lovable Teutons formed powerful kingdoms in post-Roman Britain. An Anglo-Saxon Heptarchy, which is just as impressive as it sounds, four of which originated the distinct dialects of Old English.

First, there were the Anglian dialects of Mercian and Northumbrian. Then there was Kentish, derived from the Jutes. And lastly, and arguably the most important, was the Saxon dialect of West Saxon.

Why was West Saxon so important? Because it was the dialect of the Kingdom of Wessex, and Alfred the Great.

Alfred was one of the most important figures in Anglo-Saxon Britain, and definitely the only one who got the moniker of "the Great." He's also probably the only personage most people can name from that period of history, if one was so inclined to go around naming Anglo-Saxons. Unless, of course, they have a secret love for the monk Bede, or find Ethelred the Unready's name as hilarious as I do.

One has to wonder what he did to be forever branded as ill-prepared.

But with the influence of Alfred's reign, Late West Saxon came to dominate all of Britain by the end of the 9th century. It is also the language in which Beowulf, the oldest surviving text in English, was written.

Oldest surviving text...and the bane of my Junior year English class.

But the 9th century was not a peaceful time in Anglo-Saxon Britain. Alfred is known as a powerful king because he united the Anglo-Saxons in Southwest Britain. Not just for kicks, but out of necessity. He needed an army to combat the ever increasing Viking Invaders.

But invade they did, and the English language was forever changed by it.

At that time in history, Vikings were doing what they do best: invading the hell out of Northern Europe. Sure, they also traded, explored, and farmed, but that does not get the attention that their pillaging does. And starting in the 9th century, they turned their inaccurately-depicted horned helmets towards the burgeoning kingdoms of Britain.

Besides pillaging, Vikings also enjoyed industrious activities like animal husbandry.

With invasions by men with names like Cnut and Sweyn, the end result was Danelaw, a term used to describe the area in Northern and Eastern England where the Danes established Kingdoms.

But in the 9th century, being that both were Germanic languages, there was a mutual intelligibility between Old English and Old Norse. Meaning that the two languages were similar enough to be understood by each other. With such an easy understanding between two groups of people now sharing the same tiny island, both languages eventually changed. Therefore, Old Norse influenced many words in English that still survive today.

For example, the word law itself is an Old Norse word. As in, the word that is a basis for most of society. And remnants of the old relationship between Old Norse and Old English is evident in both Modern Danish and Modern English. In particular, both modern languages have the exact same words for sky and window, as well as the pronouns they, them, and their. (Which limits the sentences I can make in Danish, but a fun fact nonetheless.)

Danish: intelligible enough to be absolutely useless

So on the island of Briton, now like a siren song for conquering countries, Old English developed into a heavily influenced and constantly changing language. Malleable, but with a solid syntax and vocabulary.

And then the eleventh century came, bringing with it the biggest and most colorful addition to our tapestry yet. The Normans.

Next time: 1066, and all that.

Redesign

Trying out a new look for the blog. I do love the Whistler, but the colors started to seem a little harsh. I'm still tweaking with the banner, but it will stay this way for now. The new painting is by James Tissot, Young Women Looking at Japanese Objects.

Round Two

It's time for another installment of my favorite game, and I hope one of yours.

What the Hell is Happening in this Ad?

I have to credit a friend of mine for sending this to me. On my commute home from work, this popped up on my cell phone with the message : What the f*** is this an ad for?

I have to emphatically agree.

My immediate response was, of course, "take your walrus to school day."

But what the, indeed. One has to question how safe it is to be that close to a large walrus. And in what context this tiny child ended up so near to one. And furthermore, what sordid chain of events led to this situation at all.

I see that the boy and the large-flippered marine mammal are clearly sharing a tender moment. But for some reason, despite his beaming smile, I personally can't get over the massive head and tusks that are, alone, four times that child's entire body mass.

I think this ad is supposed to evoke positive emotions, but mine are, as usual, ones of general confusion. I would like to think it's an ad for an aquarium or zoo of some kind, but that is probably just wishful thinking. It's most likely for laundry detergent.

But more importantly, can anyone read the blurry kana? And yes or no, what do you think this ad is about?

In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, Hurricanes Hardly Happen

There are certain days where my life feels like this scene in My Fair Lady. Or more precisely, the part preceding it, which leads to Higgins slumped over his desk and Colonel Pickering with a newspaper over his head.

