tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006/320 2007-12-11T03:17:40Z weblog Movable Type Enterprise 1.02 tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5928 2007-12-11T02:58:19Z 2007-12-11T03:17:40Z

To a great and thoughtful group of minds, thanks. This was the best course ever....

Rebecca Pesantez To a great and thoughtful group of minds, thanks. This was the best course ever. It is refreshing to see a class that actually makes wonderful use of theory, which I believe is extremely lacking even at the master's level here. Sad, yes, I know. And it's not so often that we can have our own blogs to speak our minds on (on pertinent issues, of course) in addition to class discussions. Actually, this is the first and only class that I've done this, on any level. It enables us to get our ideas in writing in an unorthodox way (in comparison to other classes) and to come into class already prepared to sound off on what we've read without feeling like we've just wrote another boring response paper. Thanks to Professor Tougaw for that! I'm keeping the blog up, and changing the name, so it's not so mundane and insignificant (who am I, after all?). In addition, I won't become so "searchable" either. Very important in the work sphere. For me, anyway. I plan to stretch out the story I'm writing ("Lullaby") beyond 10,000 words. Hopefully, I can make it into a novella or even a novel of sorts. But I wouldn't be opposed to keeping it short either. I like the challenge of maintaining brevity with the issues that I confront in it. So to all of you, much luck in what you do! Have a great holiday! Hope to see you around. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5650 2007-11-29T18:29:44Z 2007-12-06T20:15:05Z

What this story should be like and what research is likely to be referred to for it....

Rebecca Pesantez What this story should be like and what research is likely to be referred to for it. HIV InSite. June 1998. (Author: Richard W. Price, MD, University of California San Francisco.) . "Dementia Due to HIV Infection." EMedicineHealth. October 2005. . Parsons, J.T., Halkitis, P.N., Borkowski, T., & Bimbi, D. (2000). Perceptions of the benefits and costs associated with condom use and unprotected sex among late adolescent college students. Journal of Adolescence, 23, 377-391. Prochaska, J.O., Velicer, W.F., Rossi, J.S., Goldstein, M.G., Marcus, B.H., Rakowski, W., Fiore, C., Harlow, L.L., Redding, C.A., Rosenbloom, D., & Rossi, S.R. (1994) Stages of Change and Decisional Balance for 12 Problem Behaviors. Health Psychology, 13, 39-46. Petry, N. M., Bickel, W. K., & Arnett, M. (1998). Shortened time horizons and insensitivity to future consequences in heroin addicts. Addiction, 93(5), 729–738 Odum, A.L., Madden, G.J., Badger. G.J., & Bickel, W.K. (2000). Needle sharing in opioid-dependent outpatients: psychological processes underlying risk. Drug and Alcohol Dependence, 60, 259-266. Kalichman, S.C., Heckman, T., & Kelly, J.A. (1996). Sensation seeking as an explanation for the association between substance use and HIV-related risky sexual behavior. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 25, 141-154. Martin, E.M., Pitrak, D.L., Rains, N.A., Grbesic, S., Pursell, K., Nunnally, G., & Bechara, A. (2003). Delayed nonmatch-to-sample performance in HIV-seropositive and HIV-seronegative polydrug abusers. Neuropsychology, 17, 283–288. Farinpour, R., Martin, E.M., Seidenberg, M., Pitrak, D.L., Pursell, K.J., Mullane, K.M., Novak, R.M., & Harrow, M. (2000). Verbal working memory in HIV-seropositive drug users. Journal of the International Neuropsychological Society, 6, 548–555. Grant, S., Contoreggi, C., & London, E. D. (1997). Drug abusers show impaired performance on a test of orbitofrontal function. Society for Neuroscience Abstracts, 23, 1943. Grant, S., Contoreggi, C., & London, E. D. (2000). Drug abusers show impaired performance in a laboratory test of decision-making. Neuropsychologia, 38(8), 1180–1187. Bechara, A., & Damasio, H. (2002). Decision-Making And Addiction (Part I): Impaired Activation of Somatic States in Substance Dependent Individuals when Pondering Decisions with Negative Future Consequences. Neuropsychologia, 40(10), 1675–1689. Bechara, A., Dolan, S., & Hindes, A. (2002). Decision-Making and Addiction (Part II): Myopia For The Future Or Hypersensitivity To Reward? Neuropsychologia, 40(10), 1690–1705. I'm wondering, on a perspective note: Should the third person narrator come in at the beginning? Or does this structure seems OK? Also: Would a third person omniscient narrator be too much? Should that narrator be limited? And, finally: Should Margaret talk about coming face to face with this disease in the beginning (when she's speaking)? I made her evasive about the subject (because there is so much of her perspective already) and was going to let Stephen talk about it in his part. UPDATE: Thanks for your input, Jessica. I too think that Margaret (and also the audience) shouldn't know about the disease until the end. So that will be the way it is. Again, this story will definitely be filled with associative memory (flashbacks). Just in case I haven't mentioned this before: The sequence of present events in the story itself will take place in one day (when Margaret finds out she has AIDS).]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5371 2007-11-14T22:34:07Z 2007-11-26T03:01:01Z

The wonders of the imagination during transitional periods of consciousness....

Rebecca Pesantez The wonders of the imagination during transitional periods of consciousness. Was it a vision, or a waking dream?/Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep? Through such melodious verses as these, Keats brings to light (and dramatizes) questions about the blur between what is "real" (what one senses as events that happen in the awake state) and what is part of the dream-world that we all know. In the verses above, he questions the observations he has just made about the curious "light-winged Dryad," the happy, singing nightingale that he is so fond of. It is mainly because of the beauty of its song, as well as the pastoral, mythical beauty it makes him think of, that makes him wonder about the experience so much. In addition, his hallucinatory state of mind, which he reflects upon, also makes him question the validity of his experience. The questions and experience that Keats presents "Ode to a Nightingale" are questions that have been asked and situations that have been experienced for centuries. Is our world always what it seems: awake and alive with experience? Or is what we perceive as reality--our waking consciousness--really just part of our dreams--part of that altered state of consciousness known as sleep? Interestingly enough, Keats compares the stage of transition of falling asleep to being on a substance, even to being poisoned: My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,/Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains/One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk...(l.1-4). In the third line, one can see that he is comparing his foggy, forgetful state of mind (and consciousness) to being on opiates, drugs that are known to induce sleep and even produce hallucinations. However, the second line gives a darker comparison: he feels as if he has drunk hemlock, a poisonous plant substance that is known to have killed Socrates in the ancient world. The awake-sleep transition, to Keats, felt like dying--crossing the line between life and death. In connection to this idea, one must note that Keats mentions "Lethe" right after this particular comparison. "Lethe" refers to the river of forgetfulness (among the five rivers of Hades--the underworld) and as a river around the Cave of Sleep that induces drowsiness in Roman mythology. Clearly, there is not only one correct way to define "Lethe" as used in this poem. However, if the first definition is brought under consideration, the closeness between death and the state of altered consciousness (especially in terms of memory) is being highlighted to a great extent with these verses. The use of such mythological reference, in addition to the reference to hemlock (and even the opiates, since another thing that they induce is death, if taken in large enough quantities) shows that Keats indeed relates falling asleep and dying from the beginning, using this to frame his entire poem and to introduce such ideas about consciousness. The second also fits into the theme of drug-induced states of consciousness, but not necessarily the relationship between death and such states (although it may: during ancient times, as with the present day, sleep and death were closely related). So why is this connection being made in the context of this poem? Keats hints at an answer: he mentions in the third stanza how the persona experiences sadness through experiencing sickness and watching others die and age throughout his present and past life. The only final escape there is is through death, which he mentions as being "half in love" with (because he would not be able to experience the nightingale's song again). However, through the song of the nightingale, the man finds relief. It is a song that takes him into a mythical dreamworld that seems to exist in his own mind: a temporary "death" that brings him away from the plights of the temporal world into a place of eternal beauty.]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5370 2007-11-14T22:33:16Z 2007-11-29T19:39:47Z

