Exposure


Mockingbird feather

On the latest preening and flexing of wings....

"A good poet is someone who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times."
-- Randall Jarrell


"If you ask me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud."
-- Emile Zola


In many ways I put the above two quotes into practice: through writing, teaching, art, and advocacy. My appearance on local cable Thursday night, to talk about writing and about the Art Center of Citrus County, was another example. I had a blast -- I made new connections and was told I was very informative. Afterwards I received a call from someone who had watched the show and was looking for some writing guidance. I also spoke with someone looking for GLBT information, who had found me because I'm the contact person for our local PFLAG (Parents, Friends, and Family of Lesbians and Gays) chapter.


The studio at WYKE in Lecanto, FL, in mid-setup before "Creative Conversations". Click here for more image detail and on the photo above for more explanation.

But there are still some areas where I haven't taken the time or made the effort to express myself. I'm starting to remedy that. Because the more I express myself in whatever form, the more empowered and confident I become. I love public speaking and I do well in a performance atmosphere. But I can also be painfully shy at times and reserved almost to the point of strained formality. It's a weird combination to live with. The last time I worked at bursting out of my chrysalis I wrote letters of appreciation to composers whose work has helped fuel my writing -- knowing how thrilled I am when I receive positive feedback for my own creations.

I've bought and now keep a paper cutter handy, and have sent a couple of e-mails in response to articles I've read in the St. Petersburg Times.

On the 26th I read Joey Knight's portrait of athlete Tatyana McFadden in his article "Rolling Over Doubts." McFadden, a top-notch Paralympic competitor, had been born with spina bifida. She was adopted from a bleak Russian orphanage. Knight's story is mainly about 17-year-old Tatyana, including her outspokenness in gaining competitive access for disabled athletes. But his article also contains this paragraph:

"Eventually, Deborah adopted Tatyana and brought her to her Clarksville, Md., home, where she lived with partner Bridget O’Shaughnessy. In time, Deborah became 'Mom' and Bridget became 'Momma,' though Deborah is the only legally adoptive mother."

I sent Knight the following e-mail:

"I was impressed not only by your story of Tatyana McFadden's extraordinary courage, athletic excellence, and joie de vivre, but also by your mention of both her mothers. I remember a time not very long ago when such mention would never see mainstream print. Your succinct integration of that information into Tatyana's story presents her two-mother household without fanfare or sensationalism, and without judgment in any direction, but simply as a statement of fact. Like so many others, Tatyana has two loving and supportive parents. Hers both happen to be women.

"In a world (including the state of Florida) where such families are often discouraged, I wanted to thank you for reporting the full story."

(I've already written to my representatives -- both here and back in Massachusetts -- on the issues of adoption rights and marriage equality.)

Friday's newspaper included an article excerpted from Lisa de Moraes' column, "PBS's Lip-Reading Effort," which appeared in Thursday's Washington Post. The St. Pete Times' website doesn't include articles from other papers. Free registration on the Post's site might be required to view the column, though I was able to call up the URL after I had logged out.

The Times article contained the following:

"PBS will file papers next week in support of KCSM, a small public TV station in Northern California that was hit with a $15,000 fine for rerunning before 10 p.m. an episode of the Martin Scorsese documentary The Blues.

"In the episode, jazz musicians and a relative of a record industry executive use two words that the FCC has deemed unspeakable on the air between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m.

"The FCC, in response to a single complaint, slapped the fine on KCSM, which, PBS execs say, broadcasts no children's programming at any time. Which presumably means not too many children watch the station."

The article quotes from PBS chief Paula Kerger, who said, "When you have stations whose operating budgets in some cases are only a couple million dollars, even, frankly, the old fines ... were daunting. The fines now would put stations out of business."

I sent the following e-mail to FCC Chairman Kevin J. Martin and its four Commissioners:

"I was prompted to write to you after reading an article concerning the fine levied on KCSM ("PBS chief: Profanity rules silence broadcaster," originally from the Washington Post and published in the July 28, 2006, St. Petersburg Times).

"I am a member of my local public television and radio stations, WUFT and Nature Coast 90, and have long valued public broadcasting. In my experience PBS and its affiliates provide an education and diverse perspectives invaluable to the American people. They help preserve and thereby strengthen the unique character of this country in a way that nurtures the public trust.

