The article skimmed by as I checked my Facebook page yesterday. Illustrated with the photo of a white male of pleasant (if forgettable) appearance, the title announced the following Good News: as of the year two thousand and fifty, anybody afflicted with an IQ of less than 150 (one fifty what? never mind), of less than 150 needn’t bother sticking around in the human race.

I didn’t waste my time reading the article. I used my limited brain capacity for a quick computation and a sigh of relief: unless I live to one hundred and four, I need not worry about my IQ in the year two thousand and fifty. However, my natural inclination to empathy and compassion now take over because the young man with whom I had a useless discussion this morning, he will be fifty years old in the year two thousand  and fifty, and if it’s maximum IQ points you need to qualify for that future brave new world, he’s in deep trouble.

In the meantime, out in the quiet countryside, I learn fascinating things such as number of bodies crammed into a jail cell in Erevan (jail cell the size of a smallish kitchen): twenty-three, irregardless of IQ.

I read and write, between bouts of listening to the news from other places. The neighbor’s chickens cluck their way across the  yard, scarfing up fallen figs. There’s a slow-mo in the gang who shows up when the best eats are gone. Doesn’t look too afflicted by her last showing in the race.

The year two thousand and fifty. Hm. All I know this afternoon: if things remain on a reasonable keel over here and in the larger world out there, we should have enough jam to last us through two thousand and seventeen.