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In front of the building in which I work is a well-tended bed of plants, nicely coiffed in its long box bordered with metal cladding. Some are prairie grasses. Others are hardy, enthusiastic eruptions of spearmint-like leaves with tiny flowers toned in that purple that theatre lighting technicians know as “surprise pink” (also, less officially, “FM pink,” and the FM does not stand for frequency modulation but is a reference to how attractive it makes the complexion). On my way in and out of the building, passing them at eye level as I walk on the small pavers before the boxes, I find them anodyne or at least analgesic, and in some ways positively inspiring. Such little pops of prettiness, purple spurs daring the suburban cityscape… no discarded coffee cup can conquer.

However, I suck at knowing plant names. Plants don’t care about their names, so why should I? I know them by sight. I know words well enough to know their limitations (a picture is not worth a thousand words; there is no exchange rate – besides, for any word in the language I could find a thousand pictures). But every so often I find that I want at least to know what people call something (see parthenocissus). And so I posted the photo above on Facebook and asked, and Jennifer McIntyre informed me that it is spirea – Japanese spirea, to be precise.

Spirea! Also spelled spiraea. Pronounced /spaɪˈriːə/, which is to say “spy rhea.” One may wonder if it is a synthesis of spy and diarrhea, but that would be spurious. A relation to spiral? Not spurious; they both trace back by way of Latin to Greek σπεῖρα speira ‘coil, twist’. But never mind this mortal coil. These flowers are more of a divine inspiration.

Inspiration? Such a word. Different people find different inspirations in different ways. When I want to write something, I go out looking for inspiration like harpoon-holding Ahab, ready to spear any spermaceti-filled cetacean but confident I will in the end master that one white whale. When I want to take pictures, I don’t expect inspiration at all; I am like a calf-roper, lasso at the ready. But when I want to seek a prophylaxis against improving my context, or simply want to dream about desiderata well beyond my means, then (as likewise for many on Pinterest, apparently) “inspiration” is the order of the day – pretty pictures and plans for things that would take too much effort to gain, but the having of the picture, the “inspiration,” gives me a momentary sensation of the goal, a little pipe dream… an opiate.

As, perhaps, are these flowers. I have said they are analgesic, even anodyne. Could they be narcotic? Likely not – they’re not poppies. But while they lack opium, they do have aspirin. In Canada Aspirin is still a trademark, but in the USA it lost that status during World War II because its owner was Bayer, a German company, and so they lower-case aspirin as the generic term, while in Canada the generic term is ASA, short for acetylsalicylic acid. But do you see a spir in aspirin? It is indeed the same as in spiraea, and the flower name is the source of the drug name. Spirea contain salicylates.

Not that I need to eat these flowers to cure headaches. Just the sight of them and their little purple spurts – first spheres, then spears – eases the blood, sweat, and tears. Sometimes it’s the small things that make the difference. And these spirea are small. Yet they can aspire to greatness.


white ash branches

Life’s paths are fantastical and fractious, following not what line some abstract geometer might limn but carving the segments and curves that present least resistance, most opportunity, or simply the most enticing caprice. We are lightning, that kiss of earth and heaven; we are rivers twisting and carving canyons and cataracts; we are tree branches, turning new ways with each season, trying twigs and tangles in different directions until we have extended ourselves in uncountable angles to gather sun and air. Wherever we are going, we will get there, because where we get is where we were going, but where we point at any point may not be the point at all.

Life is anfractuous.

And anfractuous is life. We start with this soft article an and then, like a snap of a twig, break off with frac; our tu spells “chew” and our ous spells “us.” Who has manufactured this? How does it turn? Is this u an n and this n a u? Is the sinuous s we see simply the broken back view of an a? The word curves and turns and will not take a straight path. It is anfractuous.

It comes from Latin, suitably modified. The an comes from a root meaning ‘about’ or ‘around’ and the fract from one meaning ‘break’ or ‘bend’ – fracture, fraction, infraction, and also frangible. The verb is frangere; its past tense is fractus. How do you get fractus from frangere? You start by saying the g as “g,” not “j.” Then you add the past-tense ending tus, and the t makes the g harden to c. Then all you need do is reduce the n to a nasalization and then to nothing. And how do you get that g to go from “g” to “j” as we say it today? Simply by saying it farther and farther forward in the mouth in anticipation of the e or i until it’s right at the ridge and it breaks away with a little affrication. You see, these strange transformations all take the path of least effort. They seem inevitable in hindsight. They got where they were going because where they got was where they were going.