"Commercial television often uses sex and violence as artificial constructs aimed at titillating audiences in order to sell products. In contrast, the candid, real-life events presented on public television educate the public so that we know who we are, where we came from, and how we can use what we've learned to evolve as a people and as a nation. I believe such candor and truthfulness is in our country's best interests. To threaten or lose that voice imperils America's highest aspirations and the qualities we seek to present to the rest of the world.

"I implore you to reconsider your profanity rules with respect to public broadcasting and to work out a solution that keeps that broadcasting viable and supported. Thank you for your time and consideration."

I have changed my desktop background to be both a message and an inspiration to me. Prior it was a picture of a rhinocerous, identical to the printout I have taped above my desk that also contains the quote, "A writer must have the skin of a rhino." It's a good reminder to me as I try to break back into print.

Since I've got that printout hanging in clear view, my desktop background is now a sand painting, to remind me of impermanence and acceptance thereof, and to press ahead anyway. I'm in fine health, so no problems there. But as part of overcoming my own hesitancies I've been remembering a young woman who has probably been dead for years. She had cystic fibrosis. She was a top-notch student and a very aggressive journalist when I worked in a public relations office 20 years ago. The office also served a watchdog function: we had to regulate contact between personnel and the press.

The young woman was irrepressible. She regularly pushed our limits and, frankly, could be a royal pain in the butt. But we all admired her tenacity, her take-no-prisoners attitude, and her zest for life. She spent part of every morning standing on her head to get the phlegm out of her lungs before she went to class. She was not expected to live past 30.

She used her time in this world well. I've been thinking of her as I work to overcome my own self-censorship, my shyness, and my ability to be intimidated. Even when I myself have sometimes been called intimidating.

I've had the Zola quote on my wall for years. I saw the Jarrell quote for the first time yesterday on the Florida State Poets Assn.'s online forum. In addition to its metaphor for creative inspiration, I see in the Jarrell quote a mandate to embrace risk. And, when (not if) that risk results in a serious blow, to recover, persevere, and overcome one's fear of successive blows. Because the blows mean that one is having an impact.

The guidance below is sung, very powerfully, on my recording of Steve Reich's composition The Desert Music. It is taken from William Carlos Williams' poem "Theocritus: Idyl I":

"Begin, my friend,
for you cannot,
you may be sure,
take your song,
which drives all things out of mind,
with you to the other world."


Components: the wing of a male Eastern Pondhawk on faded paint, and a flower found by the "post office pond."


During Lunch in Mid-Walk

"This doesn't feel anything like a nipple" and other observations....

Journal Entry, July 3, 2006

Two boys, approximately 15 years old. The one in the Boston Red Sox World Series Champions 2004 baseball cap and dark blue, Goth-print, Southpole T-shirt sucks on an orange pacifier. The other boy, in plain navy blue baseball cap and robin's egg blue, knee-length jersey imprinted with the number 704 sucks on a deep blue pacifier. He also wears a fake diamond earring, gold chains, and a blue bandanna around his neck.

Both boys sport large, droopy shorts, calf-length. Orange pacifier wears blue sneakers. Blue pacifier wears sturdy work boots.

I had leftovers from my salad: one packet of Greek dressing and three small packages of crackers. Blue pacifier asks if he could have them. Sure, I say -- I was going to return them to the counter anyway.

Blue pacifier sucks, takes the plastic out of his mouth and says to his friend, "This doesn't feel anything like a nipple." His face is pockmarked with acne. I don't envy him.

The boys haven't bought anything but have gotten water cups from the counter at Hungry Howie's. Orange pacifier dips one cracker and then a second in the water before he eats them. Blue pacifier drops his pacifier in the water before putting it back in his mouth.

He goes back to the soda dispenser for ice, drops a cube onto his friend's arm for effect. They agree it's cold. Blue pacifier remarks that mixing the Greek dressing with water was not a good idea.

They make a mess on the table, which blue pacifier cleans up the first time. He also returns one of the cracker packages to me. I offer that they can have it for later, since I'm not keeping it.

