What's in a Word?

December 9, 2013

Did you know that when someone asks me to tell them what a word means or give a definition, I always give it in terms of synonyms rather than an actual description? It's funny the way the mind works sometimes. I suppose that means that my thoughts are based more in relations between objects and ideas rather than in individual components or descriptions of the subject. 

In some ways, I suppose this is beneficial. In others, I think it can be slightly misleading. I guess it's just one of the ways that I am reminded that "knowing" is a nebulous and intangible concept that is continually morphing and recreating itself. 

This entire line of thought came about when I was trying to identify my mood this evening. For me, it's simply not good enough to say, "I'm tired," or "I'm unhappy," or "I'm depressed," or (conversely) "I'm happy." There is too much ambiguity in those kinds of words. Not enough specificity. If I say I'm sad, I immediately think, What kind of sad? To what degree? In what stage? From what source? So, with only myself, my vocabulary, and my relational tendencies, I decided that I felt "maudlin." 

Then of course came that nagging little suspicion in the back of my mind. Does that actually mean what I think it means? In my mind, "maudlin" sounded like it perfectly fit my mood. The roundness of the sound, the heavy weight it carried on my tongue, the dark tone it inspired, it made me think to myself, Yes, I feel quite maudlin at the moment. Yes indeed.

But still, the nagging doubt, so I took advantage of the wonder of knowledge and technology and looked up the exact definition of "maudlin." From the online Merriam-Webster Dictionary, an Encyclopedia Britannica Company, the definition is:

maudlin- showing or expressing too much emotion especially in a foolish or annoying way; drunk enough to be emotionally silly; weakly and effusively sentimental

This was definitively not what I had in mind when I was thinking of the word "maudlin." The emotional and sentimental component? Yes. The foolish and/or annoying component? Not so much. So I searched for other words that would more precisely encompass the tragic, profoundly upsetting sadness that I was feeling. This is what I found.

somber- very sad and serious;  having a dull or dark color; so shaded as to be dark and gloomy; of a serious mien; of a dismal or depressing character; conveying gloomy suggestions or ideas

saturnine- very serious and unhappy; cold and steady in mood; of a gloomy or surly disposition

And I was dissatisfied with both of these choices. They are perfectly respectable words that fit what I was trying to describe much better than my previous choice. And yet. And yet. 

And yet I was still stuck on "maudlin." Perhaps because the sound reminded me of similar, dark-sounding, tragic words, such as "macabre" and "morbid." Maybe I'm just having a small affair with the letter "m" this evening. Because there was some small part of me that didn't want to accept Merriam-Webster's definition tonight. For me, "maudlin" no longer carried its foolish and trivial connotation that was spelled out in that definition. Tonight, its very intonation carried with it a great and heavy sadness, the kind that makes you question the truths of your life and the beliefs you hold dear. The kind of real emotion that simultaneously makes you want to charge out into the world and protect all the innocence and at the same time shy away from its daunting presence which hovers over you like some great and terrible cloud. 

What's in a word, dear audience? Does it truly matter whether or not the emotion that I relate to this word is the same as what was defined by some British linguist probably hundreds of years ago? Is that any more the true definition than what I had previously held as the true definition in my own mind? 

I was reading one of my new books that I recently bought on sale over Thanksgiving, called The Thirteenth Tale. In it, one of the main characters received a letter from an author who was infamous for never giving a true accounting of her life to biographers. Each time she was asked about her life, she would spin a new tale, until it almost became a rite of passage for any journalist or biographer to go visit her and say, "Tell me about yourself." 

This author (the character, not the author of the book herself), wrote this passage to the main character which stuck with me. She wrote,

"My gripe is not with lovers of the truth, but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightening strikes the shadows on the bedroom wall and the rains taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie." - pg 5, The Thirteenth Tale

At the time, I had a challenging time wrapping my mind around this concept. Typically, I am of the mindset that many times things would turn out better in the end if one simply faced the facts of life and accepted them. This subversiveness (at least in my mind) was not only completely unhelpful to a person, but also actively detrimental to a person's state of being. It followed a similar vein to my very solid belief in personal responsibility. 

But now I have a new lens from which to view this proposed philosophy towards truth and reality and their purposes in our minds and our lives. Because sometimes maybe it doesn't truly matter what the world deems is truth or fiction, what is correct or incorrect. When it is something internal, when you are frozen inside yourself, "a statue in your bed," you don't really give a fig about anything Merriam-Webster or any other authority has to say. What is true for you, in that moment, is as real as any thunder and lightening that damages your property and frightens your children. And perhaps, that says something about this nebulous nature of knowledge and truth that we always seem to think we have figured out. To sound completely cliche and unoriginal, "The wise man knows he knows nothing, the fool thinks he knows all."

So, for the moment, I shall remain "maudlin," despite disagreements on the behalf of Merriam and Webster. To be blunt, they can currently go shove it. Whatever "it" may be. 

I suppose I should mention what brought me to this maudlin state. Wouldn't want you to think that I am needlessly despondent, dear audience. To be perfectly honest, my roommate and I decided that tonight would be a good night to watch Schindler's List together in lieu of studying for final exams. I think that sometimes a person simply needs to confront that kind of sadness, to remind ourselves why we are here and what we are trying to accomplish. Of course, it's entirely possible that we are both decidedly strange, but I suppose that has already been established, no? 

