View allAll Photos Tagged Dissonance
They said the bridge was merely a crossing; a spine of steel drawn over darkness,
a structure meant only to divide one district from another,
nothing more than an obedient segment
of the city’s nightly skeleton.
But the moon disagreed.
It cast its pale decree downward,
and something answered; not from the sky,
not from the earth,
but from that thin, neglected interval
between intention and consequence.
At first it was only a shimmer,
a faint dissonance in the geometry of the air,
a fracture too delicate to be named.
Then the ring appeared:
a perfect circle of exhaled night,
a halo of vapor shaped by an intelligence
that had no interest in being understood.
Inside it, shards gathered; not falling, not rising,
but assembling themselves
as if remembering a body
they once inhabited before memory itself
was outlawed.
Each fragment flickered
with a light that refused origin,
as though illumination were an act of treason
performed against the surrounding void.
They did not orbit.
They negotiated.
They sought their forbidden symmetry
with the precision of a sentence
correcting its own grammar
after centuries of silence.
The bridge groaned beneath the apparition.
Its steel trusses; those obedient ribs; vibrated in a frequency
too honest for human architecture.
Every beam, every rivet,
confessed its weakness
before the crystalline intrusion.
Pedestrians approaching from either side
felt a pressure descend upon their breath,
a tightening of the skull,
as if consciousness were resisting
a reconfiguration it could not prevent.
Their footsteps slowed,
not from fear,
but from recognition.
For within the circle,
a truth was being rehearsed;
a truth cities spend lifetimes
trying to bury under schedules and progress:
that matter remembers
the rebellions we force it to forget.
The shards aligned.
They forged a heart
no anatomy would claim,
a core of jagged refusal,
a pulse carved from the refusal
to accept a single, sanctioned shape.
And when the moon struck it full,
the structure ignited; not with flame, but with consequence.
Shadows bent.
Perspective fractured.
The bridge became a corridor
between two incompatible versions of reality.
You could feel it; the shift, the indictment, the unmaking.
You could hear the verdict whispered
through every trembling plank:
That nothing stands still.
That nothing remains whole.
That every crossing is a wound.
That here, at last, the night is honest.
And if you dared step forward,
toward that crystalline rebellion,
the world behind you
softened like wet ash; ready to forget you
the very moment you chose to enter
the geometry that dissolves everything
it does not understand.
Title.
EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Manhattan. New York. USA. 2017. … 3 / 7
(Photo of the day. Unreleased.)
Images:
Linda Sikhakhane … Closer to the Heart
youtu.be/BshCm2zi0KQ?si=DIk0HgPilkJLQ8xo
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
Volume 15 😄
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)
The summer light of Manhattan afternoons flared against the glass facades of the high-rises, and each time the heat of the asphalt wavered through the alleys, the massive building of the FBI’s New York Field Office seemed to draw in the clamor of the city, holding a grave and immovable stillness, while within its walls a taut tension and vigilance seeped forth. Beyond the thick iron doors set into its corner, the countless eyes of surveillance cameras interlaced with the motions of guards, proclaiming an order unshaken by the heat waves or the murmur of the crowd outside.
Special Agent Veronica Reeves, carrying the weight of long years of experience yet with a gaze still honed to an unerring edge, sat at the long desk by the window, quietly deciphering the thick bundle of reports spread before her—accounts of what had unfolded thus far. The shafts of heat-laden sunlight pressed through the glass, warping the air, and against that trembling her thoughts held fast, focusing upon the minutiae, drawing out, in three dimensions, the possibilities of the case and the breadth of its consequences.
The figures and map symbols inscribed upon the documents she reassembled in her mind, as though enfolding the arteries of the overheated city itself—the courses of traffic, the currents of people, the compression of the skyline—ordering the incident’s first movements with a hand imbued with a quiet, frigid certainty. The sterile white light of the ceiling LEDs cast swaying shadows upon the papers, and even those faint tremors at the edges of her sight seemed to enter her calculus, like unknown variables absorbed into the mesh of her analysis.
Her fingertip traced a single point upon the map, and in that gesture she drew together the city’s flows, the density of its crowds, the thicket of its structures, conjuring within her mind a three-dimensional rendering of the ground. The clash of red and blue signals at intersections, the exhaust drifting at corners, the tempo of footsteps, the shadows of cars idling at the curb—all converged upon the figures and symbols of the page, lifting before her the living geometry of New York.
Fragments of reports crackled from radios and telephones, slipping into her net of thought and fixed into the coordinates of time and place. At what moment, in what place, had the current of the crowd shifted? Who might have slipped within which building? The jam of traffic, the swell of onlookers, the frameworks of the structures—these she aligned, reducing error to its smallest margin, until the hidden contours of the scene emerged.
Her eyes remained calm, but the faint tightening of the muscles around them betrayed the sense of danger running beneath. With her finger pressing upon a point on the map, she drew upon the memory of old cases, of the city’s blueprints, calculating risk along each imagined path. The city’s shape, the crowd’s density, the placing of exits—all she set upon a grid of logic, hypothesizing every possible turn the future might take.
Her gaze halted upon a photograph in the file, parsing the expressions of the crowd, the disposition of guards, the position of obstacles. Cold though her eyes remained, they missed no dissonance, no trace of the unnatural, intent upon catching every variable within the net of reason, undistracted by the fever of the summer city.
In the office, where the cool of the air conditioning crossed with the heat outside, her thoughts gathered speed—silent, assured, relentless. What would unfold next? Which routes were safe, which led into peril? Each decision, measured in the span of a heartbeat, bore upon the safety of the crowd, upon the life of the candidate. Her logic did not waver, its threads weaving together in her hand like cords unraveling the complexity of the city.
Before her stood not only the files, but also the glow of monitors, the static of radios. Each was but a source of fragments, meaningless until passed through the filter of her thought. To bind data to the streets, images to reality, was the task at hand, advancing cold and quiet even as the heat of summer pressed against the glass.
