A variant of poker

One morning years ago, I woke up from a dream in which I was playing a card game by the following rules:

  1. Each player is dealt a five-card hand (face down) and a five-card tableau (face up.)
  2. The remaining cards are placed face down in the center of the table.  These cards form the stock.
  3. The player to the dealer’s left takes the first turn.  Play proceeds clockwise around the table.
  4. Each turn begins when the player draws a card into his or her hand.
  5. On his or her first turn, the first player may draw the top card of the stock or any card of his or her tableau.
  6. During a player’s turn, s/he must direct another player to discard a specific card from his or her tableau.  The first card to be discarded goes face up next to the stock.  This is the first card of the discard pile.
  7. During a player’s turn, s/he may bet.  Betting proceeds according to the usual rules of poker.
  8. During a player’s turn, s/he may knock, indicating that play will proceed around the table just once more.
  9. A player’s turn ends when s/he discards a card from his or her hand.  If there are five cards in the player’s tableau, s/he discards to the discard pile.  If there are fewer than five cards in the player’s tableau, s/he discards to his or her tableau.
  10. When there is a discard pile, any player may begin his or her turn by drawing either the top card of the stock, the top card of the discard pile, or any card of his or her tableau.
  11. When the stock is exhausted, the discard pile is turned over and becomes the new stock.  The discard pile is not shuffled.
  12. Hands are ranked in the usual order of poker hands.

I’ve played this game a couple of times.  It works pretty well, for something that came to me in a dream.  Play is comparable to Whisky.

A summer sadness

I just spent a few minutes doing various online searches involving the terms “dehydration” and “self-awareness.”  I don’t know anything about medicine or psychology, but I’m pretty sure one of the symptoms of dehydration is a loss of emotional self-awareness.  I was thinking about that this morning; yesterday was a hot, humid day, and I was strangely moody.  Some friends stopped over at our house; I’m always happy when they come, and always miss them when they go, but yesterday I was overjoyed to see them, so much so that I became annoyingly silly, and unreasonably sad when they left, so much so that I had to take a nap.  Neither of these reactions was so far out of the ordinary as to cause a problem; after a few moments of annoyingness, I was able to dial my silliness back, and after my nap, I was no longer sad.  After drinking water and eating fresh fruit, I was fine.

As I reflected on this minor episode, it struck me that my exaggerated emotional responses may have been the result of a loss of self-awareness.  Usually, when our friends showed up, at some level of my mind I would have had a thought like “I’m happy because they are here”; when they left, I would have had some thought like “I’m sad because they are going.”  In my dehydrated condition, that level of my mind seemed to have closed up shop.  If I had been asked why I was happy at one time and sad at the other, I don’t suppose it would have been difficult for me to explain it in terms of our friends’ arrival and departure, but that knowledge didn’t seem to connect with the feelings or to give them the shading that emotions usually have.

Among the most famous lines of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s famous “Ode to a Skylark” are these:

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Shelley thinks that this marks us as inferior to the skylark, who feels the “clear keen joyance” of one emotion at a time.  Thinking of my summer sadnesses, I disagree.  Drained by heat and squeezed dry by the humidity of the North American interior, I’ve often experienced a loss of self-awareness and a severely simplified emotional life while dehydrated.  The highs can be intoxicating.  I use the word “intoxicating” advisedly;  of course, alcohol consumption brings both dehydration and low self-awareness.

A recent installment of Unwinder’s Tall Comics deals with a similar point:

Marcel Duchamp, Calvinist

Tonight, Mrs Acilius and I were watching TV.  The program was a documentary called Paris: The Luminous Years. In a video clip from the 1960s, Marcel Duchamp said every visual artwork was a collection of shapes and colors.  The essence of art lay in the artist’s choice of these shapes and colors.  One set of shapes and colors was as eligible for this choice as another, and the actual production of the artwork was purely incidental.  Once the artist had made his or her choice of shapes and colors, the “art” is complete.

Mrs Acilius (who posts on WordPress as “Believer1“) said something about this.  “I think art is freedom.  When I paint a plate, I know that I’m painting it with fingers that have cerebral palsy.  So I have to start by accepting the fact that the picture I have in my mind is not going to be the same as the picture on the plate.”  We talked about this.  I asked her if she was saying that art wasn’t just something that happened in the artist’s mind, or just the finished product, but was to be found in the process, in the difference between what she was trying to do and what wound up happening.  She confirmed that she was saying that.

