Stymied by Ducks

Curiosity demands that I ask. 

Normally, this blog's major attraction, in terms of searches, is the photo of the bloody water in Taiji, from the senseless dolphin slaughter.  The photograph is not, of course, mine -- nonetheless, I get a rich number of hits from people looking for it here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle.

After the Taiji photo, the object of visitors' ranking searches varies, but usually includes CRPS issues, and some aspects of recent postings.

When there is a surge of interest in something, usually a quick assessment of world news will account for it -- photos of the UConn women's b-ball team, mockery of Muammar Gaddafi, health care reform legislation, and so on.

Rarely, I'm stymied by the popularity of a specific post among searchers.

For example, starting yesterday at mid-morning, the new and surprising leader among post page views is... Anatidaephobia.

In itself, not that fascinating a development.

But add to that the fact that ALL of these searches originate from different computers in Colombia... and I'm hooked by the delight of a mystery!  So if anyone knows of a possible reason for the good folks in Bogota,  Medellìn,  Antioquia -- and four other originating cities in Colombia -- to have developed a sudden fascination with the psychology behind the pervasive fear of being watched by ducks, please let me in on it!

Saltwater Shallows

It was certainly a Monday!

I continued, despite the best of intentions, to be the KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall, dragging down any and every one close enough to share air. 

These were my frustrations: 

1.  I could not take a shower and began obsessing about how wonderful a shower would feel and how long it had been since I enjoyed one -- one week, exactly.  In the interim, I wash, don't worry, and I wash several times a day.  I smell marvelous.  I might even squeak were you to rub my dessicated skin together.  But I cannot get up the nerve to navigate on these bum legs right now.  And so on, and so forth. 

2.  I have no privacy.  That's really not a problem.  Were I to politely explain to the parties in question that I wanted some privacy, I would politely be granted privacy.  It's that "politely" part that poses the problem.  I fume about it, waiting for people to realize that they are using me and my environs as a gathering point, without asking --
     a.  if they may,
     b.  if that's okay-by-me, which is the same thing as "if they may," and
     c.  whether I might need to get some sleep, or have some quiet, or read a book, or lounge about nekkid, which is all the same as "if they may," and "if that's okay-by-me," too and also.

3.  I am being outmaneouvered by physical and mental pain, and am demonstrating little skill at adapting, coping, or changing according to circumstances.

4.  The state of the world. 

5.  The Drug House down the road (just past the Cistercians, on the left).  It's a nondescript little Renaissance villa with small attached farming compounds, achoo, sneeze, if you get my drift.  Were it just a matter of growing some weed, we'd hardly care and might even underwrite the endeavor, but no-o-o, they are into the nasty stuff.  That's right:  nutmeg. [Kids!  Just because Malcolm X and William Burroughs did it doesn't make it right.  If one of them shot one of his wives in the head, would you, too?]

Nutmeg illustration by Herman Eggleling, published in
The Encyclopedia of Food by Artemus Ward, 1923.

Plus, they pipe in digital drug music from the villa to the faux-rustic outbuildings, putting their dairy cows and hens into deep otherworldly trances, and God only knows what that does to the milk. And the eggs.  Some of that so-called music "will purportedly bring about the same effects of marijuana, cocaine, opium and peyote," according to the experts in the Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics, which is among our favorite bureaus of narcotics, state-side.  We worry about the young monks who may fall under the influence of their druggie neighbors, as The Monastery rents space from them to house some goats, turkeys, and a few swayback horses. While The Brethren may claim to be listening to The Best of the Psalms on their MP3 players, we know better.



6. The characterization of a kid who has signed on to play b-ball at Duke as "another slow, ugly, white player with gay hair..."

7. Joe Lieberman. Just because.

On the positive side of things, my eye pressures are down to normal levels -- both were 18 today! The doctor denies, though, that the new drops are the culprits behind my high blood pressure, despite that being the only medication change of any sort, despite my usual readings being in the 90/60 range. My Go-To-MDVIP Guy was sure EyeGuy would be willing to switch to another drop, but EyeGuy is something of a dolt and claims "there are no other drops that we haven't tried... it's either the timolol or surgery." Stick in the mud. So we will soldier on, adding a blood pressure medication to the ungodly mix, and putting up with the substantial other side effects of all these drops. Because **18** rocks! If they want to fight it out between them, they can do that. I am just happy that after all these appointments, I now don't have to go back for 3 months.

Tomorrow is the Big Conference with the Head Ketamine Dude. I'm hoping he'll have some encouragement for me, and will be willing to keep trying. He has already proposed intrathecal ziconotide (Prialt) treatment to me -- yes, synthetic sea snail venom -- that of the Conus magus of tropical saltwater shallows fame, to be precise. [It is not likely that I will follow his advice, as there are rumors of the drug causing suicidality in people with a history of depression, and that, my friends, would be me...]

Still, I could use it to stun my prey...

Often I Am Permitted

I love USAmerican poetics, and many of its practitioners. That was probably the real gift of my education at UC-Berkeley, the Bay Area being one of the greatest spots in the world for (free) readings and a heavy concentration of writers -- on the street, in the metro, at favorite cafés, that one with small round marble-topped tables -- bring a cardigan -- and the one with the inherited dark woods and tippy legs -- at the twilight, run next door, bring back fish and chips in newspaper. Malt vinegar.

The Castro, the West Oakland Senior Center, the Mission's murals and taquerias, creepy Japantown, Jack Kerouac Alley and City Lights.

Wheeler, Dwinelle. 94720.

Josephine Miles reading in the late afternoon, something about a swimmer swept to sea, or a benevolent ocean and a drowning, Pinsky's parade of sycophants.

Commune, commune, commune -- at water's edges, the Pacific, the bay, the packing district, watching you practice Japanese on notecards, watching you woo the girlish women in Greek School.

A summer of language and found poems, particularly in diners, possibly because of back-to-back booths and open seating (you were gifted in acoustics, in picking our place to be), people so sleepy in the mid- to late- mornings. They'll say anything, and we listened. You published, shameless, arty line breaks your personal permission.

I walked in broken sandals from Berkeley to the Golden Gate, that "thirty-five million dollar steel harp" (said The Chronicle in 1937), to Sausalito, then, refusing to look at my feet but finally acknowledging them, and my blood trail, took the 6:30 ferry, then BART, stomped up the hill from Shattuck to the International House.

That was the kind of thing I did before you. Things were more light and air and feet and muscles, also nipples, then.

I am a fan of Charles Bernstein and what he does, and in ferreting out this and that, I was introduced, posthumously, to his daughter, Emma Bee Bernstein. Yesterday, I posted two YouTube videos from her user account and feel even weirder about that impulse today. It was a foreign act that I wanted to pass off as a comfortable thing, even a celebration of this lovely young woman.

But I don't think her work is great, and so I am not, in turn, a great fan, but something like politeness and real sadness over what was certainly going to be greatness, denied, motivated the gesture. The iteration.