Looking back and picking up the pieces, if you will....

Rebecca Pesantez Looking back and picking up the pieces, if you will. Right now, I am starting to piece together my story. I still plan to tell the story from three different perspectives: Margaret's, her husband's, and a removed third party. This is so that the story is as clear as possible to the reader (especially with the third party perspective). I think I have a good footing on what I have, aside from the questions presented in my project plans. I have a third of my second draft ready (I did the hardest part first, Margaret's point of view, and plan to add some more subtle details to truly show her degression--memory lapses, difficulty in concentration and in multi-tasking, depression, and sadness (personality change)), and I have to still present the husband's and the third party's perspective, both of which are not afflicted by dementia. I have cut down on some of the ideas that I have, like some of you suggested, which takes a bit of the burden off. I'm not going to focus on race and race relations so much as the personal struggles Margaret and her family deals with in conjunction with her rape and prior drug use. Feel free to comment on what I have presented so far, in either this reflection or in my plans. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5369 2007-11-14T22:32:35Z 2007-12-10T03:30:36Z

Here's a working, very unpolished draft. I plan to add quite a bit more to this. Enjoy. Feel free to comment on whatever you see....

Rebecca Pesantez Here's a working, very unpolished draft. I plan to add quite a bit more to this. Enjoy. Feel free to comment on whatever you see. Margaret: It's December 21st and I don't know where to start. There's something falling outside, something that resembles snow, but not exactly. It's bluish silver, sort of like those little iodine droplets that my grandmother used to dot on her chest. Grandma always took good care of herself that way, bandaging her wounds, binding her wrists when they were in pain. She made sure that she was well for everyone else around her. Wish I could say the same for me. Where do I start? First time I fucked was 15, when my ass started to balloon like an infected mosquito bite. He was quite cute, I was quite high, and our relationship was quite over as soon as the sex ended, which was what? 15 minutes later? Not even that. It all went downward from there. The sex, the drugs. They all just kept flying my way. Especially the drugs. First it was weed. Then it was coke. Coke. Sounds like my favorite drink. Hell, sometimes I miss the sensation, like a backwards slide into marshmallow field. Sort of like the one I used to play around in when I was a kid. But, then, I remember rehab--the sour hallways, the addicts going through withdrawal that just couldn't resist pinching my ass once the orderlies' backs were turned. Then I choose to forget it all. Kind of, anyway. Then, there's also the baby. My baby. My beautiful boy. He is my everything, with my husband, Stephen, following closely behind. Did I say how my husband saved me? Well, he did. It was a few months after I was released from the clinic. Of course, I bumped into old friends. Really close friends, if you know what I mean. We had one hell of a night, at least from what I can remember. There were blunts, condoms, all types of crazy shit everywhere. That's all I remember of it. Until I found myself in a dark place. Literally. I mean, I was messed up. Dragged out, flat out fucked up. I looked at my hands. They were shining with blood. My blood. I wasn't sure how I knew it was mine, but I felt it was. I think it was because of the pain that I felt. I tried to get up, to walk away, but there was just so much pain nagging at me. So much blackness. The blood was just coming out like a nightmare in heat. The moment became static at that point. And there was nothing but black. Again. The next thing I felt were branches. Large, thick, strong branches. My dead weight pressed against them, but they didn't budge. My eyes then opened. They saw night. The world was moving in circles, up and around my aching bloody heap of a body. I closed, opened, closed them again. My eyes slowly focused. I realized that I was lying on a hospital cot. Strapped in like a madman about to break free. Lights flashed: red, white, blue, pink. It's funny. I felt like I was on Broadway. And this was my encore performance. I heard the crowd screaming for me to act, act, act! For Chrissakes! They were only sirens, after all. When I got to the hospital, I felt numbed, somewhat relieved, somewhat pissed at the fact that I was fucked three ways, sideways from, to tomorrow--however that damned saying went, whatever. But mostly, I was sad. Sad because, well, this, this shitfest was all about me. This was my life. See, Grandma? You don't have to be an actress to play the dirty slut. But then, I looked up into the hallway and I swear I felt like a virgin again. I don't know what it was: his eyes, his face in general. Or was it that way he looked at me? At first, I thought he was one of the doctors, maybe even one of the nurses even. That look though. That wasn't the face of a doctor. Or a nurse, for that matter. No way. He was a saint. He was a gentle presence blazing against that morbid reality. They told me, the nurses, that is, that he was the one who had found me, who alerted the authorities about me. Of course, I didn't tell a soul. I know those girls would be fired if the doctors found out that I knew. Fuck it. I'll always remember his face. That makes it some type of shit that he found me again before I did. ************************************************************************************************************** Stephen: December brings a special type of happiness for me. I don't know what it is about it. Maybe it's because it's winter, and in winter there's snow. And snow always reminds me of the way my mother put confectioner's sugar on that wonderful holiday bread of hers, that panettone. I guess I've always been kind of the cheesy type. I mean I always loved the idea of a "white Christmas." Too much bread, I guess. But then, I think of the 21st. Today. And then that familiar warmth leaves me. It was tonight, years ago, that night when it happened. When I first saw her. I remember that I was running along that block on 112 Street and Park Avenue, around where the Metro runs now, getting to that damn 6 before it left. I was there to see my mother, a beautiful remnant of the Italian Harlem that once stood there. As much of that Sicilian food I loved so much that I could eat, I knew I had to get back before the hustlers that polluted that neighborhood started to make their rounds. I was so hurried that I stumbled across almost everything in my path. Bottles, shoes, needles. I did my best to carefully, meticulously step over them. Especially the needles. No need to get pricked by those fucking disgusting things. And yet the most fatal threat there was lying almost dead against the project fence on that block I was rushing to get past. I remember her face, the sore purple lips amongst her beautiful muddled skin. She lay there, naked, covered in her own blood, tear-stained. My eyes watered, I felt unsettled, ready to regurgitate whatever homemade goodness was in my stomach. Yet, among my pity and fear was something deeper. In her pained state, she was so serene. Beautiful. And then, without thinking, I ran into the goddamn project, knocked on the first door I saw, and called 911. I wanted to be the one to save her. At least that. It's ironic that the first time I fell in love with her was when she was so close to death. So helpless to what had happened to her. I just hope it isn't a sign of what is to come. I want to keep her close. I think it's because I've become so accustomed to being her glue, her screw, keeping her from falling apart whenever she's in a crisis. I found her before a full crisis could manifest completely the first time. She had just come out of the hospital, a little less than fully healed, but beautiful all the same. It was that same block that I first saw her. I didn't expect to see her there. I just wanted to know her name. Where she came from. Who she was, to herself, to everyone else. And she knew my name. "Stephen?," she said. She called it out to me before I could calm myself. It got me out of my nervous spell. That's for sure. "Yes, that's me. What's your name?" My voice lowered on that last part as I remembered the way her eyes looked when I found her. It was the same as now: a sad emptiness. "Margaret. Margaret DeJesus." She smiled slightly, her mouth crooked at a slant, almost slyly. And then, this: "I was hoping that I would find you again." There was a certain disbelief, but more of a relief. I wouldn't have enough in me to explain to her how we met. It's too tender. "You know who I am?" "Nurses have a tendency to do a bit too much gossiping. Especially in my ward." I cleared my throat. "I see. So you know how it happened, what happened to you...?" My voice was beginning to crack. "Stop shaking. It's OK." Indeed, I was shaking. I didn't really think I was that nervous. "It's fine," Margaret reassured me. She turned away from me and looked up at the buildings. "You know, my grandmother lived here in this building." She pointed to one of the projects in front of us, one of the closest ones to the street. "She changed buildings once. Took me with her too." "Does she still live here?," I asked. "No. She's gone. Died a few years back." A small pause. "I'm sorry." "Nah, it's fine. She had a life." Her eyes shifted away from me at those last words, hiding some strange thing that I wasn't so sure of then. I decided to change the subject a bit, partly because of my unease, partly because I knew there was something about that last statement that bothered me. "My mother, she lives around here." The mahogany in her eyes flashed. "Does she? That's nice. Do you come to see her often?" "When I can. I've just been so busy lately with a whole lot. You know how it is." She walked a bit closer to me and said in a low voice: "No, I don't. But maybe you can tell me a bit more." I looked up at her and saw that fox-like smile again. This time, it was much more pronounced. We began our lives from there. I took her to Patsy's, my favorite pizzeria, and we told each other our stories. We were both born in Mount Sinai, both raised in the same neighborhood. Same age even. And that's where our lives forked away from each other. While my mother stayed home to take care of me and my siblings (gone from here a long, long while ago), her mother was in jail. So was her father. Her mother's mother, grandmother, was left with her. She pointed to old healed up tears and scrapes to explain how her life was there. She wouldn't explain. Never wanted to. I don't think she ever really will, no matter what. It was then that I understood that strange thing, the anger that inhabited her eyes. To which, I responded: "Did you tell anyone?" She said this: "As much as I wanted to, I couldn't. There was nowhere else I could go. Or anyone that I could talk to, really. And forget foster care. Those people have the potential to hurt you even more. I've heard things." She paused and looked out the window. "You know, I should really be upset." I was afraid this was going to come up. "About...?" I wanted to seem unsure, so that I wouldn't make the situation more awkward. "You know. What happened to me." She laughed a bit, which made me a bit uneasy. "I've always heard that women like me, that they become very insecure, very paranoid, suicidal because of what they went through. That power upset, the man, men, women, taking what they want, making you feel that terrible pain." There was gloss in her eye as she lowered her voice. "I want that pain, that memory" she said. "At least I would have known for myself what really happened. I can't even remember anything that happened to me. I just know what everyone else tells me." