Category Archives: word tasting notes


Yesterday I watched a short video on the New York Times site about the mathematics of lasso tricks – you know, the famous image we have of a lasso being spun in a flat circle. It wasn’t long on details of the math, though it did have a few nice demonstrations of the tricks. But what caught my attention was how the narrator said lasso.

How do you say lasso?

I posed the question on Twitter and got interesting results. It seems that Americans generally, or at least the ones who responded (who seem mostly or all to be urbanites, but from California, Texas, Massachusetts, Utah, Washington, and several other states, but not Wyoming or Montana), say it the way the New York Times guy did. The Canadians – as well as one British guy from Birmingham – say it the way I do. (I’m from Alberta and grew up surrounded by ranchers – i.e., “cowboys.”)

The Oxford English Dictionary lists both pronunciations, but quotes Fowler as saying that my pronunciation is preferred “by those who use it” (i.e., the actual thing, not just the word).

I won’t rope you along any longer. The way I say lasso – the only way I’ve ever really been used to hearing it, either (but I don’t listen to much country music or watch a lot of western movies) – is /læ su/, with the stress on the second syllable or close to even between the two. “Lassoo,” we might write it. The way the Americans all seem to say lasso (though I’m sure there must be exceptions) is with an o vowel at the end, and the stress on the first syllable: “lassoh.”

Now, it’s our word, we rustled it fair and square,* so we can say it how we will – Americans one way, Canadians and Brits another – but we might want to look at its origin for some clue to why Americans say it that way while Canadians and Brits don’t. English got it from the Spanish word lazo, pronounced “la so.” And there are more Spanish speakers in the US to influence that. (Branding expert Nancy Friedman, a Californian, defended her pronunciation with “I live in New Spain, where we lasso words for desayuno.”) No doubt the Spanish influence also helps account for why Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills is “ro-day-o” rather than “ro-dee-o.” We don’t have that Spanish influence in Canada, so our pronunciation stays where it wandered off to.

But the word didn’t originally come from lazo. It originally came from Lazio. Well, that’s what they call the area around Rome now; back in the day, it was Latium, whence the name of the language, Latin. The Latin origin, by way of post-classical lacium, was laqueum. Which meant ‘noose’.

But that Latin word gave us something else, too. After the cowboys came home from a day out swinging lassos to catch their calves for branding – oh, yeah, that’s why they do it, you know, so I suppose that gives a bit more authority to Nancy Friedman, the branding expert (not that kind of branding, though) – they met their ladies, who might be dressed up all pretty in lace. And guess what: that lace that the ladies used to snare the cowboys comes from the same Latin root as lasso. (Now that ladies also lasso, the guys need to catch up with the lace. Though I don’t know if it will snare the ladies.)

*Yes, I know rustling is stealing. I’m making a funny.


Let’s say you’re in a screening room.

So… what is being screened? Or who is? Screened in? Screened out? Screened for viewing?

What would you say are the defining characteristics of a screen? It’s something flat that comes between two things, yes. Usually it’s a thin, probably flexible thing mounted in a rigid frame. It impedes – usually just partially – the passage of air, light, fluids, solids, that order of thing. Originally, screens were things that you used to protect yourself from too-cold or too-hot air. But rarely now is a screen hard and opaque, permitting no passage of anything. Screens screen things out – and other things in.

A screen door lets some air and sound through, and some light too, passing through its mesh, but it keeps insects and larger life forms out (unless they operate the handle). The lint screen on your clothes dryer lets air pass through but grabs onto the lint and stops it from passing through. Silk screens for printing grab onto the ink and hold onto it until they are pressed to release it. Screening programs aim to act like filters, keeping all but the particularly desirable people out. Movie screens grab onto light and keep it from passing through unimpeded as air would: they glow with their luminous prey and you see it because they give it to you.

A screen grabs. That is what a screen does. It grabs some things and, perhaps, lets others pass. And then you can take what it will let you have.