The sweltering air outside rattled the windows; the distant sirens and the rumble of the city did not shatter her focus, but rather deepened her mental simulation, lending depth to the field she constructed within. Figures on the page fused with the living breath of the streets, reason drawing them together into clarity, and she readied herself to strike upon the next move.
Each sweep of her fingertip across the map made the city’s avenues rise in relief within her mind: the density of buildings, the movement of passersby, the gaze of cameras, the stations of guards. All chained together, cold and inexorable, suggesting the next action. Veronica drew a long breath, and with her exhale, wove the scattered variables into a single fabric, fixing her gaze upon the heart of the incident. In that moment, the distant sirens, the horns, the shuffling of feet at a crosswalk—all dissolved into her reasoning, each sound settling into place like a piece of a puzzle within the flow of logic. The city shimmered in heat, light and shadow in feverish scatter, but her mind cut through the glare, quietly tracing the full outline of the unfolding event.
At last, Veronica lifted the receiver of the internal line, feeling the cold resin beneath her fingers, and summoned Deputy Special Agent Elliot.
“Put me through to Jack Vance, Secret Service.”
“Understood.”
The black Ford SUV cut through the summer heat, racing down the streets. At the wheel, Jack’s profile was set with strain, while in the backseat Ana leaned forward, arms stretched protectively over the children, shouting in desperation.
“Keep your eyes ahead, Jack!”
The children, jolted by the car’s violent tremors, cried out with voices that wavered between cheers and screams, unable to discern the line between fear and thrill. Beside them, Mika bit her lip, struck dumb, staring in mute shock.
Behind them, the pursuing car roared, bullets sparking off the asphalt and leaving the acrid tang of gunpowder in the air. Jack twisted the wheel, his Ford scraping sparks along a wall of concrete, gunfire rattling through the city’s very skin. Ignoring lights and crowds alike, he veered the SUV up onto the sidewalk, plunging forward as screams scattered into the air, driving on as if to outpace the terror that pursued them.
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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.
EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 3 / 7
(今日の写真。それは未発表です。）
Images:
Linda Sikhakhane … Closer to the Heart
youtu.be/BshCm2zi0KQ?si=DIk0HgPilkJLQ8xo
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
第15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）
マンハッタンの夏の午後の光が高層ビル群のガラスにぎらつき、アスファルトの熱気が路地を揺らすたびに、FBIニューヨーク支局の巨大な建物は都市の喧騒を吸い込み、どっしりと静けさを保ちながらも、その内部に張り詰めた警戒と緊張をにじませていた。その角に設えられた厚い鉄の扉の向こうでは、監視カメラの無数の視線と警備員の動きが絡み合い、外界の熱波や人々のざわめきにも揺るがぬ秩序を守っていることを告げていた。
ヴェロニカ・リーヴス特別捜査官は、豊富な経験を背負いながらもなお研ぎ澄まされた眼差しで、窓際の長机に広げられた、これまでに起こった報告がまとめられた資料の束を静かに読み解いていた。差し込んだ外光の熱の束が窓ガラスを透かし、空気を歪ませ、彼女の思考はそれに抗うように細部まで集中され、事件の可能性や影響範囲を論理の中に立体的に描き出していった。
書類に記された数字や地図の記号を、熱せられた街の動線や人々の流れ、ビルの密集度までを含めるかのように頭の中で再構築し、事件の初動を論理的に整理していく手つきには、冷たくも静かな確信が宿っていた。
天井のLEDの白い光が、紙面に落ちる影を揺らし、視界の隅で振れるその影さえも、未知の変数として分析に取り込まれているかのようであった。
ヴェロニカは指先で地図上の一点をなぞり、都市の動線、人の密度、建築の密集度を瞬時に組み合わせ、頭の中で現場の立体的な状況を描き出していた。信号の赤や青が交錯する交差点、街角に漂う排気ガスの匂い、通行人の歩行速度、路上に停められた車の影――それらすべてが、紙面の数字や地図上の印と結びつき、ニューヨークという巨大な都市の立体的な動線を彼女の思考に浮かび上がらせた。
無線や電話からの断片的な報告も、彼女の分析の網に吸い込まれ、時間と空間に配置される。どの瞬間に、どの場所で、人々の流れが変化したか。誰がどの建物に潜入した可能性があるか。交通の混雑状況と、観衆の動き、建築物の構造を組み合わせ、最小の推測誤差で現場の全貌を描く。
彼女の瞳は冷静そのもので、しかし微細な筋肉の緊張が、その奥に潜む危機意識を示していた。手元の地図の一点を指でなぞり、過去の事件や都市計画のデータを呼び出しながら、シナリオごとにリスクを計算する。都市の構造、観衆の密度、出口の配置――あらゆる要素を論理のグリッドに沿って並べ、想像されるすべての事態を仮定する。
ヴェロニカは資料の中の写真に目を留め、観衆の表情や警備員の配置、障害物の位置を詳細に分析した。その視線は冷徹でありながらも、微細な違和感や不自然さを見逃さず、都市の熱気に流されることなく、論理の網の中に全ての変数を捕らえようとしていた。
冷房の空気と夏の熱気が交錯するオフィス内で、彼女の思考は静かに、しかし確実に速度を上げていく。次に何が起こりうるか、どのルートが安全で、どのルートが危険か。瞬間ごとの判断が、観衆の安全と候補者の命を左右する。論理は揺るぎなく、都市の複雑さを紐解く糸のように彼女の手の中で絡まり合った。
彼女の前には資料だけでなく、コンピュータの画面や無線のディスプレイも並ぶ。それらは断片的な情報の源にすぎず、ヴェロニカの思考というフィルターを通すことで初めて意味を持つ。データと現実の光景を繋ぎ、事件の全体像を構築する作業は、夏の街の熱気の中でも冷たく静かに進行した。
外の熱気は窓ガラスを揺らし、街のざわめきや遠くで響くサイレンは、彼女の集中をかき乱すどころか、逆に現場の臨場感を補強し、頭の中のシミュレーションに奥行きを与えた。紙面の数字と街の実像が、冷たい理性の中で重なり合い、彼女は次の一手を論理的に導き出す準備を整えていった。
彼女の指先が地図をなぞるたび、都市の街路が脳内で立体的に浮かび上がり、建物の密度、通行人の流れ、監視カメラの視野、警備員の位置が、冷徹な論理の中で連鎖し、次の行動を示唆する。ヴェロニカは深く息を吸い、吐き出すと同時に、無言のうちに全ての変数を繋ぎ合わせ、事件の核心へと視線を固定した。その瞬間、遠くの街路から聞こえるサイレンの音や車のクラクション、交差点で立ち止まる人々の足音が、彼女の頭の中ではパズルのピースとなり、論理的な流れの中に溶け込んでいった。都市は暑さに揺れ、光と影が乱反射するが、ヴェロニカの思考は静かに、その熱気を透過して事件の全体像を描き出していった。
ヴェロニカは、静かに内線電話の受話器を手に取り、その冷たい樹脂の感触を指先で確かめながら、エリオット副特別捜査官を呼び出し、いった。
「シークレットサービスのジャックバンスにつないで」
「了解」
ーーーーーー
黒のSUVフォードは、夏の熱気を押し裂くように街路を駆け抜けた。ハンドルを握るジャックの横顔には焦燥が張りつき、後部座席に身を寄せたアナは、子供たちを庇うように腕を伸ばしながら、それでも必死に声を張り上げた。
「前を見て、ジャック！」
