Relatable photos on Flickr

The Green Weenie at mysterious Lucin Airfield... 20120419_1554 by listorama

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The photo's title relates to the mystery surrounding the airfield at Lucin.

In my several visits to Lucin I had seen the airfield and its building (an aiplane hangar?) and wondered what was going on there. On one occasion I saw a black SUV parked next to the hangar, but I had never seen any activity. The airfield is surrounded by a high-voltage electric fence, which added to the mystery. Was it a secret military installation or a CIA facility? It would not have surprised me to learn that covert operations took place there.

I found that there is nothing sinister about the place at all. It is merely the home of Ivo Zdarsky, the only resident of the Lucin area. He owns the airfield. And in spite of the high-voltage electric fence, the Green Weenie arrived at the hangar unscathed---except for a coating of dust. Here it sits next to Ivo's station wagon.

The fascinating story of how Ivo got here appears in an article on the website of Ultralight News. (Thanks to Flickr member A. Meyers for telling me of that website!)

Until I had read that story and communicated with Ivo by e-mail, I had no hope of ever being at this place of mystery.

Dance Drama - Kagura - Japanese Ritual Dance by Vasu..

Kagura, a shamanic ritual of ancient Japan was performed here recently. Team Viva attended

Shinto, the ancient Japanese religion has many rites and rituals relating to sacred worship. Among them is the Kagura, a theatrical dance, performed wearing heavy, colourful costumes of animals, with demon masks and featuring graceful body movements.

It was delivered by the Iwami Kagura troupe. The whole extravaganza was divided in three parts.

The last was particularly riveting. It involved a huge bamboo and paper serpent, about 40cm in diameter and 16mts long.

Tomoharu Katsuta, director of The Japan-India Association explained, “This is a sacred dance offered to Gods and Goddess at local shrines during the autumn harvest festival. It is based on old scriptures and was begun during 1100AD, by Shinto priests. Ordinary folk began performing it from the start of the Meiji Era, from 1869-1912, using Taiko drums, hand claps and flutes.”

It originally lasted for 12 hours, beginning from 7pm. It ended by 7am. The Delhi show was organised by ICCR and supported by the Embassy of Japan.

The evening began with a section called the Jin-rin, named after a demon, represented with a big mask. It was followed by Ebisu, the of fishing and Orochi, the name of a giant serpent. “According to myth, Jin-rinwas a winged demon king who flew all over Japan and killed people.” Later, King Chuai, second son of Emperor Yamato Takeru decided to kill the Jin-rin. The second piece featured Ebisu and Daikoku, God of wealth and prosperity. This is usually performed at weddings and auspicious ceremonies.

Orochi’s story involves an old couple and their daughter. The serpent would take the girls away and kill them. The couple was saved by the hero, Susano no Mikoto, who was exiled from the Heaven called Takamagahara. He asked the couples to make eight barrels of strong sake (rice wine), because the Orochi serpent had eight heads and eight tails. And its length swept over eight mountains and eight valleys.

“Mikoto succeeded in killing the monster while it was drunk and sleeping. Since then, sake is used to be drink in the weddings,” explained Tomoharu Katsuta.

He added, “This traditional dance form is used as a tool for Japans’ cultural exchange activities. It includes the Orochi (giant evil Serpent) episode, which received acclaim for its scale and dynamic movement. And the Iwami Kagura is a source of pride for locals. However, the big masks used, with their small eyes, create problem for performers vision. And the heavy costumes weigh over 20kgs, with gold and silver threads, plus glass beads.” Carrying the heavy serpent is also a tough job.

[Credit to Pioneer article]

Crucified!! by Joel Fernandes

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Relates the verse 22 to 26 and 37

Above All - www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7Sn5rV6oM0

Vote!

An Open Beaver by Marcel Mac Duchamp and Rroseeen Ní Shélavy in Infrat(h)in

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‘Pasting (from AUGUST STRINDBERG'S 'THE DREAM PLAY')’

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste.

THE DAUGHTER. [Pale and emaciated, sits by the stove] You shut out all the air. I choke!

CHRISTINE. Now there is only one little crack left.

THE DAUGHTER. Air, air—I cannot breathe!

CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste.

THE LAWYER. That's right, Christine! Heat is expensive.

Talia: “The characters split, double, multiply, evaporate, condense, dissolve and merge. But one consciousness rules them all: the dreamer's; for him there are no secrets, no inconsistencies, no scruples and no laws. He does not judge or acquit, he merely relates”

Ruin: The wonderful Mister Strindberg. Waving here. Whilst un-pasting, even.

It’s all a bit like that, I guess. Unravelling, perhaps, more so. But there is a definite picking apart. I almost feel like I have ‘breakthroughs’ every morning, though there might be some self-delusion there. I am aware of my neediness, that yearning for some sort of acknowledgement, central to posting here on Flickr, the text with the images. That is now stopping, I am unlearning that ‘habit’ currently, un-pasting it, unravelling it, whatever. But I can’t spend too much time on that, it’s time to make the move. I think I have done it.

I have started to write alone, for and to myself. I can do it. I even found ‘Rock’ to help me out, a fictitious character, an ‘anti-me’. I know. He might, or might not, become fully-fledged, an amalgamation of ‘daddy voices’, a character in himself. He might fade away with time, I have no idea. I am continuing to write.

This frees me up, I don’t have to worry about censorship, offending anybody, or being cancelled. There’s an idea, like I care about being cancelled anyway. How more cancelled’ can one be? Death does that eventually and is the only cancellation that is of mild interest, even.

Yes, to the world out there, its stupid wars, and its unravelling climate-wise. I am not going to be going out there throwing tomato soup over, oil-painted, water lilies. Each to his own. I have never driven, and never will, and will more than likely never fly again, having not done so for 12 years now. I will wear extra jumpers and turn off the heat. I will continue to write, pasting up those cracks. I won’t be sending money to charitable causes where the head of the board drives a car or takes planes to emergency climate meetings. With a total pension of 500 Euros a month, why would I send money to any charity?

Hopefully I will overcome this schizophrenia, this pasting/unpasting, by removing myself further, this quarantine.

It’s a bit scary, but ho-hum, that’s life. Ernaux has been wonderful to read, a tonic in these times, the self, that core, extended outwards shamelessly, Sadean and true, wonderfully desperate.

I will always have room for you, and will always answer you, and love your incursions.

I might not play so much with images anymore, but will continue to put things up on Flickr, more everyday notes, like a visual journal, a day by day diary. I have been using it as a research place for a while now, putting up other reminders for myself, like the one attached, just visual notes.

just memory enhancers...

