Happy Winter Solstice! (… and Lexember #17-21)

First off, Happy Winter Solstice to everyone! ☀️🌃

In Tveshi, that would be Keshehio Oinnuporåsėo mesah! — You.DAT Winter Solstice.CAUS solidarity/hello/salutations. Indirect objects come before direct objects.

In Narahji, Ku tsukgenahaitsi raerås domozmbe. A/the Winter Solstice memorable have.IMPERATIVE you.PL.

Second, I published a poem in Eternal Haunted Summer called “What Remains in the Ruins.” There’s a lot of great stuff in the Winter Solstice issue from many talented people.

I had to make a lot of my wintertime vocabulary for Tveshi today — a really weird oversight considering that the culture has its roots in a high-latitude region of Ameisa. I had words for snow and cold in Narahji despite the warm climate, for a quick contrast. In my Tveshi lexicon work, I’m happy with the word for ice — jiashei, literally water-glass. Ice frozen on surfaces is called khereshei(ć)water-tile(s). North Tvaji continent winters are icy rather than snowy. To get truly snowy winters, one would need to travel across the ocean to the Amur region.

Day 17

Ho /hoʊ̯/ n.  Meat. Adjective hohi /ˈhoʊ̯.çi/, meaty, umami-filled, filling, satisfying. Verb ahohit /ʌ.ˈhoʊ̯.çit̪/, to raise livestock for meat. Annolisho /ʌ̃ð.oʊ.ˈli.ʃoʊ̯/, meat animal.

Vegetarianism/veganism is not prevalent in Sabaji parts of Tveshė and is typically associated with social classes that cannot afford as much meat. The Sabaji Tveshi eat what is prepared by their families. Various priesthoods and shrines have their own ritual purity standards that might limit food groups. Meat, however, is very socially sought.

Among the Ịgzarhjenya, vegetarianism/veganism is a mourning diet practiced 1-3 years after the death of close family members, marked by the phrase ärrgorrophontis ñudssa.

Day 18

Innodå /ĩð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/ n. Library, archive. Innodåkouri /ĩð.oʊ̯.dɔ.ˈkʼou̯.ɾi/, a librarian or archivist. Unnodå /ũð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/, archive. Oinnodå /ɔĩ̯ð.ˈoʊ̯.dɔ/, library.

Irå /ˈi.ɾɔ/ n. Translation. Aråhit /ʌ.ˈɾɔ.çit̪/, to translate. Another term for to translate is

ahakhit modayuić jeihi
ʌ.ˈhɑ.ʀit̪ moʊ̯.ˈdɑ.yui̯tʃ ˈʒeɪ̯.çi
to twist through collected words

On Twitter, I then deviated into plausible dystopian scenarios involving books that occasionally happen in my writing:

Mė khanem akouanait åssekać jinnahio.
I forced people to burn books.

Mė khanem peimu innodåkouri.
I forced the librarian away.

Mė khanem fem peimu innodåkouri.
I forced the librarian away from ler place.

In my lexicon, the above sentences actually illustrate how the word pei (place) is used. The base word, when used with suffixes like -mu, can indicate directionality. To emphasize that you do mean a place, the article needs to appear before any indirect use of pei, as in fem peimu.

Day 19

Khaña (DN) /ˈʀɑ.ɲʌ/ n. Center. Khañi /ˈʀɑ.ɲi/, central. Akhañit /ʌ.ˈʀɑ.ɲit̪/, to center, to put at the midpoint.

Lioć henekhañi /lioʊ̯tʃ hə.nə.ˈʀɑ.ɲi/, centerless circles, a common way to describe gods in philosophy and mysticism.

 

Day 20

Khia /ʀiɑ̯/ n. Light, in the sense of illumination on the electromagnetic spectrum. A different word is used for light pigments. Khiai /ʀi͡ɑi/, lit. Akhiai /ˈɑ.ʀi͡ɑi/, well-lit. Akhiait /ˈɑ.ʀi͡ɑit̪/, to light.

Day 21

Onnuneporå /oʊ̯̃ð.u.nə.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/ n. Solstice. This is a generic term used for either of the two solstices. The Winter Solstice is called Oinnuporå /o͡ʊið.u.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/, from oihonnuneporå. The Summer Solstice is called Iyonnuporå /ij.oʊ̯ð.u.ˈpoʊ̯.rɔ/.

Lexember Days #8-16: Teachers and Ancestors

Lexember has been going well, and one of its biggest benefits is that I’ve started rendering things in IPA. Going forward on my podcast, I think I will actually just render Tveshi and Narahji words in IPA for my script version — it’ll be a lot easier to minimize my American vowel accent that way.

This is the “teachers and ancestors” post, so named because I want to start out with a longer word that I cannot fit in tweets — the Tveshi word for teacherfågoim /ˈfɑ.go͡ʊim/.

Fågoim is a good word for showing something important with Tveshi articles. Tveshi articles are not mandatory in most cases, nor are they used often. Here’s an example:

Mesh fayiem gefai mėi.
/Mɛʃ ˈfɑ.jiɛ̯m ˈgɛ.faɪ̯ ˈmɛ.ʔi./
We performed last rites for my grandmother.