Even the word screen works with that. It starts with that grabby scr, a very popular word beginning in English; many of the scr words have some taste of clutching, grabbing, or constricting: scrabble, scrape, scramble, scrawny, scratch, scrimp, scrounge, scrub, scrunch, scrutinize… After the scr comes the ee, the high and tight vowel, the one that lets the least air through. Then it closes softly but surely with n. Is this a word that could only have to do with holding tightly? Not necessarily; the word closest to it in sound is scream, which might come with gripping hands but then again might not. But the sound of screen certainly is reasonable concordant with its sense.

A screen is like a fishing net. It catches things for prevention or consumption. How you like what it does depends on whether you are the beneficiary of its catching – or are what’s being caught.

I was thinking of screens today because I was in the Royal Ontario Museum. Yes, in its decorative arts section it has a number of pretty folding screens. But where I really noticed the screens was on its windows. The ROM has many windows. Most of them have black screens on them: the threads of black fabric grab the light; light that does not snag on a thread passes through. You can see through the screens – as through glass darkly.

The more oblique the angle you look from, the less you see; the more the screen obtrudes and presents its own peculiar patterns, moirés and ripples.

A screen is always less than clear. It always selects what you see. It grabs and keep and gives as it will, by design. If you think you’re seeing the world through it, remember that you’re just seeing what it has let go.

Don’t forget that you’re reading this on a screen, too.


You know what a pyramid scheme is, right? One guy recruits several who give him a bit of money and who in turn recruit others who pass money to them, some of which they pass on up, and so on. The higher up you are, the richer you get, even though everyone puts in the same amount, and the people at the bottom – the ones who don’t find anyone new to recruit – put in value and receive none back at all. So the number of people at each level broadens out like a pyramid as you go down from the top; the amount of money at each level is the opposite, zero at the bottom increasing to a huge amount at the top – an inverted pyramid.

It’s illegal when you do it so blatantly with money, of course, but how about if you do it with other kinds of value? Say you have a large number of people contributing value at the bottom level for little or no return, while at the top there’s one or a few people getting huge returns for comparatively little contribution of value. The contribution of value can be through, for instance, work done.

Think of it: thousands slaving away, moving large stones, building up a grand structure; one person or a few people watching them slave away and actually receiving the use and value of the grand structure. The original pyramid scheme: the building of the pyramids.

Of course, any social structure is a sort of pyramid if many put in value for little return, others above them get more and more return, and one or a few at the top get massive return for the same or less value put in. Recruit below, send value up. But only the starkest and frankest examples are illegal pyramid schemes; many others are simply companies. And whereas illegal pyramid schemes collapse or stop producing return once the recruitment peters out, the pyramid structure of a company can be sustainable for a long time because it relies on not just recruitment but the ongoing value creation of those in it.

Fair enough. A pyramid is a highly stable structure. There’s a reason pyramids of various sizes have been built by indigenous cultures on almost every continent. Pyramid schemes may have some unsustainability because they draw from the bottom to feed the top, but pyramid structures just hold everything in place and outlast the ages. They are associated with things metaphysical and with timeless rituals.

And so, of course, with death. The pyramids of Egypt are huge mausoleums. Pyramids in Mexico often had human sacrifices done on them. A pyramid is not a living, branching thing like a tree, ever reaching out and multiplying its ramifications; it is a solid thing, fixed and tidy and contained, the epitome of inertia. It does not shake.

No, shaking is extrapyramidal. Or, well, it can be. So can inability to initiate movement. Shakes, sudden jerks, writhing, and lack of intentional control of movement can all be extrapyramidal symptoms of conditions and side effects of medications. Why extrapyramidal? Are they beyond sacrificing, are they deathless, are they from somewhere outside your temple, are they characteristic of someone who knows he’s about to be dragged to the top and slain? Hmm, no, they just happen to affect the extrapyramidal system, a part of the motor nervous system that doesn’t involve the pyramidal tracts of the brain, which so called because they are shaped roughly like pyramids.