A plate by Mrs Acilius

I told Mrs Acilius that the difference between her and Duchamp reminded me of the difference between Calvinism and sacramentalism in Christian theology.  Duchamp’s idea that art is art simply because the artist has decided so, and that the events that take place in the physical world subsequent to that choice have no bearing on its status sounds rather like the Calvinist idea that the Elect are the Elect simply because God has decided so, and that events that take place in the physical world subsequent to his free election have no bearing on their status.  Her idea, by contrast, sounds like a form of Christianity that regards salvation as inseparable from particular forms of matter and particular events in time.

The Mrs is a Quaker; unlike the classical believer in the Orthodox, Catholic, or Anglican versions of Christianity, Quakers typically reject ritual.  They do, however, embrace sacraments.  Quakers do not practice baptism by water, not because they think it puts too much of God in the physical world, but because it puts too little of Him there.  Believing that the soul can encounter the Holy Spirit under any circumstances, they see the whole world as the scene of baptism.  Likewise, in their meetings for worship they do not have a ritual sharing of wine and bread, not because they lack communion, but because in their shared silences they make their fellowship a communion, and their whole persons an altar on which it is consecrated.  They do not make lists of sacraments, such as the traditional seven sacraments of Western Christianity, not because they deny that God interacts with humanity through matter, but because they believe that He interacts with us in more ways than we can count or foresee.  So when the Mrs puts an emphasis on the unpredictability of the artistic process, she is using categories familiar from the theology of her religious tradition.

A proposed definition of “feminism”

I teach at a state university deep in the interior of the USA.  The other day I was grading some papers students had written about ancient Greek culture.  One student focused on women’s clothing in ancient Sparta.  She included a paragraph starting with the famous phrase “I’m not a feminist, but…”  In her case, she’s not a feminist, but she believes that it is an unacceptable infringement of the equality of persons for the law to require women to cover their breasts in situations where men are allowed to go shirtless.   That puzzled me.  If a principled insistence that women must have a legal right to bear their breasts in public doesn’t make you a feminist, what do you have to do to earn that title? According to the eminent philosopher Lady Gaga, only someone who despises men can be a feminist.  That would disqualify most of the feminists I know, including many people who have spent decades on the radical fringe of the women’s movement, and several who have made a living as professional advocates of what they call “feminism.”

I haven’t brought this up in class, since I’m not quite sure where a discussion of the word “feminism” might lead.  Also because we’re behind schedule, and I want to catch up.  Eventually I will bring the question up, though.  To clarify my own thinking, I’ve been trying to craft a definition that will describe what I mean when I say “feminism.”  What I have on this so far breaks into two parts:

1, The belief that women have a right to play a wider variety of social roles than they play at present.  2, The habit of placing a higher value on this right than on the traditions that tend to restrict it.

I see seven advantages to this proposed definition.  First, the expression “wider variety of social roles” accommodates, on the one hand, liberal feminists who want to praise both women who choose to play traditional roles and those who move into what have been male-dominated areas, and on the other hand radical liberationists who want to stamp out the traditional roles on the grounds that they tend to crowd out the nontraditional ones.  By the same token, it leaves room both for feminists who claim that pornography and other forms of sex work can be a way of empowering women, and for those who argue that the sex industry and its products are just so many attacks on women.  In each debate, both sides agree that women should have a wider variety of options than they do now, but disagree about whether a particular sort of role opens more possibilities than it closes off.

Second, the vagueness of the term “social role,” which may seem like a weakness of the proposed definition, is in fact one of its strengths.  Consider the question, are right-wing female politicians feminists?  If they seek offices that have been strongly gendered as male, then to a certain extent they are feminists, no matter what they may say.  So, US Representative Michele Bachmann claims to view the proper role of a wife as submission to her husband.  Yet at this moment, Representative Bachmann is running for the presidency, an office in which she will not only be barred from taking direction from her husband, but which no woman has ever held, and which makes its holder, as commander-in-chief of the US military, a symbol of one of the most masculinized institutions in society.  Of course, it is possible to exaggerate the extent to which right-wing women are feminists in spite of themselves when they run for high office.  One thinks of Margaret Thatcher appointing a cabinet in which she was the only woman.  The ambiguity of “social role” captures the paradox.  Some might say that the relevant social role is “politician”; as this role has been open to women for some time, it was not an act of feminism for Representative Bachmann or Lady Thatcher to seek advancement within a political career.  Others will say that the role of “politician” is one thing, the role “head of national government” quite another.  So that any woman seeking to add that role to the repertoire of female possibilities is perforce a feminist, whatever she may call herself.

