Mind Games: Be afraid...be very afraid!

The other day as I was doing a mass delete of my junk mail, I spotted a subject line that halted my finger in mid-click: “Neuromagic : Tricks of the Mind.” I think by now everyone knows of my fascination for the tricks our minds play on ourselves and each other.

So rather than consigning the message to junk-mail heaven (or hell), I opened it. The author, who signed the e-mail with a simple “George,” called himself a “psychologist and Psychological Artist.” I have no idea what a “Psychological Artist” is, so I read on.  George, like me, claimed to be intrigued by the human mind, except that he incorporates magic into his formula.

He calls this study or discipline neuromagic:  “Neuromagic is a brand new field of neuroscience that is being used to understand how magic affects and changes how we see the world. This in turn informs how we think and what we believe about ourselves and others.” For those interested in pursuing a course of study, George offered a series of workshops. (I might have been tempted to enroll, except they’re all in the U.K.)

Further down the page, George encouraged his readers to check out a website for an example. I can only assume that it was some sort of magic embedded into the e-mail itself that compelled me to ignore my hard-and-fast rule to never click on a link from a stranger. I launched the site.

There I found several YouTube videos, examples of what I’d call tricks of the mind, sleights of hand and misdirections--the type of thing which I routinely fall for even when I know I’m being played.  It seems when George used the word “magic,” he meant parlor tricks, which is a whole lot less sinister than what I was picturing when I first opened the e-mail, things more along the line of supernatural forces compelling a desired outcome.  To me, our susceptibility to these mind games is just part of our nature.

Still, needing further evidence, I went to YouTube myself and searched for other examples. I found a whole bunch, like these from a series called Brain Games on the National Geographic Channel hosted by “deception specialist” Apollo Robbins:

(Note to self:  Look up Brain Games on Netflix.)

So whether or not I agree with George’s definition of these phenomena as magic, I do share his fascination with how the human mind adjusts itself to accept something that isn’t real. After my initial scoffing, I had to admit this is a field worthy of study. 

Think of the implications. Could the minds of military and intelligence officers be trained to summarily dismiss attempts at brainwashing? 

Or how about self-defense against con men?  Could suckers (like me) be trained to know what to look for, and beyond that, to resist?

Or are our minds prewired to accept the con?

If that’s the case, maybe we should turn to our society’s answer for most of today’s ills: pharmaceuticals! We have pills for everything else. Why not a pill that would counteract the brain’s natural impulse to believe what it isn’t seeing?

I don’t know the answer. All I know is that the mind is a powerful tool, whether you call it magic or nature. Which brings to mind another of my hard-and-fast rules: Don’t mess with Mother Nature. She’s way smarter than we are.

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Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. She blogs monthly here with her friends at Tea & Strumpets about mind games. Her latest story, Christmas Dance, explores the mysteries of love, marriage and parenthood.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com.

IQ tests – the ultimate mind games

A few weeks ago I clicked on one of those ads for an online IQ test.  I’m not sure why, since I’m not a competitive person – even against a faceless, nameless, lifeless quiz – but something struck my fancy and away I clicked.

The first couple were easy find-the-number-pattern type of questions, so easy, in fact, that I snickered and convinced myself I must certainly be a certified genius by that test’s standards. Then the questions got a little harder, and I had to think about the answers for a few seconds. The majority were math based, or maybe engineering based. Actually, I’m not sure what discipline they fell into, but I do know hardly any dealt with words and vocabulary (which I used to ace back in the day).

Halfway through the assessment, the difficulty quotient jumped even higher, and on it went until I actually skipped a few. Then my sister called and I blabbed to her for about 20 minutes. By the time I got back to the test (which for some reason I still wanted to complete), I was selecting answers by the eenie-meenie-minie-mo method and wondering what kind of sadistic bastard could have devised such a torturous series of “brain teases” for his or her fellow humans.  (Personally, I think it was a man. Just my opinion.)

After that, a smart person probably wouldn’t have clicked on the “score” link, but I did, which confirmed that I am, in fact, not that smart. In fact, my score was so low, it’s a wonder I can talk and chew gum simultaneously. (Hmmm….now that I think about it, I really can’t talk and chew gum simultaneously.)

Anyway, the point is, even though I knew I wasn’t doing well, I had felt a compulsion to see my score. Then I moped around for a few days, convinced that I’d passed on sub-standard intelligence genes to my two sons, and agonizing for the future of my family’s blood line.