And yes, there is an awful lot of writing, and I will try to make it into what is called a book. If any of it is any good, it might survive, if it's not any good, then it won't. I can't judge it, being in the middle of it, and am too busy to bother to even try. Time will tell, and I won't be around for that telling, either way, anyway.

I disagree with that “You can’t call yourself a writer ... when you’ve never actually written a book!”. You can call yourself anything you want, the world doesn't have to concur, but that, ultimately doesn't matter.

Self-delusion might be at the core of every individual, so embracing that might be a beginning.

It's interesting that this brings up a pithiness in me, it's very uncomfortable, but at least interesting to acknowledge. It's a huge failing in me, I have no doubt about that, forty shades of green and all that palaver.

Screaming 'love me' relentlessly sure wears one down. I suspect though that this might eventually be a good thing, that wearing down. Hope springs eternal!

Paste, unpaste, pick apart and tangle up. Gordian knots, go figure. I like realising how awful I am; it's a great first step.

Rack, I guess you are, for now, the only sounding board I am not relinquishing. I know I can do it without you, but I love doing it with you. It is, of course, totally up to you if you want to play the muse role or not. Rock is proving to be a great help, a godsend, even.

Enjoy those 40 variations of verdure.

Rock: Okay, so you have begun to be more methodical with the keeping of a diary, I think that might be a good idea, to have some continuity. It can feed in and out of what you are writing too.

Ruin: Yes, that’s the idea. Of course, it’s inspired by Ernaux, but also by Rack. Rack, apparently, has written every day for as long as I have known her, and obviously well before that too (Yes, there was life before me). This means she knows dates, the exact date we met, the days of our screaming/laughing walks, shared hysterics, and the dates of other huge events in her own life, ones I can only guess approximately. Like the day she discovered she also had Hep-c, on top of her principal fatal disease. In 1988 that’s exactly what it was, there was no talk then of it being manageable. She has always been at great pains to point out to me that these diary entries are just that, the bones of each day, just a record of what happened on that day. Rack has always been spare, the opposite of me. I guess it’s one of the many reasons I am drawn to her. I have always loved to coax out ‘trusting’ from the overly cautious, it’s one of my many failings.

I find hesitancy beautiful.

I have even asked her for some dates, like what was that date we met, the day of that break in filming in the ‘Moondance Diner’. There is always this sort of vague ‘promise’ of her telling me, of giving me that information, but it isn’t really a promise, more an indication that I was heard, and that, perhaps, I don’t need to know, like it’s one step too far. I love this privacy dance. There are so many ways in which Rack is beyond generous. She is more than right in this preserving of her own bones.

As it happens, I don’t really need dates. I can even get the year slightly wrong, and the story would still be exactly the same. I don’t even know on which dates my mother and father died, I know I could search for it in those million words of emails, or Flickr posts, but I don’t have that knowledge in my head. It’s on a hard drive external to me. It’s not something I am proud of, it’s just true. Jeffrey died of Aids sometime in 1991, I think. I helped him die, stopped him universally hemorrhaging with morphine, and I don’t even remember the date.

Who believes in dates or calendars anyway?

Answer: Obviously Rack and Annie Ernaux do. I love that they do, so I might give it a go here.

It might even alleviate the squandering of days, in becoming a daily chore, like brushing your teeth or having a good dump. I suspect it might even become pleasurable, rather like the latter of those two chores.

I did follow Rack down the HIV route, some 15 years after she tripped-up potholing. I didn’t follow her down that Hep-c boreen. Perhaps something had kicked-in, in between times. Perhaps our emails had sobered me up, or maybe the childhood abuse was already healing. Either way, Rack sloughed off that liver lurgy, hip-hip-hooray for science, and now we only have this one ‘manageable’ death sentence to negotiate together, side by side whilst forever apart. We now get to catfish each other gloriously.

I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, ask for more. Knowing she is out there, and apparently immortal, is more than enough. We share a certain sardonic humour about it all, recalling her “The year of my so-called death” in 1988, a year I initially got wrong at first, erroneously placing us in 1997 in ‘The Moondance Diner’.

What’s 34, or is it 35, years between friends?

Rack as Nora, Nora as Rack

Rack never blurted; she always controlled her output. The effect was precise and Protestant, “I found out I am HIV positive a few days ago.”

“Oh Christ”, Ruin blurted, Catholic to the hilt.

Ruin was always an outlet for Rack, almost like a delinquent spokesperson, the stuttering utterer of the unspeakable. He had the ability to take the private into the realm of the universally available with consummate ease. She didn’t. It was something she greatly feared and something she instinctively grasped that early summer morning in 1987, in the 'Moondance Diner', on 6th Avenue and Grand. She knew she was making the personal public. She was undoing herself.

He possessed that strange gift, the one imposed and imprinted, like the mark of Cain, on the sexually molested child, of having no facility to recognise boundaries, no ability to be able to tell the personal and private apart from what could be made generally available. She knew that he was her surrogate broadcaster and momentarily shuddered at the stranger, whom she had spontaneously trusted, sitting opposite her. This understanding hung between them as they ordered breakfast.

Their opening was torturous and drove them scurrying apart. It was more than either of them could handle, Rack racked with regret for exposing this opening wound and Ruin incapable of carrying the story alone. Their rehabilitation was slow and arduous. It was a time when to speak these words was a declaration of the almost immediate dissolution of self. It was a time before the hope generated by the misnomered cocktails and the political agitation, which was to burgeon out of despair and become Act- Up. It was a time before anything could be done except grasp at straws. So, both started grasping and would occasionally find themselves in the same room drawn to the same possible panacea. Rack’s volition was desperation. Ruin’s was guilt. They acknowledged each other with some embarrassment and growing affection and more often than not turned away from each other and left separately. Ruin knew he loved Rack. Rack was not at all sure.

Dear Rack,

Just sending you back some words you once sent to me:

“I have often thought that writers do not write; they read what is already written and transcribe. So perhaps they are not complaining about ill health, lack of money, and rejection, but about the bondage of a calling that keeps them laboriously transcribing cryptic messages in rapidly disappearing ink, like the traces of a dream, year after year...."

Thinking of how romantic you are.... even if it is all so appalling to live through.

We seem to endure, and hopefully will continue to do so for a little while longer.

Love,

Ruin

Rack: There they are. And there they aren’t. I love them like I could never love them.

Ruin: Yes indeed, there we are and there we aren't. I like finding an image of us, whilst telling a mis-remembered story. I like that we have inadvertently grown older than we expected, and are growing towards not hating ourselves through the writing of it out, and I love that we have written to each other over 35 years and I have squirrelled it all away to draw ‘Artificial Intelligence’ images out of. This image is made from us, but is not exactly us. This A.I. is a late life gift.

