Emotional bailout2

General question: Do psychological constructs lend themselves to organizing and understanding fiscal perceptions and decision-making of investors and can they be used to make these perceptions more accurate and their decision-making more effective?

General thesis: The present economic climate and its depiction by the media has generated a psychological climate of depression, anxiety, helplessness, defeatism, and vulnerability. This feeling is pervasive and behaviorally contagious. Concepts of resilience can be used to build consumer confidence, trust, optimism, and effective decision-making.

Processes: As in clinical states of depression, people view the present economic climate as pervasive, personalized, and permanent. As in anxiety they may behave in hysterical, histrionic, avoidant, and self-defeating ways.

When in fact: Like clinical depression, periods of economic recession are cyclical. Reactions to recession need not be rigid and pre-determined but can include a range of options. Consumers need to overcome feelings of helplessness and to recognize opportunities, while, at the same time, embracing reasonable safeguards and defensive maneuvers. Just as we can ward off depression and anxiety by psychological defenses and effective problem-solving, so we can defend against self-defeating investment behaviors. While Greenspan accurately warned against irrational exuberance, we now need to avoid irrational dismay. During both bull and bear markets the intelligent and emotionally balanced investor finds a middle ground between the horns of euphoria and depression. We need a psychological Abilify to combat bipolar investor syndrome.

Emotional bailout1

The current and lingering economic crisis and financial meltdown has affected everyone. The worldwide recession, foreclosures, increasing unemployment, deterrents to lending, borrowing, and business expansion have affected everyone. It is useful to draw saome parallels between the financial scene and accepted psychological medels, processes and treatment. Only a thumbnail sketch is pressnted here.

Financial capital has its personality counterpart in emotional resources, or what psychoanalysts label ego strength. Money or credit is required to grease the wheels of commerce and business. Ego resouces are required to cope with crises and internal conflict. Liquidity, or the ability to generate monies for business expansion, can be compared with emotional lability needed to respond appropriately, not excessively to external stressors. Confidence in government, leaders, previously valued banks and corporations, and the "American dream," translate into processes of trust in others. Histrically acceptaed support systems --banks, Bernake, Buffet, our homes, and government regulation are perceived as having failed us. Conflicts between advocates of freemarkets and those seeking rescue by the Federal Big Brother are reminiscent of Skinner's battle between free will and determinminm. Any Rand surfaces again.

Clinical syndromes of anxiety and panoic, depression and helplessness, phobias and avoidance behaviors, obsesssive compulsive symptoms have not been confined to psychaitric clinics, hospitals, and consulting roooms and are now commonplace on Wall Street and Main Street. Cognitive and emotional processes are apparent in
in speculators,investors and savers alike and include denial and delusional systems, anger and attribution of blame, loss of trust (e.g., consumer confidence), and attachment.Concepts of risk, expectancy of success, and incentive have direct application in business decision making.

Treatment models for treating anxiety, depression, anger, disturbed and irrational thinking, hysteria, and learned helplessness seem now to be equally relevant to the marketplace. The new emphasis upon positive psychology, heralded by Martin Seligman, may be directly applicable on a national level for a healthy emotional bailout
of our citizenry. We need to embrace concepts of resilience, optimism, and the setting of realistic emotional as well as financial goals. We need to learn ways for turning negatives into positives, to diversify our emotional as well as our financial assets, to avoid despair, sadness, and bitterness, to combat stress with a well oiled emotional immune system. Time is a friend of personality integration as well as financial recovery. Regression toward the mean applies eventially to financial markets. There is no certainty, only opportunity.

On self-esteem

My wife was babysitting two of our seven grandchildren. Ethan and Julia are four year old twins. It was time for Joyce to take them to pre-school. Ethan remarked that perhaps his teachers didn't want them to come to school that day but to stay home and play. "You have to go to school Ethan," Julia lectured to him, as she often does.
"Ethan," my wife offered. "Don't you remember? You are line leader today."
"O.K. I'll go to school."
"Line leaders are very special people" explained my wife.
"No," Julia contradicted. "Everybody gets a turn to be line leader."

Jack, another grandchiold, age five and in kindergatrten plays T-ball and flag football. After the T-ball season everyone on the team received a medal "When I played T-ball," his father remarked, "only the league champions received a medal."

At the high school where I work part time I notive that even children who haven't attended all year often receive "Incompletes" on their report cards rather than Fs.

Psychologist Martin Seligman, in his book "The optimistic child" rejects the common assumption that low self-esteem results in poor academic achievement. It is the reverse, he insists. Seligman attributes the accelerated increase in the frequency of childhood depression over the past 20 years to our prevalent "feel good" philosophy. Everyone seems fearful of destroying a child's self-esteem so that even minor effort, just showing up, is extravagantly praised. Feelings alone do not account for self-esteem, which should be based on actual accomplishments. Parents, teachers, and coaches need to teach children real skills and reward their achievements rather than focus only on building self-esteem by empty rewards and undeserved recognition. Children quickly learn to recognize bogus praise, which may actuually lower self-esteem. Julia was right on target,Joyce off base, if Seligman is right.

On resistance to change

Recently I had cause to ponder the source of resistance I encountered in trying to introduce a new mental health system in a high school at which I provide psychological services. Opposition was encountered despite the sore need for mental hrealth sevices and the receipt of grant support for proposed additions to the on-going program.

During the past presidential campaign both presidential candidates attacked the present administration and promised change. Most voters also seemed to desire change but the change had to be according to their own definition of how it would be structured

A close relative of mine was violently opposed to the Democratic candidate before the election and extremely bitter about the outcome. Her perception of Barack Obama conformes to the worst stereotyping and slander that had been circulated by radical conservatives. She sincerely believes that he is a fanatical Moslem who consorts with terrorists. Furthermore he is a Socialist, despite the fact that she gladly accepts social security and medicare payments and was raised by a family that voted Democratic since FDR and the Great Depression. In her view it is highly likely that the new president will sell out to Islamic interests,will transfer inordinate amounts of her assets to undeserving poor people, will make her pay for universal health care. In fairness to her she opposes using federal bailout money to greedy bankers who caused the present financial crisis, yet somehow attributes the ultimate fault to lie with previous Democratic regimes. She sees no inconsistency in endorsing Republican free trade and anti-regulatory philosophy. Accepting her concepts as true, it is small wonder that she opposes change. I await the building of her air raid shelter.

It seems to me that reaction to proposed change is determined by a definable set of factors. Resistance to change may be directly related to the perceived magnitude of change from the status quo and the perceived risk to be incurred by change, and inversely related to the perceived value of the proposed change both persoanlly and to the system as a whole. Reformers endorsing change need to manipulate each of these factors to win support for their program. The Magnitude factor requires imposition of change in small and grsdually applied stages with proven success of each incremental modification. Attention to Risk requires demonstration of the feasibility of the planned changes without radical disruption of individual or the common good. Manipulation of Value perception requires attention in promoting visible, understandable, and concrete outcomes of change. Rather than emphasizing a global concept of satisfaction of the whatever administration is currently empowered, public relations persons need to address and measure public perceptions of specific components of each of the three determining attitudinal and emotional factors.

A visit to Crown Point

A few short blocks along Kingston Avenue, Brooklyn house the Latavich Chasidic Community. A visit to this area is like stepping back in time to 19th century European shteltes. About 15,000 members of this community practice the Chasidoc life as it was done in Russia for generations. The Latavich brand of Chasidism is worldwide and is the largest group of Chasidics in the world. My wife and I spent four hours touring this area and being briefed by Rabbi Beryl Epstein, who serves as public relations guide for the group. Among the places we visited were the synagogue, the world headquarters of the group, and the building where Torahs are repaired. Joyce and I make many vists to Manhattan and have been doing so for several years. This trip to Crown Heights, easily accessible by subway from midtown Manhattan on the 7th Avenue Line, was by far our most memorable trip.

Without going into too much detail here it is important to understand that the study of the Torah and adherence to over 600 rules prescibing the way one must live govgerns one's life Children spend most of their waking hours studying Torah to the exclusion of more traditional academic pursuits of American children and adolescents. I asked if they also studied traditional philsophical doctrines--Plato, Aristotle, Locke, Hume, Berkeley, Kant and the like. The answer was no. These writings may contain many approximations to the truth but only God's word, as written in the Torah, is the ultimate truth.

The Chasidic are pure in thought and deed. They are modest in their dress. Men must not touch a woman other than their wives, even to shake hands, as my wife found
out. Married women wear wigs so as to avoid attracting men to them sexually. Men must not allow a blade to touch their faces and so grow long beards that remain untrimmed for life.

I deal here with only one of many revelations I found interesting. Behavior must be dictated by both heart and mind, but of the two the mind is supreme. Thus passions are controlled by reason. My association here, and the sole purpose of this blog, is to draw a paralel with cognitive behavioral psycholgy of Beck, Ellis, Seligman and others. Cognition determines behavior and feelings. Treatment is in the form of cognitive restructuring to correct irrational thoughts tha drive self-defeating, painful,inappropriate, and destructive behavior. That, along with more traditional behavioral approaches, are often successful and are evidence-based. The Chasidic would be cynical of such a short circuited approach to a healthy life as compared with a lifetime of study, prayer, and rigid adgerence to God's word as handed down at Mt. Sinai. One does not require a therapist to go to Heaven but a rabbi may help.

