*
[CONCEITS AND VANITIES]
HIPsight should be a word---a noun---that is shorthand for "something hidden in plain sight" or, alternately, "the quality of being hidden in plain sight". If there were such a word, I might categorize it as an acromanteau, meaning that it is a blending of two words, like a portmanteau, but with one of the words being an acronym or brevity code. As the word first entered limited usage (by HIPsters!), it would be capitalized as it is at the beginning of this paragraph. Mass communication being what it is, I'd expect the spelling to rapidly self-demote to all-lowercase letters, like any other common noun.
I hereby claim the words HIPsight and aromanteau as my personal, original coinages. Likewise, I hereby bequeath these words to humanity for all uses in conversation and other intellectual discourse, but not for trademarking or other commercial use by permission of myself, the creator.
Thank you for your attention in this matter.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Saturday Evening Prayer Meeting
*
[CONCEPTUAL CONTINUITY]
If I posted this previously, then I beg a thousand pardons.
My memory of this song is tied up tight with a single summer day, its weather in particular. Dense overcast, thick air that was almost body temperature; every indication that heavy rain would be encroaching any moment. When Dex Card cued up the song on an otherwise-unmarked-in-my-memory July mid-afternoon, I was undoubtedly "grounded" for some random affront to my mother's authority, and so feeling trapped on the premises. Even though she was at work, the bluff kept me to within a line of sight on Highland Ave.
I'd surely heard the song before, but the vibe on that day seemed fraught with portent, like the impending storm. The string dissonances in the opening bars are probably not any more avant garde than "Chopsticks," but when the girls started singing, there was something pinched-up about the sound that smelled like trouble to my little shell-like ears. They sounded upset, smoldering in rage even. About to make with the tears just like the sky. I don't remember if it actually rained that afternoon.
Today the weather seemed identical, and so I put on my "7th" iPod playlist while puttering in the weeds and dirt, wondering if the experience might replicate. It did. Mist began condensing out of the clouds about an hour ago. But this time the sky let loose for real while I was composing the previous paragraph. And there's no more sunlight than if it were 8:45 pm (instead of 5:15).
I'm not offering any particular point except that multisensory memory can transport a person out of his current skin, and that in turn can be stimulated by technology with the aim of excavating a stratum of past experience. Why not? Did you do anything more profound than that this afternoon?
Sweet Talkin' Guy, The Chiffons (1966), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.
[CONCEPTUAL CONTINUITY]
If I posted this previously, then I beg a thousand pardons.
My memory of this song is tied up tight with a single summer day, its weather in particular. Dense overcast, thick air that was almost body temperature; every indication that heavy rain would be encroaching any moment. When Dex Card cued up the song on an otherwise-unmarked-in-my-memory July mid-afternoon, I was undoubtedly "grounded" for some random affront to my mother's authority, and so feeling trapped on the premises. Even though she was at work, the bluff kept me to within a line of sight on Highland Ave.
I'd surely heard the song before, but the vibe on that day seemed fraught with portent, like the impending storm. The string dissonances in the opening bars are probably not any more avant garde than "Chopsticks," but when the girls started singing, there was something pinched-up about the sound that smelled like trouble to my little shell-like ears. They sounded upset, smoldering in rage even. About to make with the tears just like the sky. I don't remember if it actually rained that afternoon.
Today the weather seemed identical, and so I put on my "7th" iPod playlist while puttering in the weeds and dirt, wondering if the experience might replicate. It did. Mist began condensing out of the clouds about an hour ago. But this time the sky let loose for real while I was composing the previous paragraph. And there's no more sunlight than if it were 8:45 pm (instead of 5:15).
I'm not offering any particular point except that multisensory memory can transport a person out of his current skin, and that in turn can be stimulated by technology with the aim of excavating a stratum of past experience. Why not? Did you do anything more profound than that this afternoon?
Sweet Talkin' Guy, The Chiffons (1966), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.
I think I finally figured out something about blogging
*
[CONTEXT]
As I say, I think I finally figured out something about blogging.
[CONTEXT]
As I say, I think I finally figured out something about blogging.
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