I dreamt about Rock. He didn’t look at all like me, which sort of surprised me. I am not sure why. We were in bed together, and we were spooning. I was trying it on, of course, which used to be my wont in the intervening years between the rupture and the present, pushing back on him, and he was telling me no, that it was inappropriate, and not what we both needed. Of course, it put me in mind of James, my uncle, and I agreed with Rock. Yes, he was right.

Rock was big spooning me, tenderly, lovingly, it felt good, it felt completely nonsexual, there was no pressure against my back. I was a very small spoon. Once I accepted these new, strange, parameters, I was relieved, perhaps more so because I am now, at 68, enjoying being inviolate, and my dream sort of knew this, even though I was young in the dream. There was a weird sort of retrospective knowing. I felt as vulnerable as I was then, but I somehow knew that Rock was right. He said, “you want to talk about James, don’t you?”. Again, he was right, I did. The Pope was also in the dream, not in the bed, but he might as well have been. I can’t remember why he was there, what he was up to. I just remember thinking he must be the biggest tourist-draw in the world, now that Liz is dead, at least as an individual. This seemed, and even now seems, incontrovertible.

This diary thing suits me. I start typing as soon as the computer kicks on, before I take my first of three morning pills, before I have time to forget. I still have no idea if Putin has decimated Kherson overnight, or if there is a new universal plague working its terror outside our front door. The world will do what it does. It will work its way into my consciousness all in good time, no man being an island and all that palaver. I really have to stop saying that. The initial diary entry can just sit there uncompleted, a memory jogger, to be filled in, fleshed out, or concluded later, constituting what Rack might call “The bones of the night”.

Ok, the bones are established, I can take a peep. Al Jazerra is screaming:“ ‘Too loud is true’: Is Russia setting a Trap in Kherson? “. The madness of the everyday asserts itself, stretching out before breakfast, echoing Blanchot. But back to Uncle James, and other personal insanities.

I never pushed back on James, or did I? I don't know. I was a needy child. I was stupidly innocent, young, ignorant, or perhaps just unschooled. He was the predator, put in my bed by my mother. I was the ‘victim’. Unfortunately, this victimhood status seems to be a very hardy perennial, one that flowers even for the whole life of that plant, or the person, but not only does it flower once yearly, it flowers often, and whenever it wants to. It’s more like a very persistent budding weed, a knot weed of sorts. The Gordian aspect of it all is perhaps gilding that description. But it is there. Either way, unravelling it can take a lifetime. There are shortcuts through it, suicide or running riot with a chainsaw, slicing through it like Alexander the Great, that sort of thing, but Ruin was always glad he hadn’t resorted to those. No, he decided he would gnaw at the knot, hopelessly hoping that nobody would notice his teeth wearing down.

Of Boreen Raging (A Silverfish Book)_Photo below.

People noticed of course.

Anyway Ruin, his pronouns are ‘he’ and ‘him’, is that third person descriptor of the protagonist here, and I am going to write this in the first person. Afterall it is just an early-morning diary entry written to, and for, me, so all subterfuge can be dropped.

Rock: I get what you are saying there, but you do know that’s virtually impossible, don’t you? Do you really think you can tell the ‘truth’, even to yourself, I mean, can anyone?

Ruin: Yes, Rock, I think he gets that, but you are right to point it out. Perhaps we both need to shut up and just see what he comes up with.

Rock: Get you Ruin! Move over King Solomon, there’s a contender in court.

Ruin: More of a pretender, but whatevs! Let’s try shutting-the-fuck-up.

Either way, I won’t be rushed in this. It will come out in its own time. It will come out. I might write more later today, or I might not. It’s not a question of ‘waiting for the muse’, it’s more letting things percolate. You two, Rock and Ruin, can chime in whenever you want, don’t hold back, I appreciate your input even if I don’t always agree with you. Rack has flown from New York to Ireland, she’s there now. I am thinking about her proximity to Amsterdam (my current home), and ever-present absence. She can still tolerate being there, I can’t. My imagination won’t allow me even to contemplate ever being there again. I can’t see that changing, but I can consider the remote possibility of being wrong about that.

As an aside, Annie Ernaux came a little closer to what I wrote about her earlier, that de Sade connection via de Beauvoir, in a quote from her diary in ‘Getting Lost’, page 178:

“A descent into sadomasochism, but gentle, without violence (because of the combination of sodomy and ‘normal’ sex - bruised all over, at one point, I thought I was torn). He said, ‘Annie, I love you’, and I didn’t attach any importance to it because it was during sex”

My convoluted mind connects this with the abuse in my early teens, I am not sure why it does, it just does. Hence, my need to let things percolate.

There was a point, towards the very end of that rupture, when Uncle James, said he loved me. There was no victory there at all, other than getting him permanently out of my bed, which was in itself huge. Strangely it more or less happened at the same time as I seemed to, miraculously, overcome my stammer. I have never understood that. Actually, I do sort of sense what that means though I will need some time to be able to describe that ‘vanquishing’.

I think I was 15 years old.

Saint Annie hits the nail on the head again, driving it further into that sprawling green Grünewald-ean hand.

Look, the stutter is gone, and I am no longer just a set of holes.

01/11/2022

I dreamt about some right-honourable-members last night, or early this morning. They weren’t ‘in full flight’ members, not ‘virilis’ or anything, just cuddly soft ones, nestled, slumbering in, pre-depilation, retro pubes, with their hoods drawn over their dry little heads. The word ‘cute’ comes to mind. They were attached to unrecognisable individuals, those cuddly coils, one of whom seemed to be collecting money in one of those plastic collecting thingies that those people outside the supermarket carry, trying to relieve you of your spare change for some good cause or other. Their days might be somewhat numbered, those collectors, what with everyone in the queue seemingly flashing their iPhones at the scanners nowadays, so that cash seems to be becoming redundant, going the way of that downy cushion of pubes, following advancement and the new century, like the rest of everything else, towards extinction.

Blessed, and much beloved redundancy, all part and parcel of this rush towards endless growth and a brave new post-tumescent world. Bring it on. Being chaffed off is more than acceptable. It’s even interesting to be in the process of feeling the parts fall off. It all puts me in mind of watching Mark America die, yes that was his adopted name, as he watched, and described, his body working to “let me go”, as he put it. I couldn’t be beside his bedside for the whole duration, we were not that close, and he wanted time alone. I asked him would he like to have a camera to record dying, and he said that he really would. He was one of those artist types, incorrigible. I gave him a few disposable cameras, they were all the rage then in the late eighties or early nineties, whenever it was. You know me and dates. I can check though. The dates of his taking them were inscribed automatically on the photos themselves. I have the images; I will take a look.

