Friday, 30 August 2013

Tweet Tweet

One of the great things about being retired is that I have a lot of time to waste, and  I waste a lot of it on Twitter. When I first heard about Twitter I was very sceptical. That's because I have a regretable tendency to intellectual snobbery, and I'm sorry. I am now a convert. 

I have 15 followers. Not a great number, to those among us who boast thousands, but I'm happy with my 15. The comings and goings of my Followers affords me a fair amount of amusement. I reckon I must be one of a very small minority of the human race that has been 'Unfollowed' by Cheltenham. Today, 'Planetproblems ' took off too, which caused me much introspection. Am I not serious enough? Did my photo of a baby octopus cause affront? Did the planet disapprove of my mistaking the Caspian Sea for The Mediterranean? I'll never know. (I admit I should have spotted an absence of Cyprus, but you know, we all make mistakes, and it's not as if I'm looking to bomb anyone... .) 

You can say what you like on Twitter, and that's just as it should be. Sometimes I read things I don't like, but only because I choose to. It's interesting, I think, as I do, to grab an insight into ghastly people's thought processes, even if only as an excuse to repeat the hypocrite's  prayer. ( 'I thank you Lord, that I'm not like HIM') 

One of my Followers ReTweeted this:

@FreeRepublicTXT: Minimum wage employees who whine about their pay should re-think their decision  (to) have illegitimate children by sperm donors who disappear.

This interested me more than somewhat because I had, within the hour of reading this piece of shit listened to a young father who worked four jobs at four different fast food joints to earn enough to keep his family. Seventy hours a week. Not including travelling time. 

But, to be fair Mr TXT, I have to admit poor people do make some very stupid decisions ( I do to, but let's assume Mr TXT doesn't, for a moment.) 

I use Twitter as a contact point for my online serious stuff: I found the Higgs Boson there, without having to study astrophysics and get a job in Geneva ( which is Out of Bounds). I pick up my daily meditation there, and a wealth of visual images that will, one day, be poems, or jigsaws.

I also access, via Twitter,  'The New Scientist'  - the only online stuff I actually pay for - which is where, today, I found this article:

@newscientist: Poverty can sap people's ability to think clearly http://t.co/Dfa68vPRel

It's the cruel cycle of poverty. The many challenges that come with being poor can sap people's ability to think clearly, according to a new study. The findings suggest that governments should think twice before tying up social-assistance programmes in confusing red tape.

Sociologists have long known that poor people are less likely to take medications, keep appointments, or be attentive parents. "Poor people make poorer decisions. They do. The question is why," says Timothy Smeeding, director of the Institute for Research on Poverty at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. But does bad decision-making help cause poverty, or does poverty interfere with decision-making?

To explore this question, psychologist Eldar Shafir at Princeton University and his colleagues took advantage of a natural experiment. Small-scale sugar-cane farmers in Tamil Nadu in southern India receive most of their year's income all at once, shortly after the annual harvest. As a result, the same farmer can be poor before harvest and relatively rich after. And indeed, Shafir's team found that farmers had more loans, pawned more belongings, and reported more difficulty paying bills before the harvest than after.

IQ drop

The researchers visited 464 farmers in 54 villages both before and after harvest. At each visit, they gave the farmers two tests of their cognitive ability: a multiple-choice pattern-matching test, and one in which they had to declare the number of digits shown rather then their value: seeing "5 5 5" but saying "three", for example.

The farmers scored significantly lower on the tests before the harvest, when money was tight, suggesting that their worries made it harder to think clearly. In fact, worrying about money impaired the farmers' thinking almost as much as going without sleep for a full night, and was the equivalent of a 13-point drop in IQ.

Looking at the same individuals before and after they received their pay packet meant that the team controlled for other factors that likely contribute to cognitive abilities, such as family background, childhood nutrition, limited education and exposure to lead or other toxins.

Mental bandwidth

The most likely explanation for the results is that people have a limited amount of "mental bandwidth", and financial worries leave less available for other cognitive tasks, says Shafir. If so, then poor people's bad decision-making may be at least partly a result of their circumstances, not due to any intrinsic lack of intelligence, says Smeeding, who was not involved in the study.

Shafir's study is an important advance, says Ann Stevens, an economist who directs the Center for Poverty Research at the University of California, Davis. If poverty makes people think less clearly, then even small social programmes to improve their lot may let them devote more attention to staying healthy, being better parents and the like. That could bring social benefits that are not usually counted in cost-benefit analyses of welfare programmes, she says.

Limited mental bandwidth also means governments should be careful not to add too much paperwork to poor people's burden. "A typical poor citizen comes to you poor in money and poor in bandwidth," says Shafir. "When you give them a 30-page application form [for social assistance], you're putting a pretty massive charge on their bandwidth." 

I think it would be wonderful to engage the brain of Mr TXT with the science that refutes his ideology ... But he's incapable of taking it in. I've chosen to read some if his other stuff, and I know this. This man is a fascist and a fool. His bandwidth is taken up with inflating his pathetic little  ego with ignorant ranting. I like to think my ranting has a little more class... . 

