lfischbe/diss · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 1 1.75k
9
Psychiatry
8
Anesthesiology
7
Research & Experimental Medicine
7
Obstetrics & Gynecology
6
Otorhinolaryngology
6
Dermatology
5
Mathematical & Computational Biology
5
Pharmacology
5
Rehabilitation
5
Business & Economics
4
Respiratory System
4
Biotechnology & Applied Microbiology
3
Genetics & Heredity
3
Radiology, Nuclear Medicine & Medical Imaging
3
Urology & Nephrology
3
Biochemistry & Molecular Biology
2
Cell Biology
2
Chemistry
2
Instruments & Instrumentation
2
Nutrition
2
Biomedical Social Sciences
1
Dentistry
1
Emergency Medicine
1
Epidemiology
1
Geriatrics & Gerontology
1
Government & Law
1
Information Science & Library Science
1
Nursing
1
Ophthalmology
1
Psychology
1
Statistics
1

For all references included in the search, one or more research areas was identified according to abstract, keywords, author biographies, and the publishing journal. These research areas show a diverse and intersecting range of fields, with a majority falling under the broad categories of applied science and technology (e.g. machine learning, computer science, etc), medicine (e.g. oncology, orthopedics, etc) and interdisciplinary (e.g. health informatics, medical informatics, health care sciences and services, etc.). Far fewer results fell within the broad categories of natural sciences (e.g. cell biology, chemistry) or social sciences (e.g. government and law, business and economics). The arts and humanities were not represented as a research area within the literature. Note that some references, interdisciplinary in scope, have been categorized as pertaining to multiple research areas.
Self-Writing
[...]
This is my illness narrative. Imagining the kind of model I would like to be represented by, I turn away from what Ebony Coletu has characterized as functional life writing—applications, surveys, requests for assistance, etc—and towards a more open approach to writing about my own life, with an emphasis on associative and immersive descriptions of affect, experiences, and observations. Where functional life writing imposes an institutional requirement for coherence, this life writing, in the form of a lyric essay, attaches meaning to experience through poetic sense-making, for the writer and reader alike. Life writing, as a therapeutic process, is aimed at eliciting “an understanding of how both the physical and social environments" an individual engages with may “impact and influence health and wellbeing:” folding together thick description of everyday routines (the activities of daily living) with the careful disclosure of one’s interior attitudes and mental images, life-writing is a practice of subjective relation-making, and attunement to patterns.
[...]

