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Today’s vocabulary centers around clothing—items of apparel, some specific to Pandora and some more general, plus ways of talking about putting on, wearing, and taking off. As usual, thanks go to the vocabulary committee for some of these ideas and examples.

THINGS TO WEAR

Items of apparel are divided into two main groups: pxen ‘functional clothing’ and ioi ‘adornments.’ Although there are some gray areas where the categories overlap or are unclear, the distinction is usually apparent. It’s an important one, because the way you talk about putting on and wearing something depends on which group it belongs to.

pxen (n.) ‘(item of) functional clothing’

This category includes clothing items that serve the purpose of protecting, hiding, or directly assisting in some activity. Examples:

tewng (n.) ‘loincloth’

raspu’ (n., ra.SPU’) ‘leggings (used in war)’

hawnven (n., hawn.VEN) ‘shoe’ [From hawnu ‘protect’ + venu ‘foot’]

hawntsyokx (n., hawn.TSYOKX) ‘glove’

hawre’ (n., haw.RE’) ‘hat’ [Originally *hawnre’o, from hawnu ‘protect’ + re’o ‘head’]

Note: The hawn- words take the expected non-singular forms: mehawnven, pxehawnven, ayhawnven, etc., and that’s how they’re always written. However, in all but very careful or ceremonial conversation, they’re usually pronounced mawnven, pxawnven, ayawnven.

ioi (n., i.O.i) ‘(item of) adornment or ceremonial apparel’

Nìlun ayioi a’eoio ayeyktanä lu lor frato.
‘Of course the ceremonial wardrobes of the leaders are the most beautiful.’

(I love the sound of ayioi a’eoio ayeyktanä! It’s a nice phrase to practice. Note that ayioi is usually pronounced ay.O.i.)

nìlun (adv., nì.LUN) ‘of course, logically, following common sense’

Examples of ioi:

’ali’ä (n., ’a.LI.’ä) ‘collar/choker’

’are (n., ’A.re) ‘poncho, cape, shawl’

fkxile (n., FKXI.le) ‘bib necklace’

masat (n., MA.sat) ‘breastplate (armor)’

nikroi (n., nik.RO.i) ‘hair ornament’ [From nikre ‘hair’ + ioi ‘adornment’]

pxawpxun (n., PXAW.pxun) ‘armband’

Note this tongue-twister for practicing your p-ejectives:

Pori pxunpxaw lu pxawpxun.
‘Around his arm is an armband.’

(Note: Pxunpxaw is pronounced pxumpxaw in casual conversation.)

renten (n., REN.ten) ‘goggles (made from insect wings, carved wood (?) . . .)’

tsamopin (n., TSA.mo.pin) ‘warpaint’ [From tsam ‘war’ + ’opin ‘color’]

tsang (n.) ‘a piercing’

miktsang (n., MIK.tsang) ‘earring’

ontsang (n., ON.tsang) ‘nose ring’

PUTTING ON, WEARING, TAKING OFF

Putting on

To put on pxen, use the transitive verb yemstokx:

yemstokx (vtr., YEM.stokx — inf. 1,1) ‘put on (clothing), don’

This word originated as yem + sìn + tokx, ‘put on the body.’

Examples:

Fìrewon ngal lumpe kea hawre’it ke yolemstokx?
‘Why didn’t you put on a hat this morning?’

Penit yemstokx!
‘Get dressed!’

To put on ioi, use the si-verb ioi säpi ‘adorn oneself’ with fa ‘with, by means of.’ This is the reflexive form of the verb ioi si:

ioi si (vin.) ‘adorn’

Sevina tsa’everu ahì’i mesa’sem ioi soli fa miktsang.
‘The parents adorned that pretty little girl with earrings.’ OR
‘The parents put earrings on that pretty little girl.’

Fori mawkrra fa renten ioi säpoli holum.
‘After they put on their goggles, they left.’

(Note: In casual conversation, säpoli is often pronounced spoli.)

Wearing

There’s no separate verb ‘wear’ in Na’vi. To express that X is wearing Y, you simply say that X has put Y on. In other words, you focus not on the state that X is in but rather on the action that has created that state. Specifically:

Wears –> puts on
Is/are wearing –> has put on
Was wearing –> had put on

Examples:

Mo’at alu Tsahìk lu Omatikayaä le’awa hapxìtu a ioi säpi fa ’are.
‘Mo’at, the Tsahik, is the only member of the Omatikaya who wears a poncho.’

Sunu oer hawre’ a ngal yolemstokx.
‘I like the hat you’re wearing.’

Fkxilet a tsawfa poe ioi säpalmi ngolop Va’rul.
‘Va’ru is the one who created the necklace she was wearing.’

(Note: As with säpoli, in casual conversation säpalmi is often pronounced spalmi.)

Taking off

For both pxen and ioi, use the verb ’aku:

’aku (vtr., ’A.ku — inf. 1,2) ‘remove, take away, take off’

Rutxe mehawnvenit ’ivaku.
‘Please take off your shoes.’

’Aku is used more widely than just for clothing. For example:

 Pot ’aku fìtsengta!
‘Get him out of here!’

Ulte oeri fìtsengta ’äpaku nìteng. Hayalovay!

