Stat Coursework Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1750 words

Stat - Coursework Example From the above table it is observed that the mean filmadmissions of quarter 1 (April-June) is the lowest with 13,173,422.8 and the highest is of the second quarter (July-Septermber) with 14,970,853.11. From the above ANOVA table we observe that there is no significant difference in the mean admission between the quarters as the probability of significance is 0.527 (>0.05). Hence all the seasons are homogeneous (on par) with regard to mean admission. From the above ANOVA table we observe that there is no significant difference in the mean admission between the years as the probability of significance is 0.848 (>0.05). Hence all the years are homogeneous (on par) with regard to mean admission. Interpretation: The regression equation is given by y = -119,506.78x + 1,092,063.39 where x represents weeks on release and y represents weekend total. The correlation is given by -0.33 which is very weak. When there is an increase of weeks, the weekend total gets decreased in general, but still we cannot make a sure conclusion because some other factors may be involved in deciding the weekend total. From the above table it is found that the multiple correlation is 0.33 and R squared is 0.11 which indicates that only 11% of dependent variable weekend total is explained through independent variable weeks after release. From the above table, it is inferred that the regression coefficient is not significant since the probability of significance is 0.23 (>0.05), hence the independent variable weeks on release is not a better predictor for the dependent variable weekend total. From the above table it is inferred that the regression coefficient is not significant whereas the constant (intercept) is significant at 5% level (p value =0.018

Bill of Rights Coursework Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 1000 words

Bill of Rights - Coursework Example There is also the danger that individual rights of speech and assembly and redressal of grievances can be used by canny citizens to trouble others, for example, the encouragement of an intrusive media, and unnecessary litigation in courts of law. While such a clause may have been necessary for the security of the individual in pioneering days (this is also debatable, as these arms were often trained on the original inhabitants-the Red Indians-who have today been unjustly herded into settlements, in their own land) now, it has led to lawlessness: shooting sprees in malls and schools, for instance. Fourth: This amendment was enacted to ensure privacy as well as protection against unlawful or malicious action against citizens by the agents of the state, which may also be seen as the benefit accruing to a citizen from it. There are circumstances when exceptions to the amendment become justified for the sake of the security of the state and citizenry. These exceptions are, for example, detainment and search of a person who behaves in a suspicious manner, or searching of persons in sensitive areas like airports/ border areas. As a matter of fact, the 9/11 incident possibly happened because of adhering strictly to the spirit of this amendment, whereby travellers at airports were not checked thoroughly. The advantage to the citizen was that it was fair to him. ... Fifth: This amendment was enacted to ensure fair treatment of the individual who is charged with a crime. The advantage to the citizen was that it was fair to him. Even a citizen charged for a crime has a right to be fairly treated, especially in the event that he is wrongly charged. The disadvantage is that a canny lawyer could use the amendment to subvert the justice system. Eg, in the OJ Simpson case, the criminal case against Simpson absolved him of the murder of his wife, Nicole, while civil proceedings held him culpable! Sixth: The amendment like the fifth was enacted to prevent arbitrary treatment of an accused, and to ensure justice for all. This is an excellent provision governing the justice system, to safeguard a citizen's rights, and to ensure speedy disposal of cases. Any negative feature of this could come about not because of the amendment per se, but because of the way the system could be perverted by those seeking to take advantage of it. (eg perverting the law by canny lawyers to adhere to the letter of it minus the spirit.) Seventh: England had courts of common law, which gave legal (monetary) relief, and courts for equity which decided non-monetarily (an injunction, for instance) This amendment sought to combine both the jurisdictions. The advantage or disadvantage of the amendment depends totally on the complications involved in a case-especially where both equity and common law elements are involved. Complexity in the actual application of the amendment is inevitable, not because of anything contained within it, but because judicial disaputes are essentially complicated. Eighth: This amendment was enacted to ensure humane treatment of a crimininal, and herein lay its strong point. But a habitual

Medicalization for understanding shifting ideas about health and illness

Medicalization for understanding shifting ideas about health and illness Medicalization is term for the erroneous tendency by society-often perpetuated by health professionals to view effects of socioeconomic disadvantage as purely medical issues. It is the process by which human conditions and problems come to be defined and treated as  medical conditions  and problems, and thus come under the authority of doctors and other  health professionals  to study,  diagnose,  prevent  or  treat. The process of medicalization can be driven by new evidence or theories about conditions, or by developments in social attitudes or economic considerations, or by the development of new purported  treatments. Medicalization is often claimed to bring benefits, but also costs, which may not always be clear. Medicalization is studied in terms of the role and power of  professions, patients and corporations, and also for its implications for ordinary people whose self-identity and life-decisions may depend on the prevailing concepts of  health  and  illness. Once a condition is classed as medical, a medical  tends to be used rather than a  social model. Medicalization may also be termed pathologization (from  pathology), or in some cases  disease mongering. The concept of medicalization has educated the sociology of health and illness for many years now. Typically, it has been deliberated and examined with critical nuance, though some key thinkers within the discipline have suggested that it is not unequivocally negative. Conrad criticised and disputed that the development and growth of medical authority into domains of everyday existence was promoted by doctors and was a force of social control that was to be rejected in the name of liberation (Conrad 1973). Medicalization describes a process by which non-medical problems become defined and treated as medical problems, usually in terms of illness or disorders (Gabe et al. 2004:59) and likewise be simply classified as a procedure of increased medical intervention into areas which would more often than not be outside of the medical province. The term  medicalization  entered academic and medical publications in the 1970s, for example in the works of figures such as Peter Conrad  and  Thomas Szasz. They argued that the expansion of medical authority into domains of everyday existence was promoted by doctors and was a force of social control that was to be rejected in the name of  liberation. This critique was embodied in now-classic works such as Conrads The discovery of hyperkinesis: notes on medicalization of deviance, published in 1973 (hyperkinesis  was the term then used to describe what we might now call  ADHD). Medicalization explains a situation which had been previously explained in a moral, religious or social terms now become defined as the subject of medical and scientific knowledge. Many years ago for example some children were deemed and regarded as problematic, misbehaving and unruly. Some adults were shy and men who were balding just wore hats to hide it. And that was that. Nevertheless, nowadays all these descriptions could and possibly would be attributed to a type of illness or disease and be given a diagnosis