I never metamorphic I didn’t like or if you can’t say something gneiss say nothing at all.

(2017)

Beautiful little piece of reddish rock, layered, I picked up along the side of the road west of the Salton Sea under the assumption it was chunk of petrified wood. Closer examination at home showed that it is more likely a fossilized and mineralized square inch of beach, or perhaps grains of sand laid down in the bed of a slow moving stream, or in an inlet of the long gone sea. Buried and compressed it hardened into sandstone and then was folded into the earth, under millions of tons or rock, and heated by the mantle below (or perhaps the energy displaced by the slow movement of the fault beneath our feet), which transformed the component sediments into something still layered but harder and more crystalline. Gneiss. Not sure where the red came from. Perhaps this was once one of the red sandstones one sees everywhere in the West, littered with dinosaur bones. There was iron everywhere once, it seems to have turned all the sediments red. Perhaps there was more oxygen in the atmosphere then, enough to turn a tree into a torch at the slam of a baseball bat, enough to oxidize all the traces of iron in the sand into a brilliant red. Perhaps. That’s the theory, anyway. Of course, most of California didn’t even exist when that famous red sandstone was laid down. California was still deep down in the mantle, or moving inexorably eastward as ocean floor before slamming into North America. No dinosaurs ever trod the sands that solidified into this stone.

Now I find this little rock here, in the sand, no metamorphic outcroppings let alone mountains for miles. So water dropped it here. Who knows how much weather that took? How many torrential rains and flash floods were required to drop this little rock here at my feet on these archaic flats? It sat there, glittering in the waning sun, surrounded by the sand verbena that clustered in vast herds across the ancient sea floor. They shivered in the dry wind, as if cold, though the temperature was near ninety and the rock was warm to the touch, as if right out of the oven. I picked it up and rolled it about in my hand, thinking of ancient worlds.

Qaxal

(Commenting on Facebook about a photo of a California quail.)

One of my favorite desert birds! And agreed on Qaxal, which looks so lovely spelled out. Alas, it’s probably just about impossible to pronounce for we English speakers, or for just about any speaker of an Indo-European language. From the sounds alone you can feel the thousands of generations that separate the development of the sounds our mouths use to speak English from the sounds a táxliswet (a Cahuilla person, per Wikipedia) uses to speak the Cahuilla language. Hell, we call the language Cahuilla because we can’t possibly say ʔívil̃uʔat. We call the the tribe Cahuilla because we can’t possibly say ʔívil̃uqaletem. The Spanish called them Cahuilla because the ʔívil̃uʔat word for master sounded something like “cahuilla” to a Spaniard’s ear. That’s right, for master. Amazing the history in a word.

And while we’re not on the subject, Chemehuevi and Cahuilla are about as distant from one another as English is from Hindustani, that is, part of the same language family but each gone it’s own way for many thousands of years since they were the same language. Alas, Chemehuevi (which i seem to remember is actually a Mojave word spelled out in Spanish, I don’t know what their own word for their own language was) is now extinct with no living speakers who learned it as children. It survives in academic circles mostly, or in how to pronounce apps (like the one I heard that pronounces “Chemeheuvi” in a beautifully lilting Castilian accent, Spanish music strumming in the background.) Cahuilla is still spoken by a few dozen native speakers but is unlikely to survive them. It’d be nice if either qaxal or kakara, even mispronounced, survived as a name for these desert birds.

But I digress.

Great post.

Half a trillion Bricks

Today I learned that there are anywhere from 100 million to 500 million sperm cells per human male ejaculation. Or according to another article, from 40 million to 1.2 billion, that is dudes can ejaculate the equivalent of the population of California up to the population of India. I don’t know why some guys have more than others, but most men are somewhere in between those. That’s a lot of little Juniors and Juniorettes. A healthy twenty year old male can easily snuff out half a billion little copies of himself on a boring Friday night. By the time that twenty year old is a fifty year old that might have reached a half trillion copies of himself. Rarely do these thoughts cross a man’s mind at the time, though. Nothing crosses his mind during ejaculation. The frontal lobe goes on autopilot and the thalamus and hypothalamus and various other parts of the brain that pre-date conscious thought take over. It sure feels good, but don’t expect us to write a poem describing it. We can’t even remember it. A hundred million little copies of us just just rushed down our urethras and we’re no more aware of it than a frog is. It’s not until it hits the nerve endings packed into the heads of our dongs that we’re jolted back into consciousness, even speech. Oh god oh god oh god. Like, I said, it’s not poetry, but at least the frontal lobe has sparked into life again. That’s the part of ejaculation we remember. Eloquence comes later, after we’ve washed up and made sure no one was watching us.