Image description: Illustration made consisting of fine white lines on a black background, converging into patterns that ambiguously resemble spider webs, or snowflakes, or something in between.
Quorum quantula pars sit imago dicere nemost
[We cannot say what part of them is the image]
* Lucretius “De Rerum Natura” 4:174
1.
I was dead. I have new feelings. I will describe them here.
I am an analyst who specializes in feeling. My spectrum is deep. Experience has taught me to be circumspect when I assign types, cautious when I classify (emotions that are my own, shared, or belonging to others), to patiently delay drawing borders, and to attend to the maintenance of boundaries with care.
One feeling might be related, through very different kinds of connection, to many other feelings and I might not see the shape of a pattern yet. I don’t complain; I don’t explain.
If the fruit is too ripe, or not ripe enough, I feel disgusted. Making categories to draw out the limits of sense is work that life does very naturally for itself. This is to say, categories lend coherence to uncertain, unbearable situations.
When the play of free interpretation between us becomes too difficult, we invoke shared categories to take the place of our privately indexed realities. I don’t always want to be unrecognizable.
Sadly I cannot authenticate myself.
This conversation wears the voice of analysis: How standardized will our indexes become? What forms of freedom of association do we want to preserve and which are no longer useful? Who will decide these matters? Here are my sources: bodily, textual, visual; authenticated experiences, guided by the living and the dead.
I am apprehensive about the naming of categories because of the mist between names and things. I trust that choice of names is neither a real nor a moral choice: I can’t internalize it completely, so I turn to more distributed and unsettled ways of thinking. Authentication is group work. You and I, thinking together. I am responsible to you. I am anxious about a choice which is not one to be made alone.
My child always wants to know if this or that plant is poisonous. We identify together. This wind is amazing. I saw birds making a nest out of spiderwebs.
2.
There is the odor of passion fruit ripening at various speeds on a wood table. There is a warm bright breeze which disturbs cloth curtains. Some of this will be of interest to some of you. Breeze and odor push together in small cyclones of sweet floral metallics and detergent-soaked wood. To be dead, or having otherwise lost trust in the future, is to become pure presence, poetry’s lie: all options and no choice.
I feel at home here, in this distributed and unsettled way of knowing. I am qualified. I make mistakes in my accent, my timing, my dialect is off. I am, nevertheless, aware of the line of questioning that precedes me and will continue after me. I will show where I am in this continuum. I will acknowledge those whom this continuum belongs to. I know. I am diffuse. I am a world-traveling poet. The world will not stop if I make a mistake.
I love to apologize. I accept the risk that I will be expelled from my community. I travel with the problem. At the same time, love undercuts all risks inherent in the genre of apology.
I misread “security” as “serenity.”
3.
Here are the arcs in my life and here is where they intersect in the present moment. As old as a child can be, my hair was removed and my head supported by metal pins. Anesthesia brought higher brain function to a rest and I ceased. I am presenting this to you from a vertical perspective. Seen from above, the subject is unfurled and pressed down to reveal what comes together as a continuous landscape.
I have a talent for cancer, I am told. Epilepsy, for me, is caused by a tumor in the part of my brain that resolves images. Removing part of this tumor leaves scars in the folds of my brain and under my hair. I am dyslexic. I collect, with expert guidance, periodic images of the tumor and its scars to understand how they grow, and how they change me. Scars are alive. My position changes.
Blood is not the only thing that circulates. A more visible tumor, on my neck, is caused by lymphoma which is always already in every part of my body, in my bones, and brain even. I get very good chemotherapy which appears to eliminate this cancer. Again there are periodic images which are necessary in order to understand. Chemicals are measured and cells are counted. Each sample represents a whole. Surveys are presented on a tablet for me to complete. There are gaps in my memory and in my language. Death becomes a guide.
I will be disciplined about my intentions. I will be an authentic reader. I will keep my knives as sharp as scalpels. How good it will be to cut so easily, so quickly, so deeply! I will cite my sources well, I will observe context and continuum: What is around, what is before, what is after. How books are arranged. How gaps are filled. I will shut no part of myself off from participation. I will read with my senses.
As I follow the survey’s prompts a question arises in my mind, which I put into a letter that will go unanswered by its recipient: Did you ever read my words, or did you merely finger through them for quotations which you thought might valuably support an already conceived idea concerning some old and distorted connection between us? This is not a rhetorical question.
Distorted connections begin within. How natural it is to feel disgust when confronted with the shape of guts. Intestinal kinks. Leaking bodies. A compact form barely holds. Effluence, overflow. I understand the ugly resonance here with boundaries, with borders. Where wholes are constantly reconfigured as parts / adding dimensions of possible worlds / a pattern of patterns / not immediately actualized. Contain yourself.
4.
In the city where I grew up, I visit bathhouses which are surprisingly luminous, cut from white marble even. I find the entrances in quiet alleys. I hold a dead friend’s journal of disintegration close to protect against hesitation, to embrace the sharpening of boundaries: I let my hands become weapons, my teeth become weapons, every bone and muscle and fiber and ounce of blood become weapons, and I feel prepared for the rest of my life. I feel this as a confrontation with limits: the limit of life, the limits of quantity, weight, coherence. Being material, being limited. Cutting and finite, not infinite at all.
From afar, it appeared as if my friend were writing about living with death as a guide. But now that I am close I can see his writing itself is a gesture that cuts across living and dying: a mode of desiring that allows us to see and feel beyond the quagmire of the present, José Muñoz would go on to write.
I trace the difference in this and find, again, the vertical perspective, as if suspended, looking at all of this from somewhere up. Later, I miss my friend’s call: I had become almost completely abstracted.