or medicine to treat it in some cases. Medicalization explains this. Likewise, medicalization has been applied to a whole variety of problems that have come to be defined as medial, ranging from childbirth and the menopause through to alcoholism and homosexuality (Gabe et al. 2006: 59). Furthermore, the term explains the process in where particular characteristics of every day life become medically explained, thus come under the authority of doctors and other  health professionals to study,  diagnose,  prevent  and or  treat the problem. Originally, the concept of medicalisation was strongly associated with medical dominance, involving the extension of medicines jurisdiction over erstwhile normal life events and experiences. More recently, however, this view of a docile lay populace, in thrall to expansionist medicine, has been challenged. Thus, as we enter a post-modern era, with increased concerns over risk and a decline in the trust of expert authority, many sociologists argue that the modern day consumer of healthcare plays an active role in bringing about or resisting medicalisation. Such participation, however, can be problematic as healthcare consumers become increasingly aware of the risks and uncertainty surrounding many medical choices. The emergence of the modern day consumer not only raises questions about the notion of medicalisation as a uni-dimensional concept, but also requires consideration of the specific social contexts in which medicalisation occurs. In this paper, we describe how the concept of m edicalisation is presented in the literature, outlining different accounts of agency that shape the process. We suggest that some earlier accounts of medicalisation over-emphasized the medical professions imperialistic tendencies and often underplayed the benefits of medicine. With consideration of the social context in which medicalisation, or its converse, arises, we argue that medicalisation is a much more complex, ambiguous, and contested process than the medicalisation thesis of the 1970s implied. In particular, as we enter a post-modern era, conceptualizing medicalisation as a uni-dimensional, uniform process or as the result of medical dominance alone is clearly insufficient. Indeed, if, as Conrad and Schneider (1992) suggested, medicalisation was linked to the rise of rationalism and science (ie to modernity), and if we are experiencing the passing of modernity, we might expect to see a decrease in medicalisation. The idea of medicalization is perhaps related only indirectly to social constructionanism, in that it does not question the basis of medical knowledge as such, but challenges its application. Nettleton continues and states that is draws attention to the fact that medicine operates as a powerful institution of social control (Nettleton 2006: 25). It does this by claiming expertise in areas in life which previously were not regarded as medical problems or matters. This includes such life stages such as ageing, childbirth, alcohol consumption and childhood behaviour moreover, the availability of new pharmacological treatments and genetic testing intensifies these processesà ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦ thus it constructs, or redefines, aspects of normal life as medical problems. (Conrad and Schneider 1990 as cited in Nettleton 2006: 25). Medicalization can occur on three different and particular levels according to Conrad and Schneider (1980). The first was explained as conceptually when a medical vocabulary is used to define a problem. In some instances, doctors do not have to be involved and an example if this is AA. The second was the institutional level, institutionally, when organizations adopt a medical approach to treating a problem in which they specialise and the third was at the level of doctor patient interaction when a problem is defined as a medical and medical treatment occurs (as cited in Gabe et al 2004:59). These examples all involve doctors and their treatments directly, not including alcoholism which has other figures to help people such as the AA. The third level was the interactional level and this was where the problem, social problem, becomes defined as medical and medicalization occurs as part of a doctor-patient interaction. Medicalization shows the shifting ideas about health and illness. Health and illness does not only include such things as influenza or the cold, but deviant behaviours. Deviant behaviours which were once merely described as criminal, immoral or naughty before have now been labelled with medical meanings. Conrad and Schneider five-staged sequential process of medicalizing deviant behaviour. Stage one involves the behaviour itself as being deviant. Chronic drunkenness was regarded merely as highly undesirable, before it was medically labelled as chronic drunkenness. The second stage occurs when the medical conception of a deviant behaviour is announced in a professional medical journey according to Conrad and Schneider. A prominent thinker in the idea of medicalization was Ivan Illich, who studied it profusely and was very influential, in fact being one of the earliest philosophers to use the term medicalization. Illichs appraisal of professional medicine and particularly his use of the term medicalization lead him to become very influential within the discipline and is quoted to have said that Modern medicine is a negation of health. It isnt organized to serve human health, but only itself, as an institution. It makes more people sick than it heals. Illich attributed medicalization to the increasing professionalization and bureaucratization of medical institutions associated with industrialization (Gabe et al 2004: 61). He supposed that due to the development of modern medicine, it created a reliance on medicine and doctors thus taking away peoples ability to look after themselves and engage in self care. In his book Limits to medicine: Medical nemesis (1975) Illich disputed that the medical profession in point of fact harms people in a process known as  iatrogenesis. This can be elucidated as when there is an increase in illness and social problems as a direct result of medical intervention. Illich saw this occurring on three levels. The first was the clinical iatrogenesis. These involved serious  side-effects  which were are often worse than the original condition. The negative effects of the clinical intervention outweighed the positive and it also conveyed the dangers of modern medicine. There were negative side effects of medicine and drugs, which included poisoning people. In addition, infections which could be caught in the hospital such as MRSA and errors caused my medical negligence. The second level was the social iatrogenesis whereby the general public is made submissive and reliant on the medical profession to help them cope with their life in society. Furthermore all suffering is hospitalised and medicine undermines health indirectly because of its impact on social organisation of society. In the process people cease to give birth, for example, be sick or die at home And the third level is cultural iatrogenesis, which can also be referred to as the structural. This is where life processes such as aging and dying become medicalized which in the process creates a society which is not able to deal with natural life process thus becoming a culture of dependence. Moreover, people are dispossessed of their ability to cope with pain or bereavement for example as people rely on medicine and professionals. (Illick 1975) Sociologists such as Ehrenreich and English had argued that womens bodies were being medicalized.  