I have no idea what happens to the little fellas that never even get ejaculated. How long can a little copy of me wait in there? And what happens to all those me’s then?

I also learned that sperm cells are the tiniest little things, and even a half billion of them only make up about 5% of a dude’s semen, the rest being various fluids, saltiness and flavoring, not to mention stickiness and whatever it is that leaves stains on ceilings. Two thirds of this delicate brew is produced within the scrotum somehow, the other third by the prostate which apparently actually has a purpose. I mean, who knew?

Funny I learned all this at 65, though maybe it’s better that way, so I didn’t suffer guilt complexes afterward, especially since my testicles have been busily producing half a trillion little Brick cells and I’ve failed to reproduce any of them, the poor things. Then again half a trillion Bricks would get pretty annoying. There’s a reason for everything.

Pterodaustras

I see a lot of paleo art on Twitter, and Gabriel Ugueto is among the best of the paleo artists. Here’s how he envisioned a flock of Pterodaustro maybe 105 million years ago. It’s believed they would use their bills like flamingos do, as they share some of the same unique bill features, and probably ate similar sorts if food, being that 105 million years ago the same sorts of eats were available. Some paleontologists suggest they may have even shared a pink color, which Ugueto hints at here by setting this painting in the light of dawn or dusk. These guys would have been bigger than flamingos, though, with wingspans about 8 feet wide. They weighed maybe nine pounds, not much of a Thanksgiving feast on those hollow reptilian bones. They were long gone by 65 million years ago, but other pterosaurs were there, huge weird gorgeous flying soaring things that up and disappeared when the asteroid hit the planet and killed nearly everything. Oh well.

Glasswing butterfly

I’ve never even heard of the Glasswing butterfly, I thought i was looking at a picture of some arts and craftsy sculpture. Nope, those are real butterflies. They get to be about two and a half inches across and are mostly South and Central American, though they get as far north as Texas. The glasswing dudes lek, that is they get together in some forest opening in gnarly lepidopterous groups to out macho each other because that’s what turns on the glasswing dolls. It’s not like rutting elk charging each other, unfortunately, no fluttering menacingly at other males, but more about displaying their gnarliness, Muscle Beach butterfly style. I’m sure there’s a David Attenborough bit about it somewhere. But they sure are weirdly gorgeous, ain’t they though?

I still can’t decide if Godzilla could kick the T. rex brothers’ asses or not.

Watched T-Rex: An Evolutionary Journey last night which was so apallingly bad I was embarrassed I was watching it, but just as I was about to switch it off it ended. If you like cheesy Japanese anime you’ll love it, as this was cheesy Japanese anime pretending to be a paleontology documentary. Not that the dinosaurs were actually anime, they were CGI. It’s just they acted like they were in an anime. A pair of very early proto-tyrannosauruses roam around China. They leap about like martial artists, leaping and kicking and biting. Sure they’re not much to look at, just little fellas, but they got gumption. They roar a lot. Tens of millions of years pass and things are getting rough at home. They decide to join the epic prototyrannosaur migration from China to North America. It gets Lord of the Ringsy pretty quick. Magically, a land bridge appears. I mean they explain how, but in the story it just appears. They show up in North America, run into some sort of allosaurus. They attack by leaping though the air like those anime martial arts fighters and kicking. The allosaurus smacks one away where it lies bleeding and twitching, losing a tooth which a paleontologist finds in the American west in our time. Millions more years pass and our little fellas have become the biggest dinosaurs ever with big brains and jaws like you wouldn’t believe. They work in hunting teams like dolphins or people and are way faster than the T. rex in Jurassic Park. The strongest—and this show is all about the strongest, this is paleontology for men—can run 50 mph. I suppose that is debatable. They also leap like martial artists onto the backs of remarkably fast moving plant eaters and kick and bite and kill them, roaring triumphantly. They survey all they rule from the peaks of mountains, roaring. They find a descendant of that punk allosaurus and dispatch him with a leap and a kick and a bite, and then roar triumphantly. You’ve never heard such a noisy reptile. If there are any female tyrannosauruses we never see them. We never see the juveniles either. Not even eggs. This is a man tyrannosaur’s world. Then the asteroid comes.