Number in Na’vi—not just the actual numbers in the octal system but, more generally, the whole question of when to use the singular, dual, trial, and plural forms—can be a little tricky.  So let me try to clarify some of those issues. (Irayo to the aysulfätu lì’fyayä with whom I had fruitful discussions about this subject. Some of the material that follows is directly or indirectly due to them.)

Let’s start with a simple question: How do you say, “You two are teachers”?

“You two are” is straightforward: Menga lu . . . But what about “teachers”? Should it be meharyu,  using the dual form to match the dual of menga? Should you use the plural form, (ay)haryu? Or should it simply be the singular, karyu?

The answer is based on this general principle of Na’vi grammar:

Number Principle (Koren Holpxayä = KH):
In referring to the same entity, express number only once per clause.

You’ve seen the KH in action before. For example, you know that “five stingbats” and “many viperwolves” is mrra riti and pxaya nantang respectively, not *mrra ayriti and *pxaya aynantang. Since number is already expressed by “five” and “many,” you don’t need a plural marker on the nouns, which remain in the “unmarked” or singular form.

Now we can answer the original question:

Menga lu karyu.
‘You two are teachers.’

 Here are a few more examples:

Fo lu karyu.
‘They are teachers.’

Menga lu oeyä ’eylan. (NOT eylan)
‘You two are my friends.’

 Fo lu pesu/tupe?
Who are they?

 Tsapxesamsiyu lu pesu/tupe?
‘Who are those three warriors?’

In these examples, number is already shown by what comes before lu (the subjects of the sentences), so following the KH, what comes after lu (in the predicates) isn’t marked for number. Sentences with slu work the same way.

So far so good, I hope. But there’s a little complication. Note the following contrasting bits of conversation:

 A
Tsaysamsiyu lu tupe?
‘Who are those warriors?’

 (Fo) lu ’eylan Tsu’teyä.
‘They’re Tsu’tey’s friends.’

(Note here that even if you omit the optional pronoun fo “they” in the response, ’eylan “friends” remains in the singular, since fo is understood. And we do have the number marking on fo, since it’s in a different clause—in fact, a whole different sentence. This illustrates why the KH has the “per clause” restriction.)

But:

 B
Tsaysamsiyu lu supe?
‘Who are those warriors?’

 (Fo) lu Kamun, Ralu, Ìstaw, sì Ateyo.
‘They’re Kamun, Ralu, Ìstaw, and Ateyo.’

The question in B violates the KH, since the question word in the predicate, supe, is here marked for number.  Why is that?

The difference is that when you ask “Who are X?” where X is a group, you can be requesting two different things: (1) identify the defining characteristic of the group, or (2) identify each member of the group. The A conversation above has the interpretation in (1): Q: What characterizes that group of warriors? A: They’re Tsu’tey’s friends. The B conversation has the second interpretation: Identify each of those warriors.

For “defining characteristic” questions, the KH holds; for “identify” questions, it doesn’t. That’s why we have the following question about family members:

 Ätxäle si oe pivawm, ngari soaiä ayhapxìtu lu supe?
‘May I ask who the people in your family are?’

Finally, a couple of related items:

Generics

To make general statements about a group, keep the nouns in the singular:

 Nantangìl yom yerikit.
‘Viperwolves eat hexapedes.’

 Palulukan lu lehrrap.
‘Thanators are dangerous.’

We sometimes do similar things in English. For example, “The unicorn is a mythical beast.”

Forms with pe-

 In the examples above we’ve seen several familiar ways of translating “who?” ( = what person?/ what people?) – tupe, pesu, (ay)supe. But since Na’vi has four degrees of number (singular, dual, trial, plural), three ways for addressing gender (common gender, masculine, feminine), and the possibility of pe either as a prefix or suffix, there are quite a few other such forms—in fact, 24 in all (4 x 3 x 2). In other words, for the simple question “Who is here?” you can be very specific in Na’vi, with separate pronoun forms for “What woman?” “What two men?” “What three people?” etc. Example:

 Pepsul tok fìtsenget?
What three people are here?

Here’s the complete chart. Don’t get scared and think you have to memorize all of these forms! Only a few of them turn up frequently.

Stressed syllables are underlined.

For example, 13 and 14 mean “What three people?” 15 and 16: “What three men?” 17 and 18: “What three women?”

For those who are interested, the derivations of these words involve lenition, nasal assimilation (the n of tutan has become m under the influence of the following p), and the loss of some unstressed vowels. Final te is dropped as well (as in pesu, not *pesute). Examples:

10. me + tutan + pe > mesutanpe > mesutampe > mestampe

13. pe + pxe + tute > pe + pxesute > pepesute > pepsute > pepsu

There’s more to say about pe-, of course, since it’s very widely used. For example, here’s how it interacts with kem ‘action’:

kem

As you see, the general paradigm is:

As for such questions as how pe- interacts with fne- ‘kind, type’ and how it works with the full variety of nouns, we’ll leave those for another time.

Hayalovay!

Kaltxì nìmun, ma frapo.

I see there was some consternation about the headline of the last post! Since it’s an important point, I thought I’d explain it here in a separate post rather than as a response to a comment.

