Unshakable photos on Flickr

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54737038151/in/dateposted...

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My new novel.

B♭ (B flat)

Volume 11. 😄

What follows is still in its first-draft stage. It will go through further revisions.

The crucial passages have not been made public.

(Of course, this is not the final manuscript.)

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My New Novel.

B♭ (B Flat)

— The darkest hour comes just before dawn —

The dawn in New York brought that phrase back to mind.

It was something Amir once heard from Professor Zakaria of the Faculty of Engineering at the Islamic University.

The professor, in his lifetime, had struggled between theory and reality, yet instilled in his disciples a calm and unshakable resolve.

Amir studied electrical engineering; Rafi Ghannam, architecture.

Each possessed talents that complemented the other.

After mastering the structures of the world, Rafi had gone on to extend his knowledge into electrical engineering, reaching from machinery to programs.

To the two of them, the vulnerabilities of America’s IT networks were but an open book.

In the dim underground floor, where bare fluorescent lights flickered, Rafi crouched at the intersection of the switchboard and the drainage duct.

Beneath his electrician’s vest and helmet, the red earth–colored scarf of Gaza wrapped his neck.

Amir stood beside him, scuffing his dusty work boots against the floor, fighting down his unease.

“Hurry. The morning shift will be here soon.”

“Quiet. Every sound echoes down here.”

Rafi answered evenly, opening his toolbox.

Inside lay a modified pressure switch and a block of C4, black and light-absorbing, gleaming like coal.

The device was to be set in the hidden recess where the structural beam and wiring shaft crossed—a “node” that, once sealed, could never be retrieved.

“Once it’s buried here, no one will ever find it.”

“...But are you sure? Is five years really the right time?”

“It must be five years. When the building stands complete, when it has been forgotten—then the blast will become the return of memory.”

Amir studied his profile and nodded silently.

Every motion of Rafi’s hand, each measured breath, carried the authority of a father, a teacher.

The hand that once learned to build was now preparing to destroy.

A slow tide of trust and kinship welled in Amir’s chest.

The sound of a fan turning, the rasp of chalk on blackboard—these rose in Rafi’s memory.

In the night lecture hall of the university, he had filled his notebook with shear angles of beams and the breaking points of concrete.

The lecturer, pointing to the diagram on the blackboard, had said quietly:

“When a structure collapses, it is not from defect. It follows the very will of its design.”

The classroom had fallen utterly silent at those words.

To know what would sway, what would endure, what would crack with sound during a vibration test—that knowledge was what could transform collapse into form.

That winter, Rafi’s family lost their home to an Israeli airstrike along the coast.

Despair turned to rage, rage to resolve, and resolve gave strength to his hands.

Amir, too, carried the same wound, and shared in that resolve.

Five years earlier, Rafi had begun to set up pirate radio.

Through networks of Caribbean and Hispanic immigrant communities, he passed messages quietly.

Every social platform and smartphone was under watch.

They restricted themselves to the barest communications, leaving only casual, trivial exchanges for daily use.

When he pressed the switch, a faint click was swallowed into the night’s silence.

A small red lamp lit up, linking him to nearby companions.

At two in the morning, a woman’s voice drifted from FM 87.9.

Through the static hush, a poem unfurled:

“If the world should end, I want to be singing alone.”

The verse Rafi chose was the emblem of his quiet resolve.

Amir listened to that voice while gazing at Rafi’s back.

What they undertook was not mere destruction—it was the embodiment of lost memory and anger, the crystallization of their trust and mutual understanding.

In darkness and silence, their plan advanced steadily.

The theory of architecture and the principles of electrical engineering, the pain of the past, and the will of those who had survived—all of it flowed quietly forward, converging toward a future act of ruin.

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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:

music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD

iTunes Playlist Link::

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

3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally

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Title.

向こう側。

( LUMIX G3 shot )

マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 4 / 8

Images.

Beck - Cycle + Morning

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54737038151/in/dateposted...

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僕の新しい小説。

　B♭　（ビーフラット）

第11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。

(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）

ーー　夜明け前が、一番暗い　ーー

　ニューヨークの夜明けは、その言葉を思い出させた。アミールが、イスラム大学工学部のザカリア教授から聞いた言葉だ。教授は生前、理論と現実の狭間で苦悩しつつも、弟子たちに冷静な意思を植え付けた。アミールは電気工学を、ラフィ・ガンナムは建築学を学び、互いに補完し合う才能を持っていた。ラフィは世界中の構造物を理解した後、電気工学へ知識を広げ、電子機器からプログラムまで手を伸ばしていた。アメリカの脆弱なITネットワークを熟知することなど、二人にとっては容易いことだった。