This directly glosses to:

Mesh fay-iem gefai mei.
1PL perform-last-rites-PST-PL grandmother 1S-POSS.

There is no article present in the actual Tveshi accompanying grandmother.

Articles, where they appear, come after the noun in most cases. In these places, one uses an article for emphasis. They come before the noun in others. The difference between kin/emị kena (an obsession or crush) and kena kin (the desire) relies on whether the article precedes or follows the noun. In the former case, it’s necessary for meaning; in the latter, it’s emphatic. One could actually say emị kena emị to refer to a crush emphatically.

Words like teacher, on the other hand, showcase some formality features in modern Tveshi that involve articles. One’s own teacher is fågoim mėi, as an example — the word teacher with the possessive pronoun.

To show respect to a teacher one has never had, the archaic articles for people are used in front of the word, not after — emị fågoim.

Within philosophical schools, someone who is not directly one’s teacher is referred to with the article feim, typically reserved for ghosts in old liturgical texts. This is because the ghost of that person’s teaching are within one’s own teacher.

Mė ćalimem em fågoim lịfa nossu vėi gopesem.
I comforted a teacher.HON when ler.FORM student died.
(Em is the object form of emị.)

Mė ćalimem fågoim mėi lịfa nossu gopesem mėshepui.
I comforted my teacher when a student among us died.

Mė ćalimem fan fågoim lịfa nossu gopesem mėshepui.
I comforted a teacher.HON when a student among us died.
(Fan is the object form of feim.)

The adjective henefågoini, teacherless, is a pejorative used against socially disruptive teachings or those who adhere to them. Fågoini is the adjective teaching, as in nonakhė fågoini, a teaching forest used in forestry and agricultural education.

Sifågoim indicates the education industry, with fågoinekouri meaning a teacher in the context of primary and secondary education. Fågoinekouri is never used for philosophical school teachers or teachers in higher education.

Ufågoim is often used for university-level faculty.

The verb afågoinit means to teach, to nurture a teaching in someone. The word for families instructing/teaching children is amolit, with the adjective moli and noun mola. Fanagoć mėi mola athuait mesh. My parents taught us to sing sacred songs.

#Lexember on Twitter

On Day 9, I realized that many on Twitter might not realize that I am doing 20-30 entries a day, as I intend to fix my Tveshi dictionary and grammar this month despite how daunting a project it actually is.

To select which entries to tweet, I think about which ones are (a) cool and (b) can fit in a single tweet. Sometimes, this fails because things like ancestors and ghosts are cool — but a snapshot tweet of what I’m doing is my intention. I have plenty of short entries, such as:

åsseka, book
geha, peak
modakoura, committee
hahi, broken
feaså, scroll
hjo, bed

… and none of these has a lengthy entry. (Well, geha does.)

Day 8

Noña /ˈnoʊ̯.ɲʌ/ n. Quietude, stillness, restfulness.
Adjective noñi /ˈnoʊ̯.ɲi/, quiet, still, restful. Evokes the quality of silence near the winter solstice when walking at night in snowy stillness.
Verb anoñit /ʌ.ˈnoʊ̯.ɲit̪/, to rest, to be still, to be quiet.

Day 9

Atiato /ʌ.ˈt̪iɑ̯.t̪o/ n. StreamAtiatohi /ʌ.t̪iʌ̯.ˈt̪o.çi/, stream-likeAtiatohit /ʌ.t̪iʌ̯.ˈt̪o.çit̪/, to stream. Colloquially, atiato describes things that are steady, but manageable & habitual.

The Tveshi version of the Internet is called atiatoennaji /ʌ.t̪iʌ̯.t̪oʊ̯.ə̃ð.ˈɑ.ʒi/, streamspace-of-peopleAtiatoenna /ʌ.t̪iʌ̯.t̪oʊ̯.ˈə̃ð.ʌ/ is used to describe public goods and benefits paid for by the citizenry.

I decided to post this word predominantly due to Net Neutrality. The Tveshi Internet is very unlike ours, as social media platforms beyond an online forum system do not exist. One generally communicates via text or vid.

Day 10

 /dɛ/ n. StoneDi /di/, durablemade of stone.
As a verb, adit /ˈɑ.dit̪/, to solidify, is used in metaphor to describe things that are made solid like stone.
Colloquially, di is used to refer to reliable people.

Day 11

Daiahė /ˈdaɪ͡a.hə/ n. The quality of being in good order; orderly symmetry. Efịhjo femị hat daiahė. That bedroom feels right (and is clean).
Daiahi /ˈdaɪ͡a.çi/, clean, well-ordered.
Adaiahit /ʌ.ˈdaɪ͡a.çit̪/, to clean, to put in order.

Day 12

Ćaofo /ˈtʃɑo̯.foʊ̯/ n. VineAćaofoit /ʌ.ˈtʃɑo̯.fo͡ʊit̪/ is to vine. A blood-vine tree is called called yoi thoćaofoi /jo͡ʊi θoʊ̯.ˈtʃao̯.fo͡ʊi/or yoi kouveshi /jo͡ʊi kʼou̯.ˈvɛ.ʃi/, tree blood-vining or heart-containing tree.