There’s a lot of interviews with paleontologists who probably regretted it immediately, a lot of cool looking fossils and sciencey bits, and the CGI dinosaurs are pretty good, if decidedly warm blooded in their behavior. Very warm blooded. No lumbering elephants these guys. Actually, a lot of the paleontology seems more or less accurate, like a science anime fairy tale. Incredibly, it’s an NHK—the Japanese television network—production, though it’s more like a Toho movie than a science documentary. Definitely was the most ludicrous dinosaur documentary I’ve seen since Destroy All Monsters. I still can’t decide if Godzilla could kick the T. rex brothers’ asses or not. He could breathe fire, sure, but these guys could leap and kick like an anime Bruce Lee.

Irregulars gone regular

English loses more and more irregular verbs every generation. I’m forever doing a double take when I hear one. Grinded on just startled me in a linguistics nerd kinda way. Not ground on? For a second I felt a pang of regret for an ancient irregular verb. Yet another Old English declension being regularized. But hell, just about every verb in English that adds an ed to the present tense to make the past tense—and that’s most of the verbs in English—violates Old English declension rules. And if King Harold hadn’t gotten his army destroyed and himself killed by a Norman arrow through the eye at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 then we’d still be speaking a language much closer to the language of his day, much closer to German, in fact. Declensions up the wazoo. But he lost and his valiant army was slaughtered and William the Conqueror earned his name. England was to be ruled in French by a harsh and arrogant Norman hand for centuries, and the bastardation of English began, leaving us with this extraordinary thing we write and speak and abuse so wonderfully terribly today. Like adding an ed to a present tense verb to make it a past tense verb whenever we fucking well please. We’ve been doing so for centuries in a never ending process. Thus the ground of my youth is the grinded on MSNBC today. Which is a good thing, really, it simplifies the language and drives grammar nazis up the wall. Still, though, I allow myself a pang of nostalgia for the old verb form, though even 66 year old me will probably be saying grinded soon enough, and a century from now people will wonder what ground beef means. Ground, like what we walk on? And linguist nerds like me will explain how ground was an archaic form of the past tense for grinded, and it’s not grinded beef because ground beef is a compound noun (two words, but grammatically it’s one noun) and compound nouns in a English tend to retain the archaic form, and often do so for centuries, because nouns in English change little over time. The meaning will change, but the word itself will change little. And they’ll feel so smart, those futuristic language nerds, and grandchildren of grandchildren now will roll their eyes, which humans have probably been doing for a couple hundred thousand years, meaning the same thing now that it did then, back before language was even a thing.

The Battle of Hastings, there goes Old English.

