View allAll Photos Tagged Dissonance
from the series "1600". one of my favorite photos. a version of this was used in an advertisement for an upscale boutique in dallas. 2006.
model: david sebrind
camera: canon 1Ds
With at least three examples, these niche resemble vertical monolithic sarcophagi. Appearing like sentry points with protection against sun and rain they are quite a rare feature and I have only witness them at the Moros site of Corro (linked below). If the monolithic sarcophagi is afforded an origin during the late ages of prehistory, as I have argued via numerus Flickr posts, then the function may have changed as a. 'time deflects', b. 'power-scapes from chronology appropriate' and c. as 'stigma switches chips'. Currently a typical museum display has assigned monolithic sarcophagi to Visigothic origin.
An example of 'time deflecting' may have been of a cult for physically sleeping within, to become part of a sacred element to a landscape: inside a mold of man's body-form with or without cover. This would be a continuation of the logic of the pediform petroglyphs, and originate from the early ages of metal when polishing tools into being switched to the cult and importance of repeated molds of tools from fire and ore. Time would deflect this cult when respected people died in their mold. Suddenly the imprint on a landscape from a living person becomes an imprint from a dead person, and naturally the body may have been covered within its mold/sarcophagi and remain with possessions and gifts at a point where life and death coexist on rocks of symbolic meaning - in the very same way that people lived life over the sepulchre of their dead from early Neolithic homes through to Iron age cities.
For an example of the powerscapes of chronology appropriating this culture, here it would be when new cults of a unified God eased over the local mosaic of common and local myths, with the sarcophagi cleaned of both living people and past skeletons and their artefacts - thus appropriated into the new fold, for example some sarcophagi Christianised with adjusted cuts and lids, or simply cleaned and filled with the bodies and artefacts of a new age of power and values.
An example of c. 'stigma switching chips' might be seen with the targeting of the people who choose to sleep within their sacred landscape, either as pilgrims to the site, or as permanent guardians of the site's spirit and value system. Over time this cult would be squeezed into quiet landscape corners, and a point in time would arrive when past travellers seeing a waking individual in a monolithic site would see an image of the 'waking dead', with the innocence of the landscape cult that had originated from the early ages of metal being lost on the then modern 'trader', 'tax collector' or 'pastoralist'. Adding stigma to this dissonance may be one of the resonances to today's 'Dracula' myths.
Relating this theoretical framework to the 'vertical sarcophagi' pictured above from the 'Piedra de Los Moros' might then proceed as follows: at this specific site, the sarcophagi that were slept in had overgrown into full 'rooms' with the initial human mould lost in favour of lifestyle function. I will further explain this in a future post. This morphological expansion of sarcophagi might be expected to push a date past the early excitement of moulds, so Chalcolithic and early bronze age, and towards the late bronze age and early Iron age. In this specific site, the traditional anthropomorphic form would have been largely maintained just for the vertical examples. For this to happen, we might think that there had been no benefit in improving the dimensions of the mould for the vertical example. If the carved spaces are 'by and large' about sleeping in sacred rock, then the vertical sarcophagi will have been functional at night. When standing, man does not sleep well. Night watchmen do not need to sleep. This was not a region with Veracos, but issues of wolves, bandits and birds of prey will have existed for visiting pastoralists and their herds. The site is close to the extensive scrub of the sierra de Guara. Having night watchmen who stayed in an upright monolithic 'mould' would here be quite logical, and help explain why the above examples include two on the Guara side, close to an unfortified low point, and one on the Ebro side, again approaching the site's low access point. In this conception the space in front of the two alcoves might have seen an enclosure for passing herds with the concept of 'vertical sarcophagi' appearing in the same chapter as Veracos. Elsewhere night-watchmen may have used less permanent and symbolic shelters, so the rarity of these elements may need to be respected.
I would suggest reading my explanation of Veracos associated with the drawing linked below.
AJM 18.12.22
As the last pic I posted of Danielle seemed to resonate, I dug one more up from my archives. This was an attempt to create a romantic, Renaissance kind of of composition, playing of Danielle's classic looks, and diaphonous flowing fabrics, but with a hint of dissonance supplied by the tattoo that I decided to leave in the shot.
Serenity is to keep oneself so to speak above the clouds, in the calm and coolness of emptiness and far from all the dissonances of this lower world; it is never to allow the soul to immerse itself in impasses of disturbances, bitterness, or secret revolt, for it is necessary to beware of implicitly accusing Being when accusing some phenomenon.
