September 30, 2012 · 3:32 pm

un–

Wild Horses Running, Lisa Dearing

 

 

un—2  prefix added to verbs:  1  denoting the reversal or cancellation of an action or state: untie | unsettle.  2  denoting deprivation, separation, or reduction to a lesser state: unmask |  unhand.  Old English un-, on-, of Germanic origin; related to Dutch ont- and German ent-

(from The New Oxford English Dictionary, copyright 2005)

 

 

A Catalogue of Loss and Gain: The Doing of Un

 

Here’s a theory: we spend our whole lives trying to un ourselves.

Sometimes, the unning is good for us. We undo patterns that no longer serve us. We unfetter ourselves from belief systems that limit us. We unearth what we really desire and we unwrite the narrative that we do not deserve all these dreams, these longings. We unmask so that others can see us for who we really are. We unclutter. We unbolt. We unarm.

Sometimes, the unning does us harm. We un all over ourselves. We rename ourselves: Unable, Unacceptable, Undeserving. We declare events and situations unbearable, and thus strip ourselves of our earned and ever-present power. We decide life should be unchanging and so we hold so tightly onto what is that we can’t see what is possible. We declare our life’s work Untitled because we are too terrified to name it imperfectly. We’d rather call it nothing than be imprecise, than be exposed for our lack of poeticism.

Right now, the moon is full and in Aries. This is a time abundant with potential, but potential that comes from the deepest of rifts. We must let go and abandon previous ways of being. We must un in order to make space for what will be birthed. We must cancel that which does not serve us to make space for that which will. We un and in doing so lose our footing, our sense of who we are and what we know, in order to make room for an uncertain future which will weave us back together in ways we could never imagine. We unharness our unyielding hold on what the future must be in order to allow it to come into what it will be, one breath and one moment at a time.

Un sounds like fun but it can be the opposite: loss, separation, reduction. Un sounds like won but it is about losing. Un sounds like done but is about undoing. Un cancels. Un annuls. Un reprieves and deprives. It both lessens and augments: what’s lost is gone and yet what’s lost becomes mythic, legendary in proportion. It both no longer is and exists in a size and measure it never did when it wasn’t un.

And yet, un brings offerings. Un brings, even in its negation, the imaginings of what is possible. It speaks to possibility on the other side. If there is unbelief, belief is possible. If we deem something unworthy, how might worthiness be seen? If something is unheard of, who is not able or willing to hear? Which limitations and negations are merely semantic ones made only by our need to constrain and define?

We are talking about irony and paradox and contradiction in my writing classes. How often these instances occur in literature and in life. How can it be possible that in unfastening and unbuckling, we could be held together more securely? That unmarking sometimes brings more attention to the canvas than the mark itself? That in unwinding a spool, we become more aware of the constraint of thread? That in unmaking something, we are aware so keenly of the steps and materials that allowed the thing to take shape? That in unbridling, we find, finally, both the freedom and the restraint we seek.

 

 

 

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September 26, 2012 · 12:20 pm

the dictionary project author interview: andrea scher

 

On this fourth Wednesday of September, the dictionary project is pleased to host the musings of the inspired and inspiring Andrea Scher. I first became aware of Andrea’s creative work–among her many creative gifts, she is an amazing photographer and thoughtful writer–through her blog Superhero Journal, which has recently been transformed into the gorgeous Superhero Life. Her work is honest, compassionate, and rooted in inquiry into the big life questions we all face. Through her creativity, Andrea invites others to embrace their own artist selves. Enjoy!

 

by Andrea Scher

 

1.  Please share a memory/story/thought in relation to a dictionary/dictionaries:

In college, after a long game of Balderdash over many glasses of red wine, my friends and I started asking the dictionary questions and randomly pointing to words in response.

“What should be the name of my first born child?” Drivel.

“What is the meaning of life?” Nothing.

And then, we started to get creeped out. As we passed the dictionary around, we started getting more and more accurate responses. My friend Laura, the most woo-woo in the room, asked, “Who is sending us these messages?” She got the word, magpie.

We thought this was charming, a little bird whispering in our ear. We later discovered that in Native American folklore, the magpie is the messenger between the two worlds…. I have been asking the dictionary big questions ever since.

 


2. What is your current favorite word?

discern.


 

3. What, in your opinion, is the most obnoxious/insidious/annoying word?

When people add the suffix “gasm” to other, otherwise totally harmless words.

 

 

4. What word has been your muse?

courage

 

 

5. What word feels like coming home?

Schmatta

I love Yiddish words in general, but this one feels like home. I heard it for the first time in my twenties when my first-ever Jewish friend told me, “Don’t forget your schmatta!” (little sweater) Every time I hear that word or say it myself I feel like I belong to something bigger. Something bigger than religion or culture, a kind of belonging that is everyday and homespun.

 

 

6. Please respond to the following words and definitions*, picked exclusively at random for you:


 

Sze·chwan  (ˈsech-ˌwän; Chin. ˈsooch-ˌwän),  n.  a province of central China: area, 156,675 sq. mi.; pop., 47,108,000 (est. 1947); capital, Chengtu; chief city, Chungking.

 

We are Jewish and therefore spent a lot of time at Chinese restaurants on Christmas. My parents ordered the same thing every time—cashew chicken, spring rolls (extra crisp) and Mongolian beef. For many years, I didn’t know there were any other dishes. Or menus at Chinese restaurants.

 

 

da·do  (ˈdādō),  n.  [pl. DADOES (-dōz)], [It., a die, die-shaped part of pedestal, hence pedestal < L. datum, a die, lit., what is given; see DATE],  1.  part of a pedestal between the cap and the base.  2.  the lower part of the wall of a room if decorated differently from the upper part, as with panels or an ornamental order.

 

Dado is what my boys sometimes call my husband. Dada. Dado.

 

 

cro·chet  (krō-ˈshā),  n.  [Fr., small hook; see CROTCHET],  a kind of knitting done with one hooked needle.  v.t. & v.i.  [CROCHETED (-shād’), CROCHETING], to knit with such a  needle.

