Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Yellow Prime


James Brown in Paris, 1968

James Brown was one of the great musicians and performers of the previous century. Here’s a video of a live performance from 1968.

The show opens with instrumental jazz, Lee Morgan’s “The Sidewinder”. That’s highly unusual for pop music, but not so unusual for James Brown. The trumpet soloist is Waymon Reed, who also had a distinguished jazz career, playing with Count Basie, Thad Jones/Mel Lewis, and Frank Foster. The second tune he sings is “That’s Life”, which is associated with Sinatra and was later performed by rocker David Lee Roth. The whole performance is worthwhile, and if you’ve got a taste for this kind of thing, it’s worth thinking about what Brown does and how he does it.

Alva Noë on art, especially dance, and what it has to teach us about our nature

The philosopher Alva Noë recently gave a talk at Google HQ about art and human nature. Here’s Google’s description of the talk:
In his new book, Strange Tools: Art and Human Nature, the philosopher and cognitive scientist Alva Noë raises a number of profound questions: What is art? Why do we value art as we do? What does art reveal about our nature? Drawing on philosophy, art history, and cognitive science, and making provocative use of examples from all three of these fields, Noë offers new answers to such questions. He also shows why recent efforts to frame questions about art in terms of neuroscience and evolutionary biology alone have been and will continue to be unsuccessful.

Early on Noë talks about breast feeding, making the point, new to me, that humans aren’t particularly good at it. The infant needs the mother to help it along. So breast-feeding becomes a back and forth dialog between mother and infant. He suggests that the dialoguing may well be as important as the nutrition. He then calls this, simply, organized activity, and makes the larger point that human lives are replete with organized activity, of which art is one kind.

Monday, October 12, 2015

Elegance on an underground wall in the Bergen Arches of Jersey City


More Frostiness: 3 passages, 2 from Frost himself

I’d like to backtrack a bit and pick up the thread on Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken”. In my original post at 3 Quarks Daily I’d argued that the poem is a ring-composition and that he plays a peculiar game with tense in the last stanza, slipping back into the post without giving us due warning – like you go to sleep nice and comfy in your familiar bed in your familiar bedroom in your familiar home and awaken in your familiar bed in Dr. Who’s freakin’ Tardis in the middle of god knows when and where! In my follow-up here at New Savanna I looked at alignment between sentences, stanzas, and ring-composition units, noting that these three structural streams do not line up, but interact in interesting ways.

Now I want to do something very traditional in literary criticism, take a look at some other things that Frost has said and look a bit into his artistic biography. My source in this is a very interesting recent article: David Wyatt, “Robert Frost and the Work of Retelling”, The Hopkins Review, Volume 8, Number 3, Summer 2015 (New Series), pp. 387-404. Wyatt gives us this most interesting anecdote about young Frost (p. 401):
As early as 1892, in his high school valedictory address, Frost had coined a word for these acts of looking back. He calls them “after-thought.” Borrowing the word from the title of a sonnet by Wordsworth, Frost spoke of life as two-fold: “Not in the strife of action, is the leader made, nor in the face of crisis, but when all is over, when the mind is swift with keen regret, in the long after-thought. The after-thought of one action is the forethought of the next.” In this model of experience there is action and then there is after-thought. 
But what of the poetic act? Frost continues: “The poet’s insight is his after-thought . . . . And the grandest of his ideas come when the last line is written.”
In the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads Wordsworth had famously asserted:
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility: the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquility gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
Thus poetry is a kind of repetition – a theme that will come to loom large in Western philosophical thought (think Nietzsche and his eternal return, Camus and Sisyphus, for example). So, we have Frost mining this vein while his mind is still blossoming. No longer a child, to be sure, nonetheless another Wordsworthian formula comes to mind: The child is father to the man.

