WET (very late) - "The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat" <asf>

[Nenufar]

That's a very interesting reading!! Great post!!

My grandfather was in coma and afterwards lost some of his late memory. He
wouldn't recognise me at all! It was very sad seeing how one of the
strongest people I've ever known was knock down in the last days of his
life.

I will definitely read this book. I've read the first chapter and it's
really interesting!!

Thank you!! ;)

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message
news:#5TDuIM9BHA.2396@tkmsftngp05...
- Oliver Sacks -

[Uncle Debi]

I read the whole chapter, joni. It's fascinating. Thanks for sharing it!

--
Uncle Debi
Calendar Wallpaper
http://home.wnm.net/~debi/index.htm

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message
news:#5TDuIM9BHA.2396@tkmsftngp05...
- Oliver Sacks -

British-U.S. neurologist and writer. He emigrated to the U.S. in 1960 to
study neurology at the University of California, and in 1965 he joined the
faculty at New York's Albert Einstein College of Medicine. Many of his books
relate case histories of neurologically damaged people. His empathy with
those afflicted with strange conditions, including Tourette's syndrome,
amnesia, and autism, has been the hallmark of his writings. 'Awakenings',
about the long-term effects of sleeping sickness, was filmed in 1990; other
books include 'The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat' (1986) and 'An
Anthropologist on Mars' (1995).

- The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat -

In his most extraordinary book, "one of the great clinical writers of the
20th century" (The New York Times) recounts the case histories of patients
lost in the bizarre, apparently inescapable world of neurological disorders.
Oliver Sacks's "The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat" tells the stories of
individuals afflicted with fantastic perceptual and intellectual
aberrations: patients who have lost their memories and with them the greater
part of their pasts; who are no longer able to recognize people and common
objects; who are stricken with violent tics and grimaces or who shout
involuntary obscenities; whose limbs have become alien; who have been
dismissed as retarded yet are gifted with uncanny artistic or mathematical
talents. If inconceivably strange, these brilliant tales remain, in Dr.
Sacks's splendid and sympathetic telling, deeply human. They are studies of
life struggling against incredible adversity, and they enable us to enter
the world of the neurologically impaired, to imagine with our hearts what it
must be to live and feel as they do. A great healer, Sacks never loses sight
of medicine's ultimate responsibility: "the suffering, afflicted, fighting
human subject."

- Why I Chose this Book -

I came across this book after my father experienced his first stroke. It
left him completely paralyzed on his left side and unable to make much sense
when he communicated. My search led me to the library, checking out many
types of medical manuals and articles. I found this book particularly
interesting and I think it helped me resolve to myself that there wasn't
much I or the doctors could do to make him better - after all dead brain
tissue is dead. Oliver Sacks in his own way gave me hope in dealing with
what was left of my father, who had been a brilliant man, full of fun &
compassion - reading about others with neurological disorders and how they
and their families coped in such a courageous manner gave me a new
direction.

You can click on the pop-up button to read the first chapter of this book.
It is quite a bit of reading, but is really fascinating (at least to me).
Each chapter of this book is about a different person with a different
neurological 'condition'. It is amazing to me, how even in the face of such
conditions how the brain works and copes - and how the human element is
still very much alive.

NOTE: Song chosen from reference to it in Chapter 1, Dichterliebe, song 13
of 16,
"Ich hab' im Traum geweinet" by Schumann

joni

Read Chapter 1

Sound On Sound Off

Credits:
Gérard Ferrandez
Michel Piétri
JerryBoy
Ted Brewer

- The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat -
Dr P. was a musician of distinction, well-known for many years as a singer,
and then, at the local School of Music, as a teacher. It was here, in
relation to his students, that certain strange problems were first observed.
Sometimes a student would present himself, and Dr P. would not recognize
him; or, specificially, would not recognize his face. The moment the student
spoke, he would be recognized by his voice. Such incidents multiplied,
causing embarrassment, perplexity, fear - and, sometimes, comedy. For not
only did Dr P. increasingly fail to see faces, but he saw faces when there
were no faces to see: genially, Magoo-like, when in the street he might pat
the heads water hydrants and parking meters, taking these to be the heads of
children; he would amiably address carved knobs on the furniture and be
astounded when they did not reply. At first these odd mistakes were laughed
off as jokes, not least by Dr P. himself. Had he not always had a quirky
sense of humour and been given to Zen-like paradoxes and jests? His musical
powers were as dazzling as ever; he did not feel ill - he had never felt
better; and the mistakes were so ludicrous - and so ingenious - that they
could hardly be serious or betoken anything serious. The notion of there
being 'something the matter' did not emerge until some three years later,
when diabetes developed. Well aware that diabetes could affect his eyes, Dr
P. consulted an ophthalmologist, who took a careful history and examined his
eyes closely. "There's nothing the matter with your eyes," the doctor
concluded, "But there is trouble with the visual parts of your brain. You
don't need my help, you must see a neurologist."

