“And in November 2012, Nature published a commentary by financier and environmental philanthropist Jeremy Grantham urging scientists to join this tradition and 'be arrested if necessary', because climate change 'is not only the crisis of your lives – it is also the crisis of our species’ existence' .”
.
Who'd Ruin That

don't say we can't keep doing this
because we can —until we can't
or won't

nature
slams a door

some things cannot supplant
the essence of that which we adore
or don't

why just tonight,
walking across a vast tar floor,
the inverse moat
around a big box store,
there, not to keep the other out,
but to ease the other in to spending more

just there, and just tonight
a once-in-a-lifetime sky
stopped me cold

clouds relaxed, sprawled, rear-lit,
edged in gold leaf born of an almost by-gone sun
now below the mountain west
but still shattering the grown-old day
in a blazing blue-green mirror of
early light

who'd ruin that?
we might
.

by Jim Culleny
11/7/13

by Quinn O'Neill

It's a typical Thanksgiving. An elegant dining table is decked with Autumn decor, a large turkey, and all the trimmings. Family and friends have gathered round and bow their heads in prayer. Invariably someone will thank God for this lovely meal and I'll bristle like a cat that's been pet the wrong way.

On the surface, the expression of gratitude seems gracious, but it strikes me as logically incoherent and very obviously so. It's as if someone had expressed thanks for the elephant we're about to feast upon. “I think it's actually a turkey,” I might suggest in bewilderment. “I mean, it looks like a turkey, it's definitely a bird, and I'm quite sure it's not an elephant.” Of course no one mistakes the turkey for an elephant, but it seems just as strange to me, given the annual starvation deaths of millions of children around the world, to suppose that a fair and loving God could be to thank for our lavish feast. Are we to believe that God is responsible for the distribution of food in general or just in those communities where people have enough to eat?

Theism means different things to different people, but as I understand it, it is a conception of God as a supernatural agent who's involved in the governance and direction of worldly affairs. The theist God intervenes in earthly events, answers prayers, and blesses us with holiday feasts.

Theism is the norm both worldwide and in North America, and it spawns regular spectacles of absurdity. “Everyone pray that we'll have nice weather for our picnic this weekend!” a friend might suggest, as if a god who presides over the entire universe, with all of our planet's ruinous typhoons and tsunamis, would tweak the weather systems just to dapple our picnic blanket with sunshine.

When it comes to matters of life and death, appeals for divine intervention are common and the motivation understandable. Loved ones may call for prayers for the safe return of a missing child or for the recovery of a gravely ill relative. But why not pray that no child will ever go missing again or for an end to illness entirely? Would this be any less reasonable?

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By Liam Heneghan

More than 75 years ago Robert Lloyd Praeger (1865 –1953) wrote of the Pied Wagtail roost in Dublin’s O’Connell Street describing it as “undoubtedly the most interesting zoological feature that Dublin has to offer”. The birds moved into the capital’s central thoroughfare in the winter of 1929, settling into the plane trees on the north side of Nelson’s Pillar, a 121 ft. monument commemorating Horatio Nelson, Vice Admiral of the British Navy and hero of Trafalgar. Over the following years their numbers rose to about two thousand. The wagtails survived the bombing of the pillar by former members of the Irish Republican Army in March 1966 (apparently most of the birds would take off for the gardens of the Dublin suburbs by the end of March) and the birds still populated the street when I was a child. They were finally banished from O’Connell Street in the early years of this millennium when the trees were removed to make way for The Monument of Light or the Spire, as it is more commonly called, a 398 ft. stainless steel column commemorating nothing.

In Ireland, Praeger is associated with the botanical investigation of that country’s wildest places. Less attention has been paid to Praeger as a proto-urban ecologist: a naturalist who spent most of his life in the city, who wrote extensively about his garden, and who devoted a chapter of his most renowned book, The Way That I Went, An Irishman in Ireland (1937), to Dublin and its environs. Not only did he write about the famous wagtail roosts in O’Connell Street, but he also provided records on the ferns on Dublin walls, and the plants on North Bull Island, a coastal conservation area in Dublin bay. He and a small team also surveyed and wrote extensively on Lambay Island a couple of miles off the coast, north of the city.

