Uncharitable

Our most recent pilgrimage to Manhattan ended badly. After an enjoyable visit to high end, funky stores in the Meat Packing District, we took the E train to the World Trade Center and walked down Trinity Street toward Battery Park. Our goal was the Jewish Heritage Museum on Battery Place. Passing Trinity Church, Joyce wanted to go inside. This is the historic church where Alexander Hamilton is buried and George Washington was inaugurated as President. We entered the church and Joyce lit a candle in the chapel and placed a dollar in the poor box. Continuing along Trinity Street we finally found Battery Place. After turning the wrong way toward Broadway, we finally made our way in the right direction. The museum was about 50 yards away. I recognized it from the picture on the website. We were walking west and the med-afternoon sun was diretly in my eyes. I felt myself stumble on the cobblestones and I went sprawling flat out, my face striking first. Blood was spilling from a good sized wound over my left eye (my only good eye) and another on my left hand. Joyce rushed to my side. Two young police officers came running and helped me up. A young man about to board a bus also came and brought gauze and large bandaids,which Joyce applied to my wounds, stopping the bleeding. I was pale and seaty. Joyce was afraid I would pass out. I assured her I was fine and wanted to continue to the musesum.. The officers wanted to call an ambulance. Believing that nothing wsas broken, I demured. Instead Joyce had them hail a taxi and we returned to the hotel. Although i had a large shiner, after two hours of icing the swelling began to subside. My glasses, unfortunately, did not fair so well. The lens on the left side (my good eye) popped out and the wire rims were hopelessly twisted out of shape. When I returned home the next day (one day earlier than planed), we drove to the nearest Lens Crafters. Shaking her head sadly, Dominique,the technician informed me: "Your options are pretty slim." Perhaps if I,too, had fed the poor box...

A bagel in space

As mentioned in a previous post, I have published "Nightmare," a compliation of Morrie Scwartz stories, beginning with "Shrink." This effort, which involves a re-publishing of three stories that appeared previously with different publishers, is an effort to consolidate various earlier writings, most of which have never been published One effort will combine short pieces that appeared in this blog and a previous blogsite. I searched for a name for this planned compilation and came up with only prosaic possibilities. Last night around 4:00AM, in a half sleep state, the name "Bagel in Space" came to me. I don't know why.

In thinking about that name, it occurs to me that most of my writing is something like a bagel--hard on the outside, a trifle mushy beneath, and perhaps empty in the center. It goes out into (cyber)space with few responses in return. Whether it is filled with cream cheese or lox, it remains untasted. Pehaps my efforts at consilidation are ihtended to make them more palatable as well as more accessible.

It seems that consolidation goes contrary to the future of the universe. An astrophysicist at Berkeley, UCLA shared the Nobel prize for research demonstrating that the universe is expanding at an accelerating rate. This was contrary to his original belief that the universe should be contracting because of the pull of gravity among the various stars and planets. The measuremen required to draw this conclusion is not quite comprehensible to me. It involved the observation of supernovas exploding and their color which provides information about how many millions of light years away they were. Even public radio's Terry Gross, whom, I consider the brightest and best interviewer I've ever listented to, remarked to the physicist after one of his not to lucid explanations, "I'll just pretend I understand and let's go on." The entire thing is a mystery to me. The universe is usually described as infinite. Both contraction and expansion seems to belie the meaning of infinite. If it was infinite before its expansion and infinite after its expansion, apprently it really wasn't infinite before its expansion. In any event, I am contracting my feeble attempts at writing which are far from infinite...perhaps infinitesimal.

On second thought, perhaos I'll stick with the prosaic--"Blog log" or something like that.

On self-publishing

While I used to be able to publish textbooks fairly easily with traditional publishers, it is almost impossible to publish my more recent attempts at popular writing. For several years I have self-published. Most self-publishers are no more than "vanity publishers," appealing to those who like to see their name on the covers of books and are willing to pay for it. After one experience paying for publication, I decided this was really a rip-off. Why should I pay for someone to make money on my efforts? I switched to a publisher who does not charge me for publication but whose business model is to charge exhorbitant fees for the purchase of my books--even to me. I have recently switched to Create Space, an Amazon division. They do not charge me and sell me my books at a reasonable price. The fly in the ointment is that I have to prepare the copy for print myself on my computer. Computer skills are not my strong point and I wind up spending more time trying to get spomething ready for publication than writing the material. I'm not exaggerating.