 

When I was about ten I became obsessed with crocheting granny squares. Trouble is I never figured out how to weave them together into a blanket, so I had just had an ever-growing collection of squares accumulating in the closet.

This is when You Tube how–to videos would have come in handy.

 

 

ground (ground),  n.  [ME. grounde, grund; AS. Grund, sea bottom, etc. (cf. GROUND SWELL); akin to G. grund; ? IE> *ghren-to, what is touched in passing over < base *gren-, to rub against, etc.; cf. GRIND],  1.  a)  originally, the lowest part, base, or bottom of anything. b)  the bottom of the sea.  2.  the solid surface of the earth.  3.  the soil of the earth; earth; land: as, he tills the ground.  4.  any particular piece of land; especially, one set aside for a specified purpose: as, a hunting ground.  5.  any particular area of reference, discussion, work, etc.; topic; subject: as, let us go over the ground again.  6.  the distance to a goal, objective, position, etc.  7.  basis; foundation; groundwork.  8.  often pl. the logical basis of a conclusion, action, etc.; valid reason, motive, or cause.  9.  the background or surface over which other parts are spread or laid, as the main surface of a painting.  10.  in electricity, the connection of an electrical conductor with the ground: abbreviated grd.  See also grounds.  adj.  1.  of, on, or near the ground.  2.  to cause (a ship, etc.) to run aground.  3.  to found on a firm basis; establish.  4.  to base (a claim, argument, etc.) on: as, ground your claims on fact.  5.  to instruct (a person) in the elements or first principles of.  6.  to provide with a background.  7.  in aviation, to cause to remain on the ground; keep from flying: as, the plane was grounded by bad weather.  8.  in electricity, to connect (an electrical conductor) with the ground, which becomes part of the circuit.  v.i.  1.  to strike or fall to the ground.  2.  to strike the bottom or run ashore: said of a ship.  3.  in baseball, to be put out on a grounder (usually with out).

 

I want to be grounded. I want people to say, “She’s so grounded. I just love being with her.” Instead I am more inclined toward anxious. High strung. Vigilant. I rush to yoga. I shuttle my kids along the sidewalk quickly, for no good reason. I have to remind myself to slow down.

I get panic attacks. They crop up mysteriously at times– looking at Google maps, changing a diaper – then, post-attack, I am in for another week of anxiety. Always trying to catch my breath, afraid I’m not getting enough air. Various shades of these symptoms have plagued me for most of my adult life.

But I want to be grounded. Actually no, as I write this, I see that it’s not even grounded that I’m after. It’s light. It’s light-hearted. It’s caring a bit less. It’s trusting a bit more. It’s holding it all more lightly.

 

 

sal·ta·tion  (sal-ˈtā-shən, sȯl-),  n.  [L. saltatio, a dancing, dance < saltatus, pp. of saltare, to leap],  1.  a leaping, jumping, or dancing.  2.  sudden change, movement, or development, as if by leaping.  3.  palpitation or throbbing, as of an artery.  4.  in biology, mutation.

 

I have an enormous collection of jumping photos. Somehow, having my subject suspended in mid-air always has a certain magical quality — an air of celebration, of appreciating life, and aliveness. These are things that can feel hard to attain sometimes, but I am always reaching for them. These photos help.

 

Andrea Scher, photo by Jen Downer

 

 

Andrea Scher is an artist, photographer, and life coach. Through her award-winning blog Superhero Journal and e-courses, Mondo Beyondo, Superhero Photo and Cultivating Courage, Andrea will inspire you to find your passions, dream big and say YES to the life you’ve always wanted.

Andrea is also a supermom (no capes, just courage) to two adorable boys named Ben and Nico. She is the co-author of a wonderful book called Expressive Photography: The Shutter Sisters Guide to Shooting from the Heart.

*Definitions taken from Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language, copyright 1955.

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September 12, 2012 · 11:04 am

the dictionary project author interview: margaret kimball

 

 

This week, I’m so pleased to share with you an interview with author/illustrator extraordinaire Margaret Kimball. Margi’s work reflects her quick mind, her quick wit, and the ease with which she navigates/blurs/confronts the (often artificial) boundaries of written language and visual image. Enjoy!

 

1.   Please share a memory/story/thought in relation to a dictionary/dictionaries:

 

 

2.   What is your current favorite word?

 

 
 
3. What, in your opinion, is the most obnoxious/insidious/annoying word?

 

 

4. Please respond to the following words and definitions*, picked exclusively and randomly for you:


padded cell, a cell, or room, lined with heavy, soft material for the confinement of violently deranged patients or prisoners.

 

 

bar·rier  (barēər)  n.  [ME. barrere;  OFr. barriere  <  barre; see BAR, n.]  1.  originally, a fortress, stockade, etc. for defending an entrance or gate.  2.  a thing that prevents going ahead or approaching; obstruction, as a fence, wall, etc.  3.  anything that holds apart or separates: as, shyness was a barrier between them.  4.  a boundary or limitation.  5.  a customs gate on a country’s border.  6.  [sometimes B-], the part of the south solar ice sheet that extends into the sea.—SYN.  see obstacle.

 

 

pal·i·node  (pa-lə-ˌnōd),  n.  [MFR. palinod; LL. palinodia; Gr. palinoidia  <  palin, again  + oide, song: see ODE],  1.  an ode or poem written to retract something said in a previous poem; hence,  2.  a retraction.

 

 

United Nations,  an international organization formed January 2, 1942, by the nations opposed to the fascist coalition of Germany, Japan, Italy, and their satellites. The 26 nations that met to form the organization were: the United States, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, China, Australia, Belgium, Canda, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Norway, Panama, Poland, Costa Rica, Cuba, Czechoslovakia, the Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Greece, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, India, the Union of South Africa, and Yugoslavia; as original members joining the preceding nations in 1945 were Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, the Byelorussian S.S.R., Chile, Columbia, Denmark, Ecuador, Egypt, Ethiopia, France, Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Liberia, Mexico, Paraguay, Peru, the Philippines, Saudi Arabia, Syria, Turkey, the Ukrainian S.S.R., Uruguay, and Venezuela; by 1950, additional nations that had become members were Afghanistan, Burma, Iceland, Indonesia, Israel, Pakistan, Thailand, Sweden, and Yemen. The members were organized to promote world peace and security under a permanent charter at San Francisco in May and June, 1945, and since 1946 have had their headquarters in New York City: abbreviated UN, U.N.