I’m over it now (sort of), after reading that the test was timed, and taking longer than x-number of minutes would lower the score, but damned if I don’t want to go back and retake it to prove that I’m at least of average intelligence! Why? Why am I torturing myself? 

I haven’t figured out that answer, but I did a little research into these online IQ tests and was intrigued to find whole sites devoted to games. I took a little side trip to one where you have to light a path from a battery to a light bulb. That was fun, sort of, but after advancing a few levels (and finding harder and harder games), I X’d out of it.

Then I found the ultimate site for mind-gaming:  American Mensa’s Virtual Game Room. (Click here to check it out!)

Despite some easy sounding names, my first inclination was to back away from the game, slowly. I mean, if I'd failed this basic online IQ test, what would happen to me on the Mensa site? But then that inner demon took hold, and away I clicked.  I selected something called “Pat Sajak’s Lucky Letters,” which is very much like the old Wheel of Fortune TV show – you know, with Vanna White.

I was nervous but told myself this game was more up my alley – it had letters, words and phrases, the stock of my trade! And once I got the hang of how it was played (and listened to a few of Pat’s tips for first-timers), I started to score fairly well. I even wagered my entire winnings on one of the bonus rounds. For me, that’s huge. I don’t wager. Ever. But I looked at the clue, looked at the possible answers, and it was a no brainer!

A few minutes later, I was in the lightning round, starting to sweat and wondering when I’d turned into this creature who wanted to spin the dial. Would I bomb, like the blankety-blank IQ test, or would my love of letters and words come through for me?

And joy of joys, I won! I won I won I won I won I won!

I even took a snapshot of the winning screen to prove to myself I wasn’t hallucinating. See?  Here it is!

But am I going back for round two? Hell, no. I’m done. I’ll quit while I’m ahead, forever a winner of Pat Sajak’s Lucky Letters on none other than mensa.org. I may never take another IQ test again.

How about you? Do you love mental challenges? If so, you might want to check out Mensa’s annual “Mind Games” event taking place April 19-21 at the St. Louis Airport Marriott. Volunteer gamers will gather for an “intensive weekend of play” (according to the website) for the ultimate purpose of judging and scoring games. The top five are honored with Mensa’s Select Seal.  Want to learn more? Click here.

As for me, I'm off to take a nap.

Happy mind games!

 

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Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. She blogs monthly here with her friends at Words, Women, Wisdom about mind games. Her latest story, Christmas Dance, explores the mysteries of love, marriage and parenthood.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com.

A Valentine for my (PIA) Valentine

My husband is a pain in the …. well, you know.  Seriously! He drives me crazy! He’s the kind of man who sweats the small stuff – a traffic light turning red, the printer running out of paper when he needs a quick printout, things like that. Big stuff too, like when he inadvertently records the wrong TV show.

You can probably guess that an abundance of patience is not one of his (otherwise abundant) virtues. Aside from that, he describes himself as having an “Irish temper.” I have no idea what that means, but I do know that his simmering point is about half the level of mine. Suffice it to say that petty annoyances frustrate him.

Most of the time I just ignore him. Sometimes, though, it builds up and I react with my own display of temper, and a “discussion” ensues that can start as a squabble and advance to a full-blown verbal brawl with no effort...mostly over the stupidest things. Somehow things always work out, though, and we’ve managed to stay together for over 30 years.

Let me stop here and assure you I love my husband with every drop of emotion that’s been wrenched out of me during our years of dating and then marriage. And believe me, you can pack a whole lot of emotion in thirty-something years. We’ve loved passionately, and sometimes battled just as passionately. After each of those skirmishes, I reminded myself that I’d promised to love and honor through thick and thin, even though at that moment in time, things might have felt more thin than thick. And then there are those moments where I can’t contemplate life without him.

Like the other day. We were sitting next to each other in a meeting. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him. I stared at them and had a flashback of them joined with mine as we stood at the altar those many years ago. We didn’t indulge in one of those long, sloppy kisses after being pronounced man and wife. We simply gave each other a quick peck on the lips, bear-hugged, then lifted our still-joined hands in the air and shouted, “We did it!” Laughing, we ran down the aisle, toward our future.  We never had a proper honeymoon either, but that one night at the Treadway Inn in Wilkes-Barre, Pa., did the trick…and then some. 

