Name You Research Articles

Naming the stars.

In this poem, the author is a hospitalized patient who had been struck by a car while she was walking on a moonless night. In the emergency room, scalpels, scissors, and stars aligned, assembled by her frightened brain. Name your fears and you banish them. The author never knew the stars had names, nor that sharp edges could soften, could suture as deftly as sever, could stitch a path out of her darkness, and light her from broken to whole. (PsycInfo Database Record (c) 2024 APA, all rights reserved).

Artificial Lift: 25 Years of Change Tracked in the Pages of JPT

Nodding donkeys. Thirsty birds. Rocking horses. All are playful nicknames for the oil and gas icon known as a pumpjack. To the uninformed, the pumpjack is a thing-a-ma-jig that has something to do with oil, probably “fracking” because that’s what drilling rigs do, right? But as an industry-educated and well-informed reader of JPT, you know this is inaccurate. By whatever name you call it, you know that the pumpjack is the visible manifestation of an invisible physics equation, a mechanism buried deep underground that lifts reservoir fluids to the surface. You also know it is one type of artificial lift available in a stable of systems with equally curious and technical names like progressive cavity, plunger, jet, gas lift, and electrical submersible pump (ESP). While there is no global repository of artificial lift statistics, industry observers estimate that 90 to 95% of the world’s producing wells use artificial lift, as noted in a 2013 JPT story on the challenges and opportunities for artificial lift. Artificial lift, as applied in oil and gas production, has existed for over 100 years. A 2014 JPT story laid out a brief history of the practice, sharing how the walking beam principle dates back to at least 476 CE when used in Egypt, and evidence of the use of sucker rods to lift fluids has been excavated from the homes of wealthier families in the early days of the Roman Empire. Even as we leap forward to the modern-day application of artificial lift systems, many techniques and technologies resemble their original designs. How these systems are applied has changed, especially in the past decade-plus with the emergence of shale. As highlighted in a JPT story on the past 25 years of technology advances, the industry underwent a robust era of technology development in its rush to crack the shale development riddle. Since 1999, the industry also delivered a 36% increase in global supplies, as noted in this JPT story celebrating this industry’s biggest innovations. 1999 represents an interesting turning point in the industry’s technological journey. Also, it is the last time JPT editors took the opportunity to celebrate the publication as it turned 50 years old that year. What follows are a few highlights from JPT’s coverage of advances and changes made in artificial lift applications and practices over the past quarter century.

Factorial invariance of the abridged version of the Explicit Discrimination Scale among adults living in southern Brazil.

The Explicit Discrimination Scale (EDS) was developed to assess experiences with discrimination in Brazilian epidemiologic surveys. Though previous analyses have demonstrated that the EDS has good configural, metric, and scalar properties, its invariance has not yet been investigated. In this study, we examined the factorial invariance of two abridged versions of the EDS, according to skin color/ethnicity, sex, socioeconomic status, and their intersections. Data from the EpiFloripa Adult Study were used, which include a representative sample of adults residing in a state capital of southern Brazil (n=1,187). Over half of the respondents were women, and around 90% identified as white; the mean age of the participants was 39 years. Two abridged versions of the EDS were analyzed, with seven and eight items, using Multigroup Confirmatory Analysis and the Alignment method. The two versions of the scale may be used to provide estimates of discrimination that are comparable across skin color/ethnicity, sex, socioeconomic status, and their intersections. In the seven-item version of the scale, only one parameter lacked invariance (i.e., threshold of item i13 - called by names you do not like), specifically among black respondents with less than 12 years of formal education. The EDS may provide researchers with valid, reliable, and comparable estimates of discrimination between different segments of the population, including those at the intersections of skin color/ethnicity, sex, and socioeconomic status. However, future research is needed to determine whether the patterns we identified here are consistent in other population domains.