 

 

cer·ti·fy  (sər-tə-ˌfī),  v.t. [CERTIFIED (-fid’), CERTIFYING], [ME. certifien; OFr. certifier; ML. certificare; see CERTIFICATE]  1.  to declare (a thing) true, accurate, certain, etc. by formal statement, often in writing; verify; attest; hence,  2.  to declare officially insane; send to an asylum or similar institution.  3.  to guarantee the quality or worth of; vouch for; as, the bank must certify your check.  4.  [Archaic], to assure; make certain.  v.i.   to testify (to).  –SYN.  see approve.

 

 

 

*these definitions were bibliomanced from Webster’s New World Edition: College Edition, copyright 1955.

 

Margaret Kimball lives and teaches in Boston, Massachusetts. She was a resident at Yaddo this summer and her work has recently appeared in Defunct, DIAGRAM and Copper Nickel. She’s currently figuring out how to spend next summer living in a tree house in Central America.

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August 22, 2012 · 9:47 pm

the dictionary project author interview: amaranth borsuk

 

Today, I am pleased to share with you an author interview with the amazing Amaranth Borsuk. Amaranth, not the author but the word, refers to “a cosmopolitan genus of herbs. Approximately 60 species are recognized, with inflorescences and foliage ranging from purple and red to gold.” And if you haven’t seen Amaranth Borsuk’s book Between Page and Screen (a collaboration with programmer Brad Bouse), you should probably check it out right about now (click here). Please enjoy her interview below!

 

 

 


1. Please share a memory/story/thought in relation to a dictionary/dictionaries:

When I was preparing to apply for jobs a few years ago, my friend Andrew and I did mock interviews for one another. He asked me what book I’d like to be stranded on an island with, and I drew a blank. I eventually came up with The Library of America edition of Stein’s work, but wasn’t satisfied with my own answer. His was awesome: the Oxford English Dictionary. I was terribly jealous that I hadn’t come up with it. I still love that answer, but the more I think about it, I’d rather be stranded with the American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Word Roots. It’s my go-to book because more than etymologies, it shows you relationships among words (often unexpected) that share a common root, which is what really drives my fascination with language. It leaves a lot up to one’s imagination. It’s also much more portable than the OED.

 

2. What is your current favorite word?

Saddle. I love the way it implies motion while holding one in place. One might be saddled with a burden of some kind, but the saddle itself, on a horse, a bike, a shoe, provides a means of transport.

More than that, I love that saddle has a little sadness in it—perhaps it’s the melancholy of language that wants to be in motion, but that is being held back. The word has been on my mind because I’ve been spending some time with Stein’s “Yet Dish,” which includes this delightfully conflicted poem:

Tea Fulls.

Pit it pit it little saddle pear say.

In her typically punny way (typical for this long poem in parts, anyway, written during WWI while she was developing the style of Tender Buttons), Stein reminds us that tea is made with a beautiful tea-full: a petite, pitted little saddle percée (pierced, you could say pitted, with little holes through which the tea seeps). A tea strainer thus weeps tears through its little holes because it is a little sad: a saddle. Its immobility allows the motion of water through leaves to produce a comforting hot drink. Motion and stasis, beauty and sadness all wrapped up in a pun at once linguistic and visual. Those strainers that perch across the lip of a cup do look a bit like saddles.

 

3. What, in your opinion, is the most obnoxious/insidious/annoying word?

For me it’s cleave. Oh the tempting cleave, with its implications of both conjunction and rupture. Cleave and cleave!! Cleave is like a drug for me. After reading my first manuscript, my father said “You use the word cleave a lot.” That’s when I knew it had become insidious. I would never, or rarely, use it in conversation, yet it keeps creeping into my poems. I’m trying to kick it out.

 

4. Please respond to the following words and definitions*, picked exclusively at random for you:

 

stare  v.  gaze steadily –n.  long, steady look

taser: a geeky old lead toy: zing sans volt.

 

e·lon·gate  v.  lengthen  — e·lon·gat·ion n. 

get·alone: navel on, gentle nothing.


sting  v.  stung, sting·ing  1  to hurt with a sting  2  cause or feel sharp pain  —   n.  1 a stinging, or pain from it  2  sharp part in some plants, bees, etc. that pricks: also sting·er

tings: tungs, ting·ings  1 to sing with a truth  2 fail or curse neap phase — n. 1 a singing, or main profit 2 harps in some arts that respect black pen tips: also ting·ers

 

through·out  adv., prep. in every part (of)

our·thought: verve parade; nifty prop

 

bawd·y  a.  —i·er, —i·est  lewd yet humorous  —bawd·i·ness

weary·idea·bits: you must heel, word —bad·sinews

 

 

Amaranth Borsuk is the author of Handiwork (Slope Editions, 2012), selected by Paul Hoover for the 2011 Slope Books Prize, the chapbook Tonal Saw (The Song Cave, 2010), and, with programmer Brad Bouse, of the book of augmented-reality poems Between Page and Screen (Siglio, 2012). Her creative work spans translation, performance, book arts, and electronic literature, and she collaborates with a number of authors, including Kate Durbin, Gabriela Jauregui, and Andy Fitch. She joins the faculty in the MFA in creative writing and poetics at the University of Washington, Bothell this fall.