Blue asks orange if he wants it. Orange pacifier says no. The crackers stay on my table.

I wait until they're outside, smoking on a bench, before I whip out my notebook and pen. I had nursed my Diet Pepsi, observing, restraining myself from writing in front of them.

I wonder about the pacifiers. Are they a fad, or have these boys innovated their post-toddler application? Does blue pacifier compare his unfavorably to a nipple because he's sucked on any lately? Or does he draw on a pre-verbal memory? Or is he imagining what a nipple would feel like?

At first I was somewhat heartened. One can do worse than suck on a pacifier as a form of adolescent rebellion. It could have been booze instead. It could still be booze, especially since the boys are smokers. The pacifier as supplement, not substitution.

The first cleaning of his table, the returned crackers, seem to me to point in general to a good kid at heart. Through the window, blue pacifier sucks thoughtfully after making a call on his cell phone.

Postscript

A member of my writing group had commented she thought the pacifiers had something to do with drugs, so I did a little Web research. I found the following on Parents. The Anti-Drug:
High energy, all-night dance parties and clubs known as "raves," which feature dance music with a fast, pounding beat and choreographed laser programs, have become increasingly popular over the last decade, particularly among teenagers and young adults. Beginning as an underground movement in Europe, raves have evolved into a highly organized, commercialized, worldwide party culture. Rave parties and clubs are now found throughout the United States and in countries around the world. Raves are held either in permanent dance clubs or at temporary venues set up for a single weekend event in abandoned warehouses, open fields, or empty buildings....

Moreover, many club owners and promoters appear to promote the use of drugs-especially MDMA. They provide bottled water and sports drinks to manage hyperthermia and dehydration; pacifiers to prevent involuntary teeth clenching; and menthol nasal inhalers, chemical lights, and neon glow sticks to enhance the effects of MDMA. In addition, rave promoters often print flyers featuring prominent and repeated use of the letters "E" and "X" (E and X are MDMA street names) or the word "rollin" (refers to an MDMA high), surreptitiously promoting MDMA use along with the rave.
Unrelated Post-Postscript

I've been spending the past few days preparing submissions -- including (a) my first photo submissions and (b) a large book proposal for the trilogy. Tomorrow I'll mail everything out, whereupon (once again) the little girl inside me will start rocking back and forth, going Please please please please please in a very whiny voice.

My inverter has arrived, though the studio is not yet ready for 'puter surgery (see paragraph above). For now, I can still convince my old computer's backlight to come on by keeping it shaken, not stirred.


Up and Running


Large view (then click the magnifying glass for this and other enlargements).

A water bottle, a breadloaf-sized mushroom, and thou....

Mary and I spotted this magnificent specimen at around 8:30 on our Friday night walk. We joked that it was really a soft sculpture placed in our neighbor's yard to trick us. I didn't measure it (that would have meant trespassing), but I estimate the cap is at least 8 inches in diameter.

My new (2003, reconditioned) computer arrived on Thursday. I spent Friday setting it up and pretty much went through the night, between security downloads and preliminary studio cleaning, in preparation for hardware surgery on my old workhorse.

Years ago I had performed minor surgery on an even older workhorse, replacing components until I had maxed it out before its modem died. (Mary, who worked years ago as a computer tech, was my guide in this.) That computer had been a Windows 95 system with no USB port, so I couldn't replace the modem with newer fare. Besides, "max" for that model meant 24 megs of RAM and 6 gigs of disk space.

This fix will be more ambitious, since I will have to remove (in this order!) (1) the battery pack, (2) the backup battery, (3) the hard disk drive, (4) the Ultrabay 2000 device, (5) the keyboard, (6) the keyboard CRU insulator, (7) the hinge cover, (8) the keyboard bezel, (9) the fan assembly, (10), the LCD assembly, (11) the front bezel -- and, finally, (12) the inverter card, whose connection I will check first to see if it needs to be tightened. It might simply be loose, given that I've been able to turn my backlight on by giving my computer a few good, hard shakes.

At least, I've been able to do that this week.

If the connection seems fine, I'll replace the old inverter with the new one, currently en route. Then I'll pray very, very hard that I can put everything back together the way I found it.