In addition to his urban interests, what appeals to me about Praeger is that though in many ways he was a fairly traditional natural historian whose extensive writings — in all there were 800 papers and twenty-four books — detail the distribution of plants in Ireland, he nonetheless wrote reflectively and lyrically about botanical field work as a pleasure for its own sake. Praeger raised walking to the level of exultation and methodology, and not conveyance merely. After all, his most famous book is The Way That I Went — not Where I Went and What I Found There.

I have been working on a lengthy essay on Praeger in recent months, having spent a week last February rummaging through his archives in the Royal Irish Academy, in Dublin. During this time, the idea occurred to me that not only is there a Praegerian product (all those papers and books) but there is also a Praegerian spirit: a spirit of openness to the world, a type of attentiveness that Praeger insists one can cultivate only on foot. Working on this material, I decided that I would, as a type of sympathetic exercise, embrace Praeger’s peripatetic inclination, but employ it in a strictly urban direction, bringing together two parts of Praeger’s work and interests. I am proposing therefore, over each of the next five years, to walk 1000 miles in the city. I invite you to join me by planning a thousand-mile walk of your own in the city or town in which you live. Before you commit, let me give you a little more information on the great man himself and the significance of the 1000-mile annual walk.

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Federico Garcia Lorca’s casidas are free adaptations of the Andalusi-Arabic qasidas, which he had read in Spanish. In Robert Bly’s English rendition of Lorca’s casidas, the flavor of the classical Arabic qasida form has been preserved to a considerable extent, even though it reaches us through various levels of distillation: first, the Andalusi version that Lorca designed his casidas after, then the modern English translation. The question relevant to the purpose of this annotation is: Why did Lorca choose the medieval Hispano-Arabic (Andalusi) form to write his twentieth century poems? The obvious answer lies in Lorca’s letters, drawings, plays and other poems that show how deeply he cherished his identity as an Andalucian, having grown up in Granada— a city still haunted by its near-millennium of Andalusi (or “Muslim-Spanish”) history. But attachment to Andalucia aside, what were the artistic reasons for this choice of the qasida form? Bly, in his commentary on Lorca, states that the defining feature of Lorca’s literary work is his “desire-energy” (or “duende”), which “passes through Lorca’s poems as if the lines were clear arteries created for it.” Lorca’s work was produced at a time, when, according to a contemporary of Lorca’s, Europe was “suffering from a withering of the ability to desire.” A recurrent word in Lorca’s poetry is “quiero” or “I desire.” Did he find, in the qasida form, an adequate vehicle to express desire?

In Bly’s words, Lorca “adopted old Arab forms to help entangle that union of desire and darkness, which the ancient Arabs loved so much.” Bly does not elaborate on this statement. We are left to surmise what the union of darkness and desire might mean in the context of the Arabic qasida, though, in the context of Lorca’s poetry, we can chart a general tendency towards “darkness” in his writings about death and such, as if he were going through a personal “dark” period during the tumultuous times of the Spanish civil war, just before he was killed by an impromptu firing squad of the Nationalists.