Before anything else, though: Ayngeyä aysäplltxeviri seiyi oe irayo nìtxan ayngaru nìwotx! Thank you all for the comments! Whether bouquets, brickbats, queries, or corrections, they’re all very much appreciated. (I still need to reply to most of the last batch, which I will as soon as I can.)

So . . . As you know, the last headline was:

(1) Txantsana Ultxa mì Siätll (Great meeting in Seattle)

And the question is, Shouldn’t that have been:

(2) Txantsana Ultxa a mì Siätll

The answer is: yes . . . and no. 🙂 Let me explain.

In standard Na’vi prose, you cannot omit attributive “a” in phrases like “the X in Y,” “an X from Y,” etc. To say “I really enjoyed the great meeting in Seattle,” you have several choices. The “full” form would be:

(3) Txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll lu soluneiu oer nìtxan.

This is equivalent to “ . . . the great meeting that was in Seattle.”

(You could, of course, have a different order for the modifiers:

(3a) Mì Siätll lu a ultxa atxantsan soluneiu oer nìtxan.)

You can also omit the lu, which is in fact the more common form:

(4) Txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll soluneiu oer nìtxan.

But (5) is not grammatical:

(5) *Txantsana ultxa mì Siätll soluneiu oer nìtxan.

(Here I’m using the usual linguistic convention of putting an asterisk or star before something that’s ungrammatical or unacceptable. And perhaps some of you have seen this little bon mot that was popular in certain circles many years ago: “Linguists unite! You have only your *.” What can I say?)

Slä . . .

Languages often have different rules for things like headlines and titles (of books, articles, poems, stories, songs, movies, etc.). In fact, if you think about the English translation I gave, “Great Meeting in Seattle,” you’ll realize that that’s not grammatical in standard English conversation or writing. You’d have to add an article: “I really enjoyed the great meeting . . .” or “I heard there was a great meeting . . .” or even “That was some great meeting . . . !” For a headline, though, “Great Meeting” by itself is OK. We can call this style “Truncated Headline” style.

Na’vi has a truncated style as well. Now the Na’vi don’t have books or newspapers or blog posts, but they do have stories and legends and songs, and truncated style is possible for their titles. One of the indicators of truncated style is the omission of attributive “a” where it would otherwise be necessary. Another is the elision (omission) of certain verbs. So in the case of our headline, the phrase in question might have been, as we’ve seen, txantsana ultxa a mì Siätll, but another possibility is that the headline comes from the full sentence Lolu txantsana ultxa mì Siätll, ‘There was a great meeting in Seattle”—or, with a different verb, ‘A great meeting took place in Seattle.’

To repeat the bottom line, though: in ordinary style, don’t omit attributive “a.”

Sìlpey oe, fìtìoeyktìng lilvu law!

Hello again, everyone. Nì’i’a tok oel nìmun fìtsenget!

The get-together and panel discussion two weeks ago at the EMP/Science Fiction Museum in Seattle, in conjunction with their current Avatar exhibit, were terrific. It was great to meet new people in the lì’fyaolo’ and reunite with old friends. Fpom and tì’o’ abounded, and the post-panel questions in Na’vi, prepared mostly in advance by community members and ably interpreted by Prrton, impressed the heck out of everyone there.

Here’s our happy group Saturday morning, July 9:

And this is the stylish free-standing plaque presented to me at the end of the panel by the community. Ayngaru seiyi irayo, ma smuk!

Thanks to the EMP administrators and staff—Brooks Peck, Kristen Hoskins, and David Wulzen—who welcomed us warmly and made sure things ran smoothly. And special thanks to our own Prrton, Txonä Rolyu, and Zefanaya, who communicated with the museum, arranged for the meals and accommodations, and generally coordinated a very successful meet-up. Finally, a big irayo to Keyl and Chie, who graciously hosted a convivial barbecue for everyone at their home.

For those who couldn’t make it . . . nìsìlpey zìsìtay! In the meantime, you might like to hear the audio of the panel provided by our friends at Avatar Nation.

And now for some new vocabulary:

pllngay (vin., pll.NGAY – inf. 1, 1) ‘admit’

Note that this is an intransitive verb, working similarly to plltxe. So you use direct speech with it:

Po ke tsun pivllngay san oeru tìkxey.
‘He can’t admit he’s wrong.’

To say “He admits it”:

Tsa’uri po pllngay.
‘He admits it.’

kawngsar (vtr., KAWNG.sar – inf. 2, 2) ‘exploit’

Ayngeyä kifkeyti fol kawngsar nìtut, fì’uri kekem ke si aynga.
‘They continuously exploit your world and you do nothing about it.’

[The following useful word plus the excellent explanation and several of the examples come from the vocabulary committee.]

lom (adj.) ‘missing, missed (as an absent person who is longed for)’

To say “I miss you,” use lom in the yawne pattern:

Nga lom lu oer.
‘I miss you.’

Note that lom covers only something you once had but no longer do, where there is a sense of emotional loss. For example:

Aysre’ lom lu tsakoaktanur.
‘The old man misses his teeth.’