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It's like I was dreaming, a fantasy that's suddenly going to hell. I felt terribly for her. Each of her tears was like a pinprick driven deep into my fingers. There were a lot of them that very moment. I sat next to her, held up my napkin to her eyes to dry her eyes up, and hugged her. She relaxed in my grasp. I told her that it would be OK, that there was help, help for her type of pain. She lived on that old block for a time with her friend. It took only a month for her to leave with me. ************************************************************************************************************** Margaret: I'm washing the dishes from breakfast, but I'm thinking, thinking, thinking, what? “Honey, I’m going to feed the baby, OK?” Stephen catches me from behind, hugging my waist. “Didn’t I feed him already?” I’m pretty sure I did. “No, baby, you just put him in the high chair now.” I turned around to face them. I saw that my son was squirming around, crying. How could I forget such a thing? Shit. “I thought I did.” “Don’t worry, Meg. It’s fine. I’ve got the bottle here.” “OK, Stephen. Thanks.” I go back to washing. “Baby?” My husband is right behind me, holding the baby. “What is it?” He has my baby holding his bottle, with a face I’m not sure I’ve seen before. “When was the last time he was changed?” Oh, that expression. I see now. And then, I smell it. Shit. “Jesus, take him over to the bathroom, please.” He walks away from me but still stands behind me. He’s smiling a little bit. “It doesn’t smell like he was changed.” “What? What did you say?” For some reason, I couldn’t concentrate on what he was telling me. “He smells pretty fresh, in a bad way.” He wrinkles his nose, and so does my son, who’s still crying. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I know, I thought I just did that before I brought him downstairs.” His expression changes. “Meg, are you sure you’re OK? Do you need me to help out a bit more?” “No, no. You’ve been doing so much for me. Just take him and change him for now and I will be right there to feed him a little more. OK?” It’s been like this for some time now. I used to be so point on about things, what to do, what time to do it. Now, I’m slipping. Maybe it’s the stress of it all. I mean, I feel the strain of it and so does everyone else around me. I feel like I can't even hold down a single thought anymore. The blood can be rushing between my legs and I wouldn't know what to do with it. But then there are times when I don't even recognize myself, especially when I give a glance out to myself in a window. That’s when I become really worried. Then I think: I’ll always know when it’s Christmas: the sights, smells, sounds. Tastes. And then I feel just a little bit better. Christmas in this neighborhood, in any American neighborhood, I would imagine, is quite unmistakable. The sights, I mean. Outside, everyone's Christmas lights are flashing, loudly at that, kinda like those mating fireflies I used to catch. The iodine drops have frozen up into a white froth, piling up inches on the ground. There was no wind, just a strange, cold calm with kids spattered all around, throwing bundles of froth around. Right now, all of my attention is thrown on this one bird chirping. It's quite a quirk, bobbing its head to the rhythm of its wings. Makes me remember that damned parrot that was in my abuela's house, caw-cawing all the damn time, squawking and squeaking like a cheap purse. And then, there was that song she used to sing to fill in the emptiness between its sounds. The song was wordless, nameless, and quite mindful of my need to sleep and feel at ease. These rare moments where I was able to be perfectly still with my grandmother were quite precious, because they were also filled with that song. And yet, I can't remember it. Not the notes, nor the rhythm, yet all of the rage and love behind it I can still feel in those quiet moments that I have during the day, while watching the baby sleep in his crib. I loved her then. Even now. I hope I can still say that tomorrow. ************************************************************************************************************** Stephen: "There's a problem here, Mr. Fanucci." I hold the phone a bit closer to my ear, unsure of what I’m hearing. "Can you repeat that to me?" "There's a problem with these test results." The woman had a flat, tepid voice, which annoyed the shit out of me. Give a little anger, sadness, happiness, at least something. You're telling me about the rest of my life here. My family's life. Shit, does my head hurt. "What is it?" "Your wife's results and yours. They're not consistent." My heart stings as I clench my fist. I was trying to stop my tears, but it hurts too much. Yet, it is all enough to muster up some energy to ask: "Meaning?" "I'm sorry, sir. Your wife is positive. You, on the other hand, are negative." My body starts to rattle and heave. Oh my God. I’m actually...laughing. Crying too. But laughing? I can't stand myself. What am I doing? My wife is dying. And I'm acting like a hysterical maniac. I have to get my shit together here. I have to know. I have to ask: "Is that really...possible?" "Sure, it's possible. However, I would have you retest yourself in about 6 months. You mentioned that you had a son?" "Yes, he was tested with us." A pause. Lady, hurry the fuck up. "OK, his name?" Thank you. "Stephen Michael Fanucci." "Here, we go. OK, Mr. Fanucci, he's negative." My chest jerks out with my heart. Again. "Is it...?" "Yes, there have been cases like this before, sir. But again, I would have you and your son retested in a few months from now." Another pause. I'm physically calm, but fuck, am I screaming out of my skin. Fuck it. "Thank you." "Good luck." I hang up first. It feels right at this moment. Let me close that book up myself. "Baby? What happened?" I faced her, those eyes filled with that strange sweet sadness from our first meeting. Only I had those eyes now. I walk over and held her. I know that her mind is leaving me, that she’s leaving me, that it is eating that beautiful wit she has always had, eating away at our times together. And yet, I smile and hold her hands, cold from washing and rewashing the dishes, as she now does. "It's going to be fine. Everything's fine." It's hard to keep my voice low; it wants to crack so much. "Just go upstairs and rest." Unfortunately, her mind knows better. "The doctor called, didn't she?" She smiles at me, an attempt to keep me from losing it. I know she'll never be ready to hear it. Why should it matter then if I tell her now or tonight? My eyes avert hers. "Yes, she did." She’s hesitating, rubbing her nails back and forth. "Are you fine?" Dammit. I still can’t look at her, at least for a period of time. I’m doing my best, though. "Yes, I am." "Our baby?" This time, she’s calm. Of course, I’m not. "Yes." "And me?" I say nothing for a couple of seconds. But then, I get the best of me. "You have a bit of fighting to do.” “Do I?” Her voice is clear, but the gloss is unmistakable. “It’ll be fine. I promise. I’m not going anywhere. No one is." She smiles, takes my hands, and squeezes them. We hug again. She then kisses my cheek and walks up the stairs. Suddenly, I feel as porcelain as the dolls my mother used to collect. I wonder if she feels it too. My porcelain, porcelain beauty. ************************************************************************************************************** Margaret: And here I am, alone again. I open my eyes and watch the hands of the clock for a brief moment. It's three P.M. and I'm drowsier than my own son during a lullaby. Now I have something to blame it on. I imagine that, years from now, this moment will be nothing but a sad, sad story told a thousand times by my relatives and others that I won’t even know, now or later. I surely never imagined that I would be part of such a thing. You know what I thought? Once the drugs were out of my system, once I was clean and straight, that nothing could ever go wrong, much less have the past come and bite my ass. And here I am, thinking about the rest of my life. And, of course, about what I’ve known and lived through. Slashings, thrustings, childbirth. It’s not a pretty thing. Yet, there is a certain beauty to it, through what I have with Stephen. The warmth of his arms and body. His eyes. His nose. Mind. Everything. All of it helps me to feel my own beauty, something that I never realized or got when I was shooting up. Wow. I feel the silence now. Damn, I’m cold. I need a fucking sweater. Now, what was I saying before? Shit. Silence. I’m thinking of it now--that song, my grandmother’s lullaby. I think it’s finally coming back to me now. That mockingbird song, is it that? Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. Oh my God. After all this time, now I remember. And I can’t even remember what I was just thinking. My baby’s crying. I hum the song as I walk into his room and hold him close. His eyes. They’re as mahogany as hers. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5368 2007-11-14T22:31:48Z 2007-11-20T06:30:58Z