So we take our paths, we grow out as branches and we become enlightninged, and perhaps our end is the light and perhaps our end is to light – on fire. We grow and grow old like the white ash trees, and perhaps we end as white ashes. But however we may break, we take leaf, and then we take leave, and it all comes around again, breaking and bending, beginning and ending and starting over.

There is one poem I can find that carries the word anfractuous. It also embodies it. It is by T.S. Eliot, who has been ashes long enough that I am safe to reproduce it here:

Sweeney Erect

                   And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me,
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!

Paint me a cavernous waste shore
Cast in the unstilled Cyclades,
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

Display me Aeolus above
Reviewing the insurgent gales
Which tangle Ariadne’s hair
And swell with haste the perjured sails.

Morning stirs the feet and hands
(Nausicaa and Polypheme),
Gesture of orang-outang
Rises from the sheets in steam.

This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
The sickle motion from the thighs

Jackknifes upward at the knees
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Pushing the framework of the bed
And clawing at the pillow slip.

Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
Knows the female temperament
And wipes the suds around his face.

(The lengthened shadow of a man
Is history, said Emerson
Who had not seen the silhouette
Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).

Tests the razor on his leg
Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.

The ladies of the corridor
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Call witness to their principles
And deprecate the lack of taste

Observing that hysteria
Might easily be misunderstood;
Mrs. Turner intimates
It does the house no sort of good.

But Doris, towelled from the bath,
Enters padding on broad feet,
Bringing sal volatile
And a glass of brandy neat.

Different sounds that we think are the same sound (but others don’t)

My latest article for The Week is on sound distinctions that other languages make but we don’t. Some of these are things that even linguistics students don’t notice until they’re pointed out. It includes a video!

The subtle sounds that English speakers have trouble catching


Explaining the exploitation of explicit expletives

Do words have “bad apple” effects on other words by sound resemblance? Mmmmmaybe. If they do, one possible case is the subject of my latest article on The Week:

How did ‘expletive,’ ‘explicit,’ and ‘exploit’ become such sleazy words?



Yes, this is going to be one of my periodic photography rants. But if you ever plan to buy or even think about digital cameras, you’ll want to read this.

Megapixels is a word that sells cameras. “How many megapixels is your camera?” “Mine’s 10.” “Mine’s 12.” “Mine’s 18!” “Wow, that little pocket auto-zoom camera has 18 megapixels! Ossum possum!”

Listen to it for a moment. It would be too much of a stretch to say “mega” sounds like a lens focusing (it doesn’t) and “pixels” like a shutter clicking (it sorta does). But the mega has a soft, muddy sound, and the pixels has a crisp, sharp, keen sound – sort of like the different image qualities due to other effects that can make the actual pixel count irrelevant, as I will tell you about below.

Mega, of course, is a morpheme about big that sounds big and sells big. It’s from Greek for ‘large’ and is used as the metric prefix to mean ‘million’. It reeks of lotteries: megabucks! Yeah! And yes, I’m going to tell you that there’s more than a little bit of the lottery in megapixels on cameras.

Pixel is a word invented just under a half century ago that refers to the smallest bit of a digital picture: pix from picture and el short for element. Reality is always more detailed than a picture, of course; ever micrometre contains not just a book but a whole library of information if you can but read it, but to our naked eyes several micrometres are only the visual equivalent of a single letter, and a photograph may condense even more than that into the equivalent of the dot of an i. Given that i, you have no means of extracting even a full word from it, let alone libraries of information. And so, contrary to what many TV crime shows would have you think, there is no way to “enhance!” a blob of 12 pixels into a detailed face or parking sticker on a windshield. “Enhancing” photos just means smoothing and heightening the contrast of what is there so our brains can parse it more easily (I have another article where you can find out about sharpening and how it’s like language). You simply can’t get more than a pixel out of a pixel.