When I talk about blood-vines or blood-vining trees in Epiphany, I am never being metaphorical. These are not actually trees. They are a type of life-form on Ameisa that moves extremely slowly, a plant-esque fruiting animal. The fruits are complete protein sources within which the eggs hide. They bleed real Ameisi blood.

Day 13

Fu /fu/ n. PatienceOfui /ˈoʊ.fui̯/, patientAfuit /ˈɑ.fui̯t̪/, to wait for.
Mė fuata fauyo. /Mɛ ˈfuɑ̯.tʌ ˈfaʊ̯.joʊ̯./ I had waited for a parent. This is using the expectant verb mood, which is a bit hard to make idiomatic in English.

To make the verb to consider, one uses the suffix that means towards. Depending on the noun class, this could be -su-sui, or –sėa. The suffixes for towards and inside of/in have actually merged somewhat, and towards is often now shortened to -s for all noun classes. I’m rendering it in the formal version below.

Mė fuata fauyosui. /Mɛ ˈfuɑ̯.tʌ ˈfaʊ̯.joʊ̯.sui̯./ I had expected to consider a parent.

Day 14

Faya /ˈfɑ.jʌ/ n. Ancestor. Appears as fayi /ˈfɑ.ji/ for ancestral. The verb afayit /ʌ.ˈfɑ.jit/ is used for death or last rites.

Mesh fayiem gefai mėi. /Mɛʃ ˈfɑ.jiɛ̯m ˈgɛ.faɪ̯ ˈmɛ.ʔi./ We performed last rites for my grandmother.

Vė vas fayem. /Vɛ vɑs ˈfɑ.jəm./ Le died.

Fakha /ˈfɑ.ʀʌ/ n. Ghost, restless dead, disturbance. Fakhi /ˈfɑ.ʀi/, to bear ill will of the deadAfakhit /ʌ.ˈfɑ.ʀit̪/, to haunt, to bear malice towards.

In slang, one uses the term fakha to refer to a friend with whom one has fallen out — and depending on tone, it is either pejorative or regretful.

Fakha emị meshem mė vo nịnni mohuyem moda nusi.
ˈfɑ.ʀʌ ˈɛ.mɪ ˈmɛʃ.əm mɛ voʊ̯ ˈnɪ̃.ði moʊ̯.ˈxu.jəm ˈmoʊ̯.dʌ nusi.
The ghost forgot me and never wrote a comforting word.

Which leads me to something else: There are two words for and in Tveshi. Vo /voʊ̯/ is used when the subject of the two phrases is the same. Nia /niɑ̯/ is used when the subject is different in the next phrase.

There are also positive and negative words for but:

petai /ˈpɛ.t̪aɪ̯/
pehia /ˈpɛ.çiʌ̯/

Vė vas fayem petai ćå deihat uhio. (positive connotation)
Vė vas fayem pehia ćå deihat uhio. (negative connotation)
Le died, but you achieved a success.

Day 15

(Note: You may see that I changed this title. That is because Dec. 15 is the one I forgot to hashtag, and I was like, wait, but it’s the 16th! That’s why.)

Khaira /ˈʀaɪ̯.ɾʌ/ n. Weapon. Adjective okhairahi /oʊ.ʀaɪ̯.ˈɾɑ.çi/, weaponized. Verb akhairait /ʌ.ʀaɪ̯.ˈɾɑ.çit̪/ means to harm, beat violently, hit, pummel. Reflexively, it means that no weapon was used.

Shåsso sėis khairaou ånnon.
ˈʃɔ.ʂoʊ̯ ˈsɛʔ.is ˈʀaɪ̯.ɾʌo͡ʊː ˈɔ̃ð.oʊ̯n.

The storm likely hit the coast.

Day 16

Hau /haʊ̯/ n. BoneHaui /ha͡ʊi/, bonyAhauit /ˈɑ.ha͡ʊit̪/ means to obstruct, to block.

Gianịhau /giʌ̯.ˈnɪ.haʊ̯/ is the term used for xylophone.

An oihau /ˈɔɪ.haʊ̯/ is the wall of a house that faces the street.

Lexember Days #4-7: Yes, Tveshi was my first conlang.

I only have one LaTeX page of my incredibly poor late-teens-early-twenties dictionary decision to go in the A section. Then, I can move on to the remainder of the alphabet.

‘Tis the Season

Lexember has been nice because I’ve spent a lot of time building up derivative words and ensuring that semantic drift is elegant and culturally useful to the people who speak this language. This will be a very long dictionary — with many words related to sacred texts. While in my early 20s, I started by rendering short passages of sacred texts in Tveshi itself.

There’s a folder on my computer called Old Files for Reference — Not Sorted. In it, I have things like this:

While weeding the fields, Kakinne looked across the row at Sehet Añi. “Why do you help,” le said, “when you have all the comforts of your station?”
The esteemed one said, “Why do you help when you have a family to nurture?”
“I cannot provide for them if they have nothing to eat.”
Sehet Añi smiled at lim and threw the weeds le had gathered over ler shoulder. “And that is why I, too, must toil.”