　地下フロアの蛍光灯がむき出しの薄暗い空間で、ラフィは配電盤と排水ダクトの交差部にしゃがみ込んだ。電工業者のベストとヘルメットの下、ガザの赤土色のスカーフが彼の首を覆う。アミールはその横で、埃まみれの作業靴を床で擦りながら、緊張を抑えていた。

「早くしてくれ。もうすぐ朝の組が来る」

「静かにしろ、音が響く」

　ラフィは冷静に答え、工具箱を開いた。中には改造された圧力スイッチと、光を吸い込むように黒光りするC4が収まっていた。仕掛けるのは、構造梁と配線シャフトが交差する“ノード”の背面——完成すれば、二度と取り外すことのできない場所だ。

「ここに埋めたら、二度と誰にも見つからない」

「……でも、本当に５年後でいいのか？」

「５年経った時こそ意味がある。建物が完成し、忘れ去られた時に——爆破は記憶の復活になる」

　アミールは横顔を見つめ、静かに頷いた。ラフィの手の動き、呼吸の一つ一つが、師としての父のように頼もしく感じられた。建築を学んだ者の手が、今、建築を破壊する準備をしている。信頼と共感の感覚が、胸の奥にじわりと広がった。

　扇風機の回る音と乾いた黒板の響きが、ラフィの記憶を呼び覚ます。大学の夜の講義室で、彼は梁の剪断角とコンクリートの破断点をノートに描き込んだ。講師は黒板の図を指し、静かに言った。

「構造が崩壊するのは、欠陥ではなく“設計の意思”に従ったときです」

　その言葉に教室は静まり返った。振動試験でどこが揺れ、どこが耐え、どこが音を立てるか。それを理解することが、崩壊を“形”に変える。

　その冬、ラフィの家族はイスラエルによる湾岸の空爆で家を失った。絶望は怒りに、怒りは意思に変わり、ラフィの手に力を宿した。アミールもまた、同じ痛みを知る者として、その意思を分かち合っていた。

　５年前、ラフィはパイレーツラジオを設置し始めた。カリブ系やヒスパニック系の移民コミュニティのネットワークを利用し、伝令を静かに届ける。SNSやスマートフォンはすべて監視されている。彼らは必要最小限の通信にとどめ、日常的な他愛ないやり取りだけに絞った。

　スイッチを押すと微かなクリック音が夜の静けさに吸い込まれる。小さな赤いランプが灯り、近隣の同胞たちに接続された。

　午前2時、FM87.9から女の声が流れた。砂嵐のような静寂の中、詩が紡がれる。

「この世界が終わるなら、私はひとりで歌っていたい」

　ラフィが選んだ一節は、彼の静かな決意の象徴だった。

　アミールはその声を聞きながら、ラフィの背中を見つめた。彼らが行うのは単なる破壊ではない——失われた記憶と怒りの象徴であり、互いの信頼と理解の結晶でもあった。闇と静寂の中で、二人の計画は着実に進行する。建築の理論と電気工学、過去の痛み、そして生き延びた者の意志が、未来の破壊へと静かに繋がっていくのだ。

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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。

メモ

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「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」

•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。

•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。

•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。

•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。

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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』

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Shots fired at Trump rally

www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/lot.101.html/2015...

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97 Belgian urbex - Creeper on the Attic.. by Bas 1953

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Belgian Landscapes -

As solid and unshakable as we think our civilization is, its grip on nature is tenuous at best. If any cracks appear in the faces of our buildings or our machines, nature is quick to move in and take over. 1 photo in place and things that nature is in the process of reclaiming.

Quite a bit of thought has been given to the idea of what Earth might look like once we’re gone. Indeed, many books and TV shows on the topic have found that nature would take our places fairly quickly. Many cities would be re-colonized within a year or two, and many of our buildings would begin crumbling soon after without human maintenance or energy sources. The Life After People series on the History Channel has a comprehensive timeline of collapses detailing when various famous landmarks of human civilization throughout the world might give way to nature.

LEROY to Collabor88 by LEROY

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I was very excited to be able to show this to all. This outfit represents something very particular, I got so sick last week that I thought I wouldn't make it and now seeing the result I'm thrilled. So I wanted to dedicate it to all the strong women who fight every day to prove their worth to this society, and who never think about giving up absolutely anything. Yes, we are unshakable and above all, we are #womanpowered

George Rutherford by Christopher Michel

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George Rutherford: Mapping Epidemics, Defining Public Health

Dr. George Rutherford sits at his desk, surrounded by the artifacts of a life devoted to global public health—books stacked in teetering towers, old epidemiological maps, globes with well-worn latitudes, and photographs chronicling decades of disease response. His office in Piedmont, where I photographed him on May 4, 2021, felt like a command center of knowledge, an apt setting for a man who has spent his career at the forefront of epidemics, from HIV to COVID-19.