Menstruation  and  pregnancy  had come to be seen as medical problems requiring interventions such as  hysterectomies. Nettleton furthered this notion and discussed this in relation to childbirth. The Medicalization of childbirth is as a result of professional dominance. She stated that the control of pregnancy and childbirth has been taken over by a predominantly male medical profession. Medicine can thus be regarded as patriarchal and exercising an undue social control over womens lives. From conception to the birth of the baby, the women are closely monitored thus medical monitoring and intervention in pregnancy childbirth are now routine processes. Childbirth is classified as a medical problem therefore it becomes conceptualized in terms of clinical safety, and women are encouraged to have their babies in hospitals. This consequently results in women being dependent on medical care. Nevertheless recent studies and evidence have shown that it may actually be safer to have babies at home because there would have been less susceptible to infection and technocological interference (Oakley 1884, as cited in Nettleton 2006: 26) Medicalization combines phenomenological and Marxist approaches of health and illnessà ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦ in that it considers definitions of illness to be products of social interactions or negotiations which are inherently unequal (Nettleton 2006: 26). Marxism discussed medicalization and linked it with oppression, arguing that medicine can disguise the underlying causes of disease which include poverty and social inequality. In the process they see health as an individual problem, rather than a societys problem. Medicalization is studied in terms of the role and power of  professions, patients and corporations, and also for its implications for ordinary people whose self-identity and life-decisions may depend on the prevailing concepts of  health and  illness. Once a condition is classed as medical, a  medical model of disability  tends to be used rather than a  social model. It constructs, or redefines, aspects of normal life as medical problems (Nettleton 2006: 26). Medicalization has been referred to as the processes by which social phenomena come to be perceived and treated as illnesses. It is the process in by issues and experiences that have previously been accounted for in religious, moral, or social contexts then become defined as the subject of scientific medical knowledge. The idea itself questions the belief that physical conditions themselves constitute an illness. It argues that the classification and identification of diseases is socially constructed and. It has been suggested that medicine is seen as being instilled with subjective assumptions of the society in which it developed. Moreover, it argues that the classification and identification of diseases is socially constructed and, along with the rest of science, is far from achieving the ideals of objectivity and neutrality. The medical thesis has much to recommendà ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦including the creation of new understanding of the social processes involved in the development and response to medical diagnosis and treatment To understand the level of social power that the medical community exercises through medicalization, Conrad explains that physicians have medicalized social deviance. They accomplish this by claiming the medical basis of matters such as hyperactivity, madness, alcoholism and compulsive gambling [Conrad, p 107]. By  medicalizing  social matters, medical professionals have the power to legitimize negative social behavior, such as the case of suspected killers in judicial courts who claim temporary insanity and are, therefore, exonerated on medical basis [Conrad, p 111]. In extending this concept, the Endocrine Society may have medicalized social deviance in men who reduce their work motivation or become characteristically unpleasant because they are experiencing andropause. In effect, despondency in older men might become an indicator of male menopause rather than a possible indicator of social deviance. Physicians also play a direct and significant role in the medicalization of social experiences. In analyzing the doctor-patient interaction of medicalization, Kaw argues that medical professionals have medicalized racial features by encouraging cosmetic surgery among Asian American women, for example, in order to avoid the stereotypical physical features of small and slanty eyes that are often associated with passivity, dullness and lack of sociability [Kaw, p 75]. Kaw asserts that plastic surgeons use medical terms to problematize the shape of their eyes so as to define it as a medical condition [Kaw, p 81]. Their use of technical terms and expressions should be questioned, especially since the power of such language influences Asian American women to pursue cosmetic surgery, when it is not necessary [Kaw, p 82]. Analogously, the Endocrine Society medicalized testosterone deficiency by defining it as Andropause; this helped perpetuate the notion, among older individuals, that if the y lack sexual drive or sense depression and fatigue, they should seek medical attention because they are experiencing an acute medical condition rather than a stage in the physiological cycle. The role played by the health care structures in medicalizing conditions is enhanced by that of the pharmaceutical industry. In order to achieve implementation of a drug in the market, the medicalization of a problem is critical [Conrad, p 111]. Once a medical definition for male menopause was established, the pharmaceutical company further medicalized the problem by launching strong advertisement campaigns aimed at older men and physicians alike, so as to popularize the drug among the general public and medical community [Groopman, 2002]. In a  Time  magazine advertisement, the industry appealed to the emotions of older men by linking low sex drive to the decline of testosterone levels rather than to a life process [Groopman 2002]. In this manner, the pharmaceutical industries profit based ideology facilitates the medicalization of testosterone deficiency by popularizing conditions that may be exceedingly common among health product consumers. Medicalization also changes patients ideologies of biomedicine and leads them to believe that biomedicine must not only offer cure for illnesses, but also offer life enhancements. Similar to the way that impotence and hair loss was medicalized by promoting drugs like Viagra to enhance sexual performance, and solutions like Rogaine for hair re-growth, male menopause has been medicalized because it causes low sex drive among other general symptoms [Groopman, 2002]. As a consequence, older men will opt to not only seek but demand life enhancements achievable through medicine disregarding the fact that such treatments can be detrimental to health. In fact, Groopman states that known side effect of testosterone therapy include abnormal enlargement of the breasts, testicular shrinkage, congestive heart failure and enlargement of the prostate gland [Groopman, 2002]. Medicalizing a problem can be harmful and deadly, yet medical professionals perpetuate this dangerous behavior by medicalizing conditions that patients may seek to treat for their personal wellbeing It is important to realize that medicalization is not merely the result of medical imperialism but rather the interactive process that involves society and the health community; [Conrad, p 115]. It includes patients and doctors alike. Nonetheless, awareness of the mechanisms by which the medical community affects society is important because medicine pertains to all health consumers. Male menopause only serves as one of the many examples of life experiences that have become medicalized by the healthcare community. Concluding this essay, the concept of medicalization started with the medical dominance which involved the increase of medicines influence and labelling over things regarded as normal life events and experiences. However in recent time, this view of a submissive lay populace, in thrall to expansionist medicine, has been challenged. As a consequence, as we enter a post-modern era, with increased concerns over risk and a decline in the trust of expert authority, many sociologists argue that the modern day consumer of healthcare plays an active role in bringing about or resisting medicalization. Furthermore Such participationà ¢Ã¢â€š ¬Ã‚ ¦can be problematic as healthcare consumers become increasingly aware of the risks and uncertainty surrounding many medical choices. Moreover the emergence of the modern day consumer not only raises questions about the notion of medicalisation as a uni-dimensional concept, but also requires consideration of the specific social contexts in which medical isation occurs (Ballard and Elston 2005). In addition they suggest that as we enter a post-modern era, conceptualizing medicalisation as a uni-dimensional or as the result of medical dominance primarily is insufficient.