[Denied? Not deferred, certainly, though in these ketamine times, I don't claim a firm understanding of our realities, but not denied, either. Just not, I suppose. Just not. Just plain old very sad very wrong not.]

Anyway, videos sort of from dead people, facebook accounts of the deceased, still friends, still peering out, still protecting a useless privacy.

She only share some profile information with everyone. If you know her, add her as a friend or send her a message.

Charles Bernstein's Web Log is like an infusion of goings-on that I can access when there is need, and there is need, on average, three times a month. It's ugly -- I hate the colors -- I hate the fonts -- I hate the layout.

It's perfect.

And every instance of need births great gratitude but what am I supposed to do, thank him? Harrumph.

In much the same way I know anything, I knew that Jonathan Williams was likely dead, too. Dead with all the other dead people that seem to be peopling the poetic crowd of my advancing years. This -- dead writers -- is partly how I've come to treasure opportunities like the Poetry Audio Archive over at the Academy of American Poets -- for how I long to hear them -- again, or for the first time, or the thirteenth. You really do have to hear poets. Look at them, not so much, but hear them, oh, yes.

Of course, I knew (of) Jonathan Williams from my own Asheville era, and wish that that portion of my life were preserved, for so much remains only in staccato bursts of errant electricity. He made me laugh. He made me want to hear language, touch words.  I like baseball;  He did, too. 

And I forgot him, and most all like him that I ever knew. That's the value of something like Bernstein's Web Log. Between him and Ron Silliman, I'm golden.  I remember.  I backtrack.  I listen to their trusted voices.

Joel Oppenheimer and Francine Du Plessix
at Black Mountain College, 1951.
Photograph by Jonathan Williams

Oh, please.  You remember what it was like.  My commitment to poetry included a commitment to publishable poetry.  Also, I aided and abetted a visit to my campus by Joel Oppenheimer -- there was an ice storm, a very old tree fell, and we all wrote poems about it.

But by the time I came to like Jonathan Williams, I had no campus.  To speak of.

I find that when I read and skim Bernstein's postings, often reduced to announcements, I remember names.  The tip-of-the-tongue drive-you-crazy names.  I practically crow with delight. 

Guy Davenport!  Robert Duncan.

Ah-h-h.

Is there a better way than to end with Robert Duncan?  (Do I feel odd for the absence of George Oppen?)
These various portals to grace -- Emma Bee Bernstein's videos from YouTube, her father's work, analysis of works, and selfless promotion of language, archives oral, archives visual, blogs and blogs and blogs, all these portals such gifts such gifts!

Places of permission.

Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow
by Robert Duncan




as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,


that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein


that is a made place, created by light
wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.


Wherefrom fall all architectures I am
I say are likenesses of the First Beloved
whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.


She it is Queen Under The Hill
whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words
that is a field folded.


It is only a dream of the grass blowing
east against the source of the sun
in an hour before the sun's going down


whose secret we see in a children's game
of ring a round of roses told.


Often I am permitted to return to a meadow
as if it were a given property of the mind
that certain bounds hold against chaos,


that is a place of first permission,
everlasting omen of what is.

The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall

I suffered Kitten Meltdown this afternoon. It's difficult to say what event or behavior, or combination thereof, pushed me over the line. Everyone else in The Manor seemed to be in excellent spirits.

Trust me to be The KillJoy of Marlinspike Hall.

Before my eruption, I was documenting various Feline Antics: the chewing of the purse, stupidly left within Kitten Reach -- and a couple of the very frequent skirmishes between Dobby and Buddy.  Dobby is coming out of his funk and enjoying the Wee One, until he doesn't, at which point he flees in a serious way or sneaks into my closet (he can both open and close the door).

Oh -- not to worry, we have plans to paint all the doors and trim that were ruined in the early days by some fool lacking the dexterity to steer her wheelchair.  Nightmare days, those were.  With Captain Haddock's permission, we may even paint an accent wall or two.  Fred wants to grace our Private Quarters with a triptych of mural work -- but a critical ear and some funky past experiences with sheetrock, plaster, and gesso suggest that he may go all Diego Rivera in the bedroom.  I mean, I can be as nationalistic as the next Tête de Hergéen, and probably more revolutionary than most, but social realism all in my befuddled, sleepy face would might render insomnia a permanent condition.  Burly workers arm-in-arm with thunder-thighed cultural icons?  Can you say "gastroesophageal reflux"?

Umm, yeah, so back to CatCam for Sunday!

I don't know if Fred is going to drop in to elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle anytime soon, but if he does:  Sweet cheeks, I love you!  I appreciate you, am grateful for your constant gifts, and am so sorry not to convey that love and gratitude anywhere near frequently enough.  You bless me. 

Thank you for saving me from the insane kitten.  Oh, and from self-pity, from self-indulgence -- that, too!

There is no way that we could keep up this pace of moving from one stressful thing to the next without some correction -- of ourselves, and with a helpful sharp nudge to the diaphragm of the other!  (With our connections, we can always schedule a celiac plexus ablation...)

Is there any wonder that small, funny moments with cats are moments of grace?

And what do you think of maybe a trompe l'oeil ceiling, Dear One -- à la Jacob de Wit or, ummm, Andrea Mantegna?  Not that your work, my Darling Muffin, could ever be considered derivative.

emma bee bernstein

Retrospective Slideshow Part 1



Retrospective Slideshow Part 2



Slideshow curated by Antonia Pocock for "Emma Bee Bernstein -- Masquerade: A Retrospective"; exhibition at DOVA Temporary, University of Chicago, February 2010.

But who are the Dutch?

Pink Submarine courtesy of The Bunny Hop

Yesterday was a better day.  I am hoping today will follow suit, but I've been too busy putting out small domestic fires around The Manor to have the time for even a rapid assessment. 

A submarine and five sub satellites surfaced in the moat, and we are waiting for what I suppose might be First Contact, except that we're fairly sure it's Captain Haddock and the Miniature Badminton Team dropping by to stock up on supplies. 

Then the rugrat, Buddy the Kitten, managed to chew through what turned out to be an important data cable.  I know it was a data cable because it sported a green tag labeled "data cable." Sven Feingold (whom we recently discovered was the biological father of Marlinspike Hall's Cabana Boy -- which brings on a host of migraine-inspiring genetic issues... but let's leave that for another time, shall we?) -- Sven Feingold, working tirelessly on a new section of the labyrinth in preparation for ManorFest 2011, happened to be leaving La Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore's Very Private Apartments as I was lecturing the Bit O'Fuzz about his propensity for chewing electronics, and after a brief search in the left cargo pocket of his faded denim overalls, triumphantly pulled out four condoms, a feather duster, and a neatly bundled bit of cable, complete with the sweet green tag. 

Sugar-free banana-flavored yellow glow-in-the-dark condoms.

He's something of a Boy Scout, is Sven.

Fred and I spent a harrowing afternoon in Captain Haddock's vessel, The Schvitz, back in 2005 -- quite the feat in an area designed for single occupancy.  We made a quick run from The Moat to Le Havre, across The Channel.  We made it back to the manor in under a half-hour -- our introduction to his patented Corkscrew Technology™ that transforms the distance between large-mouthed rivers into... well, private little connecting Chunnels. 