Before I try anything I will finish cleaning my studio and make sure I have enough room to work with, setting aside the proper cups to hold the proper screws, and keeping my door closed in case the cats want to try anything improper. So far I've reduced my level of chaos to the point where I can see the floor, and where I have a minimum of avalanches waiting to happen.

The replacement inverter will come with a 90-day warranty, but for a $20 part I'm not in any particular hurry. If I perform the surgery within that time frame, great. If I don't, I'd rather be slow and careful than rushed and careless. I'm sure the fix will require a full day's tinkering.

I need to retool the studio as is. I've Got Plans.

When my mother used this as her workroom (it was left as-is in the 20 years between her death and my father's), the room sported two single beds. One had been the bed I'd slept on as a kid; the other had been my grandmother's. They were comfortable, but you don't leave an already-old mattress in Florida for 20+ years without a fair number of wee beasties nibbling its innards away. Comfortable? Yes, actually. Pretty? Puleeze. I got rid of the crappier-looking one, donating the mattress and box spring to the dumpster and the frame to a thrift shop whose sales benefit a camp for troubled youth.

I kept the other bed, thinking that when my Muse went wild I could just plop down a couple of steps away from my desk for a quick nap in-between writing marathons. Or, at the very least, recline with a good book.

No on both counts.

For one thing, when I'm on a roll I don't sleep until I crash in the bedroom. Second, I'm comfortable reading while reclined on a couch. Holding a good reading pose in bed is a challenge regardless of my pillow configuration. A comfy chair would be far preferable.

Third, my studio bed is completely buried in all the stuff that's been crowded out of other parts of the studio.

The bed has to go and file drawers put in its place. Getting this room ready for 'puter surgery is the perfect impetus for a major makeover. And if you think my studio is cluttered, you should see the rest of the house. On second thought....

Though, as Mary is quick to point out, anyone who feels the least bit self-conscious about how their place looks would feel much better seeing the shape of our Clutter Queendom. Which is now minus one onion.


Large view

Mary had discovered a sprouted onion at the bottom of a bag. The rest of it looked ruined. On removing its skin, she found that several layers had oxydized to the point of translucence, equivalent to being cooked, and she could eat them uncooked with no problem. I've posed the onion with an unpeeled companion from the same bag.

Meanwhile, amphibians have been hanging out at the post office.



This green treefrog (Hyla cinerea) was clinging to the wall in back of the PO on Wednesday night.


Large view

On Friday night Mary and I herded this oak toad (Bufo cuercicus) away from the asphalt in the PO parking lot at around 10:30 PM. Here it's hunkered down against the curb.

Weed-whacking is next on tap.

Buck Moon and Company



Photographed at 1:47:38 AM (EDT), about 2 hours 45 minutes past full. I used a 1/125-second exposure at f/8.

According to the Fiddlin' Owls Square Dance Club, "July is normally the month when the new antlers of buck deer push out of their foreheads in coatings of velvety fur. It was also often called the Full Thunder Moon, for the reason that thunderstorms are most frequent during this time. Another name for this month's Moon was the Full Hay Moon."

More captures of Selene, and sand, and slug....

Mary and I were about to begin our walk Sunday night when I spotted this yellow moon rising, less than 27 hours before Full.



Photographed at 8:43:05 PM (EDT), 2"5-second exposure at f/8.



Photographed at 8:44:49 PM (EDT), 1"6-second exposure at f/8.

We'd had torrential rains here on Friday night. Mary noticed this pattern of sand left after water gushed through the culvert that drains into our yard.



I took a small detail from it and played around in MS Photo Editor and MS Paint.



The three frame components are all color-sampled from the original photo.

Mary had also spotted what I believe is Leidyula floridana, the Florida Leatherleaf, one of three slug species native to this state (in addition to 11 species of slugs introduced from elsewhere). Slugs are in the Family Veronicellidae, Class Gastropoda.



It was hanging out on our walkway by the hedge, munching on pusley.

Today pusley is treated as a weed, but it was once considered nutritious fare and a cousin to spinach, according to our Oxford English Dictionary. We keep it around as ground cover because it helps keep our sandy soil in place. And its leaves and flowers are rather tasty. After sampling the plant ourselves we've left it to nourish bees and other pollinators who visit our yard. And Sluggo here. More slimy detail is in the large view (click the magnifying glass).

