View allAll Photos Tagged Dissonance
Before I start my ramble, I wanted to give credit to Susan Jane Golding for the inspiration and title on this photo:
www.flickr.com/photos/sjgolding/49668941763/in/dateposted/
This photo is from Venice at the hotel we stayed at that was way too decadent for what we are used to. Also, their croissants were better than anything we had in Paris (sorry, Paris!).
This is a first world problem when so many are ill and dying but I was really looking forward to going back to Italy at the end of June-flying into Paris, going to Zurich for a couple of days and making my way through several Italian cities before hitting Rome.
My partner, Cinchel, had been avidly checking for tickets to see The Last Supper painting in Milan which I had no interest in seeing as I believe that iconography of the white Jesus has helped play into oppression and genocide for centuries. Also, sorry white Jesus, I'm just not that into you. I'm much more into modern art, anyway.
But, the first sign that this was getting a lot more serious is when The Last Supper viewing for tickets closed for all of March and slowly every day we are coming to terms with the reality of this worldwide pandemic. And again, this is a very first world problem but I think it's natural to feel sad when you love to travel and made the investment like that.
I did tell you that this was a ramble, though. So, anyway, In Susan Jane Golding's photo, it showed a time that I could relate to about 72 hours before the shutdown. In my own city of Chicago, I was out one day earlier than this. I couldn't quite understand the cognitive dissonance between the panic buying and the going out and partying. On Thursday, March 12th, my partner Cinchel and I took a long bike ride (about 8 miles each way) after work for our "date night" to Hopleaf, a Belgian beer bar with great frites on the North side of the city. I was thinking that this was going to be the last time we would be there for awhile because things were happening so fast and uncertainly and, as soon as I found out on Saturday that asymptomatic people were spreading the virus, I stayed home from then on. But, I found that Hopleaf was packed to the gills and I did enjoy my wine and frites quite a bit. I really worry about these small independent businesses failing now that everything is shut down.
I also like to sing when I bike because it stops me from grinding my teeth and it's also supposed to be good for your Vagus Nerve. Anyway, so I was singing Radiohead's OK Computer, which I haven't listened to in a really long time. This is a ramble about food a bit but it's also a ramble about quantum mechanics and alternate timelines. I happen to believe that reality splits into different timelines and I've felt it very distinctly happening. The first time it was happening, I was about 19 and OK Computer had just been released. I was at a gas station in Rochester, NY and "No Surprises" came on and I realized for the first time that reality was separating and I felt it very deeply. There's been a few times that has happened to me since then, most notably around the 2016 election (I am stuck in the wrong timeline and am very jealous of my other selves I can tell you).
So, as I was saying, I felt like maybe if I just sang OK Computer songs loud enough while bicycling that I could move into the best possible reality, Sadly, I don't think that happened although maybe the worse reality is that we're all dead by now.
So, what was your last supper when you could still go out and enjoy being in public, a little oblivious to Coronavirus and what was coming for all of us?
P.S. Poor Paris, I also hate to tell you Berlin had the best crepes....
The car model is (once was!) "Moskvich 412"
Captured by Canon IXY 20 IS in Kazakhstan, Karaganda, Bet Pak Dala desert. May 2010
Website: www.nicholasscarpinato.com/
Blog: nicholasmax.tumblr.com/
Instagram: instagram.com/nicholasscarpinato
Twitter: twitter.com/scarpinaton
Born in Lagos, Nigeria, Chukwudubem Ukaigwe is an artist, curator, and writer. Using content as an experimental device for the examination of plural themes, his interdisciplinary practice is an inquiry into semiotic dissonance. Ukaigwe participates in the creation of immersive audiovisual environments, foregrounding aspects of everyday life to generate connections reflecting global aesthetics.
Ukaigwe approaches his practice through influences ranging from experimental music and literature, to history and futurisms. His work is a way of annotating, augmenting, defacing, transposing, and rewriting in the margins of history. His paintings, installations, and video works also attempt to collapse the subject-object divide, while mapping out new and revised sociographies. Ukaigwe’s social practice centres around splintered or shared authorship, community input, fracturing time, and relativity. He holds a BFA from the University of Manitoba, and has taken part in exhibitions artist residencies both in Canada and abroad. He is also a founding member of the curatorial group, Patterns Collective.
With its severed body fused with the jaws of hell, the Manananggal sweeps the night skies devouring its victims. Cacophonous sounds are said to accompany its arrival.
Built for the Redemption Round finals of Biocup 2020.
