Mid-morning. Carol and Linda drove to the
community center for Carol to walk. You are thinking on doing your exercises
before they return. – Amorella
0845
hours. I should get to them.
Later, dude. – Amorella
First,
I found this BBC article. Interesting reading for the likes of me and others
like-minded I’m sure.
**
**
Science & Environment
Eye movements 'change scenes' during dreams
By
Jonathan Webb
Science
reporter, BBC News
12 August 2015
For the first time, scientists have recorded from individual
brain cells during the dreaming phase of sleep.
After each rapid eye movement (REM) they recorded bursts of
activity that match what happens when we are awake and we see - or imagine - a
new image.
They suggest that these well-known flickering movements
accompany a "change of scene" in our dreams.
The recordings were made from patients with electrodes implanted
in their brains to monitor seizures.
"It's a unique opportunity to look at what's happening
inside the human brain," Dr Yuval Nir, from Tel Aviv University in Israel,
told the BBC. "We're very thankful to the epilepsy patients who
volunteered to take part."
Dr Nir worked with colleagues from France and the US on the
study, which is published in the journal Nature Communications.
Over the course of four years they worked with 19 different
patients, recording from electrodes in several different brain areas but
largely within the medial temporal lobe.
This is not a part of the brain directly involved in vision, Dr
Nir said.
"The activity of these neurons doesn't reflect image
processing. It's more about signalling to the brain about a certain concept.
"You can close your eyes and imagine Queen Elizabeth, and
these neurons will fire. This activity implies a refresh of the mental imagery
and the associations."
When the patients were awake and shown a picture, especially one
associated with a memory, the researchers saw a particular pattern of activity.
"About a
0.3 seconds after the picture appears, these neurons burst - they become
vigorously active," Dr Nir explained. "This also happens when people
just close their eyes and imagine these pictures, or these concepts."
Intriguingly, he and his colleagues spotted a "very, very
similar pattern" during sleep. In particular, these bursts arrived just
after eye movements during REM sleep.
This is the phase of sleep in which we dream, and it is
characterised by these occasional, very quick eye movements.
It has long been thought that these movements might reflect the
visual component of dreams, but there has been no clear evidence for this -
until now, Dr Nir said.
"We are intimately familiar with the activity of these
neurons. We know they are active every time you look at an image, or when you
imagine that image. And now we see them active in a similar way when you move
your eyes in REM sleep, so it becomes very probable that the eye movements
represent some type of reset, or 'moving onto the next dream frame'.
"It's almost like when I was growing up and we had slide
projectors. You move to the next dream slide, if you like."
Switching not scanning
This could help to explain why unborn babies and blind people
also move their eyes during REM sleep, he added.
"Even people who are congenitally blind... can still dream
about their aunt coming to visit from Florida: her voice, the emotions and all
the associations that go with that.
"And when
the dream changes from meeting this aunt to, say, taking your dog for a stroll
in the park, then the brain activity changes and this happens in sync with eye
movements."
Other sleep researchers welcomed the findings. Prof Jim Horne,
who established the Sleep Research Centre at Loughborough University, said the
study fits with our improving understanding of REM sleep.
He also emphasised that flickering of a dreamer's eyes, which
only happens in brief spurts, does not mean they are surveying a scene.
"The eye movements are not actually scanning your dream -
they're reorienting your visual thoughts," Prof Horne told BBC News.
"This study endorses other findings that REM sleep has many
similarities to wakefulness.
"I see REM sleep as rather like the screensaver on your
computer; all you need is the touch of a button and your computer leaps to
life. It's very close to wakefulness. Non-REM sleep is more like when you switch
your computer off, and waking up requires a process of rebooting."
Prof William Wisden, a neuroscientist at Imperial College
London, was also convinced by the similarity of brain activity between awake
and REM states - but he said there are bigger questions still to answer.
"The most fascinating question of all is why do we have to
have REM sleep? Why does our brain have all this circuitry to do that?
"This
paper doesn't answer that, but it does emphasise how similar being awake and in
REM sleep are, for particular circuits in the brain."
Selected and
edited from -- http://www.bbcDOTcom/news/science-environment-33860994
**
**
You
had a short nap, your forty minutes of exercises, and a soaker bath. Carol and
Linda are reading their books in the TV room while a turkey sans steak burger
is in the oven at some three hundred and fifty degrees. – Amorella
1131
hours. I was sure we were going out for lunch; alas I got cleaned up for lunch
in. I guess that’s not so bad though. It is a sunny day with friendly clouds
now and then – almost California-like. Now, where are my Beach Boys? We need to
go for a drive down 101.
1318
hours. We had lunch on the porch for a change (we are having good California
weather today). Carol’s turkey loaf tasted better than I thought it would.