And why are pyramids so called? The word comes from Greek πυραμίς puramis, which named those Egyptian structures and their similars; the Greek word may have come from a word for fire, or it may come from a word for wheat or grain, which formed into another word, also πυραμίς, naming a kind of cake (the shape of which is a matter of speculation). Or it may come from an Egyptian word.

Well, whatever. The shape of the word has a couple of reminders – the invertibility of p to d and vice-versa, and the inverted-pyramid-like shape of the y. It also carries a reminiscence of Pyramus, famous for his ill-fated love of Thisbe; of pyromaniac, a person likely stymied by the stone of the pyramid; and of pyrrhic, what your victory is when you have extracted so much value from the labours of others and you find that it has all just built your tomb.


To say or spell indict
or, even worse, indictment
could lead to much excictment
but not so much insict…
If spelling’s your delict,
you know that dereliction
could lead to interdiction
if you don’t keep it tict.
If out loud you indite,
pay close heed to the diction
lest you pronounce a fiction
due to an eye-tongue fict.
But if you will recict
and wrict as indicated,
you will be vindicated –
not derelict but delict.
Pay heed to my invict
and you’ll be an invictus,
your face a grinning rictus
because you did it rict.

Ah, isn’t English spelling a treasure? Sure, like a treasure-hunt in a sandbox – one that’s in current use as a kitty litter box.

But actually the offending nuggets are not so fresh. Most of the worst booby-traps in English orthography came about during and after the English Renaissance (i.e., the time of Shakespeare and thereafter), when various scholars felt that English words that were descended from Latin ought to wear their fine ancestry on their sleeves. (See “What’s up with English spelling?”) The idea that spelling should simply reflect sound was too plebeian; orthography offers such a panoply of finery, why not come out in full dress, unburdened by quotidian chores? 太好了! 你學吧!

So we had a word endyte or endite coming from Old French enditer, which in turn came from Latin in plus dictare ‘say, declare’, and the scholarly pedants of the time felt that it should therefore claim its nobility and sit on the page as indict. The same fellows gave us the o in people (because of Latin populum) and the b in debt (because of Latin debitum).

I do not think we owe a det of gratitude to these peple. I would rather see them indicted.

But not indited. You see, the unaltered spelling indite also persisted, with a slightly different sense: ‘dictate; enjoin; compose; put in words; recite’. It’s a word of literature now, and a rather high-toned precious one. Meanwhile, indict is a word known to the basest members of society. Oh, the irony.

Thanks to Iva Cheung for reminding me that I wanted to taste this one.


My wife and I spent the weekend knocking around a mall and its environs. We had a ball.

By “a mall” I mean the National Mall in Washington, D.C.

For those who don’t know, the National Mall is not a shopping mall. It is a mall in the older – but not oldest – sense: it is a large open walk bordered by trees (and buildings). In fact, it’s quite broad.

And just as capital is the heart of a shopping mall, the National Mall is the heart of the American capital. You can knock around it pell-mell, from gallery to museum to monument to capitol. The gavels of law and justice knock down at one end; along its side various buildings – mostly neoclassical – have been knocked up; in the middle is the obelisk memorializing the city’s eponymous general and president (a giant number one, easy to look out for); at the far end Abraham Lincoln is seated at the top of a large set of heavily populated steps. And however exalted and vaunted and even “sacred” the building or place is, with the exception of the monuments themselves they all have gift shops. Just in case you were afraid there could be no shopping on the Mall.

Well, fair enough. America is, in its eyes (and the eyes of many others), the apotheosis of a capitalist democracy. Power to the people – may they all learn the great lessons their great hero presidents have taught them, especially George Washington, who chose to be a president and to represent the will of the people, rather than to be an emperor. These are the messages that the texts and guides and placards tell you. America is the land of the free – and, indeed, all of the museums and monuments and great buildings (except for the privately owned ones) are free to enter, as long as you don’t consider having your bag inspected a cost, and as long as you don’t factor in the taxes every American pays that support them. Instead of paying money for goods, you pay attention and pay your respects to culture and history. You can spend all day there without spending a dime.