"Slugs have an important place in the ecosystem of the world," writes 15-year-old Shep, a winner in the American Museum of Natural History Young Naturalist Awards. His article, "The Slimy, Yet Special Slug," continues, "Most slugs are herbivores, eating fungi, lichens, green plants, shoots, roots, leaves, fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Slugs are also known for being scavengers; eating decaying vegetation, animal feces, and carrion....Slugs are also important to humans in lesser known ways. Currently the slug is being studied at the University of Washington. The biochemical properties and cellular mechanisms of the slug's mucus are under investigation. Researchers at the University believe that learning more about slug mucus could help in treating or curing human deficiencies involving mucus." Cystic fibrosis, for example.

"Slugs are hermaphroditic," adds the University of Florida, "but often the sperm and ova in the gonads mature at different times (leading to male and female phases). Slugs commonly cross fertilize and may have elaborate courtship dances."

And then some. Brooke L.W. Miller, a doctoral student at the University of California, Santa Cruz, is writing her thesis (with photos and videos) on the torrid sexual practices of the banana slug. Let me put it this way: it gives the phrase "Eat me!" a whole new meaning. I have yet to view the videos -- probably too slow for my dial-up and too XXX -- even though they're slugs -- for me to watch at the library.

I now have an inverter on order -- which will be part of the most ambitious computer repair job I've tackled to date. I've opened up the predecessor of this computer and maxed it out with upgrades, removing old components and installing new ones. Before I try any upcoming repairs I will spend however long is needed to clean up my studio, which is suffering badly from piles.

Along with the inverter I have ordered a handful of trackpoint covers. (Note to self: Remove the trackpoint cover before holding the computer upside-down and using a regular canister vacuum to clean the keyboard.) Unlike most laptops, which have touchpads, Lenovo (nee IBM) Thinkpads have a little fingertip-controllable trackpoint nestled among the G, H, and B keys. I far prefer trackpoints over touchpads. But the red, round trackpoint covers (think of a nose worn by a very little clown) are about the size of a kitty kibble. Fortunately, when mine came off it bounced away and hid in the carpet near the kitchen, though Mary hadn't found it until after I'd ransacked the vacuum bag in a cloud of dismembered dust bunnies.


It's Good Not To Be Alone

This morning I awoke with the thought, "I wonder what would happen if I Googled 'Thinkpad' and 'backlight'?" -- and soon learned that my problem is not at all uncommon. Who knew? Right now I'm thinking my problem is with the inverter, especially after reading this very enlightening post. Chances are that, if nothing else, attaching an external monitor (once I pick up the correct cable) will let me see what's happening.

I have downloaded the hardware manuals for both my current computer and the new one on order, and have printed the relevant pages (out of 180+) of the current computer manual, along with instructions for external monitor attachment.

Even if I can repair this machine, I'm glad I'm getting a backup, considering how computer-dependent my business is. Things got a little dicey yesterday when, after several non-problematic hours and as I was working on a spreadsheet, my screen started to flicker out. But it came back on (whew!). Since disconnecting my external hard drive requires certain steps so as not to corrupt the disk, I now have a piece of tape on which I've drawn an arrow, so that I know where to click on a darkened screen. And I wrote down the necessary keystrokes to allow me to disconnect the external drive blind.

I'd already backed up data files, but I hustled to back up program files and favorites, even though I knew most of the program files probably wouldn't be configured for the computer on order. Still, some of the smaller programs should transfer.

At least now I know I'm not alone.

[end of entry]

My Life as a Pigeon



Today the backlight for my computer screen took almost 4 hours to come on. Yesterday I placed an order for a new (well, reconditioned-new) computer -- especially since an out-of-warranty repair on this one would cost almost as much. My screen itself still works fine, as is evidenced by the log-in box that barely shows through a dark haze. I am working happily with it now, and all is right with the world -- until the screen goes dark.

I believe I now know what B.F. Skinner's "superstitious pigeons" felt like....