Twenty years later (1912) Frost would write this dream? fantasy? recollection? in a letter to Susan Hayes Ward, an important poetry editor (Wyatt, pp. 402-403):
Two lonely cross-roads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken condition of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled. Judge then how surprised I was the other evening to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide. I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror. Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noisless [sic] yet laborious stride as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone’s eyes. I verily expected to take up or absorb this other self and feel the stronger by the addition for the three-mile journey home. But I didn’t go forward to the touch. I stood still in wonderment and let him pass by; and that too, too, with the fatal omission of not trying to find out by a comparison of lives and immediate and remote interests what could have brought us by crossing paths to the same point in a wilderness at the same moment of nightfall. Some purpose I doubt not, could we but have made it out.
This puts us/Frost at the juncture of two roads in the woods. Wyatt observes (p. 403): “Here we can see a poet auditioning for a poem he did not yet know it was in him to write.” Something like that, for sure.

He continues:
Nothing in Frost’s published work is any more uncanny than this imagined meeting in the woods. The pang of “The Road Not Taken” had lodged itself in the phrase “one traveler.” The speaker can only remain one if he gives up the option of traveling both roads, however similar or unlike they may be. In the letter, Frost literalizes these anxieties about the split self. There are also two roads in the letter, and a concern, as in the poem, with the “condition of both.” But the far more compelling divergence is between the two men. It is a classic doppelgänger moment, although one given its own peculiar Frostian slant.
I suppose. Can’t say I agree, or disagree, only that I’ve got nothing better to say myself. The important point is simply that there is an obvious kinship between that passage in the letter to Ward and the poem Frost would write four years later. Just how Frost’s mind made the journey from one to the other, that we don’t know.

Is the poem a repetition of that fantasy in another key? Does that fantasy echo the high school valedictory of twenty years earlier? Is this an example of how the past, through art, continues to live in the present, Wordsworth in Frost and now both of them in us?

Let us give Frost the last word, from his preface to his Collected Poems of Robert Frost (1939), “The Figure a Poem Makes”:
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life-not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.

21st C = von Neumann * Armstrong^2

In honor of my new machine, Columbus Day, and Felix the cat, I'm bumping this to the top of the queue. The way I set it on the page it looks like a poem – I've written a half dozen or so of them during my adult life – but I think I'd originally set it as prose. Does that make it a prose poem? Does it matter?

* * * * *

I wrote this a some time ago. IBM is no longer on the ropes, as it was at that time. But it hasn't regained its past glory either. That is gone, perhaps forever (prediction: the Watson technology will bottom out in a decade). Meanwhile, Microsoft is running into trouble, having been outstripped by Google and, of all companies, Apple. Still, there's a basic truth stored away in these words and that truth doesn't change just becase the high tech world keeps whirlin' around. You might also check out this historical fantasy in the subject of Independence Day.

* * * * *

Why is America the software center of the Universe?
Because it is also the Rap-Rock-Funk-Soul-Jazz-Blues
center of the Universe. What does that have to do
with the If-Then-Else imperatives of byte busting?
Technology is not just technique. It is style and
attitude. You can't write great software if your
soul was nurtured on the mechanical clockwork and
internal combustion rhythms of the Machine Age. You
must free yourself from the linear flow of
mechanical time and learn to improvise order from
the creative chaos lurking in the multiple
intersecting flows of the digital domain.
Roll over Beethoven, it's Jimi Hendrix time.

* * * * *

Cases in point: Steve Wozniak took time out
from Apple to produce rock and roll concerts.
Microsoft was co-founded by a guitar-playing
Jimi Hendrix fan, Paul Allen. Borland International
is the brainchild of barbarian jazz saxophonist
Philippe Kahn. Xerox and Apple guru Alan GUI
Kay worked his way through graduate school as
a jazz musician. Lotus founder Mitch Kapor
has taken to riding the informatic frontier
with Grateful Dead lyricist John Perry Barlow.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Night Light Standing Guard


The Diary of a Man and His Machines, Part 2: How’s this Stuff Organized?

As I indicated in the previous post in this series, I’m in the process of transferring my “stuff” to a new computer, my third for this century. So, I thought I’d talk a little about how I organize my stuff, not in detail, though. I’m more or less interested in the simple fact that, after all, you have to organize things some how.