... click on page 2 to continue ... page 2
And so, as a result of this referral, Dr P. came to me.

It was obvious within a few seconds of meeting him that there was no trace
of dementia in the ordinary sense. He was a man of great cultivation and
charm who talked well and fluently, with imagination and humour. I couldn't
think why he had been referred to our clinic.

And yet there was something a bit odd. He faced me as he spoke, was oriented
towards me, and yet there was something the matter - it was difficult to
formulate. He faced me with his ears, I came to think, but not with his
eyes. These, instead of looking, gazing, at me, 'taking me in', in the
normal was, made sudden strange fixations - on my nose, on my right ear,
down my chin, up to my right eye - as if noting (even studying) these
individual features, but not seeing my whole face, its changing expressions,
'me', as a whole. I am not sure that I fully realized this at the time -
there was just a teasing of strangeness, some failure in the normal
interplay of gaze and expression. He saw me, he scanned me, and yet . . .

"What seems to be the matter?" I asked him at length.
"Nothing that I know of," he replied with a smile, "but people seem to think
there's something wrong with my eyes."
"But you don't recognize any visual problems?"
"No, not directly, but I occasionally make mistakes."

I left the room briefly to talk to his wife. When I came back, Dr P. was
sitting placidly by the window, attentive, listening rather than looking
out. "Traffic," he said, "street sounds, distant trains - they make sort of
a symphony, do they not? You know Honegger's Pacific 234?"

What a lovely man, I thought to myself. How can there be anything seriously
the matter? Would he permit me to examine him?

"Yes, of course, Dr Sacks."

I stilled my disquiet, his perhaps, too, in the soothing routine of a
neurological exam - muscle strength, coordination, reflexes, tone . . . It
was while examining his reflexes - a trifle abnormal on the left side - that
the first bizarre experience occurred.

I had taken off his left shoe and scratched the sole of his foot with a
key - a frivolous-seeming but essential test of a reflex - and then,
excusing myself to screw my ophthalmoscope together, left him to put on the
shoe himself.

... click on page 3 to continue ... page 3
To my surprise, a minute later, he had not done this.

"Can I help?" I asked.
"Help what? Help whom?"
"Help you put on your shoe."
"Ach," he said, "I had forgotten the shoe," adding, sotto voce, "The shoe?
The shoe?" he seemed baffled.
"Your shoe," I repeated. "Perhaps you'd put it on."
He continued to look downwards, though not at the shoe, with an intense but
misplaced concentration. Finally his gaze settled on his foot: "That is my
shoe, yes?"
Did I mis-hear? Did he mis-see?
"My eyes," he explained, and put a hand to his foot. "This is my shoe, no?"
"No, it is not. That is your foot. There is your shoe."
"Ah! I thought that was my foot."
Was he joking? Was he mad? Was he blind? If this was one of his 'strange
mistakes', it was the strangest mistake I had ever come across.

I helped him on with his shoe (his foot), to avoid further complication. Dr
P. himself seemed untroubled, indifferent, maybe amused. I resumed my
examination. His visual acuity was good; he had no difficulty seeing a pin
on the floor, though sometimes he missed it if it was placed to his left.

He saw all right, but what did he see? I opened out a copy of the National
Geographic Magazine and asked him to describe some pictures in it.

His responses here were very curious. His eyes would dart from one thing to
another, picking up tiny features, individual features, as they had done
with my face. A striking brightness, a colour, a shape would arrest his
attention and elicit comment - but in no case did he get the
scene-as-a-whole. He failed to see the whole, seeing only details, which he
spotted like blips on a radar screen. He never entered into relation with
the picture as a whole - never faced, so to speak, its physiognomy. He had
no sense whatever of a landscape or scene.

