Eclectic Views

    
In this topic, we'll periodically port posts from various conferences
on the Well, always with the prior permission of the poster. Sometimes
we'll eliminate certain identifying characteristics, and ask you to
guess where the post originated, and who is the author. And of course
you are always welcome to comment on the content of the post. 
  

    <scribbled>
  

    
With the permission of the author, here's our first mystery
port-a-post:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
conference topic: "Why Don't You?"
#274 of 343: pseud (wellid) Mon 30 Aug 2004 (10:47 PM)

Time to resurrect this topic...

WDY? - Have a tuliper made into a lamp? And top it with a hand-painted
shade.
WDY? - Line your dresser drawers with pink felt?
WDY? - Outfit the doors in your house with antique glass door knobs?
WDY? - Keep a picnic basket, blankets, napkins and silverware in your
car trunk for impromptu weekday picnics?
WDY? - Keep Bromeliads healthy by using distilled water? They'll last
up to nine months.
WDY? - Square off pillows in chairs and on sofas? Pillows set at
jaunty angles are so OUT.
WDY? - Create mailing labels with a line drawing of your house right
above the return address?
WDY? - Have stone countertops resealed? It's probably time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who wrote our mystery post, and where does it come from? Pico users,
please be good sports and don't run an extract to answer these
questions.

And what would you add to this list?
  

    
Jett, it's our preference to have either Mike or me port-a-post, so as
to assure we get the necessary prior permissions. While we cannot
prevent others from port-a-posting, we will scribble any posts that do
not expressly state they have the author's prior permission to be
posted here to the publicly viewable <pre.vue.>. And we will scribble
any posts (plus subsequent posts that may reference them) if it turns
out the author has not given permission. We take YOYOW very seriously
on the Well.
  

    
#1 was scribbled because it was posted immediately after #0 and before
post #2 (which answered my question).

If that doesn't make sense, I've been up all night. :^)

My scribbled post simply asked if everyone could port, or only the
hosts. Eleanor clalrified that in #3.

(Eleanor, hope the new job and commutes are not killing you).  :^)
  

    
Our first mystery port-a-post <2> is by <randallk> from the <decor.>
conference.
  

    
A report from hurricane country, reposted with permission:

gratitude.ind 55: Being seized by the day: the incredible thing I just
saw, heard, experienced
#29 of 56: deep greens and blues are the colors I choose (beccarichie)
Thu 16 Sep 2004 (07:42 PM)

Before the hurricanes, 10 days or two weeks ago, I saw a wild kitty on
the edge of the woods about a mile from my house.

Monday night, I saw her again. It was dusk dark, but I managed to
bribe her with ham (I had just been to the grocery store), and finally
got her in the truck with me. She was only about half grown, and so
exhausted that where ever I put her down in the house, she just laid
there, regardless of the two dogs and three other cats. While petting
her later, I saw that the fur around her nipples was gone from nursing,
but her milk was all dried up. I figured she had been thrown out with
kittens, and they had died, possibly scattered in the storm. The next
day I worked 9 hours, and when I got home after dark, her teats were
full of milk. There was no way I could trek through the flooded swampy
area where I had found her since it was dark already, and I went to bed
anguished over the babies I had left alone without their mama, to die.
Actually, I got a little drunk, knowing I had the next day off...

The next day, I dressed in long jeans and long sleeved shirt (because
of the ferocious mosquitoes) and boots, and took her back down there,
sweating bullets of Budwieser. After a little wandering, she led me
right to 3 little bitty baby kittens, still alive after about 40 hours
without any sustenance at all. They seemed tame, but in fact were weak
from hunger and dehydration (it's unbearably hot here, and they were
in the middle of a piece of land cleared for timber, surrounded by
debris and standing water).

Unbelievable; they were prime targets for foxes, 'coons, other feral
cats, owls, hawks, etc., etc., not counting starvation and dehydration.
They are also very bony, like their mama. I guess she's been feeding
them on milk she made from bugs and lizards since they were born.
Judging by their size and her friendliness, I would say she was put out
by some heartless son of a bitch while pregnant, and had the kittens
in the wild, right before the hurricanes.

The survival of these babies, the trust of their mama, her gratitude,
their quick recovery into sassy little spitfires...quite miraculous.

Anybody want a kitten?
  

    
Ah, how nice. I saw that elsewhere and it's even better reading the
second time around.
  