I find myself doing ridiculous things while teaching English pronunciation, like over exaggerated facial and mouth movements, or clanging and tapping along in a rhythm. My students giggle as I show them where to place their tongue when saying "really", or while trying to impress on them how exactly to pronounce comfortable naturally. (It turns into com-for-ta-ble, each syllable highly pronounced. And I think the Japanese r/l pronunciation already has an infamy all its own.)

But despite how tough I am on correcting pronunciation, the root of the problem is really English itself.

Today, I was teaching one of my private lessons. It's a 12 year old girl, and bless her, does she try hard. The material is quite difficult at times, and she clearly tries as much as she can to understand. And while she generally gets the concept, her pronunciation of the words is very poor. I am probably the first English teacher she's had who actually speaks English as their first language, so I am not entirely surprised by this.

But because of that fact, I do a bit of phonics and pronunciation practice with her every week. Supplemental stuff; I go through the bevy of phonics sheets my school has just lying around, and grab one to use each time we meet.

This week, I came upon one that, at first, seemed all right. A writing practice, with each corresponding letter of the alphabet paired with a word to go along with it. It started with apple and bat, and went on to monkey and rabbit. Everything seemed kosher, and then I hit the last page, where I came upon y. And what word did they give this poor girl?

Yacht.

I mean, come on. What about yellow or yard. Something that is phonetically possible for a child learning English to sound out? No, we go for yacht, which is derived from a 16th century Dutch word and is pronounced not at all the way it's spelled.

She glanced up at me with a terrified look when she came upon it. As if learning English one on one with me wasn't scary enough. So I sighed, took the newspaper off my head, and pronounced yacht for her.

Each day I spend here, I am more glad I was born an English speaker. Not only is it the modern lingua franca, but I see how hard people work to learn it. For many people, advancement in the world is entirely dependent on a language that breaks the rules as much as it adheres to them.

But that's because English is a mongrel language, with roots and words derived from numerous different sources. As English speakers were conquered, and then subsequently went on to conquer, the language became a hodge-podge of dialects, vocabulary, and syntax.

Which is actual fantastic and amazing, but a bitch to learn. I give massive credit to my students who work so hard at learning my language, and especially for the few who truly succeed at it.

And their hard work, as well as extremely insightful questions, has actually spawned a pet project of mine. The last month I have been researching not only the history of the English language, but where each and every inconsistency in grammar or pronunciation comes from. It is half done out of pure intellectual curiosity, and half out of necessity, because there have been times I have no good answer for perfectly logical questions about my mother tongue.

(My research has been compiled into an ever increasing in length document that may make its appearance here soon. Avoid it if you are not as excited by linguistics as I am).

But I never would have given English a second thought if it weren't for the fantastically perceptive questions made by people still learning it. Things we have come to accept as part of the tapestry of language, but in fact makes little sense in the context of the language as a whole.

And pronunciation is just one of those things. And while it is interesting to study, I feel for the people trying to learn it. The adults who come across chalet with a quirk of confusion, or the little girl terrified of yacht.

So I continue to do my silly mouth exercises, and try to explain the Anglicization of French words. All the while I just want to heave over my desk and throw that newspaper over my head in frustration.

Too bad my lessons don't also end in a jaunty song and dance number.

(And if you don't feel as bad for people learning English as I do, I challenge you to see how well your own pronunciation fares. It's a poem called The Chaos written in 1922 by Gerard Nolst Trenite. It must be read aloud, and points out the inconsistencies in spelling and pronunciation in English. I did ok, but had to read it quite slowly. See how you do.)

Reason 5,431 to Love Japan

Last week, I gave into one of my sporadic tendencies to be a hermit and decided to spend the night in. My days off the last few weeks, though fun and fantastic, have been been entirely too busy for the secret recluse hiding inside me. The perfect remedy, in my mind, was a Saturday night to myself.

It was a warm night, as it has been getting progressively warmer, and my balcony door was open to let the breeze in. (I refuse, even as of this moment, to use my air conditioner yet. It's a stubborn exercise in self-denial, but I know that once it goes on, I won't ever turn it off. And my electricity bill will end up suffering, because this country doesn't believe in insulation.) I was lying on my bed beside the open balcony, and despite the bad TV I was watching, I still managed to hear it. The sound of drums and flutes, of chanting and traditional music.