The Captain's sub was built by Pierre Poulin of Québec and is slightly larger than his Guinness World Record model, weighing in at roughly 1500 pounds (sans Haddock).  If Fred and I could cram ourselves in there, the Miniature Badminton Team could've wedged themselves inside, no problem.  Even so, the guys have chosen to do their underwater traveling in pairs, comfortably nestled in tiny quilted goose down-lined living units that closely resemble conjoined oven mitts.  The Australian National University was *this* close to trashing their slightly defective Serafina units (the world's smallest autonomous subs, roughly 40 centimeters in length, with pink plastic hulls, and 5 size-C battery powered propulsion systems, complete with seven cute little propellers) when Haddock swooped in and purchased them for a song.  The renovations probably cost more than than the total purchase price for the five underwater crafts, originally destined for the offshore oil industry.

Did you know that a Dutchman built the first submersible in the early years of the 1600s?  Can anyone tell me who the Dutch really are?  Bonus points for pointing out the vast Dutch homeland, with a 100-word essay explaining its primary physical attributes on a contemporary, topographically-detailed globe.  Remember:  "Globes are... symbols of wisdom and you can often find them on the desks of great scholars."


Anyway.  (I wonder how long I can blame this blogging catastrophe on my penchant for ketamine?)

While waiting for The Team's laundry and List of Needed Sundries and while Buddy the Kitten is taking a well-deserved nap, I'm trying to get my head together.  If the ketamine treatments have anything to do with my improved sleep, I am already grateful.  I just need to remember how to wake up, as I usually go from a half-awake state to slight somnolence and back again in 40-minute cycles.  Now I am stringing 4, 5, and even 6 hours together without waking, time enough for well developed dreams and some restoration of spirit.

Tuesday, I thought that my hands might hurt a bit less than usual, and was trying to convince myself and every stray medical professional we came across that the infusions were, indeed, working, and that I must be close to the discovery of my personal magic number -- the lowest, most effective dose of ketamine.  Yesterday, I knew that was a bunch of hooey, but as I had already been strutting and crowing about it, tried to let the topic die a natural death.  If only Fred were a disinterested party, because the first words out of his mouth upon seeing my bright and cheerful visage yesterday morning were:  "Are your hands still better?"

So it just completely sucks that I woke this morning, after a sleep that actually qualifies as "restorative," to find my entire right hand a deep, dank purple and frosty enough to put the chilling properties of ice to shame.  Movement seems entirely normal but my perception of that movement is fucked.  My fingers feel *thick* and uncooperative, much like my right leg!

I will not have too much trouble hiding it, as there aren't many moments in the day when my right hand attracts any natural sort of attention.  The hope is that this is a passing change.

When I say the hand is cold?  I mean the hand is COLD -- "cold" capitalized, bolded, italicized, underlined, and colored arctic blue.  It burns like a mo'fo and demands an unduly large measure of my consciousness -- it's hard to ignore.

The only good thing may be that holding it cupped in my relatively balmy left hand actually feels nice.  Usually, my freezing body parts don't tolerate touch, even if logic says that the touch ought to be pleasant.  Hence, people are always annoying me with offers of luxurious socks, cashmere leg warmers, delicate fuzzy blankets, microwave-warmed bags of rice or beans or whatever... none of which can I put up with when put in contact with my body.

But warmth feels marvelous to this right hand.

To be obnoxious -- it's a calling! -- I only seem to tolerate the warmth that comes from my own left hand.

To say that I am tired of the weirdness of this syndrome is a masterful understatement.

So... I'm gonna sit here and hold my own damned hand until Haddock and The Team pop their respective hatches, then whip up some lunch for everyone.  It's hard to figure the right amount of food when the athletically talented but physically challenged miniature badminton team drops in.  I mean, they had a pre-dawn intense practice session, then made an undersea journey of considerable length (and depth)... plus they skipped breakfast, the rascals.  Factor into the equation that The Captain's appetite is famously voracious, and that Bianca has invited Sven to join us at The Captain's Table -- Sven who has mentioned several times, eyes all a-twinkle, how famished he is this morning.

We are letting most of the Domestic Staff have the weekend off.  No weekend guests are scheduled for occupancy.  Abbot Truffatore has been called to Rome (we hope it's nothing serious) and the grounds are really too wet for much earth-moving.  We're weary from running around Tête de Hergé and, since Fred has resigned from the Board of Directors to the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminist Congregation, his schedule is lighter than normal.

So I'm thinking comfort foods, comfort cooking -- baking breads, making one-pot wonders, that sort of thing.  I'm thinking spooning naps, with kittens for needed softness.  I'm thinking maybe a haircut, maybe some light cleaning in the larger ballrooms and salons.  I'm thinking a short but tasteful memorial service for Tobacco Road basketball. 

And I am ignoring my colder-than-a-witch's-tit hand and the likelihood of its lack of cooperation.

A witch's tit (or witch's teat, to use the older spelling) supposedly left a marking that witch hunters and courts would look for on the body of an accused person. Supposedly, witches would suckle their familiars, and sometimes the Devil himself, from this "unholy" body part. To find these marks, as well as insensitive spots on the skin called devil's marks--caused by the Devil's claws or teeth--the suspects were stripped, shaven, then closely examined for any blemishes, moles, or even scars that could be labeled as diabolical. To find marks invisible to the eye, the examiner would poke the victim inch by inch with a blunt needle (called a bodkin) until they found a spot that didn't feel pain or bled. Discovery of these marks or spots--one supposes they would be considered cold since they were a sign of communion with the Devil--would be "proof" of the person's dealings with Scratch, so they would be shown in full court before the execution.

From The Chive:
Amazing ice sculptures before winter’s end

Wednesday CatCam: Buddy's Growing, Marmy Mourns, and Dobby Does What Dobby Does

i have failed to mention the enactment of a new law here at elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle:  please watch these precious, precious (oh, shut up!) cat videos with the sound OFF, or, failing that, promise to never, ever mention the juvenile anthropomorphic mindless nattering that tends to serve as a soundtrack.  also... never, ever speak of, describe, or reproduce the ersatz porky sausage links attached to the beefy ends of what may or may not be human arms. that's a foreshortening distortion that is, well, frightening. 

okay? okay!

sign here:  _________________________
name of first-born child OR VIN number of your red sports car:  __________________________
VISA card number and 3-digit security code:  ___________________________

The Feline Remnant continues to show signs of sadness and trauma.   We've yet to see both Marmy Fluffy Butt and Dobby the Wonder Runt behaving normally on the same day.  

And yes, Marmy continues to want to murder the kitten, making at least one violent pass at the Fluff Puff per day.  Of course, given that the Fluff Puff lives on, her dedication to his assassination is suspect.