My mind jumped to another memory – his hands again, this time gripping the steering wheel of his father’s 1980 Mercury Marquis as we raced down the Garden State Parkway to see my mom who’d been taken to the emergency room with a life-threatening condition.  Then another time, different car, same driver racing me to the vet’s in a blizzard to get my cat treated for a broken tail. Then again, several years later, this time me gripping his hands as I pushed out son number two (sans drugs, I might add…what was I thinking?!). He later told me I’d been squeezing so hard, I nearly crushed his bones.

Similar experiences have filled the time since – years of Little League and football practice, music lessons and band concerts, report cards and teacher conferences, all sprinkled with bouts of laughing and loving, often bickering over one thing or another, things that in retrospect are so meaningless, they've escaped my memory vault.

What I do vividly remember are the countless episodes where he’s defended me, either against others, or against my own self-doubt. He’s encouraged, uplifted, and cherished in every way. He’s the reason I write today – because he had faith in me and kept pushing until I took those first tentative pecks at the keyboard. He’s my plotting partner, often the genus of my craziest stories, always helping me with turning points and sagging middles, and the person I turn to first for critique. I truly can’t contemplate life without him by my side. How lucky am I?

That’s my lesson this Valentine’s Day. Yes, my husband sweats the small stuff, often in really annoying ways, but I don’t have to. I can disregard. I can let the moment roll off/go in one ear and out the other...whatever cliche I want for the moment. I can play my own mind game, turn off the annoyed switch, and remember how lucky I am.

So Happy Valentine’s Day, honey. You can be a PIA, but you're my PIA.

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Her latest story, Christmas Dance, explores the mysteries of love, marriage and parenthood.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com. 

Pecan Crescent Cookies and Precious Memories

All it took was a plunge of my hands into the mixture of butter, sugar, eggs, and pecans, and I was instantly standing in my grandmother’s big old colonial kitchen, 400-something miles and 40-something years from the here and now. I could see everything: her silver-and-white kitchen table that sat smack in the center of the room, the breakfast nook to the right where I used to hang out with my friends and play canasta, and ahead, the sink with the window overlooking the driveway. She stood next to me, wearing a house dress, as they called them in those days (Grandma never wore pants), one of her pretty flower-patterned aprons tied around her waist, and pointed to her pinkie finger to show me the proper size to form the dough for her pecan crescent cookies.

My mind hopped then to rolling out pie crust into a “baby” pie dish while Grandma, again standing next to me, guided me, her hands with their gnarled knuckles over mine as I battled the giant rolling pin. I still have that baby pie dish. I use it at least once a week to heat vegetables, but I hadn’t thought about making those tiny apple pies in a long, long time.

How could that one sensory experience – the feeling of that dough squishing between my fingers – trigger all those memories, instantly, when I couldn’t remember whether I’d taken my vitamins ten minutes earlier? All I can figure is that emotional experiences, good and bad, must be coded in our brains differently than what goes on the rest of the time.  There must be a chemical reaction to certain experiences that causes the brain to transport those sensations, those memories, to a special section, like a warehouse. I picture a big walled-off section of my brain with a flashing neon sign:  Leah’s Special Memories.

I wonder if the warehouse is organized, if the memories are sorted and categorized, liked I'd be tempted to do. A “machine” as complex as the brain would have to have some sort of system, wouldn’t it? I wonder then, is it organized by year (e.g., birth to age 4), or by good and bad, or maybe love and hate? Are these memories literally stored by group, or scattered randomly through the warehouse but “tagged” for easy access? Or maybe, in the case of bad memories, they’re tagged to stay hidden.

The human brain fascinates me. Not only does it serve as the body’s “computer chip,” collecting and sending probably a gazillion messages and instructions throughout our bodies, simultaneously, every second – Heart: pump, pump, pump! Lungs: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale! – but it’s the receptacle for our consciousness…our souls.

I’ve been blogging for the past several months about the mind, how it reacts to different things (like a full moon, like sleep states), but of all the games our minds play on us, this function where it connects a sensory element to a memory is, to me, the most powerful. I don’t know how the brain does it, but I think any organic system that can so easily transport itself to a place and time from the past, that can reconnect us with loved ones, at least on a sensory level, is magic. I can’t help but give thanks for the universe that is our brains, and while I’m at it, thanks to my grandma for teaching me how to bake pecan crescent cookies.