Serenity is resignation, at once intellectual and moral, to the nature of things: it is patience in relation to All-Possibility insofar as the latter requires, by its very limitlessness, the existence of negative possibilities, those that deny Being and the qualities manifesting It.
Serenity consists in resigning oneself to that destiny, at once unique and permanent, which is the present moment: to this itinerant “now” that no one can avoid and that in its substance pertains to the Eternal.
The man who is conscious of the nature of pure Being willingly remains in the moment that Heaven has assigned him; he is not feverishly straining towards the future nor lovingly or sadly bent over the past. The pure present is the moment of the Absolute: it is now — neither yesterday nor tomorrow — that we stand before God.
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excerpts from Roots of the Human Condition by Frithjof Schuon
"Bezgłose jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk"
(Eng. Voiceless Like a Scream Tent-Pitched On a Steel String)
self-portrait
(2016)
Lavon Lake, Texas
---
inspired by the poem "Dissonance" of H. Poświatowska
English translation by Marek Lugowski
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission.
© 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
(Updated on May 14, 2024)
This series complements my recently published guidebook, Milwaukee in Stone and Clay: A Guide to the Cream City's Architectural Geology. Henceforth I'll just call it MSC.
The MSC section and page references for the building featured here: 8.21; pp. 211-212.
In the Northpoint neighborhood.
One of my favorite dissonances in American residential architecture is what I call the Tudorranean style. In Milwaukee, the Wiswell House is its exemplar.
Wonderfully gloomy Lake Superior Brownstone and half-timbered Tudor gables have been set against jarringly cheerful Mediterranean terra-cotta roof tiles. It may seem the design equivalent of adding tabasco sauce to chocolate mousse, but it works. And architects Ferry & Clas knew it.
Geologically speaking, the maroon ashlar is Chequamegon Sandstone quarried on the Lake Superior littoral at the Prentice Quarry in North Washburn, Wisconsin. It belongs to the great sequence of clastic sedimentary strata that overlie the lava flows of the Midcontinent Rift.
For decades, the Chequamegon's age was "poorly constrained," which means it was difficult to pin down. Because it lacks index fossils and other traditionally sought-after clues, estimates of its antiquity ranged from the latest Mesoproterozoic to the Cambrian—a span of over half a billion years.
Fortunately, one newer technique, detrital-zircon analysis, has now established the Chequamegon's maximum depositional age as 1.039 Ga. This means that it is either very late Mesoproterozoic or early Neoproterozoic.
The roof tiles are unsourced, but probably were manufactured by either Ludowici or Celadon. At the time the Wiswell House was constructed, these were the two leading Midwestern producers.
This site and many others in Milwaukee County are discussed at greater length in Milwaukee in Stone and Clay (NIU Imprint of Cornell University Press).
The other photos and discussions in this series can be found in my "Milwaukee in Stone and Clay" Companion album. Also, while you're at it, check out my Architectural Geology of Milwaukee album, too. It contains quite a few photos and descriptions of Cream City sites highlighted in other series of mine.
crystal air hands as edge of birdy animal wings embodying the night into the flesh
sleeping glottis devoid eyes
amethyst mirror at peace serene wrists
blind to the blankness of sound surface white noise sounds white
switched on the idle channel beam at whisper eve
opening a book revealing the soul the mask of clarity
wind rose kiss rose world rose women at bridge
cognitive dissonance of the water under
cloud wedge
vowel mouths
acres of words volumetric bulk of comet pregnancy
little prince saw dream flesh burning
wet glass evaporates the cold air from your surface beneath
odd voice of existence deprived echo of crumpled surrealism
Smoking and littering. Subconscious justification/rationalization of known undesirable behavior(s). Cognitive theory. Vintage matte processing.
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/
---
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?
---
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
Anima Series 6
Lismore NSW Australia 2024
For many people art is decoration.
It’s the print that complements their decor or the mass-produced objet d'art that can always be replaced if it breaks.
Yet the power of art extends from everyday examples like these to life-changing encounters that alter our perception or even the way we think.
How many times have we listened to a song that moved us to tears, or read a book, watched a movie, viewed a painting that we remember for life?
Some examples of art have the capacity to enrich our experience and expand our understanding, yet not necessarily in ways that are comfortable.
Some art is powerful enough to shock.
It can challenge our senses in ways that disturb or confuse.
It can expose us to mental dissonance or a failure to even recognise what we’re seeing.
On occasions it can upset or offend, pushing past our ability to take something in.
Not all art is pleasurable, and we may complain, criticise, lobby for censorship ………. but it will be something we remember regardless.