An earlier version of Tveshi looked like [1] below. The ì has since changed to an ị because I have reserved acute and grave accents for tonal sounds in Aòḥám and other languages. I’ve switched from ë to ė for noting final schwas because ë now indicates rough-breathed vowels. À is now å.

[1]

Ukhìnni nifìpis inokhiać Kakinnë dishàm Àñis: Kuàćitait ćà likha? Ćà haoà hàgi ćàlimë fàdyinep.
Kuaćitait ćà likha ìfà lis ćà haoà sejàtho afàgoinit?
Më ni fàgoinaut goiñë ìfeti sher ni haoa nijal ahàgoilit.
Àñi làumem vehë vo haćadem hoieinoić pes genëm. Hùf! Ña mekha và mekha kouripis hata-mëi.

[2]

Note: This is not an edited translation, but a rough one. You can see that the places I’ve done literal translations are in sloppy, pseudo-linguistic notation.

Anifịptis inokhiać, Kakinne disham hueilumėa anni Añis. “Kuaća likhasio ćå,” los vė modaha. “Ćå hat mefamosio ćathu ćalimi.” [Lit. You.FORM have law.CAUS a comfortable foundation.]
Gaih Sehet Añi modaha, “Kuaća likhasio ćå? Ćå hat sejatho låfuapui nia ahinit.”
“Mė ni ćualera takhị å sher haoiera nijalė.”
Sehet Añi laumem vo haućadem pussåmėalumėa kourinnịsio hueić nifi. [Sehet Añi smiled and.same-subject threw shoulder.ABL+above work.CAUS toil-plants.] “Helai atai mė mathemauptu, seno mėisa.”

The phrase seno mėisa literally means together-echo ourselves. It means me too.

The differences between these are (a) that I developed a better understanding of linguistics and (b) that I abandoned some grammatical elements that I was trying out in favor of developing Tveshi consistently. [2] is so much better from a linguistic standpoint.

Embers from My #Lexember Twitter Posts

Day 4

Raika /ˈɾaɪ.kʼʌ/ n. Printing press. From rai sikahi /ɾaɪ si.ˈkʼɑ.çi/, essence-adj ink. Adjective raikahi /ɾaɪ.ˈkʼɑ.çi/, printed. Verb araikait /ʌ.ˈɾaɪ.kʼaɪt̪/, to print. Modaraika /moʊ.dʌ.ˈɾaɪ.kʼʌ/, a character in its print, not handwritten, form.

The verb ahairaikait means to press, to pressure, to persuade and derives from hai raikahi, consciousness being pressured. It’s used to describe persuasiveness, too, as hairaikahi, persuasive.

Day 5

Kher /ʀɛɾ/ n. Keepsake box. Colloq., something of little interest to others. The adjective kheri /ˈʀɛ.ɾi/ means hidden or out of sight. The verb akherit /ʌ.ˈʀɛ.ɾit̪/means to hide, to conceal.

Day 6

Upa /ˈu.pʌ/ n. Desire, nonsexual. Adj upahi /u.ˈpɑ.çi/ — desirous, compelling. The verb aupit /ˈɑu.pit̪/ is to desire nonsexually; be compelled by; be obsessed with. Kin upa /kʼin ˈu.pʌ/ (“the upa”) means platonic crush (person) or deep hobby (activity).

An enormous part of the Tveshi, Iturji, and Ịgzarhjenya social systems incorporates the idea of sacred friendships. Thus, their languages all have specific words for terms that are difficult to find in English outside of either philosophical posts about the various types of love in Ancient Greece and Rome or the contemporary asexual community. These sacred friendships usually exist alongside marriages; marriages are often neither for love nor for sex.

Day 7

Anna /ˈɑ̃.ðʌ/ n. Ideal. As an adj, anni /ˈɑ̃.ði/ means best-case scenario, best of our world. Verb annit /ˈɑ̃.ðit̪/ means to idealize, to set up. Derivative terms include hui anni, a good fit; huei anni, a crop row; kusa anni, the peak of one’s career; and sikouikara anni, activism.

Notes on Epiphany: Oratory in Ịgzarhjenya Languages (and Iturji)

When I was reading the 56 Hikol piece about Tehjen, I did not render Narahji in the IPA — although retrospectively, that would have been easier. I would have needed way fewer takes than I had to do to get this right!

That piece is written in pre-reform Narahji, which you can tell because the possessive word is mosmur instead of momuThe prefix mos- is used to indicate possessiveness, and mur is the first person singular indirect object pronoun. People in Narahja practice diglossia up until 1897, when the language is course-corrected.

My words bring horror. People call me Desertion.
My skin is the color of cliff-rock, and it flakes like cliffrock.
The Great Canyon dark devours my soul.
My body becomes it, and the Canyon-Dark becomes my mind.
It rips my brain into small pieces that are the Canyon’s rivers,
And my blood is the soil that nourishes the people with fruit.
Such is my fate to serve for all time:
I revolted against our ways, the Karatha, the Tesekhaira, the ruler!
I chose to be alone, and what a mistake! I am no more.