So, in honor of my grandma, I’m taking a page out of Elvy Howard’s blog and sharing that recipe.

My grandma's pecan crescent cookies, in my "baby" pie dish.

Pecan Crescent Cookies

(Makes about 3 dozen, depending on the width of your finger.)

Ingredients

• 2 cups shortening (Grandma used 1 cup of Crisco, 1 cup of butter. I don’t even know if you can buy Crisco these days. I use butter or margarine.)
• 2/3 cup white granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 3-1/3 cups flour
• 1-1/3 cups finely chopped pecans (If the pieces are too large, it’s harder to form the crescent shape.)

Thoroughly mix all ingredients – and don’t be afraid to dig your hands in and get messy. Everything should be well blended.

Separate the dough in half and form into two “logs.” Wrap the logs in waxed paper or plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator at least a couple hours (I leave overnight).

To form cookies, cut slices of the chilled dough and roll in your hands until about the size of your pinkie. Bend into a slight crescent shape.

Place cookies about 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 ° about 15 minutes, or until the edges are golden brown.  (The bigger the cookies, the longer it takes. J)

Set the cookies (still on the sheet) aside to cool for a few minutes. Until they set, they fall apart easily.

Combine sugar and cinnamon in a bowl, mix thoroughly. I start with about a quarter to a third of a cup of sugar and add cinnamon to taste. If you run out, you can always make more.

While the cookies are still warm, but after they have firmed up a little (about 5 minutes or so), roll each cookie in the sugar/cinnamon mixture (careful handling still required!), then place on some waxed paper (or paper towel) in single layer to finish cooling.

These are probably one of the few cookies I’ve ever made that taste better after they’ve cooled, so you might want to wait before sampling. And while you’re enjoying that first cooled cookie, I hope you can bring to mind one of your own treasured memories.

Wishing all a joyous holiday season – Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Winter Solstice and Kwanzaa blessings!

Leah

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Her latest story, Christmas Dance, explores the mysteries of love, marriage and parenthood.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com. 

Politics: The ultimate mind game

Now that the big election is over, I feel safe (sort of) to mention politics. It's not my favorite subject. In fact, it's probably my least favorite subject because it's the one that, in my experience, people are least likely to see another's (opposite) point of view. (Politics and religion, but that's a whole other discussion.) As a writer, I think the ability to see and understand an alternate position is crucial. How can you possibly create diverse characters if they all think and act like you? You can't, of course. So as much as I dislike the discussion of politics on a personal level, I pay attention during the political seasons to try to understand how others act and react.

Working in a newsroom, it turns out, provides the perfect incubator for the study of human behavior, and I came away from these past couple months with an eyeful and earful of opinions on the candidates, whether I wanted them or not. Example:  A man called one day complaining that his candidate's signs had been removed from lawns along a main roadway. He gave me the streets and intersections, thinking it was a big, big story that we needed to cover. The next day, a woman called with a similar story for the other candidate -- a different neighborhood but the same thing. Both were outraged to the point of sputtering as they spoke over the audacity that someone could possibly commit such a heinous act as to remove a political sign from someone's property. Personally I found both episodes to be more yawn-worthy than newsworthy, but I passed them on to our editors, as I normally do.

I don't mean to belittle their honest feelings...honest. But people have been yanking political signs for as long as I can remember. I think the outrage can be saved for other infractions...like deliberately deterring a person or group of people from voting, or deliberately not counting a person's or group's vote. Those are biggies, and as long as people are people (fallible and self-centered to the point that they can't comprehend another's perspective), I suppose crimes like that will happen. And those complaints should be investigated and prosecuted.

But again, perception is all telling. People believe what they want to believe and see what they want to see. Here's an example of another phone conversation:

Me: Hello, this is Leah. May I help you?

Caller: Yeah, you see the full-page story on page 10?

He's angry. I can hear it in his voice. And I have no idea what could be causing those feelings. Warily, I pick up my always-within-reach copy of the day's paper and see a full-page advertorial marked "PAID ADVERTISEMENT" at the top.

Me: I see a full-page ad.

The man goes on to describe the content, a full page of writing about why we should exercise our right to vote.

Me: Yes, sir, that's what I'm looking at. It's a paid advertisement. See the note at the top?