 

*Amaranth’s words were bibliomanced from Webster’s New Pocket Dictionary (copyright 2000)

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August 15, 2012 · 12:36 pm

rip·ple

Film still from Amelie


 
Today, the dictionary project is pleased to share with you the winning entry from the first write this word contest.  Here is “Carried Forward” by Kristina Roth, inspired by the word ripple!
 
 
rip·ple  (ˈripəl),  v.t.  [RIPPLED  (-id), RIPPLING], [Early Mod. Eng.; orig. of stormy, dangerous water; hence prob.  <  rip, v.  +  -le,  freq. suffix],  1.  to form of have little waves or undulating movements on the surface, as water or grass stirred by a breeze.  2.  to flow with such waves or movements on the surface.  3.  a)  to make a sound like that of rippling water.  b)  to proceed with an effect like that of rippling water: said of sound.  v.t.  1.  to cause to ripple.  2.  to give a wavy or undulating form or appearance to. n.  1.  a small wave or undulation, as on the surface of water.  2.  a movement, appearance, or formation resembling or suggesting this. 3.  a sound like that of rippling water.  4.  a small rapid.  –SYN. see wave.
 
 

Carried Forward

 
That summer, I attend aqua aerobics classes with a handful of elderly women, where I can float and swim with no crowds. Their soft, saggy upper arms wiggle as we raise plastic dumbbells overhead. I find childlike delight in the water. I wonder if you feel as buoyant in your amniotic fluid as I do in the pool.  Sometimes I have to stop moving and stand still because the intermittent waves of morning sickness don’t combine well with the splashes and slaps of the water as we bounce up and down with our foam noodles.

My doctors are ultrasound crazy.  I see you on the screen many times and imagine waves of sound moving around your body.  At thirteen weeks, your tiny arms curl and uncurl on the screen, and I see that your vertebrae have unfurled down your spine with precision.

You travel to many places that summer. We circle the continent in our comings and goings, making loops back and forth between Houston and more beautiful places.  Your father and I trace our history and at the same time turn outward to imagine our future, turning to places we’ve already been, and some we haven’t, wondering what travel and life will be like once you arrive.

In New Mexico, I sit on the edge of the hotel bathtub and run mountain-cold water over my dusty feet. The sand from my toes is carried down the tub drain by small ripples. I buy tiny, sweet strawberries at the Santa Fe farmer’s market.  Miniscule seeds speckle their red flesh, beginning in a tight whorl at the tip of each berry and spiraling out into wider rings toward the stem.  On the way to Taos, we stop at a state park.  I stand and watch a small, clear stream running over its rocky bottom while your dad hikes up to a raging waterfall.  He shows me a picture of it later, water pounding in a steady rage over a cliff.

In South Dakota, your dad and I walk deep into the woods behind Pactola Lake, following the course of Rapid Creek.  He finds the biggest slate pieces he can lift and swings them into the moving water.  They crash loudly on the stream’s surface before sinking to the bottom, the impact sending small circular waves toward the banks.  I don’t know why he thinks this is so amusing.  Ferns are unfurling themselves along the forest floor, tips tightly closed as they lean upward and unroll themselves toward the sun.

In Minnesota, I do the dishes when we visit my mom, your grandma.  She’s only 56, but her dementia is moving quickly.  Sometimes she will pick up the dishrag and dip it into and out of the soapy water, drops puddling back into the sink from the soaked rag. We visit the largest farmer’s market I’ve ever seen – stands of vegetables, fruit, flowers, and baked goods march onward in even rows.

In Oregon, we rise early, at low tide, and chase to the shore as I did fourteen years previous.  The waves flatten on the wide beach. Each footstep in the shallow water makes a lovely splish-splash.  I scan the beach for sand dollars, wanting to find them before the flat waves that brought them in carry them back out.  Mesmerizing patterns cover the beach, ripples in the sand replicating the ripples of water that have disappeared. Rivulets begin to run into the tide pools as the morning moves toward noon.

In Pennsylvania, we baptize another godchild.  She is dunked three times into the large metal font, water splashing up and beyond the lip, white towels already piled around the base. Their folds rise and fall along the floor.  In less than a year, it will be your turn for this ancient immersion.

Your limbs move visibly across my stomach as you turn inside.  Some women call their contractions waves.  I suppose they do start slowly and then build in intensity as a wave does, and to me, they are as violent as the waves we saw pounding a rocky shore in Maine, water still pouring out of the clefts as each new wave came in. I wanted to use a tub for at least part of my labor, but medical interventions make that impossible. We watch the undulations of my contractions on the screen, another line below charting the valleys and peaks of your heartbeat.  The two lines are not as synchronized as they should be. I wear a mask, oxygen flowing into my lungs, not for myself but to try to help you. They break my water, thinking it will speed labor. White towels are put out to catch the stream.  A photo shows the doctor grasping you as you emerge, a circle of fluid radiating around your head.

You sleep next to me at home and little pools of milk spread out in circles on the sheets.  You nurse and then rest, nurse and then rest, rhythmically swallowing.  Blue-white milk streams down your chin and onto your neck.

Two weeks old, you relax visibly as the warm water I pour over your scalp trickles down your shoulders.  Eighteen months later, you still want me pour water over you in the tub, protesting with a little grunt when I stop. You are mesmerized by the thin cascades of water running down your skin. You hold your hands under the hose as water sprays in a circle onto the perennials, wiggle your fingers in the dog’s water bowl.  You pick up the bowl and dump it onto the floor into a huge spreading puddle if I don’t catch you in time.

Each month of your life expands my own, rings of experience and memory growing bigger with time, carrying the three of us forward just as the flattened waves in Oregon slide sand dollars out of the ocean depths and onto the level sand, into the wide open.
 
 
 
 
Kristina Roth is a native of South Dakota but now lives in Houston with her family and dogs. Her work has been published in Platte Valley Review, Blue Line, Relief, and other literary journals. Her artwork and photos have been published in several Somerset magazine titles and online at Shutter Sisters, WhipUp, and forthcoming at South Dakota Magazine online.
 
Notes on “Carried Forward”: I’ve been processing my son’s arrival and growth and my new identity as a mother for almost two years now. Writing has been crucial in helping me examine these topics.  The word ripple seemed to magically provide a new framework within which to reflect upon my pregnancy and son’s birth.  The idea of ripple gave me a fresh way to define and describe these events.  Having a word limit was also very freeing and refreshing, as it made me focus on key images and events without getting sidetracked. This essay was written during naptimes and came together more quickly than my pieces usually do, probably because these events have been on my mind so much.