Osama Bin Laden’s Claimed Motivations for 9/11 are False Essay

Osama Bin Laden’s Claimed Motivations for 9/11 are False Where did the animosity which lead to the terrorist acts of September 11, 2001 originate? It is obvious at this point in time that the leader of the al Qaeda network, Osama bin Laden, was the mastermind behind the attacks, but the reasons why the attacks occurred and the fact that a small majority of people can support such acts remains very unclear. Osama bin Laden stated in his February 1998 Fatwah, â€Å"The ruling to kill the Americans and their allies- civilians and military- is an individual duty for every Muslim.† When examining the three direct reasons given by Osama bin Laden to kill Americans his reasoning based on factual evidence veers far from the truth and his reasoning based on religion is not a true reflection of the Islamic religion thus creating an illogical argument. Osama bin Laden’s reasons for killing Americans and their allies are insufficient in the sense that his claims about United State’s motivations are wrong and that his justific ations are not rooted in the Muslim religion. In looking specifically at each of Osama bin Laden’s reasons their invalidity as well as, their true purpose, to create an uprising amongst his followers to succeed in his Fatwah, to kill Americans and their allies becomes apparent. Osama bin Laden refers to his reasons as facts. In his first fact he addresses the issue of the United States presence in Holy Middle Eastern places. He believes that the United States is there for the wealth and not only to harass Iraq, but other Muslim countries. Osama bin Laden must have forgotten that in Iraq invading Kuwait it was a breech of International Law and had that not happened the United States presence would not have r... ... Islamic countries. Bernard Lewis also raised an additional point that Osama bin Laden felt he had to fight the United States because there was no one else who could since the fall of the Soviet Union. Osama bin Laden has made such allegations against the United States not because they are true, but only to help him in his ultimate goal of proving to the World that the Islamic world can defend itself and that he is capable of it. He also made such allegations to try to unite the Islamic world in hopes that an Islamic state may rise. Works Cited Alexander, Yonah, and Swetnam, Michael S., Usama bin Laden’s al-Qaida: Profile of a Terrorist Network, Transnational Publishers, September 2001 Bergen, Peter, Holy War, New York: Free Press, 2001 Lewis, Bernard, The Revolt of Islam, The New Yorker, November 19. 2001 Miller, Judith, Interview PBS, 2001

Bag of Bones CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I caught the measles when I was eight, and I was very ill. ‘I thought you were going to die,' my father told me once, and he was not a man given to exaggeration. He told me about how he and my mother had dunked me in a tub of cold water one night, both of them at least half-convinced the shock of it would stop my heart, but both of them completely convinced that I'd burn up before their eyes if they didn't do something. I had begun to speak in a loud, monotonously discursive voice about the bright figures I saw in the room angels come to bear me away, my terrified mother was sure and the last time my father took my temperature before the cold plunge, he said that the mercury on the old Johnson & Johnson rectal thermometer had stood at a hundred and six degrees. After that, he said, he didn't dare take it anymore. I don't remember any bright figures, but I remember a strange period of time that was like being in a funhouse corridor where several different movies were showing at once. The world grew elastic, bulging in places where it had never bulged before, wavering in places where it had always been solid. People most of them seeming impossibly talldarted in and out of my room on scissoring, cartoonish legs. Their words all came out booming, with instant echoes. Someone shook a pair of baby-shoes in my face. I seem to remember my brother, Siddy, sticking his hand into his shirt and making repeated arm-fart noises. Continuity broke down. Everything came in segments, weird wieners on a poison string. In the years between then and the summer I returned to Sara Laughs, I had the usual sicknesses, infections, and insults to the body, but never anything like that feverish interlude when I was eight. I never expected to believing, I suppose, that such experiences are unique to children, people with malaria, or maybe those suffering catastrophic mental breakdowns. But on the night of July seventh and the morning of July eighth, I lived through a period of time remarkably like that childhood delirium. Dreaming, waking, moving they were all one. I'll tell you as best I can, but nothing I say can convey the strangeness of that experience. It was as if I had found a secret passage hidden just beyond the wall of the world and went crawling along it. First there was music. Not Dixieland, because there were no horns, but like Dixieland. A primitive, reeling kind of bebop. Three or four acoustic guitars, a harmonica, a stand-up bass (or maybe a pair). Behind all of this was a hard, happy drumming that didn't sound as if it was coming from a real drum; it sounded as if someone with a lot of percussive talent was whopping on a bunch of boxes. Then a woman's voice joined in a contralto voice, not quite mannish, roughing over the high notes. It was laughing and urgent and ominous all at the same time, and I knew at once that I was hearing Sara Tidwell, who had never cut a record in her life. I was hearing Sara Laughs, and man, she was rocking. ‘You know we're going back to MANderley, We're gonna dance on the SANderley, I'm gonna sing with the BANderley, We gonna ball all we CANderley Ball me, baby, yeah!' The basses yes, there were two broke out in a barnyard shuffle like the break in Elvis's version of ‘Baby Let's Play House,' and then there was a guitar solo: Son Tidwell playing that chickenscratch thing. Lights gleamed in the dark, and I thought of a song from the fifties Claudine Clark singing ‘Party Lights.' And here they were, Japanese lanterns hung from the trees above the path of railroad-tie steps leading from the house to the water. Party lights casting mystic circles of radiance in the dark: red blue and green. Behind me, Sara was singing the bridge to her Manderley song mama likes it nasty, mama likes it strong, mama likes to party all night long but it was fading. Sara and the Red-Top Boys had set up their bandstand in the driveway by the sound, about where George Footman had parked when he came to serve me with Max Devore's subpoena. I was descending toward the lake through circles of radiance, past party lights surrounded by soft-winged moths. One had found its way inside a lamp and it cast a monstrous, batlike shadow against the ribbed paper. The flower-boxes Jo had put beside the steps were full of night-blooming roses. In the light of the Japanese lanterns they looked blue. Now the band was only a faint murmur; I could hear Sara shouting out the lyric, laughing her way through it as though it were the funniest thing she'd ever heard, all that Manderley-sanderley-canderley stuff, but I could no longer make out the individual words. Much clearer was the lap of the lake against the