This week, how dark it is outside really hit me. The library where I work is in a basement, and the window in the pit courtyard has been taken away due to a construction site. We won’t get it back until at least midsummer.
At this time of the year given that windowless existence, the only sun I see when I don’t have meetings in other buildings is after sunrise and before I enter the building — essentially, ~7 AM when the sun rises until my commute is over at ~9 AM. It’s black as pitch by the time I leave for home. Even with the window, December is always a struggle. (The light doesn’t really reach our offices, but it’s nice to just know there’s a window a few dozen meters away.) I become constantly fatigued and lose a grip on my circadian rhythm despite using bright-light circadian glasses while I’m getting ready in the morning. They help marginally, so I’m sure most of this is psychological.
Thankfully, our university closes almost completely between the 24th and 1st, so I can do a reset and get more sunlight. I have today (December 21) off, and I am posting my Lexember stuff now before going off to bake lussekatt and pray to Helios because the winter solstice is this evening. We have a severe weather alert for high winds, flooding, and a deluge of rain.
Many of the words this week were themed after my growing restlessness about the short days.
Day Fifteen.
Kel /kɛl/. Sort of.
Febn kel ei rim.
/fəb.ˈn̩ kɛl ɛ͡i ɾim/
I’m kinda tired.
Febn kel ei alif-mi rim.
/fəb.ˈn̩ kɛl ɛ͡i ɒ̈l.ˈif.ˌmi ɾim/
I’m kinda done.
Feb /fɘb/, fatigue. Febn /fəb.ˈn̩/, fatigued. Feba /fə.ˈbɑ/, drowsiness. Feban /fə.ˈbɑn/, sleepy, drowsy.
Day Sixteen.
Alem /ɒ̈.ˈlɛm/, mistake. Alemn /ɒ̈.ˈlɛm.ˌn̩/, adj form.
Alem ful maso neð rim.
/ɒ̈.ˈlɛm fyl mɒ̈.ˈso nɛð ɾim/
I don’t like mistakes.
Vus alemn bhei za.
/vys ɒ̈.ˈlɛm.ˌn̩ βɛ͡i zɑ/
Le doesn’t have ler priorities straight. Lit., Le has [nonphysical] a mistaken center.
Day Seventeen.
Iunaḥ /i͡yn.ˈɑʔ/, darkness. Iunaḥn /i͡yn.ˈɑʔ.ˌn̩/, dark.
Iunaḥn ei teltu.
/i͡yn.ˈɑʔ.ˌn̩ ɛ͡i t̪əl.ˈt̪y/
Winter is dark.
Day Eighteen.
Es /ɛs/, on account of, because of, with the cause of.
Febn iunaḥ no teltu es ei rim.
/fəb.ˈn̩ i͡yn.ˈɑʔ no t̪əl.ˈt̪y ɛs ɛ͡i ɾim/
I am tired on account of winter’s darkness.
Day Nineteen.
Un /yn/, weak. Unzi /yn.ˈzi/, something/one who is weak. Unor /yn.ˈoɾ/, to weaken.
Un ei kta no teltu.
/yn ɛ͡i ktɑ no təl.ˈt̪y/
Winter light is weak.
Ben /bɘn/, strong. Benzi /bən.ˈzi/, strong one/thing.Benor /bən.ˈoɾ/, to strengthen.
Ben ei vus za no.
/bɘn ɛ͡i vys zɑ no/
Ler foundation is strong. Lit. Ler center is strong.
Reflexively, benor makes to improve:
Beno teilva.
/bə.ˈno t̪ɛ͡il.ˈvɑ/
You-singular are improving. Lit. You strengthen yourself.
Day Twenty.
Kabek kɒ̈.ˈbɛk/, regimen. Kabek teitn /kɒ̈.ˈbɛk t̪ɛ͡it̪.ˈn̩/, diet. Kabek no ifhea lloktn /kɒ̈.ˈbɛk no i.ˈɸɛ͡ɒ̈ ɬokt.ˈn̩/, the register of rites performed by a temple. Kabek rusoḥn /kɒ̈.ˈbɛk ɾy.ˈsoʔ.ˌn̩/, preventative health plan. Kabekn /kɒ̈.ˈbɛk.ˌn̩/, regimented, allotted.
Teit teas ov avuyo kabekn-mi kaubo eam.
/t̪ɛ͡it̪ t̪ɘ.ˈɒ̈s ov ɒ̈.ˈvy.ˌjo kɒ̈.ˈbɛk.ˌn̩ mi kɒ̈͡y.ˈbo ɛ͡ɒ̈m/
The state has allotted food to the poor.
Day Twenty-One.
Fhor /ɸoɾ/, to go. Fhor us-mi, to return (used w/refl. pron).
Fho us-mi kta iuka no ebhari ẖezn!
/ɸo ys mi ktɑ i͡y.ˈkɑ no ə.ˈβɑ.ɾi ħəz.ˈn̩/
The sunlight returns!
H̱eznbhe fhor ðaḥav dei.
/ħəz.ˈn̩.ˌβɛ ɸo ðɒ̈.ˈʔɑv dɛ͡i/
You-dual will likely go home.