Bailout

Most of us have experienced serious financial and emotional repercussions from the current worldwide financial meltdown. I am developing a talk for church and synagogue women's and men's clubs titled "Emotional bailout: Coping with recession." The presentation will draw parallels between economic concepts and psychological constructs, e.g., consumer confidence and trust; wall street panic and anxiety disorders; bear markets and depression, financial capital and ego strength; liquidity and amotional lability. The major thrust of the talk will be using psychological treatment strstegies and positive psychology to avoid anxiety, depression, panic, impulsity, and hysteria, both in the marketplace and intrapsychicly. It is expected that this topic will be relevant for quite some time.

On book covers

As previously indicated here, I have a novel due out hopefully by year end.
Like others, I found the creative process exciting and the editing akin to torture. I knew this would be the case from the onset. I did not anticipate the need to be actively involved in the cover design.

The publisher, Eloquent books, assigned my cover to an artist located in Boca Raton.
While Kurt did not read the book, I supplied him with a brief synopsis.I also suggested that, since the story centered around a therapist and a client, both with hidden emotional baggage, it might be approrpaite to draw profiles of each protagonist facing each other as in treatment. I further suggested that each head include a brain and within the brain a small figure or homunculous, representing unconscipous motivations.
The drawing that Kurt did was striking. Two x-ray heads revealed teeth, upper vertebrtae and brains with homunculi. These were imposed upon a black background. The drawing was excellent and would likely sell books. However the entire effect was sinister, menacing and Stephen Kingish. While the book has some violence, it is not a horror story. I e-mailed Kurt and explained politely that the drawing was great but conveyed the wrong impression. The therapist was, in fact, a kind and caring man. I asked if he could soften the picture to better depict a therapist. Kurt tried again and used a photograph of a very distingushed grey haired, grandfatherly man. Since my own picture will appear on the back cover,
and I cannot, by any stretch of theimagination, compete with Dr. Kindness, again I demurred. One photograph was enough. I waited several weeks and again made a third suggestion. Kurt took it well but must have been growing tired of me and my suggestions. Since the first part of the book depicts the early childhood, education and training of the therapist,I suugested three line drawings of a boy, a young man, and an elderly man, depicting the same person evolving as a therapist. I further suggested a dark, starry sky as background, with a comet and tail in the upper corner. The comet makes sense because of some later developments in the story, which I choose not to reveal here.
I await the third and, God willing, final version of my cover.

On choosing a cover

My novel Shrink is undergoing a final editing. I spent the better part of two weeks re-writing what I thought was a near perfect copy until I solicited and paid for professional editing. Lacey was extraordinary. I expected the editing of typos, granmatical and punctuation errors. These were in no short supply and made right. What i did not expect were the numerpus suggestions for improving the writing. Clarifications, changes in sequence, greater elaboration, and numerous deletions
were suggested.

On writing and editing

A publisher once explained that 30% of a writer's effort on a book manuscript should be devoted to writing,10% to editing, and 60% to marketing. My experience with Shrink,a psychological novel, hopefully to be out by year end, has been different. After doing self-editing on two previous books that appeared with several misspellings, I decided to pay for professional editing on Shrink, my first, novel. The publisher steered me to Lacey. She wasn't cheap but the experience was unique. Still enmeshed in making the hundreds of changes she suggested, I would place the 10%estimate at double that amount of time.
Lacey was extraordinary. Her critique was accompanied by detailed explanations of reasons why I should make each change. She never sugar coated or pulled her punches.
At times I found myself wanting to shout back at her but in the end she was usually accurate. I feel as if I am enrolled in a graduate level writing seminar. The most telling lessons I learned about writing and about my own style, which I seldom questioned, was that I commit two errors, repeatedly--"information dumping" and "point of view."
I tend to be professorial in describing the historical or psychological background for diagnoses, therapies, ethical considerations, and the like. My model is Dan Brown (The Davinci Code, Angels and Demons, a far better writer than I will ever be. Enmeshed in his stories are detailed mathematical, historical, philisophical, and theological background "Information dumps." It is these that endear Brown's novels to me. Lacey would not be so enamoured of him as I. "They slow down the story" she screams at me (in text). "I forget what I have been reading." Her advice is to embed the information in the story,if it is important. If it doesn't add to the story, delete it. Both of these options are difficult. The first for technical the second for emotional reasons. I get attached to what I put in print.

"Point of view" refers to whose perception of events is being presented. I tend to switch without warning or segue. In one scene my villain is involved in an automobile accident and is knocked unconscious. I describe the arrival of ambulance, paramedics, the jaws of life, and trip to the hospital. "How is all of this known? Where were you?" Lacey asks sarcastically, "In a balloon overhead?"

I have no idea how Shrink will be received or whether I will be able to devote all the marketing time needed. Whatever the outcome, Lacey has made this novel immeasurably better than I had done on my own.

Concrete thinking, Asperger's Syndrome and The Battle of Little Big Horn

In 1876, the vainglorious General George Custor, with a force of 600 troops, impetuously attacked a Sioux band of 2500 to 3000 warriors without waiting for support from the remainder of his companies. The entire body of men was wiped out. The battle was depicted in the movie "They died with their boots on."

I have never seen anyone die with their boots on but I have seen soldiers sleep in that manner. During my active duty service many years ago I was in a company consisting of persons like myself, avoiding the draft by enlisting in the Army reserve. In the midst of my graduate study, six months of active duty and five and half years of Army Reserve at home was preferable to two years of service God knows where.

One of the tribulations was KP. About once every few weeks I tied a towel to my bed stand at night so that the OD at 4:00 AM could wake me and a few other slaves for a day to dress, makes one's bunk, and report to the klitchen. Those who arrived first got the easiest jobs. Laggards would up in the most odious positions, the worst of which was scrubbing greasy pots and pans for an entire company using harsh lye soap in boiling water. Lacing army boots in the dark at 4:00 AM is not any easy task. To avoid pots and pans many soldiers made their beds the night before, did not remove their clothing or boots, and slept on the hard floor. I was no such fool. KP could last 16 hours. Periodically a mess sergeant would arrive, run his finger around the edge of the soapy water, and, if it came out the least bit greasy, make me empty the sink, start again with fresh water, and redo the last two hours work. Nevertheless, I refused to sleep with my boots on.


Asperger's Syndrome is a form of autism occurring in higher functioning persons. Seventy-five percent of autistic child never learn to talk. Almost all have communication deficits. They also have social deficits and may not form relationships. They also may have stereotyped behaviors such as hand flapping, spinning in circles. They are preoccupied with routine and become upset when they encounter new situations. Children with Asperger's tend to be of average or bright intelligence and do develop language, although their speech may seem somewhat poeculiar. They share the other characteristics of autism.

I was asked to consult about a 12 year old sixth grader with the diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome. Alex was verbal, but easily upset with changes in his routine.
His IQ was in the low average range. Alex has been wearing the same sneakers since third grade. He refuses to wear his new sneakers despite the fact that the old ones are torn and ratty. His school psychologist had worked with him and was able to get him to try on the new sneakers and wear them to gym. She provided incentives for him to continue to wear the better fitting, more attractive sneaks. "Do you think you might now wear these all the time?" she asked. "No I like to take off my sneakers when I go to bed" was his reply.

It occurred to me that Alex had a peculiar concrete type of thinking that makes his interpret things literally. Most children his age would accept as a given that people don't sleep with their shoes on and "all the time" referred only to waking hours. I wondered how much of Alex's "melt downs" and other peculiariities wer language based with misterpretation of communications from other leading to his fears and frequent temper outbursts. Alex told me that he doesn't eat apples when he is hungry becayuse they speed up his digestion and are unhealthy. He does not play soccer because "it makes you shrink." Had he been told something stunts his growth? Can I teach him to deal with abstractions, understand humor, recognize inconsistencies and absurditiies. Or are these the very essance of autistic reason and beyond interventions? We'll see.

I married a jackrabbit

My wife is ADHD. Her entire family is ADHD. I am not. She has an ADHD internal combustion engine. I’m a run down AA battery.

We like to walk every evening during the warmer months. Our new house is part of a development but it’s out in the boonies far enough that we can be on country roads in five minutes. We enjoy walking past the horse farms, the estates, the corn fields, the barns and silos. We share that interest. But our styles differ. I like to stroll. She sprints. I have long legs. Hers are short. I can’t keep up with her. When she senses that she has opened up too great a distance she makes a loop and comes back. She winds up walking a lot more steps than I do. We hold hands until her ADHD accelerator kicks in and she opens up a fast ten yards and the process repeats. 0

I’m sure there is a vastly divergent psychological profile. She lives life faster than me. She thinks faster. She talks faster and gets more words in. She starts sentences and doesn’t finish them before starting the next sentence. When she talks to her sister on the telephone the wires heat up and don’t attempt to get me for at least 45 minutes. Her mom is good for an hour. She accuses me of not being talkative. I accuse her of not explaining things fully so that I understand. She insists she told me things that I never heard. I’m sure she said something related to what she thinks she said but it never registered. It’s not that I’m not communicating. It’s just that she doesn’t give me enough time for the thought to take shape and the words to come out.

Perhaps I don’t talk enough. But I talk quality. When I say something it pays to listen.

She reads my blogs. She may slow down enough to let me know how wrong I am. I may hear her.

Amusement parks

When my children were young I dutifully took them to amusement parks. This piece was written at that time. Now that I have grandchildren the same thoughts arise, although I do enjoy Disneyworld.