That is this in English — but in Narahji, it becomes:

I mukro bezurælotek kul magdu mosmur xai Tehjenan manlịdgu.
I neä ruaịgzærmobæ glabdeml i blesgị mosmur xai lagịgzæla.
Ku klazæxub mosmur gleglælaben ku Narahjịgz lịbịmị̈nobæ.
Kusanglabdemlben omdag ku glịklazæ mosmur; radag kusanglabdemlben ku kovta.
ku koværna belæla kul ösyosnosyosjab xai kul bizar ragazị glabdæl bakus
Xai i ëiza glabdeml i ịtö, ku sjenä i hjenganas nokla i ëiza.
I dom mosmur glabdeml lexai fubä, gåmịtit kolborị:
Ku tsærgbị mosbyur, Katatyan, Kerosyan, ñæ Deimolan natzssaịtrun!
Tselvit bladeissaịtrun, xai ku narlị glabdeml kolborị! Boglabdesunuakba.

The text exists somewhere between a poem and prose — it’s not in a formal metric style. This is quite common in Narahji because oratory and poems are recited differently from ordinary speech. Certain vowels, such as iou, and a, are lengthened and have a higher pitch even when they are not stressed. It produces an extremely stylized form of speech. Below is the text I actually worked from while doing the reading, which contains both the lengthened vowels and the original word stresses.

Ī mūkrṓ bezū́rælōtek kūl magdū́ mosmū́r xai Tehjénān manlịdgū́.
Ī nehā́ rūaịgzærmobæ glābdéml i blesgị́ mosmū́r xai lāgị́gzæla.
Kū klāzæxū́b mosmū́r gléglælaben kū Nārāhjị́gz lịbịmhịnōbæ.
Kūsānglābdémlben ōmdāg kū glịklāzǽ mōsmū́r; rādā́g kūsānglābdémlben kū kōvtā́.
kū kōværnā́ bélæla kūl hōsyōsnōsyṓsjāb xai kūl bīzā́r rāgāzị́ glā́bdæl bākū́s
Xai ī heizā́ glabdéml ī ịtthṓ, kū sjenhā́ i hjengānā́s nōklā́ ī heizā́.
Ī dōm mōsmū́r glābdéml lexai fūbhā́, gåmịtī́t kōlbōrị:
Kū tsærgbị́ mōsbyū́r, Kātātyā́n, Kerōsyā́n, ñæ Deimṓlān nā́tzssāịtrūn!
Tselvī́t blādéissāịtrūn, xai kū nārlị́ glābdéml kōlbōrị! Bōglābdésūnūakbā.

I had to make a decision with characters like Karatau Meiyenesi (Kurutimi) in the audio. As an Iturji upper-class person of the jomela gender who has extensive training in oratory and politics, Kurutimi would speak in Tveshi, Iturji, and Narahji using an affected oratorical style. The Iturji follow the Ịgzarhjenya (Khessi, Narahji, &c.) in that. It’s a sign of status. I tried out some of ler sentences in English using oratory-like diction, and it was over-the-top. I compromised on that.

This recitation is thus one of the few places where the oratorical style actually comes out and bites the reader.

Lexember Day #3

I spent about an hour and a half working on my Tveshi dictionary and wrote up about 10-15 entries, which included derivative words based on prefixes, suffixes, and compounds. I have a group of “unclaimed” words that I am using to fill out roots that I don’t have yet and that don’t make sense as compounds. Here are a few words!

Hakha /ˈhɑ.ʀʌ/ (NN). Fortune. Adjectives hakhi or hohi, fortuitous. Verb ahakhit, to twist, to turn, to spin. Common derivative terms include nuahakha, ill fortune; peaira hohi, habitable planet; nåhakha or nåkha, a slang pejorative used to indicate the situation of an inexperienced person being placed in a position that le is not excelling at; Iahakha, the name of the Goddess of Fortune; aihakha, computer program; aumịhohi, dead, an alternative term; ohakhakouri, fortune-teller who tells lots and auguries, not a direct oracular conduit to the gods.

One realization: I’ve never actually written down the compound word rules for Tveshi, so I certainly hope that I have applied consistent rules over the long count. So — I detoured a bit to write them up.

For most compound words, the Tveshi add the words straightforwardly. The lower-register word for god, yåssị /ˈjɒ.ʂɪ/, is combined directly with the word narajar, to make the term narayåssị /nʌ.ɾʌ.ˈjɒ.ʂɪ/, god-jar. This is a slang term for a professional oracle. This new noun can easily be transformed into an adjective or a verb. The word ćeno /ˈt͡ʃɛ.noʊ/, replacement, comes from ćė no, wind-echo.

Some compound words arise from noun phrases. The word unnadaso, lexicon, comes from unnan modasioć, and the noun phrase was once very common. Typically, as slang replaces esteemed usage, the final two syllables of the first root are retained, and any final consonants are lost from them — especially nasals.

The modifier word retains one to two syllables, and its terminate vowel is almost always -o or a strong -a, the only sign that a word is a holdover from a noun that had a case modifier (i.e., modasioć means caused by words). The word nokho /ˈnoʊ.ʀoʊ/, well, comes from the words no khianua, echo avoiding light.

