Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Transparent Tigers and Towers of Blood

Remember when the substitute teacher would come into class and everyone would switch names?

The substitute would just teach away, completely oblivious to the HILARIOUS trick played on him by all the fifth graders. 

But all that did was prove how nouns can betray you in a way that adjectives never will. 

Nouns are the paper bills that represents the gold bars at Fort Knox. A noun sits back and takes all the glory while the adjectives do all the heavy lifting. 

If I might reference the movie Inception again, the images that were created in the mind of the dreamer were without substance and were the manifestation of the brain's description or projection of what that object was. 

One of the most interesting things about Jorge Luis Borge's "Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius" is the language of the invented world. They spoke without nouns in order to solidify the fact that they were a world based on an idea rather than on material. 

What is our engagement of this world without language?
It may or may not be true that Hellen Keller's memory only stretched as far back as to the point that she learned language. But it does seem that our collective memory as humans (which we would call recorded history) only goes back to when writing was invented.  The point being is that language and memory (or the mind) are connected. A word has no correlation anywhere in nature, except the human brain. Nouns serve their purpose, yes. But they are standing on the shoulders of giants.

If you want to understand what it's like to live in a world without nouns, I have translated my first blog entry on Emily Dickinson into one without them for your consideration:

Writes-that-you-are-reading just found out that Wrote-against-the-times had shakes-from-within a more-than-theoretical that left her imprisoned in her squared-above-below-and-around to singlehandedly invent modern sings-off-the-rustles. This was a mixed gracious-willing. The surges-through-darkness to this was, of course, shakes-from-within. But the imagine-through-lightly was that the resulting sparks-in-grey-gathered-in-unison gave Wrote-against-the-times the right kind of creative cradles-all-diversity to fully plumb the depths of her lifts, pulls, thinks, and makes. Wrote-against-the-times was free to write whatever Wrote-against-the-times liked at her own tastes-as-sweet, answering to cold-and-empty. Imagine if Wrote-against-the times had an slices, slashes, burns, and yells constantly looking over her connected-angular-fleshy to tweak and revise her proudly and manifested.  Do you think Wrote-against-the times ever would have came up with:

The Frightening Inevitably's Sparks-and-Surged Softly-grips-the-furthest 
    That very sliver-of-waking passed-
    On a strange coagulated socializing of panting growing wooden
    And Upright dividing fled away?

The returned-on-purpose to that stabbing-through-darkness is no. Slices, slashes, burns, and yells don't understand sings-off-the-rustles that doesn't rhyme or make sense on a carried-and-glanced. In fact, her first posthumous bounded and considered had a lot of her sings-off-the-rustles re-written to make "sense."

Anyway, all Writes-that-you-are-reading is saying is that Writes-that-you-are-reading thinks Writes-that-you-are-reading is far too healthy to make up my own pushed-together-for-clarity of anything and far too social to turn off the inner and outer decrees-as-ascends. Writes-that-you-are-reading thinks Writes-that-you-are-reading may have a form of 
Beyond-Second-Guessing only with my frontal special-and grey as the resented perfectly normal segmented-and-fleshy.

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