Sora’s Seashells: A Name Is a Gift to Be Treasured by Helena Ku Rhee

Reviewed by: Sora’s Seashells: A Name Is a Gift to Be Treasured by Helena Ku Rhee Danica Ronquillo Rhee, Helena Ku Sora’s Seashells: A Name Is a Gift to Be Treasured; illus. by Stella Lim and Ji-Hyuk Kim. Candlewick, 2023 [40p] Trade ed. ISBN 9781536209938 $17.99 Reviewed from digital galleys R 4-8 yrs Sora’s Halmoni (grandmother) leaves a beautiful seashell on a bench every time they visit the beach, explaining that she sees it as a special gift for others to find and treasure. After Halmoni’s summer stay comes to an end and she goes back to South Korea, Sora soon begins kindergarten, where she is bullied because of her uncommon name. The teasing goes on for weeks, and to make matters worse, she receives sad news that her Halmoni would not be coming back again. With a heavy heart and bottled-up emotions, she and her family return to the beach, where her parents tell her that Sora means ‘seashell’ in Korean: “Halmoni always said finding a perfect shell is like receiving a wonderful gift. That’s why she suggested we name you Sora.” The following week, Sora courageously takes her jar of seashells to class for show-and-tell and explains her name’s origins. In this poignant picture book, Rhee unspools an uplifting tale with soothing narration that harmonizes beautifully with Lim’s stunning watercolor art. The blending of paint creates shadows to accentuate Sora’s grief over her Halmoni and the loneliness she feels at school. Young readers will find Sora’s confidence empowering and see that her story honors the strengths in both kindness and confidence. Copyright © 2023 The Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois

Bal Masqué

Translated by Peter Mackridge, who until his recent death was Emeritus Prof of Modern Greek Literature at Oxford University. To Katerina To write one line you first have to write another. To recite Shakespeare’s Sonnet VIII you first have to hear Catullus’ nightingale singing in your garden. To describe the shades of green on Cézanne’s apple you first have to snatch the palette out of Velasquez’ hands. I know what it means to be in love: You dive head first into the sea from a rock, you touch the bottom, stroke the sand with your fingers and, watching the sun’s rays refracted in the water, you very slowly rise to the surface. When you pronounce her name you are already someone else.

2nd/3rd Batch Veritas University Admission list 2022/2023 Undergraduate is Out. Call ☎️08065912405 to check your Name AdmissionTo check your name or admission status you need to subscribe to the checker blog. Interested student must provide the following registration details to kickstart the process. Full name Jamb registration number Department/course of study.

2nd/3rd Batch Veritas University Admission list 2022/2023 Undergraduate is Out. Call ☎️08065912405 to check your Name AdmissionTo check your name or admission status you need to subscribe to the checker blog. Interested student must provide the following registration details to kickstart the process. Full name Jamb registration number Department/course of study.

Stay Mad: A Love Letter to QTBIPOC Psychiatric Survivors

Stay Mad: A Love Letter to QTBIPOC Psychiatric Survivors

Kyra Markham: Letters to Louis Sheaffer (1962–63)

Kyra Markham: Letters to Louis Sheaffer (1962–63)

Review: The Blues Comes to Texas: Paul Oliver and Mack McCormick’s Unfinished Book, by Paul Oliver and Mack McCormick

Review: <i>The Blues Comes to Texas: Paul Oliver and Mack McCormick’s Unfinished Book</i>, by Paul Oliver and Mack McCormick