In Skinner's classic "operant conditioning" experiments, an animal (generally a rat or pigeon) had to learn to perform an action in order to get food. Until that action was performed, no food was forthcoming. As an undergraduate psychology student I'd had the opportunity to condition a rat to press a bar for his dinner.

In his 1947 article, "'Superstition' in the Pigeon", Skinner described how his subjects engaged repeatedly in bizarre behaviors because the birds happened to be performing them when food arrived.

"If a clock is now arranged to present the food hopper at regular intervals with no reference whatsoever to the bird's behavior," he wrote, "operant conditioning usually takes place....One bird was conditioned to turn counter-clockwise about the cage, making two or three turns between reinforcements. Another repeatedly thrust its head into one of the upper corners of the cage. A third developed a 'tossing' response, as if placing its head beneath an invisible bar and lifting it repeatedly. Two birds developed a pendulum motion of the head and body, in which the head was extended forward and swung from right to left with a sharp movement followed by a somewhat slower return. The body generally followed the movement and a few steps might be taken when it was extensive. Another bird was conditioned to make incomplete pecking or brushing movements directed toward but not touching the floor...."

These days, I am the pigeon. My computer is my cage, and the backlight for my screen is a Noyes pellet. To get my backlight to come on, I have tried (a) cooling the computer with fans, (b) tweaking the screen back and forth, (c) toggling the light controls available to me, (d) holding down the Function key for at least 10 seconds (as recommended by tech support), (e) toggling the external monitor control (ditto), (f) running PC-Doctor (ditto), (g) changing my screen saver defaults, (h) shaking the computer (and hearing pretty chiming sounds), and, most recently, (i) slapping the keys.

The backlight has come on -- at least once -- while I've done (a), (b), (g), (h), and/or (i). But, like the stock market, previous behavior is not an indicator of future performance. Sure enough, no sooner had I experienced the thrill of a technique that "worked" than it stopped working.

Did that stop me from trying the behavior again? Nope.

Because sometimes, after a long time of not working, the behavior "worked" again. Slapping the keys is the newest technique in my aberrant operant behavior. If there were such a thing as Computer Protective Services, I'd be in jail by now.

As soon as I can get the correct cable, I'll try hooking my computer up to an external monitor and see if I can solve the problem that way. Meanwhile, I look forward to the arrival of my new workhorse and am keeping my fingers crossed that it proves to be a friendly steed.

Postscript: A Note on Experimental Objectivity

I took Experimental Psychology my junior year of college: probably the most labor-intensive college or grad school course I’d ever survived. We did all our experiments the old-fashioned way, with actual subjects and classic equipment. If our subjects took forever to memorize a list of numbers, then so be it, so long as we had our lab reports -- done in the APA style and meticulously referenced -- in to our professor on time. And Dr. K was definitely of the Old School. Trained initially in mathematics, he demanded precision.

The experimenter was objective. He (they were all “he” in those days, even those of us who were women) was an observer, revealed nothing to the subject, paid attention, and translated all that transpired into recorded tic marks and numerals. We replicated the same experiments that generations of psych students had replicated, far removed from the days when they were new and revolutionary research.

Our first experiment recreated B.F. Skinner’s demonstration of operant conditioning. A rat in a “Skinner Box” learned to push a metal bar to receive a nourishing Noyes pellet. I detested Skinner when I was a student -- never, I thought, had I encountered someone so unfeeling, so unaware of the inner workings of human emotion. Decades later I would read his 3-volume autobiography and learn about the man who carved the initials of his beloved into his arm when his love went unrequited. Who wrote his memoirs with a depth of emotion and a sense of humor and wonder that no textbook dared touch. Noyes pellets had been his invention, designed not to just feed rats but to keep them healthy. I might still have areas of disagreement with him, but I was also left with a new respect for him after reading about his life.

Classmate AC and I teamed up, one to call out when a bar was pushed, one to record tic marks. Our subject was a small, warm, white-furred body whom we handled gently with thick gloves. AC immediately named him Baby.

We placed Baby -- er, the Subject -- in his Skinner box. As required for the experiment, the poor thing had been starved for a day; we already felt sorry for him. The experimental lab was in the attic of a large, old building. The lab cubicles were made of plywood painted sky blue.