I do not like amusement parks
To me they're not appealing
I'd rather swim with schools of sharks
Than venture Ferris wheeling.

I do not like amusement parks
I've found they don't amuse me.
I think I hate amusement parks.
Who needs them to abuse me?

While some are whirling all around
With great acceleration
I stay safely on the ground
And practice moderation.

A stomach was not meant to churn
(It's really not supposedta')
It's clear that I will never learn
To brave the roller coaster.

I'd rather ride the Carousel
It's fine for one who's cautious.
Cause I can hold on very well
Without becoming nauseous.

But other rides that I have tried
My kishkus finds upsettable.
Whatever prompts me to decide
I later find regretable.

On Hurrican, Cyclose, Comet, Whip
A thousand folk make merry.
But when my stomach starts to flip
Is this trip necessary?

When others ride the Tilt-A-Whirl
I just refuse to go.
Around the heavens, how they twirl
While I wait down below.

Like mighty Gods they rule the skies
And I a tiny worm, a
Serpent not equipped to rise
Above the terra firma.

Once in a moment weak I dared
To ride the fearsome Rocket.
I climbed aboard, no effort spared,
My ticket in my pocket.

The engine started with a roar.
I knew I'd met my master.
I braced my feet against the floor.
Ten heroes shouted "Faster."

Three times around the missile sped.
I clutched the handles frantically.
The world revolved about my head,
Pacific to Atlantically.

Once more about the Rocket turned,
My vision growing blurry.
My eyes bulged out, my forehead burned.
The children laughed, "Don't worry!"

And when,atlast,the ride was done
And heavens ceased their turning.
I made my exit on the run,
With stomach fully churning.

At last I found an empty bench
To regain equilibrium.
My nerves had had an awful wrench,
And so had my vestibulum.

Right then I vowed forevermore
Precisely and specifically
That I'd abhor, ignore, withdraw
From things that worked centrifically.

Though I don't like amusement parks
I'm sure there's much to say for them...
Now I don't mind amusement parks
Because I stay away from them.

Jewel box

The lid was stuck, the pin askew
You warned me not to try.
My projects raise a cry and hue
My fixing you decry.

That box is dear to me you cried
Inlaid with oak and teak.
But fragile is the h8inge inside
Just waiting these to break.

No need to worry, my sweet wife.
Wipe sorrow from your face.
There's not the slightest cause for strife.
I'll set that pin in place.
With one swift tap the rod I hit.
The pin came out...but the hinge was split.

The dark in the closet

The dark in the closet: A bedtime story

by

Popop


Jack was a brave boy. Just three years old he could jump from the sofa to the ottoman without ever falling, (even though his parents were not pleased when he did that). He could run as fast as a rabbit. He could lift a very heavy chair and move it to the corner so he would have room to play with his trains and trucks. He was also a very smart boy. He knew the names of all the dinosaurs. (Tyranasaurus Rex was his favorite.) He went to pre-school three days a week and sometimes learned bad words from other children, which did not please his teacher or his mom or his dad or his grandmom Jo. He could not understand why it was OK to say “stupendous” but when he said a shorter word, which needn’t be written here, he got in BIG trouble. So he didn’t say the shorter word, except once in a while it slipped out and then he had to have a serious talk with dad and then warm up the time out chair.
Best of all Jack liked to pretend he was Spiderman. He ran and jumped and lifted and caught make pretend bad guys, as he saw on TV. Once in a while that got a little out of hand as well so he had to have more serious talks with dad and the time out chair didn’t get too lonely. But most of the time Jack was a well behaved –well pretty active—little boy who made everyone happy when he was around.

But Jack had one big problem. Jack didn’t like the dark. Even though his mom and dad told him the dark was there to help him sleep at night next to his trusty dog Tillygirl, Jack just wasn’t very comfortable with the light out. So his parents left the light on at night and he slept
fine… except for the closet.. In the corner of his room, next to his toy chest, was his clothes closet where his best dress-up clothes were hung. Dad told him there was nothing else in that closet but Jack was not so sure. How can you tell there is nothing else if it’s so dark you can’t see inside?” Jack knew about witches and monsters and bad guys from TV. He also was told many times about fairytales not being real but still…if you can’t see inside the closet how do you really know?” At least that’s what Jack thought about when he was trying to close his eyes and go to sleep. And sometimes it was worse than that. If mommy left the closet door open the darkness might escape and come into his room and then anything might happen!
Jack’s mom and dad didn’t know what to do. How could they show Jack that the dark was friendly and not scary? Do you have any ideas? Well they didn’t. This was too bad because Jack was such a happy boy and this was the only thing that was spoiling it (except for the occasional talks with dad and time out, but those weren’t so bad either).
Well, that went on for a while until Grandmom Jo had a very good idea.
“Lets make a trap for the darkness,” she suggested. “I’ve got a very special shoebox that likes it dark inside. We’ll put this box here right outside the closet door and I’ll make a tiny, little hole in the side. It’s a very special hole. Things can go into it and get trapped. If the darkness comes out of the closet it will go right into this hole and be trapped inside the box. Nothing can escape so you don’t have to worry.”
So Grandmom Jo put the box by the door and I guess it worked because the darkness stayed in the closet, and Jack went to sleep, and that’s the end of the story. Good night.

On psychs and writing

In my early years as a psychologist I was able to publish a fair number of research papers in professional journals. I was doing what had been drilled into me as a graduate student at Penn. Psychology (at least empirical psychology) was a scientific discipline and we are obliged to expand our science by publishing controlled, meaningful research in respectable, refereed journals. After several years of doing just that, most often in the area of mental retardation and habilitation of handicapped persopns, I had an epiphany. It wasn't the research that motivated me. Most of my studies were not that important or influential. It was the writing that drove me on--a visible validation of who I am and what I do. Compulsively I maintained by curriculum vitae and even saved copies of each paper in folders for my children, who would one day be grateful for the opportiunity to learn what their father did. They never did read those admittedly boring papers and I have have long since since discarded them. However, I continued to write in a more creative style outside the realm of psychology. I was less than successful. Of my 12 published books, only one was an attempt to reach a more general audience. Notes and Blots was a collection of short, autobiographical and annecdotal pieces. It was piublished, never marketed, and sold 43 copies. However it is still available on Amazon.com and occcasionally I buy a few used copies for friends.

There have been a few well known psychologists who were successful as popular writers. Hiam Ginot's Between Parent and Child, B. F. Skinner's Walden Two, and Robert Lindner's Fifty Minute Hour and Rebel Without a Cause are some notable examples.

My efforts to publish my first novel, Shrink, are on-going and somewhat painful.
I have learned that the actual writing is the least important part of the process. Finding a publisher, editing to specifications, and marketing are the most time consuming and least satisfying tasks. Presently I am having problems communicating with a review manager and have a bad premonmition that this odyssey may not end well for me. Time will tell. If successful, I will undoubtedly continue my feeble efforts at becoming a popular psychology writer. If not, I'm not sure that my
motivation will sustain itself.

The great bee caper

My son Michael keeps bees. Forty thousand of them in two hives. He feeds them sugar water, takes the honey and distributes it to friends and relatives, including me. I like the honey. It's medicinal. I stay away from the bees. One got into my shirt last summer but didn't sting, to its credit. However, that still doesn't endear them to me. Seinfeld's Bee movie was amusing.

Joyce opened the walk-in closet of our master bedroom of our almost new house in the
country last week and there were four bees. Then there were eight...then 100. They looked very similar to Michael's (and Seinfeld's) drones. Don't tell Michael but we killed a few to identify them for the local Bug-B-Gone serice whom we called. (Not their real name). The first appointment produced a house inspection. Mr. Smooth Talker explained that they weren't honey bees (which they wouldn't treat ("Get a bee keeper," he advised.)"I've already got Michael," I returned. They were yellow jackets, which look a lot like honey bees but less friendly. They would get rid of them but required a one year contract for a small fortune but would protect us against all manner of creeping, crawling, other pedes about which I had no concerns. However, you do what you have to do. A man would come the next day prepared to rid my house of bees for the duration of the contract.
The next day a man arrived as promised. He seemed somewhat baffled when he entered the house.

We'd been sleeping in the basement, swatting them on the glass patio door, one at a time. Joyce, far braver than me, was shooing hundred at a time out the door, waving a towel around her head like a "meshuganah." Of course they were going around the back again into the attic (We spied their enterance hole)after spending the day sucking on my neighbor's large flowering hydrangea. She was feedimg them while we provided housing.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, they didn't tell me."

I showed him the dead bodies and the closet, now swarming with bees
"You'll have to get up into the attic and see if you can find the hive. Do you have a ladder?"

"No, they don't give us ladders."

I took him to the garage and showed him my ladder. He climbed to the top step, put his head in the attick opening, and climbed down the ladder.
"You don't have floor boards...only rafters. We're not allowed to go in there."

f you had a tall ladder you could possibly work from the outside."

"I'm afraid of heights."

"So am I. That's why I paid your exhorbitant fee."

Controlling my mounting anger I pointed out to him that my next call was to American Express to cancel the charge. Futhermore,I was certain that my next-door- neightbor, who had signed on when I did, would also cancel her contract.

"I'll have to call my supervisor."

"You do that."

A few minute later he reported that he now had permission to go into the attack but he didn't have the correct spray. He's be back, adequately preparewd at 8:00 AM the next day.

The next day he arrived, an hour late, and after my irate call to Bug-B-Gone.
He again climbed the ladder and peered in.