    
Another post from <gratitude.ind.>, reposted with permission:

gratitude.ind 23: In Memoriam-- sharing the wealth of those we have
loved
#117 of 130: Jett Rink (jettrinkjr) Sat 18 Sep 2004 (05:51 PM)

If you've never milked a cow, or broken bread with river gypsies, or
mule-plowed a long straight row, or fought a river to save your crops,
or ventured scared as hell into a swamp on the lookout for haints, then
you probably won't be interested in this story. Pass it on by. We grew
up in different worlds.

But that was my boyhood world. The Mississippi Delta. And that was
Shine's world. I've just come from over there, and Shine's been much on
my mind of late. We were best friends. 

I started calling him Shine probably because of his coal-black skin.
When he was wet from swimming or from sweat, or maybe just from his
natural body oils, his skin took on a polish and gloss, and it even
seemed to emit rays of light. His nose was broad, flat and flared at
the wings; his lips were puffy and turned out; and his frizzy hair
fairly glistened in the sun.   

We chopped and picked cotton in the summer and fall and fished and
hunted during the winter. We were inseparable. And competitive. Who
could dive deeper and stay under longer? Who could run faster and jump
higher? Who was best with a slingshot? Who would chicken out first from
a shadow or an unnatural sound deep in the gloomy bog? Who would first
cut and run for the safety of the river?

Shine's mother, Nancy, was my wet-nurse. She'd been loaned to Mother
by Miss Jennie, the warden's wife at the prison farm just upriver.
Somehow, Nancy was never returned; she and Shine just stayed on with
us, and she lived out her life in one of Dad's little dog-trot shanties
for the field hands at the back of our farm.

Shine was smart. Even by age 10, he could class cotton by color (there
were then 17 shades of white; there are now more than 50). He was a
good haggler and when brokers came to call, Shine was good at pulling,
poking and eyeing samples, and pointing out the fibers' length,
strength, and silk-like qualities, and making a good case that that
particular crop was strict middling, not low middling, or that it was
low-middling, not strict good ordinary, and that a higher price might
be fairer.

To cut the story short, at about age 18, Shine got into trouble in
West Memphis, and he was sent to the same prison farm his mother had
come from. He was cutting cane in the fields one day when he was
spooked by a snake. He began running and screaming and a long line
rider made a bad mistake. Instead of simply dismounting, taking slow
aim, and shooting Shine, he charged him on his horse shooting a 30.06.
An experienced rider would have left the job to the shotgunners who
worked in closer to the prisoners. Instinctively Shine struck at the
rider and killed him with a machete. All of this happened within a
period of maybe 30 seconds.

But nobody killed a guard and lived. Nobody. Ever. Shine was speedily
dispatched to death row. Rarely in those days did executions follow
sentencing more than three or four months. 

I was out and about in the world, moving from town to town on my way
to Mexico, but when I got word of Shine's fate, I went home
immediately. Miss Jennie cleared the way for me to see him as much as I
wanted and I visited every day. On my first visit, I said "Shine,
we're in a hell of a mess, here, aren't we?" He laughed and said, "Oh,
no, my friend. I'M in a hell of a mess."

I asked him if he was afraid. He said, "Of course." We talked every
day. He wondered if his mother could ever live out a normal life. Could
she somehow find spiritual strength and peace of mind? Could the
guard's family ever forgive him? How would he hold up when the time
came? Would he be bewildered and insensible, dazed and oblivious to
what was going on? Would terror seize him, fear grip his heart? Would
he tremble, sob, cry out and beg for his life at the sight of that
gruesome death chamber? Would they give him a sedative as they did for
women and wheel him down to his doom?

Would he die quickly and painlessly and in a manly way? Was there any
hope at all to cling to? After all, he had acted instinctively, not
with premeditation?  – NO. Could he pray at the end rather than make a
final statement? Would he be too frightened even to pray? What about
the executioner (a friend of the Rink family). Would he botch the job,
or would he be technically skilled, proficient, and sure-handed? Could
the death warrant be read in his cell beforehand. Would he be offered
a sedative? Should he accept it if offered? He wanted to be fully
conscious when he uttered his last prayer to Jesus.

We prayed together. We read comforting scriptures. I obtained a
spiritual counselor for him because the prison chaplain was far too
dim-witted for Shine's quick mind. Finally, I had to go return to
Tulsa. I told him I'd see him the next day. But I skipped it. What was
the use?