Lexember: Days 1-2

I wanted to translate “lexember” into Tveshi. It would have been an ideal Day One, but yesterday, I participated in running an internal conference about data + society — so, needless to say, it was overambitious given that I had to be at work early.

So I started yesterday by fixing the next entry on my docket. When I was in my early 20s, for some reason, I listed all of the words in Tveshi as verbs when Tveshi derives its verbs from nouns. Any noun in Tveshi can become a verb or an adjective. Adjectives add either -i or -hi to the end depending whether the final sound is a consonant, a strong vowel, or a weak vowel. To make verbs, one adds the prefix a- (which means pure or ideal when used as a noun prefix; it gradually became a mandatory verb prefix to emphasize that something was an infinitive) and the suffix -it or -ait. There are also quite a few irregular verbs because Tveshi is a conquest contact language. Most other conquest contact languages are extremely regular because bureaucrats form language committees and streamline things, but Tveshi is so politicized that … well, you know how Senatorial debates can get.

This is why B-D is the most clean part of my dictionary.

Day 1

Gaiga. /ˈgaɪ.gʌ/ (NN). A prayer or petition to a higher power. The word for a statement of praise to a divinity is iahuilei. Gaigahi /gaɪ.ˈgɑ.hi/ is the adjective form, and agaigait /ʌ.gaɪ.ˈgɑ.haɪt̪/ is the verb to pray.

There. Simple.

The word actually reminds me a lot of the English word gaga, which makes me think Lady Gaga. I was like, “Really, teenage me? You didn’t realize what this word looked like?” Except what language is complete without words that are uncomfortably like the names of American celebrities.

Day 2

Let’s translate the word lexember into Tveshi. This was more complicated than I wanted because I had to invent the word for lexicon. I decided that the Tveshi word for lexicon would have come from the term a story of words. Here are some additional discoveries:

  • I have never made the words story or history. I did make the word fiction, though, so all is not lost.
  • For some reason, the suffix -kol never made it from my Tveshi calendar terminology document into my conlang document. I’m fixing this and adding the month terminology to my conlang materials.

For the words story and history, I decided that Tveshi doesn’t differentiate the two explicitly in the dictionary. Here are my entries for  story/background/history  and time:

Unnan /ˈũ.ðɑn/ (NA). Story, history, especially in the sense of background. Pl. unnamua /ũ.ˈðɑ.muɑ/. Adjective is unnani /ũ.ˈðɑ.ni/.

The double nn is pronounced by nasalizing the prior vowel and articulating a /ð/ by tipping the tongue against the edge of the upper teeth. It’s different from the voiceless /θ/ in Tveshi, marked th, which is voiced in a similar dental position to the English sound.

A storyteller is a unnanekouri. A historian is an åhunnanekouri. Natural history is oihunnan, which means that people who study in fields related to natural history are oihunnanekouri. Geology is hohunnan, and geologists are hohunnanekouri. Cultural histories are called unnaji (pl. unnajić).

Ko /kʼoʊ/ (NN). Time. The word kolị /ˈkʼoʊ.lɪ/ is month, and the word hokolị /hoʊ.ˈkʼoʊ.lɪ/ is season. The suffix for month is -(e)kol.

Lexember, then, relies on the word lexicon, which I made out as:

Unnadaso /ʊ̃.ðʌ.ˈdɑ.soʊ/ (NP). Lexicon. This comes from unnan modasioć, story caused by words.

Lexember is Unnadasokol /ʊ̃.ðʌ.dʌ.ˈsoʊ.kʼoʊl/, the word lexicon using the month suffix -kol.

Day 2.5

Gaisị /ˈgaɪ.sɪ/ (NP). Reverence, respect. The adjective has limited use. The word Gaih /ˈgaɪç/ is used as an honorific for deities in hymns, for one’s matriarch, and one’s parents. The verb form is agaisit /ʌ.ˈgaɪ.sɪt̪/, to revere, to respect. The word is strongly linked to måt gaisi /mɔt̪ ˈgaɪ.si/, the term for ethical teachings about one’s place in the family and broader social world.

When Great Houses Fall

This is (another) partial repost from Tumblr, but it’s relevant to the past few Epiphany episodes — a proverb came up there that is extremely important to how the Tveshi view class and social position.

Tveshi is spoken in a society that is highly traditionalist and that values the family above all else. However, the society has excellent social services, and there is a sense that powerful families are only powerful for a short period of time before they decline.

One needs to understand that for their societies, many families are centuries or millennia old, at least in surname. They go through highs and lows. The wealth inequality rate is quite low, too. The wealthy only have 10x as much as the poorest.

Thaukinị ni sėis kouria håge å pė sålotha sosejaluyio sejathopu helia ića diråhi fepu.

An earthquake does not care if it rumbles beneath the house of a great family or a humble one.

The ė is just to ensure that people pronounce the schwas at the ends of words; the å is an /ɒ/. Th and s are always voiceless þ and s.

Thaukinị is a natural-gender noun that means “earthquake.” It takes the pronoun  (given to nouns describing aspects of the natural world, Class N) and the reflexive N-class pronoun sėis.