Intrigued, I clicked off the computer and went out onto my balcony. And what was I greeted by, but this:

A full-blown traditional procession right below my apartment.

If you can tolerate my impromptu, shaky camerawork, you notice that float strung high with lanterns. Inside the float there were seated mechanical shamisen players whose heads clicked back and forth like figurines on an antique cuckoo clock. Adult men in happi coats guided the float, and when it reached the end of the block, grunted and shifted the entire structure one hundred and eighty degrees. Men, women, children in yukata then pulled the entire construction down my street with giant ropes as the music from the float spurred them on.

On a normal day, my street is nothing exceptional to look at. A bicycle repair shop and takoyaki stand line along the street with an Italian restaurant, various cafes, and the side entrance of a university. It's downright unremarkable. But as I stood on my balcony for twenty minutes, watching the harmonic procession, I finally found something beautiful in it as I was wrapped up in the ceremony of it all.

And it's moments like that when I truly love living in Japan. When I take a night in, and happen to witness a surprise Summer festival. The loveliness of custom floating by the bright lights of convenience stores and restaurants.

Though of course Summer festival means, of course, Summer, and we are about two days into rainy season and I already hate it. The air feels sticky all the time, and the rain is just a constant mist. Despite showering just before I left for work, I came home itching just to wash the air off me. I'm counting the days till the end of June. Which is when we have just humidity without the precipitation accompaniment.

I predict I break down tomorrow and put on my air conditioner. But as for now, I'll sit by my open balcony door over my ordinary street as the misty breeze keeps me somewhat cool.

Starting New Traditions

If there is one phrase I would use to continually describe Japan, and its not "militant traditionalism" or "singing, brightly colored robot" it's bizarre absurdity.

And nothing is more bizarre than the advertisements and signage.

Engrish aside, the ads are the most misleading compositions or psychedelic mashups I've ever come upon. So much so, it's usually hard to tell what they're even advertising. (Yes, I immediately think of men in silver suits and human transmogrification when I say hair gel. It's a natural thought progression.)

Most of the time it leaves me figuratively scratching my head in confusion.

So because I want to inflict my own confusion upon the unfortunate readers of this blog, I'm creating a new series:

What the Hell is Happening in this Ad?

Our first piece today is a prime example. What's going on in this picture?

I have no idea. I can only read the "ka" in that sign, but there is clearly a hell of a backstory here.

I may not have the foggiest, but I will tell you what I love.

-The punk demon vampires that are clearly being easily driven out by the angry villagers (aka kids, a few housewives, and the odd salaryman)

-That said villagers use the power of well-placed signage to vanquish evil forces.

-Despite how "badass" the demons are, they have tattoos of sakura blossoms. (Plus, they're running screaming from children.)

-What's with the fenced in trees?

-The leader of this people's revolution appears to be a ramen chef.

Ignoring the piss-poor quality of my picture, I know what your thinking. Kate, you cold-hearted monster, this is clearly a children's drawing. How dare you poke fun?

To which I counter, I bet you ten dollars a full-grown Japanese adult drew this. It's just how they roll in Nippon.

The real question is, what do you think it is?

In other news, they played WPLJ 95.5 at the school I worked at this week. It was really disconcerting to hear ads for things in the tri-state area in the middle of Nagoya, Japan. It was surreal, like I was back in high school. Driving around in my old white Oldsmobile, flipping through the stations.

If only they played better music.

And Very Gladly Will I Drink Your Honour's Noble Health

I saw Alice in Wonderland this past weekend.

I generally avoid movies in Japan because they tend to be expensive and a bit of a hassle. The standard price is close to twenty dollars per ticket unless you want to see a showing after 8 PM. Which I don't particularly mind, and at times prefer, but the drawback is that there usually only one or two movies playing after 8. So if you don't catch it by 9, you won't be seeing a movie that night.

The land of midnight movies it is not.

And if you do manage to get a showing after 8, though the tickets are cheaper, you have to pick your seat as you buy your ticket. Because of this practice of assigned seats, they don't let people into the movie until 10 minutes before.

But where, you say, is the problem in that? Well, if you want a decent seat not in the very back or the very front, you have to come quite a bit early to reserve said seat. But since you can't go into the theater, that leaves you way too much time with nowhere to sit. Hence the problem.