Dobby functions perfectly, of course, in his role as Big Brother -- he willingly models the behavior we are wanting to see in Buddy, and has yet to show any aggression, fatigue, or boredom in his dealings.  Of course, what he says in private might be a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

Marmy has taken to lying on the scrap of rug that her brother, Dobby's Uncle Kitty Big Balls (a.k.a. Little Boy), occupied in his last days.  Dobby has even taken to curling up there some mornings.  They are both putting on weight, a function of stealing kitten kibble.

Dobby, and this truly touches my heart, still calls for Sammy at night, and then will come to me with i-don't-understand written all over his wizened old young face.  That's when a distracting belly rub comes in handy!

This last video, and you have probably figured out that I am bored this evening... This last video is going to serve as a reminder to The Dobster of Those Few Days When He Was Larger Than Buddy. 

da!

uploaded by user jayrandall22011 to YouTube on 14 Feb 2011

The boys' Mother, herself a twin, blogs at Twin Mama Rama.

The temptation to put words in their mouths, at first overwhelming, fades the longer that this linguist watches and listens.

About:Com, under a banner ad for Strattera, sums things up this way:

One of the popular myths about mulitples is that they share a secret language, a form of communication known only to them. Terms such as idioglossia, autonomous language or cryptophasia describe the phenomenon of twin language, a fascinating concept that has intrigued researchers and parents alike. However, it's actually very rare for twins to develop a true "language," and usually only in cases of extreme isolation.

In trailblazing fashion, the author reduces the phenomenon to "incorrect" mimicry.  As opposed to your correct mimicry.  But that goes without saying.  Actually, I've read that -- at least in older twins -- cryptophasia is more about reinforcing the language of their other, their other self, their twin.  Not a secret language, not an out-and-out mimicry of more mature speakers.

This video, though, despite being an example of such an abstracted form of "secret" conversation, is hardly secret at all.  It's so close to being understandable -- from that mimicry point of view -- that it's a bouffonnerie of a linguistic striptease. 

*** ((( ***  (((  ***  (((  ***  (((  ***  (((  *** ((( *** ((( *** ((( *** ((( *** (((

Je divague... je dis vague... jeudi vague...

We're never satisfied with language as accretion.  Instead, we (adults) play at finding worth only at genesis --

George Bernard Shaw offered a reward to the inventor of new set of characters, independent of any extant alphabets, that successfully represented every sound in the English language. In 1958, as a provision of his will, a committee selected a submission;  Four years later, Penguin books published an edition of Shaw’s Androcles and the Lion with English text in traditional font on the left hand page and the Shaw phonetic alphabet on the facing right hand page:

I've always enjoyed Raynor's Ragbag and his take on Poul Anderson's uncleftish beholding *:

one of my sixteern recurring fantasies involves a world where, in 1066 harold the second was able to defeat william “the bastard” and those pesky normans had to retreat back to france and bake baguettes with their salty tears. there’s grade-a babes in this fantasy too, but let’s not get into that now.


at any rate, in a world where english never got jiggy with norman french nor any other romance language, how would our mother tongue sound? fortunately for you and i, we don’t need to strain too hard with this thought experiment because sci-fi author poul anderson has done all the work for us. in his short piece “uncleftish beholding,” he rewrites the first few principles of atomic theory using only words of germanic origin. it is—to say the least—a trip. it starts like this:

For most of its being, mankind did not know what things are made of, but could only guess. With the growth of worldken, we began to learn, and today we have a beholding of stuff and work that watching bears out, both in the workstead and in daily life.


The underlying kinds of stuff are the *firststuffs*, which link together in sundry ways to give rise to the rest. Formerly we knew of ninety-two firststuffs, from waterstuff, the lightest and barest, to ymirstuff, the heaviest. Now we have made more, such as aegirstuff and helstuff…

* Uncleftish Beholding (1989) is a short text written by Poul Anderson. It is written using almost exclusively words of Germanic origin, and was intended to illustrate what the English language might look like if it had not received its considerable number of loanwords from other languages, particularly Latin, Greek and French.


The text is about basic atomic theory and relies on a number of word coinings, many of which have analogues in modern German. The title "uncleftish beholding" calques "atomic theory".


Me? I don't mess much with accretion; No, I bury you in attribution...  Still, I don't doubt that it's all just a bunch of da!

On the serious side of academics, there is true excitement to be had in things like the "discovery" of the Koro language, for instance. I guess it's best said to be a heretofore "undescribed" language. Here is an interview of two of the National Geographic fellows from the Living Tongues Institute for Endangered Languages, Dr. Greg Anderson and Dr. K. David Harrison, who "discovered" Koro in northeastern India.

Honey, Catching Flies

The short version:  My hands may be a little bit less painful but not remarkably so, and not so clearly as a result of the third ketamine treatment (@115 mg) that I'm willing to sing hosanna in attribution, in "agreeably positive connotation."

The longer short version:  This "subanesthetic" experience was unpleasant.  The only redeeming moments came in conversations I may (or may not) have had with Fred, again The Sentinel at the foot of the bed.  I confirmed with him today that we had a lightening-fast, telegraphic conversation about Stéphane Grappelli and Django Reinhardt.*  He guessed that I was speaking of Reinhardt by my mumbling something about "stride guitar" -- which, of course, is not the preferred terminology.  [That would be "parallel harmony."]
He laughed today at my experience under ketamine -- me high as a kite, inventing guitar terminology from barely understood piano language, and him, so correctly discerning, so remarkably inferring that we made some serious, actual conversational headway about European jazz in the 1930s.

Of course, in the very next instant -- an instant in K-time being anywhere from a nanosecond to two hours in length -- though, in width, it's longer -- anyway, in that next instant, I was perplexed by the screw-top to a Diet Coke.

I did not sleep and pray that next time I do, that next time being iin two weeks, as I begin another cycle of three infusions, the dosages going ever higher until I find "my" dose -- the least effective dose.  Hmm. The lowest dose that is effective.

I cannot stop my body from... doing things.  I found it incredibly helpful to remove each extremity, as much as was possible while wired up and attached to monitors and pumps, from any extraneous touch.  I held my arms carefully in the air, my fingers configured into what must have looked like a tantric claw in my effort to escape those currents of air that only I could feel, and *did* feel, as pain.  Worse, though, are cords, wires, plugs, tubing... dear God, if doctors and nurses honestly understand this, why do they not know that the wire from, say, the pulse-ox thingy attached to a finger becomes an instrument of torture in a person with allodynia?

Also... lanyards holding hospital ID badges, and stethoscopes hanging around *your* neck that hit *my* leg when *you* attempt to adjust a blood pressure cuff on my *left* upper arm by leaning across the bed from the *right* side...

Yeah, I know, I am done with the *x* effect.  Sorry!

Everyone, once again, was remarkably proficient and kind.  The promises of relief are now being tempered with words of vague doubt, with caveats, emptor and otherwise.  My case is "severe."  My case is "rare."

I listen to the woman on my left, in Bed Five.  She does not know why she is there.  She does not know what drug she is about to receive, and even when they tell her, she does not know.  I listen to her being asked to sign an informed consent form.