Mixed veggies were fine. Best was one of the last pieces of that peach pie.
I
was thinking about the opening words in each chapter:
** **
The Supervisor has a little saying:
Ring-a-ring
o'rosies
A pocket
full of posies
"A-tishoo! A-tishoo!"
We all fall
down!
We rise from
clay
On judgment
day
Be we dead
or still alive.
** **
I
can’t remember why the Supervisor has the saying and why he would tell it to
Merlyn. The Supervisor obviously isn’t saying the words in terms of
her/himself.
Why don’t we make this The Dead Ten story? –
Amorella
1324
hours. Okay, I guess, but a simple reasonable explanation will do. I have
always understood the words to be Merlyn’s. Certainly they are from a human’s
perspective, ‘we all fall down [dead]’. Judgment day is one’s death date, or at
least that has been my understanding, but of course Merlyn is saying (or maybe
the Supervisor has said to Merlyn) judgment day can happen while still alive. I
mean, I have a sense of that. When I thought I met a real Angel and I was still
alive, it still felt/feels like it was a judgment day. At least in my mind I
always thought that meeting a real Angel at any time (face to face) so to speak
that it was a day when everything is on the table and being naked takes on a
whole new meaning.
The angelic encounters were as real as you
still are to you. What is more important, you acted accordingly. As such, each encounter
was an immediate existential moment. – Amorella
1338
hours. Those long ago events have no meaning to anyone else.
Those angelic close encounters are embedded
in your heart’s memory, boy, and there they will stay. – Amorella
1341
hours. I have no words.
The confrontation was with your spirit. What
words would they be transcribed into? – Amorella
1343
hours. Words make the event less.
This is the reason you took to spelling God
as G---D. It is a simple enough action, but your modesty still dresses the word
so you may better envision your concept of the word, G---D. You have taken to
unlearning the spiritual and beginning again with G---D, even as a declared
agnostic. – Amorella
1348
hours. It was/is more reasonable to begin with G---D, than with Nothing (with a
capital or not).
Post. – Amorella
Mid-afternoon. You had a Graeter’s and took
the back roads up to the Black Barn for corn on the cob for supper. – Amorella
1600
hours. I had a new flavor – Key Lime Pie – that tastes better than some regular
Key Lime pies in Florida. Amazing how Graeter’s gets its flavors right. Our ice
cream scooper said it is here for the tennis tournament and through September.
Let’s begin with Dead Ten this time. –
Amorella
1616
hours. Okay. What is the chapter theme word (I have no idea)?
The
theme word is Roundabout Reel, as in a
dance pattern. – Amorella
1619
hours. How odd. I do not know exactly what a reel is.
** **
Reels of four (6.22)
1. a) All
four couples dance reels of four on own sides of the set. To begin, 1st and 2nd
couples and 3rd and 4th couples pass by the right.
2. b) 1st
and 3rd couples dance a reel of four up and down the middle of the set, passing
partners by the right to begin.
3. c) 1st
couple dance a diagonal reel of four with first corners passing by the right to
begin ...
Reel of four (Progressive) (6.22.4)
1st and
2nd couples dance a reel of four across the set, 1st woman and 2nd man passing
by the left to begin. 1st couple finish in second place and 2nd couple in first
place.
Selected
from -- Standard Terminology – The Royal Scottish Country Dance Society
(rscdsDOTorg)
** **
1629
hours. I have no idea what I am going to do with this. I learned to square dance
back in junior high school. For decades my parents were high ranked and
participated in square dance competitions in several states.
You had a nap and supper is about ready.
Post. – Amorella
1802
hours. I am going into this writing blind.
For supper you and Linda had three ears of fresh corn and Carol had two.
1838 hours. Carol and Linda are writing thank you cards to those who have helped at Mary Lou’s. The tag sale is tomorrow, Saturday and Sunday. Carol and Linda are having lunch with Gayle. Tomorrow evening you and Paul are watching the boys while Kim is off with women friends for dinner, so tomorrow’s activities are set. I have set up the new document for Chapter Ten. Are the four sections of the chapter the dancers?
How would you propose that they are? – Amorella
The dancing could be in a transition first sentence and last of each segment with the one leading into the other, perhaps as a line or two in a poetic device such as a heroic couplet – at least for the first segment, then see if we can go from there with the others. Humor has to be involved.
Find a heroic couplet that you like and we’ll go from there. – Amorella.
1901 hours. This might be fun. – This didn’t take long. “Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift” is my favorite poem by Swift, one of my all time favorites for style and wit. It is difficult to pull out lines, which are put in context. You can’t take a few clean bricks out of a wall and give meaning to their place in the entire structure. So, here it is, dropped again in this blog. The best is worth noting more than once.
** **
Verses on the Death of Dr. Swift, D.S.P.D.