This model is a combination of VB's "Music of the Deep" and Garruk18's "The Manananggal"
how to appreciate colour relationships, the influence of one colour on another, their contrasts and dissonances, is promised an infinitely diverse imagery. [sonia delaunay quote]
shopwindow kinki kappers (kinki hairdresser)
and kinki it is
amazing colormixes and lots of funky details :-)
even so the hairdressing
if you want something special on top of your head,
don't hesitate , kinki kappers is your address :-)
have a look on their website (with the english tool, it has no secrets any more :-)
[droid-a-day keeps the doctor away... ]
from
DISSONANCE portfolio:
"Dissonance: a tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements."
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my written permission.
My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
© All rights reserved
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my written permission.
My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
© All rights reserved
Camille Norment’s Rapture, a strange, tense installation that takes the piercing, resonant tones of the glass harmonica as a starting point to explore the duality of violence and peace, action and repose at the Nordic Pavilion. Featuring the otherworldly space of the pavilion prominently, the architecture is adorned with speakers playing a churning, high-pitched composition, in contrast with broken glass and debris littered across the rooms of the show.
the Oslo-based artist works with the glass armonica – an 18th-century instrument invented by Benjamin franklin that creates ethereal music from the touch of fingers on glass and water – and a chorus of 12 female voices. weaving these elements together within the pavilion itself, Norment creates an immersive, multi-sensory space, which reflects upon the history of sound, contemporary concepts of consonance and dissonance, and the water, glass and light of Venice.
‘rapture’ reflects on how the body can be defined and potentiated by sound, with the pavilion speaking of the tensions between harmony and dissonance. if, as the Norwegian experimental composer Arne Nordheim said, ‘music lives in the span between poetry and catastrophe’, the visitor to the Nordic pavilion walks into a sculptural and sonic installation torn between these two ideas, a space between a body in trauma and a body in rapture.
Bezgłose jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk
(Eng. Voiceless Like a Scream Tent-Pitched On a Steel String)
self-portrait
(October 23, 2016)
Florida, U.S.
inspired by the poem "Dissonance" (excerpt) of H. Poświatowska
Polish text Copyright 1989 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków, Poland
Halina Poświatowska, Polish, d. 11 oct 1967.
translation by Marek Lugowski
twice22.org/HalinaFAQ/
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z czołem opartym
bezgłose
jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk
łapczywie chwytamy oddech
liczymy raz... dwa... trzy...
świat ma tylko dwa piętra
tyko dwa
nieduże
z krążącymi gwiazdami świat
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
dlaczego tak trudno umrzeć?
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with foreheads leaning
voiceless
like a scream tent-pitched on a steel string
we greedily catch our breath
counting one... two... three...
the world is just two stories tall
just two
pretty tiny
a world with stars circling
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
why is dying so hard?
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission.
© All rights reserved
Sonnet C
At the centre of the Earth I’ll split apart
the emeralds to catch a sight of you
and you’ll be copying down the ears of wheat
like a message-taking plume of water.
What a world! What depths of parsley!
What a sailboat sailing in the sweetness!
And you perhaps and I perhaps of topaz!
There’ll be no more dissonance in the bells.
There’ll be no more than the free air,
the apples taken by the wind,
the juicy volume in among the branches,
and there where the carnations breathe
we will start a garment to last out
the eternity of a victorious kiss.
Pablo Neruda
Cloven Forest, Cloven (125, 38, 22)
This is my first LEGO build that connects to the wider concept that I'm exploring in ceramics and hopefully glass.
The three rabbits are asymmetrical, but all follow the same basic structure. The damaged version on the left used recycled bricks that I've collected over the years - all damaged/ faded in some way.
Dense Aspen Grove. Eastern Sierra Nevada, California. September 30, 2016. © Copyright 2016 G Dan Mitchell - all rights reserved.
Small aspen trees, packed closely together, with golden autumn leaves, Eastern Sierra Nevada
While the exuberant colors of large groves of autumn aspens are attractive, there is something about the trunks that is hard to resist, even when the colors may have diminished a bit — or perhaps because the colors are less striking. I know I'm not the only photographer who returns to this "take" on the subject. It is fun and more than a bit challenging to make compositions out of such complexity. Frequently I'll stop and look at a grove, think "that will make a great photograph," and then gradually discover that some subtle element is not quite right and the whole thing won't work. I'm continually surprised that a subject that seems so simple often isn't.