Baby wandered around his small cage. Raised himself up on his hind legs. Sniffed here, there. Tried to find an opening in the bars. This was torture.

“Press the bar,” AC whispered urgently.

More aimless meandering in a closed space, a hungry tummy sniffing for food. We waited. Waited some more. Tried to be professional about it. Failed miserably.

At some point, seemingly by accident, Baby pressed the bar. A pellet fell out through a shoot. Baby inhaled it. AC and I did everything but whoop. “He did it! Yes!

We cajoled. We begged. We were hungry, too. The cafeteria wouldn’t serve dinner for too much longer, and we were about to miss ours. “Come on, Baby, you can do it. Press the bar again. Over there -- no, over there. Press the bar....”

And later: “No, you idiot! Not there, there! It’s the bar, stupid -- oh, come on, come on....” A pellet here, a pellet there. We’d spent at least two hours in the lab; I forget how much longer we were there. Eventually something clicked, just as all the replicated experiments and replicated textbooks said it would. Baby put two and two together. He was at the metal bar going pushpushpushpushpush and snatching up the pellets going clinkclinkclinkclinkclink, and AC and I were jumping up and down and screaming GO BABY GO!!!

Dutifully, Experimenter A called out the frequency of metal bar depressions. Experimenter B inscribed the appropriate markings on the lab sheet. The Subject pigged out (er, exhibited the correct operant behavior).

Years later I told the story to my friend L, now retired, whom I then called Dr. B. L had been my advisor, boss, and professor for most of my psych courses. When I visited him in the early 90s, almost 15 years after I'd graduated, the college had done away with the lab and set up its experiments as computer simulations. The attic had been destroyed completely. Pigeons roosted in what was once the observation room, the old furniture of my undergraduate days covered in guano. I related, a little embarrassed, how quite un-objective AC and I had been.

L bristled. “Well of course! They’re not going to get that lesson with the simulations!

Lesson?

Nobody told me that part of the lesson was that complete objectivity is a myth. That perfection is a Holy Grail. That humans are just that, and that humanity itself can be a confounding factor in scientific research. Dr. K had never breathed such a thing. Nobody told me that someone whose theories sounded to me so cold and authoritarian could show such warmth and vulnerability in his autobiography. It had taken more than a decade since my Experimental Psych days for me to recognize its hidden, "unscientific" agenda.


Technical Difficulties

My computer screen, which has been persnickety from day one (and which has stumped tech support, even after they replaced the monitor), has been getting grouchier. I chalk it up to Florida humidity and have tried just about everything I can think of to make my screen happier. My computer is a reconditioned one that I bought 3 years ago (everything else about it is great), so maybe it's time for me to get a backup. Summers have been more problematic than our dry winters, and the screen's become more curmudgeonly over time in general. After Hurricane Frances and four days without power two years ago, it was downright ornery, taking about half a day to spring back to life.

I'm caught up on work for the moment and have printed out specs of a couple models -- so putting in an order now would be, well, prudent.

Once the internal screen light comes on, it's fine. Sometimes it comes on immediately, though that's getting more and more rare. Sometimes it comes on after a few minutes. Sometimes -- like lately -- it can literally take hours. Something doesn't catch. I can barely see my log-in screen, which appears as though through a dark haze. Light controls on the keyboard don't do anything. Tweaking the monitor doesn't do anything, or clearing space around the machine, or talking nicely to it, etc. etc. Fortunately, I have an external hard drive and have been backing up all my files, so data transfer shouldn't be a problem once I find the heir to this trusty workhorse.

After perusing online tech support I've got a couple more options to try. In the meantime I have much reading catch-up to do here, which I hope to accomplish at the library if all else fails. Please bear with me and with Ol' Sleepyhead.

Thanks.

[end of entry]

Fireworks, Natural and Otherwise



These clouds date from our "post office walk" on June 29. Four days later I walked through nature's fireworks, near the close of a hike that came to somewhere between six and seven miles. I was on my final leg, the two miles between the library and home, when a few warning drops swelled to a deluge. It was over in about ten minutes, but during that time I was seeing lightning and hearing thunder almost simultaneously -- mentally preparing myself to drop to the ground and cover my ears if I felt any tingling in the air.