I listen to the man on my right, in Bed Seven.  He is an old pro and does little beyond cracking wise and snoring.  The doctor stops by to see him and jokingly rips him a new one for having gone to the emergency room for pain meds.  Fred rolls his eyes.  I roll mine.

I have "a moment" when the same doctor visits me and says my informed consent form is now "out of date," and would I please sign a new one.  I tell him I've never signed one before and he briefly loses the capacity to speak.

It's true.  The doctor who interviewed me in the clinic deferred that bit of paperwork, claiming he wanted it done "at the last minute," when they were sure they could get a line in (plus other bits of verbal melodrama, including blithe references to my particular "risks").

I signed it.

The rest of my hallucinatory experience was a kaleidoscope of sepia (yes, I saw in sepia, sometimes without opening my eyes), being trapped in monolithic ice bergs (a recurring nightmare), and hilarity that I wish I could have shared with Fred -- or even the Lady in Bed Five.

Because her whimpering broke my heart, over and over again.

I started crying and I remember an aide repeatedly asking "What's wrong, honey?"
[As I think my hands were extended in the air like spastic crabs and my feet were twitching to some bluegrass that only I could hear, I'm pretty sure she was worried...]
But instead of explaining how the Lady in Bed Five, who didn't know what was happening to her, was breaking my heart, I kept saying:

"I hurt."

Not exactly a news flash.

So the Lady in Bed Five was up and out of there a good twenty minutes before I regaled Fred with stories of how far away the floor was as he valiantly tried to load me in the wheelchair so we could beat rush hour traffic (yes, we have rush hour in Tête de Hergé -- we are just rushing toward something different, differently).

One regains normalcy very quickly -- within minutes of turning off the drug, actually.  Physically, there are a few problems, at least for me -- headache, nausea, dizziness -- but nothing to a magnitude that merits much complaint.

I am always hungry, in spite of the nausea.  And, as Fred rushes me a little, I have ended up in dire need of a restroom once we hit the highway, where there is, alas, no restroom.  Then I get a wee bit crabby.

Yes, so it is fine, afterwards.  You can, I believe, choose to remember everything that happened, or you can forget it.  Your choice, really.

The bottom line to everything.

My difficult times come in the evening, when I realize that my pain is no better, and is even sometimes worse, by virtue of what I put my body through.  And the day after, I am so exhausted that I do little beyond sleep.

Why am I doing this again?
Because there is nothing else.

Next week, I see the doctor and dread it.  He is something of a cult figure there.  Let's just say, when other patients blog about their treatments at this place, you can read their bated breath at his mention.   He smiled.  He didn't smile.  He was in a good mood, a terrible mood, an indiscernible mood.  I could give a royal shit... I want to know my magic number.  I want him to crank up that damned dose, give me some of this famous pain relief. 

Or maybe I'll stroke ego, as needed.  Honey, catching flies.

[Oh, the port?  Still unusable!  It boggles my mind the number of people who kindly pulled together on my behalf so this stupid port could be installed in my chest, "immediately" -- just so Dr. CultPersonality might be appeased.  The infection is better, but the rate of healing seems to be a tad slow.]

I'm sorry for being Depressed instead of Grateful, Bitchy instead of Hopeful.  I vacillate.  Grateful and Hopeful don't inspire many blog posts but I assure you that they are among my favorite emotional dwarfs.

* tip of the hat to Tully

"Tired and Bored With Myself..."

I've been up almost all night again, despite various efforts to trick myself into resting. 

The list of possible causes is a tired, overused list.  I disappoint myself -- I neither resolve these recurring issues nor put them aside as something manageable like "my lot in life" or "the hand I was dealt."

Very Springsteen, very Dancing in the Dark (Well, there is no reason I shouldn't flatter myself a bit.  Whose blog is it, anyway?):

I get up in the evening

and I ain't got nothing to say

I come home in the morning

I go to bed feeling the same way

I ain't nothing but tired

Man I'm just tired and bored with myself

Hey there baby, I could use just a little help

You can't start a fire

You can't start a fire without a spark

This gun's for hire

even if we're just dancing in the dark

Message keeps getting clearer

radio's on and I'm moving 'round the place

I check my look in the mirror

I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face

Man I ain't getting nowhere

I'm just living in a dump like this

There's something happening somewhere

baby I just know that there is

You can't start a fire

you can't start a fire without a spark

This gun's for hire

even if we're just dancing in the dark

You sit around getting older

there's a joke here somewhere and it's on me

I'll shake this world off my shoulders

come on baby this laugh's on me

Stay on the streets of this town

and they'll be carving you up alright

They say you gotta stay hungry

hey baby I'm just about starving tonight

I'm dying for some action

I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book

I need a love reaction

come on now baby gimme just one look

You can't start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart

This gun's for hire

Even if we're just dancing in the dark

You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart

This gun's for hire

Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Even if we're just dancing in the dark

Hey baby

Well, I need to carefully shower (the incisions to the port are red and angry), dress in brightly colored soft organic cotton clothing, put on a smile, try to trim my nails, charge my mp3 player, and head on out for Subanesthetic Ketamine Treatment Number 3. I am thinking that this time the dose ought to be over 100 mg. I pray for some sign that the stuff is working.

In the interim, the plan is to fake it until I make it.
In this mean time, we are dancing in the dark.

Geraldine Ferraro

 "Liberty Leading The People - 1984"/This 'Liberty' Reprint Was Inspired By The 1830 Masterpiece By Delacroix 'Liberty Leading The People'." Issued by the Montana Citizens For Liberty
COURTESY OF HAKE'S AMERICANA AND COLLECTIBLES

GERALDINE ANNE FERRARO

(August 26, 1935 – March 26, 2011)

What I remember from the 1984 Vice Presidential Debate, beyond wanting to have simultaneous physical access to Poppy Bush and to a rotten tomato, was Ferraro's sang-froid in the face of condescension, the slight smile, the hint of a curl to the lip.

Vastly better than overripe fruit.  Still, when Bush the Braggadocious -- a real Guy's Guy -- said into an open mic at the end of the debate that he had "kicked a little ass," I daydreamed a good dozen rotten eggs, airborne.

The YouTube clip below, according to its annoyingly chirpy Fox presenters, captured the "historic" first in-person meeting of Ferraro and Sarah Palin following the 2010 midterm election results.

I appreciate, still, and maybe even more in these days of dumbing-down and groupthink, Ferraro's intelligence, political acumen, and gracious spirit. It is strikingly clear that these two women speak from very different foundations -- the one seeing politics as public service, the other lost in a gossipy view of politics as cults of personality.




***As I was searching for the transcript of that first televised encounter between Palin and Ferraro, the "Statement of Purpose" for something called The Fox Nation filled up the right margin of the computer page.

Ever diligent in my efforts to understand the alien species, I read it.

(I think) I threw up.
A little bit.
In my mouth.

[Recent archaeological efforts hypothesize that the origin of ITUALBIMM actually PREDATES its popularization by Christine Taylor in the motion picture "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story."]

Get your sublingual Zofran ready.