To a great extent it is a question of balance of several sorts. The complex patterns of trunks cannot be completely uniform or there will be no form to the image. There must be some differentiation in the ways that trunks are grouped and among the angles of branches. But too much differentiation is also a problem. There is a "just right" quality to these compositions that is hard to explain, but which I know when I see it. A bit of "dissonance" can help, too — a little bit of something that seems to step outside the predominant patterns. In this photograph that could be the diagonal branches at coming across from the right, or it might be the group of closer leaves along one side. There is also some sense of depth, and if you look closely you may see a good distance into the more distant and darker areas of the small grove. And aside from the obvious vertical lines, there are three horizontal layers — brush at the bottom, trunks in the middle, and yellow leaves at the top.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist. His book, "California's Fall Color: A Photographer's Guide to Autumn in the Sierra" is available from Heyday Books and Amazon.
Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | LinkedIn | Email
All media © Copyright G Dan Mitchell and others as indicated. Any use requires advance permission from G Dan Mitchell.
from
DISSONANCE portfolio:
"Dissonance: a tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements."
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my written permission.
My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
© All rights reserved
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my written permission.
My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
© All rights reserved
Świat ma tylko dwa piętra
(Eng. The world is just two stories tall)
self-portrait
(January, 2015)
TX, US
inspired by the poem "Dissonance" by H. Poświatowska
Polish text Copyright 1989 Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków, Poland
Halina Poświatowska, Polish, d. 11 oct 1967.
translation by Marek Lugowski
twice22.org/HalinaFAQ/
---
świat jest taki mały
świat ma tylko dwa piętra
na wyższym jesteś tylko ty
oddychasz ciężko
obok stoi wieczność
ciemna
mozolnie po schodach
idę w długiej koszuli
ocieram usta
ciepłą wilgotną ręką
zakrywam usta
za mną
idzie wieczność
obydwie
stajemy pod twoimi drzwiami
z czołem opartym
bezgłose
jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk
łapczywie chwytamy oddech
liczymy raz... dwa... trzy...
świat ma tylko dwa piętra
tyko dwa
nieduże
z krążącymi gwiazdami świat
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
dlaczego tak trudno umrzeć?
---
the world is so small
the world is just two stories tall
you are on the upper one
you breathe heavily
nearby stands eternity
dark
I take the steps laboriously
walking in a long shirt
I wipe off my mouth
with a warm damp hand
I cover my mouth
behind me
walks eternity
we both
pause at your door
with foreheads leaning
voiceless
like a scream tent-pitched on a steel string
we greedily catch our breath
counting one... two... three...
the world is just two stories tall
just two
pretty tiny
a world with stars circling
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
why is dying so hard?
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission.
© All rights reserved
The calendar says February 20, but the thermometer says 71. The dissonance of the date and temperature notwithstanding, Q241 heads south at the interlocking at North Lima, Ohio and past the venerable B&O color position light signals.
Invent, experiment --- Jazz / that doesn't swing but dances tight (MoE, poem by John Keene)
© MoE feat. Mette Rasmussen & Veslemøy Narvesen, 2023, Berlin, Florian Fritsch
Title.
Taking a bath. :)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Central Park, Manhattan, New York, USA. 2017. ... 3 / 9
(Today's photo. It's unpublished.)
Images:
The Beatles … Across The Universe
youtu.be/eqUzU552X8A?si=LDd91wXz4ROBUYco
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
Volume 14 😄
The following is still in its draft stage and will be revised further.
Key parts are not disclosed.
The order of the content shown here is mixed.
(Of course, this is not the final version.)
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
In the western reaches of Los Angeles, at the intersection of Wilshire Boulevard and Sepulveda, a seventeen–story alabaster tower rose against the sky. This was the headquarters of the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office.
The afternoon light struck its white façade, casting back a cold, austere beauty. Before it stretched a broad lawn, a hush reigning there in stark contrast to the bustle of the city. On the front of the building, the names of the FBI and the Department of Veterans Affairs stood in bold relief, the weight of the nation inscribed in stone. Nearby lay the Los Angeles National Cemetery, where the memories of the past intertwined with the pulse of the present.
Just a few blocks away, in a hotel room, tension had taken on another form. The pale red carpet caught the glare of fluorescent light, while beyond the window the unending stream of cars along Wilshire flowed like a restless artery. The faint cry of sirens mingled with the city’s din, as if the collective strain of Los Angeles were seeping into this small room.
At the front, a makeshift stage bore the American flag and the FBI seal. Tripods stood in careful rows, monitors flashing between live feeds and scrolling headlines.
Cameron R. Bartlett, Director of the FBI, squared his shoulders. With a brief glance at the papers in his hand, he drew in a quiet breath and let his eyes travel over the gathered press. Behind his composure lay a grave unease, and a resolve as unyielding as steel.