I showed him the cover, an unbroken expanse of Sahara dunes.
"What do you see here?" I asked.
"I see a river," he said. "And a little guest-house with its terrace on the
water. People are dining out on the terrace. I see coloured parasols here
and there." He was looking, if it was 'looking', right off the cover into
mid-air and confabulating nonexistent features, as if the absence of
features in the actual picture had driven him to imagine the river and the
terrace and the coloured parasols.

... click on page 4 to continue ... page 4
I must have looked aghast, but he seemed to think he had done rather well.
There was a hint of a smile on his face. He also appeared to have decided
that the examination was over and started to look around for his hat. He
reached out his hand and took hold of his wife's head, tried to lift it off,
to put it on. He had apparently mistaken his wife for a hat! His wife looked
as if she was used to such things.

I could make no sense of what had occurred in terms of conventional
neurology (or neuropsychology). In some ways he seemed perfectly preserved,
and in others absolutely, incomprehensibly devastated. How could he, on the
one hand, mistake his wife for a hat and, on the other, function, as
apparently he still did, as a teacher at the Music School?

I had to think, to see him again - and to see him in his own familiar
habitat, at home.

A few days later I called on Dr P. and his wife at home, with the score of
the Dichterliebe in my briefcase (I knew he liked Schumann), and a variety
of odd objects for the testing of perception. Mrs P. showed me into a lofty
apartment, which recalled fin-de-siécle Berlin. A magnificent old
Bösendorfer stood in state in the centre of the room, and all around it were
music stands, instruments, scores . . . There were books, there were
paintings, but the music was central. Dr P. came in, a little bowed, and,
destracted, advanced with outstretched hand to the grandfather clock, but,
hearing my voice, corrected himself, and shook hands with me. We exchanged
greetings and chatted a little of current concerts and performances.
Diffidently, I asked him if he would sing.

"The Dichterliebe!" he exclaimed. "But I can no longer read music. you will
play them, yes?"

I said I would try. On that wonderful old piano even my playing sounded
right, and Dr P. was an aged but infinitely mellow Fischer-Dieskau,
combining a perfect ear and voice with the most incisive musical
intelligence. It was clear that the Music School was not keeping him on out
of charity.

... click on page 5 to continue ... page 5
> Dr P.'s temporal lobes were obviously intact; he had a wonderful musical
cortex. What, I wondered, was going on in his parietal and occipital lobes,
especially in those areas where visual processing occurred? I carry the
Platonic solids in my neurological kit and decided to start with these.

"What is this?" I asked, drawing out the first one.
"A cube, of course."
"Now this?" I asked, brandishing another.

He asked if he might examine it, which he did swiftly and systematically: "A
dodecahedron, of course. And don't bother with the others - I'll get the
icosahedron, too."

Abstract shapes clearly presented no problems. What about faces? I took out
a pack of cards. All of these he identified instantly, including the jacks,
queens, kings, and the joker. But these, after all, are stylized designs,
and it was impossible to tell whether he saw faces or merely patterns. I
decided I would show him a volume of cartoons which I had in my briefcase.
Here, again, for the most part, he did well. Churchill's cigar, Schnozzle's
nose; as soon as he picked out a key feature he could identify the face. But
cartoons, again are formal and schematic. It remained to be seen how he
would do with real faces, realistically represented.

I turned on the television, keeping the sound off, and found an early Bette
Davis film. A love scene was in progress, Dr P. failed to identify the
actress - but this could have been because she had never entered his world.
What was more striking was that he failed to identify the expressions on her
face or her partner's, though in the course of a single torrid scene these
passed from sultry yearning through passion, surprise, disgust, and fury to
a melting reconciliation. Dr P. could make nothing of any of this. He was
very unclear as to what was going on, or who was who or even what sex they
were. His comments on the scene were positively Martian.