I've had this pretty much posted for a while, but here it is again, revised, in a separate blog entry....

Rebecca Pesantez I've had this pretty much posted for a while, but here it is again, revised, in a separate blog entry. Yes, I am continuing the short story about that "Okinawa woman." Her name is Margaret. Only I am adding a few things into the mix. The woman, in whose head I practically threw everyone into, is actually someone of mixed race. I want her to be part Asian, part Native American. (Initially, I wanted to put a regular Native American into an Asian setting. There was an account that I read a year back, I believe, of a Native American soldier fighting in the Vietnam War, which inspired this. Now, I'm planning to keep her in America in terms of the setting, and have her born in Japan). This mixture of peoples, I feel, will give a bit more depth and complexity to her own character because part of the frustration she will have builds on this clashing of cultures, in her surroundings and within herself. In terms of relating this story back to class topics, I would like to pay close attention to the qualia of my female protagonist, particularly to how her qualia, based on her sense of perception, shows not only her fragmented sense of identity, but also her fragmented sense of cognition and thought. I plan to develop some more of her thoughts in order to show that she's not exactly mentally well (I'm want her to have the warning signs of the onset of dementia from end-stage AIDS) and how this impacts those around her--her family especially, as well as her friends. This is something that I want to explore in what will be an average day for her, told through her perspective, her husband's perspective, and her best friend's perspective. I will also include a third-person limited perspective to distance the reader from the inner conflicts that each of these characters will have, which will hopefully bring the reader closer to having a more objective view of the action that will occur. Questions on consciousness that I plan to dramatize: How does one start to construct memory (and preserve/adapt one's sense of self to the present circumstances) once one starts to lose his/her ability to "remember" what got he or she to this point in his or her life? What fears are attached to this? How do those fears influence these processes? Here are some motivating questions for you: Do you believe that having multiple perspectives is beneficial to telling Margaret's story (and the story of those around her)? Should there be more than what I have planned to add? Is there too much on Margaret's plate? Should there be this identity conflict on top of the dementia that she has (she's not going to know she has HIV until the end)? What other questions do you see coming up related to consciousness (based on what's here)? Or is that too loaded to ask for? Tell me what you guys think. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5367 2007-11-14T22:29:27Z 2007-11-29T01:23:06Z

Sex, clones, and Judy Bridgewater....