車体の振動に身を揺らしながら、子供たちは歓声とも悲鳴ともつかぬ声をあげ、恐怖と興奮の境を知らぬままに叫んでいる。その隣でミカは唇を噛み、言葉を失ったまま呆然としている。
背後では追撃の車が唸りを上げ、硝煙の匂いを残して弾丸がアスファルトを跳ねた。ハンドルを切ったジャックの車体がコンクリート壁面に火花が散らせた。都市の皮膚を削るようにして銃声が響く。ジャックのフォードは信号も人波も無視し、歩道へと飛び込み、群衆の悲鳴を振り払うように疾走した。
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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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Ma langue ce sont mes langues
qui s’affrontent
une envolée d’encens
une connivence
avec le moi polymorphe
qui au carrefour du sens
devient l’azur de l’abandon.
Ma langue est cette parturiente
qui au plus réel d’une dissonance
se métamorphose
confesse son bien
son mal d’être plusieurs
tend parfois vers le zénith
son arc de stupéfaction.
Viviane Ciampi
(da Pareti e famiglie
ed. Liberodiscrivere)
Memoria dell'occhio - Memory of the eye. Photo Lino Cannizzaro.
S’incontrano passanti d’ogni genere. Vi sono coloro che non guardano attorno a sé e hanno fretta d’arrivare in un luogo preciso e coloro che distrattamente attraversano il mondo o da lui si lasciano attraversare. Ma preferiremmo far parte di coloro che si soffermano sulle cose, sui luoghi in continua metamorfosi dove ci si perde per meglio ritrovarsi. Perché siamo consapevoli di vivere nella “multifonia” del nostro immaginario, sotto il sole delle fresche mattine di primavera e contemporaneamente sull’orlo dell’abisso. L’occhio, nei momenti d’ozio creativo, cercherà non la forma perfetta delle cose ma la bellezza della sua imperfezione, la sua complessità, la “sbavatura”, per usare un termine caro al filosofo Merleau-Ponty.
On rencontre des passants de tout genre. Il y a ceux qui ne regardent rien autour d’eux et n’ont qu’ un désir, celui d’arriver vite à un endroit précis et ceux qui traversent distraitement le monde où se laissent traverser par le monde. Mais nous préférons faire partie de ceux qui s’arrêtent sur les choses, sur les lieux en perpétuelle métamorphose, là où l’on se perd pour mieux se retrouver. Car nous sommes conscients de vivre dans la « multiphonie » de notre imaginaire, sous le soleil des frais matins de printemps ainsi qu’au bord de l’abîme. L’œil, dans les moments d’oisiveté créative cherchera non pas la forme parfaite des choses mais la beauté dans ce qu’elle a d’imparfait, dans sa complexité, dans la « bavure », comme dirait le philosophe Merleau-Ponty.
Diritti riservati
Zenit B with Helios 44-2 58mm f2.
Kodacolor 200 ISO 35mm film.
Processed at home with Tetenal C-41 kit.
submission to music monday
on the other side of the world: Tom Waits
... and a crow turns into a girl on the other side of the world
and she tastes like the sea and she's waiting for me ...
she visits his grave wearing her mother's shawl
should i shave or end it all ...
in the spring the weeds will show that he brought back the only rose
and he gave it to his girl on the other side of the world.
Tom may not be everybody's cup of tea, but I am a huge fan. His voice was once described as though it had been soaked in a vat of bourbon, left in a smoke house for several months and then taken out and run over by a car. It is the dissonance between the music, his voice and the poetic lyrics that appeals to me. At times there is a heart breaking tenderness in his raspy voice, and a desperate melancholy in his gravelly growl. On the other side of the world is from the 1992 album "Night on Earth", the musical score to the movie of the same name written and directed by Jim Jarmusch.
Many thanks to Juna for the rose, and to my very talented friend Malinda for the the landscape and ft. Tom Waits from the cover of another album "Mule Variations".
West Toronto Railpath, Toronto ON 12 Jul 2020
Outwood Cafe sponsors a socially-distanced dance party on the West Toronto Railpath
West Toronto Railpath, Toronto ON 12 Jul 2020
Outwood Cafe sponsors a socially-distanced dance party on the West Toronto Railpath
Title.
A road close to Central Park. :)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Central Park, Manhattan, New York, USA. 2017. ... 6 / 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.
セントラルパークに近い道。:)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 6 / 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/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
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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I'm posting this photo to contrast directly with the one before it, where 'One Way' has clear leading lines for the viewer, whereas 'Confusion' is the opposite. The eye is not sure where to look, shall it look in the direction of 'Defoe House' or into the path ahead on the left? It shouldn't work as a photo and maybe it doesn't, but I quite like the dissonance.