... click on page 6 to continue ... page 6
It was just possible that some of his difficulties were associated with the
unreality of a celluloid, Hollywood world; and it occurred to me that he
might be more successful in identifying faces from his own life. On the
walls of the apartment there were photographs of his family, his colleagues,
his pupils, himself. I gathered a pile of these together and, with some
misgivings, presented them to him. What had been funny, or farcical, in
relation to the movie was tragic in relation to real life. By and large, he
recognized nobody; neither his family, nor his colleagues, nor his pupils,
nor himself. He recognized a portrait of Einstein because he picked up the
characteristic hair and moustache; and the same thing happened with one or
two other people. "Ach, Paul!" he said, when shown a portrait of his
brother. "That square jaw, those big teeth - I would know Paul anywhere!"
But was it Paul he recognized, or on or two of his features, on the basis of
which he could make a reasonable guess as to the subject's identity? In the
absence of obvious 'markers', he was utterly lost. But it was not merely the
cognition, the gnosis at fault; there was something radically wrong with the
whole way he proceeded. For he approached these faces - even of those near
and dear - as if they were abstract puzzles or tests. He did not relate to
them, he did not behold. No face was familiar to him, seen as a 'thou',
being just identified as a set of features, an 'it'. Thus, there was formal,
but no trace of personal, gnosis. And with this went his indifference, or
blindness, to expression. A face, to us, is a person looking out - we see,
as it were, the person through his persona, his face. But for Dr P. there
was no persona in this sense - no outward persona, and no person within.

I had stopped at a florist on my way to his apartment and bought myself an
extravagant red rose for my buttonhole. Now I removed this and handed it to
him. He took it like a botanist or morphologist given a specimen, not like a
person given a flower.

"About six inches in length," he commented. "A convoluted red form with a
linear green attachment."

"Yes," I said encouragingly, "and what do you think it is, Dr P.?"

"Not easy to say." He seemed perplexed. "It lacks the simple symmetry of the
Platonic solids, although it may have a higher symmetry of its own . . . I
think this could be an inflorescence or flower."

"Could be?" I queried.

"Could be." he confirmed.

"Smell it," I suggested, and he again looked somewhat puzzled, as if I had
asked him to smell a higher symmetry. But he complied courteously, and took
it to his nose. Now, suddenly, he came to life.

"Beautiful!" he exclaimed. "An early rose. What a heavenly smell!" He
started to hum "Die Rose, die Lillie . . ." Reality, it seemed, might be
conveyed by smell, not by sight.

I tried one final test. It was still a cold day, in early spring, and I had
thrown my coat and gloves on the sofa.

"What is this?" I asked, holding up a glove.

"May I examine it?" he asked, and, taking it from me, he proceeded to
examine it as he had examined the geometrical shapes. "A continuous
surface," he announced at last, "infolded on itself. It appears to have" -
he hesitated - "five outpouchings, if this is the word."

"Yes," I said cautiously. "You have given me a description. Now tell me what
it is."

"A container of some sort?"

"Yes," I said, "and what would it contain?"

"It would contain its contents!" said Dr P., with a laugh. "There are many
possibilities. It could be a change purse, for example, for coins of five
sizes. It could . . ."

I interrupted the barmy flow. "Does it not look familiar? Do you think it
might contain, might fit, a part of your body?" No light of recognition
dawned on his face. No child would have the power to see and speak of 'a
continuous surface . . . infolded on itself,' but any child, any infant,
would immediately know a glove as a glove, see it as familiar, as going with
a hand. Dr P. didn't. He saw nothing as familiar. Visually, he was lost in a
world of lifeless abstractions. Indeed, he did not have a real visual world,
as he did not have a real visual self. He could speak about things, but did
not see them face-to-face. Hughlings Jackson, discussing patients with
aphasia and left-hemisphere lesions, says they have lost 'abstract' and
'propositional' thought - and compares them with dogs (or, rather, he
compares dogs to patients with aphasia). Dr P., on the other hand,
functioned precisely as a machine functions. It wasn't merely that he
displayed the same indifference to the visual world as a computer but - even
more strikingly - he construed the world as a computer construes it, by
means of key features and schematic relationships. The scheme might be
identified - in an 'identi-kit' way - without the reality being grasped at
all.