Rebecca Pesantez Sex, clones, and Judy Bridgewater. This book is so beautifully disturbing on a number of levels. First, though, let me make it clear that the subject of cloning doesn't usually cross my mind. What I do know about it is that there is this whole moral debate on how it, cloning, is like playing God with rusty instruments and theory. But now that I have read "Never Let Me Go," I see, in blinding colors, how sad and scary this world might turn out to be. These aspects are magnified by the idea, presented in the novel, that if cloning becomes a successfully carried out process, there is the danger that this power will allow us to take away the human element from these beings. They would be seen as a array of spare parts to be used by sickly humans, not as regular people functioning in mainstream society, as presented in the novel. And the ironic thing, of course, is that these clones (as I would imagine they would be like in the real world) are engineered from humans, made by humans, and, essentially, are human, in form, composition, and in feeling. They feel, they think, they cry. They love and make love. Basically, my point is that, as far-fetched and fantastical as the subject seems now--we can't even clone a sheep without it dying quite suddenly--it still brings up some pertinent questions and issues to think of for the future, and even for the present. Wouldn't these beings still be human, not only in form, but in mind and spirit, no matter how they are brought to life? Might this system of cloning also affect how regular people treat each other, since we become so reparable, so replaceable? With the help of these clones, we would be like machines, being opened and sowed up every time something fails in our own bodies. The clone would already be treated as machinery--a mechanical body filled with spare goodies for others to have welded into their own bodies. Who says that it ends there? On another, more literary note, I notice that in the novel as the lives of Cathy, Tommy, and Ruth progresses, they become shadowed by the fact that they will soon cease to exist as they have before, which isn't much different from how regular humans live--going to school, maintaining sexual and romantic relationships as well as friendships, playing around with friends and having fun, and artistic activities such as listening to music and painting. In this sense, I feel that there is such a strong connection between this narrative presented in "Never Let Me Go" and Keats' odes, especially "Ode to a Nightingale," because each of the narrators is always conscious of his or her mortality, and of those around him or her. In addition, Cathy and her peers share a sense of wonder and awe of the human race, much like that in which Keats shows for his nightingale and the beauty of nature which he describes in such detail. These clones are always wondering about the mainstream world, wanting to live in it and wondering about what it would be like to see the persons who they were modeled in the image of--their possibles. In terms of art and aesthetics, these clones idolize human icons and celebrities that are presented in pictures and in music. An example of this is Cathy's idolization of Judy Bridgewater's picture, where the songstress is standing with a glamorous dress, smoking a cigarette, and flirting with the men around her. Cathy does place herself within that world, creating a virtual agent to inhabit this imagined world of carefree glamour, to use Steen's words. The Bridgewater song, "Never Let Me Go," also, as an art form of its own, transports Cathy into another world, a world where a mother is holding her child and never letting go because it is so precious. She places herself into that role as well. When listening to the song, she holds a bundle in her arms, pretending to be that mother. Again, she creates a virtual agent here as well to inhabit this world of nurturing. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5358 2007-11-14T02:54:12Z 2007-11-20T23:15:22Z

Thanks to all of you who gave me feedback on this blog review. It was extremely helpful. Hopefully, this thing came out right :) Enjoy....

