Words For Today

When I was 16, I made a conscious decision to learn to think in words; I did so because I thought it may come in handy, in the future, for communicating with others. It's been sort of a hit and miss project ever since. Two sources were indispensable in figuring out how these weird word constructs worked: The Devil's Dictionary (for how words are intertwingled with bigger things) and Alice in Wonderland (for how to navigate where rules don't make sense). The later is sandwiched in my office between books on the Visual Presentation of Information and the Art of War, the former is on my desktop at home. Alice let me know I could still use words without relinquishing my thought processes to them:

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said, in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean -neither more or less."

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master --that's all."

And the Devil's Dictionary gave me specific advice about a particular word. Say I was curious about "dawn" having heard people talk about it but never witnessing it for myself. A quick consultation with Bierce revealed:

DAWN, n. The time when men of reason go to bed. Certain old men prefer to rise about the same time, taking a cold bath and a long walk with an empty stomach, and otherwise mortifying the flesh. They then point with pride to these practices as the cause of their sturdy health and ripe years; the truth being that they are hearty and old, not because of these habits, but in spite of them. The reason we find only robust persons doing this thing is that it has killed all the others who have tried it.

Ah, got it. So today, I thumbed through my well-worn copy to see what wisdom Bierce may have about blogging. Adjusting for the fact that they had fewer words back in 1911, I settled on "Diary" as probably the closest relative:

DIARY [Blog], n. A daily record of that part of one's life, which he can relate to himself without blushing.

Hearst kept a diary [blog] wherein were writ
All that he had of wisdom and of wit.
So the Recording Angel, when Hearst died,
Erased all entries of his own and cried:
"I'll judge you by your diary [blog]." Said Hearst:
"Thank you; 'twill show you I am Saint the First" --
Straightway producing, jubilant and proud,
That record [usb thumb-drive] from a pocket in his shroud.
The Angel slowly turned [clicked] the pages o'er,
Each stupid line of which he knew before,
Glooming and gleaming as by turns he hit
On Shallow sentiment and stolen wit;
Then gravely closed [unplugged] the book [thumb-drive] and gave it back.
"My friend, you've wandered from your proper track:
You'd never be content this side the tomb --
For big ideas Heaven has little room,
And Hell's no latitude for making mirth,"
He said, and kicked the fellow back to earth.
"The Mad Philosopher"

Dang, he'd pretty much nailed my blog. (This applies only to me own blog, I find my friends' and relatives' less easy to categorize --an I ain't talking just about their blogs :-)