9

Psychiatry

8

Anesthesiology

7

Research & Experimental Medicine

7

Obstetrics & Gynecology

6

Otorhinolaryngology

6

Dermatology

5

Mathematical & Computational Biology

5

Pharmacology

5

Rehabilitation

5

Business & Economics

4

Respiratory System

4

Biotechnology & Applied Microbiology

3

Genetics & Heredity

3

Radiology, Nuclear Medicine & Medical Imaging

3

Urology & Nephrology

3

Biochemistry & Molecular Biology

2

Cell Biology

2

Chemistry

2

Instruments & Instrumentation

2

Nutrition

2

Biomedical Social Sciences

1

Dentistry

1

Emergency Medicine

1

Epidemiology

1

Geriatrics & Gerontology

1

Government & Law

1

Information Science & Library Science

1

Nursing

1

Ophthalmology

1

Psychology

1

Statistics

1

For all references included in the search, one or more research areas was identified according to abstract, keywords, author biographies, and the publishing journal. These research areas show a diverse and intersecting range of fields, with a majority falling under the broad categories of applied science and technology (e.g. machine learning, computer science, etc), medicine (e.g. oncology, orthopedics, etc) and interdisciplinary (e.g. health informatics, medical informatics, health care sciences and services, etc.). Far fewer results fell within the broad categories of natural sciences (e.g. cell biology, chemistry) or social sciences (e.g. government and law, business and economics). The arts and humanities were not represented as a research area within the literature. Note that some references, interdisciplinary in scope, have been categorized as pertaining to multiple research areas.

Self-Writing

[...]

This is my illness narrative. Imagining the kind of model I would like to be represented by, I turn away from what Ebony Coletu has characterized as functional life writing—applications, surveys, requests for assistance, etc—and towards a more open approach to writing about my own life, with an emphasis on associative and immersive descriptions of affect, experiences, and observations. Where functional life writing imposes an institutional requirement for coherence, this life writing, in the form of a lyric essay, attaches meaning to experience through poetic sense-making, for the writer and reader alike. Life writing, as a therapeutic process, is aimed at eliciting “an understanding of how both the physical and social environments" an individual engages with may “impact and influence health and wellbeing:” folding together thick description of everyday routines (the activities of daily living) with the careful disclosure of one’s interior attitudes and mental images, life-writing is a practice of subjective relation-making, and attunement to patterns.

[...]

Image description: Illustration made consisting of fine white lines on a black background, converging into patterns that ambiguously resemble spider webs, or snowflakes, or something in between.

Quorum quantula pars sit imago dicere nemost

[We cannot say what part of them is the image]

* Lucretius “De Rerum Natura” 4:174

1.

I was dead. I have new feelings. I will describe them here.

I am an analyst who specializes in feeling. My spectrum is deep. Experience has taught me to be circumspect when I assign types, cautious when I classify (emotions that are my own, shared, or belonging to others), to patiently delay drawing borders, and to attend to the maintenance of boundaries with care.

One feeling might be related, through very different kinds of connection, to many other feelings and I might not see the shape of a pattern yet. I don’t complain; I don’t explain.

If the fruit is too ripe, or not ripe enough, I feel disgusted. Making categories to draw out the limits of sense is work that life does very naturally for itself. This is to say, categories lend coherence to uncertain, unbearable situations.

When the play of free interpretation between us becomes too difficult, we invoke shared categories to take the place of our privately indexed realities. I don’t always want to be unrecognizable.

Sadly I cannot authenticate myself.

This conversation wears the voice of analysis: How standardized will our indexes become? What forms of freedom of association do we want to preserve and which are no longer useful? Who will decide these matters? Here are my sources: bodily, textual, visual; authenticated experiences, guided by the living and the dead.

I am apprehensive about the naming of categories because of the mist between names and things. I trust that choice of names is neither a real nor a moral choice: I can’t internalize it completely, so I turn to more distributed and unsettled ways of thinking. Authentication is group work. You and I, thinking together. I am responsible to you. I am anxious about a choice which is not one to be made alone.