Rebecca Pesantez Thanks to all of you who gave me feedback on this blog review. It was extremely helpful. Hopefully, this thing came out right :) Enjoy.]]> Mixing Memory, you would not get a straight answer to who the blog master is. And it wouldn't be because your eyes were playing tricks on you. It would really be because "he" isn't "named," so to speak. The assumed gender is "he," because the anonymous person calls "himself" "Chris." (Which can also be short for "Christina.") Indeed, the anonymous nature of this blogger can raise credibility concerns, especially since this blog talks about issues concerning cognitive science, a field that one might feel uncomfortable hearing about from just anyone. After all, "Chris" is not someone that is easy to research. In the blog, no last name is provided, nor is there any sign of academic credentials. There is only a suggestive reference to what "Chris'" field of expertise may be, as well as a not-so-subtle hint that the blogger may not be as anonymous as "he" seems. This is all provided with the title of the April 23, 2007 blog entry, "The Name-Letter Effect, Or Why Chris is a Cognitive Psychologist." Yet, even so, this still is not easy to verify. However, in the blog entries, "Chris" does link to credible scientific journals that deal with cognitive science and psychology, such as the Psychological Review and Behavioral & Brain Sciences. "He" also lists "his" references in each blog entry. Many of them come from these very journals mentioned. In addition, in the November 4, 2007 post, "Animal Rights and Animal Research," the blogger gives mention to (and links to) a study of cognitive differences between animals and humans called "Darwin's mistake: Explaining the discontinuity between human and nonhuman minds." It is a paper where "Chris" is said to be cited four times ("Rights"). So does the information provided on the blog seem to lean towards "Chris'" reliability? Sure seems that way. Now, while this type of anonymous "naming" is common for many bloggers, it can be seen as an unique statement to cognitive science: one name can simultaneously stand for a multitude of achievements and a melting pot of fields. In general, cognitive science is a mixture of disciplines: neurology, philosophy, psychology, and physiology, to name only a few. Up to this point, as a collective subject, it has been of much debate among scientists because of its complex nature. It is a discipline with many facets, which "Mixing Memory" clearly shows with entries that each deal with a few different aspects of cognitive science each week. Other cognitive science blogs include The Neurocritic, which also is headed up by an anonymous blogger. This anonymous entity, quite appropriately, is the self-proclaimed "neurocritic" that the site is named for. The blog deals with miscellaneous entries that range in topics within cognitive science—from the determination of a definite collective attention span, to the neurological causes of optimism and depression. As with The Neurocritic, the average person at first may be a bit intimidated with some of the posts that are presented in Mixing Memory, since they have sprinklings of scientific data interspersed with analytical text. What makes Mixing Memory quite interesting, however, is not only its comprehensive nature in regards to the most recent (and even a bit older) studies in cognitive science. It is also because it tries to bring this field—and the phenomena which the cognitive studies are related to—down to the level of the common man. One of the ways in which Mixing Memory does this is by giving the blogs eye-catching names such as "Women in Math, Science, and Engineering: Is It About the Numbers (And Not the Ones You Might Think)?" and "Make 'Em Bloody!" Interestingly enough, this is similar to what The Neurocritic does with many of his own blogs to make them approachable. A good example of this is his November 11, 2007 post, “This Is Your Brain on Bad fMRI Studies,” which bitingly critiques a neurological research study’s results (published in The New York Times) on the brain activity of swing voters while they were responding to the leading presidential candidates. Here, “The Neurocritic” puts a spin on the well-know anti-drug slogan, “This Is Your Brain on Drugs” for his title to appeal to a wide demographic. However, Mixing Memory, as a whole, achieves something more than what its sister blog can do. In most of the blog entries, "Chris" makes an effort to connect aspects of the field to what everyone might consider mundane activities or events, such as “rainy day” emotional swings. He even links cognitive science with elements of pop culture and recreational activities, and seemingly mindless ones at that: engaging in optical illusion exercises and the differences in sexes in the way each play video games, for instance. Aside from a few entries that deal with the roles of cognitive science in the average person’s world, conversely, The Neurocritic seems a bit more scientifically didactic in nature. The entries are less concerned with the relationships between cognitive science and the everyday, and more concerned with neurobiological clinical findings, especially in terms of the causes of certain emotions and psychological conditions, such as depression and bipolar disorder. This is beneficial by all means, since this is an effort to report on matters of importance to a larger sphere. However, it is not necessarily something that an office worker, or even a regular humanities college student, would instantly click on and read with ease, because of the complex nature of the subject matter and its presentation. In addition to connecting cognitive science to common activities and interests, "Chris" explains much of this science in connection to these sorts of events in straightforward terms. An example to illustrate the aforementioned blog entry characteristics is the October 17, 2007 post, "Cool Visual Illusions: The Flying Bluebottle Illusion." As one can see, "Chris" doesn't fail to catch reader attention with this entry's title. In the body of this particular post, "Chris" explains the "bluebottle vision"—which deals with the effect of moving backgrounds on the way we perceive moving objects. He provides a link to (UC San Diego psychology professor) Stuart Anstis’ visual illusion site in order for the reader to watch the illusions take place. There are three video illusions in all. The first shows two flies in diagonal relation to each other that are tracing identical orbits. The second shows the same flies moving around in the same orbits. However, the background is moving in such a way, circling clockwise, that the right fly’s orbit seems to be at least two times larger than the left fly’s. In the third video, same flies, same orbit, different background movement. This time, though, it is moving counterclockwise. As a result, the left fly’s orbit is longer, wider, while the right fly’s is much shorter and smaller. Besides linking to colorful videos of the illusions, “Chris” intersperses scientific information into his text by using citations from Stuart Anstis' scientific studies on the phenomena to explain the reasons behind it. “He” specifically cites information about a relatable "real-life" occurrence that is similar to what appears to occur in this illusion: "Johansson (1950) pointed out that when a friend waves to you from a train, his or her hand traces out a horizontally extended sine wave relative to the earth. However, that is not what you see. The visual system decomposes the movement into the linear motion of the train plus an up-and-down movement of the hand" (qtd. in "Bluebottle"). "He" also gives his own explanation of and application of that data to the "bluebottle vision:" "In [the aforementioned] case, and likely in the bluebottle illusion, your visual system is trying to separate the different sources of motion so that it can represent each with the effects of the other excluded" ("Bluebottle"). Furthermore, in this post, the scientific and technical jargon is defined in much simpler terms, by “Chris” or whatever sites connected to the subject at hand that he links to. For instance, to explain the "horizontal component" of the left bluebottle fly's orbit, in relation to the moving background in Stuart Anstis' video illusion in the third video, "Chris" uses clock positions: "the background's at 3 and 9 o'clock at the same time as the left fly" ("Bluebottle"). This is provided since Anstis' site gives no explanation as to what is meant by a "horizontal component." All of this is done so that the information is more approachable for those who are not necessarily familiar with the field. Some may call this "dumbing down" the actual discipline. But in an era such as this, where the average internet user depends on information to be spoon fed in concise, easy-to-understand passages, this is refreshing. It is enough to satisfy many who wish to learn more about the roles of cognitive science in the way we as mankind work, play, and function. Especially with those who may not know the significance of convoluted cognitive science studies, such as those by the renowned neuroscientist, Antonio Damasio. In his studies of the brain, he brings the complex relationship between emotion and reason to light: those with damage to the brain's emotional centers have quite a difficult time making rational choices. This is mostly due to the fact that these individuals don't have emotions to make sure they make choices that aren't harmful, such as alarm or doubt ("Emotion"). And yes, this indeed is something that Mixing Memory confronts and validates for the regular man. It does this by applying this research to the way that we as individuals decide who to vote for. For example, a nonpartisan might take into account confusion, unhappiness, and even optimism to evaluate political stances and to determine whether he or she will vote Republican, Democratic, or Independent. With all this, one can say that this site is one of the first stepping stones to a greater sense of the mysteries of the everyday and its many dimensions. Works Cited "Cool Visual Illusions: The Bluebottle Fly Effect." Mixing Memory. 2007. ScienceBlogs: Seed Media Group. 17 Oct. 2007. 12 Nov. 2007. . "Emotion in Political Judgment." Mixing Memory. 2006. ScienceBlogs: Seed Media Group. 10 Jul. 2006. 12 Nov. 2007. . "Animal Rights and Animal Research." Mixing Memory. 2007. ScienceBlogs: Seed Media Group. 4 Nov. 2007. 12 Nov. 2007. .]]> tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5308 2007-11-12T02:04:03Z 2007-11-12T02:41:33Z

"Ask the Spirits" by Po Lai Yau I’ve heard of countless stories about spirits’ powerful influence on one’s health in many Asian cultures. These stories are absolutely amazing. For instance, a person who gets a fever or whose facial muscles...