Third, “at present” makes it clear that the qualifications for the label shift over time.  To return to the example of Representative Bachmann, she is one of 72 women currently serving in the US House of Representatives.  While that leaves the House more than 80% male, it is a sign that service in Congress is not viewed as the sole prerogative of men.  So one could not say that the simple act of running for the House made Representative Bachmann a feminist.  The 41 women who served between 1917 and 1951, however, could be so labeled, especially the 23 who were elected to seats that had not previously been held by their husbands or fathers.  Among them were a number of women who were fiercely conservative in many ways, but even in the act of avowing their support for the old ways they were in fact increasing the opportunities women had to participate in politics.

The fourth advantage stems from the phrase “than they play at present.”  Notice, the idea is not that women should be free to play roles they are not now free to play, but that they should be free to play roles that they do not in fact play.  This avoids the dead-end of feeling obligated to make a legalistic argument proving a history of sex discrimination every time we express joy that women are starting to enter a previously all-male domain.

The fifth advantage is the converse of this.  Saying that feminism involves the ” belief that women have a right to play a wider variety of social roles than they play at present,” we do not imagine feminists as people who shame women into playing particular roles.  So, if all the sewage workers in town are men, one need not go around insisting to each woman one meets that it is her duty to take a job in that area in order to meet this definition of “feminist.”  I see that as an advantage in a definition of “feminism” since I’ve never met a feminist who insisted on such a thing.

Sixth, the word “habit” at the beginning of the second clause of the definition opens the door to assertions like those I’ve been making about right-wing women, that one can be a feminist without knowing it or intending it.  Beliefs and the labels attached to those beliefs tend to be associated with each other so closely that it is hazardous to say that a particular label “really” applies to a person who rejects it.  So  someone who resists the label “feminist” might well resent being told that s/he holds beliefs which merit the label.  However, we all have habits that we aren’t aware of.  So it might be fair to expect that if we present a reasonable person with evidence that s/he has a habit which we call “feminism,” that person will at least see why we want to say that s/he is a feminist.  Not that such a person would necessarily be unreasonable if s/he continued to reject the label, but s/he might be less likely to be insulted by our presumption in applying it to him or her.

Seventh, saying that feminism involves “habit of placing a higher value on this right than on the traditions that tend to restrict it” is another way of opening the label to people who differ in other ways.  Some people whom we would call feminist refuse to find value in any tradition that restricts the variety of social roles women are free to play.  Others place very high values on many such traditions, but not usually so high a value that they would be comfortable with their restrictive aspects.  For example, there are many people who grew up as Roman Catholics and who wear the feminist label proudly.   Some of these look at such policies of that church as its refusal to ordain women to the priesthood and break away from it altogether.  Others continue to participate, not necessarily because they like those policies but because they find other elements in the tradition that in their view make it worthwhile to stick around.  Emphasizing, as this clause of the definition does, that feminism is about placing a higher value on the right of women to play a wider variety of roles than they do at present than on traditions that restrict that right allows people on both sides of this dispute to continue calling themselves “feminist.”

The proposed definition is more or less a top-of-the-head exercise.  So I’m not committed to it.  If someone could suggest another definition that preserves all seven of its strengths, I’d be excited to hear about it.

Remarkable coincidence

Here’s a comment I just had occasion to post on Alison Bechdel’s site:

This morning, I was teaching a class about English words derived from Latin and Greek. One of the exercises required them to write definitions of English words and illustrate their definitions with examples of the words in use.

I wanted to show them how they could use Lexis-Nexis* to find example sentences. So I projected the computer onto the screen in front of the classroom and opened the Lexis-Nexis search window. I asked the class which word they wanted me to look for in my demonstration. From a list of several dozen words, someone picked “neurosis.” So I typed “neurosis” into the search window. Up came hundreds of results. Looking these over, we could see not only potential definitions, but a good deal about the usage of the word. For example, finding it in hundreds of daily newspapers but only one medical journal we formed the hypothesis that it is a word that is no longer in technical use, an hypothesis which that one journal reference** explicitly confirmed.

Then I wanted to show them that you can narrow the search so that it only brings up items posted today. When I did that, paragraphs six through eight of this article appeared on the screen***:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jul/18/comics-grow-up-graphic-novels-harvey-pekar

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I gave a little eulogy for Harvey Pekar and said something like, “Hey, Alison Bechdel! She’s great!”****  Then it was back to lexicography.

*Here’s a link to Lexis-Nexis.  My students and I have access to their “Academic” service

**It was the 2 May 2009 edition of The Lancet, in case you’re curious; “Twisted Science, Regulation, and Molecules,” by Peter Tyrer, Pg. 1513 Vol. 373 No. 9674, wherein appear the sentences “The condition from which my patient suffers used to be called depressive neurosis. It was not a very good diagnostic label, and its boundaries were unclear, but it did allow anxiety and depression to coexist without the need for splitting them into interminable subgroups that, when they were subsequently found together in one person, were pompously described as “comorbidity.”” 