The Fox Nation was created for people who believe in the United States of America and its ideals, as expressed in the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, and the Emancipation Proclamation. It is a community that believes in the American Dream: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. One that believes being an American is an honor, as well as a great responsibility – and a wonderful adventure.

This is a place for people who believe we live in a great country, a welcoming refuge for legal immigrants who want to contribute their talents and abilities to make our way of life even greater. We believe we should enjoy the company and support of each other, delighting in the creativity, ingenuity, and work ethic of one and all, while observing the rules of civility and mutual respect and, most importantly, strengthening our diverse society by striving for unity.

The Fox Nation is committed to the core principles of tolerance, open debate, civil discourse, and fair and balanced coverage of the news. It is for those opposed to intolerance, excessive government control of our lives, and attempts to monopolize opinion or suppress freedom of thought, expression, and worship.

We invite all Americans who share these values to join us here at Fox Nation.

The Fox Nation Team

As usual, when I come across stuff like this, the jarring effect of such words being punked by the actual antics of their professors actually does make me nauseous.

Thinking I'd be refreshed by some discernment, I returned to the Fox video clips of Palin perched beside Ferraro, and scrolled down to the comment section to savor the intelligent contributions of thoughtful activist readers:

First comment:

She was from the old liberal school of JFK and I respect this. Today's liberal communistic social anti- American foundation is just that and should be addressed as such. No better than J I H A D. She was schooled with the same technique though in which liberals force others to do what they want instead of using freedom as an independence and choice for all.
--Wolverine_OathKeeper

Second comment:

Geraldine was wrong in her politics, but may have been a decent person. Most on the left now are also liars, which makes them evil. President Sarah Palin will be the one to break the final glass ceiling. Hopefully some day, phrases like ‘glass ceiling’ and ‘woman’s work’ will only be known from history books.
--pattersonbill589_at_Google

And the last that I was able to read before my eyes died:

Walter Mondale commented that she was an advocate for social justice. That my friends is anti American. And the media including Fox is telling us how great she was? I ain't buying it.
--jrose

Wind over Mountain: The Oracular

Well, Arizona completely screwed up a couple of blog drafts that I had laying around the joint -- I was confidant that they'd be waiting, all PERTINENT-like 'n all, when I felt up to finishing them.

Take this one, for instance.  It begins:  "I'd like to see Duke and UConn face off..."

Granted, no matter the nefarious impact of Arizona in the world, I can always conditionally hope to see a match between Duke and UConn.  Just not in the 2011 NCAA Division 1 Men's Basketball Tournament, West Regionals, in Anaheim.

Arizona.  Jeez.  Let's look at their earlier blow-outs.  Yeah, like their 2-point massacre of the #12 seed (19th in the AP Poll for the season) Tigers of Memphis.  After trouncing Memphis, those wild Wildcats beat the living daylights out of the Longhorns of Texas, to the tune of a deceptively scored single point game, 70-69. 

And then, of course, naturally, as expected, and obviously -- last evening, Arizona beat the Blue Devils 93-77, in a real nail-biter.  Cliff-hanger.  Narrow escape.  Close shave.  Heart stopper.  Photo finish.  Tight squeeze.

Seventeenth in the AP seasonal poll, Arizona had only once this past season posted so high a score, and that was in a triple-overtime game against... Cal. [Yes, Grader Boob, we are witnessing the dismantling of the Prof-de-Rien Lucky Alumnus Basketball Charm.]


I didn't see the game, though I'd planned to.  Much as I'd planned on polishing off the NCAA b-ball draft begun earlier in the week.  Similar to the way I had planned to cook an exciting vegetarian menu as pre-game nourishment -- delivering a mighty blow to Fred's growing affinity for microwaved prefab foods.

But no, I fell asleep.  And woke five hours later to find pus coming from the red, sore corner of the incision for the portacath. 

My theory?  Dr. EyeGuy finally got in touch yesterday morning (via his nurse Ms. I'll-Talk-Over-You) and called in a prescription for another eye drop in the battle against my out-of-control eye pressures.  You remember -- the last drop he added had the beta-blocker Timolol in it, which caused me to feel mighty crappy and to have severe hypertension.  I reviewed that with Ms. I'll-Talk-Over-You and she said, "Uh-huh, uh-huh... well, he called in something else for you... Uh-huh, uh-huh."  So Fred hustled over to the Lone Alp Super-Duper WallMart to pick up the new drops, a nice, cheap generic that is made up of Dorzolomide HCl and Timolol Maleate.

We decided to trust in Dr. EyeGuy, in hopes that this was some differently formulated medication, perhaps a different strength, a refined mechanism of action or some such shit...  I took the first dose around 7 pm, felt rotten at 7:30, put my head down at 7:35, and woke to discover Arizona's perfidy, pus from the surgical wound, and Fred's offering of nuked frozen burritos, all at half past midnight. If I'd had my wits about me, I'd have giggled and called out "Eureka!" [I can't explain the urge or the unhappy pairing of myself with Archimedes, nor the suspicion that I've more in common with the sneaky goldsmith than with the philosopher or snookered king.]

Yes, so.  Don't yell at me, but I've decided to try a topical antibiotic ointment on the incision (I'm already taking an oral antibiotic, remember) but if it doesn't improve by Monday, I'll give the surgeon a call.  I feel like I might tip the delicate balance we've achieved around here if Fred had to dedicate his Friday to more medical junk.  [He has made the difficult decision to resign from the Militant Lesbian Feminist Existentialist Congregation, and has gone off to a lunch date to explain his treasonous ways to The Girls.]

Actually, you, my Faithful Readership, are the lucky party in this instance.  Had I finished this draft, you would have drowned in the weird minutiae that is the I Ching, and I'd have obsessed over the role of its 64 diagrams in Taoism -- wanting the Book of Change to be less a means of prediction and more a group of dynamic reflections, meanings, and, okay, oracular clues.

I did, however, have plans to incorporate one of the funniest moments of my life into that unwieldy narrative
-- the night my Anthropology professor asked me to serve as his "goddess" and allow him to pour beer and honey over my feet in some ceremony or other.  All on the up-and-up, of course.

I kind of figured that this post would need some filler, some entertaining this or that, in order to move from draft status to publishable material... because no way in hell was the Duke-Arizona game to amount to more than boredom.

Big wave to Derrick Williams! (Without him in the first half, Arizona wouldn't have had the chance to dazzle in the second half.  Or so I am told.)

But I also concur with Chris Chase that there was a powerful Jinx at work -- activated when Coach K gave an interview at halftime.

Unwise, very unwise. Outside of the Winning Tradition, and clearly against Oracular Advice...

****************************************************************************



I'd like to see Duke and UConn face off... Wisconsin and Florida -- except for choosing UConn over SDSU, I'm just advancing the seeds.  That's what it *looks* like.  My picks are actually the result of finely tuned prognostication techniques that I cannot reveal here.

I will say this about that, though:  The I Ching is much maligned.

