Other Worlds In Other Words

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Once in the recent past I got a hair up my ass and decided to watch this video by some college professor:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rconzwB422s&feature=feedf

I don't know why the links I include here are not activated. You can't just click on the damned thing and have the web site the link points to show up on your monitor with one simple motion. Google owns blogger.com and it seems like they could surely make it happen. Instead of allowing clickable links the reader has to copy and paste the link in the browser header and hit Enter. It's all good though. I can't imagine that anybody would find the links I post very interesting. Even the one above.

This guy lectures about his research into the bejinning of the spoken language. Not the written language. It only arrived millions of years later than the oral tradition. But, this guy starts talking about song birds. He appears to think that song birds were the original employers of using sound to act as a me sage (message). There is only one in all the kingdoms: "Listen to me, Woman!I am is it, sugar britches! Your best, brightest hope to produce a viable brood that will have a chance in hell of surviving the Fall. Give it up... Bitch! Now!"

What amazed me about this dude's theory is that he claims that the song bird's songs have no other purpose than to attract the female song birds interest. It only sings it's learned songs to the female to get her interested in him as a potential mate. The professor claims the songs the song birds sing are not inherited as instinct, but learned by imitation and mimicry. Some male song birds have a repertoire of a thousand different songs. That's like having a thousand word oral language. All for no Earthly reason than to charm a comparatively dull looking female song bird for no logical reason.

He claims that his research proves there is no meaning (me-and-thee-ing) inherent in the song bird's songs other than for the purpose of display and procreational sex. I don't think he actually goes so far as to claim that the twittering of homo sapiens males has no more meaning other than me-and-thee-ing. Men talk or sing to attract females just like song birds for the selfsame purpose of procreative. Recreational purposes not withstanding.

I have this video marked as one of my Favorites in my YouTube account, and it's part of my Favorites PlayList. Unintentionally, it may appear, twice I have clicked to play this playlist simultaneous with using the Gnaural meditation software instead of another playlist that contains other binaural beat videos.

I have "unintentionally" made the same mistake twice now, and neither time did I actually take off the earphones and click my way through to the other initially intended playlist. I let it play just a little bit longer each time until it finished. I'm intrigued. This can't be coincidental. The video lasts almost an hour. I'm listening to two audio sources at the sa-me ti-me. Now, I'm gonna do it on purpose until I get disgusted with this dumb lecture.

The truth is, by contemplating the times I've got caught up in this sort of obsession ere now, I probably won't get disgusted at all, but to use repetition and redundancy to imitate and mimic this dude's rap in other words. I'll be-co-me my idea of what running this rap on the usual suspects until I've edited all the rhubarbs out until it's as smooth as liquid bread, and regurgitate it to the world in my own selfish terms.

It was claimed on the TV game show Jeopardy the other evening that Faulkner, the Mississippi writer I've never read, stated that Hemingway was a coward as a writer because he never used any words that his readers would have to look up in the dictionary.

I haven't read much Hemingway either. I know more about Hemingway's reputation from living in and around Key West, Florida than I know about what he wrote. I've seen a couple of movies inspired by his stories. I've heard more than once that not using uncommon words is a virtue for a writer.

Since I was at least born in Mississippi, even though I've never read any more Faulkner than a brief referential quote here and there, I sort of allow that Faulkner could be right about the nerve it takes to go beyond the personal lexicon of the lowest common denominator.

Judged by Faulkner's measuring device I think I might win some sort of medal of honor. My tossed-word-salad goes beyond even the highest uncommon denominator. Me. Hell, I don't have a clue what I am is writing about most of the time. To write that way to me is the epitome of going beyond the call of duty.

Creating tossed-word-salad to amuse myself as an audience of One just don't bring home the bacon. It's to write like a selfish pig. To do it just for me, and "damn the torpedoes". I do it in complete agreement with what the professor claims about song birds.

Since the only reason to write for contemporary homo sapiens of either gender is to attract perspective mates for the purposes of making babies, taking a vasectomy in the early 80s totally and unexpectedly changed my reason for communicating. Granted, when I chose to have the procedure done, I didn't know how it might turn out. Surprise! Surprise...

Unintentionally, and certainly not as a foregone conclusion, the desire for recreational sex left me soon after it was all over but the shouting. My reason for shouting for a female to carry a child for me to completion was litterly nipped in the bud (pun intended).

I do not writing for the purpose of me-and-thee-ing. In no way for any reason do I attempt to lure my readers into my unkempt bachelor's boudoir. It's a song of solitude I ungraciously utter to worlds beyond words. Nobody knows but me, even in other words.

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