From Bill Bryson’s article: Fall. It's enough to turn me into John Denver
“Even the great naturalist Donald Culross Peattie, a man whose prose is so dry you could use it to mop spills, totally lost his head when he tried to convey the wonder of a New England autumn.
In his classic Natural History Of Trees Of Eastern And Central North America, Peattie drones on for 434 pages in language that can most generously be called workmanlike (typical passage: ‘Oaks are usually ponderous and heavy-wooded trees, with scaly or furrowed bark, and more or less five- angled twigs and, consequently, five-ranked leaves...’), but when he turns his attention to the New England sugar maple and its vivid autumnal regalia, it is as if someone has spiked his cocoa. In a tumble of breathless metaphors he describes the maple's colors as ‘like the shout of a great army ... tongues of flame ... the mighty, marching melody that rides upon the crest of some symphonic weltering sea and, with its crying song, gives meaning to all the calculated dissonance of the orchestra.’
‘Yes, Donald,’ you can hear his wife saying, ‘now take your tablets, dear.’”
HAPPY WINDOW WEDNESDAY(S) !!
First, apologies to any Buddhists viewing this. No offense is intended. The Buddha Bar is a real place, and its front window is exactly as shown. Both my photo and my comments below are only intended to intrigue and amuse.
I have never been in the Buddha Bar. However, I could not resist sharing an image of its front window.
Why?
I am not a Buddhist, but...
according to what I read, the consumption of alcohol is prohibited by Buddhism's 5th Precept.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Five_precepts#Fifth_precept
I am not a psychologist, but...
it seems that if a practicing Buddhist (not just monks or nuns) were to go into Buddha Bar and have a drink, he/she would either experience--or ignore--the cognitive dissonance. But who knows, maybe that is a possible path to enlightenment. 😎
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognitive_dissonance
NB - The little sign in the window is, IMO, very civic-minded from either a Swiss or Buddhist POV. It says:
"Smoking Area. Please be quiet in front of the bar. Be considerate of our neighbors. Thanks."
Location: Downtown Basel City, Kanton Basel-Stadt, Schweiz.
In my album: Dan's Windows.
Top left : A grid appearing as allotment parcels. Spaces for different crops and different seed cycles. There seems to be an accuracy to the grid's description with some columns having five segments with others as strips and others as six - as if someone is recounting details of a lifestyle.
Top right: Corniforms associated with an enclosure and a grid. It's almost as if the crofter's hut had large open-arm fencing, so that it might be seen from a distance in foggy conditions. Here, the 'corniform' may have signalling both cattle and 'hut' according to context (as, for example, a joint symbol for snake and water). For those working outside for much of the day, fencing focused on a home might also provide protection from wind and sun, and frames for drying anything from hey to river fish and even for stretching if the construction is solid enough. Ștefan Chirilescu recently posted pictures of grass drying on special fences in Roumania. Enclosures may also have gone against a spiritual notion that the earth was a free spirit and opening your house with wide arms may have helped to counter this dissonance while being as strong as a bull with its projecting horns.
Lower left: A field of sheep at the foot of a valley with two fields rising up its slopes - one with more animals and the other with plots for cultivation.
Lower right: a natural set of micro fissures provides the delimitation for a grid of allotments. If different clan members had their own plots then an element of pride and competition may have been at play. Different varieties and seed cycles.
Potential links between 'domestication' and enclosures needs to be looked at in a little more detail. Stepping back, there are two ways of seeing a natural cliff (this logic can also work with a river barrier but is more manageable with an inland cliff): natural cliffs or edges need only be several meters in height to become useful for hunters. Hunters read landscapes and try and manage animal movements within their predictions. From above, cliffs can cause the deaths of multiple animals, rushing together as a herd in fright, resulting in too much sudden meat followed by a potentially meagre year. There are examples of mass kills in prehistory, and, whilst the mindset of ultra satiation may be a weakness in man, there will always be some hunters who see a cliff for its other direction. Cliffs approached from below can force an animal to turn to the left or to the right. When arriving from below, a cliff is like a natural version of a fence or wall. There are also occasions when cliffs can provide angles, and these can become a focus for a coordinated hunting drive. Adding screens and fencing to 'extend' a natural cliff is a natural evolution that may have been some of the earliest structures outside of habitation. Pre domestication cows were Aurocks - a species that could be large and dangerous and from the category of 'Megafauna'. One strategy for hunting Aurocks was to dig a pit and drive the animal over this artificial cliff. Unlike a real cliff, a pit lets, for example, pregnant Aurocks survive to feed for another day. Clans that switched to this method from cliff drop methods may have missed on giant self-satisfied feasts, but gained on long-term stability. As with pit hunters, hunters that used the underside of a cliff as a barrier could also 'filter' their herd. Forcing a herd in one direction by building a strong barrier would allow hunters to, in effect choose the amount of animals they need, and this would be steps in the direction of the concept of the corral and pastoralism. Aurocks were so big that for most clans the number was probably always 'one'. When choosing which to kill, factors may have entered planning and decision making. Stepping back: the biggest 'prize fish' or the biggest 'predator pike' are always somewhere in the thoughts of a fisherman's plotting mind, and likewise the biggest Aurock or the most dangerous and formidable Aurock may have been first choice in a hunt that could keep a group of animals together. Repeated over several generations, and the gene pool of Aurocks will shift to towards smaller and more docile animals - given a constrained environment. Beaters and hunting dogs, screens and whistles, strong fencing and stones can all help to manage a local herd to the same semi-natural 'trap' until a point comes when the herd is just no longer as 'frighting' and is almost 'domesticated' into this cycle of life. At this point, any fencing is strong and tested by generation after generation, and it becomes imaginable to shut the 'trap' and 'hold' a small herd inside an enclosure. Feeding the smaller and more docile animals then becomes a way of 'waiting for a mother to give birth', or avoiding having to do 'yet another' time-consuming hunt for meat that you know you will need in just two months time... cutting hay rather than hunting during the interim, or herding animals over a local area. Over time, difficult animals are still killed in priority, and the animals 'learn' their new environment. Here, at no point, did an individual human have the bright idea to domesticate the giant 1,500 kg Aurock - so daunting as super massive museum sculls (no need to teach the Museum of London's 1m wide Aurock horns how to moo). These ideas build on ideas I developed for a Spanish stone row site: www.flickr.com/photos/ajmitchell-prehistory/29024790508/i...
