chaos

As I look around my office/spare room, I see a huge pile of unsorted laundry (one that I keep adding to), papers that need filing, empty cups of tea and a dog attempting to turn the aforementioned pile of laundry into his new bed.

It is, in short, chaos.

‘Chaos’ comes from an Ancient Greek word, χάος (kháos). But if you somehow time-travelled back to the days of togas, epic poetry and gods-impregnating-women-in-weird-ways (I’m looking at you, Zeus), and told the first person you met that your office (and kitchen, and bedroom, and bathroom) was ‘full of chaos’, they’d look at you quizzically. Because to them, chaos wasn’t a mess at all. It was a big old empty space.

To find out why, we need to take a look at Hesiod’s Theogony, a 1,022-line epic poem which he wrote around the 8th century BCE. Theogony is the foundational text for Greek mythology, detailing the origins, genealogy and succession of the gods. And it all starts with Chaos-with-a-capital-C, the very first thing to exist. But Chaos-with-a-capital-C wasn’t the noisy vortex of fire, wind and random rubbish you might be imagining right now. It was, simply, DUM DUM DUUUUMMMM…

… the Void.

No stars, no earth, no sky and definitely no laundry that needed putting away. Just a giant, empty space waiting for stuff to happen. A cosmic blank page, if you will.

(The etymology backs this up – if we trace ‘chaos’ back to its Proto-Indo-European root, we land on *ghen- or *ghei-, which means ‘to gape’ or ‘to yawn’.)

Chaos gets crowded

So how did this empty abyss turn into the ultimate disaster area? Well, we can blame another poet for that (damn poets), but a Roman one this time – Ovid. Ovid took one look at Hesiod’s 1,022 lines and decided that clearly wasn’t enough. His Metamorphoses, which he wrote around 8 CE, was approximately 11,995 lines of dactylic hexameter (yum). And even though his name is literally an anagram of ‘void’, he decided to redefine chaos as a confused, shapeless mass rather than an empty space. Ovid’s chaos involved all the raw elements of the universe – fire, water, earth and air – crammed in together like a university flat-share, fighting against one another in this overcrowded, messy and disorganised space.

‘Chaos’ elbowed its way into Middle English around the 14th to 15th century via Old French and Latin. At first, writers used it in the same sense as Hesiod, i.e. to refer to the void that existed before Creation (this also turns up in Genesis, where the Earth was ‘without form, and void’). But Ovid’s hot mess was far too relatable to stay confined to Roman epic poetry. By the late 16th and early 17th centuries, English speakers had begun using ‘chaos’ to describe any state of utter confusion, disorder or turmoil.

Gus and his new laundry-based bed

The ultimate plot twist: Chaos Theory

Hesiod gave us chaos as an empty void. Ovid rebranded it as a crowded mess. Then 20th-century scientists flipped the word once more. In the 1960s, meteorologist Edward Lorenz entered numbers into a computer weather simulation built on strict physical laws. He rounded one number down slightly to save time (sort of – it’s more complicated than this, but this is a blog about words, not numbers), fully expecting that doing that wouldn’t really affect the result. Instead, that tiny tweak generated a completely different long-term forecast (AKA the butterfly effect). This proved that a system doesn’t need to be random to produce wild, unpredictable outcomes – it can follow strict, logical rules behind the scenes and still create results that look like a total mess on the surface.

Lorenz originally called this ‘deterministic nonperiodic flow’ (which sounds vaguely perimenopausal) as well as the equally snappy ‘sensitive dependence on initial conditions’. Thankfully, mathematicians (in my head they all look like Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park) later stepped in and rebranded it as Chaos Theory, presumably just because it sounds really cool.

So, the word ‘chaos’ has come full circle, from empty space to jumbled mess to structure inside an apparent muddle. Which means, as I look over at my dog sleeping peacefully in a pile of unsorted laundry, I can take comfort in the fact that it isn’t actually a disaster. It’s just a complex system with a hidden order I have yet to discover. (Or at least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself until I finally put the washing away.)

