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"Everyone carries a room about inside them. This fact can be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast, and one pricks up one's ears, and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears for instance the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall." I repeated this to myself, out loud, 100 times. The goal was to simultaneously maintain another persistent stream of thought as I recited, religiously. The next day I converted my left control key to Backspace, months after asking myself in earnest the question of what I should do with my left control key now that I had already delegated that role to my caps lock. Days later I learned that a co-worker has worked on a keyboard missing its Backspace for years now. As a practicing psychonaut one must, in order to ascend the order of skills, learn to master speech in a way that is disorderly from other cognitive functions. But first, what is speech must be recognized. I think with keyboards, we experience much of them same thing: where Backspace becomes a word or a character of one's textual lexicon. It's just a matter of where you put it (let's say, "in your mind"). It's like the paralanguage of "uhms" and "wells" which litter everyday academic to grocery language, cheerily grows in programmers' circles, and then those pauses to reset the conversation of their weed like proliferation. We do not always know what we are saying because most of the time the meanings are quantifiably outside of the grammar with which our brains have adapted for the purposes of internally efficient speech. Each of us constructs an idiolect for our use, and the semantic edifice wrapping our words which we use to exercise thought often bears signs of the issues we have dealt with, not necessarily in learning the language, but also building it for our individual purposes. Sometimes the constructs we internally put together are resistant to forms of complexity that are outside of the cowpaths we have paved for ourselves. |