That is, the old man feels bad about the fact he no longer has teeth. The sentence does not mean ‘The old man is missing his teeth’ in the sense of a neutral observation by an outside party.

koaktan (n., KO.ak.tan) ‘old man’

koakte (n., KO.ak.te) ‘old woman’

koaktu (n., KO.ak.tu) ‘old person’

Similarly, you can’t use lom for something you lack but never had in the first place, as in “We almost have a quorum, but we’re still missing three people.”

Derived form:

lomtu (n., LOM.tu) ‘missed person’

This word is reserved for special circumstances, e.g. toasts:

Tengkrr ftxozä sereiyi awnga, ke tswiva’ aylomtuti ko!
‘While we are celebrating, let us not forget those who we wish could also be here (but can’t).’ OR ‘A toast: To absent friends.’

fe’ (adj.) ‘bad’

(Yes, I know it’s about time we had this word. 🙂 )

Note:  Fe’ is generally used for things, ideas, events, etc., but not for people. For ‘a bad person,’ use kawng.

Peyä tsatìpe’un a sweylu txo wivem ayoeng Omatikayawä lu fe’.
‘His decision to fight (= that we should fight) against the Omaticaya was a bad one.’

Note: In English, “fight with” is ambiguous—it can mean either (1) fight against or (2) fight alongside (as in, “During the so-called French and Indian War, Native Americans fought with the French against the British.”) In Na’vi there’s no ambiguity: “fight with” in the sense of (1) is wem wä, in the sense of (2) wem hu.

Derived forms:

nìfe’ (adv., nì.FE’) ‘badly’

Oe pllngay san molakto oe nìfe’, tafral snolaytx; wätu lu oeto txur.
‘I acknowledge that I rode badly, so I lost; my opponent was stronger than I was.’

wätu (n., WÄ.tu) ‘opponent’

fekem (n., FE.kem) ‘accident’

Nari si fte kea fekem ke liven ngar!
‘Be careful you don’t have an accident!’

Note: Fekem derives from fe’ + kem, having taken on the special meaning of ‘accident, unforeseen misfortune’ along the way, not simply something bad that happened. For the latter, use tìlen afe’, literally ‘bad event.’

tìlen (n., tì.LEN) ‘event, happening’

hawtsyìp (n., HAW.tsyìp) ‘nap’

Note the usage:

Oel new futa livu oer set hawtsyìp.
‘I want to take a nap now.’

Fnu, ma ’evi. Sa’nur leru hawtsyìp. Tsivurokx ko.
‘Quiet, young one. Mommy is taking a nap. Let her rest.’

uran (n., U.ran) ‘boat’

Ayfo solop ìlä hilvan fa uran.
‘They traveled along (up, down) the river by boat.’

Edit July 24: tìlem –> tìlen

Edit Jan. 25, 2013: nìrangal zìsìtay –> nìsìlpey zìsìtay

Aysäplltxeviri* sì sìpawmìri ayngeyä irayo, ma eylan. Thanks for your comments and questions, friends. I’ll offer some responses as soon as I can. In the meantime, however, I thought you’d be interested in this article which appeared two days ago in the Los Angeles Times. You may have already heard that Avatar 2 and 3 will be shot here in L.A. (which is good news to me). But take a look at the comment in the comment section from John Cody. 🙂

*säplltxe (n.: sä.pll.TXE) ‘statement’

*säplltxevi (n.: sä.pll.TXE.vi) ‘comment’

Here’s the next vocabulary installment, making heavy use of the excellent proposals of the Vocabulary Committee. (Most of the examples and much of the discussion below is taken, with only light editing, from their submissions.)

may’ (vtr.) ‘try, sample, evaluate, check out, test-drive’

[I was impressed with the detailed explanation of this verb provided by the Committee, so the following discussion is theirs, virtually verbatim.]

The verb may’ is used to mean ‘try, taste, sniff, glance’—basically, to quickly or briefly sample something, for any of the senses. [The “Senses Paradigm” is coming in a future post.]

In addition, may’ extends beyond the sensory meaning to also include ‘check out, sample, evaluate, try on, test-drive.’ One could may’ a new bow, an article of clothing, an unfamiliar pa’li, a just-learned dance move . . . In general, it can be used for English ‘try’ when it’s not a synonym for ‘attempt.’  The admonition Mivay’ or May’ ko conveys the notion of “Give it a try!” or “Have a go!”

Also, may’ can be used modally, but how it differs from fmi in this usage requires a little explanation.  Fmi specifically means ‘attempt,’ so you’re trying to perform the action in question.  May’ refers more to trying/sampling the experience of that action.  Compare these two sentences in English:

A. I tried to go to the doctor.
B. I tried going to the doctor.

A suggests you attempted to go to the doctor, but something kept you from succeeding—you got lost, there was traffic, etc.

I tried to go to the doctor [but I couldn’t find her office].

B suggests you did go to the doctor, but it didn’t help with whatever you were trying to accomplish.

I tried going to the doctor [but she doesn’t know what’s wrong with me].

So compare these two sentences in Na’vi:

Fmi mivakto pa’lit!
‘Try to ride a direhorse! (I bet you can do it!)’

May’ mivakto pa’lit!
‘Try riding a direhorse! (Maybe you’ll like it more than riding a banshee.)’