“The incident is unfolding on a scale without precedent—” His voice, low but unwavering, filled the room. Instantly, the images on the monitors tightened every chest, sharpening the taut wire of tension. The journalists steadied their breathing, fingers trembling faintly over notebooks and cameras as the dissonance grew—between the director’s calm expression and the devastation flickering across the screens.
Some rushed to send out bulletins; others adjusted their zoom lenses, struggling inwardly to shape a sense of the whole. From a corner came the faint rustle of a page turning, the smallest sounds amplified by silence. And still the tense hour dragged on, as if the looming FBI building itself watched over the press room in mute witness.
Each time the footage wavered—smoke shifting, rubble parting to reveal a fleeting figure—the reporters’ eyes snapped to the screen. Pens scratched, shutters clicked, the faint patter of keys mingling with a silence taut enough to break.
Bartlett’s gaze lingered on each journalist, conveying a weight beyond words. That quiet pressure thickened the atmosphere, the air stretched to a thread’s breaking point. From outside came the muted hum of traffic, a distant siren’s wail—the world’s noise folding into the room’s stillness, underscoring the magnitude of what was unfolding.
At last, after answering questions in terse, measured replies, Bartlett concluded:
“That is all I can say at this time.”
His curt words gave way to a new stir, rippling through the hall. The cause lay on the monitors: another feed had appeared, bearing the caption in red, flashing in the corner—Madison Square Garden, New York City—the precise moment the carnage had begun.
The reporters in Los Angeles felt their breath catch. Following those numbers, they seemed to touch the pulse of another city across the continent. The images bound the two coasts together, weaving the entire nation into one mesh of suspense.
Then the screen shifted to a different stage—New York’s press room—where a man in a dark suit stood before the glare of flashbulbs.
Jack Vance. Once a colleague of Marcus’s at the Bureau. In rare fashion, he had left the FBI under the Department of Justice to join the Secret Service under Homeland Security. Years earlier, when Vance had headed the Violent Crimes Section, a hostage standoff erupted in Oakbridge, outside Washington, D.C. Orders from headquarters forced an early assault. In the chaos, a nineteen–year–old Black youth, misidentified as the suspect, was shot dead. The true perpetrator lay elsewhere, and Vance’s team had opposed the premature entry. Yet the assault had gone forward—under the command of none other than Bartlett, now before them on the screen. Later, in the Washington field office, Bartlett had ordered subordinates to alter the report, declaring that the assault had been Vance’s decision. Vance rose in silence, flung the papers onto the table, and struck Bartlett across the face. Officially, it had ended as Vance’s “voluntary resignation” before disciplinary measures. In truth, he had been cast out.
Now Vance’s voice, faintly delayed, overlapped with the Los Angeles air. Two distant cities shared the same gravity of silence. Pens stilled, eyes fixed on the screen. Each word, each gesture etched the outline of the disaster more sharply. The chain of images streaming through the network was not mere record, but a slice of history as it unfolded. The hush in the room stretched on, awaiting a break that never came. Breathing shallow, all present were held captive by the figure of Jack Vance.
The tension, unbroken, shifted its form. From the rear seats came a fresh murmur, loosening the taut balance. Several reporters pulled out their phones, screens glowing like scattered embers in the dimness. They were not receiving news alerts. It was a direct link, sent by an anonymous hand.
Beneath Los Angeles’s cold lights, the press room now bore the weight of three overlapping spheres—the New York briefing, the strange new footage, and the lingering echo of Vance’s voice. The reporters’ focus drifted to the unknown. It was not simply information. It was a forewarning.
Marcus Dane was the first to sense it. Standing in the aisle, watching his superior Bartlett, he noticed the stir among the journalists at the center. Several had received a live video link—from the perpetrators themselves. The same ploy that had reached Jack and the others at the Garden.
Marcus immediately checked the URL and forwarded it to Tom Caldwell, once a trusted colleague in the technical division.
The footage was unmistakable: the very same “Oval Office” where Professor Zakaria Haddad had taken his own life.
“Good afternoon. My name is Amir Nasser. I was a student of Professor Zakaria Haddad, who passed away just days ago.”
Amir leaned lightly against the desk, speaking in a gentle tone, revealing a side unseen until now.
