22 March 2013
What’s in an accent? A way of twisting words, a slight inflection, a gargle in the right spot? Much of it has to do with that, mediated by locality and culture. We usually speak our surrounds – often physical location, but also our social circumstances. I grew up around building sites, and heard the rough, low drawl in one ear and the much fainter, mellower tones of the middle class off in the distance in the other. Yet there was something that linked the two ways of speaking – a kind broadening never heard in the big cities to the south, a twang that I never quite managed to tweak myself. And neither did my brother, perhaps because our grandparents influenced us heavily in our earlier years and led us to a way of speaking that was a little less circumspect, but a little more suspect to some.
I once took a phone call from a close relative who told me I sounded like a poof. Her words, not mine.
When I arrived in Hong Kong people started to comment on my British accent. I’ve been dealing with people in a corporation in the US lately who have said much the same. It’s odd how people’s expectations guide them. Take a voice a little out of the ordinary (and I mean a very little, really), a lot more out of context, and push it towards a comfortable category.
I’m Australian, by the way. Northern. You can’t get an accent a terrible lot less British than that.
21 December 2008
What Do the Passing Moments Mean?
Time captivates us in two distinct ways – as an unending process of change, what we might call ‘natural time’ and use to measure the length of a life, and as a series of repetitions, both natural and perceptual, whereby we correlate the Earth’s orbit and spin, its seasons and days, with the arbitrary ways in which we impose and mark off weeks and years. Just as history is both a string of events and our perceptions of them, so too is time at once objective and subjective, a measure and a myth by which we live. At base it offers precision and from that comes regularity, which we convert into regulation, or willing adherence to softly spoken rules of life.
Thou shalt not dismiss the Gregorian calendar; thou shalt not sleep by day and work by night; and so on.
Our experience of time’s duality is almost always conservative. Not only do we encase ourselves within a series of authoritarian dictates – and few ever escape the grind of temporal convention – but we wish to freeze things as they are, to slow change, to preserve the moment. These actions and reactions are always, and by necessity, located in the utopia of the present moment, where time is experienced as either memory or expectation, always gone or about to come, never quite happening enough.
Consider, for instance (and the etymology of ‘instance’ fittingly reveals an impatience with time), the year’s end now approaching. Of course, it’s always approaching, but we allow ourselves to think more of it – and more urgently of it – when the days turn cold or hot, depending on where we live. Aside from regular holidays (for some) and a sense of religious fulfilment (for many but by no means all), what will be fundamentally different between next week and the week after that? In a strictly temporal sense, the Earth will have completed one full orbit of the Sun, but that could be measured from any point in the cycle.
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