rocks at the foot of the steps, the hollow clunk of the cannisters under the swimming float, and the cry of a loon drifting out of the darkness. Someone was standing on The Street to my right, at the edge of the lake. I couldn't see his face, but I could see the brown sportcoat and the tee-shirt he was wearing beneath it. The lapels cut off some of the letters of the message, so it looked like this: ORMA ER OUN I knew what it said anyway in dreams you almost always know, don't you? NORMAL SPERM COUNT, a Village Cafe yuck-it-up special if ever there was one. I was in the north bedroom dreaming all this, and here I woke up enough to know I was dreaming . . . except it was like waking into another dream, because Bunter's bell was ringing madly and there was someone standing in the hall. Mr. Normal Sperm Count? No, not him. The shadow-shape falling on the door wasn't quite human. It was slumped, the arms indistinct. I sat up into the silver shaking of the bell, clutching a loose puddle of sheet against my naked waist, sure it was the shroud-thing out there the shroud-thing had come out of its grave to get me. ‘Please don't,' I said in a dry and trembling voice. ‘Please don't, please.' The shadow on the door raised its arms. ‘It ain't nuthin but a barn-dance sugar!' Sara Tidwell's laughing, furious voice sang. ‘It ain't nuthin but a round-and-round!' I lay back down and pulled the sheet over my face in a childish act of denial . . . and there I stood on our little lick of beach, wearing just my undershorts. My feet were ankle-deep in the water. It was warm the way the lake gets by midsummer. My dim shadow was cast two ways, in one direction by the scantling moon which rode low above the water, in another by the Japanese lantern with the moth caught inside it. The man who'd been standing on the path was gone but he had left a plastic owl to mark his place. It stared at me with frozen, gold-ringed eyes. ‘Hey Irish!' I looked out at the swimming float. Jo stood there. She must have just climbed out of the water, because she was still dripping and her hair was plastered against her cheeks. She was wearing the two-piece swimsuit from the photo I'd found, gray with red piping. ‘It's been a long time, Irish what do you say?' ‘Say about what?' I called back, although I knew. ‘About this!' She put her hands over her breasts and squeezed. Water ran out between her fingers and trickled across her knuckles. ‘Come on, Irish,' she said from beside and above me, ‘come on, you bastard, let's go.' I felt her strip down the sheet, pulling it easily out of my sleep-numbed fingers. I shut my eyes, but she took my hand and placed it between her legs. As I found that velvety seam and began to stroke it open, she began to rub the back of my neck with her fingers. ‘You're not Jo,' I said. ‘Who are you?' But no one was there to answer. I was in the woods. It was dark, and on the lake the loons were crying. I was walking the path to Jo's studio. It wasn't a dream; I could feel the cool air against my skin and the occasional bite of a rock into my bare sole or heel. A mosquito buzzed around my ear and I waved it away. I was wearing Jockey shorts, and at every step they pulled against a huge and throbbing erection. ‘What the hell is this?' I asked as Jo's little barnboard studio loomed in the dark. I looked behind me and saw Sara on her hill, not the woman but the house, a long lodge jutting toward the nightbound lake. ‘What's happening to me?' ‘Everything's all right, Mike,' Jo said. She was standing on the float, watching as I swam toward her. She put her hands behind her neck like a calendar model, lifting her breasts more fully into the damp halter. As in the photo, I could see her nipples poking out the cloth. I was swimming in my underpants, and with the same huge erection. ‘Everything's all right, Mike,' Mattie said in the north bedroom, and I opened my eyes. She was sitting beside me on the bed, smooth and naked in the weak glow of the nightlight. Her hair was down, hanging to her shoulders. Her breasts were tiny, the size of teacups, but the nipples were large and distended. Between her legs, where my hand still lingered, was a powderpuff of blonde hair, smooth as down. Her body was wrapped in shadows like moth-wings, like rose-petals. There was something desperately attractive about her as she sat there she was like the prize you know you'll never win at the carny shooting gallery or the county fair ringtoss. The one they keep on the top shelf. She reached under the sheet and folded her fingers over the stretched material of my undershorts. Everything's all right, it ain't nuthin but a round-and-round, said the UFO voice as I climbed the steps to my wife's studio. I stooped, fished for the key from beneath the mat, and took it out. I climbed the ladder to the float, wet and dripping, preceded by my engorged sex is there anything, I wonder, so unintentionally comic as a sexually aroused man? Jo stood on the boards in her wet bathing suit. I pulled Mattie into bed with me. I opened the door to Jo's studio. All of these things happened at the same time, weaving in and out of each other like strands of some exotic rope or belt. The thing with Jo felt the most like a dream, the thing in the studio, me crossing the floor and looking down at my old green IBM, the least. Mattie in the north bedroom was somewhere in between. On the float Jo said, ‘Do what you want.' In the north bedroom Mattie said, ‘Do what you want.' In the studio, no one had to tell me anything. In there I knew exactly what I wanted. On the float I bent my head and put my mouth on one of Jo's breasts and sucked the cloth-covered nipple into my mouth. I tasted damp fabric and dank lake. She reached for me where I stuck out and I slapped her hand away. If she touched me I would come at once. I sucked, drinking back trickles of cotton-water, groping with my own hands, first caressing her ass and then yanking down the bottom half of her suit. I got it off her and she dropped to her knees. I did too, finally getting rid of my wet, clinging underpants and tossing them on top of her bikini panty. We faced each other that way, me naked, her almost. ‘Who was the guy at the game?' I panted. ‘Who was he, Jo?' ‘No one in particular, Irish. Just another bag of bones.' She laughed, then leaned back on her haunches and stared at me. Her navel was a tiny black cup. There was something queerly, attractively snakelike in her posture. ‘Everything down there is death,' she said, and pressed her cold palms and white, pruney fingers to my cheeks. She turned my head and then bent it so I was looking into the lake. Under the water I saw decomposing bodies slipping by, pulled by some deep current. Their wet eyes stared. Their fish-nibbled noses gaped. Their tongues lolled between white lips like tendrils of waterweed. Some of the dead trailed pallid balloons of jellyfish guts; some were little more than bone. Yet not even the sight of this floating charnel parade could divert me from what I wanted. I shrugged my head free of her hands, pushed her down on the boards, and finally cooled what was so hard and contentious, sinking it deep. Her moon-silvered eyes stared up at me, through me, and I saw that one pupil was larger than the other. That was how her eyes had looked on the TV monitor when I had identified her in the Derry County Morgue. She