Akouriait is a complex Tveshi verb that technically means, “to fashion.” Here, it is being used in the phrase sėis kouria håge, which means “fashions itself remorse.” This is the way that emotions and states of being are assigned to a subject. To say that something is remorsefulthaukinị va hågi, would be extremely informal and impolite.

Soseja is a compound word from so (house) and sejatho (family). It refers to the matriarchal seat of a family, or the family home in which the matriarch resides.

Family, sejatho, takes the noun class requiring the pronoun .

Helia ića diråhi fepu literally means “or one humble of family.”

Today, We Feast; Tomorrow, We #Lexember

Tomorrow is #lexember. I’m not a #NaNoWriMo person because, as an academic librarian, my achievable word count the month I write an academic article column for a science librarian journal is more like 20-30K. I’ve never understood why #NaNoWriMo is during peak academic output season.

This year, my word count was even lower because I was suffering from the Cold from Hell for most of October, which impacted my to-do list in November. I usually don’t get sick, especially not for three weeks, but 2017 is the year I started submitting short stories and poems to lit mags again. People handle rejections in a variety of ways, but my brain does it by having vivid flashbacks to every bullying event I experienced between second grade and my junior year of high school, which raises my anxiety, cortisol, and loneliness, which all depress my immune system. Anything my brain processes as social ostracization/rejection can trigger that.

Moving on from darkness, #lexember will be fun this year. I started conlanging in my teens. It’s actually how I learned English grammar and usage. When I was sixteen or seventeen, I spent an entire summer glued to Wikipedia’s linguistics pages. I took both Old English at Smith College and a class on Tolkien and Old English while studying abroad at Royal Holloway for a semester junior year. I took French all four years, and I actually skipped from intensive elementary to literature courses because my professor flagged me as a student who would be bored in the intermediate class.

A lot of this early stuff influenced how I wrote Tveshi, which has a sound pattern like the bastard child of Latin, Old English, and something vaguely Japanese. Google Translate usually tries to autodetect it as Indonesian. But the other effect of Tveshi being so old is that it was my most developed language and is the brutal survivor of WordPerfect and a variety of other file formats before I discovered the LaTeX linguistics packages. Tveshi is in pain.

Tveshi dict example. My dictionary is in pain!!!
A screencap of my Tveshi dictionary. The blue entries are ones that are complete. The black entries are the ones that I have not edited. If I scrolled up to B-D, I’ve done a much more comprehensive job of fixing this, but I wanted to show you the Worst Case Dictionary Page.

For #lexember, my plan is to work on the Tveshi lexicon by fixing and expanding the dictionary and the word usage examples so I can eventually put this online with my other constructed languages. Tveshi needs so much TLC that it’s ambitious, too, to think that I can finish it in just one month — realistically, this probably won’t be a reality until February.

But Tveshi is my fuzzy child blanket language, the one I started out with, and it deserves to be recognized and not forgotten while I work on my newer conlangs like Mamltab, Narahji, and Classical Atarahi. Even if the people who speak it have a brutal history.

And I’ll leave you with a piece of Epiphany that is translated into Tveshi (with some Narahji sentences):

Mė ni ai sinnah kin tai aråhit liju mė modahem helai kefu Sapaji ni hasė tauhuoć peshė. Mė modahetaio Narahjiyui, Xai ku tsekto xikanosaịrru tsurhjas tsansakssa. Ueileluyuo, so narahịptis åsseka nia feasåć nia ratịtuć, sakit va koushesu moda aushi nia tsekto va thåtosui lithi moda aushi lo nia lė da jinnahio lir rer hjakait.

I dont know how to translate what I said next because the Sabaji dont have a way to say it. In Narahji, it reads, Xai ku tsekto xikanosaịrru tsurhjas tsansakssa. For the future, if this goes into an archive, sakit is a very specific word for apologizing, and tsekto is a form of alienation, both for people who have been left out.

Linguistic Beauty Can Be Hard to Podcast

To conclude, we believe views about the beauty and ugliness of languages and dialects are built on cultural norms, pressures and social connotations. […] Most listeners know of linguistic varieties that they do not like, but we should appreciate that these feelings are highly subjective and have no basis in social scientific fact.

From Giles, H. & Niedzielsky, N (1998). Italian is beautiful, German is Ugly. In: Bauer, L & Trudgill, P (Eds)., Language myths. London: Penguin, pp.92.

This was going around on Tumblr a while ago, via original quote-poster linguisten.

As part of my efforts to move over interesting stuff about constructed languages to Pangrammatike, here’s what went through my head when I was making Narahji — what I posted in response to the thread when it went through my Tumblr feed. I’ve added a bit to it because this is no longer on Tumblr:

Narahji can be very consonant-clustered, and it’s actually very hard for me as an English-speaker to do a sentence in Epiphany in that language on a first take. Not only do I need to speak an intact, decently-pronounced Narahji sentence, but I need to rapidly switch from English to Narahji and back again. It’s really hard. Narahji has a regular stress on final syllables, except not. It stresses the final consonant sans suffix, except for personal name suffixes, which are stressed. Here’s a set of examples where stress appears. I’m simplifying it by marking stress with an acute accent.