“As he told you, we once lived quietly in Gaza. We were ruled by Hamas, by their weapons and their violence. They committed unspeakable killings against Israel. But could we have stopped them? No more than you can stop your own President from wielding the power of command. You may protest in your streets, but we had only silence, living under the shadow of informants and violence. And still your President sided with Israel, again and again, unleashing bombs until not even ruins remained. We, who offered no resistance, endured strike upon strike, invasion upon invasion. Hamas made us their shields, nesting beneath our hospitals, while we, above, became the targets.”
Amir’s voice was clear, almost luminous. His youth, his neatly combed hair, the strange stillness of his blue eyes—all drew the listeners in. Nothing in his demeanor suggested violence. He lifted a glass of water from the table, sipped, and continued.
“As Professor Haddad told you, all we were given was darkness. And what does an animal do when driven into darkness?” His eyes fell to the floor, words sinking like stones.
“We lost everything—our homes, our lovers, our families. Everything. Do you not call it unjust, to die with nothing left? Is it not the human way to confront those who take? To force them to grasp what it means to be robbed? What does it mean, America, that you drink your cola unchanged, while we are stripped bare?”
He paused, then smiled faintly.
“Jack, the weekend will be a busy one.”
The smile was open, disarming—and chilling.
“In these years, the Democrats’ tolerance has faded, and the Republicans have driven immigrants to the edge. So we, scattered across this nation, have shared our knowledge, and we have reached a conclusion. ICE, who have treated us as vermin, must be re-educated.”
Since the shift in power, ICE had grown ever harsher. With offices in nearly every state, their reach extended across the land. More than twenty thousand employees in all: some seventy-eight hundred in Enforcement and Removal Operations, sixty-five hundred in Homeland Security Investigations, six thousand in the legal branch known as OPLA.
“We gained a fragment of their data. Let me be honest—only a fragment. ICE is too vast, too diffuse. But we chose two places, Jack. Los Angeles and New York. And we will tell you. That is generous, is it not? You should be grateful.”
Amir’s smile remained as he concluded:
“But remember, our purpose is re-education. Wait for it, Jack. Until then.”
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My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
There’s still more to come. 😃
(This is not the final draft.)
Set in New York City.
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Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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Title.
入浴中。:)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 3 / 9
(今日の写真。それは未発表です。）