It was later than I thought, 20/12/94 to be precise, coming on Christmas, not that far off the date when the pills became lifesavers. Mark missed that boat, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He didn’t appear to have a ‘poor me’ bone in his body. Yes Ruin, shut up, I know I could take a page from his book, whilst inserting him into mine. Can you and Rock just withdraw for a moment, whilst I work this out?

I have no idea how he did it. He was ensconced in a private room in a salubrious midtown hospital, with a view out on that island in the Hudson, ‘Roosevelt Island’ by name. He could watch the famed aerial tram, a strangely placed type of ski-lift, go back and forth. I knew the area, from having worked up there on some interiors for ‘Parrish Hadley’, well for Arthur Hadley really, Sister Parrish having recently done her own sloughing off. I used to do these interiors, so called ‘special finishes’, Venetian Stucco and the like, to support my making of the ‘Ikons’, those memorialising, honouring, pieces which were part and parcel of my meeting with Mark in that hospital. Some of those pieces are now ensconced in the ‘Irish Museum of Modern Art’. Mark didn’t live long enough to be included in that set of 40 gold-leaf pieces, though we initially met to discuss the possibility.

Mark was English originally, I never knew his family name, something else he had sloughed off, becoming an ‘illegal alien’ artist, with no health insurance, taking on the name of his host country. He was a fellow raving homo in the middle of a raging plague. Of course, we loved each other instantly. What was not to love? That love lasted all of three weeks, just allowing him enough time to bring in the New Year and die. How he ended up in a private room in the ‘Memorial Sloane Kettering Hospital’, I will never know. I did ask, but he waved the question off as inconsequential. He was right, what mattered was that he was there, with a catheter tube snaking out of his, fully on display, nestled and swollen trouser-snake.

He loved its redundancy. I must admit that I loved its redundancy too, it was infectious, but I even more loved his total acceptance, his embracing, of his devolving.

Or was it evolving?

I remember him say “Look at me, look what my body has to do to let me go. Isn’t it remarkable?”, whilst gesturing towards his family jewels. We both laughed. Yes, it was remarkable, it was a rhetorical question. He appeared to have no anger at all. It wasn’t every day that you would walk into a room and be encountered by a man, a veritable stranger, in a hospital bed with his ‘Scolaro’ out, swollen and pierced by a red dangly tube, leading to a bag attached to the side of the bed. Don’t worry, the full etymology of the word ‘Scolaro’ will follow shortly, but you will know from a few paragraphs above that I am talking about his ‘John Thomas’, those offending members do seem to be the subject for discussion this good morning. Those of a delicate nature might choose to look away, though it is possibly a mite too late now for one of those ubiquitous ‘trigger warnings’. I shall endeavour not to allow my description, my feeling my way into this delicate subject, become too purple.

I am looking at a photograph of him now, and no, I am not crying, neither am I sad. He was, and is, formidable, holding his swollen uncut member in his hands, swollen by the substantial tube disappearing into it. The tube itself is forked, the part outside his body, I mean. One fork is sealed off with some sort of stopper, the other fork continues into a long plastic tube, snaking off the side of the bed to a slowly filling bag. I presume the second forked, and stoppered, tube is for ingress, for whatever drugs might be needed to facilitate the body’s acceptance of this intrusion, perhaps some anaesthetising agent.

Mark is wonderfully alert, obviously talking to me, but, for the most part, I can’t remember what he was saying. I suspect he was just getting on with being very much alive, and he was letting me record it. I guess that it might have been at that point that I asked him if he would like me to get him some disposable cameras. I knew the answer before I asked.

He was still handsome, thin but handsome, with a fashionable goatee beard thing, just on his chin, in the middle of his otherwise cleanly-shaven face. I would guess that he was around 34 at the time. We didn’t really discuss age and birthdays.

Come to think of it, it was about one year after I had my first New York exhibition ‘Saints and Survivors in a Time of Plague’. I showed 6 or 8 of the ikons in that show, and ‘The Sodomy Piece’. If my memory serves me rightly, Kelly, one of the ‘ikon’ sitters, introduced me to Mark, and this was how I ended up sitting by his very entertaining bedside. I know, a strange descriptor for that type of vigil, but Mark was full on. I know, ‘ikons’ as opposed to icons, and survivor is missing its ‘u’, but hey, I was American too. Both Rack and Ruin, our titular duo are both represented in these ikons, with perhaps 40 other ‘saints’ and some survivors, even.

Mark died 3 weeks later, and left me the disposable cameras, with his last images.

I still have them.

An Open Beaver

Ray: I know you don’t need me, or anyone else, to say this but, Ruin, you’ve done great! And of course far more than great.

Ruin: I am not very confident about it, but I am doing it anyway. We get as far as we get.

You too.

Thank you for saying that. I got your message just as I was going to bed. Yes, to your list above...No interest in (sex, alcohol, travel, parties, people)...I am there too, completely. The rest is extra, though I have said that before. I am still planning to write until I drop, for no other reason other than I enjoy it, and it explains things to oneself.

I needed the musk of aging male. That wasn't a choice either, just a happenstance, debatably imprinted during the abuse, but more likely there from the beginning, that missing father stuff. Yes, we are doomed (doomed I tell you, doomed, intoned as a comic aside), that has never been not so, from the beginning of time, and will never be any different. Everything dies, get over it. It’s that universal story to do with what it means to be mortal, and no bloody big deal, whilst being at the same time, for us, the biggest deal of all.

Vermeer, Klimt, Grünewald, all great describers in their own time. I am only interested in the now of Putin, Covid and the rest of the sorry travesty (all of which I love, go figure). The world can sink or blow itself up, I will describe it until I cannot. End of story.

I don't mind being a demented fool, and getting HIV was not a mistake, or a misfortune.

It was a coping mechanism, like everything else. I must say that I am tired of decent good people. Decent good family people, decent good priests and nuns, decent good businessmen and bank managers, decent good 'professionals' and politicians, decent good artists, decent good billionaires. I am most thankful that I never had to take a machine gun to them all, like some poor unfortunates with access to a machine gun license in America, and elsewhere. I am so pleased I only really ever hurt, damaged, 'killed' myself even. That's decency personified in my book.

We did, and are doing, okay, and feck all the begrudgers.

Well then, that's all the hard edges knocked off at last!

Ray: I feel the same way about my whoremongerings. In the post-ménopausique I can see, rationally, that it is sexual exploitation. I was taking advantage of the disadvantaged: poor women in a developing country.