Sometimes it takes a bit of shock, a bit of hardship to reach a higher understanding.
The Anomaly is all about acceptance
What I seek is not resolution but acceptance. The ceaseless struggle against the inner turmoil, the yearning for a pristine calm that always seems just out of reach—it’s an exhausting pursuit. Instead, I find myself drawn to the radical act of breathing into the chaos, of allowing the dissonance to exist without immediate judgment or forceful dismissal. To acknowledge my fears, not as obstacles to be overcome, but as intrinsic threads woven into the fabric of my journey. Each tremor of anxiety, each whisper of doubt, becomes a part of the landscape I traverse.
“I won’t let it define me,” I murmur, the words a gentle but firm mantra rising amidst the disarray of thoughts and emotions. It’s a vow not to erase the shadow, but to ensure it doesn’t eclipse the light. This internal declaration isn't about denial, but about reclaiming agency in the face of what feels overwhelming.
And as I stare into the swirling lights, those amorphous, unsettling patterns that once symbolised only confusion and threat, the anomaly becomes a mirror. It’s a reflection not of external disarray, but of my own complexities, my own internal maelstroms and quiet eddies. In its shifting depths, I begin to discern the intricate dance of my own psyche, the paradoxes and contradictions that make me whole. It is in this profound recognition that the true journey unfolds—a journey that lies not in escaping the grip of these inner forces, but in understanding the depths of my existence, in embracing all that I am, fear and all.
Podcast:
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www.facebook.com/watch/100063480315046/1020837046583872/
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"Bezgłose jak rozpięty na strunie krzyk"
(Eng. Voiceless Like a Scream Tent-Pitched On a Steel String)
self-portrait
(2016)
Lavon Lake, Texas
│end of the series│
---
inspired by the poem "Dissonance" of H. Poświatowska
English translation by Marek Lugowski
---
My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission.
© 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.
Commander nico,Killed in action was skull soldier sergeant.
ハートマン軍曹が戦死しましたが、このまま追撃を続行します！。
もうすぐ隊長さんの待つ本陣ですが、準備はできているのかなw
+ Another Story of Secondlife.
- The Anti Heroic Record of Dissonance.
+ [.Skull Soldir Squad.] VS [.SUP_Ranger.]
- The Dissonance Reich : Skull Soldir Squad.
- SUP_Ranger : M.Yellow.
Not yet over the hill ! :p
Title: Seashell.
(iPhone 13 Pro shot)
Motosuka Beach. Kujukuri Beach. Sanmu City. Chiba Prefecture. Japan. 2024. … 1 / 1
(Photo of the day. 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.
貝殻。
( iPhone 13 pro shot )
本須賀海岸。九十九里浜。山武市。千葉県。日本。2024. … 1 / 1
(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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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
1
「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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Entre os séculos e o río, entre montañas e canastros, entre árbores e visitantes.
A túa presencia é precisa entre quen te observa dende o presente.
What fascinates me here is the dissonance. This is a room designed to evoke the comforts of home or a high-end hotel. But the details betray the fallacy. Look at that trashcan, the wire under the lamp. There's no proud homemaker here, no housekeeper trained to turn on the musak and put a chocolate on the pillow. Whoever cleans here also takes out the bedpans. It's an institution, where maintaining a room inhabited by anxiety, hope, and the inexorable realities of sickness and death is just in a day's work. And paradoxically, that very indifference instills a certain serenity.
This photo was inspired by Savannah and all her lovely work
The quote is from a beautiful book I'm currently reading called Intentional Dissonance.
This is not a particularly personal piece, but I think it's pretty.
I think it was also quite influenced by the beautiful work of Winter Hearts
Graves on the main square of the Celtiberic settlement at L'Esquerda. The site includes foundations from the bronze age and was used until early medieval dates.
Today, as Cathedral flaners, we walk over multiple graves - tombstones that fade quietly under our footsteps. There is nothing sinister, pretentious, tortured or gaudy about our path, despite the fact that a similar action over graves outside the same building would break a taboo. Cultural distinctions can be extremely subtle without us seeing dissonance or incoherence and the human mind can thread with the finest weaves.
The monolithic floor to a main square will have been happily crossed by all peoples and all generations. Nothing gaudy, sinister or morbid - and no taboo broken. As far as I understand, the Christian religion does not obviously ask that graves follow cracks onto town squares. One might offer a hypothesis that the natural fissure of the square may have helped explain details of Celtiberic mythology, and being associated with the crack after death may have been a consequence of being a spiritual leader. Another hypothesis may be that a crack can inspire fear of 'breaking' and one can also imagine that the defenders of the landscape and society - the varied Celtic Gladiators - might have been buried as a symbol of their role of holding society together (from the époques before gladiators were forced to join in a 200 year war that ended on a Roman stage cynically tuned for their self destruction).