And watching movies in English with Japanese subtitles is a very odd experience. It's true that things are lost in translation, and humor is probably one of the biggest causalities.

I went to see Sherlock Holmes a few months ago. Not the best of films, but enjoyable and funny in a pulpy sort of way. Yet it was unnerving at times to watch in a theater full of non-English speakers, for there were parts that had my friends and I laughing like maniacs as the rest of the theater remained silent. As in, did not even crack a smile.

It's weird to be the only one in the room who understands the humor. It makes you question if maybe your the one who misunderstood.

I remember going to the theater in Italy a few years ago and laughing at the inefficiencies of the the Italian theater. The Japanese system is nothing if not efficient. As well as annoying. And overpriced. And unnecessarily complicated.

So needless to say, with this lovely combination of factors, I reserve movie viewing for movies I deem worthy of both my time and effort. I believe I have seen exactly 4 movies since I arrived in Japan a year and three months ago. A pitiful number, to be honest.

But despite all this working against her, Alice made the cut. And how could it not? Despite a few poor films in the last few years (Planet of the Apes and Sweeny Todd, I'm looking at you), a still inextinguishable love for Tim Burton will take me out to see his films every time. He's like the weird kid who sat in the back of the class and wouldn't talk to anyone but drew cool cartoons on his desk and in every corner of his notebook that were dark and twisted but in a whimsical way. How can you not like that kid?

That, and my utter love for the source material, got me there. I've already dedicated a post to Lewis Carroll, and I have an unhealthy fascination with his nonsense poetry. Nonsense verse is beautiful, as we all know semantics is highly overrated. And the poems littered throughout the narrative are what make it truly special.

So did I fall in love with it? No, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I thought it was visually stunning, and true to the nature and tone of the the story. There were cute homages to the original work, things only someone as geeky as me might have picked up, which I appreciated. I would have liked a more gripping plot, but at the same time something about that seems dishonest to the nonsense and tepid philosophy which the original is all about.

And if you want to put Alice in armor and have her fight the Jabberwocky? Believe me, you will get no complaints from me.

If nothing else, it renewed my interest in how much the story has become such a part of our cultural identity. Few are not familiar with the characters, and many phrases, words, and even theories are drawn from the story. Not bad for a children's book.

For example, sticking solely to cinematic adaptions, Alice in Wonderland has been adapted directly to film 44 times, while about 50 other titles either refashion or draw inspiration from the tale. They span the entire history of film, with the first one being a silent film from 1903 directed by Cecil Hepworth and Percy Stow. It is 8 minutes and 19 seconds in length, and only one copy of the original still exists.

Alice in film has been around almost as long as film has.

I'm not so much a purist that I dislike anything that deviates, but there are times I want to see Carroll done truly right. So to fulfill that need, I didn't need to look any further than this clip from a 1998 BBC production. It was a weird and trippy version that I didn't completely love, but one of the highlights of the film is a weird sequence in which the poem Haddock's Eyes is related by the White Knight to Alice.

If not just a how-to guide from Ian Holm on how to do a dramatic reading correctly, it is presented with the melancholy dreaminess and touch of deeper meaning with which I think every Lewis Carroll poem should be enjoyed.

Kate Bobs Her Hair

And other tales of new beginnings and misguided self discovery.

Poor blog, left sad and alone to rot, nearly forgotten, on this poor corner of the internet. How I have missed you.

But in Japan, Spring is slowly turning into Summer and nothing is sad and forgotten. Today was the latest in a string of beautiful days and I couldn't be happier. I feel as if now, I am finally getting settled into a routine for the new year.

For most of the world, the new year is in January. The year turns ahead and we begin again. As if the changing of the calendar signifies the start of something new beyond just the date. It's that way most of our lives.

Or, in a different mindset, when we are younger, we say September is the beginning of the new year. Summer is dying, the world is cooling off, and we mourn the passing of the fine weather and the certain freedom that inherently comes with summer by starting the new year. Death of freedom to the rebirth of routine? It's very poetic.

But as with most things, as I've come to find many times before, Japan does it very differently. The new year in school, work, and most people's mind, is in April. As Spring first blossoms and the winter finally leaves us behind, we begin the new year.

There's something extraordinary lovely in the simplicity of that.