Ruin: The whole world is at it; it's what nature does, red in tooth and claw, and all that cliched stuff. The weak are eaten, that includes everyone, the self even, there is always someone stronger. It's the veneer of dignity and pseudo decency I find offensive, especially that dressed in religion and etiquette, propriety, decency and chivalry.

The Conjoined Origins of Chivalry and the Humble Domestic Can Opener (Photo attached below).

a 'de Selby' classic essay (currently unavailable).

'There's many a slip twixt cup and lip', as the old saying goes.

Ruin: I suspect he might need a can opener to use the urinal.

Seven: Such beautiful lighting for an isolation of desperation. Nobly knelt before the unthought of his decisions. Very much the religious approach and a hilarious reduction of the original taking the knee.

Ruin: and this was years, verily centuries, before the advent of the electric can-opener too.

Of course, the knights and Samurai of yore, or whatever local military brute force available, would build chivalrous systems based on manners and church-sanctioned decency. They could afford it through the patronage of the top, vicious, dogs, who themselves had evolved through combining brute force with intelligence. It’s evolution at work, that survival of the fittest, nothing noble about it, except in the same idea that defines the ‘Noble gasses’ in the periodic table. They are a chemical fluke that created a class system, wholly natural and infinitely exploitable, and exploiting. Of course, I have no problem with this, how could I?

It’s the dressing it all up as ‘decent’ and ‘dignified’, those with ‘manners’ and ‘breeding’ against the ‘Not quite our class, dear’, and then using those ideas as weapons to control. This is partially what I have a problem with. I also know that this story has been told forever, but that’s possibly why it needs to be told, continuously updating it. I don’t think either that humankind is the only facet of everything that tells ‘stories’. The entirety of everything does, it’s about consciousness. I am afraid I am one of those who believe that everything (and non-thing) is conscious, or as the bible says somewhere “The very stones themselves will cry out”. Stories are that ‘crying out’ made manifest.

‘Choice’ would be a fine thing, but in my ‘system’ it doesn’t exist. But you know this already.

Either way, it is the system I am going to use to describe. It’s the same one I used for forty years whilst visually describing, now I want to take that into words. Writing, or making art, is not a choice. They are both compulsions and survival mechanisms. I see this true of everything we do, including murder, suicide, rape and whoremongering. Sometimes we have to quarantine ourselves to control these compulsions. Those of us who don’t have the compulsion to rape and murder are very lucky indeed.

I suspect that empathy grows out of that seedbed, the recognition that we are all capable of the worst atrocities, but by sheer happenstance, and luck, we haven't had to utilise those methods as, what appears to be, our only route for survival. We accidentally, and thankfully, found other ways, in keeping with our natures and conditioning. You gotta luv Darwin.

❤️

That heart was for Charles, not for my statement.

By the way, your name is Ray in the 'book'. I was going to just use 'J', but that, of course, suggests its own name.

Ray: As life wears on, and, on reflection, I have come around to your understanding of the meaning of the word ‘choice’. For example, I have no choice about testosterone withdrawal taking away my libido or interest in sex, just as I had no choice about its onset, aged 12, and everything that arose from that. But I do suspect there are categories of choice/no-choice, and that example of the no-choice effect of hormones on behaviour is but one. As far as choice governs conduct, I know I’d be lying if I said I had no choice about whether or not to have sex with a prostitute: it was always a conscious choice, as was the choice to use condoms, even if the libidinous impulse itself wasn’t. Those choices we *are* responsible for, I think, like it or not. And when it comes to crime and law-breaking, criminal law holds us responsible.

I am very glad that I was fortunate enough to be able to escape marrying someone I don’t love, having children I don’t want, and doing a dead-end job I hate, to keep all that going. I think that is the lot of many heterosexual men. I can see how that might generate resentment and violence. All thanks to the hormones which make all this happen.

Ruin: Yes, to that, but there are other, equally powerful, drivers at work, an infinite number of them, even. I don't see self-quarantining as a 'choice' either, it's a survival mechanism, as is my cuckoo instinct, my moving into already built nests. Anyway, all that is my 'starting point', even if I am wrong.

I am somewhat of a mind with Miro on that one, start with a point (a full stop, even), then take that point for a walk. Start with an idea, erroneous or not (who's right and who is wrong anyway?) and begin to walk it forward.

視察廣深港高鐵香港段西九龍總站建築工地 Visit to construction site of West Kowloon Terminus of Hong Kong Section of Guangzhou-Shenzhen-Hong Kong Express Rail Link (2014.04.28) by 立法會 Legislative Council

立法會鐵路事宜小組委員會視察廣深港高速鐵路香港段西九龍總站的建築工地

立法会铁路事宜小组委员会视察广深港高速铁路香港段西九龙总站的建筑工地

LegCo Subcommittee on Matters Relating to Railways visits the construction site of the West Kowloon Terminus of the Hong Kong Section of Guangzhou-Shenzhen-Hong Kong Express Rail Link (2014.04.28)

we can relate.. by * Honest *

7 14

“The observer, when he seems to himself to be observing a stone, is really, if physics is to be believed, observing the effects of the stone upon himself.”

- Bertrand Russell

______________________________________________________________

it was extrememly hard for me to get this shot.. i am so glad i could capture it. the way i shot it was extremely funny.. Crea-tive photographed me while i struggled to take this shot. I might post it.. so look out for that one.

(for best viewing, have monitor brightness on highest)

Elevated pressure elevated temperature sour corrosion fatigue testing facility by TWI Ltd

1

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For more information please visit www.twi-global.com/capabilities/materials-and-corrosion-m...

If you wish to use this image each use should be accompanied by the credit line and notice, "Courtesy of TWI Ltd".

Bangor RFC V Dundalk RFC Irish Junior Cup Final 31st January 2015 driven by John Mooney

Dundalk overwhelm Bangor in All Ireland Final

by Roger Corbett

Bangor’s amazing run in the All Ireland Junior Cup came to an abrupt end when they were comprehensively beaten by Dundalk, eventually losing by 55-5.

Where do you start when trying to relate and absorb the events of Saturday’s final at Chambers Park? Firstly, congratulations to worthy winners Dundalk who nullified the Bangor attack, then went on to produce some stunning plays which racked up no less than 8 tries, each by a different player. For Bangor’s part, they were unable to respond to the intensity of Dundalk’s game, and lacked the cutting edge which their opponents used to great effect.