Dr Ian Malcolm using Chaos Theory to flirt with Laura Dern – much creepier than I remembered

aegis

‘Aegis’ is a fancy-dancy word that refers to the power to protect, control, or support something or someone. It often pops up in the phrase ‘under the aegis of’ (although not in anything I’ve written, I’m pleased to say). For example:

‘The ultimate owner of the best spot on the sofa will be decided under the aegis of the dog.’

Medusa, coming at ya

You’ve probably guessed from the spelling that we nicked ‘aegis’ from Latin. But the word it actually comes from is Greek – aíx. Bet you can’t guess what that means.

I’ll give you a sec.

The answer is, not at all obviously, ‘goat’.

So how did we get from hairy, eat-anything Goaty McGoatface to protection and control? Well, in ancient Greek mythology, the god Zeus (and later his daughter Athena) carried a powerful shield or cloak called aegis, which was made from the skin of Amalthea – a mythical goat that suckled Zeus as a baby. Yep. I mean this is the guy who turned himself into a golden shower (shut up), poured through a skylight and impregnated Harry Hamlin’s, sorry, Perseus’ mum, so being suckled by a goat is frankly one of the less weird things about him. (I should probably say that in early accounts, Amalthea was a nymph who owned a goat whose milk Zeus drank – much less weird, but also less interesting.)

Anyway, back to the shield. This was not just any old goatskin shield – the snake-covered head of the Gorgon Medusa (killed by the aforementioned golden-shower-fathered Perseus) was mounted on it. And because you can never have too many reptiles on your shield, it was also fringed with extra snakes who’d snap at anyone getting too close. The OG biological warfare. (Much like the nymph/goat merging above, Homer described the shield’s fringing as golden tassels, but later artworks depicted them as snakes – and that’s clearly much more exciting.)

Over the centuries, the word ‘aegis’ made its way through Latin and into English where 19th-century printers insisted on snobbishly gluing the first two letters together as ‘ægis’ (called a ligature, fact fans). Along the way it shed both the stuck-together letters, the goat hide and the snakes (dammit!), eventually settling down as an unnecessarily formal synonym for sponsorship, backing or protection.

So, next time you hear someone say they’re acting under the ‘aegis’ of an official authority (or a cavapoo called Gus, if you’re me), remember: they’re really just hiding behind a big-old goat skin.

Alongside ‘Terrahawks’ (look it up if you’re too young to remember it), this scene was one of the scariest things I saw as a child in the 80s.

aegis

I was watching an American medical drama called ‘New Amsterdam’ the other day (I love me an American medical drama – ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ is my absolute fave). During a courtroom scene with a patient with some mental-health struggles, a judge said ‘I’m not willing to to release you into your own aegis’. My first thought was of course, ‘why not use a word that everyone can understand, silly legal person?’. And my second was, ‘I wonder where “aegis” comes from?’ Well, it turns out it has quite an interesting backstory.

In the context of the silly legal person, ‘aegis’ simply means ‘protection, sponsorship or support of a person, group or organisation’. Its other, much more fun, definition is ‘a shield or breastplate associated with Zeus and Athena’. And that’s where our etymology comes from.

In Greek mythology, aegises also included cloaks, and were often described as powerful and protective. Some of them featured the head of the Gorgon, she of the bad snake-hair day. The word itself comes from a noun, ‘aigis’, which means ‘goatskin’. This is probably just because cloaks were often made of goatskin, but it might (it probably isn’t TBH, but I wanted to tell this story) be something to do with the mythical goat Amalthea. Rhea, Zeus’ Ma, hid him in a cave to protect him from his father Cronus, who was a bit of a nutter known for eating his own children (someone call social services). Amalthea nursed (yep, fed) and cared for the infant Zeus in the cave. Hence, goats = protection.

Aegis made its way into English in the 18th century in the sense of those protective shields or cloaks. It later evolved into the idea of protection, sponsorship or support, and a silly legal term.

To say thanks for looking after him in that cave, Zeus later transformed one of Amalthea’s horns into the Cornucopia, or Horn of Plenty, which could provide an endless supply of food and drink. I’m not sure how this worked logistically – surely it would need to be detached from Amalthea’s head to provide all that chow? That doesn’t seem like much of a thank you.