So there are no free cigars. "Nightmare," a 400 page compilation of four Morrie Schwartz, psychologist (my alter ego) fantasies and "I dreamed I was a bluebird," advice to parents on explaining dreams to children, will soon be available on Amazon. If you should happen to read either of these (master)pieces and find typos, please don't tell me; just read on.

On participating at meetings

My boss at Elwyn, Gerald Clark, President, would often send me in his place to meetings, where I was to persuade the group to act in a way he wished. He could have ordered them to do so but it would be more powerful if the group came to the decision on their own. His advice, which I have used ever since at meetings if I wanted to influence the outcome, has proven to be extremely powerful. This is what he told me:

"Let everyone have their say. Don't say a word; just keep your trap shut. After they have all expressed an opinion they will become aware of your silence and look to you for advice. Tell them precisely what they must do and why. The chances are they will do as you recommend."

It has never failed. If I so desire, I can own a meeting.

On writing reports

Jim Diggpory, my doctoral dissertation supervisor, was dissatisfied with the long sentences in my dissertation draft. He wrote on the first page, "Marvin, there is no substitute for a simple declaritive sentence." I took that to heart. Gerald Clark, President of Elwyn also wanted brief, concise reports when I served as his assistant. "If you can't say it on one page," he lectured me, "it's not worth saying at all. "I took that to heart as well. I think poetry is often the very best writing (epigrams, Haiku, and the like). No one could beat Robert Frost for eloquence and economy of words.

Several years ago I left retirement to return to work part time for Interboro School District. They need psychological evaluations. I had spent many years doing psych reports and I knew what I was doing. But in Pensylvania the Department of Education dictates how reports should be written. Their cumbersome, redundant guidlines violate every rule of good writing. I refused to comply and wrote many reports the way I thought they should be written. "I'll be gone anyway before they catch up with me," I told the school psychologists I was working with. "No one wants to read twenty page reports." Several years after leaving Interboro for another school district, where I do not do psychologicals, I learned that the present Director of Pupil Services at Interboro was highly displeased with my old reports. When this was gleefully relayed to me I told the true story of being asked to paint a room by my new wife. I made a mess of the job and was relieved of my assignment after I stepped in the bucket of paint. She never asked me to paint again. So it is with psychologicals.

Return of Morrie Schwartz

I have been thinking for some time of redoing my books about my character Morrie Schwartz. The two published books, "Shrink" and "Finding Jackson" had typos (I am a trerrible proff reader) and some flaws in the stories. I have written a fourth story but did not publish it after becoming disenchanted with PublishAmerica. I own the copyrites so I am able to republish. I finally decided to act and did a compilation of the four stories under one cover. "Nightmare" is the new name for the volume and it contains the four stories.

The first story, "Shrink" is the original story without the autobiographical part in the beginning. (Morrie is my alter ego.) "Soul Search" was the second part of the original volume. Morrie goes on a time travel quest for meaning, encountering seminal leaders in the history of philosophy and psychology. "Finding Jackson" was published as a sequel. Morrie treats a man with intractible pain in his arm but no identifiable organic etiology. The man identifies himself as a reincarnated Stonewall Jackson. The last story, and final adventure for Morrie, is a case of identity theft. Morrie visits his future grave site and finds it apparently occupied, with his name and date of death on the gravestone.

"Nightmare" will be self-published by Create Space (Amazon)and should be available on the Amazon website in November. I will be announcing it on Facebook and Linked In.

Social networking

After having my email was hacked into a couple of years ago I stopped doing Facebook. I have now gone active again with both Facebook and Linked In and in one day accu,mulated a plethora of Friends. All of this is in anticipation that fairly soon I will stop working and need, once again, to reinvent myself. Writing will be an important activity. I am trying to publish a compilation of my four Shrink stories. Three of them (Shrink, Soul Search, and Finding Jackson) have been published but I own the copyrite and can re-publish them elsewhere. A fourth story, unpublished,titled Nobody, is a fictitious account of Morrie, now retired, who finds his gravesite apparently occupied with a grave stone indicating his recent death. I will announce when I have been successful in publishing this epic. In the meantime I continue consulting at Marple Newtown School district, where I counsel with about thirty adolescents, mostly girls who challenge me constantly. I have written some of their stories but cannot publish because of privacy issues. Perhaps in a few years, when these students and grown and no one remembers or can identify them, I'll put these accounts in print. I waited about ten years before I published poems about children in placement at Elwyn, in a short book titled "Oliver Twists in America" (Publish America). Hopefully, my renewed attempt at social networking will stimulate some interest in half a dozen published but unread efforts. Interested readers can also checkout my website: www.rosenshrinksite.com (I am also promoting my private practice in Chester Springs.)