was dead. My wife was dead and I was fucking her corpse. Nor could even that realization stop me. ‘Who was he?' I cried at her, covering her cold flesh as it lay on the wet boards. ‘Who was he, Jo, for Christ's sake tell me who he was!' In the north bedroom I pulled Mattie on top of me, relishing the feel of those small breasts against my chest and the length of her entwining legs. Then I rolled her over on the far side of the bed. I felt her hand reaching for me, and slapped it away if she touched me where she meant to touch me, I would come in an instant. ‘Spread your legs, hurry,' I said, and she did. I closed my eyes, shutting out all other sensory input in favor of this. I pressed forward, then stopped. I made one little adjustment, pushing at my engorged penis with the side of my hand, then rolled my hips and slipped into her like a finger in a silk-lined glove. She looked up at me, wide-eyed, then put a hand on my cheek and turned my head. ‘Everything out there is death,' she said, as if only explaining the obvious. In the window I saw Fifth Avenue between Fiftieth and Sixtieth all those trendy shops, Bijan and Bally, Tiffany and Bergdorf's and Steuben Glass. And here came Harold Oblowski, north bound and swinging his pigskin briefcase (the one Jo and I had given him for Christmas the year before she died). Beside him, carrying a Barnes and Noble bag by the handles, was the bountiful, beauteous Nola, his secretary. Except her bounty was gone. This was a grinning, yellow-jawed skeleton in a Donna Karan suit and alligator pumps; scrawny, beringed bones instead of fingers gripped the bag-handles. Harold's teeth jutted in his usual agent's grin, now extended to the point of obscenity. His favorite suit, the doublebreasted charcoal-gray from Paul Stuart, flapped on him like a sail in a fresh breeze. All around them, on both sides of the street, walked the living dead mommy mummies leading baby corpses by the hands or wheeling them in expensive prams, zombie doormen, reanimated skateboarders. Here a tall black man with a last few strips of flesh hanging from his face like cured deer-hide walked his skeletal Alsatian. The cab-drivers were rotting to raga music. The faces looking down from the passing buses were skulls, each wearing its own version of Harold's grin Hey, how are ya, how's the wife, how's the kids, writing any good books lately? The peanut vendors were putrefying. Yet none of it could quench me. I was on fire. I slipped my hands under her buttocks, lifting her, biting at the sheet (the pattern, I saw with no surprise, was blue roses) until I pulled it free of the mattress to keep from biting her on the neck, the shoulder, the breasts, anywhere my teeth could reach. ‘Tell me who he was!' I shouted at her. ‘You know, I know you do!' My voice was so muffled by my mouthful of bed-linen that I doubted if anyone but me could have understood it. ‘Tell me, you bitch!' On the path between Jo's studio and the house I stood in the dark with the typewriter in my arms and that dream-spanning erection quivering below its metal bulk all that ready and nothing willing. Except maybe for the night breeze. Then I became aware I was no longer alone. The shroud-thing was behind me, called like the moths to the party lights. It laughed-a brazen, smoke-broken laugh that could belong to only one woman. I didn't see the hand that reached around my hip to grip me the typewriter was in the way but I didn't need to see it to know its color was brown. It squeezed, slowly tightening, the fingers wriggling. ‘What do you want to know, sugar?' she asked from behind me. Still laughing. Still teasing. ‘Do you really want to know at all? Do you want to know or do you want to feel?' ‘Oh, you're killing me!' I cried. The typewriter thirty or so pounds of IBM Selectric was shaking back and forth in my arms. I could feel my muscles twanging like guitar strings. ‘Do you want to know who he was, sugar? That nasty man?' ‘Just do me, you bitch!' I screamed. She laughed again that harsh laughter that was almost like a cough and squeezed me where the squeezing was best. ‘You hold still, now,' she said. ‘You hold still, pretty boy, ‘less you want me to take fright and yank this thing of yours right out by the . . . ‘ I lost the rest as the whole world exploded in an orgasm so deep and strong that I thought it would simply tear me apart. I snapped my head back like a man being hung and ejaculated looking up at the stars. I screamed I had to and on the lake, two loons screamed back. At the same time I was on the float. Jo was gone, but I could faintly hear the sound of the band -Sara and Sonny and the Red-Top Boys tearing through ‘Black Mountain Rag.' I sat up, dazed and spent, fucked hollow. I couldn't see the path leading up to the house, but I could discern its switchback course by the Japanese lanterns. My underpants lay beside me in a little wet heap. I picked them up and started to put them on, only because I didn't want to swim back to shore with them in my hand. I stopped with them stretched between my knees, looking at my fingers. They were slimed with decaying flesh. Puffing out from beneath several of the nails were clumps of torn-out hair. Corpsehair. ‘Oh Jesus,' I moaned. The strength went out of me. I flopped into wetness. I was in the north-wing bedroom. What I had landed in was hot, and at first I thought it was come. The dim glow of the nightlight showed darker stuff, however. Mattie was gone and the bed was full of blood. Lying in the middle of that soaking pool was something I at first glance took to be a clump of flesh or a piece of organ. I looked more closely and saw it was a stuffed animal, a black-furred object matted red with blood. I lay on my side looking at it, wanting to bolt out of the bed and flee from the room but unable to do it. My muscles were in a dead swoon. Who had I really been having sex with in this bed? And what had I done to her? In God's name, what? ‘I don't believe these lies,' I heard myself say, and as though it were an incantation, I was slapped back together. That isn't exactly what happened, bur it's the only way of saying that seems to come close to whatever did. There were three of me one on the float, one in the north bedroom, one on the path and each one felt that hard slap, as if the wind had grown a fist. There was rushing blackness, and in it the steady silver shaking of Bunter's bell. Then it faded, and I faded with it. For a little while I was nowhere at all. I came back to the casual chatter of birds on summer vacation and to that peculiar red darkness that means the sun is shining through your closed eyelids. My neck was stiff, my head was canted at a weird angle, my legs were folded awkwardly beneath me, and I was hot. I lifted my head with a wince, knowing even as I opened my eyes that I was no longer in bed, no longer on the swimming float, no longer on the path between the house and the studio. It was floorboards under me, hard and uncompromising. The light was dazzling. I squinched my eyes closed again and groaned like a man with a hangover. I eased them back open behind my cupped hands, gave them time to adjust, then cautiously uncovered them, sat all the way up, and looked around. I was in the upstairs hall, lying under the broken air conditioner. Mrs. Meserve's note still hung from it. Sitting outside my office door was the green