Win and lose

yora’ (vtr., yo.RA’ – inf. 1,2) ‘win’

snaytx (vtr.) ‘lose’

Yìmora’ Tsu’teyìl uvanit.
‘Tsu’tey just won the game.’

Ayoe snolaytx fìtrr taluna oel rumit tolungzup.
‘We lost today because I dropped the ball.’

Derivations:

tìyora’ (n.) ‘victory, a win’

tìsnaytx (n.) ‘loss’

Note: Don’t confuse tatep and snaytx. They both mean ‘lose,’ but tatep is lose in the sense of ‘have no longer.’

Tìkan tawnatep!
‘Target lost!’ (Line from one of the video games.)

’otxang (n.: ’o.TXANG) ‘musical instrument (generic term)’

Pam fì’otxangä sunu oer nìngay.
‘I really like the sound of this instrument.’

For the general idea of ‘play an instrument,’ we just use pamtseo si fa ’otxang:

Peotxangfa nga pamtseo si?
‘What instrument do you play?’

Pamtseo si fa i’en.
‘I play the i’en.’

skxir (n.) ‘wound’

Oeri skxir a mì syokx tìsraw sengi.
‘The wound on my hand hurts.’

Zene nga yivur pxìm fìskxirit.
‘You must clean the wound frequently.’

Derivations:

leskxir (adj.) ‘wounded ‘

skxir si (vin.) ‘wound ‘

skxirtsyìp (n.) ‘cut, bruise, minor wound’

Taronyu yerikur skxir soli.
‘The hunter wounded the hexapede.’

sloan (vtr., slo.AN – inf. 1,2) ‘pour’

Rutxe slivoan ngal payit oefpi; ’efu väng nìtxan.
‘Please pour me some water; I’m very thirsty.’

emrey (vin., em.REY – inf. 2,2) ‘survive (a life-threatening episode)’

Tsawla palulukanìl oeti ’ìlmeko a krr, Nawma Sa’nok lrrtok seiyi ulte oe emroley.
‘The Great Mother was looking after me when the big thanator attacked and I’ve survived.’

Derivations:

temrey (n.)  ‘survival (in the face of danger)’

lemrey (adj.) ‘surviving (e.g. of entities from a group some of whom have died)’

nemrey (adv.) ‘in a fashion as if one’s life were at stake’

Fwampopä temrey tsatsengmì ngäzìk lu nìwotx.
‘It’s very hard for a tapirus to survive there.’

(If you don’t know what a tapirus is, take a look at this.)

Maw fwa fkol Kelutralit skola’a, lemreya hapxìtul tsasoaiä* txolula mipa kelkuti mì tayo.
‘After Hometree was destroyed, the surviving members of that family built a new home on the plains.’

*The genitive of nouns ending in –ia is just –iä: soaia, Gen. soaiä.

Note that nemrey can be an expression all by itself:

A. Sawtute pìyähängem! Tul ko!
‘The Skypeople are about to arrive!  Run!’

B. *yawn* Kempe leren?
‘What’s happening?’

A. *growl* Nemfa na’rìng, ma skxawngtsyìp! Kä li!
‘Into the forest, you moron [whom I still like anyway]!  Get going!’

B. Slä . . .
‘But . . .’

A. NEMREEEY!!!
‘LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT!!! (Run for your life!)’

wawe (n., wa.WE) ‘meaning, importance, significance’

Both ral and wawe mean ‘meaning,’ but they’re different. Ral refers to meaning in the logical or literal sense:

Ralit faylì’uä oel ke tslivam.
‘I don’t understand the meaning of these words. (I can’t translate the sentence.)’

Wawe, on the other hand, refers to meaning or significance more related to an emotional state:

Waweti faylì’uä oel ke tslivam.
‘I don’t understand the meaning of these words. (I don’t see why they’re significant.)’

Ngari wawe fìvurä lu ’upe?
‘What is the significance of this story to you?’

Waweti ke tsun fko ralpiveng.
‘One can’t explain (or: put into words) wawe.’

Derivation:

txanwawe (adj., txan.wa.WE) ‘personally meaningful, significant’

Nari si!  Tsatsko lu spuwin ulte ke lu mi txur, slä oeri txanwawe leiu. Lu stxeli a sempulta.
‘Careful!  That bow is old and no longer strong, but it means a lot to me.  It was a gift from my father.’

nìwawe (adv.) ‘meaningfully, significantly’

Tsatxon ayutraläo krr a pol oeti nolìn nìwawe, olomeium oel fa keyrel futa lu yawne oe poru.
‘That night beneath the trees when she looked at me meaningfully, I knew by the expression on her face that she loves me.’

keyrel (n., KEY.rel) ‘facial expression’

Nìfrakrr ma oeyä eylan, txo kxeyeyti ayngal tsive’a, rutxe oeru piveng!

Hayalovay.

Edit 28 Feb. 2014: hapxitu –> hapxitul   Irayo, ma Plumps!

Kaltxì nìmun, ma oeyä eylan—

After an unexpectedly busy month, I’m happy to be back to present and discuss more of the excellent suggestions of the vocabulary committee. The members have now given me a lot of food for thought; in the next few weeks I’ll dish out as many choice helpings as I can.