The qasida can certainly be seen as a poetic tradition with desire as its central theme. The classical Arabic qasida has fifty to a hundred lines with a fixed rhyming pattern. It is divided into three main thematic components and further divided into smaller units of certain fixed metaphors, which find nuances in the hands of the particular poet using the form. The primary metaphor that constitutes the qasida is that of being lost in the desert in the pursuit of the loved one, whose caravan always eludes the speaker. The journey is an all-important subject of the qasida, and journey stands for desire. The different movements in the poem signify specific places along the journey that co-relate to the poet’s emotional journey: the origins of his desire, nostalgia for past camp-sites, the particularities of the pursuit of the loved one, the larger map of life, the pride he takes in his tribe/caravan, how he relates to the tribe of the loved one, so on. The tone of the poem could be laudatory, melancholy or romantic, even light-hearted and humorous in one of the sub-sections. The imagery often tends to be abstract or symbolic, relying on the traditional, complex network of metaphors. As the ancient form of qasida developed through the centuries and across cultures, poets adapted it to suit concerns relevant to them, as in the case of the Andalusi poets that Lorca emulates.

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by Jalees Rehman

The unprecedented increase in the mean life expectancy during the past centuries and a concomitant drop in the birth rate has resulted in a major demographic shift in most parts of the world. The proportion of fellow humans older than 65 years of age is higher than at any time before in our history. This trend of generalized population ageing will likely continue in developed as well as in developing countries. Population ageing has sadly also given rise to ageism, prejudice against the elderly. In 1950, more than 20% of citizens aged 65 years or older participate used to participate in the labor workforce of the developed world. The percentage now has dropped to below 10%. If the value of a human being is primarily based on their economic productivity – as is so commonly done in societies driven by neoliberal capitalist values – it is easy to see why prejudices against senior citizens are on the rise. They are viewed as non-productive members of society who do not contribute to the economic growth and instead represent an economic burden because they sap up valuable dollars required to treat chronic illnesses associated with old age.

In “Agewise: Fighting the New Ageism in America“, the scholar and cultural critic Margaret Morganroth Gullette ties the rise of ageism to unfettered capitalism:

There are larger social forces at work that might make everyone, male or female, white or nonwhite, wary of the future. Under American capitalism, with productivity so fetishized, retirement from paid work can move you into the ranks of the “unproductive” who are bleeding society. One vile interpretation of longevity (that more people living longer produces intolerable medical expense) makes the long-lived a national threat, and another (that very long-lived people lack adequate quality of life) is a direct attack on the progress narratives of those who expect to live to a good old age. Self-esteem in later life, the oxygen of selfhood, is likely to be asphyxiated by the spreading hostile rhetoric about the unnecessary and expendable costs of “aging America”.

Instead of recognizing the value of the creative potential, wisdom and experiences that senior citizens can share with their respective communities, we are treating them as if they were merely a financial liability. The rise of neo-liberalism and the monetization of our lives are not unique to the United States and it is likely that such capitalist values are also fueling ageism in other parts of the world. Watching this growing disdain for senior citizens is especially painful for those of us who grew up inspired by our elders and who have respected their intellect and guidance they can offer.

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Punctuation

Period—

With this almost inconspicuous dot I wrap things up.
Bring all pleasures to an end. Call it off.
There’s a tiny tidiness to it, but the muscle of
cessation too —it can stop a truck.

Question Mark—

With this sinuous hook I pop a question
whenever I want to reach outside the box I’m in:
Why God, for instance?
Or how come these crows do not give ground
but stand and glare as if they owned this field
of mine and me?
How deeply down are they aware?
How far under do they stare?
How much more of something do they see?

Comma—

With this tadpoled period I may pause a second,
swimming among multitudes noting and naming.

Mesmerized by its breath-taking tail I rest,
then go on expanding and elucidating,
although in this case of hesitating
I’ve nothing more to say
and no one’s waiting anyway
except for future anthropologists
nosing round and carbon dating

But wait, there’s more. With comma’s versatility
I may string ten thousand things like beads
listing names of every city in the world, every lover,
their triumphs, dreams and classic poses
or as the evening closes, I may breathe mid-sentence
and signify I’ve thought of something else:
alyssum, flox, hydrangea, roses

And finally, to show how much you mean to me, my friend,
I’ll set your name apart with two of these for rapt attention
until I’m ended with that dot I mentioned.
.

