Breathless anticipation: Movie sequel. Next ride at Universal Studios or at Disney World. New rollercoaster. Next political leader. And, not to be outdone, the August 23 blog on this website.
Before a short break in blogging, I announced that I would post the next blog on August 23. No doubt my millions (scratch that) tens of readers anticipated. Or did they?
Anticipation. Let’s see. Although there’s not been any scientific quantification on the subject worth noting, anticipation is probably 90% of both pleasure and pain. The Online Etymology Dictionary notes that in the 1530s the verb anticipate meant “to cause to happen sooner.” By the seventeenth century, the verb meant “to be aware of (something) coming at a future time.” If we go to the Latin root, we find “to take beforehand” (ante, “before,” and capere, “to take”). And the word differs from expectation enough that the two aren’t really synonyms (ex, Latin for “from,” “out of,” and spectare, “to look,” and specere, “to look at”).
Anticipation. The daily problem we face. We do more than expect. We often attempt to “take possession beforehand.” That gets us into trouble. It also throws us into a future perfect that rarely occurs. Future perfect: By the end of the day, I shall have accomplished this or that or something else. By the end of the day I shall have acquired a thing. By the end of the day, I shall have convinced him (or her) of whatever. Future perfect: Accomplished even though it hasn’t happened yet. Or, with regard to this blog, I shall have written a perfect little essay even though there is nothing in my head worth a blog.
Perfect. In the medieval philosophical sense, the word meant “full,” “complete,” and it was applied by the Church to the universe because a Perfect Being could not create anything less than a Perfect (no gaps of any kind) World. Seems that the medieval has stayed with us. We keep anticipating a future perfect even though no previous future perfect has been completely “full” or “complete.” We are seekers of completeness, and we believe we can take possession ahead of time, that we can anticipate. And—this is not quantifiable—our anticipation is 90% of that future perfect.
Anticipation: You have to pee. Really, really bad. You are at least ten minutes from the nearest restroom. You make it into the restroom before Niagara washes your legs. Ah! Think of that moment of entering the restroom. Ninety-percent of relief? A future perfect? By the time you leave the restroom, you will have relieved yourself. An act completed in the future becomes the focus of the present, that is, in the anticipation of the event.
Anticipation: How many times do we “take possession beforehand” in our approach to others? How many times do we think in future perfect terms? How many times does the completed act not match the future perfect?
Yet, we still anticipate. How’s this? You and I can anticipate a time when we shall not have taken possession beforehand, a time when we focus on the incomplete present rather than on an impossible future perfect.
Oh! And look! I published this on August 22.
Before a short break in blogging, I announced that I would post the next blog on August 23. No doubt my millions (scratch that) tens of readers anticipated. Or did they?
Anticipation. Let’s see. Although there’s not been any scientific quantification on the subject worth noting, anticipation is probably 90% of both pleasure and pain. The Online Etymology Dictionary notes that in the 1530s the verb anticipate meant “to cause to happen sooner.” By the seventeenth century, the verb meant “to be aware of (something) coming at a future time.” If we go to the Latin root, we find “to take beforehand” (ante, “before,” and capere, “to take”). And the word differs from expectation enough that the two aren’t really synonyms (ex, Latin for “from,” “out of,” and spectare, “to look,” and specere, “to look at”).
Anticipation. The daily problem we face. We do more than expect. We often attempt to “take possession beforehand.” That gets us into trouble. It also throws us into a future perfect that rarely occurs. Future perfect: By the end of the day, I shall have accomplished this or that or something else. By the end of the day I shall have acquired a thing. By the end of the day, I shall have convinced him (or her) of whatever. Future perfect: Accomplished even though it hasn’t happened yet. Or, with regard to this blog, I shall have written a perfect little essay even though there is nothing in my head worth a blog.
Perfect. In the medieval philosophical sense, the word meant “full,” “complete,” and it was applied by the Church to the universe because a Perfect Being could not create anything less than a Perfect (no gaps of any kind) World. Seems that the medieval has stayed with us. We keep anticipating a future perfect even though no previous future perfect has been completely “full” or “complete.” We are seekers of completeness, and we believe we can take possession ahead of time, that we can anticipate. And—this is not quantifiable—our anticipation is 90% of that future perfect.
Anticipation: You have to pee. Really, really bad. You are at least ten minutes from the nearest restroom. You make it into the restroom before Niagara washes your legs. Ah! Think of that moment of entering the restroom. Ninety-percent of relief? A future perfect? By the time you leave the restroom, you will have relieved yourself. An act completed in the future becomes the focus of the present, that is, in the anticipation of the event.
Anticipation: How many times do we “take possession beforehand” in our approach to others? How many times do we think in future perfect terms? How many times does the completed act not match the future perfect?
Yet, we still anticipate. How’s this? You and I can anticipate a time when we shall not have taken possession beforehand, a time when we focus on the incomplete present rather than on an impossible future perfect.
Oh! And look! I published this on August 22.
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