Must. . .save. . .the brain!

First, there's the old Internet circular (B-65):

I cdnuold blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg!

The phaonmeal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabridge Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Amzanig, huh? Yaeh I awlyas thought slpeling was ipmorantt!

The contrarian in me disputes the author's assertation that spelling doesn't matter, because it certainly does to anal retentives such as I. But because this circular is readable by fluent readers confirms much of what Frank Smith writes in his book, "Understanding Reading," which I'm reading (and understanding) for my class in reading theory and document design. He writes on page 51: "Reading involves looking for meaning, not specific words." This assertion meshes wonderfully with Smith's idea of the "theory of the world in our heads." As he writes on page 55: "Our theory of the world seems ready even to make sense of almost everything we are likely to experience in spoken and written language -- a powerful theory indeed." Our theory, as Smith writes, is our "shield against bewilderment." As readers (and as human beings) we take risks, we predict. We experience bewilderment only when our efficient theory of the world fails us -- then we're surprised, we ask, "Why did that happen to me?"

Recalling the last time I felt acute bewilderment helps me understand more of what Smith is writing about (although, as he asserts, my recollections are likely to be tainted by the recent reading I've done in his book). Two years ago, I became a technical writer, leaving behind the more general writing found in journalism for the specific, attenuated world of radioactive waste disposal. My first few weeks on the job were bewildering and confusing. I understood the process of writing and editing, of attending meetings, reading e-mail and making phone calls, but up until that time, my theory of the world had not included a flood of acronyms, convoluted environmental requirements and the tribal knowledge that makes up the 50-year history of radioactivity in Idaho. My theory, though not wrong, obviously needed some augmentation. So two things came into play as I began "getting into" this job:

• Time passed. "Time and change are an essential part of the way we perceive the world," Smith writes. After a few weeks of swimming (and copious note-taking, reading and talking with peers to figure out what the hell was going on) that theory of the world in my head started collecting more information.
• I adapted my skills. "Our skills are the part of our theory of the world that enables us to interact with the world, to take the initiative in our transactions with our environment," Smith writes. No way was I going back to the worlds of journalism or telemarketing. That good ol' theory, adaptable to the end, started helping me make sense of this new world.

Am I a genius now? Not at all. But reading Smith's book helped me understand the inner workings of that adaptability. My theory of the world is now tainted by the world of radioactivity.

Reading Smtih also brought out a few random thoughts:

• Theelepeltje. I did not know what the word meant. But i recognized it as a word. I'm half Dutch, through my father's family. My eyes immediately latched onto the "tje," a common Ducth word ending. I also knew the Dutch word for tea is "thee." Teaspoon, right. What fun.
• Memory. As Smith writes about our long-term memory -- especially recall -- working on interconnections, it came to me how many childhood memories, many times the most vivid memories I have, involve eyeglasses. I started wearing eyeglasses in the 2nd grade, and recall instances of lost glasses, broken classes, stolen glasses, dirty glasses. There are also strings of memory that involve dogs, toys, avoiding Tuesday after-school Primary classes, fire (not that I burned things down as a kid; I just have a lot of fire-related memories). It's weird.
• Cultural sharing of theories of the world. Sometimes we ask ourselves, how can people act/think that way? I've read a lot about the Holocaust (my father was a civilian during World War II, and brought those war memories with him to our family), and the big questions are How could the Germans behave so badly and how could the Jews allow themselves to be slaughtered. The answers that always come back in the books I've read is that it has to do with inborn culture. Maybe this theory of the world in our heads helps me understand what that means just a little bit better.

I've babbled long enough. Suffice it to say this book really set me to thinking about what we think, what we do and what we think we do.

TGIT

Should probably explain why Thursdays are so glorious. Where I work, we work four ten-hour shifts a week, Monday through THursday. That means Thursday is our Friday. Now there's a tradeoff, especially linked to the three-hour daily commute to and from work, which means we effectively work thirteen-hour days, which are a bummer. But that's the price we pay for fame and, well, not exactly a fortune.

Because I've got that kind of time on my hand, I've been pre-reading one of the three texts required for the document design class I'm taking this coming semester -- which starts Monday. It's called "The Object Stares Back," by (I have to reach into my bag to get the book to read the author's name) James Elkins. His premise is that despite the pretty nifty visual capabilities we have, because our attention wanders, because of internal and external distractions, because of unrecognizedc physiological phenomena, when we see, we actually . . .Oh look! Cows! Um. When we see, we're actually missing out on most of what is visually available to be seen because our thoughts, prejudices, distractions, et cetera, get in the way. I buy that.

It's interesting, I think, that we're always seeing. Since I can remember, I've always seen fantastic shapes in the swirls of plaster on the ceilings. On the ceiling above my bed, for example, there's a coyote, parrot, duck, and several monsters. There's a dragon on the ceiling in the bathroom. What this means psychologically, I have no idea. But they are there.

I wonder what gets us inured to seeing what we see. Many people, through overxposure, are inured to violent or pornographic images, having to increas the intensity of what they view in order to get the same kind of visual pleasure (buzz, I guess you'd call it) than when they started. I've read a lot on the Holocaust, for example, and am always amazed at how the survivors, at the time they were in the extermination camps, were able to see what they saw and file it away in some hidden corner of their mind where, for the moment, it meant nothing. Many of them, years later, have that corner open, as they dwell in the camps every day of their life, reliving the images they denied themselves to live then. This is a very simplistic explanation, I know. But I'mintrigued at how some can come out of such visual stimulation committed to stopping atrocities along the same line, while others encourage, embrace and eventually participate in the aberrant behavior they've witnessed, inuring their consciences against the messages being sent that what they're vdiewing and doing is incorrect. The moral compasses get confused as the metal mugs of overstimulation are placed near the card.