by Jim Culleny, 11/2/13

by Paul Braterman

Rotation of back paw allows red panda to descend head first down tree. Taken at the Cincinnati Zoo. Photo by Greg Hume through Wikipedia

Keywords: sex, violence, baby swapping, mistaken identity, DNA testing, international relations, Richard Nixon, Viagra, Sixth Mass Extinction

Same thumb, different family

Names can be deceptive. The red panda and the giant panda are not two different varieties of the same species; they are completely different species, and only distantly related. They do not even look very similar. The red panda is much smaller than the giant panda, coloured brown and cream, and has a long striped tail. The giant panda is, of course, black and white, with a very short tail, and black patches over its eyes. These patches help give it the cuddly appearance that makes it so popular in zoos.

Both animals are found in China, although the red panda spills over into Nepal and northern India; both are anatomically carnivores, but live on bamboo; and both have the same kind of false “thumb”. This “thumb” is, really, nothing of the sort, but simply a modified wrist bone, while all five true digits are used in walking. The “thumb” is opposable, meaning that it can be moved to grip against the other digits, but has no joints or claw.

As early as 1825, Frédéric Cuvier (brother of the more famous Georges) described the red panda and proposed that was related to the racoon. The giant panda, however, did not become known in the West until considerably later. A French missionary in China described a skin in 1869; Teddy Roosevelt Jr and his brother Kermit, sons of President Teddy Roosevelt, saw a giant panda in China in the 1920s (true to family tradition, they promptly shot it); and it was not until 1936 that the first giant panda arrived in a Western zoo. Most zoologists considered it to be a kind of bear, on the basis of its anatomy, although a few thought that the two kinds of “panda” really were closely related. The matter was finally and conclusively resolved by comparing the DNA of both animals with that of other species. As expected, the giant panda belongs to the bear family, while it turns out that the red panda is in a genus all of its own, with skunks, raccoons and badgers as its closest relatives. But you do not find the false thumb in raccoons and skunks, and you do not find it in polar bears and grizzlies. So it is not a shared feature of this branch of the carnivore family tree, but a separate similar development in the two “pandas”. A similar false thumb is also found in some species of mole. These are examples of what is called parallel evolution, in which the same modification arises independently in different species. To use technical language, the thumbs are analogous (similar, and performing the same function), but not homologous (not a feature inherited from a common ancestor).

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Startling, the morning and startling, the noon.

Mist, and we didn’t understand it.

There was a message coming from unimaginable mountains

and we breathed dumbly inside it.

Some of us had our ears to the angels,

to the windows in the basins of whiskey glasses;

measured ourselves against different sticks

and stretched our shadows.

There was never a way to medicate

the loons of the inner heart, or stop

the white scarves of our breath in winter

from howling about us. We cracked

perfect white eggs for breakfast,

glimpsed the lining of the darker

jokes, and felt very wise

and frightened. The word ‘brave’

grew a ring around it. Spilt coffee

widened on the tablecloth; it mattered

separately from other things, like the way

hearts hung inside question

marks, and the rising water, the outline

of an ark; that it was our turn to board it.

We could not sense death.

But a thicket of nights gathered in the muck

that lovingly blackens the base of the skull

and we thought of beautiful things.

by Mara Jebsen

by Dave Maier

Last month, a couple of commenters on my post on Dennett's plea for “respect for truth” asked what pragmatists I like, and for a general elaboration of my pragmatism. I had to think about the best way to respond, and this is what I have finally come up with. Sorry for the delay!

There's a famous article called something like “Thirteen Types of Pragmatism”. This is a typically pragmatist attitude: forget universal definitions, just tell me what we've got. That's what we'll do here; but even so, we'll be keeping an eye on why we want to call these things “pragmatism” at all. After all, that same attitude tells to abandon “pragmatism” if it stops being useful, and I'm happy to call myself something else if it helps.