Mary, who had been out doing her own errands, told me when I got home of the National Weather Service advisory for our area, which reported frequent lightning strikes. I probably should have said yes to one of the two people who offered me lifts. But by then the lightning was moving off, and the rain felt good -- and, for better or worse, my sense of adventure was high....

Near the beginning of my walk I'd greeted a trio of ibises sailing overhead, but the ponds belonged to the cattle egrets. I was passing the water earlier than usual, so wondered if the egrets and ibises had a natural timeshare arrangement for the space. It still didn't explain why, last Thursday, an egret was moseying through our local Winn-Dixie parking lot.



Bubulcus ibis, Family Ardeidae (Herons and Egrets). This female is in full breeding coloration: buff feathers on her head and back, and yellow legs. Were she not breeding, she would lack the buff coloration and her legs would be black.

I'd been pulling into the Winn-Dixie parking lot around 6 PM, to get groceries at the same supermarket shown at night in "The Home of Frog Chorus No. 2". The egret explored one foliage island and the next, until she took off for the bank.

Cattle Egret at the Winn-Dixie Mall (0:38)


Neither had I seen an ibis (Eudocimus albus, Family Threskiornithidae) sitting in a treetop before. I have no idea what the object is to the left.



Yesterday the egrets at the post office pond had congregated relatively close to the road, so I didn't stay. On prior days, when exploring the water's edge, I'd spotted a female Eastern Pondhawk. A member of that species visited our yard last year, but this was the first time I'd seen one at the pond.



Erythemis simplicicollis, Family Libellulidae (Common Skimmers). Also called a Green Jacket. According to Bugguide.Net, these range throughout eastern North America and the Great Plains (excluding the northernmost part), south to Texas, with spotty distribution in Arizona and New Mexico. "Among the first and last dragonflies of the season in a given area." The Dragonfly Society of the Americas places this as a subspecies of the Common Pondhawk, which includes the Eastern Pondhawk (E. simplicicollis simplicicollis) and the Western Pondhawk (E. simplicicollis collocata).

I've also posted a top view.

Mary's latest at-home innovation has been a special viewing tunnel for the cats. During the day we often have our thermal curtains closed, both to keep out the heat and to afford privacy. At the same time we don't want to deprive the cats of a good show. By using a large binder clip to attach the curtain to the sheet we've draped over the couch, Mary has created a cat tunnel. Below, Daisy tries out the concept.



Our evening walks have afforded a variety of treats.



Pawpaw Sphinx. Dolba hyloeus, Family Sphingidae (Sphinx or Hawk Moths).
The Rustic Sphinx has similar markings but is considerably larger than this individual, whose wingspan measures about 4.5 cm.

According to Bugguide, the Pawpaw ranges throughout Eastern North America and is more common in the south. Its season is June-September. Along with hollies, blueberries, and sweetfern, the pawpaw is one of the plants on which the larvae of this moth feed.

I saw this one shortly after 11 PM on the wall of our local strip mall. More of its furry self is shown in the large view (click the magnifying glass). I've also uploaded a crosseye stereogram.

Sitting on a window around the corner from the Pawpaw Sphinx was a moth I'm still trying to ID, though I believe it's some kind of Geometrid.



Will update when I have more info. More detail is in the large view.

On Saturday night we visited the post office pond to hear the frogs and got more than we bargained for. Half a block away, our neighbors set off fireworks, a little early for the Fourth of July while they had guests in town. Mary and I stood at the pond, backdropped by green treefrogs, barking treefrogs, and squirrel treefrogs (and likely others) in full chorus at a bit after 10 PM. Luckily, I had my tripod with me.

Fireworks and Frog Songs.


We subsequently went over and introduced ourselves, and had the extra thrill of standing underneath bursts that occurred perhaps 100 feet up: the closest either of us has ever been to fireworks. On Sunday night I brought over a CD with several movie files I'd taken of the lights and we exchanged contact info. A neat way to get to know more of our neighbors.

We've spent a fairly quiet day. I'm on the third of three jobs and will soon make a brief jaunt to the market, which is holding regular hours. Happy Fourth to those who celebrate it, and Happy Tuesday in any case.