WORDS ABOUT WORDS – PART THREE: WORDS FOR THINGS UNSEEN AND FORGOTTEN

I've invented a few words in my time. Words for unseeable conceptual things I've noticed or sensations I've felt that don't have names. Urnk, fweelt, huphtink, and schwelpt - that's just four of them. There are lot more. I have them all listed in a journal. Sometimes I forget to write down what they mean and when I make that mistake it inevitably leads me to forget the thing I invented the name for even exists in the first place. I'll try and make myself clearer: Imagine you noticed the sensation of feeling at ease. You noticed that everyone seems to undergo this sensation at times. You start to recognise it in others, a gentle smile and unguarded body posture. So, imagine you decide to name this sensation of feeling at ease. For the sake of simplicity, let's imagine you call this sensation 'comfort', a word that, along with any possible synonyms for the same sensation, has heretofore not existed. Now imagine you write the word down. Now imagine that you return some time later to discover the word 'comfort' in the place you wrote it but you have forgotten what it relates to, what it means, and you have forgotten that 'comfort' ever existed. Can you imagine something like that? Well, that kind of thing happens to me all the time. Unseen things only exist when named. If you forget the names of unseen things they vanish from your mind. I mean to say, they are still there, it's just that you can no longer perceive them.

If we all forgot what the word 'comfort' meant we would forget we even feel it or have a need to feel it. We would live in near perpetual discomfort, only occasionally experiencing the unrecognised sensation of 'comfort' quite by chance. We wouldn't discuss it or anything. We'd probably never mention it. You might doubt this. You might say that we would eventually put a name to a sensation if it was something we felt. 'After all', you might say, 'we do have names for unseeable sensations and concepts'. You might apply this logic and say that it proves my postulation invalid. However, if you were to do such a thing I would be forced to point out that you seem decidedly underschwelpt. This would make you confused. You would not know what I meant but this would only be because you would not recognise the unseeable truth I would have described. You'd have no idea what I am talking about but believe me, your obvious lack of schwelptness would be showing and you would be risking absolute huphtink.

So you see, a great many unseeable things have yet to be named. A great many others have been named but those names forgotten or what they mean has been forgotten. We should really keep an archive so we don't become unaware of more of these unseeable sensations and concepts. Some may be of great significance. Some may define fundamental aspects of human experience. It would be a tragedy to lose more of them. For example, can you remember what it is to chizzet? No, I thought not. Sad really. I think it is high time we catalogued these words in journals - perhaps in alphabetical order with the meanings of the words written next to each entry. We could call these journals Lexiconicons or Wordadoriums. What do you think? Really? I think the idea is pretty fweelty myself.

I'll conclude by making a prediction. Have you noticed how the word 'morality' is being used less and less these days? It is, really. You tend to find other words in its place. Words like 'practicality' or 'realpolitik'. Soon we'll stop considering the concept of morality altogether and quit discussing it or aspiring to it. We'll forget that morality ever existed but, you know, maybe it never did. Maybe this is one case of a word that is best left to oblivion. Maybe 'morality' is just used as an abstract excuse for other things or maybe it's too vague and subjective and impossible to objectively quantify. Maybe we never should have believed in it in the first place. Maybe this word is a word for an unseeable thing that actually doesn't exist. Yes, maybe we should forget it. Maybe it's just a silly word. Maybe it's just a load of urnk.

THE CADAVERS OF THE FUTURE

The cadavers of the future rise from their beds, not yet dead, to face the day ahead. They wash their bodies and slide into their pants and skirts and blouses and shirts and slip on their shoes and eat something. They leave their homes and go out onto the streets of Ambivalence.

Ambivalence is an average sized town that resides on the borderline between the boroughs of Abominable and Abundant. There are a lot of things to like about Ambivalence but there is more than enough to hate. It is a town of contradictions and restrictions and no restrictions. In Ambivalence every good day is a bad day for someone and every bad day is a good day for someone else. It is a rare occasion when everyone is happy at once. So rare an occasion as to be non-existent and you don’t get much rarer than that. What Ambivalence has, it’s one constant, is a status quo. Ambivalence is as good and as bad at it gets and that is about the best the cadavers of the future can expect. 