Unless, of course, you like buying souvenirs, such as a capitol dome in chocolate or a pencil printed with all the presidents. It is your free choice to buy such things, but if you do, you pay: currency, the free (as in unrestricted) symbolic exchange of value, is the heart of capitalism, in the capital as elsewhere. Free enterprise is the American way, and by “free” we mean “free to charge people as much as you can get them to pay.” But we also mean that other people are free to compete with you (usually).

As it happens, my only souvenir was a Jackson Pollock tie from the National Gallery. Plus a large number of photos and memories. (See the photos in my flickr album.) Oh, and – least lasting of all – a blister on the ball of my left middle toe. Because we walked a lot. A mall is a place you go on foot, whether it’s a shopping mall or the old kind of mall. Or the original kind of mall.

What is the original kind of mall? An alley or similar long narrow space wherein the game of pall mall is played. By pall mall I obviously do not mean cigarettes. (Nor do I mean the candy taste that Pall Mall brings to me because it was the brand printed on packs of candy cigarettes I devoured as a child.) It is a game, sort of like croquet, only the balls are a foot in diameter. The mallets are correspondingly larger too. The name comes via French from Latin roots cognate with ball and mallet. The aim is to get the ball through an elevated hoop at one end in as few strokes as possible.

I wonder how many strokes it would take to get from one end of the National Mall to the other. It’s a bit of a walk, as it happens, nearly 2 miles from one end to the other. But that’s nothing for us. On one day, we walked from Foggy Bottom to Georgetown, through there and over the Key Bridge to Rosslyn, past the Marine Monument and into Arlington Cemetery, around there a little and then across the bridge to the Lincoln Monument, and then along the National Mall… and beyond, northward to dinner. A total of about 15 kilometres.

Oops, sorry, about 9 miles. Americans do love traditions, and one of them is the almost Harry-Potter-esque system of weights and measures that everywhere else (except Liberia and Myanmar) has been replaced by the tidier metric system. (I grew up with Imperial in Canada, then we switched. I still use it for a few things because I am of that age. Anyway, it’s good for cooking because it does fractions well. But when I go to the mall, I buy everything in metric… but not in an American mall.)

The National Mall is of course not the original Mall. In London there is Pall Mall and there is The Mall; in Paris there is a rue du Mail, and in Hamburg a Palmaille. These were all originally places (or near places) where pall mall was played. Then the balls and hammers were pushed to the sides and the name retained as each place became a long public stroll. A pall mall is a nice, orderly place, nothing pell mell; indeed, pell mell has a separate etymology (perhaps with a little cross influence) and an unrelated meaning.

The National Mall was never a place to play pall mall; its name is just another part of the USA’s British heritage. The Americans didn’t throw out British invaders, after all; they were British invaders and their descendants, and they just decided to go it alone without paying taxes to a distant figurehead. They’d rather spend their money their way, and look up to their own heroes and create their own mythos – a mythos available around the National Mall in the form of a lot of free masonry.

Have a look at some photos from our sojourn in DC if you so desire.


The focus. It burns.

Focus a magnifying glass on a piece of paper and let the sun make a little image of itself. So bright, so hot. Smoke soon rises.

Focus a camera lens on a subject. With the iris wide open, the subject is sharp, striking home, blazing itself into the film or sensor, and all else around it is softening into the balls and blurs of bokeh. It is like the word focus: soft at the peripheries (/f/, /s/) and sharp in the centre (/k/).

With the iris tighter, more appears in focus; you get more picture, more context, but more distraction too – more in focus makes it less focused.

With the iris too tight, nothing is quite sharp but everything is equally in focus and equally diffracted. You see all equally clearly and nothing quite clearly enough.

