Being Mr. Kenny

A while ago I read Seeing Voices by Oliver Sacks. Dr Sacks writes excellent books about neurological matters that are never less than thrilling. This one was about sign language.

This book completely changed the way I saw deafness. Previously, I’d seen it as primarily a loss of function, and sign language as a limited form of communication. But nothing could be further from the truth! (Or more patronising towards deaf people: I heartily apologise).

In fact, sign language is a fascinating, vibrant language in its own right, with its own unique “visual grammar”. It’s expressive, flexible, and fascinating, and it’s also easier to learn than phonic languages: babies less than a year old can be taught simple sign language years before they are fully able to speak, and adult speakers of one sign language can quickly learn another sufficiently well enough to be able to hold conversations in it within a few weeks.

What impressed me most about sign language was the way it was totally “other”. While it uses exactly the same part of the brain as phonic languages (which is amazing in itself, since it uses completely different sensory systems and different memory structures) its depth and character can’t quite be fully understood by hearing people.

Perhaps the only analogue we have is typing. I’ve been doing a lot of it recently, and it occurred to me that it’s exactly like speaking, only instead of making a string of sounds, you’re making a string of movements, just like in Sign.

Even mistakes made in spelling point toward this. I don’t mean not being able to spell words like “antidisestablishmentarianism”, or hitting the wrong key through inaccuracy, I mean getting characters the wrong way round. For example, I am forever putting “outocme” instead of “outcome”, and I think this might be likened to a sort of speech-impediment.

It’s an idea that interests me. I’ve always been interested in languages, and how they relate to the way people think, and before now I’ve only ever thought about language in one way: phonically. When I read something, I ‘hear’ it in my head, but when a deaf person reads something, they see it signed in their head, and that fascinates me.

When I think something through, I think of it in a mixture of [audible] words, images and an odd fusion of the two — a bit like the “feel” of a word before it’s fully formed in the mind. When a deaf person does the same thing, they will see signs rather than hear words.

I find the whole thing fascinating, if only because it’s a way of looking at language that I’ve never thought about before.

Isn’t it sad the way Christmas doesn’t feel magical any more? I mean, I remember being ecstatically excited in the run up to Christmas, but I also remember, very keenly, the way that each successive Christmas became less and less exciting a few years ago. Is this just a part of growing up? And is it linked to the way presents get a little worse every year? (Or am I just becoming more of a fussy consumer?)

The recent explosion at Hemel Hempstead got me thinking about energy dynamics, of all things. This isn’t anything unusual, I often think about energy dynamics whenever I’m near a petrol station, or gas cannister, or charcoal, or any other fossil fuel-derivative, and I’m always slightly awed by the whole thing.

The energy in a fossil fuel, like oil or petrol, originally reached the Earth in the form of sunlight millions of years ago, when plants captured it and used it to make basic carbohydrates like sugar. These sugars were then further processed into things like wood. Eventually the plants died, and what was left became oil over millions of years.

It’s the efficiency of the whole thing that awes me. I think plants are only able to capture about 2% of the sunlight they receive. That means the remaining 98% of the sun’s rays went into things like heating up lizards and creating forest fires. When the plants died they rotted: the organisms involved in decomposing the dead plants would have taken some of the energy out of the plant, and whatever was left would have turned into oil. But only under certain circumstances and in certain places.

Even so, the energy in the oil created an explosion that was heard 50 kilometres (30 miles) away, and a fire that took four days to put out.

I’ve been thinking about this recently, as most people have. I read an article in the Times today by Alice Miles that made me think about reasons behind the attack, and I’ve decided to post my thoughts. Comments welcome.

Unsurprisingly, my first reaction was anger. I was angry that someone would want to do this to anyone, and that they would do this to my country. When September 11th happened I found myself being annoyed, to be honest, at the reaction of Americans; I thought that they were a little “too” patriotic. But now that somewhere a little closer to home has been attacked, I can understand the American reaction much more clearly.

I found myself beginning to be angered that someone could do this and then think that they were going to paradise because of it, and (and I’m just going to be honest) that I was glad that there was a hell, and that these people were going there. Then I caught myself, and wondered if God would feel the same way, and I thought that no, he probably wouldn’t.

I also heard someone talking about the attacks, and they said “Well, they should just all be deported, really”. But who is “they”? Muslims? People from Pakistan? I made the point to that person that, out of all the millions of muslims, Pakistanis (or whoever “they” were) living in the UK, it was only a handful of them that chose to make these attacks. Besides, many of “them” were born in Britain, have grown up in Britain and are British!

I’ve just heard a piece on the radio about who the bombers were, their backgrounds, and a few clips of interviews with people that knew them (all of whom were surprised). When you hear stuff like that, it makes you realise that these people aren’t the demons they’re made out to be. Of course, what they did was horrific and inexcusable, but were they born like that? Probably not. What’s happened along the way to make them do something as terrible as they did? I found myself feeling sad that otherwise perfectly ordinary people could find it in themselves to kill and maim like they did.

PhilBaker.net: On Popes and Elections

I only heard that the pope had died last night, when my sister told me. It’s a little strange, actually, to think this. I’m not a Catholic, so I don’t necessarily agree with the theology of having priests and popes, etc., but watching his Easter address, I don’t know who could have failed to feel some spark of compassion. He was obviously in pain and frustrated by his inability to say everything he wanted to.

The link above is to a post made by someone that spoke at our Church a while ago, and it really made me change the whole way I see this. At first, I was a little sad, but I was thinking more about the differences between my theology and Catholic theology. Reading this post was really refreshing, because it reminded me that the most important thing here is empathising with Catholics. Instead of squabbling over differences in theology (and let’s face it, the theology of my church isn’t always easy to take), we should be focussing on the very genuine pain a lot of Catholics will be feeling at the moment. I may not be able to understand or identify with their pain, but I can certainly understand the need for support in spite of disagreement of beliefs. I ask for that with my non-Christian friends, so I should certainly grant the same to Catholics. I need to put my differences aside and recognise that their pain is valid and real, even if I don’t understand the cause of it.

I was going through my files today when I came across a graph that I’d half-drawn and then given up on. It’s quite funny.

Also found this, which is amazing:

Nelson Mandela, Inaugural Speech, 1994

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

And this, which I thought was beautiful:

Hymn to Osiris

I have come home. I have entered humanhood, bound to rocks and plants, men and women, rivers and sky. I shall be with you in this and other worlds. When the cat arches in the doorway, think of me. I have sometimes been like that. When two men greet each other in the street, I am there speaking to you. When you look up, know I am there — sun and moon pouring my love around you. All these things I am, portents, images, signs. Though apart, I am a part of you. One of the million things in the universe, I am the universe, too. You think I disguise myself as rivers and trees simply to confuse you? Whatever I am, woman, cat or lotus, the same god breathes in every body. You and I together are a single creation. Neither death nor spite nor fear nor ignorance stops my love for you.

“Awakening Osiris — The Egyptian Book of the Dead.” Copyright © 1988 Normandi Ellis.