But never mind that. In many – perhaps most – digital photos, each of those 10 or 12 or 18 million pixels contains not even a whole pixel’s worth of information, actually. The truth is that when dealing with the pixelated (rendered in pixels), you may often find yourself pixilated with an i – a fine old word that means pixie-led, bamboozled, drunk (in this case with fatuous information).

Let’s start, though, with how many pixels you actually need – how many will even make a difference. If you’re printing a photo on 4 by 6 paper, 300 pixels per inch is really the upper limit of what your eyes can generally discern in sharpness (and the printer can output effectively). So 1200 by 1800 pixels. This is 2.16 megapixels. Print it out large, at 8 by 12, and you need up to 8.64 megapixels. You are very unlikely to have a digital display that will come close to that. HDTV gives you 2.1 megapixels; a high-end 4K monitor gives you 8.3 megapixels. So unless you’re cropping tight or printing posters, you will never actually need more than 10 megapixels in your camera. Even 8 will do fine, but almost every current camera does more than that. For most non-pro purposes, even the camera in your phone has enough. (My iPhone 4 has 5 megapixels.)

But then there are the factors that can limit the resolving power of your camera, so that each pixel really is only worth a fraction of what a pixel is worth in a truly sharp picture:

Lens sharpness. Not all lenses are equally sharp. Some produce pictures that are pretty “soft” even to the naked eye.

ISO. We used to call this ASA. It’s the “film speed” – the light sensitivity. The higher the ISO (as required when the camera is getting less light into it), the less sharp the picture, because it’s having to pool light from multiple pixels and fill in as best it can.

Sensor size. I mean the physical size. This of course makes a difference in regard to lens sharpness; a lens that can resolve 3000 lines per inch will resolve 1/4 as many actual lines on a sensor that’s 1/4 the dimensions. But usually the cameras with smaller sensors also have crappier lenses, so you get even less final sharpness. It also can relate to ISO performance: a smaller sensor size with the same number of pixels has smaller pixel sensors that individually gather less light, so they can start getting dodgy at lower ISO numbers. (Sensor technology is improving, though.)

Aperture. A lens has an opening in it that can be wider or tighter, like the pupils of your eyes. This is expressed in f-stops, which are the ratio of the focal length to the opening (aperture): f/4 means the aperture is 1/4 the focal length. Why this affects sharpness is the same reason that we squint to see better, and the same reason it’s harder to see sharply in low light (when your pupils are dilated): the smaller the aperture, the sharper the image and the more of it that’s in acceptable focus: this is called depth of field, because it’s how deep the in-focus area is. But when the aperture gets too small, you lose sharpness due to what’s called diffraction effect. I’ll spare you the details; they’re Google-able.

Camera shake. If you’re taking pictures at too slow a shutter speed – because the light is low and/or your aperture is small (to improve sharpness) and/or your ISO is low (ditto) – the motion of your hand, such as you get when pressing something like, say, a camera shutter, will cause the camera to move perceptibly during the time of exposure, which of course will blur the image a bit.

There are other things you really should consider more carefully than pixels and sharpness:

Colour. Different lenses convey colour and contrast differently, and differently well. Some lenses really wash it out; some make it vivid and contrasty; some are better for some colours than others. This is also true for different cameras.

Lens speed. The “faster” the lens, the lower the minimum f-stop, which means the wider the aperture. Given that lower f-stops make a photo less sharp, why would you want this? Because they let you blur out the background more (see bokeh), focusing in on the subject – a shallow depth of field is quite desirable for many kinds of photos. If it’s a good lens, the subject will still be sharp enough, even at a low f-stop.

Sensor size (again). This also relates to depth of field: the in-focus distance is a portion of the distance between the camera and its effective “infinity,” and its effective “infinity” is determined by the actual focal length of the lens. The smaller the sensor, the smaller the focal length for the same field of view. A 25 mm lens on my Olympus has the same field of view as a 50 mm on a full-frame camera (full-frame means the sensor is the same size as a frame of 35 mm film: 24 mm by 36 mm) and as about a 9 mm lens on a 1/2.33” sensor such as many pocket cameras have, but its infinity is half as far away as on the full-frame and almost 3 times as far away as on the pocket camera. Meaning you get much less depth-of-field effect on the really small sensors. This is also why everything is always in focus on your camera phone: its sensor is less than half the size of your little fingernail, so its focal length is about 1/8 of an inch, so its “infinity” is closer than almost anything you’ll photograph with it.