I have a lifelong ambivalence about focus. I like seeing things clearly and sharply. I have worn glasses since I was twelve, and I have a desire to make out small details in the same way I have a desire to understand motivations: I yearn because I am not good enough at it. But too much focus traps me, imprisons me. I cannot sustain single-point focus on a thing for too long without bursting into flame. I need to be elliptical…

An ellipse, as you may know, is a geometric figure with two foci; it is defined as a line such that the sum of the distances to the two foci is always equal. Stick two nails into a board and tie a piece of string to them, one end to each, that is somewhat longer than the distance between them. You can then use a pencil to draw an ellipse simply by keeping the string taut as you move the pencil: always the same sum of distances, the length of the string. Not one focus, two foci – the two nails. Other figures also have two foci: a parabola is an ellipse with one of the foci at infinity; a hyperbola is a curve such that the difference between the distances to the foci is always the same. A circle is an ellipse where the two foci are in the same place. It has a singular focus. It is perfect, contained, cold. But hot in the centre.

When I take photographs, I like to have something in sharp focus most of the time, and other things out of focus.

Sometimes I like to look at something very small and see just the smallest part of it in focus, a still moment of the eye and mind on the edge of dreamland and release. And the closer it is the less of it is in focus.

But I like to shift focus. Sometimes I like to have many things in sharp focus so that I can move my own focus around as I look at the picture. Keep things at a distance and you can focus on them without being threatened by the intensity of so much intimate detail.

Sometimes I like to shift focus in the act of taking the pictures, from one picture to the next.

Sometimes I like to let the focus go a bit. Erase the wrinkles of life. Soften the colour, add to the mystery. The seeing eye sees a little less.

Let it go even more. Like a dream. Let the burning ease. Abstract.

Sometimes I like to focus on something peripheral and let the real object of interest remain an obscure object of desire, lest it gorgonize me.

The geometry of attention and re-presentation. The circle of attention. Ellipses. Parables. Hyperboles. Through what lens – or what lenses – do you focus?

The first person to use focus in geometry was Johannes Kepler, a man familiar with optics. It had already been in use to refer to the point where a lens makes an image of the sun on a surface. That hot little point. The place where it strikes home, the heart, the furnace.

Focus: Latin for ‘hearth, fireplace, home’. Its modern Italian descendant fuoco means ‘fire’.

It burns, the focus.


There’s something vaguely Celtic or mythic to the sound of this word. The /kl/ and the /θr/, with their voiceless-liquid combinations – one crisp, the other soft – are reminiscent of Tolkien’s elvish tongues. It has such odd old echoes: cloth and clash, threat and thread and maybe threnody, lath and rate. Is it a ruling council? A clan of druids and mages? Perhaps a prison, an ancient cage holding a noxious thing awaiting its release after millennia to issue forth as a destructive vaporous spirit once the bars melt away?

That last one, yeah.

Well, it’s more than that. A clathrate, generally, is a molecular cage: the crystalline lattice of one molecule traps within it another molecule. The word clathrate comes via Latin clathri ‘lattice’ from Greek κλεῖθρα kleithra ‘bars’. There are many molecules that can cage and many that can be caged. But perhaps the best known and most feared clathrate is a cage made of water – the hard expansive lattice of ice, like microscopic geodesic cages, less dense than the liquid – containing as its prisoners, one in each cell, molecules of methane.

Chemists say that the methane is the “guest” of the water clathrate. This is rather like calling General Zod a guest of the Phantom Zone in the Superman movies. The methane is a gas, but when it is caged in the icy clathrate it is frozen in place, like suspended animation or consignment to another dimension. Waiting.

Where do you find such clathrates? Under the seabed and in the permafrost. And if and when these long-frozen beds thaw, the methane is released. It can build up pressure and explode, as happened recently on Russia’s Yamal Peninsula, making a big hole in the earth, as though some ancient beast had broken free. Or it can simply, insidiously, bubble up. And when it is loose, where does it go? Into the atmosphere. Where it can be a potent agent for further warming the planet… to release more of its friends…

But a cage of suspended animation does not always contain an enemy. Han Solo was kept in suspended animation, a masculine Sleeping Beauty. And our own minds are clathrates of memories, thoughts and images and feelings long locked up in the permafrost of passed years. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that clathrate sounds a bit like classmate and I was at a high school reunion this past weekend, seeing some people for the first time in 30 years. Ah, memories. And we had a gas!