No one uses Rorschach anymore

With all the rainy weather keeping me from working outside one might have expected I'd pay greater attention to this blogsite. No excuses. I just haven't felt the urge to share. I am back at work three days a week counseling high school kids--most girls (guys just don't want to talk about their feelings) who challenge me constantly, balking at my attempots to structure them into small groups dealing with self-esteem, family issues (of which there is no shortage),coping with stress and depression, and anger management. I am swamped with referrals of girls wanting to talk but sometimes overwhelmned by too much estrogen being dumped on me. However, I still enjoy working with these kids.

Speaking of rainy weather, I can appreciate the close interface between rain and depression. Both Lena Horne and Billy Holiday made hit recordings of the song Stormy Weather.

"Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky,
Stormy waether since my man and I ain't together,
Keeps raining all the time."

When I was a psychology intern at the V.A. Hospital at Perry Point, Maryland I was supervised by a psychoanalyst from Baltimore. I was doing therapy with a nurse with a diagnosis of Manic Depression (now Bi-polar Disorder). While she was in her manic phase she provided me with a rich source of juicy material for my mentor to interpret. I had to present the case weekly to a large group of psychologists and psychiatrists. One day she stopped talking as she passed in the depressive phase of her desorder. I became concerned that I would have nothing to present at our next supervision meeting.

"She stopped talking, doctor."
"She said nothing at all?"
"Only one sentence the entire hour. She said, It's raining out."

He quoted for me a poem I had learned in high school French class.

"Il pleur dans mon coeur comme il pleur sur la vie."

Translation: It rains in my heart like it rains on the city."

"Your patient is depressed," he interpreted, somewhat pompously.

(Brilliant.)

"I know she is depressed, doctor, and it was raining out at the time. What
do I do now?"

He chose someone else to present for the following week.

I did get a great deal of practice and supervision in administering Rorschach tests at Perry Point and later taught Rorschach interpretation to pschology graduate students at Brym Mawr College. Yet Rorschach is pretty much passe' today with more emphasis placed on more objective assessment instruments.

The Director of Pupil Services at school, who also had some training in projective techniques, asked me yestereday to use the Rorschach in a risk assessment with a new student who had a violent rage reaction towards his mother. Is this Intermittent Explosive Disorder?" Does he represent a continued danger at school? Rorschach testing might provcide some clues as to the intensity of his anger and potential for aggression at school. In Rorschach interpretation the use of color in forming percepts from the relatively ambiguous inkblots is equated with emotional lability. The perception of movement in the inkblots and the frequency of "good form" responses is considered a measure of emotional control. I'll do the testing next week and we'll see.










Sp

At the track

Recently we stole away for four days at Saratoga Springs, New York, for the season opening of the racetrack. Despite the sweltering heat, we found the city to be friendly and fun. Keeping indoors as much as possible during the day we enjoyed the Car Museum, where we examined vintage Maseratis, Karmins Gheas, and Alpha Romeas in an Italian sports car exhibit, and the dance Museum where we watched teen aged aspiring ballerinas rehearse for a performance. On Friday and Saturday nights we listened to bands at every corner playing every brand of music from Cowboy and Western, to Irish ballads, to '60s and '70s to hard rock. The peak experience was at the track. Neither Joyce nor I were knowledgeable racing fans but few people are. Saratoga Racetrack openings are the social event of the season upo there. Women adorn themselves in exhoritantly priced fancy hats, emulating Kentucky Derby outings. When our waiter at breakfast indicated that he was going that day, I inquired as to whether he had a favorite pick. "Yes," he replied, "Hysterical Cat" in the third race. When my gradchildren were very young we blamed all bad events on a mythical "Bad Cat," whom I concocted. When we stayed at a magnificant Hilton in Rome there were statues of black jaguars on the lawn. I photograhed one and told the grandkids that "Bad Cat" had followed us to Italy. "So maybe I'll act on that tip" I decided. Well, prior to post time "Hysterical Cat" was a thirty to one pick. "I'm not betting on a long shot like that," I decided and placed my five bucks on a horse named Freudian someting or other" to win. After all, I am a psychologist. Freud came in last." I should have known. Hysterical Cat who went off at fifteen to one came in first. "Why didn't I listen?" I remonstarted to Joyce. "I didn't want to tell you," she answered. "I bet Hysterical Cat to win but I only had two dollars. The horse paid $34.80.