The day started full of promise, as the strong support from North Down made their way to Chambers Park in Portadown, knowing Bangor would be fielding their best team. Once again, the pundits had Bangor as the underdogs – just as they had done so in the previous three rounds! In confounding the experts earlier, Bangor produced some awesome performances against top quality opposition to get to the final. Dundalk had produced some convincing wins in the early rounds of the competition, but had struggled to get past CIYMS in the semi-final, just managing to squeeze ahead at the second time of asking. However, with a number of key players returning to the side in time for this game, they were now back at full strength and would be a formidable force to contend with.

Having won the toss, captain Jamie Clegg elected to play into the stiff wind in the first half. For the first 5 minutes, Bangor doggedly retained possession and tried to play their way into Dundalk’s half through a series of determined forward moves. However, little ground was made and, when possession was finally lost, the Dundalk back line produced a burst that simply cut through the Bangor defence resulting in an easy touch down under Bangor’s posts for a 7-0 lead.

Bangor stuck to their plan and slowly, but patiently, got their attack moving forward, eventually winning a penalty to the left of Dundalk’s posts, but Mark Widdowson’s kick into the wind drifted just wide of the mark.

The contrast in play between the two teams was becoming clear, with Bangor trying to keep the ball close while Dundalk were throwing it wide. The latter strategy was proving to be the more effective as, with 20 minutes gone, a quick back line move with players looping around resulted in an overlap on the right wing which gave a clear run in to again, score under the posts. A further 9 minutes later, they did it again and, although the Bangor defence had sensed the danger and moved across to cover it, their tackling let them down allowing Dundalk to get over in the right hand corner, taking their lead to 19-0.

By now, Bangor were trying to hang on until half time when they could regroup and come out with the wind at their backs. Dundalk, on the other hand were anxious to press home their advantage and give them a more comfortable lead. To Bangor’s credit, although camped on their own line for lengthy spells, they dug in and managed to hold on until the referee’s half time whistle.

As the teams reappeared from the dressing rooms, it was obvious Bangor were ringing the changes, particularly in the backs. With the wind advantage having lessened considerably, Bangor got the second half underway. It was now Dundalk’s turn to adopt the slow, steady approach, just as Bangor had done earlier. However, their more confident off-loading and support play was, once again, taking play deep into Bangor’s territory. Frustration at not being able to gain possession and take play out of their danger area eventually resulted in a yellow card for Clegg after a succession of penalties. Dundalk kicked the penalty to touch, won their lineout and drove for the line. Although initially held up by the Bangor defence, Dundalk’s repeated drives were eventually rewarded with another converted score, extending their lead to 26-0.

From the touchline, the Bangor faithful had felt that if their players had managed to score first in the second half, they may have been able to mount a fight-back and close the gap to their opponents. As it was, this Dundalk score simply bolstered their confidence and pushed Bangor deeper into trouble. With Bangor still a man down, Dundalk added to the score with a penalty and then another score in the corner. Everything was now working for the Leinster men, as even the difficult touchline conversion into the biting wind successfully split the posts, bringing the score to 36-0.

As the game entered the final quarter, and with Dundalk all but holding the cup, Bangor were now on the ropes. By contrast, the Dundalk players were in almost total control, and were not going to slow down now. In a 10 minute spell, they ran in a further 3 tries, making the scoreline 55-0. By now, any sense of dejection the Bangor supporters may have been feeling was now moved to feelings of sympathy for their players. However, pride was at stake and once again Bangor rallied as the game entered its final minutes. At last, the forwards got within striking distance of the Dundalk line and, although their repeated attacks were repelled, they finally managed to do what their opponents had done so effectively, and quickly passed the ball wide to Davy Charles. Even though they were 55 points ahead, the Dundalk defence made Charles work hard to drive through the tackles and score Bangor’s consolation try, bringing the final score to 55-5.

From Bangor’s point of view, the final score doesn’t tell the whole story of this competition. While the final may have resulted in a sad anti-climax for Bangor, the remarkable journey to get there will be remembered for some time. On the day, Dundalk were by far the better side, and Bangor would have to concede that their game was not up to the usual standard. However, there is no doubt the experience of competing at this level is something to relish and the goal now will be to secure a top four place in the league and try again next year.

Everybody at the club has nothing but the highest respect and praise for what has been achieved this year by not just the 1sts, but all the senior teams, and one poor result isn’t going to change that – the welcome at Upritchard Park for the returning players is testament to that. With that in mind, the players now need to put this disappointment behind them and provide the best possible response against a struggling Portadown side at home in the league next Saturday.

Bangor side: J Leary, A Jackson, P Whyte, F Black, G Irvine, R Latimer, J Clegg, C Stewart, R Armstrong, K Rosson, D Charles, M Aspley, M Weir, M Widdowson, C Morgan

Subs: S Irvine, O McIlmurray, D Kelly, M Rodgers, C Harper, D Fusco, M Thompson

Bangor scores: D Charles (1T)

Dundalk Storm To Title Dundalk 55 v Bangor 5 from KnockOn.ie

Dundalk Scorers: Christopher Scully, Owen McNally, Jonathan Williams, John Smyth, Ultan Murphy, Tiernan Gonnelly, James McConnon and Stephen Murphy 1 try each. Ultan Murphy 6 cons, 1 pen.

Bangor Scorers: David Charles 1 try.

In front of a big crowd at Chambers Park on Saturday afternoon Dundalk delivered a stunning and ruthless display to see off the challenge of Bangor and capture the All Ireland Junior Cup title for the very first time.

Three first half tries had them firmly in control at 19-0 ahead having played with the elements at the Portadown venue during the first half and while the wind dropped somewhat after half time the Dundalk intensity most certainly didn’t as they cut loose scoring five more tries.

Dundalk returned to a heroes welcome at their Mill Road clubhouse on Saturday night after a display of pure brilliance throughout the afternoon.

Precision, pace and skill from the Louth men from start to finish left Bangor playing second fiddle for long periods.

Tuesday night relatation by Davina Jane Williams

4

The Early Dependency Stage of Addiction by Vishal Majithia

"During this stage, the regular user becomes an abuser. Now maintaining an addictive lifestyle that starts to affect others. The young user may be missing school and stealing money to feed the habit. Older users may be struggling to keep their job and running up debts."

The Chinese have a saying about heroin 'You begin chasing the dragon but then it jumps on your back and begins chasing you'....

This expression relates to smoking heroin, but it could be applied for all mood altering drugs, alcohol, painkillers, tranquilisers, speed, solvents, LSD, cocaine, heroin, crack, ecstasy, barbiturates, and cannabis. It can apply to adrenalin based addictions like gambling, sex, shopping, people (co-dependency) and eating disorders.