***The portion that appears on screen starts with the search term you used to find the article.  The first appearance of “neurosis” was near the top of paragraph six, and the screen I was using had room for that paragraph and the next two. 

**** Come to think of it, it may have been closer to “Whoa, there’s Alison Bechdel!”  Or maybe “Whaa–!  Alison Bechdel!”  It may even have been “Alison Bechdel!  Golly!”  I taught another class right after that one, so I can’t be certain of my exact phrasing.

The Interpreter

I teach at a university deep in the interior of the USA.  Most of the residents in the apartment complex where I live are students at that same university.  Several of these neighbors are Iraqis who have come here as part of an exchange program between our university and one in Baghdad. 

One morning a couple of weeks ago, I left my apartment and walked to the bus stop.  Two of my Iraqi neighbors were sitting on the bench, a man named Abdullah and a woman whose name I did not know.  Abdullah greeted me; his friend turned her face shyly and tugged on her headscarf.  Abdullah offered me his hand.  I declined to shake it, explaining that I had a cold and did not want him to catch it.  Abdullah turned to his friend and said a few words in Arabic.  She nodded at him and gave a grateful smile, saying nothing.  As we waited for the bus, Abdullah and I talked about colds and remedies for them.  After each exchange, Abdullah turned to his friend and spoke for moment in Arabic.  Each time he did, she nodded at him and gave the same smile, never saying a word.  It was clear to me that he was interpreting for her. 

I wondered how well Abdullah was doing as an interpreter.  I was talking slowly and making an effort to keep my vocabulary simple, but still I came up against the limits of his English a number of times.  That didn’t stop Abdullah.  Even when he wrinkled his brow and paused for a few seconds, he still turned to his friend and talked, I suppose offering an Arabic version of whatever he had gathered from my words.  His friend seemed quite pleased with Abdullah, impressed with his gallant efforts. 

The bus came into sight.  Distracted to see it, I forgot to keep my English simple.  Thoughtlessly, I gave poor Abdullah a challenge that even professional interpreters can rarely meet successfully: I made a joke.  “Well, there’s a saying,” I told him.  “A cold usually lasts about seven days, unless the patient is under a doctor’s care.  Then it lasts about a week.”  When I said this, Abdullah’s friend immediately burst out laughing.  Abdullah gave a blank stare for a moment.  He wrinkled his brow and leaned forward.  Then he turned to his friend and interpreted.  She nodded at him, smiled gratefully, and said nothing.

Wintertime Adventures

This afternoon Mrs Acilius’ power wheelchair got stuck in the snow on an unshoveled sidewalk. She’d wanted to go through the street, but had let me convince her that the snow on the sidewalk looked to be worn down enough that she could get through. It worked just fine, until the very end, when she hit a narrow pass in the snow and couldn’t move forward or back. She drove forward and back while I pushed, but it wasn’t budging. Two people converged on us, a fashionably dressed woman of about 60 and a thin man of about 20 with a thousand-yard stare and summer clothes, obviously just back from someplace much colder and much scarier than our college town. (”You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive”…)

Anyway, the two of them greeted us with offers to help push. The first words out of Mrs Acilius’ mouth were “I’m going to live here from now on, apparently.” The young man couldn’t bring himself to believe that pushing wouldn’t solve the problem, and kept looking for ways to grab hold of the chair.

The woman said that what we needed was a shovel. She looked at the business next to the sidewalk, a funky little used-record store, and said it was too bad they didn’t have a snow shovel. “I bet you a nickel they do have a shovel,” I said. “Well, look at their ramp,” she said. The ramp was covered with snow, but she went in anyway, perhaps curious to see whether I’d pay that nickel.

We waited a moment. I told Mrs Acilius that I supposed she had been right about using the street. She reminded me that it was my idea to use the sidewalk. Channeling General Buck Turgidson, I said I din’t think it was fair to indict an entire plan because of one failure. She seemed to think that was funny.

The young man asked me if we could grab the small wheels on the front of Mrs Acilius’ chair. Mrs Acilius wasn’t opposed to this plan, but before we could put it into effect the woman came out of the store, followed by its proprietor bearing a snow shovel. I took the shovel and dislodged Mrs Acilius’ chair.  The young man pushed her forward once I’d broken up the snow.

A generous bird

I have a lot of hats.  One of them is a walking hat by Hanna Hats of Donegal, Ireland.  I’m quite fond of it, not least because it was a gift from my father.