To the all-important question of the tourney's outcome, I cast hexagram 53 (Chien):

The trigram above – SUN – the Gentle, Wind, Wood;  The trigram below – KEN – Keeping Still, Mountain

The waterwheel makes sure that the field will not dry out. The slow and constant supply of water makes the plants grow harmoniously, without stagnations, abundant.

The wild goose can only reach its far-away destination, and come back every year, by beating its wings second after second, never losing its strength or direction.

Every relation needs a constant supply of water, of feelings, regular love, day after day.

Starting something is usually not the most difficult part; it is harder to keep it going. Every day caring for it, feeding, repairing: every creation has to be kept alive day after day, year after year.

KittenCam for Tuesday

The first brushing.  Oh, we named him... Buddy.  I know, there are so many good other options for names.  But we listened to what we were already calling him, and Buddy was it.  Unofficially, he is also NumbNut and Sport.

Pisser and Stinky Boy.

StudMuffin and Stinker.

There has been a lot of laundry going on thanks to his various contributions.

The last KittyCam offering of the day -- because I am feeling distinctly ketamine-y, a term that I could not explain for the life of me -- features Buddy as he gets when he is very tired and sleepy but damned and determined not to fall asleep.

(He had his first vet visit this morning and we fear that he is going to be HUGE, as he tops the height and weight charts for his tender age.  He has gained almost a pound in less than a week.  Heh.  Marmy best enjoy her advantage while she has one...)

Basketball Matters Plus The CheeseHead's Video du Jour

Rose candidly discussed his view of the Blue Devils and sparked a debate not only on his derogatory choice of words but on the culture and the recruiting style of Coach Mike Krzyzewski.


“For me, Duke was a person,” Rose said in the film. “I hated Duke, and I hated everything Duke stood for. Schools like Duke don’t recruit players like me. I felt like they only recruited black players that were Uncle Toms.” 

--[Steve]Fisher Discusses Fab Five Film

As opposed to my usual composed, tight posts, this will be a hodge-podge, a potpourri.

Today's matchup between Duke and Michigan cannot help but provide free advertising for the ESPN documentary Fab Five.  Hopefully, people will also consider some reasoned responses to Jalen Rose's charge that Duke's black players (of the era, one assumes) were Uncle Toms.  Grant Hill -- definitely of the era -- made his response in a guest appearance in the NYTimes sports blog The Quad, on March 16:

In his garbled but sweeping comment that Duke recruits only “black players that were ‘Uncle Toms,’ ” Jalen seems to change the usual meaning of those very vitriolic words into his own meaning, i.e., blacks from two-parent, middle-class families. He leaves us all guessing exactly what he believes today.


I am beyond fortunate to have two parents who are still working well into their 60s. They received great educations and use them every day. My parents taught me a personal ethic I try to live by and pass on to my children.


I come from a strong legacy of black Americans. My namesake, Henry Hill, my father’s father, was a day laborer in Baltimore. He could not read or write until he was taught to do so by my grandmother. His first present to my dad was a set of encyclopedias, which I now have. He wanted his only child, my father, to have a good education, so he made numerous sacrifices to see that he got an education, including attending Yale.


This is part of our great tradition as black Americans. We aspire for the best or better for our children and work hard to make that happen for them. Jalen’s mother is part of our great black tradition and made the same sacrifices for him.


My teammates at Duke — all of them, black and white — were a band of brothers who came together to play at the highest level for the best coach in basketball. I know most of the black players who preceded and followed me at Duke. They all contribute to our tradition of excellence on the court.


It is insulting and ignorant to suggest that men like Johnny Dawkins (coach at Stanford), Tommy Amaker (coach at Harvard), Billy King (general manager of the Nets), Tony Lang (coach of the Mitsubishi Diamond Dolphins in Japan), Thomas Hill (small-business owner in Texas), Jeff Capel (former coach at Oklahoma and Virginia Commonwealth), Kenny Blakeney (assistant coach at Harvard), Jay Williams (ESPN analyst), Shane Battier (Memphis Grizzlies) and Chris Duhon (Orlando Magic) ever sold out their race.


To hint that those who grew up in a household with a mother and father are somehow less black than those who did not is beyond ridiculous....

You cannot attend a schizoid institution like Duke without learning how to void a term, sit in its emptiness -- kind of an existential mindfulness meditation exercise -- and then slap a redefinition on it, filling out those edges, what that cheater-of-an-ex-lover writer of mine loved to name limns.  He only used that word, though, when within striking distance of an attractive waitress/poetess.  His was a West Coast pretention -- he who plaintively wondered whether the grunion run.

The edges of reconstituted Duke terms are artfully rusty, aiming for rustic, achieving distress.

No, they didn't reschedule my ketamine treatment for this morning.  The above is actually the result of years of cogitation.  I done thunk it.

The superior commentary comes from Rochelle Riley, columnist for the Detroit Free Press.  Why?  Because she alone of all the commentators I've read on this brouhaha-ha-ha, respects the term.  Voiding a term, redefining a term, is an operation that first demands that one understand the term.  Hence, Uncle Tom Merits Better From Jalen:

The greatest shame isn't that Jalen Rose, when he was a kid, called a rival player a name.


The greatest shame isn't that, at the time, Jalen Rose -- as he reminded people in his ESPN documentary "The Fab Five" -- felt that black students who attended white schools were sellouts.


The greatest shame isn't that Kid Rose must have felt some sense of disloyalty or self-hatred because how else could he attend and become fabulous at the predominantly white University of Michigan and not consider himself a so-called Uncle Tom?


No, the greatest shame is that had Kid Rose read Harriet Beecher Stowe's 1852 novel "Uncle Tom's Cabin; or, Life Among the Lowly," he would have learned that Tom, the main character, was a beloved hero, a Christian martyr -- and someone who deserves better in history.


Stowe analyzed the daily pain of slavery by telling the stories of people revolving around Uncle Tom. History has masked how the book was intended. Even beloved Tom's story has been lost: He was beaten to death because he would not betray other slaves. All that remains is the fact that he was subservient to white criminals who kept him and other kidnapped Africans captive.


As if he had a choice.


A foolish endeavor

Sadly, that is where black America still exists 159 years later, debating our worth, our successes and failures, our hopes and dreams, based on how they relate to white America.


Instead of one America that measures itself against the world, we measure the gap between black and white, educationally, economically and socially. It is a foolish endeavor since America spent nearly a hundred years of its constituted life ensuring that there was an underclass. (You can't have a superior class without an underclass.) Black people, in the national aggregate, will never catch up, so to speak. Black people individually have surpassed in ways too numerous to count -- although we try to do so every February.


Kid Rose perpetuated a stereotype he didn't understand. Grown-up Rose, a 38-year-old sports analyst, reminded people of what he did. He could have taken out that "Uncle Tom" quote. He didn't because, then as now, he didn't understand the damage it could do.


Achievements and accusations

The bottom line is this: For centuries, white America and black America have spent billions to retain some separateness. So strong is that need for separateness that some black Americans have taken it as insult that other black Americans would seek to excel, would excel.