"It's very dark in there. Is there a light switch?"

"No lights. we never go up there. Do you have a flashlight?"

"They don't provide us..."

"Never mind, I have a flashlight you can use."

The story improves. He squirted the hive with a spray that shoots 15 feet.
He sprayed the entrance holes, inside and out. He left me a can of the poison which instantly attacks the bees' nervous system.

"Would you also plug up the entrance homes?"

"We're not allowed to do that."

In a day there were no more bees. Michael came and climbed my ladder to plug the holes. We've been bee-free for a week. I haven't canceled my charge. If anyone reading this is having a bee problem I will be glad to tell you the real name of the Bug-B-Gone company as an exterminator not to call.

Watch for Shrink

For those wondering where I have been, here is an update. I have been diligently editing a book which should be out this winter. "Shrink: Odyssey of a therapist"
has been two years in the making. It is a psychological novel set around a therapy situation. Morris Shwartz, a 62 year old Philadelphia psychologist brought up in the Bronx, NY treats James O'Malley, a displaced farmer from northeast, Pennsylvania. Although the patient originally presents problems in asserting himself on his job, the therapist begins to suspect more serious problems as the patient's dreams become increasingly violent. Book One ends with a court trial and a surprise climax. The story evolves from a confluennce of two personalities-the therapist and his patient. The book is heavy in psychological theory and practice,particularly dream interpretation. In Book Two,the therapist, now retired, becomes more spiritual. After a series of experiences which appear paranormal, he delves into the literature about altered states of consciousness. The climax, in a psychioatric hospital, when Morris appears delusional, raises questions about the boundaries between normal and abnormal, delusions and deality, fantasy and truth.

Later enties here may deal with the hazzards and frustrations of publishing a non-professional book.

Alice in Rorschachland

It was 1961. The year of internship was dragging. Clinical work was interesting but the long grey Maryland evenings hung heavy. My dissertation sat on a box high on the shelf above. I needed to re-write it for publication but I was tired of working on it. I found a new diversion. Rorschach evaluation was a recently acquired skill. Patients at the V.A. Hospital at Perry Point provided a continuous flow of pathological Rorschach respopnses so grotesque they seemed to reflect a Wonderland gone wild. I tried to express my growing involvement with the technique in satirical fantasy. Spouting innuendoes,decipherable only by Rorschach devotees, Alice would grope her way through the ten inkblots. Despite my enthusiasm with the metaphors, the story was left unfinished when I returned to Philadelphia for my first professional job as a doctoral level psychologist.

Hiding crumpled in the center drawer was the unfinished handwritten Rorschach parody. I had all but forgotten the forced puns. I laughed at my own humor and spent a week finishing the story. Tongue -in-cheek, I mailed it off to a very staid editor of the Journal of Projective Techniques--a man well known in Rorschach circles. Within a month the acceptance arrived.

"We would like to print your amusing paper, but would you kindly forward a hundred word absrract to comply with journal policy?" I wanted to comply but how could Alice be abstracted? An idea hit me. It was not the technique that needed cxriticizing but it's abuse. Who, besides Alice, could fault a pack of cards? In good conscience I wrote the hundred words.

"Misconceptons and misuse of the Rorschach are parodied in this Alice in Wonderland story. Alice falls down a rabbit hole and journeys through the Rorschach plates until she is caught and tried at an Inquiry on Card X. The story can be interpreted as critical of Rorschach practicianers who search only for pathology, not health, who ignore the free association instructions to the client, and who themselves restructure reality along Rorschach dimensions of personality and terminology.

I

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister onthe bank and having nothing to do. She was considering in her "mind" (she always considered her mind in quotation marks) whether the pleasure of making a disy chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking daiseys, when suddenly a green rabbit with curvy eyelashes ran close by her. There was nothing very remarkable in that, nor did Alice
think it so much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to himself, "Oh dear, twenty minutes late. I shall be contaminated." When she thought it over afterwards it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered, but at the time it did not seem at all bizarre. Yet, when the rabbit took a stopwatch out of its waistecoat pocket, looked at it, then hurried on, Alice started to her feet. It flashed across her "mind" (she always thought of "mind" inquotation marks)that she had never before seen a green rabbit with either a waistcoat pocket or a watch to take out of it. Burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit hole under the hedge.

In another moment, down went Alice after it, never once considering the problem of size constancy. Down, down, down she fell, quite sorry by now that she had jumped so impulsively without evidence of either appropriate ego control or proper executive processes. Thump, thump, thump! She landed upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves (at least they were shaped that way but were clearly without color) and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt and jumped to her feet in a moment. She looked up to see nothing but blank space above her head. All around her was a black dreary expanse, sometimes broken by shades of grey or white, but not a speckle of color. She was contemplating the possibilities of an organic basis for her perceptual distortion(she had given her cortex quite a jar in the landing) when all at once the green rabbit reappeared. There was not a moment to be lost. Away went Alice after him and was just in time to see the rabbit turn a corner(I would describe the corner dear reader, but since it was only a rare detail I will not tarry here) and to hear him exclaim: "Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it is getting. I must get to X before the Inquiry," and off he ran and was soon no-where to be seen. All at once, Alice, who was now beginning to remember how lonely she was and how nice it would be to be sitting by the fire with her cat Dinah, began to cry.

"Mustn't cry, you know!" she heard, and looking up, realized that she was sitting at the feet of a giant Halloween Mask (or at least what would be the feet of a Halloween mask if Halloween masks had feet). "How strange! thought Alice, "but everything today is strange."

"What kind of a bird are you?" asked the mask. Alice looked closely and could make out two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

"I'm not a bird at all. I'm a child," replied Alice indignantly.

"A human child?" asked the mask.

"Of course," Alice answered.

"Impossible! Only one human on this card, and she has no head."

"Well I have a head," Alice replied, "which is about all that you have, I believe."

"Don't be impertinent," said the mask."You're being scored, you know."

"I am not scared. You don't affect me at all."

"Why were crying, then? It's the black, you know," the mask continued without even waiting for an answer. "Makes us all a bit down in the mouth."

"Everthing is so bizarre today," explained Alice.

"Bizarre?" questioned the mask, suspiciously."

"Yes, I'm not sure I'm the same girl I was yesterday."

"Write that down" said the mask (to no one at all that Alice could see). "And remind me to bring it up at the Inquiry."

"I'm certain I must have changed. I'll try to say 'How doth the little...' She crossed her hands in her lap, as if she were saying her lessons, and began to re-cite. Her voice sounded hoarse and the words did not come out the sanme as they used to sound.

"How doth the little butterfly
Remember who he wuz
Before he learned to question why
When he wuz only fuzz?

Is he the same short wiggly worm
Or is he any more for this,
When he politely takes his turn
At completing metamorphosis?

And likewise what remains with us
When we are twelve or thirty,
Of thoughts and feelings long ago
When we were small and dirty?"

"I'm sure those are not the right words," mused Alice, and her eyes filled with tears once again.

"Certainly not," said the mask. "No matter. Go find the March Bears on Card II and ask tem to tell you their story."

"March Bears? What, pray tell, is a March Bear?"

"Dunce! You're obviously of borderline intelligence. You've heard the story of the emperer's new clothes, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes. He paraded naked in front of his subjects, but I don't see what that's got to do with it."

"He marched bare, didn't he?"

"I never thought of it that way before."

At that the mask began to grow fuzzier and dimmer. It's edges slowl;y ran into the white background until all that was left was a huge grinning mouth, and then it too disappeared.

II


"Curiouser and curiouser,"thought Alice. "A moment ago I was talking to a mask, and now here I am seated between two black bears playing pat-a-cake. "Peas porridge hot," shouted the first. "Pease porridge cold," cried the second, even louder. Before they could get to nine days old, Alice interrupted.

"Finally, something I understand. May I join in?"

"No room," said the bears in unison.

"Nonsense," said Alice. "There's plenty of room."

"In what way are an orange and a banana alike"? asked one of the bears.

"Oh, good, riddles," Alice retorted, always eager to show off her abstract ability.
"They're both fruit."

"Wrong," said the first bear. "They're not alike at all. One's round and orange and the other is long and yellow."

"Failure to discriminate," said the second. Write that down."


"Oh, stuff and nonsense," said Alice, not one to be easily put down. "They are both fruit, as well as apples and grapes and peaches and pears and pomegranites."

"Word salad," said the first bear.

"Pathognomonic" the second chimed in.

"I think they are both horrid," Alice thought, but not wishing to appear impolite, she ignored the last remarks.

"The mask said to ask you to tell your story."

The March Bears sighed deeply and began to sing in voices choked with sobs:

"You've seen bears at the circus and bears in the zoo,
But we are the bears who live on Card II.
We play peas porridge hot, and peas orridge cold.
If you don't see our movement you're not very old.
If we look like two bunnies don't spread it about.
If you see us in color you've really freaked out.
Do you see us up close, do you see us from far?
Are we soft, are we fuzzy, do we shine like a star?
Are we two dimensions or do we have vista?
Are we lady or man bears? That's our business, sister.
Do you see us attired in red hats and pink vests?
Do we seem to be friendly or are we just pests?
Do you think we are skinny or maybe too fat?
Just what do you think has made you say that?
The shape of our paws or the form of our noses,
Do you really know what deep problems this poses?
Do we look like Russia or maybe the Tsar?
You'd better lie down girl. You're really bizaare. Do you favor Klopfer or Exner or Beck?
Just shuffle the cards or get a new deck."