Rebecca Pesantez "Ask the Spirits" by Po Lai Yau I’ve heard of countless stories about spirits’ powerful influence on one’s health in many Asian cultures. These stories are absolutely amazing. For instance, a person who gets a fever or whose facial muscles become partially paralyzed would go to a spiritual guide rather than a doctor. These spiritual guides can always come up with some “logical” explanations. For example, you have bumped into some spirit on the street and offended “it”. Or, you have said something the spirit didn’t like, so you’re being punished. These individuals would not consider the possible physiological or neurological origin of their conditions, since it feels better to externalize the cause of a health problem... Response: I think there are many cultures who believe in the power of the supernatural over our health and bodies. I have heard stories myself about this power, particularly from Caribbean sources, but also from Central American and South American sources as well. My favorite one (and the most well-known one) is "possession": when a spirit "inhabits" the body, which is said to cause delirium, as well as epileptic and flu-like symptoms (fever, fatigue, heavy night sweats). There are many more that I can recount, but that would take up more than a few pages. For those who have access to medical/scientific knowledge, this seems primitive. However, I think these beliefs still exist because there is a personal need for cultural preservation (such beliefs and practices are part of old traditions passed on from generations ago). Another reason may be just what you suggested: that it seems much easier for the afflicted to acknowledge that there is something (a spirit) that just needs to be pacified or let out of his or her body in order to treat the disease (externalizing the cause of the problem) as opposed to recognizing the neurological or physiological cause of a condition that possibly may never be cured or treated without major physical consequences. I guess the question is, if, let's say, that person is a loved one, how would you seek help for him or her, especially if you know that the cause has nothing to do with spirits (and if you know that he or she is actively trying to avoid facing the truth about his or her body)? tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5201 2007-11-07T22:11:40Z 2007-11-08T02:49:30Z

What's my advantage?...

Rebecca Pesantez What's my advantage? I want to choose who I love, but I can't, so I just hurt myself even more by thinking about it. I think that's something most of us have experienced: choosing between those you want. Or have, in some cases. Especially if you're not usually the monogamous type. Unfortunately, for me, I am. It's a silly situation, I know. Especially since I already know what I should do. Either stay in my current relationship or be alone. The other guy is too much trouble for me to handle: sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I can't fix him and I wouldn't want to. (I'm laughing a little now: I make it sound like he's some mechanical toy that has fallen into disrepair. Laughing again a little; that sounds quite wrong too.) Italian wine and salted ciabatta bread couldn't get me to go for him, much less any fancy dinner. Not like with the person I'm with now. I remember when we couldn't get a room in Rome for the night and we ended up outside, in the cold, without any place to go. The trains going back to Florence, going anywhere were on strike until the morning. And there we were: lost, nearly broke, desperate. We ended up sleeping under numerous awnings and by the train station itself. Even though it was physically exhausting, it was still wonderful, because it felt like I was home, heaven even. And it wasn't just because of where I was. I was literally surrounded by marble and cobblestone roads, roads that led to crumbling ruins of once great arenas. Yet it was much more because of the fact that I was with of someone that really cared for me, who had taken care of me even when I was sick, even when he didn't know me very well. What is it worth to lose something like that? Over what? A one-night stand, a slap in the face? Besides, I wouldn't pass up Rome for anything. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5087 2007-11-05T02:21:20Z 2007-11-12T02:03:02Z

Are you there, Jean-Do?...

Rebecca Pesantez Are you there, Jean-Do? ]]> Jean-Dominique Bauby as a "writer," (his thoughts are transcribed by Claude, a young woman who is represents his publisher) preserves his natural wit and fine rhetoric, through sharp comical expression that occurs harmoniously alongside accounts of deep emotional and physical traumas and longings for the simple luxuries of life. What strikes me about his accounts is that there are times when he, paralyzed by illness, sometimes feels as if he isn't in the room, that somehow his mind, even his spirit has left his body, as if he is having an out-of-body experience. Except he doesn't necessarily know where his mind or spirit goes. It's something that all of us can relate to. Especially me. It reminds me that this isn't a man that is defined by his disease alone. He's defined by his sense of self. A self that molds to the great difficulties life has given to him. Basically, it comes down to this: he's just like each and every one of us, despite the horror that he went through. Still a person. Still feels many of the emotions we do: pain, happiness, longing. Did I mention that I love this memoir? Can't wait for the movie. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.5086 2007-11-05T01:55:24Z 2007-11-05T02:19:25Z

Operatic minds think unalike....

Rebecca Pesantez Operatic minds think unalike. This weekend, I took it upon myself to travel to the Metropolitan Opera House to see Verdi's "Macbeth." I know: I make it sound like a chore. But with an editorial project due in less than a week, and with a ticket I couldn't necessarily give away, it was a highly stressful time. Especially with the fact that some of the people in my group seemed to have come for their own personal reasons. Did I mention this was an optional class trip? I think that's important to note here. See, I just came for the music. And I do not usually care about anyone else's intentions. But with the fact that some came to gab (during the actual performance) and guzzle champagne (not to mention brown-nosing, but I think that's already implied here), I can at least say that I was a tad...uncomfortable. At the very least. During intermission, I felt a little like Slater at those AA meetings--calm, cold, maybe a bit bored too. I was telling stories to others (and to myself, to an extent) in order to relate to them (and to try to convince myself to be polite). Stories such as: how I didn't really like picture-taking (I'm content with it when I'm in the company of loved ones and close friends, not with people I don't really know), how group work was tolerable (yeah, right: there are members of my own group who do not even know how to properly cite according to the MLA format), and, with a smile, how sharing liquor was fine by me (I took one sip of untouched champagne and gave it away; I have a germ phobia, especially with others that I do not know). At least I wasn't sharing false stories of alcoholism struggles to others who have suffered from such. But I think there would still be a bit of the feeling of betrayal if my true thoughts were shown, my own bag of lies, no matter how small the hurtful fib. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.4965 2007-10-31T16:08:43Z 2007-11-06T03:54:10Z

This is a review of the blog "Mixing Memory" by "Chris," an anonymous blogger (and self-proclaimed cognitive psychologist). It is meant to be for "The New York Times" (technology section). Happy reading!...