Images:
The Beatles … Across The Universe 和訳
note.com/yutosn/n/na8a3ff93b391
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
第14弾。 😄
以下は、まだ初稿の段階です。まだ推敲します。
重要な部分は公開していません。
公開している内容の順番はバラバラです。
(もちろん最終稿ではありません。)
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
ロサンゼルスの西部、ウィルシャー大通りとセプルヴェダ通りが交差する地点にそびえる17階建ての白亜の高層ビルが、FBIロサンゼルス支局だ。
午後の光がビルの白い外壁に反射し、支局の冷徹な美しさを放っている。
その前には広大な芝生が広がり、周囲の喧騒とは対照的な静寂が漂っている。建物の正面にはFBIや退役軍人局の文字が掲げられ、国家の重みが息づいていた。近くにはロサンゼルス国立墓地もあり、過去と現在の記憶が交錯する場所だ。
そのビルから数ブロック離れたホテルの一室では、緊迫した空気が別の形で立ち上がっていた。淡い赤のカーペットに蛍光灯の光が反射し、窓の向こうにはウィルシャー大通りの車列が途切れなく動いている。遠くでサイレンが混ざった街の喧騒がかすかに届き、まるで街全体の緊張がこの部屋に流れ込んでいるかのようだった。
前方には米国旗とFBIのロゴを掲げた簡易ステージが設けられ、カメラの三脚が整然と並び、モニターには現場映像や速報テロップが次々と流れている。
キャメロン・R・バートレットFBI長官は少し肩を張り、手元の書類に一瞥を投げると、静かに息を吸い込み、視線を記者たちに巡らせた。その目には冷静さの奥に、深い憂慮と覚悟が宿っていた。
「事件は未曾有の規模で進行中です――」低く、しかし確かな声が室内に響く。モニターの映像が一瞬にして全員の胸を締めつけ、緊張の空気がさらに鋭く張り詰めた。記者たちは呼吸を整え、心臓の鼓動を感じながら、手元のメモやカメラを操作する指先の微かな震えに気づいていた。目の前の長官の落ち着いた表情と、報道される惨状の映像の間で、胸の奥がひりつくようだった。
ある者は速報を即座に送信し、別の者はカメラのズームを調整しながら、心の中で事件の全貌を理解しようと必死に整理する。部屋の片隅ではメモ用紙がめくられる音がかすかに響き、静かな緊迫の時間が延々と流れていた。遠くにそびえるFBIの本部ビルが、まるでこの会見室の緊張を静かに見守っているかのようだった。
モニターに映る被害現場の映像が揺れ、煙と瓦礫の合間に時折人影が見え隠れするたび、記者たちの視線が瞬時に吸い寄せられた。
誰もが次の言葉を待ちながらペンを走らせ、カメラのシャッターを切る。息を潜めるような静寂と、キーボードを打つ微かな打鍵音が混ざり合い、室内の緊迫感をさらに際立たせる。
キャメロンの視線は一人ひとりの記者を確かめるように巡り、言葉にならない圧力を静かに伝えた。その沈黙が、場内の緊張を増幅させ、空気はまるで切れそうな糸のように張り詰めていた。
外の街路を行き交う車の光やサイレンの音が、遠くで微かに響く。室内の静寂と街の喧騒が対照的に重なり、事件の重大さを肌で感じさせる時間が、ゆっくりと流れていった。
キャメロンは、記者らへの質問へ、手短に、簡潔に答え終えるといった。
「いま、お答えできるのは以上です」
キャメロンのそっけない言葉の流れとは別のざわめきが沸き起こった。
そのざわめきの中心には、モニターに映し出された別の映像があった。ニューヨーク、マディソン・スクエア・ガーデン前――あの惨劇が始まった瞬間の時刻を示すテロップが、画面の隅に赤く点滅していた。
ロサンゼルスの会見場にいる記者たちは、その数字を追いながら、陸を隔てたもうひとつの都市の脈動を肌で感じていた。時差を越えてつながる映像は、ただの中継を超え、国全体をひとつの緊張の網で縛り上げているかのようだった。
やがて会場のスクリーンに切り替わったのは、ニューヨークの記者会見場。暗いスーツを纏ったジャックが壇上に姿を現し、フラッシュの閃光を真正面から受け止めていた。
ジャック・ヴァンス。マーカスの元FBIの同僚だ。非常に稀なケースだったが、ジャックは司法省のFBIから国土安全保障省管轄のシークレットサービスへ移った。ジャックが当時、元FBI暴力犯罪課主任だった頃、ワシントンD.C.郊外・オークブリッジにて、人質立てこもり事件が発生した。本部からの命令で突入が早まり、現場では容疑者と誤認された１９歳の黒人青年が射殺された。実行犯は別におり、ジャックのチームは突入に反対していた。しかし、今まさにディスプレイ内で会見している昇進したキャメロンの命令で突入したのだ。FBIワシントン支局会議室にて、キャメロンが「報告書を書き換えろ」と部下へ命じ、「突入はジャックの判断だった」と報告するといった。ジャックは黙って立ち上がり、書類の束を叩きつけ、キャメロンの頬を殴った。公式には、懲戒処分前のジャックの自主退職という形で処理されたが、実質的には組織から追放されていた。
ジャックの声は、わずかな遅延を伴いながらも、ロサンゼルスの空気に重ね合わされた。遠く離れた二つの都市が、同じ沈黙の重みを共有する瞬間だった。
記者たちは手元のペンを止め、画面を凝視した。そこに映る言葉や仕草の一つひとつが、事件の輪郭をさらに濃くしていく。ネットを介して結ばれた映像の連鎖は、ただの記録ではなく、今まさに進行する歴史の断面を露わにしていた。会場に漂う沈黙は、ひとつの区切りを待ちながら、しかし終わりを告げることなく続いていた。誰もが画面に映るジャックの姿に釘付けとなり、呼吸さえ浅くなるのを自覚していた。
続いていた緊張が次の瞬間、別の形を取り始めた。
後方の記者席から、低いざわめきがふたたび広がり、場内の均衡をかすかに揺らした。何人かの記者が同時に携帯端末を取り出し、視線を走らせる。その小さな光が闇の中の焔のように散り、互いに反応し合った。
届いたのはニュース速報ではない。匿名の送信者から直接送りつけられた、映像へのリンクだった。
ロサンゼルスの冷たい照明の下に、ニューヨークの記者会見の緊張と、新たに流れ込んだ未知の映像とが複雑に重なり合う。ジャックの声がまだ空気に残っていたが、記者たちの意識はすでに別の方向へ引き寄せられていた。
それはただの情報ではなく、何かが次に起ころうとしている予兆そのものだった。
そして、その異変に最初に気づいたのが、会場の通路に立つマーカス・デインだった。
マーカス・デインは、上司のキャメロンの様子を会場の通路から眺めていたが、会場中央部に座っていた記者らの数人がざわめいたので確認にいった。
どうやら、記者の複数に犯人らのライブ動画のリンクが送られてきたようだ。ガーデンでジャックらに送信されたのと同じ手口だ。