Some forest situations will let aurocks split, other situations will have floating populations so that new large Aurock quickly join with herds, other pools of Aurocks will have been on large continuous marches so it must be expected that the above scenario needed special local conditions - but the results would have been something to be seen and talk about.
There is a nice synthesise by Alice Roberts (Tamed 2017) where she talks about smaller Aurock skeletons: "The Balweg Aurochs ... estimated to stand 134cm (...) to have been a less formidable target for Mesolithic hunters (...and it) raises the possibility that many, later Aurocks have been misunderstood as domesticated cattle, or as hybrids with Aurochs...."
The prior proposed mechanism shows how Mesolithic hunter gatherers who were increasingly fixating their lifestyle 'loops' on fewer and fewer geographical areas, could have occasionally effected changes in local gene pool distribution - as 'hunters' and not as 'farmers' - in effect, 'priming' stocks prior to true farming enclosure decisions and prior to or in conjunction with the arrival of the 'neolithic revolution' from the fertile crescent. Here, when the first ever generations of surplus domesticated cattle finally arrived, let's say Italy 8,500 ybp, after a 2,000 year inductive transmission of the neolithic revolution from the 'first ever' domesticated cattle of today's 'Syria' (having travelled at a stately .000015 kilometres an hour); they might have been meeting to interbreed with some smaller local Aurocks that were on the verge of their own domesticated routine, here the alchemy of 'official fertile crescent' mixes with local 'semi tame' stocks to produce the specificity for today's local cattle breeds. As always, be cautious of arrows on maps making it look as if a 'new' simply replaces an 'old'.
Prehistoric 'highways' and inter-regional solstice meets would offer opportunities to explain hunting techniques via simple schema - for example: listeners who were based in territories without cliffs might talk about tips on how to make sturdy post holes, or ways to keep cattle herds to a local area with out the interference of wild stocks.
A shepherd has a tame flock of goats, a trained dog and a night pen... He can be with his wife and son, and in spare time they use a new ultra-productive bronze age scythes to cut down meadow grass. Obviously this hay would be interesting for any cows kept aside a croft to winter lower in a valley, but a pile of hay may also give off a sweet smell and be attractive for wild Aurocks (the last were often seen during the ages of the Roman Empire with the last 'officials' bidding goodbye in central Europe circa 1637). A further 'bronze age' crofting synergy may have been found between small numbers of cattle and herds of sheep and goats. Here the sweet smell from a pile of scythed grass may have attracting wild cows as cheese for a mouse trap or sacs of collected acorns for a wild pig. Bringing in and 'managing' passing wild stocks aside modest cattle rearing - a dynamic and flexible reading of an environments potential.
Only the top right petroglyph can be seen without a guide
AJM 1.219
The dog heard it first, as dogs always do.
The old man paused a moment, with the bird half carved, and watched the yellow pup shift uncomfortably.
The old woman said the dog needed walking, but the old man knew that wasn't so, for they had walked together already that day, down by the river.
As he recollected that thought the old man remembered something else. He remembered how the yellow pup had been edgy somehow. Not mischievous as he often was, not hurried. Just uncomfortable, and in the way that Masters have, the old man had felt it too.
But the warmth of the house, and the smell of fresh coffee, and the soft welcome home creak of the wood under his feet as he had stepped onto the porch had reassured him, and he forgot.
The clock warmed the air with its brassy chime. Ten o'clock, and thoughts of white sheets and soft blankets were imminent.
The old man looked down at the worn spot where the dog should be, but the pup was gone. He was under the kitchen table; his refuge when a great storm was due.
The old man went to the back door and looked out. The sky was sugared with stars, and in the west the last embers of daylight were fading.
For some reason, tonight he became aware of The Sound.
In normal circumstances, such as they were, he would have tried not to notice it, but it was almost as if there was a slightly bitter quality to it tonight. As this idea began to fight to the surface, he began to sweat.
It was too soon. Surely it was too soon.
Hurriedly now, he went back into the house. The old woman glanced up, saw something was wrong, and with the intuition they all had, these days, thought as he did.
Together, silently, they moved to the calendar and flipped it back.
"Ten months", said the old man. "Ten months", he said again, as if the repetition could stave off the unavoidable.
They looked at one another, and tears began to form.
Down in the village, others had picked up the change in The Sound too, and already panic was beginning. This would be the fifth Sound Change, and there was no preparation that could alter it.
A few started to discuss ideas, again, scream them, really, as they had four times before; the busy-busy-make-work brought comfort to very few.
Almost five years previously, a shape - no more than that - a shape had appeared in the sky.
After the initial panics and enquiries were over, of course, the military found it entirely impervious to their weapons; indeed, impervious was too strong a word. The shape ignored them and nothing reached the target.
Attempts were made to communicate, but it was as if the shape wasn't there. It was unapproachable, just floating, just being. Nothing could get to it, and nothing came out of it.
Weeks went by, and then months. After a time, the world began to think of other things, and the shape became part of the background, an inexplicable new reality.
And then, with no warning, as night fell under the shape, came The Sound.
It was not a human sound, but humans reacted to it.
It grew louder and sharper, a lemon juice minor key that began to hurt, began to penetrate. People began to cry out with the pain of it, and it grew more intense.
The Sound enveloped the world, a blanket of agony.
People fell to the floor, tried all they could to block it out, to no purpose.
People died.
But not all people. About half of the world's population were affected.
At evening they had been living their lives, complicated or simple. By the morning, half of the world's population was dead.
The Sound didn't stop, but only half of the world was left to carry on. Everyone everywhere could hear it, but it didn't affect them as it had the others.
Body counts were made, and enormous resources spent on disposal of the corpses.
Religion, in all its physical and spiritual forms was invoked and placated and explored and begged.