Caller: Yeah, but look at the bottom. Can you read that?

I drop my gaze to the bottom of the page and see information about absentee voting and deadlines for registration. It's blurry. Really blurry. Since switching to a new printing plant a few months ago, we've had episodes of blurred pages. I mentally sigh and prepare for another tongue-lashing from a reader.

Me: Well, I see it, but I have to admit, I can't read it.

Caller: Now you tell me that that isn't a case of voter suppression. That part that's telling people where to register is blurry. You deliberately made that blurry to keep people from voting.

I have to admit, that was the last thing I expected, and I almost choked. I assured him that there was no way to deliberately make that portion of the page blurry. I tried to explain about the problem with the presses, but he didn't want to hear it. He demanded to know if the ad was submitted that way. I told him that was highly unlikely (we wouldn't have accepted it), but at that point I could (thankfully) transfer him over to someone in advertising to set his mind at rest. (I hope they did!)

That man truly believed that we (whether organizationally or someone individually) had attempted to discourage citizens from voting. He could not comprehend the reality that it was just a mistake. (Mistakes - something else people don't seem to tolerate these days, but that, too, is another discussion.)

I understand that individuals' experiences (good and bad) shape their perceptions, and maybe that's part of why people often believe what they want to believe. They look for proof to support their own feelings rather than facts to form (or re-form) an opinion. To me, this is the worst possible game our minds play, because we're our own victims.

Personally, I'm so thankful that the political season is over and we can get on to more important things, like sex scandals and FBI agents sending topless photos of themselves through e-mail. You know, the stuff that novels are made of. (Truth IS stranger than fiction.)

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Watch for her latest story, Christmas Dance, this holiday season.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com. 

Full Moons and Mind Games

My husband and I have this weird habit – wait, come back! Not that kind of weird. It’s the doesn’t-make-sense-but-you-do-it-anyway kind of weird habit. Ever since we moved into our house a little over three years ago, we’ve had this compulsion to look out the windows in our bedroom before going to bed at night. And when we get up during the night. And when we get up in the morning.

I suppose in the beginning, it was just a natural curiosity to check out the neighborhood, but now, more than three years later, we should know what’s generally out there. Still, for some reason, the compulsion remains.

A few weeks ago, while getting ready for bed, I paid tribute to our obsession and peeked out the window on my way into the bathroom for a final potty break for the night. The moon was full and bright, brighter than I’ve seen in a long time. I gawked at it, fascinated, before continuing with my business. I flipped on the bathroom light, and when my gaze caught the person in the mirror, I jerked.

It was me—of course!—but it ... wasn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but it was like I was looking at someone else in the mirror. Like I recognized the face—the bone structure, the coloring—but the person, the soul inside, was a stranger. Very odd. It gave me the creeps, big time. But I shook it off and continued on with my nightly rituals.

When I crawled into bed a few minutes later, my hubby flipped over to give me a good-night kiss. I looked at him, and I jerked.

It was him—of course!—but it wasn’t. Just like with my image in the mirror, I recognized his face, but I felt a terrible void when I tried to connect that picture with the person inside. Rationally, I knew it was my husband, the man I’d married when I was barely legal, the man who’d fathered my two sons and who’d stood with me through all the storms over the years. Our lips met. I recognized the touch, the texture, the same way I recognized his unique scent, and told myself to snap out of it.

Still, after I lay my head on the pillow, I couldn’t stop staring at him as he drifted off to sleep. No matter how hard I squinted, no matter how many memories I dredged up, from our first meeting to dinner that night, the sensation remained that I was sleeping with a stranger.

For a long while I lay awake, my heart slamming against my ribs. Was I losing my mind? Had some cosmic shift in the space-time continuum transported me to an alternate universe? Finally, I convinced myself that the woman in the mirror must know the man in the bed, so I turned over and cuddled next to him, and I fell asleep.

In the morning, all was well. I was me, and he was him, but the terror of the night remained, shadowed in the recesses of my mind. Had I myself fallen victim to Full Moon Madness? Was the whole thing a dream? I’ll never know. I only know that the brain is a powerful organ—more powerful than we know, I’m sure—and if nothing else, mine was playing games that night.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

Leah writes stories of romance and suspense, and the enduring power of love. Watch for her latest story, Christmas Dance, this holiday season.

Visit Leah at www.leahstjames.com.