The testing I had done so far told me nothing about Dr P.'s inner world. Was
it possible that his visual memory and imagination were still intact? I
asked him to imagine entering one of our local squares from the north side,
to walk through it, in imagination or in memory, and tell me the buildings
he might pass as he walked. He listed the buildings on his right side, but
none of those on his left. I then asked him to imagine entering the square
from the south. Again he mentioned only those buildings that were on the
right side, although these were the very buildings he had omitted before.
Those he had 'seen' internally before were not mentioned now; presumably,
they were no longer 'seen'. It was evident that his difficulties with
leftness, his visual field deficits, were as much internal as external,
bisecting his visual memory and imagination. What at a higher level, of his
internal visualization? Thinking fo the almost hallucinatory intensity with
which Tolstoy visualizes and animates his characters, I questioned Dr P.
about Anna Karenina. He could remember incidents without difficulty, had an
undiminished grasp of the plot, but completely omitted visual
characteristics, visual narrative, and scenes. He remembered the words of
the characters but not their faces; and though, when asked, he could quote
with his remarkable and almost verbatim memory, the original visual
descriptions, these were, it became apparent, quite empty for him and lacked
sensorial, imaginal, or emotional reality. Thus, there was an internal
agnosia as well.

But this was only the case , it became clear, with certain sorts of
visualization. The visualization of faces and scenes, of visual narrative
and drama - this was profoundly impaired, almost absent. But the
visualization of schemata was preserved, perhaps enhanced. Thus, when I
engaged him in a game of mental chess, he had no difficulty visualizing the
chessboard or the moves - indeed, no difficulty in beating me soundly.

Luria said of Zazetsky that he had entirely lost his capacity to play games
but that his 'vivid imagination' was unimpaired. Zazetsky and Dr P. lived in
worlds which were mirror images of each other. But the saddest difference
between them was that Zazetsky, as Luria said, "fought to regain his lost
faculties with the indomitable tenacity of the damned," whereas Dr P. was
not fighting, did not know what was lost, did not indeed know that anything
was lost. But who was more tragic, or who was more damned - the man who knew
it, or the man who did not?

... click on page 7 to continue ... page 7
When the examination was over, Mrs P. called us to the table, where there
was coffee and a delicious spread of little cakes. Hungrily, hummingly, Dr
P. started on the cakes. Swiftly, fluently, unthinkingly, melodiously, he
pulled the plates towards him and took this and that in a great gurgling
stream, an edible song of food, until, suddenly, there came an interruption:
a loud, peremptory rat-tat-tat at the door. Startled, taken aback, arrested
by the interruption, Dr P. stopped eating and sat frozen, motionless, at the
table, with an indifferent, blind bewilderment on his face. He saw, but no
longer saw, the table; no longer perceived it as a table laden with cakes.
His wife poured him some coffee; the smell titillated his nose and brought
him back to reality. The melody of eating resumed.

How does he do anything? I wondered to myself. What happens when he's
dressing, goes to the lavatory, has a bath? I followed his wife into the
kitchen and asked her how, for instance, he managed to dress himself. "It's
just like the eating," she explained, "I put his usual clothes out, in all
the usual places, and he dresses without difficulty, singing to himself. He
does everything singing to himself. But if he is interrupted and loses the
thread, he comes to a complete stop, doesn't know his clothes - or his own
body. He sings all the time - eating songs, dressing songs, bathing songs,
everything. He can't do anything unless he makes it a song."

While we were talking my attention was caught by the pictures on the walls.
"Yes," Mrs P. said, "he was a gifted painter as well as a singer. The School
exhibited his pictures every year."

I strolled past them curiously - they wre in chronological order. All his
earlier work was naturalistic and realistic, with vivid mood and atmosphere,
but finely detailed and concrete. Then, years later, they became less vivid,
less concrete, less realistic and naturalistic, but far more abstract, even
geometrical and cubist. Finally, in the last paintings, the canvasses became
nonsense, or nonsense to me - mere chaotic lines and blotches of paint. I
commented on this to Mrs P.

"Ach, you doctors, you're such Philistines!" she exclaimed, "Can you not see
artistic development - how he renounced the realism of his earlier years,
and advanced into abstract, nonrespresentational art?"

"No, that's not it." I said to myself (but forbore to say it to poor Mrs
P.). He had indeed moved from realism to nonrepresentation to the abstract,
yet this was not the artist, but the pathology, advancing - advancing
towards a profound visual agnosia, in which all powers of representation and
imagery, all sense of the concrete, all sense of reality, were being
destroyed. This wall of paintings was a tragic pathological exhibit, which
belonged to neurology, not art.