    • Manbezúrozaịrruịts. You yourself brought me.
    • Manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me.
    • Fyúrbas manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me accompanied by them.
    • Rúrbas manbezúrozaịrra. You will bring me accompanied by lim (note lack of gender in third person singular).
    • Ku sabí bezúrovịrra. We (inclusive) will bring potable water.
    • Ku sabí bezúrovịrrakịb. We (inclusive to the listener) will bring ourselves potable water. Could also mean, We (inclusive to the listener) will ourselves bring potable water.
    • Ku sabí kị́rhjas bezúrovịrra. We (inclusive to the listener) will bring ourselves potable water. An alternative way to do that sentence.

I wanted a language where consonants clustered like grapes caught in the mouth. When I learned that many conlangs spoken by villains (e.g., in Tolkien) had that clustering and strong agglutination, I took that as a challenge. I wanted to make a language that did it — a language not for villains. I clustered consonants a lot in Narahji, and I made it OVS — object, verb, subject.

Its earlier versions were more clustered than the one I decided on, and it has a lot of fricatives and vowel aspiration. It doesn’t actually sound that harsh now, I think — but I love the sound of Narahji, so I’m a bit biased.

I learned a while after I created Narahji that Klingon is also OVS with some consonants that also sound harsh to American English speakers. So I went in that direction while thinking, “I’m so fed up with you people who say languages like this are ideal for orcs and villains,” and (apparently) the creators of Klingon were like, “Let’s make something super alien and harsh because Klingons.”

Perceptions of beautiful dialects/languages are biased, just as Giles & Niedzielsky said. I actually think that Narahji is quite beautiful when it appears in sentences.

Insults in Narahji: The Noun Class Edition

(A partial repost from Tumblr with some new content.)

The Narahji spoken in Epiphany is not always internally consistent because it’s the Narahji of a changing time. Salus is navigating a complex world of formal, standardized Narahji and informal Narahji. In 1865 Standard Count, the year Epiphany takes place, language activists are working hard on a referendum that won’t make headway until the 1880s to recalibrate official Narahji based on outside-of-the-office usage.

When I say “Narahji,” I also mean the Narahji that is taught in schools — this is a canyon region over a thousand kilometers across and several hundred kilometers top to bottom on a map, so there are a lot of small dialects and regional languages.

Kati and Salus have an exchange in Entry 39 in which Salus is offended by Kati’s use of slang for the word family. In pre-reform Narahji, the word is ku bvyadö, a noun in the animate class. It will become ku pho, the slang term Salus dislikes, once reform takes hold. Ler distaste for the slang term mirrors common discomfort among speakers who feel ownership of a language when that language changes. Like many speakers, Salus is complicated — le also picks and chooses which linguistic innovations le’s comfortable using in writing.

Regardless of whether one uses ku bvyadö or ku pho, I’d like to talk about the noun class system, AKA the linguistic gender applied to nouns in Narahji. When I developed the disrespect system in Narahji, I had an exciting opportunity to apply something I found interesting in Aikhenvald’s How Gender Shapes the World. Outside of Indo-European languages, many will employ gender inversions when disparaging a noun or the thing the noun represents.

This is the pronoun system for modern Narahji. The most important bits of it are the animate/inanimate pronouns.

Refl./Emph. Subject Direct Object Indirect Object Possessive
1s -ịm man- mur momu
1pincl. -kịb kịn- kịr åskị
1pexcl. -bė byan- byur åbhi
2s -ịts tsan- tsur åtsu
2p -kė kyan- kyur åku
3s -ịr ran- rur moru
3sanim -kus san- sur mosu
3sinanim -ron nan- rur årur
3p -fė fyan- fyur mosfu
3panim -kyus syan- syur åsyu
3pinanim -lyon ñan- ñur moñu

Note that this is post-1880s Narahji — the slang possessive pronouns have been adopted into the official grammars taught in schools, whereas before there was a prefix, mos-, that glommed onto the indirect object pronoun.

Narahji, as part of the Ịgzarhjenya language family, divides the non-human world into animate and inanimate noun classes. All animals and plants take the animate class, as do things that are considered living things. Inanimate things will often be referred to using the inanimate class. Nouns that denote abstract ideas and concepts, such as families, mistakes, honor, &c., have irregular noun classes that need to be memorized by nonnative speakers. The articles used are ku (animate) and i (inanimate).

Native speakers may refer to things in the inanimate class with the animate class article when emphasizing the noun’s importance. This usually only happens once in the sentence, after which the native speaker will revert to the accepted noun class.

Thus, to say, A (goddamn) fire burned lim. It (emphatic) happened at the dock, one might say, Rankunælaịrru ku besun. I febiyxoho gådzælaịrruron. Fire, i besun, is transformed into ku besun. The speaker uses the correct pronoun suffix, -ron, for inanimate nouns in the second sentence.

The opposite might happen for nouns classed as animates. This is one way to code disrespect in Narahji.

Ogekowælaịrrabæn i pho åbhi. Our (shitty) family will not cooperate. A listener might respond, Ogekowælaịrrabænsæ̈ ku pho aku? That is a yes/no query that correctly uses ku pho.