Miss Jennie wrote me later that Shine had met his death with bravery
and dignity and she sent me his prayer as he sat in that hardwood
electric chair. It is too personal to share.

Anyway, that was the end of Shine. I've long since put all of that out
of my mind and when I think of Shine now, I see the two of us at about
age 10, smiling, barefoot, and holding up a string of fish. In fact, I
think I mentioned earlier somewhere that I have that very photo
hanging in my bedroom.
  

    
A follow-on post, ported with permission:

gratitude.ind 23: In Memoriam-- sharing the wealth of those we have
loved
#125 of 134: Jett Rink (jettrinkjr) Sun 19 Sep 2004 (10:45 AM)

Aw, heck. Here's Shine's prayer as he was being strapped into the
electric chair.

"My Lord, Jesus, you laid down your life for me. Now my hour has come
and I must speak quickly. I thank you for forgiving my sins and
accepting my repentance. I thank you for quieting my mind and easing
the pounding of my heart. I thank you for your promise to receive me
pure and spotless and blameless before you so that I can live with you
forever. I feel your hand on my shoulder, Jesus. I can hear your voice
in the darkness. I thank you for all you have given me. And I give you
back all my heart and soul. Amen"
  

    
Now for a complete change of pace, ported with permission:

plumage 407: Bras: The Topic
#1137 of 1149: like fucking a stuffed animal with your feet (fsquared)
Tue 21 Sep 2004 (02:36 PM)

I just want to say that I was in New York on Sunday and I went to the
Hasidic bra guy at Orchard Corset. What an experience. I got a lovely,
comfy Wacoal bra for $18!

You go in, and this enormous guy is standing behind the counter. I
mean, he is over 6 feet, probably more than 300 lbs, has frizzly red
hair under his little black yarmulke and food stains on his white
button-down shirt, and this BIG booming voice. He's like a big Jewish
walrus. And he asks you to take off your jacket, and then he looks you
over, front and back. He ran his hands over my shoulders and down my
shoulderblades, then asked if I had a problem with my bra straps
slipping down my right shoulder, which I do. Aha, he said. He asked me
what size I usually wear. I told him I had recently learned I was a
different size than I used to be, and I told him what I'd been told I
should be wearing. He pondered for a minute, said he thought I was
probably right, and pulled down four boxes. Then he summoned his wife?
aunt? business partner? Anyway, this little grandmotherly woman named
Magda, who led me to a chair surrounded by curtains and handed me a
paper towel with which to wipe down my cleavage before trying anything
on. Then she put me into the bras, one by one, adjusting the straps
from behind while assessing the fit in the mirror. And lo and behold,
all four bras fit very nicely, and I bought three, none of them over
$18.

It was delightful and weird, and I may never buy a bra anywhere else
again.
  

    
I want to go there!!!!!
  

    
That's exactly what I thought!  For a second I wondered how crazy it would
be to take a trip to NY.
  

    
I never wanted to go to NYC before this...
  

    
Dang, I think I know where I'm buying my next bra.  Now I just have to
wait until the next time I visit NYC.

Wouldn't "The Hasidic bra guy" make a great pseud?
  

    

I already took something very similar to it in plumage.
  

    
That is a wonderful post. I thought ultra-orthodox Jews weren't
allowed to touch women other than their wives, though. Though, come to
think of it, the one's I met were all young and unmarried. Maybe they
aren't allowed to touch any women at all till they are married. Or
maybe this guy just figures that business is business.
  

    
great vignette <fsquared>.  I'm glad you allowed it to be ported over
here, cuz I never would have known to go looking for it!
  

    
TFTP
  

    
Ported with permission:

bookclub.ind 21: The curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by
Mark Haddon
#204 of 208: A Diversion: A Close Encounter with Another
High-functioning Autistic Man (poet-lariat) Mon 20 Sep 2004 (10:55 PM)

The more the central character of The Speed of Dark develops, the more
he reminds me of a guy I only knew on-line, in the Go lounges at
Yahoo;  I'll just refer to him here as CK.  

I gradually became convinced that he was autistic.  Some of the
initial behaviors that got my interest were when he spoke of being
unable to make sense of peoples' facial expressions, while everybody
else seemed to know what was going on.  He also said he was unable to
understand humor and jokes.  Sometimes, he would make an observation
that put two things together unexpectedly, even ironically, and people
would say, Hey, CK, you just told a joke.  And he'd respond, I did?