1) Pragmatism as practice over theory

We don't need to be exhaustive here, just to link some ideas together. A good place to start in characterizing pragmatism is the ordinary not-necessarily-philosophical idea of giving priority to practice itself over any theoretical understanding of that same practice. Pragmatists of this sort say: forget the operating manual, just do what experience tells you about what works. Engineers revel in the perceived virtue of this attitude: dirt under the fingernails and all that.

2) Pragmatism as science over metaphysics

But this is stacking the deck. Naturally even theorists recognize the priority in this sense of that which is represented over the necessarily merely derivative representation of same. If the manual says the engine will explode if you use such-and-such type of fuel, but experience shows otherwise, then the manual is wrong. A related but more philosophically consequential pragmatist attitude pits the empirical world of our experience against a purported “metaphysical” world of abstractions and essences.

There's only one world, of course; the question instead concerns the best method of investigating it. Theory is okay on pragmatist grounds if it is scientifically respectable, as after all Newton's laws of motion are as theoretical as you can get, and we're not giving those up. This is better than the previous thought, but it still stacks the deck. Here too metaphysicians recognize the importance of connecting what they say about the world with what we experience. Still, metaphysics isn't science, and can't be dismissed on those grounds alone, if at all.

3) Pragmatism as anti-Cartesianism

On the other hand, “metaphysics” remains a natural term of abuse for pragmatists, as is the idea of a world beyond experience. Historically, pragmatists have attacked that “metaphysical” idea most directly in its Cartesian manifestation, for example as implicated in that version of skepticism. Cartesians are best known for mind-body substance dualism, but they don't need that particular idea to motivate their skepticism. All they need is a more general conceptual dualism of subject and object.

Now this sort of pragmatism looks like the kind I like: the kind dedicated to rooting out the many pernicious manifestations of that Cartesian idea. Unfortunately, however, in combating each of these one by one (e.g. skepticism in particular), by my lights pragmatists have often failed to stay focused on the dualism itself. I actually think this was unavoidable, and I don't want to take any credit away from our honored ancestors. I just want to distinguish this sort of pragmatist “anti-Cartesianism” from later versions (like mine, below).
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by Tasneem Zehra Husain

Over the past two years, the Higgs Boson has seeped into the popular consciousness, and with the announcement of this year's Nobel Prize, it is in the limelight once again. Yet, many people are still not quite sure what this particle is, and what, if anything, it has to do with Pakistan's only Laureate, Abdus Salam.

The 2013 Nobel Prize for Physics recognized a mechanism whereby the breaking of symmetry causes a field to pervade the vacuum. To get a sense of what that means, think of the vacuum as the blank canvas upon which our universe is painted, and the Higgs field as a color wash covering the canvas. Had the canvas been pure white, the 'true' colors of our painting would show up; instead, we experience colors after they have been tinted by the background – the Higgs field taints our perception. Just because the canvas is blank doesn't mean there's nothing on it!

Vast ideas have many sides, and often, a different metaphor is needed to explain each facet. One catch phrase regarding the Higgs Boson is that it explains the origin of mass. To understand the connection, consider how we experience mass. When asked to judge how heavy something is, an instinctive reaction is to try pushing the object in question. Intuition tells us that if the same force is exerted on two objects, the heavier one moves slower than the lighter. If two balls, pushed with equal force across a flat surface move with the same speed, we conclude their masses are equal.

But what if the balls carry electric charge, and we perform this experiment in the background of a constant electric field? We might find one ball moves slower than the other, and mistakenly conclude that it is heavier, whereas in truth the masses of both are the same. The discrepancy arises because first ball is pushed in a direction where its motion is resisted by the field, whereas the second ball is pushed in an unaffected direction, and so, proceeds at its natural speed.

In a symmetric universe no direction would be singled out, and regardless of its orientation, very ball would whizz around equally fast. If, however, we introduce a field that violates symmetry, we can pick out a 'special' direction, along which balls will move slower, and hence, appear more massive.