I've had people tell me that they have talked of changing the beginning of things, especially that of school, to September. The government wants to give the people of Japan a way to be more in tune with the rest of the world as we become an ever-growing global community. But the discussion never goes beyond talk for one significant and very crucial reason.

Graduation and School Entrance ceremonies must coincide with cherry blossoms.

It sounds silly, but for a brief two weeks Japan is beautiful. Everywhere you look is pink and blossoming. Normal streets become beautiful and natural scenery becomes extraordinary. It is the time of hanami, or picnicking under the numerous sakura blossoms. And for Japan, a land or stout tradition, it seems sacrilegious to have a beginning of the year not decorated lovingly and pristinely by mother nature.

Which I can understand, because my second cherry blossom season lost none of the charm of my first. There is a certain calming presence that comes from watching the pink petals fall. It's amazingly peaceful, and despite the reveling around you, can be very zen at the best of times.

Which was very important as I started my second year with my company. It was, as I said, the beginning of the school year and my company was no different. I learned a new schedule, a new set of school and classes, and got a whole new batch of students. In truth, I have a fantastic second year schedule with a great bunch of kids and adults. All of my kids are (so-far) well-behaved and my company class is a dream. I teach business-level english to three very successful and intelligent men I am most likely not qualified to teach. But I still feel very privileged to do so.

But easy as most of the change was, there were still the quirks of commuting and trains to figure out. And while I just now have it down, I am beginning to miss my old schedule. Which seems silly, for I don't miss the schools, just the commutes I took. I loved my Friday afternoon train rides out past Gifu, going past mountains and rice fields on a nearly empty three o' clock train. I liked my long Thursdays of traveling, using several forms of transportation, as I commuted across Aichi and Mie Prefectures to several business to teach.

But most of all, I miss the Meitetsu Line. It is the regional line in Nagoya, less regular, only written in Kanji, and with an insufferably confusing platform system. But I loved it for its imperfections. It was cheaper, easier to access, and the trains were a hell of a lot more fun.

If I can get to work on a train decorated with Pokemon, I call that a win in my book.

I've also been getting to know my city much better as I recently purchased a bike. It surprised me how utterly dependent on subway transportation I had become in the cold winter months, and now with my very Asian two-basket bike, I fly around Nagoya's streets as I get to know her a little better.

So it's a new year, with a new schedule, a new attitude, and a new haircut. About three weeks ago, I decided to completely lob off all my hair. Sick of the increasingly unmanageable tresses that were way past my shoulders, I went in on a Friday afternoon and told them to bob my hair.

The hairdresser looked at me with more than a little apprehension. I guess he thought maybe he had misunderstood; his english is practically nonexistent, and my japanese is very poor when it comes to situations of long description. I kept saying "A short hair cut!" while moving my hands in a wild pantomime of nonverbal instructions. He pulled out a photo book and laughed, a typical response to linguistic confusion. I finally pulled up a photo on my phone, and my varied explanations were understood.

The salon is a local place, only a few blocks from my apartment. I found it unexpectedly as I walked to the small train station just down the street. The place is clean but hip, and the cut is not very expensive. And I know I get the standard treatment. But the standard treatment here is above and beyond most places back home.

For example, a head, back, and shoulder massage are part of the package deal. When they shampoo, you get a head massage during as well as after. They massage your scalp, a scented hot towel on your face (of which you get a choice of scent). They then take you to a special chair where you hang over what looks like a bean bag as they massage your upper body. Shoulders, back, arms and hands.

It's unexpected, but delightful.

And the sink they wash you in is so different from the ones I've experienced back home. There is always a sense of discomfort to the ones in the States. As if my head is pulled back slightly too much, and I'm both choking and trying to hold my head up within her reach. But not here. Japan has an aerodynamical design that completely eradicates the discomfort of hair washing. I don't know how that did it, but we seriously need to import that information home.

And while he cut and styled my hair, I was impressed by the details her recalled from my life. I had been there once before, and yet he remembered where I was from, my job, and even my favorite kinds of movies.

Now that, my friends is service.

So I left with the shortest, but possibly one of the best hair cuts I've ever gotten. It was exactly what I wanted, and I was quite pampered in the process. I am still getting used to how short my hair is, but change is good.

New is good. And as I venture into my second year here, I look forward for what else awaits me around the corner.