IBM with a piece of paper rolled into it. I looked down at my feet and saw that they were dirty. Pine needles were stuck to my soles, and one toe was scratched. I got up, staggered a little (my right leg had gone to sleep), then braced a hand against the wall and stood steady. I looked down at myself. I was wearing the Jockeys I'd gone to bed in, and I didn't look as if I'd had an accident in them. I pulled out the waistband and peeked inside. My cock looked as it usually did; small and soft, curled up and asleep in its thatch of hair. If Noonan's Folly had been adventuring in the night, there was no sign of it now. ‘It sure felt like an adventure,' I croaked. I armed sweat off my forehead. It was stifling up here. ‘Not the kind I ever read about in The Hardy Boys, though.' Then I remembered the blood-soaked sheet in the north bedroom, and the stuffed animal lying on its side in the middle of it. There was no sense of relief attached to the memory, that thank-God-it-was-only-a-dream feeling you get after a particularly nasty nightmare. It felt as real as any of the things I'd experienced in my measles fever-delirium . . . and all those things had been real, just distorted by my overheated brain. I staggered to the stairs and limped down them, holding tight to the bannister in case my tingling leg should buckle. At the foot I looked dazedly around the living room, as if seeing it for the first time, and then limped down the north-wing corridor. The bedroom door was ajar and for a moment I couldn't bring myself to push it all the way open and go in. I was very badly scared, and my mind kept trying to replay an old episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, the one about the man who strangles his wife during an alcoholic blackout. He spends the whole half hour looking for her, and finally finds her in the pantry, bloated and open-eyed. Kyra Devore was the only kid of stuffed-animal age I'd met recently, but she had been sleeping peacefully under her cabbage-rose coverlet when I left her mother and headed home. It was stupid to think I had driven all the way back to Wasp Hill Road, probably wearing nothing but my Jockeys, that I had What? Raped the woman? Brought the child here? In my sleep? I got the typewriter, in my sleep, didn't I? It's sitting right upstairs in the goddam hallway. Big difference between going thirty yards through the woods and five miles down the road to I wasn't going to stand out here listening to those quarrelling voices in my head. If I wasn't crazy and I didn't think I was listening to those contentious assholes would probably send me there, and by the express. I reached out and pushed the bedroom door open. For a moment I actually saw a spreading octopus-pattern of blood soaking into the sheet, that's how real and focused my terror was. Then I closed my eyes tight, opened them, and looked again. The sheets were rumpled, the bottom one mostly pulled free. I could see the quilted satin hide of the mattress. One pillow lay on the far edge of the bed. The other was scrunched down at the foot. The throw rug a piece of Jo's work was askew, and my water-glass lay overturned on the nighttable. The bedroom looked as if it might have been the site of a brawl or an orgy, but not a murder. There was no blood and no little stuffed animal with black fur. I dropped to my knees and looked under the bed. Nothing there not even dust-kitties, thanks to Brenda Meserve. I looked at the ground-sheet again, first passing a hand over its rumpled topography, then pulling it back down and resecuring the elasticized corners. Great invention, those sheets; if women gave out the Medal of Freedom instead of a bunch of white politicians who never made a bed or washed a load of clothes in their lives, the guy who thought up fitted sheets would undoubtedly have gotten a piece of that tin by now. In a Rose Garden ceremony. With the sheet pulled taut, I looked again. No blood, not a single drop. There was no stiffening patch of semen, either. The former I hadn't really expected (or so I was already telling myself), but what about the latter? At the very least, I'd had the world's most creative wet-dream a triptych in which I had screwed two women and gotten a handjob from a third, all at the same time. I thought I had that morning-after feeling, too, the one you get when the previous night's sex has been of the headbusting variety. But if there had been fireworks, where was the burnt gunpowder? ‘In Jo's studio, most likely,' I told the empty, sunny room. ‘Or on the path between here and there. Just be glad you didn't leave it in Mattie Devore, bucko. An affair with a post-adolescent widow you don't need.' A part of me disagreed; a part of me thought Mattie Devore was exactly what I did need. But I hadn't had sex with her last night, any more than I had had sex with my dead wife out on the swimming float or gotten a handjob from Sara Tidwell. Now that I saw I hadn't killed a nice little kid either, my thoughts turned back to the typewriter. Why had I gotten it? Why bother? Oh man. What a silly question. My wife might have been keeping secrets from me, maybe even having an affair; there might be ghosts in the house; there might be a rich old man half a mile south who wanted to put a sharp stick into me and then break it off; there might be a few toys in my own humble attic, for that matter. But as I stood there in a bright shaft of sunlight, looking at my shadow on the far wall, only one thought seemed to matter: I had gone out to my wife's studio and gotten my old typewriter, and there was only one reason to do something like that. I went into the bathroom, wanting to get rid of the sweat on my body and the dirt on my feet before doing anything else. I reached for the shower-handle, then stopped. The tub was full of water. Either I had for some reason filled it during my sleepwalk . . . or something else had. I reached for the drain-lever, then stopped again, remembering that moment on the shoulder of Route 68 when my mouth had filled up with the taste of cold water. I realized I was waiting for it to happen again. When it didn't, I opened the bathtub drain to let out the standing water and started the shower. I could have brought the Selectric downstairs, perhaps even lugged it out onto the deck where there was a little breeze coming over the surface of the lake, but I didn't. I had brought it all the way to the door of my office, and my office was where I'd work . . . if I could work. I'd work in there even if the temperature beneath the roofpeak built to a hundred and twenty degrees . . . which, by three in the afternoon, it just might. The paper rolled into the machine was an old pink-carbon receipt from Click!, the photo shop in Castle Rock where Jo had bought her supplies when we were down here. I'd put it in so that the blank side faced the Courier type-ball. On it I had typed the names of my little harem, as if I had tried in some struggling way to report on my three-faceted dream even while it was going on: Jo Sara Mattie Jo Sara Mattie Mattie Mattie Sara Sara Jo Johanna Sara Jo MattieSaraJo. Below this, in lower case: normal sperm count sperm norm all's rosy I opened the office door, carried the typewriter in, and put it in its old place beneath the poster of Richard Nixon. I pulled the pink slip out of the roller, balled it