Weather expressions, continued

A. Air and Sky: “steady states”

Na’vi distinguishes between weather states you can feel and those you can see. For the former, we use the frame Ya lu ______ (you feel the air), for the latter Taw lu ______ (you see the sky).

In particular, temperature:

somwew (n.: som.WEW) ‘temperature’

(Compare hìmtxan ‘amount,’ holpxay ‘number,’ tsawlhì’ ‘size,’ ngimpup* ‘length.’ Note, by the way, that the stress is on the second syllable in each case.)

*pup (adj.) ‘short (physical length)’

*ngimpup (n.: ngim.PUP) ‘length’

pesomwew/somwewpe ‘what temperature?’ (The second variant here is the more common one: som.WEW.pe.)

To ask the temperature, you simply say:

Yari somwewpe?
‘What’s the temperature?’

Note that you can ask the temperature of things other than the air:

Payri somwewpe?
‘What’s the temperature of the water?’ (perhaps asked before swimming)

The answer to Yari somwewpe is, as I mentioned, Ya lu ______. Here are some temperature words that can fill the blank, from very cold to very hot. Some of these adjectives are new; some you’re already familiar with.

txawew (TXA.wew) ‘very cold’
wew ‘cold’
wur ‘cool, a bit chilly’
tsyafe ( TSYA.fe) ‘mild, moderate, comfortable’
sang ‘warm’
som ‘hot’
txasom (TXA.som) ‘very hot’

For the appearance of the sky, the question is:

Tawri fyape (or: pefya)?
‘What’s the sky like?’

The answer is, Taw lu ______. Adjectives that can go in this blank include:

leyapay (le.YA.pay) ‘foggy, misty’
lepwopx (lep.WOPX) ‘cloudy’
lepwopx nìhol ‘lightly cloudy, just a few clouds’
lepwopx nìpxay ‘heavily cloud-covered, many clouds’
piak ‘no clouds, completely clear’ (This is also the ordinary word for ‘open.’)
tstu ‘completely overcast, covered with clouds’ (This is also the ordinary word for ‘closed.’)

The word for ‘humid’ deserves some comment:

paynga’ (adj.: PAY.nga’) ‘moist, damp, humid’

In this compound, the second component is the transitive verb nga’ ‘contain’:

Na’rìngìl nga’ pxaya ioangit.
‘The forest contains many animals.’

Here, however, nga’ is acting as a derivational suffix, one that turns a noun into a related adjective with the rough meaning, ‘containing the noun.’ Examples:

paynga’ (PAY.nga’) ‘containing water’ = ‘moist, damp, humid’
meuianga’ (me.U.i.a.nga’) ‘containing honor’ = ‘honorable’
txumnga’ (TXUM.nga’) ‘containing poison’ = ‘poisonous’

Note that as an adjective former, -nga’ is less common than le-. It is not freely productive, which is to say you can’t simply coin your own –nga’ words at will: you need to find them in the dictionary. And on occasion the le- and –nga’ forms exist side by side with slightly different meanings. For example:

’akra (n.: ’AK.ra) ‘soil (in which plants can grow)’

’akra apaynga’ ‘moist soil’

’akra lepay ‘watery, saturated soil’

B. Wind

Na’vi uses tìran ‘walk’ and tul ‘run’ with hufwe ‘wind’ to indicate the degree of windiness:

Tìran hufwe.
‘It’s breezy (but pleasantly so).’

Hufwetsyìp lefpom tarmìran.
‘A pleasant little breeze was blowing.’

Tul hufwe nìwin.
‘It’s very windy.’

There’s still more to be said about the weather, but that will have to wait for another time.

Some miscellaneous vocabulary

Three useful adverbs:

nìlam ‘apparently’

nìli ‘in advance’

nìfrakrr (nì.FRA.krr) ‘as always’

Poan yawne latsu poeru nìlam.
‘Apparently she loves him.’

Ngeyä stxeliri alor oe new ngaru pivlltxe san irayo sìk nìli. Ke lu oer am’a*, tsa’u polähem a krr, sunu oeru nìtxan.
‘I want to thank you in advance for your beautiful gift. I have no doubt that when it arrives, I’m going to enjoy it very much.’

*am’a (n.: am.’A) ‘doubt’

Nìfrakrr fol ’olem a wutso ftxìvä’ lu nìngay.
‘As always, the dinner they cooked tasted really terrible.’

There’s much more to come, but for now I’ll just say hayalovay.

Kaltxì, ma frapo—

As you may know, I’m giving a talk this Saturday at the Southern California Undergraduate Linguistics Conference at UCLA. Since the audience will largely be linguistics students, I thought I’d take the opportunity to expand my standard presentation to include a bit more about Na’vi grammar. One of the example sentences I’m planning to discuss is this simple one:

Sempulìl ngeyä wutsot yolom.

So my question to you is, why did I choose this sentence, and what is its significance? 🙂

1. Weeks and months

As you know, the days of the ’Rrtan week are:

Trr’awve Sunday
Trrmuve Monday
Trrpxeyve Tuesday
Trrtsìve Wednesday
Trrmrrve Thursday
Trrpuve Friday
Trrkive Saturday

But what about “week” itself and related words? Here’s some useful vocabulary:

kintrr (n., KIN.trr) ‘(7-day) week’

mrrtrr (n., MRR.trr) ‘5-day workweek’

muntrr (n., MUN.trr) ‘weekend’

Don’t confuse muntrr with mesrr, which simply means ‘(any) two days.’