"I'm sure I don't understand a thing that you've said," commented Alice.

"Naturally," said he first bear. "We knew it from the start. Your thinking is confused. You are disoriented in all three spheres."

"I may be disoriented," returned Alice but at least I'm not bleeding."

"I knew it. I knew it," from bear two."She sees blood."

"Shocking," said the first bear.

"Fiddlesticks," said Alice, ignoring their disdainful glances. Your paws are bloody. You really should wear shoes, you know. Wait, I have a band-aid in my pocket. I'll have you fixed up in no time at all."

As Alice tried to apply the bandaid to the bears' feet they recoiled in horror.

"Stop it! Stop it"! they screamed "She's creating a color disturance. Call the Examiner"!

"I knew she'd try to use that medical model," said the first bear. "Get her"!

The two bears bared their fangs and leaped at Alice. It was only at the last second that Alice spied the Spinning Top way off in the distance--a large white whirling top that made a strange humming sound as it approached--"m...m...m...m" In a moment the top was upon them... It twirled right between the two bears and, just as they were about to pounce on Alice, she leaped onto it, grabbed the center post with both hands, and held on tightly. In two seconds she had left the bears far behind as she heard them resume their pat-a-cake game.

III

The top zigged this way and that, and, once Alice was far enough away from Card II that the bears could not reach her, she began to relax and enjoy the scenery. This was a strange country she was traveling through. It had trees anbd grass and animals and people but everything and everyone was of two colors- a shade of greyish-black and a variant of reddish-pink. At first Alice was somewhat taken aback by the lack of variety, but after a while she hardly noticed and everything seemed quite natural. Soon the top slowed down enough so that she could jump off without falling. She started to walk down a beautiful garden path when, turning round a bend she encountered what appeared to be two strange-looking Cannibals. They were dancing around a large pot shaped like a pepper. "They are so much alike they must have be twins," she thought. Above the pot hovered a monstous Red Butterfly The cannibals were naked except for a tight collar of pearls around their necks. Sometimes they looked like men and sometimes like women. The more she looked, the harder it was to tell what they were.

Although Alice was beginning to feel hungry (it was at least an hour beyond the time when Nanny served her an afternoon snack of cookies and milk), the pot did not smell at all appetizing. The cannibals were pouring in far too much pepper, so much so that the butterfly who was hovwering above was continually sneezing.

"What are you cooking? the girl asked. "Why pepper pot soup, of course."

"And why do you put so much pepper into it?"

"We ask the questions around here," snapped the cannibals in unison. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Alice answered hesitantly, now beginning to feel unwanted. "I was riding the spinning top and before I could say Psychodiagnostik
here I was." (Alice sometimes spoke in German when she wanted to impress, and although she hadn't the slightest idea what Psychodiagnostic meant, she was sure that neither did the cannibals.)

"Well" answered the Cannibals, "you are very lucky to be in our company on this card. We're very popular, you know."

"No, I don't know, and what's more I really don't care. I think you are very rude. And what's more you still haven't told me why you cook with so much pepper."

At this point the Cannibals resumed their dancing and began to chant:

"Speak harshly to your butterfly
And eat him when he sneezes.
He's introverted and he's shy
And if it's cold he freezes.
If you see buterflies, it's good.
Your passions do not rule ya.
But if you see them more than you should
Then sister you're peculiar.

As Alice watched, the cannibals seemed to be changing in front of her eyes from men to women and back to men again. Faster and faster they danced until they seemed no more than a flash of light.

"What are they doing"? she asked the Red Butterfly who still fluttered between them.

"It's their Liberation Movement," explained the butterfly. "It all started last week when they began arguing about whether it was better to be a man or a woman. They couldn't decide so they keep changing back and forth. It's a kind of metamorphisis, I think. Would you like to join their Movement"?

"Certainly not. I'm perfectly happy being just a girl"

At that, a pair of grotesque Red Monkeys swung down from the trees under which Alice was standing and began jabbering at her so rapidly that it sounded as just a jumble of words.

"Sexual confusion," accused the mokeys.

"Projection," they added.

But to Alice it sounded like "Profusion...Sexection...Conjectual" all mixed up.

"Quiet," screamed Alice, when she could stand it no longer. "I can't hear myself think."

"Why would you want to do that"? queried the butterfly. "Suppose you listened and didn't hear anything. Better leave well enough alone."

"It's just an expression," answered Alice, as she tried to recall the last time she heard herself think.

"Well it sounds pretty silly to me," said the butrterfly. "What you probably meant was that it was so noisy that you couldn't think yourself here, and then you wouldn't be, of course."

"Wouldn't be what"? asked Alice, growing more confused.

"Be where, not what," corrected the butterfly. "Your grammar leavs a lot to be desired."

"Beware of what? screamed Alice, by now very much annoyed.

"Of Godzilla, of course," the butterfly replied as he slowly began to melt.

Now Alice had seen butter melt many times, butshe couldn't recall ever having seen a butterfly melt before.

"Before you go, won't you please tell me how to get to Card IV? Alice asked politely.

"I really haven't the authority," answered the butterfly or at least what was left of him.

"Please," implored Alice.

"Just take the Approach you've been following. It's only a little bit farther," the butterfly's antennae seemed to say.

"In a twinkling Alice was confronted with Godzilla on Card IV.

IV-X

Alice continued her journe, encountering many strange and wonderful creatures. On Card IV she met Godzilla--a monster ape who rode atop a sacred cow named Hermann who did his best to squash her with his boots. Alice narrowly escaped when Godzilla's arms turned into long-necked geese, who advised her to crawl through the monster's cave to Card V.

In this land she ate the magic grass and began to shrink until she was no bigger
than Intellectual;ization, the winger bat who turned into the green rabbit, who, in turn, became black.

"Your color keeps changing," she exclaimed in surprise.

"Your experience is unbalanced, child," the rabbit accused."you are obviuously depressed."

"That's made," Alice shot back angrily.

"We're all mad here," the rabbit responded as he hurried off to attend trhe Queen's Inquiry.

Next Alice encpountered two ferocious Crocodiles --oral and sadistic--who chased her off their card.

On Card VI Alice suddenly felt very tired and lay down on a Foxskin Rug and fell asleep. When she awoke she found she had attained her full size.

"How nice and warm and soft and shady it is here," she thought to herself but the foxskin rug seemed to read her "mind."

"Infantile! Infantile" shouted it's head.

"I'm only a little girl, you know,"she pointed out.

"No matter, your social development is arrested."

"Imagine that," replied Alice, Hoping she wasn't about to be locked up.
"That goes without saying," said the fox. "Now leave here at once. I no longer wish to associate with you."

""Goodby," snapped Alice but the Foxskin never heard her because he had dissolved into a large, fluffy cloud shaped like the letter K and Alice knew instinctively she had arrived on Card VII.

Alice walked the perimter of the K, being careful to keep both feet on the fuzzy, grey border without stepping off the edge intomthe surrounding empty space. After circling several times she began to become quite dizzy. Just when things looked like they couldn't become much worse, they did. She almost bumped head first into two Indian squaws--Tweedle Do and Tweedle Don't. They were engaged in a loud and animated verbal battle. Tweedle Do perpetually wanted to have fun. "I will," she screamed. Tweedle Don't always saw the negative side of things. "Better not," she warned. One said "yes" the other "no." One said "right," the other "no." Forward-backward, up-down, stop-go, sit-stand. They never agreed on anything and usually wound up doing nothing. Alice started hearing voices shouting names at her--"conflict...guilt...obsessal..confessional," they seemed to be talking about her.
She was about to turn her back and leave when the squaws invited her to a C party.
"What's a C party"? she asked.

"Why don't you come and C"? replied the squaws.

"I think you are both horrid," Alice responded. "Everyone tries to see what's wrong with me. No one ever tries to see what's right with me."

"She's quite mad, you know," Tweedle Do remarked.

"Darn right I'm mad. So mad I could scream."

"Better not," said Tweedle Don't.

"See you at the party," interrupted Tweedle Do, ignoring both remarks. Don't forget to wear your colors."

THe C party on Card VIII wasn't a party at all, but more like a race. Everyone had to find a partner andrace up a tall mountain. When Alice arrived the March bears were climbing neck and neck to the top.

"What do they do when they reach the top"? Alice asked.

"Come down again, of course," answered the two orange dogs, waiting their turn at the bottom. "You really are simple. Where's your twion, anyway"?

"I have no win," replied Alice, only a big sister who is still sitting on a bank by the rabbit hole,where I wish I was now, if you must know."

"For shame"! said the first dog. "Everyone here has a twin. We're all symmmetrical. That's the way we keep our balance. If there were no twins we'd all fall off intothe white.

"It's a very hard climb," continued Alice, who by this time had decided to ignore things she didn't understand, which was almost everything these days.

"Persevere," advides the second dog.

"What's that," asked Alice, who was only in the second grade and knew that severe meant hard (like the Pilgrims having a severe first winter in the New World), but had no idea what 'persevere' meant. She guessed it might mean a hard purr like Dinah, her cat made when she purred in her sleep.

"Never mind," said the first dog. You'll perseverate naturally. Weall do here sooner or later. Go find your twin. No use staying here. You can't play without a partner. Besides, you're the wrong color. You'll clash and ruin our color balance.

"Your what"? Alice asked. "Oh,never mind. You'll just say more nonsense. I'm leaving."

And she did.