My child always wants to know if this or that plant is poisonous. We identify together. This wind is amazing. I saw birds making a nest out of spiderwebs.

2.

There is the odor of passion fruit ripening at various speeds on a wood table. There is a warm bright breeze which disturbs cloth curtains. Some of this will be of interest to some of you. Breeze and odor push together in small cyclones of sweet floral metallics and detergent-soaked wood. To be dead, or having otherwise lost trust in the future, is to become pure presence, poetry’s lie: all options and no choice.

I feel at home here, in this distributed and unsettled way of knowing. I am qualified. I make mistakes in my accent, my timing, my dialect is off. I am, nevertheless, aware of the line of questioning that precedes me and will continue after me. I will show where I am in this continuum. I will acknowledge those whom this continuum belongs to. I know. I am diffuse. I am a world-traveling poet. The world will not stop if I make a mistake.

I love to apologize. I accept the risk that I will be expelled from my community. I travel with the problem. At the same time, love undercuts all risks inherent in the genre of apology.

I misread “security” as “serenity.”

3.

Here are the arcs in my life and here is where they intersect in the present moment. As old as a child can be, my hair was removed and my head supported by metal pins. Anesthesia brought higher brain function to a rest and I ceased. I am presenting this to you from a vertical perspective. Seen from above, the subject is unfurled and pressed down to reveal what comes together as a continuous landscape.

I have a talent for cancer, I am told. Epilepsy, for me, is caused by a tumor in the part of my brain that resolves images. Removing part of this tumor leaves scars in the folds of my brain and under my hair. I am dyslexic. I collect, with expert guidance, periodic images of the tumor and its scars to understand how they grow, and how they change me. Scars are alive. My position changes.

Blood is not the only thing that circulates. A more visible tumor, on my neck, is caused by lymphoma which is always already in every part of my body, in my bones, and brain even. I get very good chemotherapy which appears to eliminate this cancer. Again there are periodic images which are necessary in order to understand. Chemicals are measured and cells are counted. Each sample represents a whole. Surveys are presented on a tablet for me to complete. There are gaps in my memory and in my language. Death becomes a guide.

I will be disciplined about my intentions. I will be an authentic reader. I will keep my knives as sharp as scalpels. How good it will be to cut so easily, so quickly, so deeply! I will cite my sources well, I will observe context and continuum: What is around, what is before, what is after. How books are arranged. How gaps are filled. I will shut no part of myself off from participation. I will read with my senses.

As I follow the survey’s prompts a question arises in my mind, which I put into a letter that will go unanswered by its recipient: Did you ever read my words, or did you merely finger through them for quotations which you thought might valuably support an already conceived idea concerning some old and distorted connection between us? This is not a rhetorical question.

Distorted connections begin within. How natural it is to feel disgust when confronted with the shape of guts. Intestinal kinks. Leaking bodies. A compact form barely holds. Effluence, overflow. I understand the ugly resonance here with boundaries, with borders. Where wholes are constantly reconfigured as parts / adding dimensions of possible worlds / a pattern of patterns / not immediately actualized. Contain yourself.

4.

In the city where I grew up, I visit bathhouses which are surprisingly luminous, cut from white marble even. I find the entrances in quiet alleys. I hold a dead friend’s journal of disintegration close to protect against hesitation, to embrace the sharpening of boundaries: I let my hands become weapons, my teeth become weapons, every bone and muscle and fiber and ounce of blood become weapons, and I feel prepared for the rest of my life. I feel this as a confrontation with limits: the limit of life, the limits of quantity, weight, coherence. Being material, being limited. Cutting and finite, not infinite at all.

From afar, it appeared as if my friend were writing about living with death as a guide. But now that I am close I can see his writing itself is a gesture that cuts across living and dying: a mode of desiring that allows us to see and feel beyond the quagmire of the present, José Muñoz would go on to write.

I trace the difference in this and find, again, the vertical perspective, as if suspended, looking at all of this from somewhere up. Later, I miss my friend’s call: I had become almost completely abstracted.