When It Gets A Little Nippy

December 8, 2013

It's been a little chilly the past week or so. More than chilly. I think the technical term is freezing. Below freezing.

I was on Facebook the other day and I saw an acquaintance post something along the lines of, "If I had to choose between giant insects and long, cold winters, I would still choose the winters." I think it was supposed to be a comment on the poster's willingness to put up with frigid winters in exchange for safety from large invertebrates, but when the weather is like it has been the last week, I begin to warm up to the idea of the insects.

I drove to work at 6:30 in the morning and my thermostat in my truck said -13 degrees Fahrenheit. -13. That's kind of chilly. The funny thing is, when I drove home from work later that afternoon, the thermostat had dropped to -17 degrees. How exactly does that work? Isn't it supposed to be colder in the morning? 

I was walking the dogs today at work thinking about what it would have been like to live exactly where I do a hundred or even fifty years ago. Realize that when it's at least 10 below outside, the walks with the dogs tend to be rather short. Still, even with that consideration, 10 minutes was about my limit before my fingers began to freeze inside my gloves. And then as I was scurrying back to the warmth of the house with the dogs as fast as I could possibly go, I thought about what it would  be like to live in this kind of weather back when there wasn't any electric or gas heating. And it wasn't a very comfortable picture.

So I would just like to say that I am very thankful for modern technology in relation to its ability to keep me and all my extremities toasty warm. After all, I'm quite attached to my extremities. 

It Was Bound To Happen Eventually...

December 7, 2013

It finally happened.

Okay, so maybe it happened way before I thought it was going to happen, but I'm still saying that I called it. I fell off the wagon.

Of course, as soon as I fell off the wagon I decided that I was going to commit to falling off that wagon. Which is why, dear audience, this is coming to you approximately one week after my last post. If I was gong to screw up my self-imposed resolutions, then dammit, I was going to screw up. No half-assed screwing up for this blogger. No sirree. 

On the metaphor of the wagon though, I just have to share with you all an extremely amusing conversation I had with my sister about halfway through my week of slacking off on this blog. It kind of went something like this....

Sister: You are getting really far behind on your blog!!! (Notice the multiple exclamation points...)

Me: Sorry, fell off the wagon for a while :) (Note the ingratiating smiley face meant to convey my sheepish grin of shame)

Sister: A while being FIVE days... That's quite a while to be off the wagon. I'm pretty sure if you were a settler on the Oregon Trail you'd already be a pile of bleached white bones...

Me: Dude, no. I'd have joined the Indians by now. No need for wagons.

Sister: The snakes and coyotes would've already got you. Face it. Your blog life is nothing but a mere warning for future promising bloggers.

Me: Ouch. No holds barred there.

Sister: Can't blame me. Been waiting for a while ;) Leaves me time to look for good word choice and stinging comments. And you made a promise to to yourself so nothing should I say should be as hurtful as your own disappointment in yourself... Just saying ;) 

(I would like to make a note here that when she includes those winky faces in her text messages I can picture in my mind the exact smug grin that's on her face while she's texting this. And it makes me want to growl like a grizzly bear that just got shot in the face with a can of pepper spray. So, Sister, if you're reading this right now.... Grrrrrrrrrr.............)

Me: What are you, my therapist? (This was not one of my better days...)

And from there the conversation deteriorated into subjects that aren't quite as amusing as our extended "falling off the wagon" metaphor. But I would just like to add, in the spirit of Thanksgiving and Christmas and all those warm and fuzzy holiday feelings, that I am extremely grateful to be part of a family that gets me well enough to extend my metaphors throughout our entire conversation and still manage to bicker with me while doing it. 

Speaking of Thanksgiving, how was mine, you ask? Fantastic. Busy. But fantastic.

I'm not going to bog you down with a whole bunch of details, but I'll just say in passing that I managed to exchange a boatload of family gossip (why else do you gather for holidays?), play two games of pickup hockey (one with legit equipment and skates and one with a rock for a puck and tree branches for hockey sticks; I'll let you guess which one was more fun. Here's a hint: I am abysmal at ice-skating), I got my windshield replaced, I went to the movie theater more than I should have, I went dancing on Black Friday rather than going shopping, and I even managed to sleep in one day. 

Oh! I also have an update. Remember my story about getting stalked on the interstate by a truck full of college kids? Turns out that I actually knew the driver (who I didn't manage to catch a glimpse of the entire time), and the whole "stalking" incident was simply him honking his horn and trying to wave to me. Yep. Majorly embarrassing. Maybe I should stop taking these long car trips with only my cat for company... I think I might be becoming a little strange...

Oh. Last point. I so did not hear him honking his horn. So, in my defense, it totally seemed creepy and not at all like he was trying to get my attention. I even got him to admit that his horn is old and not very loud. So there. 

Here's to hoping that it will be a while before I fall off the wagon again. I definitely don't want to become snake and coyote fodder. Although, I'm still of the opinion that I would have joined up with the Indians and become a warrior with my very own war pony. Just saying.