Rebecca Pesantez This is a review of the blog "Mixing Memory" by "Chris," an anonymous blogger (and self-proclaimed cognitive psychologist). It is meant to be for "The New York Times" (technology section). Happy reading! Think of the last blog site you have encountered working on a late night. Then, quickly, think of who the blogger of that site is. If on that late night, you happened to be on the blog site, "Mixing Memory," you would not get a straight answer to who the blog master is. And it wouldn't be because your eyes were playing tricks on you. It would really be because "he" isn't "named," so to speak. The assumed gender is "he," because the anonymous person calls "himself" "Chris." (Which can also be short for "Christina.") Although this type of anonymous "naming" is common, it can be seen as an unique statement to the subject at hand on this particular blog site--cognitive science--in the sense that one name can simultaneously stand for a multitude of achievements and a melting pot of fields. In general, cognitive science is a mixture of disciplines: neurology, philosophy, psychology, and physiology, to name only a few. Up to this point, as a collective subject, has been of much debate. It is an ever changing discipline with many facets, which "Mixing Memory" clearly shows with entries each dealing with a few different aspects of cognitive science each week. Other cognitive science blogs include "The Neurocritic," which also is headed up by an anonymous blogger (and who, quite appropriately, is the self-proclaimed "neurocritic" that the site is named for) that deals with miscellaneous entries that range in topics within cognitive science--from determining a definite collective attention span to the neurological causes of optimism and depression. As with "The Neurocritic," the average person at first may be, at least, a tiny bit intimidated with some of the posts presented in "Mixing Memory," since they have sprinklings of scientific data interspersed with analytical text. What makes "Mixing Memory" quite interesting, however, is not only its comprehensive nature in regards to the most recent (and even a bit older) studies in cognitive science. It is also because it tries to bring this field--and the phenomena which the cognitive studies are related to--down to the level of the common man by titling the blogs with such names as "Women in Math, Science, and Engineering: Is It About the Numbers (And Not the Ones You Might Think)?" and "Make 'Em Bloody!". "Chris" also makes an effort to connect aspects of the field to what everyone might consider mundane activities or events (rainy day emotional swings) and even to pop culture and recreational activities (and seemingly mindless ones at that: engaging in optical illusion exercises and the differences in sexes in they way each play video games, for instance). In addition, "Chris" explains much of this science in connection to these sorts of events in simpler, every day terms. An example to illustrate all of the above: his October 17, 2007 post, titled "Cool Visual Illusions: The Flying Bluebottle Illusion," "Chris" explains the "bluebottle vision"--which basically deals with the effect of moving backgrounds on the way we perceive moving objects--besides linking to colorful videos of the illusion itself, by using citations from the UC San Diego psychology professor Stuart Anstis' scientific studies on the phenomena, specifically about a "real-life" occurence that is similar to what appears to occur in this illusion that is used to explain it: "Johansson (1950) pointed out that when a friend waves to you from a train, his or her hand traces out a horizontally extended sine wave relative to the earth. However, that is not what you see. The visual system decomposes the movement into the linear motion of the train plus an up-and-down movement of the hand." ("Bluebottle"). "He" also gives his own explanation of and application of that data to the "bluebottle vision:" "In [the aforementioned] case, and likely in the bluebottle illusion, your visual system is trying to separate the different sources of motion so that it can represent each with the effects of the other excluded" ("Bluebottle"). In addition, in this post, the scientific and technical jargon are defined in much simpler terms; for example, to explain the "horizontal component" of the orbit of the left moving object (which is a fly) in relation to the moving background in Stuart Anstis's video illusion, "Chris" uses clock positions ("the background's at 3 and 9 o'clock at the same time as the left fly") to describe this concept. All of this is done so that the information is more approachable for those who are not necessarily familiar with the field. Some may call this "dumbing down" the actual discipline. But in an era such as this time, where the average internet user depends on information to be spoon fed in concise passages, this is refreshing. It is enough to satisfy many of those who wish to learn more about the roles of cognitive science in the way we, as mankind, work and play. Especially those who may not know exactly the significance of Thomas Nagel's studies of qualia. Or Antonio Damasio's ideas on core consciousness, for that matter. With that, one can say that this site is one of the first stepping stones to a higher order of cognition. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.4948 2007-10-31T03:31:56Z 2007-10-31T03:53:36Z

A somewhat lie based on a somewhat truth....

Rebecca Pesantez A somewhat lie based on a somewhat truth. Who's holding up the middle finger now, bitch? Fourth grade. In Catholic school. That--expression, that is--was the story of my life as a fat, awkward nine year old with black streaked arms. I remember this imp of a kid named Facundo who used to do nothing but curse and say "penis" all the time. Did I mention the finger? His signature. Once, I went to a house party at my best friend's house. He was there, along with some other herbs that I didn't like. So the majority of the conversation was on, of course, sex, Hot 97, and cake. Then, picture time. Parents are there and everything. And then there it was. Facundo and the finger. Every picture, it popped up. One finger, both fingers, the fingers over his head. And it wasn't just then. It happened each and every time. Oops, the finger went up. Again. As if the camera were a super-charged magnet for profane gesture. Then again, nothing new about that concept. Whatever. What's the point here? The story of my life...that expression...because Facundo was cool like that. He would say shit like that not to me, but those who went against me. Kinda made me think to stand up for myself. Every time I got paper thrown at my face, or I got ostracized from a group activity (which, now that I think about it, I'm glad it happened because I don't think I would have such a desire to lead groups if I had somehow "fit" into a group. Can't join 'em, make your own: I say), I, somehow, got the courage to throw it right back in their face and say "fuck you." And he would have my back. So would the "cool" kids, which was quite funny since I was one of the "nerdy" ones. So here's the real picture: this kid with his leather jacket and cigarettes who loved rock defends the frumpy little girl with the Payless shoes and hand-me-downs who didn't know what she liked. Guess he was a few steps ahead in maturity. Makes me wonder what happened to him. Seems hard to believe, right? You be the judge. tag:blogs.qc.cuny.edu,2007:/blogs/0907N_1599/006//320.4947 2007-10-31T03:31:07Z 2007-10-31T16:08:16Z

Lauren Slater and one of the many sad stories behind historical "truth."...

Rebecca Pesantez Lauren Slater and one of the many sad stories behind historical "truth." Wow. A narrator who comes right out with it. "I exaggerate." Thank you!!! Someone who admits the truth! But then again, how do I know she's even being truthful there? I mean, maybe she's exaggerating at that point: in that she exaggerates in general, and often (which one can infer), when maybe she only does so once or twice in her narrative. Or maybe this is the one moment she is compelled to tell the truth, out of a need to connect with her audience. (Makes you wonder: Who is this narrative for? Herself or the world? Both?) Then again, maybe not. Slater makes me think of all the times I've doubted the narrator, the "storyteller," regardless of whether it's fiction or "nonfiction." Personally, I like the idea that Slater uses as a device: that you as a reader can never know the "truth" behind an event--only how the narrator thinks of it and manipulates it. This allows one to use imagination to wonder what the real story is. This all reminds me of Maryellen's comment about Slater's afterword during class last night: historical truth isn't really truth at all. Those storytellers from our childhoods, those teachers, those textbook writers, historians--they're all BS artists. The sad thing is is that some don't even know what they know and believe as historical fact is fiction. An exaggerated and dangerous example: the witch hunts in mainland Europe and Britian during the Renaissance. In particular, two "witch-hunters" who helped execute countless women as witches--Matthew Hopkins and John Stearne--believed in and preached about the evils of witchcraft and how these persons were easily detectable (they talked to themselves or to animals, they lived by themselves, they were old: the list goes on and on). These men treated these subjects as historical (as well as moralistic) "facts:" that such women served as a mother figure to the Devil (nursed the Devil with blood) and hence would bear the mark of the Devil (from the "teat" he would create in order to do so). And these beliefs were not only reserved to these "witch-hunters." A great majority believed in these "facts." Or at least wanted to believe in them. The point from this slight digression: Slater calls to mind the dangers and the power the narrator, the storyteller can have.