Organization wasn’t an issue for my oldest machines, the NorthStar and the “toaster” Macs, because they didn’t have hard drives. There wasn't anything on them for ME to organize. I kept all my data (and programs for the Mac) on floppy drives. Of course, I generally had more than one document on a floppy, and I’d keep the same kind of stuff on a floppy. Organizing floppies is the same kind of problem as organizing books or files. You put books on shelves and keep similar books together on the shelves. Of course, a given book might be like several others. For example, John Bowlby’s Attachment is psychology, infant behavior, primatology, and psychoanalysis. Just where it goes on the shelves depends on whatever else I’m putting on shelves. Similarly, you put files in boxes, with similar files together, or perhaps alphabetically, but alphabetically by what?

Organizing lots of stuff isn’t easy. There’s a reason library science is called a science. Organizing a library is tricky.

Well, I’ve got 30 years of work accumulated on my various machines. That’s a library. And organizing it is a b*tch.

My Performa, mid-90s, had a hard-drive. So now I could do something other than put disks in boxes. But it was a small hard-drive by today’s standards and I don’t remember anything about it. But I still had lots of floppies hanging around. And I used them.

When I got the G3 Mac I’m pretty sure I moved everything off floppies I could. Now keeping track of my hard-drive became a problem. But there’s always search. And I used it. Still do.

The thing is, when you do as much work as I do, it’s hard to keep things in order. Heck, beyond a certain point it’s hard to even know what order is. And files have accumulated at a fierce clip in the last seven or eight years, spanning my two previous machines. For one thing, I started taking photos. I’ve uploaded almost 18,000 photos to Flickr since 2006. Given that those are just photos that I’ve processed from RAW files, and that I don’t process all my RAWs, that implies that I’ve got 60,000 or more photos floating around on my machine. I’d had to think what a full-time professional photographer has to deal with.

I started blogging at The Valve in December of 2005 and wrote I don’t know how many posts until I logged off in March of 2012, but 100s. I started New Savanna in April of 2010 and have published 3450 posts so far (not counting this one); but 1083 were mostly photos, though some of those would have had a bit commentary. That’s a lot of writing, on lots of topics – literature, cognitive science, neuroscience, film and animation, music jazz jamming, Jersey City, graffiti, my life here and there, and so forth. And I’ve got notes all over the place on all those topics, drafts of papers, and other documents.

And then there’s all the material I’ve downloaded, probably thousands of papers on all those topics and more. I’ve got at least half a dozen folders filled the miscellaneous collections of downloaded stuff and each of those folders has 30 to 100 items in it. And I’ve got a nice little pile of music files, but they’re mostly tucked away in iTunes, where they have some kind of quasi-order. And I’ve even put together a few modest videos, stitching together photos to go along with sound, or even shooting a dozen or so videos of me playing trumpet.

So one of the things I’m doing while moving to this new machine is cleaning up things a bit. But I could easily devote several days, if not a week or more, to doing nothing but looking around and re-organizing. Is it worth the effort?

Sexual Shame (aka Araki 2)

This topic, sexual shame, was once again on my mind. So I thought I'd bump this old post to the top of the cue. Why's the topic on my mind now? I've been thinking about Darwinian literary criticism and evolutionary psychology. I'm not aware that either have really addressed this issue, though I assume that the evolutionary psychologists have something to say. I'd think it would be front and center with the critics, but I'm not holding my breath.

* * * * *

Thinking about the Akaki exhibit set me to thinking about something that’s puzzled me for a long time: sexual shame. Why are humans secretive about our sexual activity? Animals are not. In particular, our primate relatives are not. But we are. Why?

(To be sure, the way sexual privacy is staged depends, in part, on physical living arrangements. But not matter how sparse those arrangements may be, privacy is honored in one way or another.)

I assume that there are non-theological answers to this question here and there, but I’m not aware of any. Nor have I come up with any that I like.

I approached something like this topic in an old post on Sex and Metaphysics, where I said this:
The basic circuits for sexuality, like other biological drives, is located deep in the core of the brain in the limbic system. Except for sexuality, those drives are active from birth. But much of the brain is quite immature at birth, especially the neocortex, which is phylogenetically the newest part of the brain. And it’s where our ‘higher’ capacities are more or less localized. All the other emotional and motivational equipment becomes integrated into the ever more sophisticated patterns of thought, desire, and action that are realized in the maturing cortex.