Zeus – DTF

Zeus was also a bit of a dirty old (and young) man. One of his favourite things to do was to transform himself into something else to have sex with both mortals and immortals. This included transforming into a swan, a bull and a shower of gold. I’m definitely not going to try to work out the logistics of that…

mausoleum

It’s another slightly morbid word this week, once again in honour of Hallowe’en. I expect you know what a mausoleum is – a big old tomb or burial structure, often containing lots of members of the same family (dead ones only, obvs). But did you know it’s actually an eponym, or a word named after a person*?

‘Mausoleum’ is named for Mausolus, a ruler in ancient Caria (a region in southwestern Anatolia, now Turkey) during the 4th century BCE. Mausolus died in 353 BCE, and his remains were put in an enormo tomb that he’d commissioned, and that became known as his mausoleum. You may well have heard of it – the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus AKA one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Over time, the word ‘mausoleum’ caught on and we started using it to refer to any grand or imposing tomb or burial chamber.

A slightly underwhelming model of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus

Mausolus’s widow and sister (yuck), Artemisia II, oversaw the construction of this mausoleum, and it was designed by two Greek architects named Satyros and Pythius. It included bits from lots of different architectural styles including Greek, Egyptian and Lycian (nope, me neither). The mausoleum had a rectangular base with a series of ascending terraces. The top level included a stepped pyramid or ziggurat (excellent word), topped with a massive chariot statue showing Mausolus and Artemisia in all their incesty glory.

The mausoleum also featured various statues and friezes showing scenes from Greek mythology and Carian history created by famous Greek sculptors of the time. Its base measured 36 by 63 meters (118 by 210 feet), and the total height, including the incest statue, was around 45 meters (148 feet).

Mausolus’s mausoleum stood for 16 (16!) centuries, overlooking what’s now Bodrum in Turkey. But then a load of earthquakes sent that nasty chariot statue crashing to the ground. And by 1404 AD, only the base was left. Medieval cowboy builders also nicked bits of it to build other things (notably to fortify Bodrum Castle against invaders), and at some point graverobbers tunnelled their way in and stole all the treasure, as well as the bodies of Mausolus and Artemisia. Today only the foundations and some scattered remnants remain on the original site.

Just in case you’re going to a pub quiz any time soon, here are some facts and figures about the other Wonders of the World:

The Great Pyramid of Giza: The only one that’s still standing, you’ll find this tomb for Pharaoh Khufu (also known as Cheops) in Egypt. Initially standing at 146.6 metres (481 feet), the Great Pyramid was the world’s tallest human-made structure for over 3,800 years. I say initially because it was originally covered in a white limestone casing which was completely smooth – what we see now is the underlying core structure. What happened to the limestone? Well, it was those cowboy builders again – in the 1300s, workers broke off the limestone to use for construction in nearby Cairo. That brought the pyramid’s height down to the current 138.5 metres (454.4 ft).

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon: Nobody’s quite sure if these actually existed or not. If they did, they were in the ancient city of Babylon (no shit) in Iraq. They were nothing to do with hanging people, thankfully, but so called because plants and trees appeared to hang from multiple terraces.

Looking good, Zeus

The Statue of Zeus at Olympia: A giant statue – about 12.4m (41 feet) tall – in Greece, made of gold and ivory on a wooden framework. No one knows exactly what happened to it, but in 391 AD, a Christian Roman emperor called Theodosius I banned pagan cults and the temple it was housed in fell into disuse. It’s possible it was carried off to Constantinople and destroyed in a fire in 475 AD.

The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus: This is another one that was in Turkey. It was a big old temple known for amazing architecture and art, and was destroyed (once by a flood and once by a fire) and rebuilt twice. These days all that’s left on the site of the temple is a single column built from various fragments discovered there. Aw.

The Colossus of Rhodes: big statue, little willy

The Colossus of Rhodes: A mahoosive bronze statue of the sun god Helios that stood at the entrance to the harbour of Rhodes, Greece. It took 12 years to build and was 33 metres (108 feet) high, making it about the same size as the Statue of Liberty. The Colossus stood for 55 years before an earthquake snapped it at the knees. The remains lay on the ground for over 800 years (from 226 BC to 653 AD). No one’s quite sure what happened to it after that, but the metal was likely recycled for coins or tools.