BY JONATHAN SWIFT
From Nature, I believe 'em true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
Is thought too base for human breast:
"In all distresses of our friends,
We first consult our private ends;
Points out some circumstance to please us."
Let reason and experience prove.
Our equal rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you
But would not have him stop my view.
Then let him have the higher post:
I ask but for an inch at most.
One, whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won;
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!
His brethren write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
He'd wish his rivals all in hell.
She turns to envy, stings and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all on me a usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;
Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine;
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six;
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, "Pox take him and his wit!"
In my own hum'rous biting way?
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and show'd its use.
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortify'd my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents Heav'n has blest 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?
Thy gifts; but never to my friend:
I tamely can endure the first,
But this with envy makes me burst.
Proceed we therefore to our poem.
Must by the course of nature die;
When I foresee my special friends
Will try to find their private ends:
Tho' it is hardly understood
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear 'em speak:
"See, how the Dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman, he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind:
Forgets the place where last he din'd;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion'd wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.
He takes an hour to find a rhyme;
His fire is out, his wit decay'd,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen;—
But there's no talking to some men!"
By adding largely to my years:
"He's older than he would be reckon'd
And well remembers Charles the Second.
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.
His stomach too begins to fail:
Last year we thought him strong and hale;
But now he's quite another thing:
I wish he may hold out till spring."
"It is not yet so bad with us."
And by their fears express their hopes:
Some great misfortune to portend,
No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,
The merit of a lucky guess
(When daily "How d'ye's" come of course,
And servants answer, "Worse and worse!")
Would please 'em better, than to tell,
That, "God be prais'd, the Dean is well."
Then he who prophecy'd the best
Approves his foresight to the rest:
"You know I always fear'd the worst,
And often told you so at first."
He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover;
But all agree to give me over.
Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should mend?
Inquire what regimen I kept,
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the sniv'llers round my bed.
For though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast,
They must be verify'd at last.
"How is the Dean?"—"He's just alive."
Now the departing prayer is read;
"He hardly breathes."—"The Dean is dead."
Before the passing-bell begun,
The news thro' half the town has run.
"O, may we all for death prepare!
What has he left? and who's his heir?"—
"I know no more than what the news is;
'Tis all bequeath'd to public uses."—
"To public use! a perfect whim!
What had the public done for him?
Mere envy, avarice, and pride:
He gave it all—but first he died.
And had the Dean, in all the nation,
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood?"
With elegies the town is cloy'd:
Some paragraph in ev'ry paper
To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier.
Wisely on me lay all the blame:
"We must confess his case was nice;
But he would never take advice.
Had he been rul'd, for aught appears,
He might have liv'd these twenty years;
For, when we open'd him, we found
That all his vital parts were sound."
'Tis told at Court, the Dean is dead.
Runs laughing up to tell the Queen.
The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good,
Cries, "Is he gone! 'tis time he should.
He's dead, you say; why, let him rot:
I'm glad the medals were forgot.
I promis'd them, I own; but when?
I only was the Princess then;
But now, as consort of a king,
You know, 'tis quite a different thing."
Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy:
"Why, is he dead without his shoes?"
Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news:
O, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will!
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke were dead!"
Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains!
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revis'd by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters:
Revive the libels born to die;
Which Pope must bear, as well as I.
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.
To bite his pen, and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
"I'm sorry—but we all must die!"
Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise,
All fortitude of mind supplies:
For how can stony bowels melt
In those who never pity felt?
When we are lash'd, they kiss the rod,
Resigning to the will of God.
Are tortur'd with suspense and fear;
Who wisely thought my age a screen,
When death approach'd, to stand between:
The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling;
They mourn for me without dissembling.
Have better learn'd to act their parts,
Receive the news in doleful dumps:
"The Dean is dead: (and what is trumps?)
Then, Lord have mercy on his soul!
(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.)
Six deans, they say, must bear the pall:
(I wish I knew what king to call.)
Madam, your husband will attend
The funeral of so good a friend.
No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight:
And he's engag'd to-morrow night:
My Lady Club would take it ill,
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean—(I lead a heart)
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time was come: he ran his race;
We hope he's in a better place."
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean;
Who now, alas! no more is miss'd,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now this fav'rite of Apollo!
Departed:—and his works must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.
Some country squire to Lintot goes,
Inquires for "Swift in Verse and Prose."
Says Lintot, "I have heard the name;
He died a year ago."—"The same."
He searcheth all his shop in vain.
"Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane;
I sent them with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cook's.
To fancy they could live a year!
I find you're but a stranger here.
The Dean was famous in his time,
And had a kind of knack at rhyme.
His way of writing now is past;
The town hath got a better taste;
I keep no antiquated stuff,
But spick and span I have enough.