Ishtar

Easter was not how you pronounced Ishtar. This meme has been reappearing at the end of Lent these past few years and I never say anything but today all those dull linguistics book I’ve read are screaming in protest because Easter was never the way one pronounced Ishtar. Nowhere in the ancient Middle East did Akkadian speakers–and just about everyone in Mesopotamia spoke Akkadian four thousand years ago, it was the hip tongue of early civilization—did people dance and screw and celebrate the goddess of sex and fertility every spring and call her Easter. They called her Ishtar, which was pronounced–hang on– ish-tar. Ish like in fish and tar like in tardy. Ishtar. Akkadian, though long gone, was a Semitic language like Arabic and Hebrew and ancient Egyptian, heavy on the consonants, light on the vowels, lots of lip popping and gakking. Dig that crazy voiceless postalveolar fricative. When you shhhhhhh someone you are shaming them with a voiceless postalveolar fricative. No, you don’t need to know that just to get somebody to shut up (though I used to get voiceless postalveolar fricativized during bass solos in jazz clubs.) Easter, on the other hand, is a word that comes from the ancient German (as does English, actually), so it was an Indo-European language, lots of consonants but a lot of vowels, too, and Easter was pronounced something like e-oster, and it contains, instead of a voiceless postalveolar fricative, a voiceless alveolar sibilant followed immediately by a voiceless retroflex stop. That’s the st sound. You don’t really need to know any of that either. But add a voiceless bilabial stop–the p sound–to that voiceless alveolar sibilant and voiceless retroflex stop and you get psssssst, like trying to get somebody’s attention in a library, but not like getting drunk and trying to get somebody’s attention in a library. That would be pssssht, a voiceless bilabial stop-voiceless postalveolar fricative-voiceless retroflex stop, and someone else drunk in the library would voiceless postalverolar fricative back even louder and everything would be all fricked up.

Ishtar was originally the Sumerian goddess of love and sex and fertility (among other things, she must’ve been quite the multitasker) and Sumerian was utterly unlike Akkadian, just as complicated but not the least bit Semitic, words lolling in vowels. Thus Ishtar’s original Sumerian name, Ianna, sort of rolls across the tongue. She was quite the looker, Ianna, if you don’t mind weird bird feet, she was tall and slender and stacked and not too into lots of clothes. One gets the impression the Sumerians really loved love making. And the sounds in Ianna seems to fit her much better than than the sounds in Ishtar. I suppose that’s just my Indo-European prejudices, we like vowels. We like consonants too—consonants are certainly funnier—but vowels seem to do a better job of evoking a tactile feeling. They’re softer, rounder, gentler. Ahhh.

It seems such a shame that the Sumerian language died out, leaving no descendants. Hell, they invented civilization speaking it. They invented writing writing it. Now no one speaks it. No one writes it. A couple English words go back to the Sumerian, though. Canal is one. Five thousand years ago it meant canal, pronounced sort of gina, hard g sound, both vowels short. The Sumerians did wonders with canals. The main drag in Ur wasn’t a street, it was a canal. And they scientifically laid out a network of irrigation canals across the plains, carrying water from the Euphrates into distant, lush fields. They really knew their canals. Some are still in use. Five thousand years later we still use their word, though the hard G has become a hard C sound, and an L sound was attached to the end. Their gina (with the i not an ee, but schwa-ish), our canal. Nearly identical in sound, and completely identical in meaning. That’s some continuity, in sound and concept, a word as old as civilization itself.

Not much else in the Sumerian language survives in English, though, mostly words that began as canal, became metaphors, and wound up things like canonize. There are probably a lot more old Sumerian words in Arabic and Farsi, even Hebrew. Propinquity, you know. But Ianna’s lovely name did not survive the end of Sumerian, and she became Ishtar. Same lovely appearance, same loving and humping and baby making, but with a voiceless postalveolar fricative. Shhhhhh.

Every time I see that ridiculous Ishtar-Easter meme, I wonder how the hell anyone could think an SH was pronounced like ST, unless they were drunk. Drunks would say Eashter. Drunks and people with bad false teeth. Drunks and bad false teeth and Eashter bunnies. Meanwhile somewhere drunk people are writing memes, and the world is believing every voiceless postalveolar fricative of them.

You know, indigenous Australians had neither a voiceless alveolar sibilant (or any sibilants at all) and no voiceless postalveolar fricative, and could not have said Ishtar or Easter, let alone psssst or shhhhhh. They would not have been reading those memes. But they could say ingoorrooloorrloorroona noorroo.

And that you do need to know.

Ishtar. Dig those crazy feet. Though it might be Ishtar’s older sister Ereshkigal, who got the ruling the Underworld gig while her little sister was up above making love and babies. This is from about four thousand years ago and the artist no doubt spoke Akkadian, not Sumerian.