Perpetuum's Sonata

Perpetuum's Sonata Matthew Burnside (Fifty-one things you've always known…) ________ The night S arrives, nothing hurts. As if every string of every violin ever plucked could be, in an instant, undone. Tenderly unteased—an entire history of haunting. Almost, as if, a harp; a lark of a lesson. As in, and all of it so nearly for naught, learning for the first time that we could deserve love. ________ Freakzilla, whose real name you could not for the life of you remember, for years pummeled a punching bag with your name tattooed vertically across its synthetic skin. He punched and punched and punched, every morning, until the name smeared into obscurity and his fists calcified like diamonds, at which point he let your name finally die. ________ The heat of your body, which provided your first love with warmth and gentleness at a time when the world couldn't have been colder to her that one afternoon in a field of ryegrass, wild zinnia, and narcissi, is still retained in the fingerprints of her right hand, caught in the whorling-grooved galaxies of her thumb, index finger, and pinkie. The skin remembers, even if memory cannot. ________ You would also be the first face your grandmother would see in the world after this one, who would lead her by the hand into the garden of her ancestors, whose fresh hands were already shuffling a brand new, bright-red deck under the stars. There she is! They would greet her, hooting and hollering. Sit down and cut 'em already, sister. And, while it is true she let you win every hand, she often had to cheat just to give you the satisfaction. [End Page 50] ________ 5.6 million dollars is roughly the same weight as a kangaroo, a beer keg, a toilet, and your standard-size octopus. When you were young you used to dream of wrestling an octopus in your bathtub. These days, you dream of wrestling the ocean, twilight, sand you cannot even see but reach out sometimes in your sleep to grab a fistful of. ________ The man who used to mow your lawn lives way out in the country now. Deconstructing any machine he can get his hands on, he rips out the engines, converts the rotors into breathtaking Dadaist configurations that he erects in the woods. Sometimes at night he walks through his impossible creations barefoot. In just the right light, with night slicing through the tree's gap tooth branches, shivering silvery the wings of warped blades with moonglow, he imagines himself a doomsday angel there to avenge all silence. ________ There your professor's novel sits, in a box with all the other novels in his campus office. He has never been to New York. He always hated the term 'slush pile'—that throwaway term for roadside sludge that inherits all the mud, soot, juices of a fresh winter's thaw. He doesn't mind what melts unseen under the sun's magnanimous strobe, but he does take issue with all that's buried thinking it deserves to be there. Tonight, he reads your short story aloud to himself, pacing up and down the staircase gesticulating wildly at the parts that move him so as to sweep his elbows and trace great, phantom lemniscates through the air like a conductor choregraphing ghosts singing the Star-Spangled Banner. You WILL be a writer, he scribbles in chicken scratch in the corner. Indeed, you already are one! After grading thirty papers he stares at the grass growing imperceptibly under his disintegrating tennis shoes. He believes in the inner lives of rocks, that every matter matters. How the birds move with such stirring force, phlegmatic repose even as they glide against the wind, going nowhere and everywhere. Coughing along campus, two minutes before class he X's out the lecture on prosody that he spent an hour transcribing and tells the students instead, "Making art is all good and well but please don't ever forget that you, too, are art" before cancelling class and encouraging them all to go whisk an insect out of danger and then go listen to a field...

Writing and the Space It Makes

Writing and the Space It Makes Kate Briggs (bio) and Renee Gladman (bio) Kate briggs and renee gladman are writers who might be said to defy categorization. Briggs, who built her career as an English translator of French theorists, is also the author of the novel-essay—or the translator's memoir-treatise—This Little Art. Gladman has published numerous books, of poetry, fiction, essays, and ink drawings, which seem, together, to build some master architecture. These writers seem to defy categories defiantly—as true genre radicals, with no regard for the confines of convention. Yet one also feels, reading their work, and reading this conversation, that their genrelessness may be a necessity: of their uncontainable curiosities, [End Page 18] of their conception of writing itself as a process of innovation, sentence making as language testing. Their willingness to question leads them here to some bold propositions: Is there a fictional element to translation? Are Gladman's slim novels, in fact, long? Is all writing actually fiction? Briggs and Gladman conducted their conversation over simultaneous sessions in a cloud document, writing from the Netherlands and New England, respectively. One can sense this conversation constructing its own physical space, as they urge each other around the corners they are writing toward to discover something new, something further. —the editors kate briggs I have been thinking about when we met for the first time in Rotterdam, three summers ago now (can that be right?). You asked me a question: Why had I been so sure that you were also a translator? In my first book, This Little Art, I name you, and describe you, as, among other things, a translator. You didn't mind my mistake. In fact, I think it made you happy. But you were curious to know why I had made it. I remember gabbling out some reply, then afterward feeling frustrated with myself, like I hadn't answered you at all. Now, with more time, more reflection, I can tell you that there are at least two reasons why I made this assumption. The first is that your Ravicka novels—novels in sequence, each opening a different door on to this city-state you have imagined, with its architecture, its people, their habits, their language—seem to know so much about translation. They know about its strangenesses, its tiltings. They know especially about its weird proximities and distances, foldings and collapsings, about how much and how little meaning words in sequence can hold, and how an effort of translation can show us this. It's like the novels are their own spatialization of how this can feel. It didn't seem possible to me that you could know so much about all this without having written [End Page 19] translations yourself. (And in fact, The Ravickians does announce itself as a translation from the first page, asking the reader to hold that thought while reading…) Then, the second reason: the language your novels are written in. I remember on first reading feeling as though some pressure was being put on English, as if the English of the novels had been through some powerful specific process, such as the process of translation. I wonder, Do you remember asking me about this when we met? And do you in some way think of yourself as a translator? renee gladman I have so many things to say, it's hard to know where to start! I think your memory of our conversation, your reading of the Ravicka series, your questions to me about the pressures you experienced in the novels' language—and then your asking me if I remember the conversation—somehow all encompass the architecture of writing for me. To be clear, though, I'm not sure I would ever say to an actual translator that I thought of myself as such. I don't know any other language well enough to translate from it. But I would be holding something back if I didn't say that so much of what I do and think has to do with translation. Translation, like architecture, works as this wondrous analogue to the experience of writing, that strangeness of being a...