When I received this hat, it had a feather in its band.  I was sad when I lost that feather two weeks ago; it hadn’t really matched the hat very well, but it was part of it, and a replacement was in order.  So whenever I was among trees, I kept looking at the ground, trying to find another feather. 

Yesterday, I found one.  It matched the hat much better than the original had done.  Unfortunately I don’t have any pictures of the old feather, but here are shots of the new one:

hat

In place

And:

feather

On its own

I can only surmise that some bird with the right plumage, a generous heart, and a highly developed aesthetic sense saw my featherless hat and decided to make a donation.  I’m very grateful.

Shoe superstitions

A few minutes ago, a young man  I’d never seen before was walking through the hallway outside my office.  His shoes were squeaking.  I looked at him.  He smiled.  “Well, at least it isn’t my funeral.”  He walked on; I didn’t have a chance to ask him what he meant by that.   

I was puzzled by his remark, so I Googled “squeaky shoes” funeral.  I found some examples of the locution “as annoying as squeaky shoes at a funeral,” enough examples that it might be a proverb or at least a cliche.  But that didn’t explain why he said that it wasn’t his own funeral.   

I also looked for squeaky shoes funeral superstition.   That came up with some spotty results, nothing that quite explained the guy’s remark.  I did find an old book which records a traditional injunction “Never wear new shoes to be married in.  You will always be squeezed in your walk of life.  It means poverty”  New shoes might squeak, so that might explain why squeaky shoes at a wedding would be regarded as bad luck.  And funerals sometimes have ritual similarities to weddings.  But few people walk at their own funerals, so the danger of squeaking wouldn’t likely be a concern in selecting shoes for the deceased.  Anyway, this man’s shoes were squeaking because of rain, not because they were new.  A search for wet shoes funeral superstition didn’t come up with anything promising.  And now it’s time for me to get to work, so my researches are ended. 

Here‘s a collection of superstitions about shoes; here‘s a long list of superstitions, including these pertaining to shoes:

SHOE: lucky, hence the custom of tying an old boot to the back of the car of a couple who have just got married; shoes on the table is symbolic of hanging; shoes left crossed on the floor or put on the wrong feet brings bad luck; and walking anywhere with one shoe on could lead to the death of one of your parents. A shoelace which comes undone as you set off on a venture is unlucky; if you tie someone else’s shoe laces up you should make a wish as it is lucky.

The Funny Times, October 2009

funny times october 2009Two items in this one I wanted to note.  The first is from John Walsh, a column about his former sister-in-law Jo.  When Jo divorced Walsh’s brother, she wanted to drop the name Walsh, but did not want to go back to her maiden name.  So she sat down with her teenaged sons and thought up a new name.  What she settled on was “Jo Sohneronne,” pronounced “Jo’s on her own.”  When Jo went to get new ID forms, each clerk she approached told her she’d have to change her name legally before they could issue her identification.  When she asked to see the regulation that said she could not put the name “Jo Sohneronne” on her bank account, Social Security card, or driver’s license without a court order, the clerks were unable to produce any such regulation.  So, she made the change successfully. 

I wish I’d read Walsh’s piece several months ago.  When Mrs Acilius and I got married this spring, she was excited about adding my last name to her name.  She was going to keep the three names her parents gave her, but use my last name as her new last name and her old middle and last names as two middle names.  So, if her given name had been Michelle LaVaughan Robinson, she would have become  Michelle LaVaughan Robinson Acilius, and would have signed herself Michelle L. R. Acilius.  The clerk at the Social Security office told her she couldn’t do that.  She could hyphenate, the clerk said, but she couldn’t  have two middle names.  Why not, asked the missus.  “A lot of brides weren’t using their names the way they were supposed to,” the clerk replied.  Mrs Acilius asked me what she should do.  I said what I always say, which is that I don’t tell her what to do.  She decided to keep her middle name and drop her maiden name.  That satisfied the clerk, but Mrs Acilius has been regretting it bitterly ever since. 

The second item was from the 26 July edition of Chuck Shepherd’s “News of the Weird.”

Until Mayor Sharon McShurley changed the protocol this year, fire stations in Muncie, Ind., had been delivering reports to department headquarters downtown by dropping them off in fire engines. McShurley ordered the department to learn how to send reports by e-mail. [Star Press (Muncie), 6-25-09]

I called someone I know who lives in Muncie, Indiana and mentioned this item to him.  He was not only unsurprised that his hometown featured something called “News of the Weird,” but was surprised that a digest under that title could appear week after week and mention Muncie only occasionally.   The town has come up since then; the digest for the week of 2 August reported on a Muncie brawler who started his fights by stealing his opponent’s false teeth out of their mouths.

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