Just like trr itself, these words take fì-, -am, and -ay with the obvious meanings:

fìkintrr ‘this (present) week’
kintrram ‘last week’
kintrray ‘next week’

fìmuntrr ‘this (present) weekend’
muntrram ‘last weekend’
muntrray ‘next weekend’

As for ‘month,’ the word is:

vospxì (n., vo.SPXÌ) ‘month’

It’s derived from the phrase vosìpxì zìsìtä, ‘a twelfth of the year.’ And we also have:

fìvospxì ‘this month’
vospxìam ‘last month’
vospxìay ‘next month’

The names of the months? We’ll save that for another time. But keep in mind that all of these calendar expressions reflect the situation here on earth; they’re used by the Na’vi when they want to or need to talk about how the Sawtute reckon time (and of course by us here ’Rrrtamì). Time-reckoning on Pandora is a matter that awaits further research.

2. Must and should

As you already know, zene ‘must’ and zenke ‘must not’ work as follows:

Nga zene kivä. or Zene nga kivä.
‘You must go.’

Nga zenke kivä. or Zenke nga kivä.
‘You must not go.’

Nga ke zene kivä. or Ke zene nga kivä.
‘It’s not necessary/obligatory that you go.’

(You can also use these words impersonally: Zene kivä. ‘I/you/she/one/etc. must go. or It’s necessary to go.’ Note also the ‘hybrid’ variant: Ngari zene kivä. Literally: ‘As for you, it’s necessary to go.’ There’s usually more than one way to skin a cat in Na’vi! And I wonder if anyone can come up with the Pandoran equivalent of that expression . . .)

‘Should’ works a bit differently. The word is:

sweylu (v., SWEY.lu) ‘should’

This is a development of swey lu ‘it’s best,’ which has fused into a single word that acts somewhat like a modal . . . a quasi-modal, if you prefer, but without the hunchback. (Oeru txoa livu.)

The syntax depends on whether ‘should’ refers to something that hasn’t yet happened (the more common situation) or something that’s already happened. For the former, use txo ‘if’ plus the -iv- (subjunctive) form of the verb:

Sweylu txo nga kivä. or Nga sweylu txo kivä.
‘You should go.’

Sweylu txo nga ke kivä. or Nga sweylu txo ke kivä.
‘You shouldn’t go.’

(Other word orders are possible too, of course. For example, Sweylu txo ke kivä nga. And then there’s the impersonal form: Sweylu txo kivä. ‘I/you/she/one/etc. should go.’)

For something that’s already happened, use fwa (= fì’u a) or tsawa (= tsa’u a) with the past or perfect indicative (that is, non-subjunctive):

Sweylu fwa nga kolä.
‘You should have gone.’

Slä nari si! This is not the most common use of English ‘should have’—i.e., the counterfactual one, as in: “You should have gone, but you didn’t, ma skxawng!” Rather, it’s more like, “You went, and in fact it was the right thing to do.” Example:

Tsenu: Spaw oe, fwa po kolä längu kxeyey.
‘I believe it was a mistake for him to go/have gone.’

Kamun: Kehe, kehe! Sweylu fwa po kolä!
‘No, no! He should have gone!’

(Note: Tsenu’s sentence above is colloquial and conversational. A more formal version would be: Spängaw oel futa fwa po kolä lu kxeyey.)

So how does one say “should have” in the counterfactual sense? Zene maweypivey, ma eylan. 🙂 I’m working on a post about counterfactuals in general . . .

One more thing before we leave this topic:

In English and some other languages, words like should and must have developed secondary meanings. In addition to the basic sense having to do with obligation, right and wrong, better and worse, etc. (the “root” sense), there’s also a sense having to do with probability, likelihood, etc. (the “epistemic” sense). An example of the latter is, “He’s on his way. He should be here any minute.” As another example, consider the sentence, “You must be a doctor.” That can have both a root and an epistemic interpretation:

Root: “Son, your greatgrandfather was a doctor, your grandfather was a doctor, and I’m a doctor. It’s our family tradition. Whether you like it or not, I’m afraid you have no choice. You must be a doctor too.”

Epistemic: “I see you’re wearing a white coat and you have a stethoscope around your neck and a prescription pad in your pocket. Hmm . . . You must be a doctor!”

The point of all this is that Na’vi does not allow epistemic interpretations of zene and sweylu. They’re purely root. If you want the epistemic senses, you need to use probability words like skxakep.

And finally, thanks to the vocabulary committee for:

3. ye (adj.) ‘satisfied, content; satiated, “full”’

This is an adjective of feeling, so it’s used with ’efu ‘feel’ in the same way as keftxo, nitram, ohakx, väng, etc.

Tsaria fkol pole’un futa Loak slu taronyu, sempul ’efu ye.
‘Father is content that it’s been decided Loak will be a hunter.’

Ngeyä tìkangkemìri ’efeiu oe ye nìtxan. Seysonìltsan!
‘I’m very satisfied with your work. Well done!’