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August 12, 2012 · 5:25 pm

par·ish

Flags in Barrio Viejo, Tucson, Lisa O’Neill


 
par·ish   /ˈpariSH/  n.  1  part of diocese under a priest, etc.  2  church congregation.
 
When I was small, my Sundays were ordered by ritual. By ironed dresses and clean shoes, by getting out the front door by a particular time, by entering a room with tile floors and crossing myself with water, by singing certain songs, by speaking certain words, by listening when I was made to listen and speaking when I was supposed to speak. By holding hands with my parents and shaking hands with strangers around me. By walking in a line, by receiving a white disc in my hands, by placing it on my tongue and letting it dissolve. When I was small, I loved all of this. I loved saying “Peace be with you” to those around me. I loved the smell of incense and the burn of the candles. I loved a place where I knew how things would be, and a space where others assured me God dwelled.

As I grew, I continued to take comfort in this space and these rituals, but I also came to understand that these particular ones were specific to the faith of my parents and this place.

I was raised in a place segmented and ordered by the Catholic religion. In Louisiana, the state is not divided into counties, but rather into parishes. Ascension Parish, St. Charles Parish, Vermillion Parish. An Our Father, a couple of Hail Marys and a place that rested its hopes in the sacred heart of Jesus, in the truth of the Trinity. I knew about faith long before I knew about politics and to me faith was defined in only one way, the way I knew: A parish was a place you lived. A parish was a place you worshipped. A parish was a place where you lived and worshipped. Wasn’t it that way everywhere?

In July, I went to Patti Smith’s Camera Solo exhibition at the Detroit Institute of Art Museum. From reading her memoir and viewing her art, I recognize some similarities in those of us who were born and raised Catholic. Many of us seem to carry through our lives a sense of connection to ritual, to objects as talisman, to the holiness of everyday things.

Most of Patti Smith’s photos are not of people or landscapes. They are portraits of objects, and they capture materials suspended in a moment: a tea cup, the crease on a bed, a pair of embroidered slippers.  She has photographed the beds of Virginia Woolf  and John Keats. She has photographed the slippers of her friend and former lover Robert Mapplethorpe and of Pope Benedict XV. She has photographed her father’s cup and her own guitar.
 

Virginia Woolf’s Bed 1, Monk’s House, Patti Smith

Herman Hesse’s Typewriter, Patti Smith

Robert’s Slippers, Patti Smith

Robert Bolano’s Chair, Patti Smith

 

In an interview for the exhibition, Patti Smith says that she has always been talismanic and that she “fell in love with art and it eclipsed everything, even religion.” She uses a Land 250 Polaroid camera to take her black and white photographs, which seem to capture both the material solidity of objects and the artist’s fleeting exposure to them at once. What I like most about her photographs are their intimacy and their immediacy. I am positioned as viewer in relation to the object, and I feel the same closeness to the subjects as Smith. There is artistry in not only in the composition but in the way Smith invites the reader into this intimate relationship with the objects, to view them as she herself experiences them. We feel the intimacy there even if we are not directly part of it. She discusses how by photographing the objects of loved ones, mentors, and artists, she is capturing a part of them. Of photographing many artists’ beds, she says: “We have extraordinary things happen in beds. We sleep, we conceive. We make love. We are ill in our beds. We recuperate. So beds are very important in our lives.” Our beds, these physical objects, hold so much of our lives, those moments both awake and dreaming, and the times in which we are most vulnerable.

When I left Catholicism abruptly after a longer period of edging away, I hadn’t yet realized that these impulses and instincts to ritual, to the sacredness of things are not particular to the Catholic Church or to religion for that matter. Afterall, the rituals of religion are inventions of the human mind; we make ritual to make sense of our life: of birth and death, of grief and struggle, of growing up and growing older, of love and sacrifice. I had a break with the church and with God as I’d known him, but the aliveness in me, the sense of something larger than myself, the knowing that we humans were not it did not go away. Neither did my appreciation for the sense of ritual and way of recognizing sacred that before I’d only recognized in my Catholic faith.

 

Paint on door, The Heidelberg Project, Detroit, Lisa O’Neill

Wooden Archway, Bisbee, Lisa O'Neill

Wooden Archway, Bisbee, Lisa O’Neill

Breakfast, Tucson, Lisa O’Neill

Close-up Tibetan Sand Mandala, Tucson, Lisa O’Neill

Close-up Sculpture, Phoenix Art Museum, Lisa O’Neill

Circus Tent, Venice Beach, CA, Lisa O’Neill

 

This recognizing the sacred is a way of looking, of being, of seeing. I don’t need to believe Jesus is savior to love Gospel music. I don’t need to know Hebrew to hear the solemnity in prayer at Pesach. The feeling of mala beads brushing up against my fingers is not so different from the feeling I used to have when my hands held a rosary. We import the meaning onto that which we celebrate, onto the things that allow us physical reminders of our more abstract beliefs. These things are both empty and full at the same time.

It took me a long time to realize that I get to decide what is sacred for me. That no one else can impose that on me. I began to realize that I can create the sacred in my own life. That I can make ritual and disassemble ritual. That I can shift and collage and shape my spiritual life, which is to say: my life, in whatever way I choose.

And so I find the sacred now whenever I think to look, which is often: in the birds that roost on branches and wires and cacti around my house, in the quick text message from my mom or dad, in the way light hits the floor in my kitchen, in the way my dog snuggles up against my chest in the morning. And in recognizing the sacred in the present moment, I don’t have to wait for the thunderbolt of divine blessing. The divine blessing is already here with me. I only have to be still, to witness it as it unfolds.

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August 10, 2012 · 1:23 pm

write this word contest results!

Lisa O’Neill, Tucson Pie Party 2011

 

We were surprised and impressed with the number of entries received for our first write this word contest at the dictionary project. With many excellent entries, it was difficult to narrow down to choose our prize winners. We extend our gratitude to all those who participated in writing the word ripple and in submitting their work to us.