On Card IX Aliceencountered the Orange Witch riding on the horns of a Green Moose.The witch invited Alice to a game of croquet to be played on top of a pink cloud. When Alice protested that the cloud would not support her, the witch accused her of lacking stability, and asked herto respond to a riddle:

"If a table isstable, is an untable unstable"?

"Let's table the issue," Alice answered punningly.

Just then the Green Rabbit ran by, and removing the stopwatch from his waistecaot pocket, announced excitedly.

"You'll be late for the Queen's Inquiry. Hurry! Hurry! You must get to Card X.


Everyone rushed to the next Card and Alice was drawn alongwith the mob.

On this Card Alice observed an underwater ballet inwhich crabs and frogs , and sea horses of varying sizes and colors contorted in groteque gyrations. THeQueen was an enormous blue octopus with soft spongy legs constantly wiggling in a menacing manner toward Alice. She screamed throughout the entire proceedings.

"Off with her red! Off with her red"! presumably referring to the scarlet red ribbon Alice wore to tie back her hair.

Finally, the Examiner, who was apparently both Judge and Prosecutor in the case, called the Court to order and Alice began to realize that it was she who was on trial. Alice was asked to account for her earlier remarks undwer penalty of Miss Diagnosis, the Court Baliff.

"Answer theWhole Trust and nothing but the Whole," cautioned the Examiner,"omitting the Rare Details. Remember we are all here to help you."

"I'll try," replied Alice, although I can't see how anyof this will help me."

"What is your location"? asked the Examiner.

"I live at 823 Orchard Lane. It's the first house on the left side of the tree with the green shutters."

"I've never seen a tree with green shgutters," interrupted the Prosecutor. "They're usually red, but we'll let that pass."

"Your Card, the Examiner persisted.

"Well, I've been to all of them," Alice replied truthfully, "but I certainly wouldn't want to live on any of them." They are not even nice pl;aces to visit, let alone fall into through a rabbit hole."

At that, the Green Rabbit gasped and turned a bright purple, sputtering and coughing uncontrollably.

"Off with her red"! shouted the Queen.

"order, order in the Court," shouted the examiner, writing furiously on his yellow tabl;et. Wemust get everything down in sequence.

"You told the halloween mask on Card I that you were not the same girl you were yesterday, I believe. What was it that made you say that"?

"Are you the same as you were yesterda"? countered Alice, "or aren't we all changed constantly by the multitude of experiences and sensations that we encounter each moment"? Alice didn't know where those words came from but she acted as if she understood it all. She was quite proud of that response and sat back smugly in her seat, beginning to enjoy the trial.

"Try to answer the questions, please," the Examiner responded reproachfully. "What I want to know is what did you see on the card that made you answer as you did."

"I'm sure I can't determine that," persisted Alice, forming her words carefully. "And let me remind you that according to law, I'm innocent until proven guilty, and free to associate with anyone I please."

"Not here," retorted the Examiner, momentarily losing his objectivity. "It's guilt by association at the Inquiry

"Off with her red," screamed the Queen.

"SDtuff and nonsense"! Alice shouted back at her. "I understand it now. It's nothing but a silly gamme with it's own crazy rules. Only nobody wins."

"She's hysterical," screamed the Queen. "Write that down."

"How do you score it"? asked the Brown Crayfish, who was apparently the Court Recorder.

"I'm leaving," said Alice and she began to walk off the witness stand.

"You can't leave," screamed the Examiner. "I've only just begun my Inquiry."

At this an angry cry arose from the spectators in the gallery.

"Off with her red"! the Queen demanded again. This seemed to be the only wordsshe knew. She ifted all eight tentacles to snatch at Alice's hair ribbon.

"You can't help me," Alice yelled over her shoulder. "You're nothing but a pack of cards, and not very useful ones at that. You're certainly not much good for playing War or Old maid or Go Fish."

At this there arose a general furor amongst the jurors, and all of the cards flew at Alice. She screamed and fell over backwards, hitting her head against a grey Stovepipe that two Frogs were trying to hold upright and climb at the same time. The last thing she saw before she fainted was the grinning face of the Green Rabbit, whose eyelashes had turned into Seahorses.

***



It has been 47 years since I penned that story. It was reprinted in my book Notes and Blots around 1972. The book did not sell but still floats around Amazon in used condition. I made a few editorial changes for this Blog.

Curiously I find several critques of the Rorschch--al negative--cite Alice in Rorschachland. Despite what I said in the mandatory Abstract of the journal article, I did not set out to criticize the Rorschach. I was merely intending to write a humorous parody. However in reading the piece after a number of years, it idoes seem pretty critical. Nevertheless I still use the Rorschach (and TAT) in testing. I may be the only one doing so in a school setting. I find it useful in describing personality structure and content, although I consider it a structured interview rather than a test. My scoring is only token.

I wonder how often literary critics read into pieces meanings that were never consciously intended. No one (including me) has ever analyzed my choice of responses for the story to derive my personality profile. It might not be so favorable.

Threads

The child is father of the man
But does a self survive?
Is childhood psyche still alive
Unraveling some master plan?

I seasrch for signs of current me
In shaded memories
That drift in on the morning breeze
And will not let me be.

In dreams of long abandoned toys
That are forever mine.
In visions of a place and time
And echoes of a mother's voice.

On ADHD

Although I have encountered ADHD many times inprofessional practive my most meaningful insights are from persponal experiences after having married into an ADHD family. My wife muti-tasks successfully much to my amazement. While driving her car she is also putting on chapstick, adjusting the radio, adjusting the air conditioning, reading the navigator, and talking on her cell phone. I, on the other hand, cannot engage in a converation while driving without on the Interstate without missing my exit. But ADHD allows more than multitaking. The perceptual difusion
chacteristic of those with ADHD contrasts with my own OCD need to focus. My son Michael is a wonderful example. When I remarried an ADHD stepson and stepdaughter, both of whom I learned to love dearly, were part of the marriage contract. Michael was in high school at the time. I love watching football with Mike because he, like a quarterback,he can see the whole field at once while I can focus onlu on one opr two players at a time. "Did you see the pattern the tight end ran?" he asks excitedly."No, I was watching he quarterback." Well Mike saw the quarterback as well but, like Mill Madden when he does his chalkboard analysis, Mike saw the entire field. This phenomenon leads me to believe that Michael's ADHD and my OCD are related. One is the opposite of the other. Whatever makes Michael excessively diffuse, renders me overly focussed.

After some rough beginnings Mike and I became good buddies. But it took a while as my OCD and his ADHD did battle. I wrote a poem about this experience. I called it "Entrope."

If entrope was meant to be
Then Michael's the epitome.
But if there's order in the Universe
Then Michael's life is the reverse.

When he does things that he's begun
(for all the training I have done)
He's never learned to do the "un."

His lights stay lit forevermore
He's never learned to lock the door.
His laundry strewn in one big heap
His carpet thirty inches deep.
The snacks he garners there to munch on
Lie gathering mold in Michael's dungeon.

Order, disorder, which is worse?
You'll find no answer in this verse.
If Michael's way is not perverse
There's chaos in the Universe.

But if Michael's way becomes the law
Throw symetry right out the door,
Disorder rules the Universe
So I will need to end this verse
Because it's getting verse and verse

If entrope was meant to be
Then Michael's the epitome.
So take the time to pity me
Crusading against entrope.

Harris A

BB, who creates beautiful prize-winning images of spring blooms and fog rising from the lake at dawn, finds my blogs dark. "Only some," I protest feebly. Yet life isn't always cherry blossoms and green meadows. Many years ago, while I was still working at the residential school,the direct care staff went on strike. Someone had to man the buidings for residents who never went on strike and left only at death. I worked in a unit I call Harris A for several hours each day along with many other non-union staff. Harris A, for elderly residents, would, in earlier years, be considered a "back ward." Surely there were positives to be found there but the poem I wrote at that time was dark, indeed.

Like rocks of shale they endure
Holding on to form without function,
Fragile and crumbly,
Existing alone, together
The aged residents of Harris A
Cared for by worn out workers paid to care.
Extending worn outlives another day,
Another year.

Ronnie, frenetic in his compuslive rituals
Moving large rocks here one day and back the next,
The trash emptier,
His routine engraved indelibly on sulci never fully formed.
Interrupt him not.

Brenda, obese, Queen of the group.
She knows how things run,
Where breakfast cereals are kept
And who gets tea with Sweet and Low,
And if Dorethea is working first or second shift.

Crotchedy Penn hobbling around
Demands her boots on rainy days or fair,
Flirtatious with the men she calls "Sweetheart."
Not always ancient, she
Remembers how it used to be
When Matron's word was law.

They all remember except Harry,
Whose plaque-encrusted cortex
Forgets what day it is.
Refusing to go to workshop, he pinches my hand pleading
"What should I do? What should I do?"

Allen, nearly blind, needs me to help him dress.
Left by his father years ago,
He can't let go his anger
And berates us all
For any small offense, real or imagined,
Fiery resentment in his darkened world,
And yet, humming and rocking to Mozart,
I think I saw him smile.

Deaf Lizzy, who has hair growing on her chin,
A nose that needs wiping,
Asks for cereal, then won't eat
Till staff yell, reads in her room at night
I think she mocks us silently.

Conrad talks in a slow, sing-song voice.
Who needs help with suspenders
And wants me to burn his toast
Teeters with his walker
But goes to workshop willingly.
It takes an hour.