Along comes adolescence and WHAM! the whole system becomes unglued. All of a sudden distinctly new feelings and motivations have to be integrated into one’s repertoire of thoughts and actions. Even if you grow up in a culture that more or less “makes room” for sexuality, it still comes as a shock. Knowing it's going to happen, play-acting at more adult behavior when you're a child, that doesn't really prepare you for having to deal with a whole new hormonal riot. What’s new and confusing is the riot itself.
This leads me to the notion that there is some subtle instability in the overall dynamics of the human nervous system and that sexual privacy is a way of protecting us against that instability.

I go on in that post to speculate about the developmental timing as between the emergence of sexuality and the emergence of abstract thought (in Piaget’s sense). Perhaps that’s where the instability lies. Or maybe it has to do with specifically human sociality which, as I’ve argued in Beethoven’s Anvil, is a bit different from, in addition to, the sociality we’ve inherited from our primate ancestors.

Araki’s sexual imagery, then, stresses these neurodynamics. The images are on public display. We are with others when we see them. But they call for privacy.

Just where ARE those images in social space? What's the connection between sexuality in our lives and in our notions of art?

Evening Workout


Saturday, October 10, 2015

The Diary of a Man and His Machines, Part 1: The 20th Century

I’ve swiped the title from Dave Hays, my teacher and later friend and colleague, who wrote a weekly column entitled, “The Diary of a Man and His Machine”. This was back in the ancient days of the previous millennium when personal computers were new and hence novel. I forget just when he bought his machine, back in 1977 or 1978 I suppose. I forget the brand – Cromemco? – but it used a Z80 CPU chip and a S-100 bus, common specs back in those days. Hays bought his machine to go into some kind of consulting business and, for awhile, he mailed out a weekly newsletter which he wrote on his computer and printed out on a daisywheel printer of some sort. While the Internet existed in those days, it was not open to the public and the WWW was decades in the future.

Anyhow, his newsletter consisted on things and stuff – a favorite phrase of Bill Doyle, another of Hays’s students – and one of those things, or was it stuff? – was a column in which Hays talked about this new computer of his: what the machine and its software were like, what he was doing with it, and so forth. It was a fun column, and I’m sure the hundred or two hundred of so recipients of the newsletter got pleasure out of it. These machines, after all, were so new. A computer in my home? Who’d have thought!

A couple of years later, perhaps the spring of 1981, I embarked on my own adventure in computer ownership. I took out a small loan from my bank and bought an S-100/Z80 machine, a NorthStar Horizon:

NorthStar Horizon.jpg
"NorthStar Horizon" by joho345 - Own work. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons.

It had little software, if any, beyond its operating system and a version of the Basic programming language. I got it with the peculiar idea that I’d teach myself to program and write myself some useful software, maybe even a word-processor.

Ha! Yes, I’d taken a programming course as at undergraduate at Johns Hopkins in the 1980s, and did well enough in it. But I had no real passion for programming, not like my friend Rich, who lived and breathed programming. I lent the Horizon to him for a couple of months so that he could have the fun of exploring a new machine and writing me a word-processing program.

It was a nice little program. The transition from writing on a typewriter to writing with that crude word-processor was more dramatic than any tech transition I’ve been involved with since then except MacPaint, and for the web, and that was a different kind of transition. I write a lot and computerized cut-and-paste was a revelation. It make roughing and revising documents so much easier.

And when I say “crude”, I mean it. Yes, the words appeared on the screen in roughly the same geometry as they got printed on the page. But there was no fancy font stuff, either on the screen or on the printed page (low res dot matrix printer), no graphics at all. Just blocks of neon green text on a black background. No columns, no footnotes at the bottom of the page, no indexes or tables of contents, none of that. Cut and past, search, and a few other operations, and that was it.

As for the Horizon, it had 32K of RAM and two 5.25 inch floppy drives for storage. The floppy disk held all of 256K of data. Pretty soon I had a big pile of floppies.