CK loved the deep embedded patterning of the game of Go.  In the space
of one year, he went from total newcomer to a level of proficience
that normally take even geniuses several years to attain.  In fact, I
had at the time a friend IRL who was a polymath and a genius (I'll
refer to him as ASF, for "AmericanSnackFiend"), and he, like me, was
very frustrated, being stuck on the "lower slopes" of Mt. Go.   In Go,
it's said that one does not really understand the game until one
reaches the rank of 1-dan (a Japanese term:  the lowest of 9 levels of
mastery).  Being a game that has been studied for several thousand
years, it's not too hard to determine what your level is:  ASF and I
were both 10 levels below the 1-dan level.  CK had gone from total
ignorance to 1-dan in one year.  By the 2nd year, he was mostly playing
with a 4-dan Go player from Japan, and beating him about 1/3 of the
time.  CK had an incredible style of play that seemed beyond pattern.
When he was baffled by what was going on, there would be a long silence
at the website, followed by him showing up with a totally new and
different tack on the positions....

Since CK also lived in New York, he'd occasionally show up at the New
York Go Club, at which ASF was an official.  Thus, I got first-hand
observations of CK from my friend:  he avoided direct eye contact, and
indeed, seemed incapable of interpreting the most elementary body
language.  ASF once mentioned that CK had angered another player,
without realizing it.  When ASF later asked him if he hadn't noticed
that the guy was angry, CK just had not put together the guy's elevated
voice, rapid finger tapping and jittery knee bouncing, changed skin
color, etc etc, as clues to interior state.

The people that I knew in this Go lounge were not very sophisticated
about psychology or behavior, so I stopped making any comments.  But
one evening, I got to engage CK in conversation for about an hour,
because he didn't feel like playing.  It was a very remarkable
conversation.

He had just come back from Europe, where he had spent several years
under the tutelage of a piano instructor.  CK was in his mid-20's and
had gone to Europe for a piano competition:  while he didn't win, he
had attracted the notice of this benefactor, who invited him to stay
and study.  But after over 3 years, he said the benefactor had lost
interest in him, and became wrapped up with a new protege.  So, CK had
begun to feel that his career as a musician was at a complete impasse.
He was in the process of deciding to redirect his life into a career in
the neurosciences!

Since I was pretty sure that he was autistic, I was absolutely floored
when he spoke of playing piano at competition level.  He loved Bach,
and when I commented on the complication of keeping all of 4 or 5
independent voices sorted out, he just said that he had always found
Bach easy to play, because he could see all the patterns.  I did ask
him about his own self-proclaimed difficulty with understanding
feelings and so forth in the context of music.  As a musician myself, I
told him, it seemed like emotional flow, or something like it, is
fundamental to getting into any particular piece.  It then turned out
that his impasse as a pianist was that he couldn't develop a personal
style or interpretation.  His practice was to find an interpretation
that he admired, that worked for him, and then to learn to play in
exactly that way!

In any event, he was an incredible person, and was finding his own
unique way around whatever differences his perceptual and cognitive
structures were.  It was always a pleasure, and fascinating, to watch
his play at the Go board, and I'll always remember him.
  

    
Ported with permission:

obsess 513: Hey Angie, what's Albuquerque like?
#995 of 999: matted hair, edematous skin, and various exudates
(editrix) Fri 24 Sep 2004 (07:31 AM)

They had deep fried snickers, but I declined to try those. Also deep
fried oreos.

And now I risk a flame war...

Did I mention that NM is a swing state? First time I've ever lived in
one. The current bruhaha is whether Nader's appearance on the ballots
is legal -- some interpretations of state law say that a candidate
can't be an independent in NM if he/she is a candidate of any party in
another state.

In any case, some ballots were printed and distributed with Nader's
name on them. Some were printed and distributed with his name not on
them. Some have already been mailed to overseas absentee voters, which
is not an insignificant consideration in this state (lots of military
families). It's all stalled in a couple of lawsuits in the NM Supreme
Court right now, and meanwhile time is ticking to get the ballots
printed and distributed to counties so that early voting can start in a
few days.

There's also a lot of question about whether registering at a voter-
registration drive counts as "in person," which means you don't have to
show ID when you vote. The ID you show has to have current address.
There are some specific instances where this isn't possible, but really
the issue is that lots of people here don't follow directions well.
Not surprising in a state whose schools rank 46th in reading scores.

Oh, and all the literature says that you can find out where to vote by
looking at your voter registration card. My card says "check the paper
on election day."

Sigh.