マーカスは、すぐにURLを確認し、トム・コールドウェルへ転送した。以前、技術班にいた際の信頼できる部下だ。
映像は、ザカリアが自死した『大統領執務室』と同じようだった。
「みなさんはじめまして。私はアミール・ナッセル。先日、亡くなった私の教授、ザカリア・ハッダードの生徒だ」
アミールは、机の前面に腰を預け、穏やかな口調で、切り出した。アナらに見せた表情とは別の、内に潜んでいた一面をさらしているようだった。
「教授が話したように、私たちはガザ地区で平穏に暮らしていた。私たちはハマスによって武器と暴力で支配されていた。彼らはイスラエルに対し、残酷な殺戮を犯した。しかし、それを私たちが止められただろうか。みなさんが、アメリカ大統領の指揮権を止めることができないように、私たちにはそれができなかった。みなさんは、抗議のデモを行えるが私たちは息を潜め、見えない密告と暴力に怯えながら生きるほかなかったのだ。にも関わらず、ひたすらみなさんの大統領はイスラエルに加担し続け、爆撃を繰り返した。まったくの無抵抗なわたしたちになんどもなんども建物の残骸すら残らないほどに爆撃を繰り返し、侵攻してきた。ハマスらは私たちを人間の盾にした。病院の地下に巣を作り、忍び込み、私たちは地上でターゲットにならざるおえなかった」
アミールの声は透きとおって、穏やかだった。若く、きちんと整髪された髪型だけでなく神秘的な青い瞳の静けさも見ているものを引き込んだ。彼のまだ若い容貌と口調から、とても暴力的な行動に出るとは思えなかった。彼は、テーブルに置かれていた水の入ったコップを手にし、一口飲むと続けた。
「亡くなったザカリア教授が話したように、私たちに与えられたのは、闇だけだ。闇に追い込まれた動物はどうする？」
アミールは、視線を床へ落とし、伏目がちに言葉を足した。重い語尾が床に沈んでいった。
「私たちは全てを失った。住んでいた家も、愛する恋人も、そして家族も。すべてだ。奪われたままで、死んでいくのは不公平だと思えないか？ 奪った人間を悟すことこそが人間の道だろう。奪われた気持ちを永遠に理解しないのは、どうだろう？ 昨日と変わらずコーラを飲めるのはどうだろう？ そう思わないか？ アメリカ」
アミールは、続けた。
「ジャック、週末は忙しくなるぞ」
アミールは、優しくカメラに微笑んだ。屈託のない笑顔が、見ているものを震わせた。
「この数年、民主党の寛容さは消え、共和党による移民の追い込みがひどいと思わないか？ そこで全米に散らばった私たちは知恵を出し合った。そして、結論を出した。私たちを、害獣のように扱うICEを再教育しようとね」
大統領が共和党に変わってから、ここ数年、ICEの取り締まりが厳しくなっていた。ICEは、ニューヨーク州、カリフォルニア州を筆頭に、ほぼ全ての州に関連施設が点在している。全体の職員数は概ね20,000人以上だ。このうち、EROと呼ばれる強制送還部門・収容部門に約7,800人、HSIという捜査部門・国土安全捜査部門に約6,500人、さらにオープラと呼ばれる法務部門に約6,000人の職員が雇用されている。
「私たちは彼らの情報の一部を入手した。正直に言おう。本当に一部分だけだ。ICEは全米に散らばっていて、職員の全体の把握が困難だった。私たちは、２箇所に絞ったよ、ジャック。それが、ロスとニューヨークだ。教えてあげよう。優しいだろう？ 感謝したほうがいい」
アミールは続けた。
「教えてはあげるが、私たちの目的は再教育だ。その時を待て。ジャック。それでは」
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
舞台はニューヨークです。
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54769008619/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54758538180/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54743658539/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54737038151/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54720346098/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54713957969/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54703714420/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54696914108/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54686544606/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54653035442/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54639396885/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
メモ
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「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
2
2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3
Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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Ironically, the Women's March was led by our mayor, Lori Lightfoot who still wouldn't commit to a library, an art teacher, and a music teacher in every school after 11 days of striking....in a profession primarily dominated by women....just a little bit of cognitive dissonance there.
**All photos are copyrighted**
Unchangeable Spheres.