Title and description comes from

ezinearticles.com/?The-4-Stages-of-Addiction&id=2173640

Another title I thought of for this foto is "Longing".

Arras CWGC Archway by www.nmbs2001.com

1

The Panel (or Bay) numbers quoted at the end of each entry relate to the panels dedicated to the Regiment served with. In some instances where a casualty is recorded as attached to another Regiment, his name may alternatively appear within their Regimental Panels (or Bays). Please refer to the on-site Memorial Register Introduction to determine the alternative Panel (or Bay) numbers if you do not find the name within the quoted Panel (or Bay). Wheelchair access to the memorial is possible via an alternative entrance at the rear of Faubourg-d'Amiens Cemetery. Location Information: The Arras Memorial is in the Faubourg-d'Amiens Cemetery, which is in the Boulevard du General de Gaulle in the western part of the town of Arras. The cemetery is near the Citadel, approximately 2 kms due west of the railway station.

The French handed over Arras to Commonwealth forces in the spring of 1916 and the system of tunnels upon which the town is built were used and developed in preparation for the major offensive planned for April 1917. The Commonwealth section of the FAUBOURG D'AMIENS CEMETERY was begun in March 1916, behind the French military cemetery established earlier. It continued to be used by field ambulances and fighting units until November 1918. The cemetery was enlarged after the Armistice when graves were brought in from the battlefields and from two smaller cemeteries in the vicinity. The cemetery contains 2,651 Commonwealth burials of the First World War. In addition, there are 30 war graves of other nationalities, most of them German. During the Second World War, Arras was occupied by United Kingdom forces headquarters until the town was evacuated on 23 May 1940. Arras then remained in German hands until retaken by Commonwealth and Free French forces on 1 September 1944. The cemetery contains seven Commonwealth burials of the Second World War. The graves in the French military cemetery were removed after the First World War to other burial grounds and the land they had occupied was used for the construction of the Arras Memorial and Arras Flying Services Memorial. The ARRAS MEMORIAL commemorates almost 35,000 servicemen from the United Kingdom, South Africa and New Zealand who died in the Arras sector between the spring of 1916 and 7 August 1918, the eve of the Advance to Victory, and have no known grave. The most conspicuous events of this period were the Arras offensive of April-May 1917, and the German attack in the spring of 1918. Canadian and Australian servicemen killed in these operations are commemorated by memorials at Vimy and Villers-Bretonneux. A separate memorial remembers those killed in the Battle of Cambrai in 1917. The ARRAS FLYING SERVICES MEMORIAL commemorates nearly 1,000 airmen of the Royal Naval Air Service, the Royal Flying Corps, and the Royal Air Force, either by attachment from other arms of the forces of the Commonwealth or by original enlistment, who were killed on the whole Western Front and who have no known grave. Both cemetery and memorial were designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens, with sculpture by Sir William Reid Dick. The memorial was unveiled by Lord Trenchard, Marshal of the Royal Air Force on the 31 July 1932 (originally it had been scheduled for 15 May, but due to the sudden death of French President Doumer, as a mark of respect, the ceremony was postponed until July).

D7K_2641_ep by Eric Parker

Activity relating to the carrying of the more than 100 portable shrines (mikoshi) around the Asakusa neighbourhood to bless the businesses and residents with prosperity in the coming year.

Sanja Matsuri (Festival) at the Sensoji Temple, Asakusa,

Tokyo, Japan, 2016

Only the street shots - thestreetzine.blogspot.com/

Gelato in Sardinia by Heather Cowper

1

This relates to my blog post

www.heatheronhertravels.com/a-cool-gelateria-in-nuoro-in-...

This photo is licenced under Creative commons for use including commercial on condition that you link back to or credit http://www.heatheronhertravels.com/.

See my profile for more detail.

Le Puy-en-Velay - Fontaine des Tables ou de l'Ange by larsen Detdl

1 1

Monument Historique :

Selon une tradition relatée par Mérimée, un enfant de choeur aurait été assassiné par un Juif en 1320, irrité de l'entendre chanter la naissance du Christ, puis enterré secrètement. Mais l'enfant de choeur ressuscita le dimanche des Rameaux, se mêlant à la procession et, passant devant la fontaine des Farges, au bas de la rue des Tables, accusa le meurtrier et le fit lapider. Afin de commémorer ce souvenir, cette fontaine fut élevée au 14e siècle. Elle était composée d'un large bassin au milieu duquel s'élevait un vase à large panse s'évidant du haut et surmonté d'un pilier gothique à pinacles et fleurons au sommet duquel était l'image sculptée du choriste. Le monument fut détruit en 1837. Le pilier gothique fut conservé et remployé dans la restauration de l'ouvrage précédent.

Eléments protégés :

Fontaine des Tables ou de l'Ange : classement par arrêté du 13 avril 1907

Périodes de construction :

14e siècle;15e siècle;19e siècle

VENICE MUDA TO ALEXANDRIA IN 1504 Ref 431 f.5r by RMGYMss.

GENERAL DESCRIPTION

PLEASE NOTE: -

“MUDA” is a singular word relating to one of the mercantile convoys sailing out of Venice each year.

“MUDE” is a plural word relating to several, or all, of the mercantile convoys sailing out of Venice each year.

27 leaves, leaf size 249mm x172mm (9 3/4ins. X 6 8/10ins.) with a text block of 172mm x 98mm (6 8/10ins. x 3 17/20ins.).

Single column, 29 lines in a superb, elegant, humanistic cursive minuscule script in black, probably all written by the same scribe. Many ascenders on the top line, and descenders on the bottom line, have been embellished.

This manuscript include two texts, the first being the Regulations of the Muda of Venice to Alexandria, and the second being the Journal of the Muda to Alexandria that set sail from Venice on 21st. May, 1504. The manuscript was probably written in that city in that year.

A FULL DESCRIPTION IS ATTACHED TO THE OVERVIEW.