A Propósito do Fundo do uso coloquial à pedra angular da Arquivística custodial e patrimonialista

This paper establishes the coincidences between the narrative of José Saramago’s novelentitledTodos os Nomes(1997) and the actions of Natalis de Wailly in 1841 by order of Napoleon Bonaparte, France Imperator at that time, with the aim of creating an operative framework to organize the documentsof the France National Archives which had been dismantled to attend Bonaparte’s governance. The broadobjective of this paper is to analyze the peculiarities of the word ‘fonds’used in Saramago’s book and of the technical term Fonds created by Natalis de Wailly. Specifically, it aims to approach the multifunctional character of the word ‘fonds’colloquially used in Todos os Nomes(1997) and its transformation in technical and operative stratagem by Natalis de Wailly in 1841; highlight the conceptual confusions between Fonds, Archive Fonds and Archive present in custodial Archivistics and show the relations between the attitude of Mr.José (fictional character in Saramago’s plot) and the positionof Natalis de Wailly (real character of France of the 19thcentury) in regard to the manner how both, each one in his spatial/temporal context, personifythe maxim “You know the name you were given, you do not know the name that you have”.

V Is for Vulnerability

The other evening, my cousin Jessica told me a story about her first week at college. She was eating in the dining hall with a newly formed group of friends, when someone alluded to the French philosopher Descartes, pronouncing the name incorrectly. “You mean Descartes [day-CAHRT]?” Jessica asked. Her friend blushed. “Oh gosh, is that how you pronounce it? That's so embarrassing!” “Why? Why should you know how to pronounce a name you've read but have never heard spoken?” Jessica responded. This set in motion a conversation that rapidly grew to involve others at the table—all of whom had had a similar experience of making an error in front of their peers, cursing themselves for not knowing better, and then feeling stupid for it.

Tele-Neuro-Ophthalmology During the Age of COVID-19.

Tele-Neuro-Ophthalmology During the Age of COVID-19.