It was the height of the pandemic, and much of our conversation revolved around the crisis at hand—UCSF’s response, the evolving science, and the challenge of communicating uncertainty to a world desperate for answers. Rutherford, a professor of epidemiology and biostatistics at the University of California, San Francisco, had become one of the leading voices of reason during the pandemic, providing clear-eyed analysis in a time of confusion.

His path to public health was not linear but shaped by a restless intellect and an instinct for where he could do the most good. Trained initially as a pediatrician, Rutherford found himself drawn to epidemiology—the study of how diseases move through populations, how patterns emerge, and how outbreaks can be stopped before they spiral into catastrophe. He worked with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the World Health Organization, and a host of other public health institutions, always placing himself at the nexus of policy and science, where decisions must be made quickly and lives hang in the balance.

In the 1980s and 1990s, as the HIV/AIDS epidemic devastated communities, Rutherford played a pivotal role in shaping public health responses. His work at the San Francisco Department of Public Health helped establish critical interventions, from early testing initiatives to harm reduction strategies that would later become global models. Unlike some scientists who remain in the abstract, Rutherford was always on the ground, always in the fray, deeply engaged with the real-world impact of his work.

When COVID-19 arrived, he was uniquely positioned to provide both historical context and real-time guidance. His ability to translate complex epidemiological data into actionable public health advice made him an essential figure in California’s response. He was a frequent presence in the media, offering a steady voice amid the noise, often reminding the public that pandemics are not just biological events but social ones—that the way we respond to a crisis is as important as the virus itself.

Our conversation that day in Piedmont drifted across time zones and epidemics, touching on smallpox eradication efforts, tuberculosis control in sub-Saharan Africa, and the decades-long fight against malaria. His perspective is vast, drawn from years of experience in international public health, and yet he is not weighed down by cynicism. If anything, there is an optimism that runs through his work—an unshakable belief that science, if communicated well and applied correctly, can turn the tide of even the most daunting outbreaks.

The books in his office, some dating back to the earliest days of epidemiology, are reminders that this work is both ancient and ever-evolving. The globes reflect the scale of his concerns—pandemics do not recognize borders, and neither does public health. And the photographs, many of them taken in field hospitals and conference halls, tell the story of a career spent in service of a singular mission: to understand how disease spreads and to stop it before it takes too many lives.

Rutherford remains a professor, a mentor, and an advocate for evidence-based public health. His presence at UCSF is a reminder that science is not just about discovery but about responsibility—to educate, to inform, and to act. And as we sat in his office that day, in the midst of a once-in-a-century pandemic, it was clear that he was exactly where he needed to be—translating knowledge into action, as he has always done.

Cyber-Vulcan, The Logic of Steel by ꧁⚸ Amon the Purple ⚸꧂

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Inspired by and reimagined

“Even in circuits, logic endures.”

On the bridge of a starship drifting through violet nebulae, the Vulcan ideal has been reforged in steel. A fully robotic figure, his alloyed ears sharpened, his eyes glowing with digital fire, raises the timeless salute: Live Long and Prosper. Etched across his plating are patterns of circuitry that pulse like Vulcan runes, merging logic with machine precision. He is no longer flesh, yet his presence embodies the same unshakable principle — logic eternal, now housed in an immortal frame of chrome and light.

🔹 Done in AI, Refined in Bloom, Finalized in Photoshop

michel jaouen priest, Sailor and Savior Of Souls by french vintage finds

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Sailing meant Learning from Hardship:First a Priest... Serenity, Freedom and unshakable Certainty depicted Michel Jaouen. Sailing on "Le Bel Espoir"; Noahs Ark of Modern Times www.flickr.com/people/frenchvintagetreasures/

the barber by Eric Luck

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Link to the large size

Always the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas, even if I am not there, it is where I will always wish to be.

Like everything else in life, memory is not perfect. It is not even neat and orderly. It is messy like life itself. Over time, the things that we once did in everyday life diminish to specks and events of varying importance. But those elements can fade to become impossible to prioritize, even in retrospect. Seemingly significant meetings are sometimes reduced in our memories to chance encounters only to become barely noticed details. Some less meaningful events can emerge as clearly influential moments. Time will enhance some memories and dull the focus on others.

My memory of my father’s father serves up an ideal that continues to be difficult to live up to. He was an example to aspire to be like. I always have that in mind. Always. What better legacy could a man leave on this earth?