Folio 5 recto (Original Folio 6 recto)

TRANSCRIPTION

(38)

lignum vel navigium armatu Vel disarmatum, vel merces ali -

quas de extra Culphum ad aliquas partes de intra Culphum alioquin

venetiis. Sub pena de L. pro .c . totius eius quod portaretur, vel mit -

teretur, aut discarricaretur contra hoc. Et si maiores pene inveni -

rentur apposite p alios ordines nostros, ille maiores pene exigatur

a contrafacientibus: et pro omni bono respectu est etiam ordinatum,

q de cetero nullis fidelis, vel districtualis Venetiarum possit levare

vel levari facere sup aliquibus navigiis armatis vel disarmatis ali -

quod havere Venetiarum subtile vel grossum quod foret conductum de

extra Culphum sub pena de. L .pro .Co . In quam penam etiam incur -

rant nostri Patroni navigiorum armatorum et disarmatorum super

quibus levaretur de Dicto havere : Et si levaretur de havere fo -

rensium cadant tam nostri patroni predicti, super quorum navigiis

levaretur, q nostri mercatores contrafacientes De . Co . Pro . Co . Valoris

eius in quo fuerit contrafactum. Et si maiores pene forent positae

sup hoc exigantur a contrafacientibus, Et predicta omnia inquiren -

da comissimus omnibus officialibus quibus comissa sunt qui banna

qui inquirant de contrafacientibus, et penas exigant habentes partem ut

de aliis sui officii. Et si fuerit Accusator habeat tertium, & sit

de credentia, officium, tertium, et Commune reliquum. Et perpea

Committimus tibi q predicta facias obsuari, & ingras de contra -

facientibus cum illa libertate, et conditione quibus est comissum

in Venetiis officialibus ante dictis, habendo partem sicut haberet

officiales. Et de dictis penis non potest ferie gratia sub pena du -

catorum mille pro quolibet ponentem vel contrafaciente partem in con -

trarium : & predicta revocari non possint nisi p sex Consiliari -

os, tria Capita de xLra. & tres partes consilii rogarum congregarum

ab octnaginta supra.

(39)NUllus ciuis noster vel habitator Venetiis vel alia persona

Folio 5 recto (Original Folio 6 recto)

POSSIBLE ENGLISH TRANSLATION

38. …............. stock or ship armed or unarmed or reward from any outside Culphum to any parts of the Culphum other than Venice under the penalty of 100 pounds instead of the whole of that which he was born with, or be sent to, or discharged against this. And if our ancestors found it appropriate through other means, they opposed a greater punishment being required, and with respect to all the other goods is ordered otherwise in the future it will not be believed that a distracted Venice can raise or levy on some boats or disarmed can have any Venetian fine or anything which would be hired from outside Culphum under penalty of 50 in which also incurs the penalty of our patron' boats upon which the amusement has taken place : And if the amusement of our patrons takes place in public then let them fall as aforesaid, upon whose boats there was amusements that have opposed the merchants 100 for 100 value of that in which it has been against the facts. And if the punishment that should be placed needs to be opposed and said everything looked affable to all officials who have imposed the banns are to enquire concerning who opposed and the pain brought with it as they possess a much apart as others in the same office. And it shall the plaintiff that may have a third, the entrusted officer a third and the commune the other third. And the aforesaid do entrust it, to suffer, and to enter into the battle with her, opposed to the liberty that had been made by officials in Venice, and as said before, the conditions as set out, as they would have been on the part of the officials. And concerning the said grace in the penalties nor can he make the pain of 1,000 ducats for any part of the holiday for any claims that can not be part of or opposed to the contrary, but that they cannot be recalled and to the aforesaid six councillors, three parts of the 40 and three parts to the council asked to store the 80 above.

39. None of our citizens or inhabitants of Venice or any other person …...........

Bibi Khanum Mosque - Samarkand DSC02992_ by Chris Belsten

Built 1399 and 1404, commemorates Timur's wife buried in a tomb located in a madrasa complex close by.

A contemporary chronicler relates that Timur brought in architects from Iran and India for the project (he had sacked Delhi in 1398) and used ninety-five elephants to haul construction material. One of the models for the building likely was the great mosque erected in Sultaniyya by the Ilkhanid (Mongol) ruler Uljaytu.

"Timur's mosque was designed not only to continue Iranian imperial tradition, but also to symbolize his conquest of the world."

depts.washington.edu/silkroad/cities/uz/samarkand/bibi.html In the 15th century it was one of the largest and most magnificent mosques in the Islamic world. By the mid-20th century only a grandiose ruin of it still survived, but now major parts of the mosque have been restored.

After his Indian campaign in 1399 Timur decided to undertake the construction of a gigantic mosque in his new capital.

When Timur (Tamerlane) returned from his military campaign in 1404 the mosque was almost completed. However, Timur was not happy with the progress of construction, therefore he had immediately made various changes, especially concerning the main cupola.

From the beginning of the construction, problems of statistical regularity of the structure revealed themselves. Various reconstructions and reinforcements were undertaken in order to save the mosque. However, after just a few years, the first bricks had begun to fall out of the huge dome over the mihrab.

IIt forced Timur to retaliate often beyond the structural rules. His builders were certainly aware of that, however he didn't want to accept their opinion and reality. [4][5]

In the late 16th century the Abdullah Khan II (Abdollah Khan Ozbeg) (1533/4-1598), the last Shaybanid Dynasty Khan of Bukhara, cancelled all restoration works in Bibi Khonym Mosque.

After that, the mosque came down and became a ruins gnawed at by the wind, weather, and earthquakes. The inner arch of the portal construction collapsed in 1897.[7][8] During the centuries the ruins were plundered by the inhabitants of Samarkand in search of building material especially the brick of masonry galleries along with the marble columns.

Architecture

Follows the basic plan of the courtyard mosque.

The cupola of the main chamber is 40 m high.

Formerly, there were open galleries measuring 7.2 m high inside the courtyard. Their cover was formed from the juxtaposition of many small, flat brick vaults and domes supported by a forest of more than 400 marble columns and buttresses. Today, only hints of the galleries can be seen.

Four minarets at the outer corners of the site have been restored. Four other, more majestic minarets that flanked the Portal arch of the entrance and the Pischtak of the main domed building are not completed yet.

In the middle of the courtyard is located the stone pedestal - the huge Quran stand crafted from ornate marble blocks. This remarkable sight originates from the time of Timur.

The huge Bibi Khonym Mosque with its three domed rooms, the covered galleries and the open courtyard was intended to gather the entire male population of Samarkand city for the joint Friday prayers.

In the construction of three domes of Bibi-Khanym mosque, sophisticated in Timur's time, one important innovation was applied: a two-fold construction, where the internal dome hall neither by the form nor by height corresponds to the dome's shape from outside. There is a hollow space between the inner ceiling and the outer cupola. This dome construction allowed the main hall of the mosque to be committed to the proportions and the aesthetics of the 30 m high interior above the mihrab. Meanwhile, the 40 m high outer dome of the main building could be designed for maximal impression and visibility. This scheme was applied also to the lateral dome structures that allowed making modest buildings the figuration tower-like structures with elegant melon-shaped and longitudinally ribbed outer domes

Bangor RFC V Dundalk RFC Irish Junior Cup Final 31st January 2015 protect the ball by John Mooney