Just as an electric field can be oriented along any axis, the Higgs field too, is free to choose a direction. An illustrative example is that of a marble in a Mexican hat. Poised on the hump of the sombrero, the marble is surrounded with infinite possibilities, each as good as the next, but its position is precarious and almost impossible to maintain. Sooner or later, it will roll down into the circular rim, spontaneously breaking the symmetry. The direction in which the marble falls is completely random; the point on the rim where it lands is not distinguished in any way, until by virtue of the marble landing, it becomes the point of reference for everything that happens from then on.

Mass, which we had thought of as an intrinsic attribute, turns out to be a perceived quantity, a manifestation of the interaction between an object and the background. Particles which appear identical in the absence of a field can take on a variety of appearances in its presence.

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by Brooks Riley

I have to confess to being a reader of Huffington Post’s Living section, a Lourdes for lovers of self-help lit: a bloated site offering problem-solving, self-improving, happiness-inducing, health-enhancing, sleep-promoting, fat-melting, age-dropping, toxin-flushing, confidence-boosting, success-guaranteeing, quick-fix, net-bite, how-to advice for a seemingly endless array of real or imagined shortcomings, most of which, sadly, are hardwired into human nature.

Huffpo isn’t the only one out there offering self-improvement on a massive scale: Lifehack, Lifehacker, Unclutterer, and many others can keep you trolling for days among the archives of perceived deficiencies and their inspirational antidotes.

I’m a sucker for any reading material that promises to solve the one problem which keeps me from fulfilling my potential, whatever that problem or potential may be. In reality, I strive to be better than I can be. I keep on tilting at windmills, seeking perfection in an imperfect world. And why? I can’t change the world, so I try to change myself.

Reading ‘how-to’ articles is an honorable distraction, better than staring into the abyss, and one that I fall prey to, especially when things aren’t going well. I click on titles like “The one-minute insomnia cure,” and “Three ways to spring clean your brain,” even though I sleep like a baby and have no intention of putting a broom to my brain. I check out “7 Steps to Overcome Perfectionism”, just to reassure myself that perfection is worth pursuing after all. More often than not, a headline that heralds a new way to change my life unfolds as a regurgitation of clichés I’ve heard so often, they have their own genetic sequence in my ear.

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Falling
.

Falling's weightlessness is a troubled one
It's not like the airtime of up-drafting hawks
or homosapient gliders hung on wires under
silk billows out of their element
snubbing gravity putting on airs,
nor like the honking camaraderie
of southbound geese chasing solar flares

To know that speeding mass
in collusion with collision brings bereavement
in worlds of muscle blood and bone
is usually enough to keep most breathers
from dancing on edges or diving off ledges

By a wise prescience we understand
that freefall without orbit
must be a heavy weightlessness
no matter how long its freedom lasts
if gravity's die is cast

Bodies are more fragile than stone and steel.
In falling minds minutes are surreal
and time expands as down mind coasts

—as future shortens past grows richer
and now's edge is honed so fine
as to split the hairs of ghosts,
and life 's full-tipped to spill last hours out
which cling to sides of tissue pitchers

Past becomes a fuller world, more here,
which is why old fallers often go there more
than fresh fallers do, who, still green,
in exhilarated falling feel only wind in hair
the sheen of mornings crisp and new
being blessed to not fully grasp
that they are falling too
.
.
by Jim Culleny
10/28/13

by James McGirk

I learned about the MONIAC in my high school marco-economics class: a.k.a. the Financephalograph or the Philips Hydraulic Computer, MONIAC was a massive machine, the size of two grandfather clocks bolted together, only instead of gears there was colored fluid inside, sluicing through tubes, pushing valves open and filling cisterns. Here, fluid was a metaphor for money, and by manipulating how much trickled through the system (pour in investments, drain out expenditures…) MONIAC could model Great Britain’s fiscal policy. Hence its name: the Monitary National Income Analogue Computer. This was absolutely an idea borne of its time (which would be New Zealand circa 1949, when feedback loops and whole systems were to Big Business what networks and disruptive capitalism are today) and as an idea was quickly repurposed from oracle-like pronouncements on fiscal policy to the teaching spotty undergraduates studying intro to Economics. My instructor—I don’t remember her name—mentioned the MONIAC as a way to demonstrate the hubris of economic models. It was inconceivable to her that a bunch of transparent pipes filled with dyed water could model something so complex as a national monetary policy. I think that was the point. But I found the MONIAC quite appealing.