As the only member of my family to attend a predominantly white university (everyone else went to North Carolina Central University, N.C. A&T State University, Winston-Salem State University, Elizabeth City State University and Fayetteville State University), I heard what Grant Hill heard then and what kids still hear today.


With every achievement, my family beamed, while some peers accused me of trying to be white -- as if that were the only province for exceptional.


Yes, there's plenty to be sad about in this latest little brouhaha about who is and isn't black enough based on how smart they are. I'm sad that the argument still persists.


But I'm sadder that a beloved character in a book that President Abraham Lincoln claimed help start the Civil War, has been turned into a stereotype, his name into a racial epithet.


Uncle Tom deserves better.

After browsing through some other recent posts to The Quad blog, I'd like to make mention of Katie Thomas' feature focussing on the shame of college programs that fail to graduate at least 50% of their athletes:

With the men’s basketball tournament as a backdrop, U.S. Education Secretary Arne Duncan renewed his call for the N.C.A.A. to impose stricter penalties on universities that do not graduate enough of their athletes.


“The vast majority of schools take their responsibility on the academic part of this very seriously,” Duncan said in a telephone interview Tuesday. “However, you have a small set of programs — five to 10 percent of programs, ballpark — who aren’t serious on the academic side. And I just fail to understand why we continue to reward that behavior rather than not tolerate it.”


Duncan, who was a co-captain of his Harvard basketball team, has been a critic of the N.C.A.A.’s academic standards and has joined others in asking the association to ban from postseason play teams that are not on track to graduate at least 50 percent of their players. This year, he endorsed a recommendation by the Knight Commission, a college athletics watchdog group, to change the N.C.A.A.’s revenue distribution system so that it rewards teams for academic success.


A Knight Commission analysis found that 10 of the teams in this year’s men’s tournament — including No. 2 seed San Diego State and No. 3 seeds Purdue and Syracuse — are not on track to graduate half of their players.

Last but not least, my Brother-Unit Grader Boob has finally weighed in on this year's tourney from the selfish point of view of his annual prognostication competition with three longtime friends -- Ric, TC, and TC's wife Karen.

The subject line of his email reads: Step Away From the Bad Essay -- an immediate clue that he is mired in grading... detritus, let us say.

Howdy--

In a brief desperate moment, I'm going to stop grading some very bad Rogerian arguments and say howdy.
Hope all is as well as possible--on the health and the feline fronts.
Got a plagiarism conference call to be involved with later this week, so that should be interesting.
On the NCAA front, I picked several upsets on Thursday and then saw my teams losing by double digits yesterday.
I fear TC or Ric will take the coveted bragging rights. Damn, 4th place again.
Love to all.
Grader (Bored) Boob

The plagiarism reference results from a student who chose to copy -- not an essay or a research paper, not an exam, no... -- she chose to copy a class-specific discussion question answer. Not that I would ever plagiarize, but if I did? I would pick a better battle...

It amazes me that students try to defend themselves when they plagiarize.  It amazes me more that, dependant upon who they are, they are successful in their appeals over Grader Boob's head, trampling over his long, curly tresses as they seek solace from some dean or other.

In other teaching oddities, the aforementioned friend Karen is a prof for a pharmacy program (That'd be an *advanced* program...) and she reports that a student questioned (And continues to question) her far out, wild assertion that the notation .05 is equivalent to "five percent." I have an urgent request to be notified of the institution to which this pharmacist will report for duty.

Well, that's what I've been reading, trying to at least keep college b-ball in mind at all times.

Tomorrow is my second ketamine treatment and I am desperate for relief. If I have the chance, I want to beg for a faster route to the higher dosage that is most associated with success. I think, from reading the commentary of other patients attending the same program, that I will need to go well beyond 100 mg. Many of them are receiving over 200 mg, and all suggest extending the infusion over at least 3 hours to cut back on side effects.  Most of them have "only" limited CRPS, by which I mean involvement of "only" one limb.  From the beginning, I had two extremities affected;  Somewhere around the midpoint of this siege, that number climbed to four, as in *all* -- plus my face. 

I am having one of those desperate days.  The burn is a too heavy burden today.

I also watched a couple of videos ketamine patients have made during their treatments, particularly several out of Hahnemann University Hospital, and lordy, lordy, I hope that's not what I am like after my treatment! Royal goofballs, they are.  No one much mentions the extent of their pain relief, though they manage to mention every other topic under the sun.  They even film themselves having inane phone conversations.  The cult of sickness?

One woman really shocked me.  She had had a port put in, then decided to go out for dinner and drinks (right away, I know we don't share the same pain).  Instead of wearing a top that covers the port insertion point, which is still bruised and sore, being so new, she chooses a low cut, port-revealing and port-enhancing skin-tight leotard.  I'm like, "WTF?" Yes, there is a cachet to her sickness. 

I wish I knew whether it is the ketamine experience that is making me dream such weirdness as I have of late.  Lots of death and, sorry, decomposition.  Smells.  Unhinging smells.  Liquefaction.  Why would I dream such things?

On the feline front, the fuzz ball remains nameless. He has an appointment with the vet on Tuesday and must have a name by then (so I have decreed). Marmy Fluffy Butt continues to attack him at every opportunity, bringing to mind her first weeks with us, when we actually had to carry Sammy from his bedroom hideout to the litter boxes because he was too frightened to run past her imperious self.  He was at least 50% larger than she was, even pregnant, but totally psyched out by her mess-with-me-and-die come-hither look.

Dobby has been a steady ambassador to the the little puff-o'nothing-much, even ignoring the little guy's oversized hisses and growls to go nose-to-nose in friendship. Here he is trying to join in some Turbo Ball play that *somehow* morphs into a game of got-your-tail.  It is neat to witness -- live and in person! -- the will-o'wisp's discoveries.  You can actually see an idea pop into his head (it goes *boing*boing*) and he rarely puts off its execution.

I missed a real photo opportunity, something that was a cross between a "Where's Waldo?" and those old "What's wrong with this picture?"  He climbed a tall bookcase that hosted a bunch of framed photos of some of my neer-do-well relatives, then carefully sat himself in their midst, and... froze.  He held that pose for minutes.  It just made me laugh...

the cheesehead bites again...

how. do. you. stop. a. kitten. from. biting? 

more specifically:  how do you stop a kitten from biting ME?

i did not have a portacath inserted into my body just to then be repeatedly punctured by a wild animal passing himself off as a cute-l'il-puff-o'nothin'.

[don't make me have to feed you to the Marmy, Little Stinky CheeseHead...]

for your reference purposes, this is what has been tried thus far:

no, no, no!

uh-uh!

uh-uh, no, no, no!

&^%%*()##@!!!

je vais t'envoyer directement aux feux de l'enfer!

je vais t'envoyer directement aux feux de l'enfer!  &^%%*()##@!!!

non, non, non!

NEIN!

puffs of air to the face

taps on the nose

redirection to a cat toy

redirection to a cat

redirection into a dark and endless closet

redirection to passing monks or strangers