Judges for this contest were: Lisa O’Neill, creator and editor of the dictionary project, Elizabeth Frankie Rollins, Aisha Sabatini Sloan, and Arianne Zwartjes. While Lisa O’Neill received the submissions and thus knew which entry belonged to which author, the other judges read blindly.

The pictures accompanying this post are from Tucson’s Annual Pie Party, where dozens of Tucsonans labor over a hot stove in the May heat to bake pies. Pies are then judged and given awards by category. I’ve been thinking about awards and ribbons lately as we were judging the contest and preparing to announce the awardees and as I have been watching the Summer Olympics many evenings. Do you know where the tradition of giving blue ribbons for first place comes from? It comes from The Blue Riband, the honor awarded the passenger ship crossing the Atlantic Ocean against the Gulf Stream with the record highest speed. Before that, the Blue Riband was given out in horse racing. But the tradition of blue ribbons being associated with excellence and nobility goes back even farther to the Cordon Bleu: the name given to the blue ribbons worn by an order of knights. Second place ribbons are red and third place are yellow. All primary colors. I was unable to find information on why red and yellow are given for second and third place.

And now, without further ado, we are so pleased to share with you our winners.

 

Lisa O’Neill, Tucson Pie Party 2011

 

In third place with her entry “Ripple” is Lisa M. Cole.  Lisa will receive a yearlong subscription to Poets & Writers Magazine.

 

Lisa O’Neill, Tucson Pie Party 2011

 

In second place with her entry “The Women I’m From” is Judy Lee Green.  Judy will receive a $30 award and a pocket dictionary.

 

Lisa O’Neill, Tucson Pie Party 2011

 

And our winner of the write this word contest, who will receive $50 and publication on the dictionary project website, is Kristina Roth. Roth’s essay “Carried Forward” will be published on August 15.

 

Honorable mentions go to:

“The Question of New” by Mary Buchinger

“These Ithakas” by Lesley Dame

“Reckoning with Wreckage” by Peg Duthie

“Lakehouse” by Brendan Lynaugh

“Never Live Next Door to a Writer” by Donna Steiner

 

Again, thanks to all those who entered. Stay tuned for the winning entry, to be posted on August 15.

 

Lisa O’Neill, Tucson Pie Party 2011

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July 15, 2012 · 5:46 pm

m

 

 

 

 

m            \ˈem\     noun, often capitalized often attributive plural m’s or ms

1  a : the 13th letter of the English alphabet b : a graphic representation of this letter c : a speech counterpart of orthographic m

2  : one thousand — see number table

3  : a graphic device for reproducing the letter m

4  : one designated m especially as the 13th in order or class

5  : something shaped like the letter M

6  a : em 2 b : pica 2

 

 

 

Mmmmmmmm. In a low register or a high. Denoting pleasure. Denoting angst. Denoting agreement. Noting a passing of time or a passing away. Nothing. Noting. Noting nothing. Noting that first bite or that last. Noting the time when. Denoting no time when. The time when nothing was noted. Noting mouth on the neck, behind the ear. Noting the feeling of fingers on the body. In place of a sigh. In place of a breath. In place, a moan. Moaning. M. m. Mmmmm. The letter repeated makes a space for itself without meaning. Full of meaning. Meaning something specific. Meaning registered only in the body of the utterer. An utterance that says, this, yes, this, means yes, the moment of intake, outtake, the moment where voice must be realized, the moment sound quakes the air. M.

 

 

 

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July 11, 2012 · 11:09 am

the dictionary project author interview: cheryl strayed

Today is the second Wednesday of July and time for an author interview at the dictionary project. I’m thrilled to share that today we have an interview with Cheryl Strayed, author of the bestselling memoir WILD and the voice of “Dear Sugar” at The Rumpus. Her newest book Tiny Beautiful Things, released yesterday, culls together many of her “Dear Sugar” columns along with some new additions. I first became familiar with Cheryl’s writing when she was writing anonymously as the voice of Sugar. I was immediately captivated not only by her beautiful writing but by the compassion, sincerity, and strength of her voice. Cheryl’s voice is so needed in our world. Her writing wrestles the with big questions and does so with insightful, smart, beautifully-crafted language.  Please enjoy this sampling.

 

Photo Credit: Brian Lindstrom

 

1.   Please share a memory/story/thought in relation to a dictionary/dictionaries:

“Look it up in the dictionary” was a common refrain in my childhood. It was what my mother said to me whenever I asked her what a particular word meant. I would sigh and pretend to be put out, but really I loved looking up words in the dictionary. I still do. When I was 12 or so I spent several weeks reading my family’s dictionary in search of antiquated words. When I found one I liked, I’d add it to a list I kept, along with its definition. This is how I learned words like prick-me-dainty, flibbertigibbet, and honeyfuggle. I’ve spent the subsequent years using them in conversation whenever I can.


2.   What is your current favorite word?

I think supercalifragilisticexpialidocious will always be my favorite word. There’s just so much joy in it. Favorite words have been on my mind a lot over this past year, during which I did the final edits of my two most recent books—WILD and TINY BEAUTIFUL THINGS. In that process I got to see what my favorite words were because my editor, Robin Desser, pointed them out to me with her all-seeing editor’s pencil. In the first draft of WILD I used the word ache an awful lot. In TINY BEAUTIFUL THINGS my overused word was heal. Funny how those two words are opposites in many ways and there they were in my two back-to-back books. We heal our aches. We ache to heal

 

3.  What, in your opinion, is the most obnoxious/insidious/annoying word?

Maiden. As in one’s “maiden name.” Whenever anyone asks me what my maiden name is I have an internal hissy fit. The string of assumptions that go along with the notion that women have “maiden” names makes me crazy—the primary one being that a woman married a man and took his name. I do not have a maiden name, but I do have a different name than the one I had when I was younger and that name change has nothing to do with my status as a so-called “maiden,” nor does it have to do with my husband. When I explain this to the various customer service people who dare to inquire about my maiden name they generally act as if I’m speaking Latin, but I persist anyway. It’s my small part for the advancement of humankind.