Ease of use. The camera you have with you will always take better pictures than the one you left at home because it’s too much of a nuisance to carry around, as my dad regularly says. And if you miss the moment because you’re futzing around with the controls, well, that’s not a good picture either. So balance the desire for a large sensor with the effect that will have on your equipment size (see my rant on zoom lens) and consider what you really want and need. I use an Olympus E-PL3, which I can fit in a jacket pocket; its sensor is half the size of a full-frame sensor, but that’s just fine for me.

Because you’re my friend, I took a little time to take a few pictures out my window of the Cathedral Church of St. James here in Toronto, using three cameras, the third of which with three different lenses. These will help you to see why, for most people, with even the cheapest cameras giving at least 8 megapixels, the megapixel count in your camera doesn’t matter; it just leaves you mega-pixilated.

This is the zoomed-in version taken with a cheap little Nikon Coolpix L21, reduced to 500 pixels wide, which is as wide as this blog will display.

This is taken with a cheap little Nikon Coolpix L21 8 megapixel pocket camera, with the lens zoomed in; I’ve reduced the image to 500 pixels wide, which is as wide as this blog will display.

This is the actual full-size image of the steeple at screen resolution (72 pixels per inch) from the Coolpix, zoomed in.

This is the actual full-size image of the steeple at screen resolution (72 pixels per inch) from the Coolpix, zoomed in. Not so sharp, eh? How many pixels in one usable bit of photographic information?

The is the Coolpix, zoomed out. The f-stop is higher because the focal length is longer.

The is the Coolpix, zoomed out to widest. The f-stop is higher because the focal length is longer.

This is the pixel-for-pixel view of the above.

This is the pixel-for-pixel view of the above. The lens is sharper at this length, but still not so great.

This is what my iPhone 4 sees, shrunk to 500 pixels.

This is what my iPhone 4 sees, shrunk to 500 pixels.

This is the same photo, cropped to the church and shrunk to 500 pixels.

This is the same photo, cropped to the church, which is also pixel-for-pixel size at 72 pixels per inch.

This is my Olympus E-PL3 with an old manual Canon 50 mm lens at f/1.4, shrunk to 500 pixels.

This is my Olympus E-PL3 (10 megapixels, micro 4/3 format) with an old manual Canon 50 mm lens at f/1.4, shrunk to 500 pixels. This is my favourite lens. Sharp and good colour; notice the slightly dreamy effect it has, though.

The Canon 50 mm at f/1.4, pixel-for-pixel.

The Canon 50 mm at f/1.4, pixel-for-pixel.

For comparison, the same lens at f/8, necessitating higher ISO.

For comparison, the same lens at f/8, necessitating higher ISO.

See the difference the ISO makes?

See the difference the higher f-stop but higher ISO makes?

Here's with a Panasonic 20 mm lens on the Olympus: what it actually sees, shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here’s with a Panasonic 20 mm lens on the Olympus: what it actually sees, shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here's that cropped to just the church and shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here’s that cropped to just the church, at pixel-for-pixel.

Using the zoom lens that came with the Olympus, here's what I get at the widest, shrunk to 500 pixels.

Using the zoom lens that came with the Olympus, here’s what I get at 42 mm focal length, shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here's cropped and shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here’s cropped and shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here's pixel-for-pixel on that.

Here’s pixel-for-pixel on that.

And here's the 14 mm view, shrunk to 500 pixels.

And here’s the 14 mm view from the same lens, shrunk to 500 pixels.

Here's that, cropped down to the church and visible pixel-for-pixel.

Here’s that, cropped down to the church and at pixel-for-pixel resolution.

Scroll up and down and look at them a few times. Which do you like, really? What stands out most? If you’re still thinking mostly about sharpness, here’s a tip: look at the copper-green part of the church roof, to the left of the steeple. Some are mega-muddy, some pixel-sharp. But what about colour and feel? And what really matters when you see it at 500 pixels wide?