Those that run Ambivalence are as crooked as crooked can be and those who complain about them are as crooked as they can manage to be without getting caught and going to prison. Not much makes sense and people rarely mean what they say. The cadavers of the future don’t worry too much about the future in which they’ll be cadavers. They leave a lot of messes for future generations to clean up, just as they have been left a lot of messes to clean up by their predecessors. Leaving messes and the required infrastructure to maintain these messes without turning the whole thing into a total mess is the Ambivalent way. That is the status quo. What more can you expect? It’s pretty good when you think about it, unless it seems really bad. It’s up to you really. An optimistic outlook is generally considered preferable but it isn’t compulsory. There is no rulebook here. Well, there is but those that adhere to it won’t be winning the game of Ambivalence. The rules of the game are to work around the rules whilst claiming to be sticking to them. To actually stick to the rules is naïve and naivety is the cardinal weakness in this town. The more naïve a cadaver of the future is the sooner in the future they are likely to become a cadaver.

When the cadavers of the future eventually become cadavers they are buried in a big cemetery on a hill overlooking Ambivalence. Tributes are paid to them and nice things are written on the stones that stand at the heads of their graves. The best of the worst is emphasised. A man who evaded paying his taxes his entire life is remembered as a good father and a man who was a bad father but paid his taxes all his life is remembered as someone who always paid his dues. This is the way it is in Ambivalence; most of the cadavers of the future prefer to look on the bright side and rarely acknowledge the dark. It is considered impolite to consider the dark so the dark goes unconsidered but everyone knows it is there. The cadavers of the future are both the bright and the dark and that is what makes Ambivalence tick. But you aren’t to go mentioning it. You aren’t to go saying as much. To point out that Ambivalence is a town that could only exist with good and bad in equal measure would be to point out that, although things will never get worse, things will never get better. Such an acknowledgement would lead the cadavers of the future to despair. Not many could handle the fact that they may as well change the name of Ambivalence to Limbo and that the only guaranteed progress is the progression toward a place up on the hill. Under a stone with a nice tribute to you written on it.

THE STORY OF THE HUMAN BRAIN PART TWO

Continued from the Previous Post. . .
Chapter Three:
The human brain is mainly concerned with two things. The survival of the human body is the first and making the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience is the second. The human brain learns how to do the latter with the information it receives from the telly. The telly knows how to make the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience because it was told how to by the shops. The shops are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post).
Chapter Four:
Sane human brains being guided by the insanity of The Market is one of the many paradoxes the human brain must endure in its search for ways to make the survival of the human body enjoyable. Another paradox is found in the existence of consciousness and indeed conscience. Conscience is a by-product of consciousness and serves to create moral and philosophical reasoning that may or may not be reasonable. Different human brains will favour different reasonings and often find themselves in disagreement.
An example:
Wife:
I think the people of the world would find contentment in a non-merchant capitalist society based on a principle of direct and inclusive democracy. What do you think?
Husband:
I think you should quit yer yapping coz I’m trying to watch the golf.
Wife:
I think you’re a monster.
Husband:
I think that cat you adopted is a monster. Now make me a sandwich.
Disagreements like the above can lead to the survival of the human body being a less enjoyable experience. To prevent this, human brains, once again, resort to the information filter known as the telly for guidance and the telly resorts to the shops which are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post).
But:
There
Is
No
Alternative!
And that is the story of the human brain.
The End.

HUNGRY HUNGRY RACOONS

‘A new decade is here and, boy, has it got a lot of cleaning up to do after the last one.’ At least, that’s what the C.I.A. told me over a few pints in town. ‘As if that ain’t bad enough, the whole house of credit default swap cards is going to come crashing down, we’re going to have water and oil shortages causing wars and there’s going to be refugees spilling out all over the place causing racial tension. We’re in the shit Mr. Fugger,’ they informed me.

‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’ I asked.

‘Well you like telling stories,’ replied the C.I.A., ‘and we need stories to keep people distracted while we maintain order. Maintaining order ain’t pretty. A lot of people are going to get hurt and we don’t want the bleeding hearts getting all moralistic about it. Order trumps morality Mr. Fugger. Morality is abstract subjective bull crap. Order is an objective and observable phenomenon.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. I downed my Guinness and nodded to the barman for another. The C.I.A. kept talking as they peered at me over their whiskeys. ‘We’re going to start shit in Bolivia Mr. Fugger. We need gas and they got it. We’re going to replace democratically elected President Morales with hardcore racist son of a Nazi Branko Marinkovic. It sucks but whachagonnado? We need your first rate story telling prowess to make people look the other way. We want you to come up with an event that will keep everyone talking while we do the old switcheroo.’

‘And what if I don’t?’ I said, playing hard-ball.

The C.I.A. fixed me with a chilling glare. ‘What’s the name of your cat Mr. Fugger?’ I was asked.

I was puzzled by the question but I answered it. ‘Rupert’, I said, inciting a round of sniggers and feeling my masculinity suddenly diminish.

‘You like Rupert don’t you Mr. Fugger?’

I saw where they were going with this so quickly changed the subject. ‘Right, a distraction is what you need. A news event to keep people talking. Let’s see. Let’s see now. How about . . .um . . .a racoon.’

The C.I.A. leaned forward in unison and stared expectantly as my mind darted from place to place, grabbing anything it could. ‘Yeah, a racoon, go on,’ they urged.

‘Right, a racoon,’ I continued, ‘and it gets on a TV show and what’s her name is on it too, you know, Katie Price, um, Jordan, and. . .’

‘Hold on,’ one of the C.I.A. interrupted. ‘What’s the racoon doing on a TV show?’

‘Well, maybe it’s a special racoon. Maybe it pulled a baby from a house fire or has been to space or something.’

‘We can’t arrange that Mr. Fugger. Not even we can send a racoon to space or train it rescue kids.’

‘Right well, could you teach it to cycle a little bike?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Right so, the racoon is cycling a little bike and Graham Norton is jumping around delighted when all of a sudden the racoon jumps up off the saddle and bites Jordan on the tits and. . . um . . .they explode.’

I wasn’t sure where the hell that came from and I was even less sure how it would be received. I found myself putting my hands up my face and looking at the C.I.A. through the gaps in my fingers. I need not have worried, they were grinning from ear to ear.

‘I like it,’ one said, ‘the broad’s bazoobahs go boom and at that very moment, in another continent, Morales takes a bullet to the brain as his cavalcade passes through Santa Cruz.’

‘Exactly,’ I confirmed.

The C.I.A. quickly scribbled a few notes, finished their whiskeys and stood to leave.

‘Nice doing business with you Mr. Fugger,’ one said, ‘oh, and give our best to, eh, what’s he called, yeah, give our best to Rupert.’

There was more laughter as they sauntered out the door. I downed my pint to calm my nerves.

Then someone cleared his throat behind me. I turned and saw Ajai Chopra of the I.M.F.

‘Any chance you could dream up a distraction for us? We need a product, a kind of craze for some gee-gaw everyone will want to get while we take everything else from them.’

The fact that I probably had no choice but to assist him did little to assuage the wave of self-loathing that overcame me.

‘What about a, um, let’s see, yeah, what about a board game for all the family. Like Hungry Hungry Hippos only with racoons instead of hippos and, um, instead of the marbles you could have tits?’ I offered.

Ajai smirked and made a note. He seemed happy enough.

Jesus, I’m scraping the barrel on this blog these days. O.K., enough of that. Click the link and find out how CRAP MAN HANDLED THE NEW YEAR!