Note the following vocabulary:

hasey si (v., ha.SEY si) ‘accomplish, bring to a conclusion’

Nì’i’a po tsatìkangkemvir hasey soli.
‘She finally completed the project.’

seysonìltsan (sey.so.nìl.TSAN) ‘well done!’ (a conversational expression derived from hasey soli nìltsan)

Note these two derived forms:

yehakx (adj., YE.hakx) ‘satisfied from hunger by food, “full stomach”’

yeväng (adj, YE.väng) ‘satisfied from thirst by drink, feeling quenched/slaked’

Srekrr ’amefu väng, set yeväng.
‘Before, I was thirsty; now my thirst has been quenched.’

Tsenu:
Srake yehakx? ‘Did you get enough to eat?’
Kamun:
(a) Stum. ‘Almost. (What’s for dessert?)’
(b) Ye. Tsun tivam. ‘Yes. That’ll be enough.’
(c) Nìtxan! ‘Very! I’m quite full.’
(d) Nìhaawwwng. ‘Oooh. I ate too much.’

More weather expressions are coming . . . Hayalovay!

Edit 05 April: Added the necessary fwa to Spängaw oel futa fwa po kolä lu kxeyey. Corrected spelling of zìsìtä.

Here’s the first of several posts about weather language. Thanks to the Vocabulary Committee for some great ideas!

To begin with, the subject of our discussion:

yafkeyk (n.: YA.fkeyk) ‘weather’

To understand the derivation of this word, note the following:

fkeytok (v. intr.: FKEY.tok, infixes 2, 2) ‘exist’

Ngal fwerew a tute ke fkeytok.
‘The person you’re looking for doesn’t exist.’

(Fkeytok comes from kifkeyti tok, ‘be in the world.’)

Derived form:

tìfkeytok (n.) ‘state, condition, situation’

Tìfkeytok lefkrr lehrrap lu nìtxan.
‘The current situation is very dangerous.’

Kilvanä tìfkeytok lu fyape fìtrr?
‘What’s the condition of the river today?’

Now phrases like kilvanä tìfkeytok were common, and these eventually developed into shortened forms such as kilvanfkeyk ‘condition of the river.’ So while the above sentence is perfectly correct, the more usual way to say it in present-day Na’vi is:

Kilvanfkeyk lu fyape fìtrr?
‘What’s the condition of the river today?’

In this way a new suffix developed, -fkeyk. It’s widely productive. For example:

Sawtuteri ronsemfkeykit ke tsun kawtu tslivam.
‘No one can understand the state of mind of the Sky People.’

Some very common -fkeyk words have been lexicalized with special meanings, most notably yafkeyk, which originally meant ‘the state of the atmosphere’ but is now used to mean ‘weather.’

To ask about the weather, use za’u:

Yafkeyk za’u fyape? / Yafkeyk za’u pefya? Etc.
‘How is the weather?’

(Note: Be sure to place the stress in the right place with fyape and pefya: FYA.pe and pe.FYA.)

In colloquial conversation, za’u may be omitted:

Yafkeyk pefya?
‘How’s the weather?’

To answer this question, Na’vi breaks weather up into several categories. The one we’ll discuss in this post is precipitation.

A. Precipitation

When things fall from the sky, Na’vi uses, naturally enough, the verb zup ‘fall’:

Zerup tompa.
It’s raining.

Here are some other forms of precipitation:

tompameyp (n.: tom.pa.MEYP) ‘drizzle’  [Comes from tompa ameyp ‘weak rain’]

tskxaytsyìp (n.: TSKXAY.tsyìp) ‘hail’  [Comes from tskxepay + tsyìp (diminutive): ‘little ice.’]

Note: tskxepay (n.: TSKXE.pay) ‘ice’  (literally: stone water)

herwì (n.: HER.wì) ‘snow’

tomperwì (n.: TOM.per.wì) ‘sleet’  [Comes from tompa + herwì]

Example:

Herwì zereiup fìtrro nìwotx!
‘It’s been snowing all day!’ (Said by, for example, a skier.)

When precipitation is particularly bad, you can use the verb ’eko ‘attack.’

Fìrewon tompameyp zarmup, slä set ’ìmeko nìtxan nang!
‘It was drizzling this morning, but it’s really started coming down now!’

Related vocabulary:

txanfwerwì (n.: txan.FWER.wì) ‘blizzard’  [Comes from txan + hufwe + herwì ‘much wind (and) snow’]

hermeyp (n.: her.MEYP) ‘snow flurry’

hertxayo (n:. HER.txa.yo) ‘field of snow’

ìlva (n. ÌL.va) ‘flake, drop, chip’  Note: When this word is used in compounds, the l drops. So:

txepìva (n. TXE.pì.va) ‘ash, cinder’  (Don’t confuse with txepvi ‘spark.’)

herwìva (n. HER.wì.va) ‘snowflake’

payìva (n. PAY.ì.va) ‘drop of water’

tompìva (n. TOM.pì.va) ‘raindrop’

And now you know what this means: Oeri aysompìva sìn re’o var zivup. 🙂

Next time: “steady state” weather terms, including temperature.

Hayalovay, ma eylan.

P.S.—I need to respond to some comments on the previous post. Zaya’u ye’rìn.