what is it I was saying?

I wrote a great post the other night, filled with insightful linguistic philosophy; all about the difference between symbolic meaning in words themselves, and the cultural meaning, the psychological meaning; the way words carry not just inherent sets of meanings that are closely defined, but also a reciprocal meaning, a meaning the hearer or reader […]

I wrote a great post the other night, filled with insightful linguistic philosophy; all about the difference between symbolic meaning in words themselves, and the cultural meaning, the psychological meaning; the way words carry not just inherent sets of meanings that are closely defined, but also a reciprocal meaning, a meaning the hearer or reader adds in for him or herself, and how this complicates communication.

It was beautiful; it flowed with an effortless elegance from thought to virtual paper, expressing something I’ve been striving to say for a long time.

Only, I was full of darvocet at the time.

Yesterday I tried to edit it and it was unclear which language I’d been typing in; or to be more accurate, the words were generally english but in syntax, I was dealing with a language more akin to orc.

So I’m left wondering, what the hell was I saying? The only thing worse than a fickle muse is one who’s hopped up on goofballs.

10 thoughts on “what is it I was saying?”

  1. Darvocet, hmmmmm. I discovered the joys of blogging whilst cuddling with Vicodin. My kidney stones eventually went away but my love of blogging remained steadfast. See? Drugs and writing can go together beautifully! Now if only there were a Drug to English translator…

  2. *laughing*

    I’ve been trying to write a somewhat similar post for two weeks now, and failing miserably every stab. Who knew it would be so hard to put together a bunch of words to talk about words.

    If only I’d thought of Darvocet. I did try Jack Daniels Single Barrel, but that only made me witty for a 15 minute window and then I had to take a nap.

    Love your blog. Thanks for writing. E

  3. Maybe I should write this damned paper on drugs. And then try to edit it… At least a margarita.

    I *vote* that you publish it just for the entertainment value of the rest of us…

  4. Since it ain’t a democracy, your votes are welcome, but completely ignored. Fuck you people, and I mean that in the dirtiest possible way.

  5. hegal? isn’t that the excercise girls are supposed to do so they can, you know, sqeeze me just right?

    Oh, wait, you mean Hegel.

    Yeah, I know all about those guys:

    Immanuel Kant was a real pissant
    Who was very rarely stable.

    Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar
    Who could think you under the table.

    David Hume could out-consume
    Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

    And Wittgenstein was a beery swine
    Who was just as schloshed as Schlegel.

    There’s nothing Nietzsche couldn’t teach ya
    ‘Bout the raising of the wrist.
    Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed.

    John Stuart Mill, of his own free will,
    On half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.

    Plato, they say, could stick it away–
    Half a crate of whisky every day.

    Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle.
    Hobbes was fond of his dram,

    And René Descartes was a drunken fart.
    ‘I drink, therefore I am.’

    Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed,
    A lovely little thinker,
    But a bugger when he’s pissed.

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