One helluva huge icthyosaur

Another great painting by paleoartist Gabriel Lugueto. As only part of a jaw bone has been found of this particular species (at the base of a British seaside cliff) and since matched to some other enormous stray bones in British museums, this is some wild extrapolation, but still, it belonged to one hell of a huge ichthyosaur. 85’ long is the usual paleontological guesstimate, which would put the Lilock Monster (so dubbed by a British tabloid, no doubt) in the same size range as the blue whale. Or should it be the other way around. Anyway, the scene imagined here would’ve been sometime between 200 and 235 million years ago (the Late Triassic). The seabirds pictured would actually have been pterosaurs, as I don’t believe birds had evolved sufficiently as yet to fly and soar like seabirds do now. Pterosaurs were filling that niche, and would until that damn asteroid wrecked everything. Neither they nor ichthyosaurs survived that. Our ancestors did, squirmy little insectivorous things probably with all the charm of a shrew. Thus we’re here, apes that can talk and write and think things, writing about ichthyosaurs.

“A small group of the gigantic Lilstock ichthyosaur swim near the coast of Late Triassic Europe. This taxon is here reconstructed as a Shastasaurid. Numerous pterosaurs flying around”—Gabriel Lugueto on Twitter

Supposably

(From 2019, but I apparently put it aside as the epilepsy stirred up. Writing does that. A couple days ago I found it in the drafts folder and, the epilepsy calmed down again, I finished it, a mere four years later.)

Supposably and supposedly are not the same word. Both go back centuries. Originally supposably had a somewhat different meaning than supposedly, apparently a subtle distinction, but what that difference was or why it was important disappeared. By now it’s hard to imagine what that distinction could possibly could have been, but English used to be much more grammatically complex than it is now. Loads more rules, subtleties of what linguists call perspective, your English teacher called cases, and that you never called anything because you had learned the language as a child when our brains learn how to use a language without having anyone label all the different parts and codifying them into rules. But English used to have lots more of those cases and rules. We have vastly more vocabulary now, but lots less rules. Languages lose all kinds of distinctions as they simplify. Languages gain speakers who speak other languages already and the grammatical complexities drop away. Too complicated. The more the language has expanded geographically and increased in new speakers, the more the grammatical subtleties drop away. Few notice. And everyone can communicate perfectly well without all those old cases. So they’re forgotten. Even grammar obsessives forget them eventually. Today’s annoying grammar guy would get yelled at by yesterday’s, or would be if yesterday’s wasn’t dead and buried and forgotten. Language change has no respect for the dead, and in a few centuries the living speakers can’t understand much of what the dead said long ago anyway. Thus Shakespeare is difficult to understand, Chaucer a hundred years earlier is next to impossible, and Beowulf, from eleven or twelve centuries ago, is impossible. Same language, though, you can look at a schematic that lays out just why It’s the same language, but it’s been tweaked and changed all to hell by forty generations of speakers. And English is a written language. Languages that are strictly oral–which is the vast majority of languages, even now–change much, much faster. English could have gone from Beowulf to what I’m expressing now in just a couple hundred years. Even something a half century old, the lyrics of Beatles songs, for example, could sound comically old fashioned. Movies from the 1930s could be difficult to understand. Written English slows down the rate of change. But it still changes, and by the time a couples centuries worth of generations have passed, like from the time of your great grandparents’ great grandparents until the English you speak, it’s changed quite a bit.