Then, in 1984, lightening struck. My friend Rich had gotten access to a Macintosh and sent me a letter which had both text and graphics on the same page. As soon as I saw that I knew I had to get one of those machines. So I went out and bought one of those first 128K Macs. As the name indicates, it had 128K of RAM, thus way more than my Horizon, and an internal disk drive that took a 3.5-inch floppy with 400K capacity. I also got an external floppy drive.

Friday, October 9, 2015

Friday Fotos: Red Cabbage






Emotion in the body (and in poetry?): James-Lange then and now

I' originally published this in July 2012, but I'm bumping it to the top of the cue because, well, it's very interesting. It suggests how we can easily be 'tricked' into misreading the emotional significance of our body states. What is some culture consistently leads its members to mis-interpret the messages of their bodies?

* * * * *

A century or so ago William James and Carl Lange independently arrived at the view that can be epigrammatized as: We are afraid because we run, rather than running because we are afraid. That is, some situation causes us to run and the running causes physiological changes—higher blood pressure and increased respiration most prominently. We sense those changes and interpret them as fear.

The James-Lange theory has inspired quite a bit of experimentation, some of it fiendishly ingenious. Here’s an out-take from Beethoven’s Anvil in which I describe some these experiments performed by Stuart Valins back in the 1960s.

* * * * *

Following work ingenious experimental work done by S. Schachter, Valins [1] devised a situation where experimental subjects would get false information about their bodily state. Subjects we told that they would be participating in a study about physiological response to emotional stimuli. They were also told that, because so much research was being conducted, the most modern facilities were needed for other experiments. Thus the equipment used to monitor their heart rate was old, but nonetheless adequate. As a consequence, they would be able to hear their heart beating as it was recorded, but they should just ignore it.

This was not true. In fact, their heart rate was not being monitored at all. Rather, they were listening to pre-recorded heart-like sounds. These were in three frequency ranges, 66-48 beats per minute, 66-72 BPM, and 72-90 BPM. Subjects (males) where shown slides of ten female nudes and asked to rate their attractiveness. As a reward they were allowed to chose copies of five of the nudes.

One group of subjects heard an increase in their (pseudo-) heartbeat (72-90 BPM) for five of the ten slides while another group heard a decrease (66-72 BPM) for five slides. In both cases the subjects gave higher ratings to the slides they viewed while hearing heart rate above or below the middle range, which they perceived as their baseline heart rate. Two groups of control subjects, who were told that the heart sounds were prerecorded, showed no consistent preferences among the slides.

What interests me about this study is the simple fact that sounds in the external world that were taken to be indices of activity in the interior milieu (i.e. heart beating) had a demonstrable effect on an emotion-laden behavior. One need not believe the hypothesis that Valins was investigating--that emotion primarily reflects our interpretation of bodily states--to find these results fascinating. These subjects were using the externally oriented division of their nervous system to gather information about their interior milieu and this information had an effect on their behavior. What is important is that there was some emotional effect at all. This supports the general contention that information picked up externally is readily interpreted as being about the state of one’s interior milieu and of thereby affecting one’s emotional state.

Now, think of poetry. And think of the sound as a proxy for the state of one's body and the word meaning as cues for interpreting that proxy message.

[1] Valins, S. (1970). The Perception and Labeling of Bodily Changes as Determinants of Emotional Behavior. Physiological Correlates of Emotion. Ed. Perry Black. New York, Academic Press: 229-245.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Posturing Robots and Infants: Contra Theory of Mind

Theory of Mind (aka TOM) has been a big deal in psychology for well over a decade, and it’s crept into literary criticism too. The psychological research behind TOM is important and fascinating, but the term itself is unfortunate. As I said some time ago in an email to some colleagues:
I find the way literary critics use the notion of theory of mind to be somewhat problematic in that it doesn't have much to do with the psychology they cite, especially when it gets reified into a theory of mind module, which it sometimes does.