And yet, I wondered, was she not partly right? For there is often a
struggle, and sometimes, even more interestingly, a collusion between the
powers of pathology and creation. Perhaps, in his cubist period, there might
have been both artistic and pathological development, colluding to engender
an original form; for as he lost the concrete, so he might have gained in
the abstract, developing a greater sensitivity to all the structural
elements of line, boundary, contour - an almost Picasso-like power to see,
and equally depict, those abstract organizations embedded in, and normally
lost in, the concrete . . . Though in the final pictures, I feared, there
was only chaos and agnosia.

We returned to the great music room, with the Bösendorfer in the centre, and
Dr P. humming th last torte.

"Well, Dr Sacks," he said to me. "You find me an interesting case, I
perceive. Can you tell me what you find wrong, make recommendations?"

"I can't tell you what I find wrong," I replied, "but I'll say what I find
right. You are a wonderful musician, and music is your life. What I would
prescribe, in a case such as yours, is a life which consists entirely of
music. Music has been the centre, now make it the whole, of your life."

This was four years ago - I never saw him again, but I often wondered about
how he apprehended the world, given his strange loss of image, visuality,
and the perfect preservation of a great musicality. I think that music, for
him, had taken the place of image. He had no body-image, he had body-music:
this is why he could move and act as fluently as he did, but came to a total
confused stop if the 'inner music' stopped. And equally with the outside,
the world . . .

In The World as Representation and Will, Schopenhauer speaks of music as
'pure will'. How fascinated he would have been by Dr P., a man who had
wholly lost the world as representation, but wholly preserved it as music or
will.

And this, mercifully, held to the end - for despite the gradual advance of
his disease (a massive tumour or degenerative process in the visual parts of
his brain) Dr P. lived and taught music to the last days of his life.

~ ~ ~Page 1Page 2Page 3Page 4Page 5Page 6Page 7Exit

[Michaela]

thank you for this post. it touched me deeply and you have done an
incredible job presenting it!
M

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> schrieb im Newsbeitrag

[Tonja]

Love this post Joni, must have been quite a job. Gonna save it!
Tonja

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> schreef in bericht

[Patrick]

Oh Joni - a fantastic presentation!! I saw and loved the movie 'Awakenings'
and now after reading your post, definitely want to pick up some of Sacks
writings at the library - a great one!! - Patrick

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message

[Sara]

This WET has been so great for me...I read everything...and this looks like
another one I want to get...Thanks for the intro to this book.
sara

[Richard Eagle]

Outstanding WET post, joni. A facinating read
with obviously much personal significance to you.
Great job on it. Nice music and a neat script too.

Richard

[Ted Brewer]

This is great joni. I enjoyed it very much. I will be saving it to read
again, later.

Thanks for the credits. You did a fantastic job with the script.

Ted

[Grandma]

A very special book presented excellently. It is so special of you, Joni,
to share this information with us. I will be sure to read at least the
first chapter if not more.
Grandma

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message
news:#5TDuIM9BHA.2396@tkmsftngp05...
- Oliver Sacks -

British-U.S. neurologist and writer. He emigrated to the U.S. in 1960 to

[joni]

Thanks for taking the time to read it all, Uncle
Debi... :)))

joni

"Uncle Debi" <de...@wnm.net> wrote in message
news:OuKVSkM9BHA.1828@tkmsftngp05...

[joni]

I'm sorry to hear that your grandfather suffered
memory loss after his coma... it's so hard on
people who are close to the person, they are the
ones who remember and know how it should be.

Thanks for a great WET, Nenufar - sorry to not
have been able to play before now... I'm adding
lots of books to my 'to read' list!!

joni

"Nenufar" <nenu_fa...@hotmail.com> wrote in
message news:eP7yyjM9BHA.2092@tkmsftngp05...

[joni]

Thanks so much, Michaela - your words touch me!
:)

joni

"Michaela" <michael...@m-de-sign.com> wrote
in message news:OvyHSVO9BHA.2428@tkmsftngp07...

[joni]

Thanks, Tonja!! Yes, I'm worn out from all the
typing - and now I see all my typos... yikes!!!!
:)))

joni

"Tonja" <ma...@DELETETHIStonja.nl> wrote in message
news:u$6$okO9BHA.1360@tkmsftngp04...