Once a River

Once a River Daryl Farmer (bio) "It is the only way to end poverty," says El Presidente. I look at the land below us and yearn for green and blue, instead of this ash gray, dust brown. A hazy sun. My eyes burn. I have not been home for going on two hundred days. This morning, I looked in the mirror and saw my liquid eye squinting out from leathered skin. A murmuring babble coming from my lips, something about another source-become-friend now dead. People associate my name with violence, think I must like it, all the horrific acts, but I don't. I confess to be drawn to it, absorbed by it, obsessed with the way it manifests itself in the most unlikely ways. But when I left the camp, and returned to the hotel amid the ruins, I wept. There's predator and prey, which is just survival, and then there's sport, the doing that comes simply from the knowing that you can. Then there's a kind of power that's the last step before evil. Or maybe evil comes first. It seems odd to me that El Presidente is piloting this helicopter, but he likes to fly, he says, has learned to trust only what he himself controls. Information deemed classified—yet passed on to me, thereby declassifying it—shows at least seventeen assassination attempts on El Presidente. I asked him yesterday if this was true, and he seemed offended. "Surely," he said, "there have been more." I have known El Presidente for over twenty years. Our first interview was in a small hotel room, two chairs, no bed. Why? I asked him. He shrugged, said he didn't need one, had given up sleep. It was his custom, he said, to have all furniture removed wherever he stayed. He liked to pace, and if he did need to sit, he rested against a wall. The chairs in that room were a courtesy, on my account. He seemed to me then a mystic, and against my own cynicism, I found him charming, despite that charred lithified face so badly burned it reminded me of wax once dripping now hardened. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He wore wire frame specks then, the lenses magnified, so as to bring to mind a giant fly. I asked him if he'd ever considered surgery. He smiled. "And why?" he asked. "To mask all that I have survived? No, friend. My face is my history." [End Page 52] This was before the coup that had brought him to power, before the dark black glasses that would become his trademark. Too small for his face, these glasses. Now he looks not like a fly but a bespectacled snake. I am sitting in the copilot's seat. Earlier, he had offered us each a blindfold. When I refused, he'd smiled, shrugged. There are five of us. The woman sitting behind me is the wife of a commander whose name you used to see on the news, that same commander who now sits in a federal prison for a betrayal against immorality. Crime of all crimes, he told the truth, finally. Sometimes treason is just a man with a conscience, though he found his a little too late. Last night, I saw her, the wife, sitting alone in a corner of the hotel bar. I noticed she was crying. That is to say, tears streamed down her face, but she stared straight ahead with that distant look that I had heretofore only seen in soldiers, victims. Now that look is everywhere. A longing for a home that would never again exist for her. I walked to the table, meant to offer her some kindness, not knowing what that might even be. "Fuck off," she'd said, without looking at me. I had left her to her horrors. Today, when offered the blindfold, she had taken it without a word. She wears it now, though we are many miles from the refugee camp. The people who end there will have walked over a hundred starving miles. It is estimated that only about 37 percent of those who...

Verona

Verona Nick Makoha (bio) It was your day off when I came into the world.Until then you had no interest in dried leaves, or how a woman might use her hand as a scaleto pour raisins into a bowl or how water moves to the sea. What use was there in something so vast,something you had not seen with your own eyes? In any case you were never one for fishing,for waiting for life at the end of a line. After the nightshift you would park the Mazdaon the drive, rest the paper on the steering wheel, pen in one hand, beef sandwich in another.Seventeen across—nut roast cooked for high fliers (10). You would wait for the street sweeper to appear in your wing mirror.Listening to his broom comb the pavement as you held your sandwich like fruit flicking the radio to 99.8.Twelve down—Girl carries on in Juliet’s place (6). I don’t have this scene on tape but I know that I was six weeks lateand that the 12-inch cigar in your glove compartment was for me. Mama would never let you smoke in the car. The weather reportyou say was interrupted by a jackknifed lorry on the M6. No casualties except the driver the only other personyou knew who had broken his collar bone in three places. Hence the basketball in the back seatand mood swings that have no language. Don’t be afraid remember your wings—Seventeen down(10) Astronaut. And the name you gave me—Twelve down—Verona. The sun hung suspended between two houses when your heartbeatslowed and I became something new you could catch in both hands. [End Page 61] Nick Makoha Nick Makoha’s debut, Kingdom of Gravity (Peepal Tree Press), was shortlisted for the Felix Dennis Prize and nominated by the Guardian as one of the best books of 2017. A Cave Canem graduate fellow and Complete Works alumnus, he won the 2015 Brunel Prize and 2016 Derricotte & Eady Prize for his pamphlet Resurrection Man. He was the 2019 Writer-in-Residence for The Wordsworth Trust and Wasafiri. His play The Dark, produced by Fuel theatre and directed by JMK Award–winner Roy Alexander, had a UK National tour in 2019. His poems appeared in the New York Times, Poetry Review, Rialto, Poetry London, TriQuarterly Review, Boston Review, Callaloo, and Wasafiri. Copyright © 2020 Middlebury College Publications

Digitális katalógus tervezése

The tool presented in this article is an innovative catalog management tool that can be widely used. The tool allows you to maintain a digital catalog, which exploits a large number of fraudulent opportunities. Cheap NFC stickers / cards make this portable system easy to use. NFC cards allow students to identify themselves. The device reads the unique ID of the NFC chip, which is associated with a previously learned name. The name you get is saved on an SD card along with a time stamp.