Spring update

The time sloips by and I have neglected this blog. The Resilience group continues. I now see 21 studentsin this group, which meets in two or three subgroups. Their problems remain. Some splintering of the group cohesiveness has occurred but all remain enthusiatic about continuing. I have agreed to return next year, One girlhas been beat up by her father and has obtain a restraining order. She is going to press charges against. Anotyher girl has been assaulted by a family membewr.

I published "A Peculiar Child's Verses of Garden" but again have not marketed it. The publisr omitted the s from Verses on the cover and refuses to change it. I have several pieces sitting unfinished on my computer. Perhaps this summer I will regain my muse. Finding jackson will be available shorted on Amazon Kindle. I rejoined facebook to let people know. Meanwhile the academic year winds down, I occupy myself with gardening. Joyce and I are laying six yards of mulch (not enough) and five yards of top soil. I continue to develop and co-opt the edge of the wooded area beside my house. No one has complained. Two Weigelia I tranplanted from the back have survived and are now blooming. I put in some forsythia for color.
Our April vacation to Charlottesville, Virginia and Ashvlle, N.C. was aborted just after we arrived in Charlottesville by the death of Joyce's father. Perhaps we will try again this summer.

Hopefully my next entry will come sooner than this one.

Wonder Wall: Teen age wisdom

The office they provided me at the high school was large enough to allow group counseling sessions. The windowless, cinder block walls had been used once as a classroom but, before me, was the office of a therapist who like I, had worked with teens with emotional problems. She had encouraged the kids to write on the painted concretre using marker pens, naming it the "Wonder wall." They had left their creations, sometimes signed, for posterity. I wasn't too impressed, at first, with the mostly positive aphorisms, but when the students I was seeing insisted on continuing the practice, I grudgingly obliged.

The group, originally structured to deal with anxiety disorders by teaching evidence based strategies for cooping with anxiety,grew rapidly and evolved in directions I had not anticipated. I stopped accepting referrals after the enrollment had grown to about fifteen kids, mostly girls (boys are less willing to express their feelings in a group.) The members seemed driven to reveal their family backgrounds and histories. Stories of rejection, abuse, criticism, and, often, poor parenting became commonplace. Shared experiences of parents in prison, separations and divorce, moms on the street, alcoholism and substance abuse drew these kids together. The group, vowed to secrecy (what is said in group remains in group), bonded with each other. Tears were abundant, followed by group hugs and support. They resisted my attempts at structure and were generally successful in using the group the way they needed. I also bonded with them and learned to respect their attempts at survival. They agreed that that all wore masks to school, hiding their pain. Originally labeled the "anxiety group", I acknowledged that they had many other issues. Anger and drepression were ever present. I allowed them to use any language they need to express themselves and learned their vernacular. They could call me by name. They trusted me to maintain confidentialy when they described their involvement with drugs, boyfriends, bad decisions, fights with their parents, and sex. Many of the students used cutting as a way of turning their emoptional pain physical. They used razor blades to punish themselves. Most were embarrassed by their scars. One girl was proud of them and could identify the circumstances leading to each slash. The only exception to the confidentiality rule was if I believed they were in danger or posed a threat to others. We changed the name of the weekly meetings to the "Resilience Group."
The one period a week allotted to the meetings was insufficient and, over my weak protests, the meetings stretched to two periods. Some of the teachers were annoyed. I didn't care. I began to read their wall etchings more closely.

"I got soul but I'm not a soldier."

"You can be sad that they are gone or you can smile that they lived."

"Tomorrow is another day."

"The only time success comes before work is in the dictionary."

"You got haters? It means you stood for something in life."

"We may make it through the war if we make it through the night."

"Leave the past in the past and find your future."

"I believe things fall apart so better things can take their place."

"I guess it's gonna' have to hurt; I guess I'm gonna' have to cry and let go some things I loved to get to the other side."

"In the end it will be okay. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

"It's better to count the things that aren't wrong than to count the things that are."

"Some day, somehow we're gona' make things right but not right now."

"Everything that matters is life."

"Don't wait for the storm to pass. Learn to dance in the rain."

"Life is like a mirror. You get the best results when you smile."