The vastly important artist Andy Goldsworthy was been inspired by monolithic graves to produce the work 'Sleeping stones'. The work was produced in Cuenca Spain, so not so far from some of the most important Mesolithic Rupestra in Europe.
AJ
Halloween Advent 2011 - Figure Calendar
"This is a beauty of dissonance
This resonance of stony strand
This smoky cry curled over a black pine
Like a broken and wind-battered branch
When the wind bends the tops of the pines
And curdles the sky from the north.
This is the beauty of strength
Broken by strength and still strong."
— A.J.M. Smith
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* Arealight: Helmet (modified)
* Amazing Armory: Armor (modified)
* BrickArms: Guns
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?
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My artwork may not be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission.
© All rights reserved
"All of nature begins to whisper its secrets to us through its sounds. Sounds that were previously incomprehensible to our soul now become the meaningful language of nature.” ~ Rudolf Steiner, Austrian Philospher, founder of the idea of spiritual science
'..I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.'
Excerpt from the 'Song of the Flower' written in 1914 by Khalil Gibran (1883-1931)
"I left my innocence at the tower;
all I can do now is with words empower." -Tomitheos
Taken on September 11, 2011
9/11 Tribute
Copyright © 2011 - 2018 Tomitheos Poetry / Self-Portrait Photography - All Rights Reserved
O’Brien “You are a slow learner, Winston."
Winston “How can I help it? How can I help but see what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four."
O’Brien “Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once.”
― George Orwell, 1984
[i know the pieces fit cuz i watched them fall away
mildewed and smoldering. fundamental differing.
pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
the light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
we cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
i know the pieces fit cuz i watched them tumble down
no fault, none to blame it doesn't mean i don't desire to
point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
to bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
the poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
and the circling is worth it.
finding beauty in the dissonance.
there was a time that the pieces fit, but i watched them fall away.
mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
i've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
sense of compassion
between supposed lovers/brothers]
[tool, schism 2001]
This poster is a visual artifact from another era – an intentional composition of color, form, and cultural shorthand. Analysis courtesy of Bing Copilot:
Design Overview
•Split Composition: The poster is bisected vertically, creating a stark diptych. This duality invites immediate comparison, using symmetry to heighten contrast and tension.
•Color Palette:
Left Side: Saturated primaries—sky blue, grass green, and crisp white—evoke a mid-century optimism. The palette is reminiscent of vintage cereal boxes or suburban advertisements.
Right Side: Muted earth tones and heavy shadows dominate. Ochres, browns, and charcoal grays suggest decay and weight, with a palette that feels drained of vitality.
•Typography: Bold, sans-serif lettering with slight distressing gives the text a retro propaganda feel. The layout is clean and centralized, with high contrast against the background for instant legibility.
Iconic Family Unit
•The figures on the left are stylized in a way that recalls 1950s comic strips or Norman Rockwell illustrations—idealized, cheerful, and frozen in a moment of play. The family’s posture echoes Cold War-era optimism.
•Their postures are dynamic yet familiar: arm waving, children kneeling, faces smiling. It’s a tableau of connection and movement.
•The white house with a pitched roof and picket fence anchors the scene in a culturally recognizable symbol of domestic stability.
️ Stylistic Influences
•Comic Book Aesthetic: Heavy outlines, simplified forms, and exaggerated expressions lend the poster a graphic novel sensibility. It’s not realism—it’s iconography.
•Poster Art Tradition: The layout borrows from wartime and public service posters—clear focal points, dramatic contrast, and a call-to-action structure.
•Symbolic Imagery: The skull, smokestacks, and barren tree on the right are rendered with theatrical flair, almost like stage props. They’re not subtle, but they’re archetypal. That skull is drawn like a comic villain.
Visual Strategy
•The poster doesn’t whisper—it performs. It uses visual shorthand to evoke emotional states without needing nuance.
•By avoiding gradients or photographic realism, it leans into allegory. Each element is a symbol, not a scene.
•The juxtaposition is not just thematic—it’s spatial. The viewer’s eye is pulled from one side to the other, creating a rhythm of recognition and dissonance.
Title.
Central Park in the morning.
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Central Park, Manhattan, New York, USA. 2017. ... 5 / 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.
午前中のセントラルパーク。
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 5 / 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
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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。)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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」
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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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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
1
「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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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?
---
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