ٹرانومیٹڈ میٹر ڈسکارڈنٹ افیکٹز ڈوڈٹک ایٹم ایجینٹیو مزاحیہ عمل دلچسپ موضوعات سماجی کنونشنوں کو باقاعدہ لائنوں میں تبدیل کرنا,
εγωκεντρική σκηνή διαφορετικά εξαμερή θεματικά έργα ελκυστική ζωή έξυπνες φιλοδοξίες περίφημη ποίηση παθιασμένες συγκρούσεις επεκτάσεις επιλογών στοιχεία συγκέντρωσης,
genres de dissonance public déloyal désintégrations observées années froissées désastres présomptions aléatoires prolongées régimes globaux,
интензивни слоеве безсмъртен пролог сближаване история на плетене композиционни очаквания проучи начини, объркващи гоблени причудливи интереси,
antichi soliloqui metamorfosi trame riscrivere la storia lettori devastanti declamazioni dialettiche spiegazioni dirette suggerimenti eclatanti,
疎外された欲望異常な力認識できない顔美的嗜好恐怖文脈人工的な詩明白なスピーチ表示される口の構成を構築する慎重な計画表示された.
Steve.D.Hammond.
Oblique et coupant l’ombre un torrent éclatant
Ruisselait en flots d’or sur la dalle polie
Où les atomes d’ambre au feu se miroitant
Mêlaient leur sarabande à la gymnopédie
"Les Antiques":
J.P. Contamine de Latour.
Il termine francese “Gymnopédie” (in italiano “Gimnopedie” o “Ginnopedie”) deriva dal greco “Gumnopaidía” e letteralmente significa: “la festa dei fanciulli nudi“.
Le “Gymnopédies” erano festività religiose tenute a Sparta nel periodo luglio-agosto in onore di Léto e dei suoi fanciulli, del dio Apollo e di sua sorella Artemide.
Le “Gymnopédies” consistono essenzialmente in danze ed esercizi aerobici eseguiti dai giovani Spartani intorno alle statue rappresentanti gli dei citati e piazzati in un punto dell’Agora chiamato “Khoros”. Qui dei cori con voci di adolescenti, efèbi e giovani un po’ più adulti si esibivano; avevano i corpi del tutto nudi e con aggraziate danze eseguivano, imitandoli, gli esercizi fatti in palestra. E lo facevano davanti ad altri Lacedemoni con la presenza di stranieri e di Iloti. Solo i celibi con oltre trenta anni di età erano esclusi dall’uditorio.
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Slanting and shadow-cutting a flickering eddy
Trickled in gusts of gold to the shiny flagstone
Where the ambre atoms in the fire mirroring themselves
Mingled their sarabande to the gymnopaedia
From "Les Antiques":
J.P. Contamine de Latour.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGH8Zir2Q_Q
These three short, atmospheric pieces are regarded to be the precursors to modern ambiant music. The first is the most famous, but they all share a similar sturcture. The melodies of the pieces use deliberate, but mild, dissonances against the harmony, producing a piquant, melancholy effect that matches the performance instructions, which are to play each piece "slowly", "dolorously" or "gravely".
"Świat ma tylko dwa piętra"
(Eng. The World Is Just Two Stories Tall)
/second interpretation/
inspired by the poem "Dissonance" of H. Poświatowska
English translation by Marek Lugowski
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świat jest taki mały
świat ma tylko dwa piętra
na wyższym jesteś tylko ty
oddychasz ciężko
obok stoi wieczność
ciemna
mozolnie po schodach
idę w długiej koszuli
ocieram usta
ciepłą wilgotną ręką
zakrywam usta
za mną
idzie wieczność
obydwie
stajemy pod twoimi drzwiami
z czołem opartym
bezgłose
jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk
łapczywie chwytamy oddech
liczymy raz... dwa... trzy...
świat ma tylko dwa piętra
tyko dwa
nieduże
z krążącymi gwiazdami świat
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
dlaczego tak trudno umrzeć?
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the world is so small
the world is just two stories tall
you are on the upper one
you breathe heavily
nearby stands eternity
dark
I take the steps laboriously
walking in a long shirt
I wipe off my mouth
with a warm damp hand
I cover my mouth
behind me
walks eternity
we both
pause at your door
with foreheads leaning
voiceless
like a scream tent-pitched on a steel string
we greedily catch our breath
counting one... two... three...
the world is just two stories tall
just two
pretty tiny
a world with stars circling
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --
why is dying so hard?
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My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my written permission.
My photographs do not belong to the public domain.
© All rights reserved
...Bass Point
"Art always says "And yet!" to life. The creation of forms is the most profound confirmation of the existence of a dissonance." – Lukács
Holga 120PC, Ektar 100