Which is how it came to be that we can no longer tell just what exactly was the distinction between supposedly and supposably. The subtle grammatical distinctions between them involved perspectives that English no longer has, nor can English speakers now recognize what those distinctions were once. We don’t know what the difference was between the two words because we literally can no longer hear the distinction. It was a difference in perspective–that is, a grammatical case–that every English speaker could once perceive instantly, and now we can’t at all. We can’t even imagine what that distinction was. An English speaking child would once have had that distinction hardwired right into their brains. They didn’t have to be taught it, anymore than we have to be taught how to make a verb a past tense by adding an “ed” suffix, or how kids know how to state where they are by saying “here” and where you are with “there”. Of course, those kids once knew when to say whither instead of where, and thither instead of there. They don’t know now. It’s very likely you don’t either. I only know because I like this stuff. But the case that once required a whither and a thither fell into disuse some time ago because, frankly, who the hell needs it. And by the same linguistic process somewhere in the last couple centuries we stopped knowing when one says supposedly and when someone says supposably. The meanings were close enough that they were fairly interchangeable if you weren’t too hung up on the finer points of grammar. You can imagine the grandparents grousing about kids these days not respecting anything. But grandparents die and no one remembered their complaining for long afterward and the distinction between supposedly and supposably disappeared. If the great grandkids don’t learn the distinction by the time they’re about twelve it’s gone. Two words meaning the exact same thing is one word too many and supposably disappeared, though why it and not supposedly was the one abandoned is a mystery.

And language that is not learned as children is a dead language. When the last of the children who did learn it die of old age, it is officially extinct. And though the distinction between supposably and supposedly was just one infinitesimal grammatical bit in the vastness of English grammar and not the end of the English language, it does give a ghostly glimpse into how languages die. Someday even English will die like that. Languages, like species, only last for so long. Sometimes, like Latin, they survive in other languages. And sometimes they just disappear forever. But we’re not there yet. And of course supposably is just one word that, like junk DNA, is hanging around in the genome and, like junk DNA, we don’t really know why. I mean we know why as a process, we know how words like supposably can wind up hanging around in the English vocabulary, we just don’t know why exactly we say supposedly now instead of supposably. No one wrote down the details for us, it just sort of happened when no one was paying much attention until now supposably hangs around in the language and we’d probably never even notice and if the sort of people who get upset at these kinds of things didn’t go on tirades about how it’s not supposably, it’s supposedly, we probably wouldn’t even notice. But then some of us obsess over the etiquette of grammar, and some of us have lives.

Now I suppose it actually is kind of ridiculous to still have a supposedly and a supposably. It’s hard to come up with a noun for supposable (supposableness? Am I missing one?) unless you just state two almost identical nouns with completely identical meanings, and if there were any verbs associated with them that helped distinguish how they differed who knows what they were, especially as there would have had to be a verb to use only with supposedly and another to use only with supposably. But they’re lost now. I mean we still have the verbs, but we have no idea which verb went with supposedly and which went with supposably. Indeed, the whole delicate lattice of grammar that they nestled in has disappeared. The specificity is lost. As is the word supposably for the most part, lost and reduced to a misspelling of supposedly, except in places like Miami where supposedly is the misspelling. Go figure. Words changing meaning over time and taking the place of other words is called semantic drift. And semantic drift is ugly. It’s not like the perfect rules they teach us in school. It’s just people talking.

It’s unnerving when you see a word that you have no idea what it was for or how it was used, but that everyone who spoke English a few hundred years ago knew as children exactly how it was used. Seven year olds knew in what context you’d use supposably, and in what context you used supposedly. They couldn’t explain the rule. They just knew it. They never even thought of them as the same word. And yet somehow in the past few centuries that bit of information that was hardwired into the very neurology an English speaker’s brain and passed along as language always is from mother (mostly) to child from when humans are still in the womb till the onset of adolescence, well, somewhere along there we lost that bit of hardwiring and never even knew it. Vanished, gone, like it was never even there. There’s nothing unusual in that, it’s a constant and continuous process. It’s how languages change, how new languages are born, it’s why humans speak over 7,000 languages now and who knows how many dialects, and why thousands of other languages are dead and gone going back somewhere between a hundred thousand and two hundred thousand years to when language was invented (or created or developed or evolved or happened.) Tiny incremental bits of grammar disappear and within a couple generations are forgotten, and eventually the old words themselves–words have a much longer shelf lives than unused grammar–are purged. We’re witnessing the purging of of the word supposably now. Really angry purging. Only ignorant uneducated lowlifes pronounce supposedly as supposably, we’re told. But supposably is not merely mispronunciation of supposedly. It’s a relic of English from long ago, though we have no idea what it meant exactly. Still, though, it now makes a perfectly good synonym for supposedly, or would, if it didn’t make some people so damn mad.