But I know, and can now explain what poverty does to a person's ability to function, and whether this makes any difference doesn't matter. It's that HIS  isn't the only opinion out there that matters. A lot. 



Wednesday, 28 August 2013

Joining The Awkward Squad

'I don't do God comfortably...'

I am listening to 'Hard Talk', which is giving  air-time to the views of the former Anglican bishop of Edinburgh, Richard Holloway. He threw his mitre into the Thames because the church is a cruel place to be, and he no longer wanted to be part of it. 

I don't do Church comfortably. I can't. 

I have wandered aimlessly between the denominations, wondering all the while, why I never seemed quite cut out for any of them.

 I really, really liked being an Anglican. My first and most profound 'spiritual' experiences happened when I was an Anglican: Baptism in the Holy Spirit,  speaking in tongues, healing and being healed, becoming a head teacher... . All very satisfying. 

The reason why I left does me no credit, but I'm not sorry for it. 

My next foray into institutional faith was a comic one. I became a Pentecostal. You want ego masquerading as God's Will? Watch a Pentecostal minister in action. I left because I was asked to stop praying for people. MY ego was having none of THAT! 

So now I'm a Roman Catholic. Not a good one, I hasten to add, but then, what sort of Roman Catholic would I be, if I said I was? Being 'not good'  is a given, even Jesus refused THAT compliment, " Why do you call me good? Only God is good... ." 

I'm still going. I don't stop thinking. 

I was talking to a fellow-Missioner, Dennis, last Wednesday. "You make Catholicism sound attractive", he says. "Well Dennis, " I reply, "When I was an evangelical Protestant, I was paddling in the shallows." I amazed myself. I would add two other thoughts:

1. My catechist, when I was in training for Catholicism, said,"I don't know why anyone wants to be a Catholic. It's too hard." 

2." If you're going to get in the lift, why get out before you reach the top floor?"

(That's a big IF though.) 

So that was last Wednesday. Where am I today? Immensely grateful to the Catholic Church for opening me up to the possibility of Mystery. Of helping me realise that the certainties I seek are unknowable, and that no church can do my soul-work for me. Finally, and most profoundly, of revealing to me my true purpose, which is to know that I am and can simply be, the 'image of God'. 

You can be a better Catholic than me by NOT learning those things, of course. Many get by on simply eating Jesus and following the rules. 

Being made in the image of God opens the Old Testament, in the Creation myth, and the New Testament, with the embodiment of God in Jesus. ( Who, like me me, wasn't always sweetness and light.) 

Both events say, "Look, this is who you really are!" I often think the Bible should have stopped there, because much of the rest of it describes the mess we made of trying to invent God in our own  image. 

Who am I REALLY then? 

Stepping Out

I am good.

I refuse to be named
In your harsh words, 
Or inhabit the terrible worlds
Inside your head.

You, who know me, and have 
Touched part of me
And laughed
Or cried. Listen! 
It's good. All good. 
Don't cry.

I am good 

When the sun shines
And I am pleased
With you, and Everyone,
And Everything 
When I am fed, and loved
And have cause to smile.

I am good

When I am mad at you
And at me
For indolence, 
Greed and the killing.
It's that - and disease,
And children dying - Yes
It's death that gets to me. 

As it must, and all of us.

I am good

Because I see
With more than these eyes
And can walk upright-
Even in my petty
Degraded self
Which I am - 
Sometimes, yes, often, I Am 
THAT small.

I am good

Because on bright days
I laugh and life's a dance
And I give you ALL
What you want, because
I want to. 

Oh! and how I smile! 


I am good 

Because I am made
In the image of God. 

All of THIS
All of me. 


I started on this meander with Richard Holloway, who left Church because it's cruel. I think I might stay for a season, because I'm afraid of speaking out and losing what I love about being Church. I know that a crisis is coming in me, because I'm not sure that I can keep quiet much longer about the casual cruelty of Church against those it chooses to pick on - gays, women, dissidents... . 

I am ashamed that I have kept quiet this long.

Is it enough to face the day just being me? I don't know. It's a Mystery.




Monday, 26 August 2013

WHAT Day Is it?

I am writing this from bed. I could get up, I probably should, but as I have everything at hand, and no urgent errands to perform, I see no reason to budge.

My lovely little cottage is under attack. Benignly so: It's having a new kitchen fitted. I contemplated re-locating with my daughters, you know, doing an old-style 'Royal Progress' from Jen's in town, to Kate's in Droitwich, finishing up in Bristol with Hannah. This may still be necessary, but for the time being, I am making do with a field-kitchen in the spare bedroom. 

It's Bank Holiday Monday! I hope the cafes in town are open, as I am contemplating giving one my lunch-time custom. I had forgotten the day, and don't know the date. I am thinking a lot about senility as David's funeral approaches, and wonder if I should be worried about forgetting that today is a public holiday. I decide not. When I was working, the public holidays always arrived  smack  in the middle of school hols, and therefore had no impact. I'm pleased for those of you who fall upon these havens of respite with relief bordering on ecstasy, but  for me, they've  always been an irritant. So many of you are out and about enjoying yourselves, that you've clogged up the roads and confined me to my home. 