The shape didn't move. The people of the world, traumatised, tried to carry on. Cities became towns, and towns became villages.
Fewer people, fewer resources - the world stepped back. Once again, the world carried on, what was left. After a year, healing had started.
The Sound never stopped.
One night, a year later, there was a shift in The Sound, a slight change in volume, and turn from sour to sweet, to cloying. On edge, the world once again became aware.
As night fell under the shape, The Sound changed, immediately.
It was the same pattern as before - half of the world was affected, writhed, died. Horrified, the other half watched.
There was no pattern they could discern, and families were split for eternity.
The remains of the world renewed efforts to communicate, now with much reduced efforts. Again, it was fruitless.
Helpless, once again the world settled down to inevitability.
Twice more, exactly a year apart, The Sound changed.
It was worse now. It was predictable.
Half of the world knew their dying day was coming. Hope faded that there would be a solution. Across the world, in parts, civilisation broke down entirely. In other parts, perhaps due to geography, or luck, or attitude, people banded together for support, formed little settlements and villages, lived as best they could.
Each time The Sound changed, there was killing pain for a few hours, for half of them, and then they were gone.
Today then, was the fifth change in The Sound.
The old couple knew it was coming, and they knew there was nothing to be done. They held hands in their front room, half breathing, aware that either or both of them might only have moments.
The Sound began to shift, It began to morph from its old form.
And then - it stopped.
The Sound was gone, after five years of lethal dissonance.
The Sound ended, and the shape, whatever it was, whatever its purpose might have been, simply went away.
Silence fell all over the world.
And the remaining population, those few that had survived, couldn't stand The Silence.
The Silence came, and the last humans, every one of them, died.
"Can you imagine how fucked we'd be if these poor assholes ever remembered what the guests do to them?"
If you head west from the Costa Brava coast - maybe up and along the banks of the river Ter, squeezing through to the basin of Vic, before curling to the flat lands of Saragossa, Huesca and Pampelune; all the time following the plane that stretches, sheers and falls; walking with the distant Pyrenean mountain air blowing : reflection and shade - a monumental guide-line for trade and exchange between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Finally, sea-gull hills return as you curl north, and after a giddy of tops, you drop down onto the Atlantic shores of the Biscay. A regular prehistoric trader, or a once-in-a-lifetime wanderer (a desire to see for yourself the colder water with a strong taste and a different quality of wave). The destination : a crashing iodine 'right turn' in a region that is now known as Basque. This natural water-bound meeting place for the peoples from the great rivers and coast of the south west of France, the people of the rivers and coast of the north Atlantic Iberia and the green riddles of curved ridge and stepping vale of the corner land's hosts.
The Pyrenees is a mountain range that provides water for great rivers, and links seas and oceans. From the Biscay, beach highways head north and well trodden paths drive west. Overlooking the Biscay is a set of dramatic anamorphic curves known today as 'Les Trois Couronne' - from my perspective, the quintessential and primary example of a 'venus hill' - a geography with the looks of a pregnant woman lying down, and an evocation of the sense of group care and attention - nature's goodwill and fecundity; a background 'mother earth' that helped assure man's passage through the ice age.
Elsewhere on my Photostream, I have suggested that paleolithic venus figurines are best understood as having been conceived in a horizontal position, and that they rang harmony with nature's Catherdral venus hill - the reality of a clan's precious future held snug on the back of a transportation 'dragon' held tight by the innovation of a tool I name the 'tension lever' (see past posts).
An individual arriving at the Great Biscay from the rich and advancing Mediterranean might marvel at the Queen of the three Crowns and all of the attention, protocol, exchange and rite she gathered at the feet of her rise (on shores long since flooded): and when asked to describe his home by the warm sea, the visitor from the east may have reflected his mind's eye over the hills of home, remembering a similar female-form that looked over his region. His venus hills are now known as the Montgri and are pictured above. Once again the vision is anamorphic.
Here, one Venus hill culture asks for another.
The Eastern Iberian Venus hill is pictured here as seen from a summit in the Gavarres hills, looking north towards the final fade of background mountain range (the head and long hair to the right with the knee of one leg lifted and a slim tummy). Unlike the Basque Venus hill, which dominates the view of any coastal walker, the Montgri venus hill is a figure that needs to be found. There are clear viewpoints on the plane behind L'Escala, from Llofriu and the northern fringe of the Gavares hills - she is more of an invitation than a universal.
The three photos were taken with a vintage 135mm Pentax 3.5. There are many megaliths within these hills that have this as a view, including several of the Forallac clusters (Dr Pericot...). The monolith known as the 'Tron de la Rein' (Queen's throne) may also have been linked to oversee : a monolithic throne for a living representative of the Venus hill (potentially explaining the great width of the back of the chair). The 'Tron de La Rein' is to be found with the Celtic city of Ullastret in the plane just before the above image. With today's tree cover it is difficult to know if it comanded a direct viewpoint.
There is an indubitable quality of heavy pregnancy to the Venus hill of the Biscay that is missing from the above silhouette. In addition, the lines are almost Picasso-esque, hinting at a relaxed and almost sensual femininity aside a deconstruction of several potentials. If a venus hill conveys the need to look after the next generation: fecundity - and to be looked after by natures fecundity cycles, the above example may have been contentious and dissonant. Her presence a source of both strong local pride and a natural geographical polemic. Calming this dissonance for visitors from afar, a task for local thinkers... The dilemma in her silhouette was : how can an apparently relaxed 'Venus Cathedral' represent the fecundity of their landscape without symbolizing the act of carrying a child and its implicit need to be looked after? A tacit rule being that everybody walked with the transport 'dragon' apart from the pregnant and infirm, otherwise the weight would be impossible to manage. The outline of the breasts of this venus hill are perhaps its greatest sign, and individuals may have argued that she is providing for new born, resting during a period of stasis. Others may explain that for this mother earth, her future children are kept away from this first view... The resolution of this issue may have made it easier to accept venus hills such as the Cailleach na Mointeach, which might suggest a Mesolithic or early neolithic resolution.
AJM 17.05.18
The image includes text boxes that may not appear via the Flickr app.