Psychiatrists refer to a patient’s system of belief. This is like a personal philosophy only it goes deeper than that; it refers to how a patient conceives of reality on a granular level. A paranoid schizophrenic might have a system of belief that relies on malevolent imps who undermine his every attempt to function in society. Or if you take enough acid and close your eyes as you peak and glimpse the whirling clocklike machinery undergirding reality and believe it is still there once you come down: well, that too would fit, albeit in a slightly more subtle way. At the time I was thus afflicted. A peculiar fellow, obsessed with control panels, who decorated his jeans and filled notebooks with doodles of speedometers and squignometers and gauges and switches and rows of buttons; a guy who re-read William Gibson’s Neuromancer forty times and gobbled cognitive enhancing Nootropic drugs (and pined for girls who reminded me of the main character Molly, a neo-noir villainess with retractable claws; wan, freckled redheads especially reminded me of her, but thanks to the aforementioned eccentricities, the female of the species was really more of an abstraction at the time).

So MONIAC was delicious concept to me. The idea that there could be a machine explaining everything and allowing you to manipulate reality like engineer manning a locomotive slotted neatly into my personal system of belief[1], and stayed there until I moved to New York City at the age of 22.

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by Maniza Naqvi

Two previous posts on mineral wealth sharing have discussed what should be done, who has done it and where and why it should be done. Now let's sketch how it should be done.

One of the critical decisions in setting up a fund is how much to invest for now, how much to save for current generations (e.g. pensions), and how much to save for future generations (when, presumably, the natural resources have dried up). Examples of such funds include the Alaska Permanent Fund Corporation (APF), the Alberta Heritage Fund, Iran's Citizen Income Scheme, The Future Generations Funds in Kuwait (here and here); Norway's Government Pension Fund Global, the Pula Fund in Botswana and Wyoming's Permanent Wyoming Mineral Trust Fund .

Another set of questions are: How would such mineral revenues be managed and distributed to all citizens? And who would manage them and on what basis? What should be the guiding principles for the governance and management structure? The choices in structures for the governance and management of mineral revenues for direct dividend transfers and investments could determine whether the wealth gets transferred to all citizens, changes their lives and grows for future generations or whether it becomes an opportunity lost.

Pointers to what works for good governance and management:

· Decision for setting up an institution which can manage, invest and distribute mineral wealth is ratified by parliament as good economic and social policy. This institution can for the sake of description be called a Citizens' Wealth Fund (CWF).

· Legislation through Parliament for mineral wealth revenues management is based on the principle that it is the right thing to do because mineral wealth revenues are viewed as the property of all of the citizens of a country.

· Management of the CWF is set up on the principle that mineral wealth revenues should be grown through sound money management and capital investments to safeguard and create wealth for current and future generations.

· Citizens are viewed as clients who receive the benefits on their investment and income through Direct Dividend transfers, which they have the right to do with as they choose on the principle that each citizen can invest in their future as they wish.

· Governance of the CWF as a public institution is legislated by Parliament. The operations team of the Fund would be recruited competitively. The fund would have oversight from an independent Board chosen from members of academia, unions, private sector, and civil society. The Board should report to the Parliament. Media provides a watch dog and informative role of close scrutiny. The relatives of the President, Prime Minister and other officials of the Government would be ineligible to become members of the Board or on the staff of the fund.