 

4.  Please respond to the following words and definitions, picked exclusively and randomly for you:

 

 

pho·to·graph·ic  (fō-tə-ˈgra-fik),  adj.  1.  of or like a photograph or photography: as, his photographic writing.  2.  used in or made by photography, as equipment, records, etc. Abbreviated phot. photog. 


There has been too much photography in my life lately. Too many times when I’m standing there in front of the camera trying to figure out what the hell to do with my mouth. In my experience it’s the mouth that’s hardest to get right. One must hold it in a position that conveys intelligence and attractiveness, calm approachability as well as serious intensity. Usually I just give up and smile.


 

bar·ris·ter  (ˈber-ə-stər),  n.  [< bar  (court of justice)],  in England, a qualified member of the legal profession who presents and pleads cases in court; counselor-at-law: distinguished from solicitor: abbreviated barr., bar.—SYN. see lawyer.

 

I’ve never understood this word, so I tend to avoid it. Even reading this definition, I still feel unsure. Is a barrister an attorney? What’s a solicitor? When I hear the word barrister I picture a man in a white shirt with lots of ruffles at the front. It isn’t a good thing.

 

 

roup  (rüp),  n.  [prob.  < ME. roupen, to cry, shout  < ON., but akin to AS. hropan, G. rufen, to call],  1.  a poultry disease characterized by hoarseness and a catarrhal discharge from the eyes and nasal passages.  2.  hoarseness; huskiness.

 

Interesting that the roup is so close to the word croup—one is a respiratory disease in birds, the other in humans. My kids never had croup, I’m glad to say, but I always liked the sound of it. It’s a word I’m attracted to, you could say. It reminds me of the American pioneers. Did Laura Ingalls Wilder have croup? Did her family’s flock of chickens have roup? I had chickens as a teenager, mostly hens whom we called The Girls. They never got roup to my knowledge, but one of them nearly died after she got an egg stuck inside of her. My mother devised a homemade hen douche and douched her, thereby saving her life. True story.

 

 

stay  (stā),  v.i.  [STAYED (stād) or archaic STAID (stād), STAYING], [ME. staien; Anglo-Fr. estaier; OFr. ester; L. stare, to stand] 1.  to continue in the place or condition specified; remain; keep: as, stay at home, the weather stayed bad for three days, these clothes won’t stay white.  2.  to be located for a while, especially as a guest or resident; live, dwell, or reside (for the time specified).  3.  to stand still; stop; halt.  4.  to pause; tarry; wait; delay: as, stay a little before going on with your labors.  5.  [Colloq.], to keep up, as with another contestant in a race.  7.  [Archaic], to cease.  8. [Archaic], to make a stand, stand one’s ground.  9.  in poker, to remain in a hand by seeing, or meeting, a bet, ante, or raise.  v.t.  1.  to stop, halt, or check.  2.  to hinder, impede, restrain, or detain.  3.  to postpone or delay (legal action or proceedings).  4.  [Rare], to quell or allay (strike, etc.).  5.  to satisfy or appease for a time the pangs or cravings of (thirst, appetite, etc.).  6.  to remain through, during, for, or (with out)to the end of: as, stay the week (out).  7.  [Archaic], to await; wait for.  n.  1.  a)  a stopping or being stopped.  b) a stop, halt, check, or pause.  2.  a postponement or delay in legal action or proceedings: as, the main was given a stay of execution.  3.  a)  the action of remaining or continuing in a place for a time.  b)  time spent in a place: as, she had a long stay in the hospital.  4.  [Colloq.], staying power.  5.  [Archaic], a standstill.  6.  [Obs.], a)  a hindrance. b)  restraint or control.  c)  delay.

 

My favorite use of this word is the fifth definition: “to satisfy or appease for a time the pangs or cravings of….” I don’t use it nearly enough.

 

 

sift  (sift),  v.t.  [ME. siften; AS. siftan  <  sife, a sieve; askin to G. sichten; cf. SIEVE],  1.  to pass through a sieve so as to separate the course from the fine particles.  2.  to scatter (a pulverized substance) by or as by the use of a sieve.  3.  to inspect or examine with care, as by teasing or questioning; weigh (evidence, etc.).  4.  to separate; screen; distinguish: as, he sifted fact from fable.  v.i.  1.  to sift something.  2.  to pass through or as through a sieve.

 

The question I have is who sifts flour? Is it necessary or is it just another way of convincing ourselves we have more control than we do? I have wondered this often. The only time I’ve ever sifted flour is in the home economics classes I took in school, when I was required to follow specific steps and the tools were all laid out before me. Nothing bad has happened to me for not sifting my flour so far. No cakes have fallen. No bread ruined. I’ve taken my chances and it’s turned out okay. I’m lucky that way.

 

 

Cheryl Strayed is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the memoir WILD (Alfred A. Knopf), and the critically acclaimed novel, Torch (Houghton Mifflin). She has been writing the “Dear Sugar” advice column for The Rumpus since March 11, 2010 and her latest book, Tiny Beautiful Things (Vintage Books), is a collection of those columns.Her writing has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, the Washington Post Magazine, Vogue, Allure, Self, The Missouri Review, Brain, Child, Creative Nonfiction, The Sun and elsewhere. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

 

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June 27, 2012 · 9:43 am

the dictionary project author interview: aisha sabatini sloan

 

It’s the fourth Wednesday of June and time for another author interview at the dictionary project. Enjoy the wit and words of Aisha Sabatini Sloan!

 

 

 

1. Please share a memory/story/thought in relation to a dictionary/dictionaries:

When I went to Lisbon last year, I brought a very pretty, pink pocket dictionary for Portuguese. I never opened it. The only word I managed to remember the entire trip was “obrigada,” which means “thank you very much.” I couldn’t even say “hello.”  I love languages, and normally enjoy learning new words, so I can’t figure out what happened to me to prevent me from even trying. It makes me wonder about what they say, how your brain sort of shuts off to learning new languages after your late twenties. I am determined to overcome  this, though, especially if it means that I have to move overseas, or marry someone for whom English is not their first language.