up, and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then I picked up the Selectric's plug and stuck it in the baseboard socket. My heart was beating hard and fast, the way it had when I was thirteen and climbing the ladder to the high board at the Y-pool. I had climbed that ladder three times when I was twelve and then slunk back down it again; once I turned thirteen, there could be no chickening out I really had to do it. I thought I'd seen a fan hiding in the far corner of the closet, behind the box marked GADGETS. I started in that direction, then turned around again with a ragged little laugh. I'd had moments of confidence before, hadn't I? Yes. And then the iron bands had clamped around my chest. It would be stupid to get out the fan and then discover I had no business in this room after all. ‘Take it easy,' I said, ‘take it easy.' But I couldn't, no more than that narrow-chested boy in the ridiculous purple bathing suit had been able to take it easy when he walked to the end of the diving board, the pool so green below him, the upraised faces of the boys and girls in it so small, so small. I bent to one of the drawers on the right side of the desk and pulled so hard it came all the way out. I got my bare foot out of its landing zone just in time and barked a gust of loud, humorless laughter. There was half a ream of paper in the drawer. The edges had that faintly crispy look paper gets when it's been sitting for a long time. I no more than saw it before remembering I had brought my own supply stuff a good deal fresher than this. I left it where it was and put the drawer back in its hole. It took several tries to get it on its tracks; my hands were shaking. At last I sat down in my desk chair, hearing the same old creaks as it took my weight and the same old rumble of the casters as I rolled it forward, snugging my legs into the kneehole. Then I sat facing the keyboard, sweating hard, still remembering the high board at the Y, how springy it had been under my bare feet as I walked its length, remembering the echoing quality of the voices below me, remembering the smell of chlorine and the steady low throb of the air-exchangers: fwung-fwung-fwung-fwung, as if the water had its own secret heartbeat. I had stood at the end of the board wondering (and not for the first time!) if you could be paralyzed if you hit the water wrong. Probably not, but you could die of fear. There were documented cases of that in Ripley's Believe It or Not, which served me as science between the ages of eight and fourteen. Go on! Jo's voice cried. My version of her voice was usually calm and collected; this time it was shrill. Stop dithering and go on! I reached for the IBM's rocker-switch, now remembering the day I had dropped my Word Six program into the Powerbook's trash. Goodbye, old pal, I had thought. ‘Please let this work,' I said. ‘Please.' I lowered my hand and flicked the switch. The machine came on. The Courier ball did a preliminary twirl, like a ballet dancer standing in the wings, waiting to go on. I picked up a piece of paper, saw my sweaty fingers were leaving marks, and didn't care. I rolled it into the machine, centered it, then wrote Chapter One and waited for the storm to break.

Analysis of Low Visibility

When humans entered the twentieth century, a lot had changed since that mime, but the oppression was still there for every woman to feel – however, it was disappearing, slowly, but surely. In 191 5 women got the right to vote, and since that moment everything went uphill, for both women and society In general. Today men and woman are equal, to a certain degree, and our life standard has never been better – though it has to be said that macho men still exist. The short story, written by Margaret Murphy, â€Å"Low Visibility' is about one of these men and his animal-like crave for control.It Is also about the struggle of a woman, who Is trying to escape this The short story Is written In chronological order and starts In media oppression. Rest. The story begins with, the main character of the short story; Laura. She and her husband John are both sitting in the living room, watching a riot on television. The omniscient narrator guides us through the story, where a couple of abuse incidents, towards Laura, occur. A while later, we hear about an angry mob, who were robbing a shop under the couple's building. John decides to go down and teach them a lesson, but ends up bloodied and on the ground.Later on Laura follows him downstairs, and she finally triumphs over him and leaves him. Laura used to be a very passionate woman who could cheer up, almost, anybody with her sheer smile (L 19). This however, was in the past before she got married. The new Laura is an oppressed, prisoner-like, housewife who has no say in anything. After years of, physical and mental, abuse John managed to feast on her blood and ruin her life (L 60: † â€Å"Animals,† John mutters, feasting on her pain†). Before the couple got married, Laura fell for. She could always distinguish him from the others.She always felt that the spotlight was on him due to his personality and refusal to be a part of something. Another important factor, to this marriage, is that John was lacking the ability to fit in. She tried to make him a part of her group, and when she reached out one of her hands, he grabbed on her whole body. As the years went by, John had anguished all the passion and hope, inside of Laura, and she became an obedient slave, with no right to speak or express herself (L. L â€Å"One Han on the remote control, the other on her thigh. She keeps very still†). He knew hat if she struggled in any way, she would suffer an even greater pain (L. 43-44 â€Å"So she says nothing. It's safer – less painful†). At the end of the story we see, however, that even after all she has suffered, she is still a dynamic person, as she develops throughout the story. The riot, which was on television, symbolizes Laurel's rage, anger and hope. After taking all the abuse John threw at her, she was bound to eventually explode. The riot reminded her that there was a way out of her misery, but seen Ana to stand up Tort nearest Ana Talent I en angr y moo mace nerd Tortuous Walt resell – a fire lit inside her chest.The only problem now was that she did not know how to free herself from the prison she was locked in, did not know how to fight back (L . 15 â€Å"She wishes she could protest, but has forgotten how'). It would not be far from the truth to claim that the riot was happening in her head and not on the streets. The fact that John was beaten too helpless state by the marching mob makes it all the more convenient, that she managed to throw him off his throne, in one way or another. The ending was nothing short of poetic, as Laura, the once stupid and young RL, made a complete change in personality, and entered a new state of mind.Through all the pain and suffering, she had experienced, she attained a new perspective on life. She was not going to stand for any more insults or abuse and decided to follow her own will. She realizes that the best way to avoid having to face the same agony she experienced is to keep a low profile, a low visibility. The fact that she stood up for herself and left her husband was a victory for herself, however, the fact that she decided to become Just another person and keep a low profile was a defeat to all women.