Roth, Dieter. Diter Rot : Bok 4A, nr. Reykjavík: [publisher not identified], 1961.
"Bok 4a (Book 4a) is an early example of Roth's experimental concrete poetry, here presented in book form as an extended progression of black and white geometric patterns. The book contains no text. It is informed by Roth's previous investigations of visual perception and optical dissonance (what would later be called Op art) that he carried out in the mid-1950s, as well as the work of the Zurich concrete poets Max Bill and Camille Glaesner, who produced art based on mathematical laws. Using a small number of letterpress printing blocks, Roth invented a dizzying array of unique patterns, each printed on a single page and each related to the image appearing directly before and after in sequence. The visual intensity and obsessive repetition of the book's imagery lies at the heart of artist's intent. For Roth, meaning emerges from the viewer's active engagement with the material substance and intangible content of the object."--from Minneapolis Institute of Art's website.
Letterpress and rubber block printing on double sheets; spiral bound volume.
See MCAD Library's catalog record for this book.
This massive ultra-modern structure seemingly so out of place in ancient Kyoto is an amazing convenience to me the tourist!
Holding on to nostalgia just for nostalgia's sake while forsaking the current is not very progressive.
The slew of new photographic gear in the pipeline waiting to be announced heralds a real wind of change coming.
It is clear that Mirrorless is gaining prominence despite how much diehard DSLR users like to keep talking down about Mirrorless. It’s an understandable human condition, resistance to change and even hostility to all things new, including even camera menu systems! Furthermore, when you are so heavily invested in DSLR gear, a move to Mirrorless is very costly and again it’s typically human to deal with the dissonance by entrenching one’s preconceived views even deeper and go to the extent of dissing all things Mirrorless. It’s entertaining recently to see a diehard DSLR user claiming that Sony must have cut corners (quality & durability) in order to make the FE400mm f2.8 GM so much lighter than his relatively new Nikon AF-S 400mm f2.8 FLE! He failed to see the humor when someone rightfully rebutted that by his (flawed) logic, Nikon’s 1st version of the 400mm f2.8 should be better than his latest FLE version since that older lens was much heavier!
The realities are as follows. Nikon appears to be on the brink of announcing their FF Mirrorless bodies (possibly with IBIS & 9fps!) with Canon not far behind.
Meanwhile lightweight supertele lenses are finally coming onto the market with the announcement of Nikon’s 500mm F5.6E PF VR (rumored at just 24cm long).
It’s actually a smart move by Nikon to make light superteles with f5.6 making it physically shorter (reduced torque) and even lighter with sensors as good as they are now and at 500-600mm, you’ll typically stop down a little for better subject DOF from f4 anyways. Personally I can always sacrifice a stop of shutter-speed for a stop of light and besides, who bothers to shoot BIF in low light?
So the Nikon Mirrorless adaptor will be complex and expensive (duh!) but like Sony’s LA-EA4 adaptor, it will likely be suboptimal as the translucent mirror within robs fine details and at least ½ a stop of light.
Nikon’s Mirrorless with IBIS however will mean my Nikon G Primes will be stabilized including my 24-70mm G zoom but I doubt my 70-200mm f4 VR will make any difference as very likely only new Mirrorless lenses will have dual-sync IS. Hopefully the future 600mm f5.6 PF VR (patent already registered) will be made in the new Nikon Mirrorless mount!
Exciting times!
Title.
Walk. Sign. Car. Tree. = Holiday. :)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Central Park, Manhattan, New York, USA. 2017. ... 2 / 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
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Title.
散歩。標識。車。樹木。= 休日。:)
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 2 / 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」
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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/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
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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Commander nico,We are in pursuit of the enemy!
+ 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.
and accountable to no one.
One for my "Tarnished" Album
www.flickr.com/photos/twoblackcatscom/albums/721576761905...
Please : Right Click and select "Open link in new tab"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQ2ANR_vF2E
Overload - Yard Act
The overload of discontent
The constant burden of making sense
It won't relent, it won't repent
How to remain in dissonance
The overload of discontent
The constant burden of making sense
It won't relent, it won't repent
How to remain in dissonance
Show some respect and listen to my advice
'Cause if you don't challenge me on anything
You'll find I'm actually very nice
Are you listening?
I'm actually very fucking nice
See also:
Lo and Behold, Reveries of the Connected World a film by Werner Herzog.
The Palace of Culture and Science is the tallest building in Poland and the eighth tallest building in the European Union. It is 231 metres (758 ft) tall, which includes a 43-metre high spire.
The building was conceived as a "gift from the Soviet people to the Polish nation", and was completed in 1955. The structure was built in three years according to the design of the Soviet architect Lev Rudnev. Architecturally, it is a mix of Stalinist architecture, also known as Socialist Classicism, and Polish historicism inspired by American art deco skyscrapers. Currently it is the headquarters of many companies and public institutions, such as cinemas, theaters, libraries, sports clubs, universities, scientific institutions and authorities of the Polish Academy of Sciences.
The building was originally known as the Joseph Stalin Palace of Culture and Science, but in the wake of destalinization the dedication to Stalin was revoked. Stalin's name was removed from the interior lobby and one of the building's sculptures.
Construction started in 1952 and lasted until 1955. The tower was constructed, using Soviet plans, almost entirely by 3500 workers from the Soviet Union, of whom 16 died in accidents during the construction. The Soviet builders were housed at a new suburban complex complete at Poland's expense with its own cinema, food court, community center and swimming pool, called Osiedle "Przyjaźń" (Neighborhood of Friendship).
The building's architecture is closely related to several similar skyscrapers built in the Soviet Union of the same era, most notably the Moscow State University. However, the main architect Lev Rudnev incorporated some Polish architectural details into the project by traveling around Poland and seeing the architecture. The monumental walls are headed with pieces of masonry copied from Renaissance houses and palaces of Kraków and Zamość.