I tried one day to explain optimism and pessimism in psychological terms.
"That's bulls--t," they said. Let us do this our way.

Stormy weather

A recent 6:00 PM TV news spot dealt with elderly persons taking multiple medications and often confusing which pill needed to be taken. An over-90 year old man who took 10 pills each day mistakenly took 10 pills from the same bottle. His somewhat, but not much, younger wife, when asked about her husband's health replied, "No so hotsy totsy."

I had to smile because that is an expression my Uncle Julie would use during the final years of his life, confined to a wheelchair and often mentally confused.
His docs copuldn't decide whether he was suffering from Parkinson's or Alzheimers.
An expensive and erudite neuropsychological was of little help in making a diagnosis.

Although I was amused by Uncle Julie's expression at the time, now, several years later and battling with my own increasing physical infirmaties, I understand fully. Things aren't so hotsy totsy today for most people. The recession, officially but not really over, a ceaseless record-breaking winter, worldwide political unrest, and, for me, various family problems are, indeed, not so hotsy totsy. Psychiatrist Rollo May in the 1940s called this the "age of anxiety." Uncle Julie, less clinically sophisticated, would call it the "age of not so hotsy totsy."

Half empty

The man who does repairs for us at home likes my wife because she is always so positive. He knows I am from New York City and assumes that, by definition, I must be negative

"I am," I agreed. "It's part of my nature. The glass is always half empty."

"Don't you remind her that you are from New York?"

"Every day, but it doesn't work. She reminds me that I am a psychologist and should know better."

"I have a good friend from New York," he explained. He is one of the most sarcastic people I have ever met."

"You know, people complain that Parisians don't like Americans. When I went to France I decided to use my high school French exclusively. I spoke a kind of pig French, substituting English only when I didn't know the word in French. People laughed at me and were quite friendly. I don't think Parisians are any different from New Yorkers. But I am not sarcastic at all."

"Why not?"

I don't want to adulterarte my negativism. I am negative straight up."

Blowin' in the wind

"Wanna hear my favorite song. It's by Eminem."
The fifteen year old sat herself down at the lunch table and produced her i-phone.

"Sure, why not?"

What eminated from Eminem was a set of obscene lyrics embedded in some cacaphonous noise masquerading as music.

"Have you ever listened to folk music?" I asked naively.

"What's that?

"Music of the '60s with a message--antiwar songs (It was Vietnam in those days), human rights, rebellion, love, home, railroads, prisons, poverty, country, mountains. Beautiful melodies."

"I don't know."

"Have you ever heard of Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie, Peter, Paul, and Mary, the Weavers, the New Christie Minstrals, John Denver, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Simon and Garfunkle, Harry Belefonte, the Kingston Trio?"

"No!"

"How about the Beatles? You must have heard of them."

"Sort of."

"Folk Music had a message. Not just sex."

"If it was so good, how come it's not popular now?

"Good question. The Beatles, Elvis. Rock and roll took over, followed by hip hop, rap, hard rock, God knows what else. Country and Western is still current. I wonder whether anyone will remember Eminem fifty years from now. It led to Neil Diamond, Billy Joel and others you would recognize. Type some of those names into Pandora.com. and listen to "Where have all the flowers gone?" "If I had a hammer," "The sound of silence," The times they are a changin'," Kisses sweeter than wine. "Blowin' in the wind," "Rocky Mountain high." You might find that you like it."

"I doubt it."

New Year catch-up

This is a long overdue up-date.
I continue to publish short pieces that go largely unread. A Peculiar Child's Verses of Garden is a tongue-in-cheek collection of garden rhymes. The publisher omitted the "s" on Verses on the cover, thereby ruining the humor of the title. The first page printed the title correctly, so one out of two required Ss was correct. One might say that the book was "half S'ed." My consulting at the high school is going well, particularly with a counseling group I run for teens to teach methods for coping with anxiety. About a dozen kids attend religiously, 80% female, and unload their feelings about parents, relationships, and school. They would prefer that I not structure the meetings but that won't happen. Their histories with abuse, dysfunctional families, parents in jail, as well as their unbridled anger is daunting. The group has bonded; they resist any attempts to add new members or to split the group into more manageable units. The incidence of panic attacks, depression, and bi-polar disorder is extremely high. They have all the impulses of adults without the judgement. My academic year is now half over and, as usual I will need to decide whether I will continue to make the long trip to work next year or to finally retire.