196. “It’d Be Great To Have The Options There”: Adolescent Impressions of Gender Identity Collection On Forms In A Primary Care Clinic

Transgender adolescents and young adults experience substantial barriers to health care, which may exacerbate existing health inequities. Adding questions about gender identity to clinic intake forms have been shown to improve access to and quality of care for adult transgender patients. However, there is a need to translate these efforts to adolescent health care settings. This quality improvement project sought to determine acceptability and feasibility of routine collection of gender identity from adolescent medicine patients using self-administered forms in the medical practice at the time of visit. We interviewed fourteen adolescents (ages 15-23 years; mean age=19 years) from March 2018 through June 2018. We adapted the recommended two-step method of gathering gender identity information for use in an adolescent clinic. Cisgender (i.e., non-transgender) and transgender adolescents were recruited from an urban adolescent medicine clinic in the Northeast United States. Participants completed a brief cognitive interview regarding their impression of four proposed gender affirming questions to be added to an existing paper form handed to patients in the waiting room at their annual preventive visit. The questions addressed name (“what name should we use for you?”), pronouns (“what pronouns should we use for you?”), gender identity, and sex assigned at birth. Interview recordings were transcribed verbatim; two investigators reviewed transcripts and conducted thematic analysis to identify acceptability, question clarity, and concerns. Participants were cisgender (cisgender male n=3; cisgender female n=4) and transgender (transgender male n=4; transgender female n=1; non-binary/genderqueer n=2) and 8 of 14 were people of color. Nearly all participants reported being comfortable or had no major concerns about the proposed questions. Several themes emerged from the analysis. First, both transgender and cisgender adolescents discussed benefits of the proposed questions for all patients (“honestly, I think it’d be great to have the options on there” – cisgender male, age 20; “I think that’s very appropriate to making everyone ultimately comfortable when coming here” – transgender male, age 18). Second, transgender and non-binary patients described specific benefits (“’Preferred name’ demeans the name you’ve chosen for yourself, so I like this [better]” – transgender male, age 17). Third, some participants discussed issues of confidentiality (“…putting this on a paper I might be a little paranoid, but I’m not actually that worried.” – transgender male, age 18), while others emphasized confidentiality was not a concern. Some participants identified strategies for building on the gender questions to further improve care (e.g., providers stating their own pronouns when introducing themselves). Name, pronoun, and gender identity questions were understandable and well-received by patients. Collecting gender identity information prior to a patient visit is an option that busy adolescent medicine clinics should consider. Future research is needed to determine acceptability in other practice settings or geographic regions and whether collecting this information leads to improved patient-provider communication about gender identity as it relates to adolescent health.

No End to Anthony

Who are the great British writers of the twentieth century? Most of the names you are thinking of are probably from before the Second World War. We have a label for them – the ‘modernists’ – and a shared explanation of why they were important and what they meant. The second half of the twentieth century is more difficult. Various interpretations are still in conflict. Legacies are still in play, yet to be fixed by narrative. Even a Nobel Prize is no guarantee of durability, as the slow disappearance of V. S. Naipaul from university reading lists testifies. No, quality is not enough. To become a great one’s greatness must also be explainable. I have always felt Anthony Burgess to be in the running in the race to become one of the last century’s Great British Writers, if perhaps with only an outside chance. He is certainly prolific, with thirty-three novels to his name alongside a seemingly endless stream of journalism, poetry, and criticism. A Clockwork Orange (1962) brought him fame, and Earthly Powers (1980) established him as a writer of excellence. But there are other Burgesses besides the one portrayed in his Wikipedia overview. His sympathetic representation of local life in The Malayan Trilogy (1956–9) is still celebrated in Malaysia and Singapore (p. 13). Joyce scholars still consider his studies Here Comes Everybody (1965) and Joysprick (1973) to be set texts in the area. His musical compositions, of which over 250 survive, are celebrated in Italy, France, and, increasingly, America, even if the Brits still aren’t receptive (p. 14). My own granddad was shocked to learn that Burgess wrote novels: Burgess had appeared so often on TV shows he’d presumed he was a professional TV personality.

Walking as Practice and Prose as Path Making: How Life Writing and Journey Can Intersect

Walking as Practice and Prose as Path Making: How Life Writing and Journey Can Intersect