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Large lowercase 'd' in strange, hard-to-read handwriting Large lowercase 'd' in somewhat easier handwriting D, D, D...

Automatic writing done in an attempt to rewire my brain, 1988/2/1, by Wayan.

I learned to read early, by age two or three, and wrote by four or five--so young my fine-motor coordination wasn't wired in yet. Self-taught, too, so I made some letters strangely.

I got skipped ahead in school, so my handwriting was terrible for my grade, though actually quite good for my age. But my teachers' complaints made me think I was clumsy until adulthood, when, reading Leta Hollingworth's "Children Above 180 IQ", I found her caustically remarking (this is paraphrased from memory, I don't have a copy):

"Parents of children advanced a grade or more should be skeptical when elementary teachers complain of poor handwriting. They forget that normal children at this age have no handwriting whatsoever."
So with my grown-up hands, I tried calligraphy... and found I had no trouble learning new patterns. At last, as an experiment, I decided to rewire the way I wrote lower-case 'd', the hardest of my letters for others to read. How? I made up a new, more standard 'd', and then just handwrote nonsense full of 'd's, slowly, mindfully, deliberately... then faster and faster, until I was ranting in a trance--a trance full of the new 'd'.

As I read it back, I expected to find a frenzy of incoherent words. Not quite! That trance-writing made increasing sense.

bo diddly told me a riddle, didn't he?
adders on ladders and odder fodder
diddle bottles of deadly dreaded agendas.

defiance definitely defines dinosaurs:
diplodocus didn't don adidas
despite dimetrodon's demand she do.

I'll do it, daddy-o. Bid
for a dozen divine videos. God did.
And we're glad, glad she did.
Badder and badder! Readers shudder.

We disco beyond dawn, as do the dead,
dancing down, down, down...
or is death an up and a light,
a dizzying rise to delight?

Alders doodle designs despite
deficiencies in dexterity--don't we all?

Reddened pudendas
desire decadent dildos.
Words do it, weeds do it,
even incandescent deeds do it!
Let's do it--let's fondle da dove!

Under dread dim dusk we tread
on dark and muddy paths, deep red-
dirt mud all rusted as blood under
hardwoods' naked digits splayed,
determined in bad cloud. Thunder.
A dodo cried, and predators dire
swiveled pointed ears to radar in...
And I do think I'm done. Declare me fin.


My apologies to the ghost of Cole Porter:

Birds do it, bees do it
even educated fleas do it
let's do it! Let's fall in love.
Anyway, going berserk worked. Took weeks of mindful Ds to fix the change, but writing this silly trance-poem unstuck my habit for good. And once I'd proven you can rewire even deep childhood's motor skills, I began rewiring... deeper things.

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