[joni]

Thanks, Patrick! Sacks is not only a great
doctor, but his writing is so interesting and
readable for the 'average' person, like myself...
he adds some great touches and enlightens all of
us about some very unsettling things that some
people live with.

joni

"Patrick" <gulfb...@whale-mail.com> wrote in
message news:#95o7tO9BHA.1288@tkmsftngp04...

[joni]

It has been a great WET, hasn't it? :))

Thanks for peeking in, Sara!!

joni

"Sara" <sara_...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:#wqWxgP9BHA.2060@tkmsftngp04...

[joni]

Thanks so much, Richard!! :)

It is always interesting, I think, to find out
more about the way 'we work' and how our bodies
and mind can compensate for certain things.

joni

"Richard Eagle" <re_e...@hotmail.com> wrote in
message news:#sn$QnP9BHA.2196@tkmsftngp04...

[joni]

Thanks for looking, Ted!!!

I screwed up the asf button part somewhere along
the line and the 'sound off' works, but the 'sound
on' doesn't... at one point it was just fine, but
I must have done something that messed it all
up... **sigh**

I enjoyed the repost of your WET so much, I wanted
to try this script out... :)))

joni

"Ted Brewer" <the...@ameritech.net> wrote in
message news:u1s7oiR9BHA.1868@tkmsftngp04...

[joni]

Thanks, Grandma!! It's a lot to read, but if you
get 'into' this kind of subject, it reads very
quickly!

**huggggggggs**
joni

"Grandma" <Jfette@delete_nospamemail.msn.com>
wrote in message
news:uGKLnGT9BHA.2508@tkmsftngp05...

[Ted Brewer]

Hi joni,

 

I haven't tested this, but I think for this object to play an asf/wma,  the proper parameter is midi.play, not midi.run:

 

<BUTTON style="Z-INDEX: 100; BACKGROUND: #eadcc2; FONT: 12px 'Verdana'; WIDTH: 75px; CURSOR: hand; COLOR: #65502b" onclick=midi.run()><B>Sound On</B></BUTTON> -

 

should be:

 

<BUTTON style="Z-INDEX: 100; BACKGROUND: #eadcc2; FONT: 12px 'Verdana'; WIDTH: 75px; CURSOR: hand; COLOR: #65502b" onclick=midi.play()><B>Sound On</B></BUTTON>

 

At least I think so. LOL!

 

Ted

 

 

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message news:OG8F$FU9BHA.2608@tkmsftngp07...

[joni]

Hey, thanks Ted!!! I'll be giving it a test
shot!! :)

joni

"Ted Brewer" <the...@ameritech.net> wrote in

message news:#4DUCPU9BHA.2172@tkmsftngp04...

[*cj*]

Great prensentation Joni, I'm going to look into this book :-)
Carol

"joni" <jo...@nospam.com> wrote in message
news:#5TDuIM9BHA.2396@tkmsftngp05...
- Oliver Sacks -

British-U.S. neurologist and writer. He emigrated to the U.S. in 1960 to

[joni]

Many thanks, Sia! :)

joni

"Sia" <sh...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
news:eDGGv3W9BHA.1704@tkmsftngp07...
Very beautiful dear Joni............Sia

[joni]

Thanks, Carol!

joni

"*cj*" <furb...@nospamhotmail.com> wrote in
message news:OX8FbcV9BHA.2608@tkmsftngp07...

[_Lydia_]

Wonderful Joni!!!!!

Lydia

joni

Read Chapter 1

Sound On Sound Off

"Could be?" I queried.

"Could be." he confirmed.

the characters but not their faces; and though, when asked, he could quote

His wife poured him some coffee; the smell titillated his nose and brought

[Robbie]

I really like this Joni, I am going to have to look into this book.
Robbie

joni

Read Chapter 1

Sound On Sound Off

"Could be?" I queried.

"Could be." he confirmed.

functioned precisely as a machine functions. It wasn't merely that he

[joni]

Thanks, Robbie! It's interesting to read...

joni

"Robbie" <robbi...@nospamverizon.net> wrote in
message news:uWQ6snd9BHA.2372@tkmsftngp07...

[joni]

Thank you very much, Lydia! :)

joni

"_Lydia_" <sensual_r...@hotmail.com> wrote
in message news:#RHwz8a9BHA.1828@tkmsftngp05...