Returning to my self-indulgent introspection on the health of my wits:

'Are you losing it?' Questions that would land me in hot water. 

Q: "What day of the week is it? 
A: "Haven't Cared Since I Retired, Unless it's Friday

Q: "Who's the Prime Minister?" 
A: " Haven't Cared Since The Children Took Over" 

Q: "What's The Pass Word To Your Bank Account" 
A: "Oh! Come On! I'm Not That Stupid." 

The answer to that one, is actually, "I Don't Know." I don't handle the accounts. Ray's not that stupid either... . 

I almost always do a little relevant research  in the writing of this Blog - for my amusement, you understand, your education is your own affair - so I searched for the ACTUAL questions that a health professional might ask me when tackling any decline  in my mental acuity. Couldn't find any. Though I did find reams of material on the Mental Capacity Act of 2005, which is an amazingly reassuring document. Granny's not getting deprived of her eccentric lifestyle until she's well out of it. Being Granny, I'm well pleased about this. 

I did, in the course of my research, find an online 'Test Your Own IQ' Site. 

 http://www.test-my-iq.com/en-us/iqtest    



As a retired professional brain-wrangler, I could see that it was as sound as they come
 ( which isn't THAT much of a recommendation, actually, as I have no respect for IQ Tests, but 
what the heck, I'm old and wanted to see just how past it I was getting.) 

HO HO!!! I'm not going to reveal my score, but I'm feeling a whole lot less depressed than I was 
when I started out this morning! 

Take comfort. You can forget what day of the week it is and STILL be a genius!

:) 

June 6th 2009

I am in a reflective mood today. I have flowers to arrange for a funeral tomorrow, and I am, in consequence,  contemplating mortality. 

 David Mourdant

I didn't know David well, and not at all before senile dementia began its stranglehold over his life, which it slowly, agonisingly, robbed him of. But when I first met him, he could still follow the Mass, read the hymns from the hymnal,  and hold his place in the small informal choir of the church I was about to join.

Soon, I was finding the hymns for him and watched, helpless, at his confusion because what he was looking at, made no sense to him. Later, he took to wandering the streets, unable to remember who or where he was. Sheltered housing followed, then when he became aggressive, a secure hospital:  there was nothing recognisable then, of the man who'd built up the church, who was known for his gentleness and his generosity.

Don't ask me today, if I believe in God, or of a benign purpose to the Universe. I don't like the answer I would give you. 

Here's the entry from my Online Diary that preceded this blog. 

6th June 2009: David's Lilies

It is tipping down with rain. Steady, heavy, unmitigatingly wet; possibly the heaviest and most sustained rainfall of the year.

Di 'phoned to say that David has some lilies to put in the sanctuary.  'Oh Good, I won't have to buy any flowers this week!' 

I balanced a collecting bag, secateurs and an umbrella and cut some supporting greenery: rushes to give height, japanese anemone leaves for weight and bulk and some scented lemon balm to fill. As an afterthought, I picked a length of hop vine for twirl.

I drove through town to David's house and caught him smoking in the potting shed. I've come for the lilies,' I said. David was very pleased to see me.  He is a bit forgetful these days, which at ninety he is entitled to be, but by a lttle judicious waving of the secateurs he quickly grasped my errand.

Last year he'd called someone, on-one knows who, who had collected his lilies and disappeared with them, not having quite understood their purpose, apparantly.  David had been most upset when they'd consequently failed to appear in church.

He waved me over to a distant patch where I could see quite distinclty through the curtain of rain that there were FOUR blooms. Four.  

With a log, a drape, some ladies mantle and white campanula to say nothing of the hop vine and lemon balm I created a passable arrangement that is a esoteric fusion of classical piety and an exhuberant wilderness.  I sincerely hope it lasts, and that David is pleased with it!

Marylyn

Marylyn died in October 2008.  I was privilidged to be by her side in the hospital when the respirator was turned off and she slipped peaceably away from us. 

She was just 70 years old, no age these days.  Her last words were, 'Make it a good one.' when someone offered to pray for her.  I'm sure it was.

Marylyn wasn't conventionally  religious, she was just good. She gave herself up in the service of others and was always loving, smiling and THERE.

Although she was my first cousin, we were raised more like sisters because our mothers were very close. She was fifteen years older than me and she showered love and affection on me from as far back as I can remember.

Because I spend far too much time thinking of myself, part of my grief at Marylyn's passing was this thought - she was the last person alive who held me as a baby, who could speak to me of my childhood, who could share memories of my parents.

Fifty years ago today, she married Geoffrey Purveur, whom I also loved.  I was a eight years old and a bridesmaid. I wore blue and carried sweet peas. 

Vivienne

My best friend.  This is her anniversary.  She died on this day in 1992, aged 64.  She is now in heaven, free from the pain that afflicted her twisted body, of which she rarely complained. I suspect she is praying for me; she'll know I need it.

She used to plan her funeral to the last detail until the day she said, 'I always want to be in control, even of my own funeral! - well not any more.  Do what you want!' 

I picked her wild flowers from the wasteland behind our estate and wreathed them in ribbons.  I read from Romans Chapter 12 and I cried buckets.