Jack beckons me with a finger
To tuck in his shirt
Or answer some foolish whispered question.
He curses like a sailor when he can't do his shoes
Provoking Allen,
He sounds like Elmer Fudd.

And Michael, once wild and uncontrolled,
Now enfeebled,
Sits cross-legged on the floor,
Jabber-playing with a ball.
In the back room lays Walter,
Sucking life froma syringe.
Fearfil, I keep my distance,
Until one night he died.

Depression Child

On a recent trip to visit my daughter and her family in Massachusetts, my wife and I stopped at a diner off Route 84, near the Connecticut border. The sign advertised “Food and Books.” The décor was unusual for a restaurant. Every available wall space, from floor to ceiling, was lined with used books. We were told that there were thousands more in the basement if we cared to browse further. Most were of little interest but it was fun checking titles while our dinner was being prepared. I assumed that the owner was running a lending library on the side. Later I learned that the books had been discarded by libraries and that every diner was entitled to leave with three books without charge. That made six books between my wife and me. Now that was of interest! I spent a half hour selecting five volumes and left with a Studs Turkle autobiography, a Philip Wiley novel, a biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald, an account of a schizophrenic breakdown by Kurt Vonnegut’s son,
and Morton Thompson’s Not as a Stranger.
Generally, I can afford to satisfy my literary needs at Barnes and Noble or Amazon.com without compromising the estate that will go to my beneficiaries. Why, then, get excited about a few gratuitous books? My wife wouldn’t touch them for the same reason she pulls the top spread off the bed when we check into a motel. “Who knows who touched it last (or what they did on it?)” My enchantment with bargains, on the other hand, goes back to my earliest years and I offer no apologies.
I was born in 1933 but Black Friday and the Great Depression were more than distant memories to my family. My father was laid off from his sales position in the garment district of New York City. In retrospect it was no catastrophe for our growing family for it motivated him to strikeout for himself as a ladies’ coat and suit manufacturer. The business thrived but the first few years were difficult. Mom skimped to keep the budget balanced and even managed to open a savings account for me at Greenwich Savings Bank, endorsed by the children’s radio personality, Uncle Don. Uncle Don’s career ended calamitously shortly after when someone left his mike open and he proclaimed unknowingly to thousands of adoring juveniles, “Thank God… done with the little bastards until Monday.” Mom bought “plain” milk rather than homogenized because it was two cents cheaper. She skimmed the fat off the top and threw it down the drain. She scolded my father for buying an electric train set for my birthday when I needed a new mackinaw. Yet a new jacket would eventually have become threadbare, like the old one, and by now would be long forgotten. I cherish that locomotive which I resurrected as an adult and still display on my office shelf. I call it my mackinaw train.
I became a compulsive saver and then investor. Ben Franklyn didn’t need to tell me “A penny saved is a penny earned.” I’m not too proud to pick up a copper I find lying in the street. I drive my wife wild turning out lights when the room is empty…sometimes when it is not. I’ll layer myself in wool sweaters before turning up the thermostat in December. I’ll scrape the peanut butter jar spanking clean before discarding it for a replacement Jiffy.
So I’ll read my new acquisitions and display them without shame in my library as if I had purchased them new.

Laying on of hands...and feet

I have long felt that personal contact is essential to effectiveness in life. I don't like long conversations on the telephone. I do my business and say goodbye. If I have something really important to say to someone I want to eyeball him. Yet, I am not one of those people who needs to physically touch every person to who I am speaking. I find that sexy in a woman but I am uncomfortable when men do more than a handshake with me. A high five once in a while is acceptable.

Moving into our new home required that I take physical ownership. I need to nail something together, assemble some furniture, screw the pictures to the wall...whatever, so long as it has my personal touch. True, I pay for the mowing and fertilization, but I trim the shrubs myuself and plant trees wherever I find some space outside. Its been six months and only now does the house begin to feel my own. Similarly with the neighrbood. Joyce and I walk two to three miles a day down country roads. I take possession of the geography,learning each tree, memorizing every landscape. Driving by doesn't work. When we visit new places I need to explore the side streets, find the off-beat shops and restaurants, talk to the natives...in their language if I can manage it. We've walked Paris, London, Bathe, Rome, Florence, Pisa and several of the quaint medieveal towns of Tuscany. I saw parts of Jerusalem most tourists avoid. With an unbelievably poor sense of direction, maps are my friends, but still I get lost. Maps of Rome are impossible to follow. The streets make no sense and change names every few blocks. We tried to find our way from St. Peter's Square in Rome to the Hilton by dead reckoning and after an hour wound up back where we had started. But getting lost is OK. You see things you never anticipated. There's always a cab if things become desperate.
Touch establishes contact and contact establishes possession. We buy souvenirs to bring home from a trip and cherish photogrpahs and possessions of parents and relatives long gone. Primitive peole believed in such magic. They burned an enemy in efigy. Fingernail parings in the wrong hands could bring harm to the owner.
We vneed toshake hands with the superstar as if the touch would rub off on ourselves. If someone areouses our emotions we say that we've been "touched."

Fern

Fourteen year old Venus
No longer plays with toys.
Fourteen year old Venus
Now obsesssed with boys.

Brighter than the others
Prettier than most
Soon without a mother
Her innocence is lost.

Growing up a mourner
Father's favorite toy
Found love in secret corners
Learned ways to bring men joy.

Fourteen year old venus
Tougher than the boys
Writes poems to show her genius
And prove she has a choice.

Fern

I had the strangest dream

The following is a talk given at Bryn Mawr Hospital Newtown Square outpatient facility on March 27, 2008.

Everybody dreams. Dream images are sometimes vivid and exciting, sometimes terrifying, often bizarre. When we awaken, unless we attend to it immediately, the coontent disappears. We remember we dreamed but cannot recall the details. Dream characters may be familiar to us or not Dream sequence may be jumbled, nonsensical, irrational. Although dreams can vividly represent color, shape, depth and movement, they do not accurately measure time. What seems like a long dream encompassing many minutes or even hours, dreams last only a few seconds. Today we know that dreams occur during a deep phase of sleep when there are rapid eye movements occurring and the body is mostly paralyzed (REM sleep) and a characteristic brain wave. Some scientists suggest that dreams play a role in encoding information to permanent memory. Others suggest the dream rids the brain of extraneous information. Some people place a great deal of importance upon dream content. Some believe they are prophetic. Many scientists believe they are merely noise in the system and not worth our time. Many believe they are motivated and some insist they are the workings of our unconscious.. I will attempt to convince you that they often have meaning, although perhaps not purpose, and that sometimes they are revealing about what’s knocking about in your head and even useful in gaining insights. Only you can interpret your own dreams, although psychologists can help. Dreams are the product of a sleeping but not dead or inactive brain.

A little bit of history: The Ancients believed dreams are divinely inspired. Some Native American tribes still accept this idea. Dreams are considered sacred. Tribe members engage in “vision quests” during which they isolate themselves in sacred places and engage in rituals thought to encourage dream formation. The purpose is not only to achieve personal power but to improve the quality of human life. Dreams are believed to free the soul to leave the body and travel around the world at night. Dreams were thought to provide clues about the future. The most famous dream in history was that of the Pharaoh and was interpreted by Joseph. Seers, magicians, witch doctors, shamans professed to be able to guide persons in learning the meaning of their dreams. Dreams may be creative. The 18th century poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge is said to have composed the poem Kubla Khan in a dream. Sigmund Freud saw dreams as “the royal road to the unconscious. He believed that dreams originated in the unconscious but were censored by the ego because of the threatening nature of aggressive, destructive and sexual wishes being exposed. The ego camouflaged dreams by certain transformations as part of the “dreamwork” to allow them access in consciousness in a more socially acceptable form. Carl Jung, Freud’s disciple saw drams as expressing a “collective unconscious” consisting of symbols representing certain inherited, universal archetypes that appear throughout history in literature, myths, and legends. Psychologists today see dreams as having both biological and psychological determinants and as reflecting perceptions, memories, thoughts and emotional components. Neuroscientists use MRIs and PET scans in sleep laboratories to try to identify the area of the brain active in dreams. One study reports the visual cortex active during dreaming. The limbic system may be active providing the emotional component. At the Stanford University Sleep Research Center psychologist Stephen La Barge studies what have been labeled “lucid dreams.” The dreamer recognizes that he or she is dreaming, apparently has some control of the dream content, and can even end the dream.

The work of dreams. The way to unravel the meaning of dreams is through associations to the visual image in the dream sequence. Ideas become associated with each other in several ways. They may occur together in time or place. They may be associated through language or meaning. Often events of the day, sometimes of minor significance, appear in dreams—the “day residue.” Homonyms are words that sound alike but mean different things. Images may represent something quite different than they appear, taken at face value. Freud distinguished between the “manifest” and ‘latent” dream content. Slang terms also influence dream content A “symbol” is an image that stands for something else. Metaphors are a type of symbol. Metaphors occur frequently in dreams, not because we are writing prose or doing grammatical construction but because of common usage. If someone eats ravenously we might be inclined to label him a pig. If we dream of a pig it might well represent a gluttonous friend. Does that mean that a pig in anyone’s dream represents gluttony. No. Dream symbols are personal, based on personal experience. Even Freud denied the use of universal symbols. Yet go on-line and you will find so-called dream experts who will analyze your dreams, for a fee, using such an approach. You can find books that purport to do the same thing. They are fraudulent. Without extensive exploration into the circumstances associated with the dream and the personal associations to dream images and sequence, interpretation is impossible. Of course it is possible that two people in the same circumstances, sharing the same language, and living in the same culture would share the same dream meaning to a symbol. Nevertheless the likelihood of accurate interpretation using so-called “universal symbols’ is little more than the accuracy of reading tea leaves.