The Lighthouse of Alexandria: This stood on the island of Pharos, near Alexandria in Egypt. It’s estimated to have been at least 100 metres (330 ft) high. This is another one that got taken out by earthquakes – its submerged remains were discovered in 1916, although they weren’t properly explored until 1994.

*After I’d written this, I realised I’d already done ‘mausoleum’ in this blog post but had entirely forgotten. So apologies for repeating myself. This goes into much more detail though, honest.

geminate

I’ve been doing some geminating this morning, with my socks, which I hate (the geminating, not the socks. I’m fine with socks in general).

Not to be confused with germinating, ‘geminate’ as a verb means to put something into pairs. Although it’s usually used in this way by linguists to describe sounds that are doubled, you can also use it to be fancy-dancy when you’re doing laundry (and who doesn’t need to add a bit of fancy-dancy when they’re sorting out washing?).

Geminate is also an adjective (AKA a describing word). So when you’ve finished sorting those goddamn socks, you can says that they’re geminate (sadly I still can’t say this about mine as many of them are still lounging in the laundry basket).

It’s not just about socks of course – you can use ‘geminate’ for anything that comes in a pair, like headlights, eyes or the twins from The Shining (other twins are available).

So, where does the word come from? Well, if you were born between 21 May and 20 June then you’re probably well ahead of me – like the star sign gemini, it comes from the Latin word ‘geminatus’ which itself comes from ‘geminus’, meaning ‘twin’.

The constellation Gemini is named for the twins Castor and Pollux from Greek mythology. The story goes that their mother, Leda, was seduced by Zeus in the form of a swan (the logistics of this always bother me). She later laid four eggs (because, swan) out of which hatched the aforementioned twins, as well as two others – Helen (later to become ‘of Troy’ and launch a bunch of boats) and Clytemnestra (which I always think sounds like an STD). Because Leda had also had relations with her husband (not a bird) on the same night, it seems that Castor and Clytemnestra were his kids, while Pollux and Helen were Zeus’, which therefore gave them demigod status, and immortality. When Castor was later killed in battle, Pollux was so upset that he begged his dad to let him give up half his immortality to give to his bro. Zeus agreed, and Castor and Pollux were transformed into the Gemini constellation.

Woman impregnated by swan? Sounds like a load of old Pollux to me.

The geminate twins from ‘The Shining’. I used to work with the grown-up version of one of these actresses. Yes, really. Dunno which one though.

adamant

Ridicule is nothing to be scared of…

To be adamant about something is to have an opinion about it which you absolutely refuse to change, despite evidence to the contrary. It’s also, of course, a popstar from the 80s who I once dressed up as for a fancy-dress party (and yes, I did do the Prince Charming dance when I was there, despite being stone-cold sober due to driving, and also only knowing the crossed-arms move and nothing else). But the meaning of adamant as we know it only dates back to around the 1800s. Before that it was used as both a noun and an adjective for something that was really bloody hard – that’s hard like a diamond, not Jason Statham. In fact, ‘adamant’ was used as a synonym (i.e. another word for) a diamond.

If you’re a fan of the Marvel comic/film franchise you’ll probably have realised that this meaning is where ‘adamantium’ comes from – the fictional metal alloy that’s grafted onto Wolverine’s skeleton and claws and is virtually indestructible. ‘Adamant’ or ‘adamantine’ as an unbreakable substance also pops up in lots of classical literature – in Greek mythology, Cronus (Zeus’ dad) castrated his father Uranus using an adamantine sickle given to him by his mother Gaia. That must have made family gatherings quite awkward. And here it is in action in a particularly sexist bit of the novel ‘Romola’ by George Eliot (even though SHE WAS A WOMAN):

Trust not in your gold and silver, trust not in your high fortresses; for, though the walls were of iron, and the fortresses of adamant, the Most High shall put terror into your hearts and weakness into your councils, so that you shall be confounded and flee like women.

Oh, and it doesn’t have anything to do with the name Adam – that’s a Hebrew word meaning, basically, ‘man’.