Here's the problem. First, I think the phrase itself is unfortunate, because it promises a lot; but I understand that "theory of X" is a common developmental psych way of thinking about this or that cognitive behavior in children. What's important is that the usage is grounded in, given meaning by, a wealth of observations. That's certainly the case with TOM. And those observations, as far as I know, typically involve either actual face-to-face interaction, or situations where the (human) subject can examine either dolls in a play environment, or some picture. So, TOM behavior is something one observes in a selected class of physical situations.

What's the physical situation of the reader of a book? They're reading written words. They're not interacting with someone who is physically present, nor are they playing will dolls or looking at pictures. They might well imagine character interactions in their mental theatre, but they're doing that, it's not something before them. Beyond that, what's the physical situation of characters in stories? Are they gaze following, for example?

As far as I can tell, all the literary critic takes over from the TOM literature is the term itself. Nothing else. In particular they are not taking explicit mechanisms and putting those mechanisms through their paces in a literary context. The reason I say that is because the TOM literature I'm familiar with doesn't have explicit mechanisms, though some of the literature does break TOM into modules (I'm thinking of Simon Baron-Cohen on mind blindness).
Concerning the name, Melvin Konner made that point in an opinion piece, “Bad Words”, that he published in Nature (Vol. 411, 14 June 2001, p. 743) over a decade ago:
Meanwhile, social-cognition theorists have come up with a phrase inferential enough to make one almost long for the black-boxers: theory of mind. Freud sought one, Skinner assiduously didn’t, and most people don’t bother to ask themselves whether they have or need one. Yet there is serious debate as to whether chimpanzees or four-year-olds have a theory of mind. Closely inspected, the phrase seems to mean something like perspective-taking or, when mutual, intersubjectivity. True, a four-year-old can see and act on another person’s perspective whereas most three-year-olds can’t.

This is fascinating stuff and something we need to understand. But a term such as ‘theory of mind’ simply stands in the way. It makes for catchy article titles but conveys no meaning. Is the maturing orbitofrontal cortex newly able to calm an impulsive and self-centred limbic circuit? Is there a down-regulation of some neurotransmitter receptor, allowing a younger form of social mirror-imaging to grow into identification and parallel perspectives? As long as we are playing with pretty word-coins that substitute for brain functions, we will never know.
I am thus pleased to be able to point to some recent research the indicates another way of thinking about such matters. Christian Kliesch has an interesting post at Replicated Typo, Posture Helps Robots Learn Words, and Infants, Too.
The word learning task used in this study was the Baldwin task: Two objects are presented to the infant multiple times. However, they are not named in the presence of the object. Instead the experimenter hides both objects in two buckets, then looks at one bucket and names the object (e.g. “Modi”). Then the two objects are taken out of their containers, put on a pile, and the child is asked to pick up the Modi. Children as young as 18-20 months do fairly well in this task, and their high performance has generally been interpreted as evidence that they have used a form of mind reading or mental attributions to infer which object is the Modi, as the object and the word do not appear simultaneously.

However, proponents of non-mentalistic approaches to language acquisition have come up with alternative explanations. For example, a previous study by Samuelson et al., (2011) has found that spatial location can greatly contribute to word learning in infants and in computer simulations using Hebbian learning. Hebbian learning is a form of associative learning which is loosely based on the way the neurons in our brain are assumed to learn as well. This very simple way of associative learning does not take into account the intention of the speaker at all, instead the model used by Samuelson et al. only takes into account the spatial location over time.
By “form of mind reading or mental attributions” read TOM. I urge you to read this post and then to check out the study it reports:
Morse A.F., Benitez V.L., Belpaeme T., Cangelosi A., Smith L.B. (2015) Posture Affects How Robots and Infants Map Words to Objects. PLoS ONE 10(3): doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0116012
The interesting thing, of course, is that a simple robot can match an infant’s performance of this task. No one is about to attribute to TOM to this robot;

The results of both, robot and infant data, suggest that infants may not need to accurately represent the speaker’s intent when learning words, but are able to make the correct word-meaning associations based on visual and spatial information. Furthermore, they do not seem to use complex mental representations in the interference condition and the posture change tasks, in which the posture change has a detrimental effect on children’s word learning.

Night Vision in Jersey City