· Sound economic and social policy underpins the sharing of revenues with all citizens. Policy depending on poverty and demographics could lead to a decision to transfer cash dividends to all citizens regardless of wealth immediately or as savings and pensions; or to target only the poor using mechanisms of poverty targeting; or they could be divided into various streams of investments: cash transfers to the poor, savings and pensions funds for all investments in education, health, agriculture, infrastructure, art and culture for all.

· Demographic targeting leads to choices on whether, if the population is young, direct dividend transfers now would benefit citizens' health, education and income outcomes. An aging population would benefit from pensions.

· Diversification of investments to benefit citizens includes providing a portion of each citizen's share as a monthly direct dividend transfer, while a portion of the dividend for each citizen would be withheld for the purpose of mandatory savings. The mandatory savings portion could be available to each citizen by a certain age and the pension fund would be made available at the retirement age in a country. All of the investment activities: dividend transfers, mandatory savings and pensions would be managed by the same money management team managing the investments for the overall funds so that citizens would benefit from their expertise in growing their wealth.

· Responsibilities and roles for different units in the CWF include: direct dividend transfers and money management; investments in education, health and social protection, investments in infrastructure investments; investments in arts and culture and science. Decisions on allocations to each area of responsibility and management would be approved by the Board and reported to Parliament.

Proposal for what else might work well:

A soundly managed CWF would need to have the attributes outlined above which are based on the experience of existing funds. Here is something that has not been tried and perhaps should be: An experienced and reputable international institution with both Investment Finance and Development experience could be the custodian and manager of such a CWF on behalf of a country. Similarly, philanthropists could contribute funds to such a CWF earmarked to a particular country to be managed on behalf of the poorest citizens of that country and the investment income from the contribution could be distributed as a direct dividend transfers. An ideal manager of CWFs would be an entity which has experience in: managing large trust funds on behalf of development partners; channeling these funds for development on their behalf; designing and supervising, poverty targeted cash transfers and community based investments.

The managing entity of the CWF would earn a fee in order to cover its management and operating costs for supervision and technical assistance on investments. This is normal practice for managing funds or trust funds. A mineral rich country with a high poverty head count could choose to provide a trust fund to such an entity to manage on its behalf. Direct dividend transfers would be made from this CWF to the citizens of the country. The rest of the investment income could be used for projects in health, education, social protection, housing, agriculture and infrastructure in that country. A Citizens Wealth Fund resourced by mineral wealth from so-called poor countries might just be the no strings and no aid attached easiest, fastest and most transparent way to end poverty.

by Tasneem Zehra Husain

Upon winning the Nobel Prize, Peter Higgs expressed a hope that “this recognition of fundamental science will help raise awareness of the value of blue-sky research”. By this, he means curiosity driven research, with no definite goal, no expectation of a practical outcome; research fueled by questions like ‘why is the sky blue?'

That such questions arise naturally is undeniable, but the act of following them through to the answers is some times looked upon as a luxury. Is it intellectually decadent to expend mental and financial resources going down apparently useless paths, in a world where there are so many concrete problems yet to be fixed? This debate has, in one form or another, gone on for centuries. Whenever there is news of a discovery, one of the first questions asked is ‘what can it be used for'? When Faraday displayed his new electric dynamo, this inevitable question was put to him, too. It is said he retorted “Of what use is a new born babe?” A remarkably apt response, that. A baby may grow up to perform spectacular feats, but you cannot predict at birth what these will be. In any case, most people do not bear and raise children because of what they might possibly accomplish in the future.

Any judgement of scientific value depends on your definition of science and what you consider to be of value. According to Nobel Laureate, Erwin Schrodinger, the ‘objective, purpose and value', of science, as of any other branch of knowledge, is simply to “obey the commandment of the Delphic oracle: ‘Know yourself.' That is science, to learn, to know; that is the rising truth of every spiritual human enterprise.”

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