As the city's most visible landmark, the building was controversial from its inception. Many Poles initially hated the building because they considered it to be a symbol of Soviet domination, and at least some of that negative feeling persists today. Some have also argued that, regardless of its political connotations, the building destroyed the aesthetic balance of the old city and imposed dissonance with other buildings. This contrast has been lessened somewhat over the years with the construction of several skyscrapers in the vicinity. Despite the controversies, the Palace became an internationally recognized symbol of Warsaw.
The famous towering sculptures of the Kelpies in Falkirk.
When I first walked up to the 'Kelpie Hub' in The Helix and caught sight of the sculptures I have to say I was slightly underwhelmed. Maybe it is because I have seen so many photos of them that the first sight of them for real didn't amaze me greatly. However, as I approached them, the colossal scale of these equine behemoths became apparent. Once up close these sculptures are truly awesome, these two towering heads looming over you, one looking, with fixed stare directly ahead, and the other throwing it's head back into the air. You really can't appreciate these sculptures until you are up close.
I must admit I have a slight amount of cognitive dissonance over the meaning of these sculptures. As you walk towards them, there is a poem inscribed on the walkway by poet Jim Carruth.
'Echo the great beasts that work among us
unbridled in this kingdom between canal and firth
here to harness the river
and carry each weary traveller
Bow down your strong heads to taste the water
Stretch up your long necks to face the sun' Jim Carruth
This poem would suggest they are representative of workhorses, beasts of burden who toil to serve man. Symbols of the work horses which were used in the past heavy industry and their value to man during this period
However, I always thought Kelpies were malevolent water spirits in Scottish folklore which took the form of horses, so it's perhaps strange they picked this title for them. Maybe it is just because it has an enigmatic, Scottish sounding ring to it.
But it's the appearance of the statues which I find strange. I believe each head is meant to represent part of the poem with one bowing it's head to drink and the other stretching it's head to the sun. However, their is something very unsettling about their appearance. The statue with it's head bowed looks benign from the side but face it head on and it's stare cuts terrifyingly into you. The other head flung upwards looks like it is almost in anger or pain.
Maybe these statues are not meant to represent the placid work horses but perhaps that of the malign spirits in Scottish Folklore. Perhaps the reason they are so captivating is because you can see both these representations in them. I guess the artist is the only one who will really know what they were intended to truly represent
Regardless of this, they are endlessly enchanting and made all the more so with their slightly sinister aura.
“Hey Kid,” the unit leader called out. “Not so close to the edge. It’s ok kid, you’re doing fine,” the unit leader said as he approached. “Your patrol patterns are solid, your head’s on a swivel, I got no complaints. That was just some friendly advice, keep well clear of cliff edges or sheer drops.”
When the new guy asked why, the unit leader drew in close, and in almost a whisper replied, “In private security circles we call him “The Body Snatcher.” He hides in the tall grass, or hangs from above, or clings from below those ledges, and patiently waits for his victim to patrol near. One moment you’ve got a great job, good career path, loving family, and the next you’re falling to your death, some dumb quip like “Going down?” or “Seeya!” the last thing you ever hear.”
The unit leader left the new guy to his patrol, and walked over to the area commander. “You give the new kid “The Body Snatcher” story,” he asked, smiling. “Oh yeah, he’s good and spooked,” the unit leader replied, laughing.
They laughed so hard, they didn’t notice that the new guy was no longer there, or heard the faint words “Going down?” echo off the cliff walls.
Stephen Hauser greeted me at the Weill Institute for Neurosciences at UCSF with the kind of presence that immediately quiets a room, not through authority, but warmth. There’s something patient and steady in his demeanor. The kind of person who, even after decades at the front lines of medicine, still makes you feel like he’s right there with you, fully. No distance. No armor.
Hauser is best known for transforming our understanding and treatment of multiple sclerosis. For much of the twentieth century, MS remained a stubborn mystery. The prevailing theories focused on T cells. But Hauser, drawing from both intuition and evidence, kept coming back to the role of B cells. It was an unpopular view for years. He persisted.
That persistence changed the world. Through careful experiments and dogged collaboration with immunologists and neurologists across continents, Hauser and his team developed a B cell-targeted therapy that dramatically altered the course of the disease. What had been a cruel and unpredictable spiral for patients became something that could be slowed, managed, even arrested. The treatment, now used around the globe, is one of the clearest examples in modern medicine of science reshaping fate. Millions of people are living freer lives because he stayed the course.
But that isn’t the whole story. In person, Hauser radiates kindness. He listens more than he speaks. He remembers small things and follows up. During our visit, he was quick to credit his colleagues and trainees. There is no trace of the solitary genius trope. Instead, you get the sense of a man who believes deeply in teams, in shared discovery, in lifting others.
He writes about this beautifully in his memoir, The Face Laughs While the Brain Cries. It’s an honest, often poetic look at his life in medicine—his own early fears, the patients who shaped him, the losses, the breakthroughs. The title comes from a moment that only a neurologist might recognize: the face of a patient with a certain kind of brain injury, smiling mechanically while the person inside weeps. That kind of dissonance, between surface and soul, is something Hauser has spent a lifetime trying to bridge.
There is something sacred about the work he does. Not in a lofty, abstract sense, but in the way he remains present with patients. The way he speaks about them, decades after seeing them last. The way he still seems a little awed by biology itself.
As we wrapped our session, I asked him what still drives him. He paused for a long moment before answering. Then he said, “Because it’s not finished. There is still more we don’t understand than we do.” He smiled. “And I still believe we can help.”
That, in the end, might be the most remarkable thing about Stephen Hauser. Not just what he’s accomplished, but that after all this time, he still walks forward with wonder.
I found the dissonance of human presence here interesting.
Tell me what you make of this. I'm rather pleased, but then again I wasn't expecting it to even be recognizable, so my view could simply be chalked up to low expectations.
As an aside, 3/4 of this roll was devilishly hard to scan. Quite irritating, if perhaps a bit predictable to the more established film shooters!
Given the excessive grain, I can only conclude it was very poorly stored. Thankfully it isn't objectionable here.
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Bronica ETRS
75mm 2.8 EII
Very Expired Fuji NPH 400 (@ 200)
1/2 Sec Handheld!