That said, let me explore with you some dream processes. The first is “condensation”—the process by which two or more concepts are fused into a single image. A man had a dream in which he is visiting his daughter who lived with her husband in an apartment in a distant city. Suddenly the plumbing pipes began to knock. The landlord appeared and said: “You’d better fix your daughters pipes.” The man replied; “It’s your house; you fix them.” The evening of the dream the man had been to a Christmas party at a friend’s house. He was talking with a co-worker about colloquialisms in language in different locals. The man was from New York City originally. Most of the people at the party were from Philadelphia. The co-worker pointed at that in South Philadelphia, growing up, if you went to a friends house to visit a buddy and his mother answered the door, you would say: “Can you knock up for Joey to come out and play?” The man replied that in New York City the term “knock-up” means to make pregnant. And so it is in Philadelphia but the second meaning also is used. Associations of the dreamer made the dream readily transparent. His daughter was trying to get pregnant but having difficulty conceiving. The man wanted her to have a child. The dreamer had always been over-protective of his daughter and also controlling. The condensation of meanings in this dream was readily apparent. Here was a situation he could not fix. In the dream the house represented his daughter, the landlord his son-in law, and pipes needed to be knocked up but not by him. The dreamer in this story was me. Would you say the dream was noise or meaningful?

One type of condensation produces a “neologism,” a new word that combines two meanings. In the dream the word makes perfect sense to the dreamer. An eighteen year old girl dreamed she was riding an “expressolater” to a date with her boyfriend. Her association to the word was a very rapid escalator. She was looking forward to the date and wanted the time before the date to pass quickly. She often met her date at Starbucks.
The dream condensed her impatience with her favorite beverage, Expresso.

Freud defined “displacement” as the process by which feeling associated to one event is attached in the dream to another, seemingly unrelated event. Actually there may be some perceived similarity between the two events so that the process is not random. A man dreamed he was at a vacation resort with an attractive female employee who was not his wife. In the dream the man felt guilt because he should be working and also should be with his wife. In truth the underlying feeling was guilt that he was working too hard There was a trip planned with the female worker but it was a business trip. There was also work that remained undone in his office. The man’s wife had criticized him for being a workaholic and not taking enough vacations. (Of course, she meant with her, not an attractive co-worker) The guilt was complex; it was over both working and not working. The dream was illogical. It had contradictory meanings. Dreams may have meaning but still not make sense.

I’ve already mentioned metaphors as figures if speech and dream components. Joe is contemplating a change in his insurance carrier. He dreams of changing trains at a subway station He worries in the dream about whether he is making the right decision.
His dream metaphor, a subway train is a carrier. Joes has made an association between an insurance carrier and a people carrier. But why a subway train but not a taxi or a bus? Joe has recently returned from Paris where he rode the subways which in Paris are the Metro. The contemplated new insurance carrier? Met Life.

The dreamer is watching a person in his dream struggle to hold a cylindrical balloon on
Ropes. Someone known to the dreamer had served that function in a Thanksgiving Day parade. The person the dreamer associates with the rope holder was having trouble controlling the sexual aspect of his marriage. The balloon had a sexual connation to the dreamer. The dreamer also felt himself being pulled in several directions, sometimes by the man holding the balloon. The balloon metaphor has multiple meanings. Freud would say the dream was “over-determined.” One theory is that every character represents the dreamer in some way. Again, the dreamer’s associations are the basis for interpretation.

A teenager dreamed of a policeman wielding a large battle axe to destroy a case of beer.
He associated the term battleaxe with a popular expression meaning a forceful, domineering, unattractive but powerful woman. The woman in his dream was his math teacher who was “always on his case.”

A man was scheduled for surgery after tearing a tendon in his shoulder. The night before the surgery he had the following “worry” dream:

I am riding a motorcycle to an appointment. I must not be late. Now I am driving my
car. Suddenly I cannot see. My hat has fallen down over my eyes. Yet I cannot remove
the hat. I drive blind for a short distance but realize I must stop or risk hitting someone. I
pull the car over and stop. I exit the car and find that I am in a hotel lobby. I leave the
car and do some business at the hotel. When I return I find that my car is gone. The
hotel clerk explains that it has been impounded. The hotel will not give me back my car.

The motorcycle and car were expressions of concern about the surgery and getting to the hospital. Motorcycles were associated with traumatic head injury due to motorcycle accidents. There was ambivalence about having the surgery—fear of the risk and possible complications. The hat over his eyes referred back to previous retinal surgery for a detachment which appeared like a window shade over his eye. Fear of hitting someone referred to the cause of the rotator cuff tear—pitching and hitting a baseball. The hotel was the hospital. Doing business was, of course, the surgery but the man had also noted that the orthopedic surgeon does a good business. The disappearing car was the man’s fear that he would not drive again. When the man told his wife he would drive even with the sling she threatened to hide his car keys.

A woman had the following dream shortly after her mother-in-law died of cancer. The woman was on vacation at a beach resort with her own mother and daughter.
I am walking on the beach in a somewhat remote area where I had not walked before. My mother-in-law was sitting on a bench. It seemed very real. She has her real hair and not the wig she wore after surgery. She says: “Isn’t this a beautiful place?”

The dream was so vivid the woman returned to the same spot the next day. She could still recall the sound of her mother-in-law. Little interpretation is required. The woman missed her loved one and wished that she too was in a beautiful place.

A 40 year old woman had a work related dream.
I am driving my car. In the rear view mirror I see another car approaching from the rear. The car is an Enterprise rental car. I see the big E on the side. The car is weaving all over the road. The car passes me. I keep on driving. The car regains control and slows down as I approach it.

The woman’s immediate work supervisor is a man named Ed. He is a large, intimidating man. He typically rents Enterprise cars for consultants. He has been harassing her. The woman believes that Ed is out of control. She fears for her own mental health and considers a job change but decides to stay (drive) on. The dream is a wish fulfillment that both she and Ed will re-gain control. Fred believed that to some extent all dreams were wish fulfillments.

Collecting, recording, and analyzing dreams are things that can be done by a motivated dreamer. Collecting is the hardest part because we forget dreams almost immediately upon awakening. You might try it with your own dreams if you are adventurous. It is not a substitute for psychotherapy for those who require treatment but it can be useful and can serve as an adjunct to therapy. Recollection of dreams will involve some degree of inaccuracy. Only a small fragment of dreams is actually remembered. Remember it is not the dream itself that is critical but the associations to the dream. Most dreams you do recall will be those that occur just before awakening. A really dedicated dream collector will write them down immediately. If not, tell the dream to someone or rehearse it in your mind before it fades. First write the narrative in the first person, present tense. Then construct a chart to use in analysis of meaning. First give the dream a title that reflects the story, “Lost in the City” for example. List your associations to the images. You should wind up with a string of related associations. When two ideas occur together they are likely linked in some way—they occurred together in time or place or they share some similarity. Ask yourself pertinent question, e.g., what do sunglasses remind me of?” ”What do ice cream cones mean to me?” ‘Did anything related to soccer balls occur to me recently?” It is often the case that a dream fragment refers to some experience during the day, even trial experiences or observations. Freud call these the “day residue.” Which may form the nucleus of the dream. Recall your feelings—either thosel during the dream or what you feel in thinking about the dream imagery. A strong emotion occurring with an insignificant dream may mean the dream was more significant than it appears at first glance. Dream sequence may be confusing since dreams condense events and are distorted.

Analysis depends upon your creativity and capacity for self-awareness. Don’t worry about making false interpretations. The process of self-discovery is valuable in its own right. When you make a meaningful interpretation you will feel that it fits. We call this process “insight.” Emotions may reveal the true meaning of the dream, perhaps the direct opposite of what is being conveyed. Dreams may represent wish fulfillments. They may merely be expressions in graphic terms of some puzzling problem you have been obsessing over during the day. Consider the dream in terms of what is currently going on in your life. Why did you have this particular dream just now?

Dreams allow you to examine contradictions. No one is all good or all bad. Sometimes you play the role of protective parent, sometimes the rebellious child, sometimes the clown. Every character in the dream may be you in different and contradictory roles.
You can accept these roles, discard them or integrate them into your personality. Some dreams mean nothing. Consider your interpretations to be tested in waking life.

So what does all of this mean? What use are dreams to us? Can we use fantasy and dream imagery to effect life changes? Since Freud, therapists have made use of dreams to help patients gain insight. One technique in psychotherapy is the have the individual recreate the dream in a waking state and provide a different, more favorable ending. Despite all our technology the human mind is still a mysterious and largely unknown
entity. Since dreams depend upon memory and associations, since they draw upon our concepts and the way in which we organize perceptions, an infinite number of possibilities exist. We have the capacity to restructure our concepts to alter self-defeating views of ourselves and our world. Planning, problem-solving, decision-making all draw upon creative energy. Why relegate the imagery we produce during sleeping as irrelevant? Dreams may express another dimension of our personality that we have learned to suppress. When we encounter static on the radio we first try to tune the station in better, rather than just turn it off. Why can’t you get that promotion, hit the home run, write the novel, learn to fly, climb the Himalayas, or be the first female president of the United States? Dream it, then make it happen.