Pray do but give me leave to show 'em;
Here's Colley Cibber's birth-day poem.
This ode you never yet have seen,
By Stephen Duck, upon the Queen.
Then here's a letter finely penn'd
Against the Craftsman and his friend:
It clearly shows that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.
Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication,
And Mr. Henley's last oration.
The hawkers have not got 'em yet:
Your honour please to buy a set?
'Tis read by every politician:
The country members, when in town,
To all their boroughs send them down;
You never met a thing so smart;
The courtiers have them all by heart:
Those maids of honour who can read
Are taught to use them for their creed.
The rev'rend author's good intention
Hath been rewarded with a pension.
He doth an honour to his gown,
By bravely running priestcraft down:
He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester,
That Jesus was a grand imposter;
That all his miracles were cheats,
Perform'd as jugglers do their feats:
The church had never such a writer;
A shame he hath not got a mitre!"
A club assembled at the Rose ;
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indiff'rent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:
Was never ill receiv'd at Court.
As for his works in verse and prose
I own myself no judge of those;
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em:
But this I know, all people bought 'em.
As with a moral view design'd
To cure the vices of mankind:
His vein, ironically grave,
Expos'd the fool, and lash'd the knave.
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.
Because a duke was proud to own him,
Would rather slip aside and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes;
Despis'd the fools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends;
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatt'rers; no allies in blood:
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success;
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who, but for him, had been unknown.
But never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just:
'In princes never put thy trust';
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in pow'r.
The Irish senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry,
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found
To sell him for six hundred pound.
He might have rose like other men:
But pow'r was never in his thought,
And wealth he valu'd not a groat:
Ingratitude he often found,
And pity'd those who meant the wound:
But kept the tenor of his mind,
To merit well of human kind:
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in pow'r;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursu'd each other's ruin.
But, finding vain was all his care,
He left the Court in mere despair.
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event.
Too soon that precious life was ended,
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts;
By solemn League and Cov'nant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the law, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story:
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
Beheld the dire destructive scene:
His friends in exile, or the tower,
Himself within the frown of power,
Pursu'd by base envenom'd pens,
Far to the land of slaves and fens;
A servile race in folly nurs'd,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merits were, to be his foes;
When ev'n his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegadoes now he feels,
Against him lifting up their heels.
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their int'rest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,
To save that helpless land from ruin;
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench,
As vile and profligate a villain,
As modern Scroggs, or old Tresilian,
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heav'n his innocence defends,
The grateful people stand his friends.
Not strains of law, nor judge's frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
He spent his life's declining part;
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, a mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed:
Where titles gave no right or power
And peerage is a wither'd flower;
He would have held it a disgrace,
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain;
Biennial squires to market brought;
Who sell their souls and votes for nought;
The nation stripp'd, go joyful back,
To rob the church, their tenants rack,
Go snacks with thieves and rapparees,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In ev'ry job to have a share,
A jail or barrack to repair;
And turn the tax for public roads,
Commodious to their own abodes.
Had too much satire in his vein;
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name;
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant.
His satire points at no defect,
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe.
He spar'd a hump, or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux.
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confess'd
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace, learn'd by rote.
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:
Was cheerful to his dying day;
And friends would let him have his way.
To build a house for fools and mad;
And show'd by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better."
•
Your heart lights up on these very lines. Post. – Amorella
1922 hours. I am pleased. This is so cool. A little twist now and then can tighten or loosen the hanging rope.
The quotation you have ‘hanging’ over the
blog title on your notes is:
“Do the right thing. It will gratify some people and astonish
the rest.” Mark Twain
And,
you just posted the quote on your Facebook page. You felt it was time to share
this, one of your favorites. – Amorella
2132
hours. I did because that’s the way I look at the books and this blog. Anyone
who honestly and sincerely feels she or he stood within the presence of an
Angel of G---D has an obligation to share this with someone. I shared with my
old friend, Fritz Milligan. It was the right thing to do, I had no choice
really because even as an agnostic it was real enough for me to share the
initial experiences with a stranger (before Fritz), which I did. The Merlyn books are based on
the human feelings revealed to me by the encounter (real or not). I did not ‘see’
the Angel – it was felt within my heartansoulanmind first and traveled outward
to the five senses. It was as close to a mystical experience as I have ever
had. (That still does not make it a reality other than a subjective one.) The
experience was/is not verifiable. I am, as I always have been, an introversive
personality. I am much more comfortable writing my thoughts than speaking them.
The real focus of these writings is personal and spiritual no matter what words
are driven into place. (2152) – rho
You do not wish to gratify or astonish
anyone. That is Twain’s humor here. That’s your twist, but you do need to
express your feelings as they evolve. This is one of those moments. Upon
posting you will let this go and you will be free of it. - Amorella
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