move camp, murry

So the accent in Bitin' Back, this insertion of Aboriginal words in English sentences, in Australia goes back to the primordial development of the nation's novel writing; the first book published by an Australian-born woman in Australia does it, I discovered when I read that book, Gertrude The Emigrant Girl: a Tale of Colonial Life (1857) by Louisa Atkinson, which knows it doesn't need to translate "murry" to let you know that it's an intensifier, a "very," when one character says a good farm is "murry big" and a different character, later, when they are confronting a bushfire, tells Gertrude that "the blackfellow move camp, murry quick" -- what else is it going to mean if it doesn't mean "very" -- I go through that process of automatic elimination and end up with an answer, the current of universal life meeting an obstacle there and adopting that alien form with a quick evolution. Swifter than evolution of bees or the animal eye.

(If intellect was flesh then it would be years before I understood, the evolution creeping forwards, diverting into a cul de sac, waiting for the birth of twins, mutations, new eggs, and cell-hiccoughs, before the answer would occur to me.)

When I found "murra" in Rosa Praed's The Romance of a Station (1889) I thought, "It could be the same thing again, an intensifier, with a different spelling:" "murra, make haste" says one character -- make a lot of haste -- Praed footnotes it with an asterisk but didn't need to -- the technique has been maintained, new words can be put into that machinery now, new meanings grasped by me (who has been taught how to see it), the narrator inserting "myall" in Bitin' Back, or "goona," a different language maybe (there are many, not a monolithic language-bloc, the characters living in different areas of the country) but the same habit, a human habit, this creation of an alloy, one language putting itself in another, neither one completely lost. "The boy," states the narrator of Bitin' Back, "look myall this mornin." And a character in We of the Never-Never (1908) by Jeannie Gunn makes a joke as he's waving a spear above his head: "Me myall-fellow."

And exists everywhere, that habit, n'est-ce pas, and has existed in other language combinations. I see it when I read the comments in the Lusaka Times of Zambia and someone writes, "I seriously think the police are doing a kama donchi kubeba on Sata," Sata being Michael Sata, the nation's president, born in 1937, once upon a time a cleaner employed by railway stations in London, now the leader of his nation by democratic vote, "life," wrote Elizabeth Grosz, "is a kind of opening up of matter to indeterminacy, a qualitative transformation of matter into the unexpected, the surprising, the never-seen-before," (Time Travels: Feminism, Nature, Power, thanks to Anthony@timesflow's links on Twitter) while Henri Bergson in Creative Evolution sees a constant transformational effect ongoing in all of nature, the same thing seen by Marcel Proust, going to Bergson's lectures then putting a fictional shape around his ideas in the Temps Perdu, and, "I'm glad you've read some Bergson and liked him," he writes in a letter to Georges de Lauris, dated April 1908; by that time the philosopher had been married to Proust's cousin Louise for nearly twenty years.

Nothing that happens has ever been done before, writes Bergson, the Australian word "murry" had never appeared next to "big" or "quick" before the foreign alphabet arrived, and the word "very" or other intensifier had never found itself replaced by the letters m-u-r-r-y, but here it is in 1857, replaced, and in 2013, a sensation in me like a tickle when I read it, a reaction to a phantom, the word that is there and isn't.

of Alle

But why have I mentioned those portmanteaus I wonder, looking back at my last post, when you already know about them, you can pick up Finnegans Wake tomorrow and see them, you can work it out for yourself by page twenty, or it is mentioned in every overview, it is mentioned every time the Wake is mentioned, "Joyce uses portmanteaus," they say very casually in newspaper articles, "in Finnegans Wake AS WE ALL KNOW," and not only in articles about the Wake itself but in traffic reports and news of the world; weather announcers tell you that we are expecting a cold front from the north over the next few days and also that James Joyce uses portmanteaus in Finnegans Wake, it is mentioned by very tiny children, it is mentioned by intoxicateds in gutters, it is mentioned by tourists who come to Las Vegas from Phoenix and commit domestic violence in hotel corridors, it is mentioned by the people who drown in Lake Mead where the descending pillow of the water has left a ring of bathtub chalk on the rocks, it is probably well known by the homeless man who tells me he is planning to write a paper on Marxism as soon as his back stops hurting him; so there was no reason to describe it; but any criticism is fanfiction with a non- in front of the fiction, it is a nonfiction fanfiction and sometimes there are these compulsions to spell things out again and again, impressed with your own urge to state the obvious because the obvious happens to be the thing that has occurred to you (if it has occurred to thousands of other people as well then that's not your fault, you didn't force them), and for you you can read I, meaning me, you do not have to understand this word to refer to your own self (meaning I to you) if you prefer to resist statements of the obvious in your own works, or even if you do something else, which very politely I will allow that you do or may do or not do as it pleases you perhaps, amen and thank you.

So someone might have thought at some point in say the last two or five seconds or so, "Therefore fanfiction is also criticism, ipso facto, kew ee dee," which, again, is obvious, like everything else in this post so far, it is as obvious as the sun in the sky, which is clear here, as usual, very blue, fairly hot, good beach weather but no beach, different locations cutting nature in different ways, sand but no sea if you're in Nevada, sea but no sand if you're far away on a ship, and chaos too, writes Elizabeth Grosz in her book Chaos, Territory, Art, is cut across in different ways by different artworks or ideas, a common material but a different slice, steaks and chops from the same butchered animal, all cuts partaking of the nature of meat but not identical; chaosmos, says Joyce somewhere in the Wake: "Chaosmos of Alle," which I then saw again as a description of Hélène Cixous' Neuter.