2. What is your current favorite word?

Airport.

 

3. What, in your opinion, is the most obnoxious/insidious/annoying word?

No. Although, this was my first word.

 

4. Please respond to the following words and definitions, picked exclusively and randomly for you:


L, l  (el),  n.  [pl. L’s, l’s, Ls, ls (elz)],  1.  the twelfth letter of the English alphabet: from the Greek lambda, a borrowing from the Phoenician: see alphabet, table.  2.  the sound of L or l: in English, it is normally a voiced alveolar continuant formed by the tongue apex, IPA [l]; in many words, l  preceding f, k, m, and v is silent (e.g., half, balk, calm, and salve) ; in most varieties of American speech, final and preconsonantal l  (e.g., feel, field) has the cavity friction, and hence the sonority, associated with vowels.  3.  a type or impression for L or l.  4.  a symbol for the twelfth (or the eleventh if J is omitted) in a sequence or group.  adj.  1.  of L of l.  2.  twelfth (or eleventh if J is omitted) in a sequence or group.

 

“A voiced alveolar continuant formed by the tongue apex.” Lovely. I am having trouble thinking of a word that starts with ‘l’ that I don’t like. Lilt. Languid. Lyrical. Laughter. Lounge. Laura Linney. I think this is the letter that best describes how I’d like to spend the next several months of my life. Months? Years. The rest of my life. Don’t tell me about the word that starts with ‘l’ that means genocide right now I don’t want to hear it. OK, shoot. Lynch. There is no perfect letter.

 

 

aye  (ā),  adv.  [ME. ai. ay  <  ON. ei], [Archaic], always; ever.

 

Aye? Really? This word reminds me of my friend, Radhika, for some reason, who must have been speaking with a Minnesotan accent at some point. Also of pirates, who was I talking about pirates with recently? Paula. She was saying that there were female pirates who captained ships in drag. And then she started talking about scuba diving. She and her sister and some man put on their gear off the coast of, I think it was Venezuela, and just started walking into the ocean. They were up to their knees, their shoulders, then under water. It was bizarre for her because she said it was just like going on a hike. Except that they were swimming into canyons, moving along the contour of the mountains.

 

 

(Editor’s Note: For the word knot, I actually landed on the numerical labels for a  diagram for knot pictured below)

KNOTS  1.  figure-of-eight knot; 2.  overhand knot;  3.  thief knot;  4.  half hitch;  5.  stevedore’s knot;  6.  loop knot;  7.  harness hitch;  8.  reef knot;  9.  granny knot;  10.  bowline knot;  11.  bowline on a bight;  12.  bowline with a bight;  13.  prolonge knot;  14.  clove hitch; 15.  round turn and two half hitches  16.  running bowline;  17.  slide knot;  18.  slipknot;  19.  fisherman’s bend;  20.  cat’s paw;  21.  single Blackwall hitch;  22.  double Blackwall hitch;  23.  studding-sail tack bend;  24.  magnus hitch;  25.  sheepshank;  26.  half hitch over pin;  27.  rolling hitch;  28.  studding-sail halyard hitch;  29.  timber hitch;  30.  timber hitch and a half hitch;  31.  surgeon’s knot  32.  anchor knot;  33.  long splice;  34.  surgeon’s knot;  35.  sheet bend;  36.  trefoil knot;  37.  throat seizing.  38.  outside clinch;  39.  inside clinch;  40.  double sheet bend;  41.  Englishman’s tie;  42.  single carrick bend;  43.  double carrick bend;  44.  single bowknot;  45.  double bowknot.

 

Knots. It’s difficult for me to even think about this word without feeling all of my energy migrate to my stomach and my heart is now definitely beating faster. The only non-negative meaning of this word seems to be an “Englishman’s tie.” I want very badly to undo this word, disempower it somehow, go up to it on the street and loosen it, even it it’s pink, so everybody can breathe better. I am tempted to add a “g” to the beginning, and then to pronounce the “g,” make the word into “ganot” or “ganat” and then just pull the tension loose. I do not like this word at all.

 

 

py·ro·lig·ne·ous  (pī-rō-ˈlig-nē-əs),  adj.  [FR. pyroligneux  <  pyro- + L. lignum, wood],  1.  produced by the destructive distillation of wood.  2.  designating or of a reddish-brown liquid (pyroligenous acid), chiefly acetic acid and methyl alcohol, obtained by the destructive distillation of wood.  3.  designating or of methyl alcohol, especially when obtained from wood.

 

Pyroligneous! I went to get a massage recently, and was told that, I guess in terms of Chinese medicine, my insides were on fire. I have been out of balance, vis-a-vis the five elements. I need to find a way to get more wood to feed the fire and more water to keep it from burning out of control. I say this because pyroligneous is “produced by the destructive distillation of wood.” I don’t like the idea that I’m walking around, creating methyl alcohol just by living and breathing. But it makes a lot of sense, actually. I think it’s part of the reason that I need to leave Tucson.

 

 

twig  (twig),  n.  [ME. & AS. twigge; indirectly akin to G. zweig; IE. *dwi-gho  <  base  *dwou-, two (cf. TWO): prob. with reference to the forking of the twig], a small branch or shoot of a tree or shrub.

 

Twig. I just used this word metaphorically a few days ago, and felt a little uneasy afterward. Now what’s this about, “prob. with reference to the forking of the twig.” Is it just me, or is it kind of cute when a dictionary says “prob”? Do you ever think about the person writing these entries? Are we allowed to see the dictionary as having subjectivity, facial hair, pajamas, even a soul? There is an old man in a room somewhere, thinking about the best way to explain the etymology of the word twig. I have affection for this man. He is so detail oriented: listen to him talk about “a small branch or shoot of a tree or shrub.” Shrub seems like such an outdated form of vegetation. I think that, wherever he is, he wants us to feel curious and optimistic about the ways of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

Aisha Sabatini Sloan grew up in an apartment building five miles from the ocean. Because the blue condo at the end of the block with porthole style windows was built around the same time that she was born, she always assumed she was going to be given one of the apartments for free.

 

 

 

 

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