Get the point? Ignore all the megapixel stuff on your camera (unless you’re actually a pro or serious large-photo geek, in which case you know all this already). There are much better things to worry about.

But if you want to see what kind of resolution you really can go for if that’s your thing, a while back I scanned in two medium-format negatives at high resolution (they’re 56 mm square – that’s 2¼” on a side). They’re not of the church; sorry. One’s a forest scene in fall, and the other is a city scene at night. Here are the links to the full-resolution images on Flickr. Warning: these will take a minute to load, eat up a lot of memory, and will not fit on your screen (but there are links above the pictures to smaller versions).

Trinity Square at 28 megapixels

Leaves at 28 megapixels


Obviously, if yesterday was nook, today must be cranny.

I think it’s safe to say you’ve said or written cranny. But have you ever used it without nook and before? And, for that matter, without every nook and before?

Can you even tell me the difference in meaning between nook and cranny?

It seems to fall into those double-barrelled-shotgun phrases: search every nook and cranny; in this day and age; every jot and tittle; this is your last and final boarding call

What cranny really means is, as Oxford puts it, ‘A small narrow opening or hole; a chink, crevice, crack, fissure.’ It seems to come from French cran. So it’s not a nook per se, but it’s a similar thing on a smaller and perhaps more accidental scale. It is the tittle to nook’s jot.

But what if it meant something quite different? What if it meant ‘cranberry’ or ‘granny’? What about ‘narc’ or ‘cramp’ or ‘crane’? Look, if you Google “every nook and granny” (exact phrase) you get more than 25,000 hits. “Every nook and cranberry” gets more than 22,000 results. Even “every nook and crane” gets 29,000 hits, most of which appear not to be “every nook and crane-y” puns. Imagine! Imagine searching corners, alcoves, and grandmothers, or corners, alcoves, and cranberries, or corners, alcoves, and, for heaven’s sake, construction cranes (or the birds called cranes)!

Well, there it is. Cranny was once a word that people knew how to use, but it became just an attachment, a trailer, a little linguistic cranny in the wall of words. And you know what we do with those: fill them with available materials. Fill them full – don’t let them go half-caulked. Stuff them with your cranberries and grandmothers and little origami cranes. And you’ll spend all your time searching those berries and babushkas and birds for meaning, when in fact they’re what’s in the way of it.

Welcome to language!


Pick up the crystal glass and hold it by the stem. Moisten your fingertip and run it in a ring around the lip at top. Its sound names it: “rim.”

The rim, the brim, the perimeter. A trim and prim ring, or a grim edge; the beginning of merriment, or an interim rest, or the end for a criminal. As Daniel Trujillo wrote to me, “A boundary, an insurmountable frontier that both denies passage and invites trespassing.” Transparent yet intransgressible like a scrim, or opaque yet surpassible. An edge that is at the heart of so many uses. Glasses, tires, oceans, coins: inside the rim is value, but use comes from touching the outside.

The word rim does not have such a taste of the edge; it is something found crimped in the middle of other words. It rings and hums, but its sounds are made with the heaping heft of the tongue and the closing of the lips. A word that made more of the edges in the mouth (tip of tongue, ridge, teeth, lips, back) would be loving. Or living. Or leaving. The contact points of our existence, the interface between the value within and the use without. But while these are our rims, our word is rim; it collects the rime and the rhymes.

The rimes, in fact. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Coleridge:

The sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper o’er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.

The rim of consciousness, The Day-Dream of Tennyson:

And o’er the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
Beyond the night, across the day,
Thro’ all the world she followed him.

The rim of an acquaintance, Parting at Morning by Robert Browning:

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.

On the rim of the air, The Skylark of James Hogg:

Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

The rims of flowers on the rim of a house, When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed by Whitman:

As we wander’d together the solemn night (for something I know not what kept me from sleep),
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

The feeling you get on the rim of the west. At last, past the rim of the earth and the rim of consciousness, past sun, hills, mountains, rainbows, without recrimination, we touch the lip and enter the heart, or the heart enters us. Or both. We drain the cup, but then we are the cup, and we overflow. No: we are the rim, and the overflow is our living, loving, leaving.