Riding with my grandfather in his car on a Sunday afternoon in 1960, I remembered that my grandmother said he had once declined the offer of a live chicken for his services. He accepted some eggs instead. She said my grandfather “cut many heads for free” when people were down on their luck. He would trade a haircut and a shave for some bacon or some fresh eggs or butter, some shelled pecans or even for just a promise. Her reveal of his generosity involved admiration but with a dash of frustration on top. I think Grandma liked to eat and worried more than Grandpa about how they would keep doing so. Of course, I just thought it would have been great to have a live chicken around the house. I was a city kid.

The upholstery of a car made in the 1950s had an odor like old, hot, dry foam rubber and a dirty shirt. Maybe it was the heat of Texas summers that brought out such a smell. There was no air conditioning. Everybody looked for shade and a cool drink or they went for a drive to enjoy air that was in motion. The only way to enjoy air in motion during a Texas summer is to put it in motion once the sun is going down. Texas summer air is heavy, moist and as still as a corpse.

My grandfather drove out to a farmhouse where a man was sick and unable to come to him. Not only did he wear his Sunday suit with a white shirt and tie, he always wore a hat. His hats were lightweight and stylish looking. Clearly, he was unaware of hats being in or out of style. He just liked his hats. The inside of his hats always smelled like the flower flavored hair tonic he splashed on me after cutting my hair. I liked Rosewater the best. It smelled like roses and cotton candy which, to this day, I consider an unbeatable combo in the smell department. He always waited until after Sunday “dinner” to visit his shut-ins. In places other than Texas, it is my experience that Sunday “dinner” is usually referred to as “lunch”, although it might be considered by some to be a late lunch.

More times than could be counted, my grandfather would give a shave and a haircut to a man who was dying in his own bed in the farmhouse of a cotton farm. This was almost always a man that Grandpa had known for many years. Grandpa said that a shave would especially make a man feel clean and normal for a minute, even in the face of the worst sickness. I have not forgotten. I will not forget.

Our arrival was always uncomfortable to me even if I had been there before. But it never seemed so for him and never for the family at the farmhouse. Peoples’ comfort with my grandfather was always evident. He was an easy man to be around. There were almost always young kids in dirty clothes, holding broken toys. Farm dogs and other farm animals almost always came to greet us…except the cows. Cows were always busy chewing. Some cows would look up, but always continued chewing. This is where I formed the unshakable opinion that cows are stupid.

Talk was always of the weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. None of this was remotely interesting to a kid like me. All I wanted to do was go outside to play baseball and escape the stale smell of sick.

Before going outside to play with kids or animals, I would always watch my grandfather’s preparation for the shave. Even when his preparations became familiar to me, it was a show worth watching. It included easy conversation and easier smiles. My grandfather did not even come close to noticing such trivial things as odors. It is now clear to me that this was simply lack of acknowledgement by him. My grandfather usually opened the window in the bedroom, whether it was the freezing cold of winter or the stifling heat of a Texas summer Sunday. It always surprised me when he would do this. It seemed bold to open someone’s window in their own house. The sick man never appeared to be surprised when my grandfather opened the window. I am now certain that the sick man was busy thinking about important things and opening a window was not an important thing.

From a huge, very experienced leather bag, Grandpa pulled out both manual and electric clippers, scissors, towels, a shaving kit with cup and brush, a straight razor and a long, wide leather strap. There seemed to be other things he took out and never used. Taking things out of that worn leather bag was an essential part of the show. The oxygen mask and tubing to the huge tanks were temporary inconveniences. My grandfather moved masks, tubes or any other medical equipment with confidence, as if he was also a doctor and it was clear that it was best to set these things aside for a few minutes. And so it was.

Left over in my memory is a pungent, cloudy, stinging smell of tobacco…both stale smoke and the smell of moist chewing tobacco in a spittoon in the corner. As awful as the smell of stale smoke can be, the sight and smell of a spit-stained copper spittoon was worse than the sick smell of any dying man’s farmhouse bedroom.

A few times the sick man for that Sunday afternoon was barely awake and appeared unaware of what was happening. After one such shave and when we were back in his car, I asked my grandfather if he had ever shaved a dead man. Whether they ask or not, these are always the questions that occur to a young boy. In the manner that defines my memory of my grandfather, he thought for a minute until I finally looked away from him. There was no surprise on his face as he considered his answer. Once he sensed me looking away, he said, “Many times.” When I looked immediately back at his face there was no more information or reaction available on that spectacular comment. When I asked, “What was that like?”, the only response was talk of weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. As wholly unsatisfying as it was at the time, I can now appreciate that my grandfather was a particularly thoughtful, kind and good man. Having now read extensively about his experiences in Europe during WWI, I am confident that my grandfather saw things and knew things that should not ever be told to any young boy. They never were.

The alternating slow and fast slap of the razor being honed on the long leather strap is an audio and visual memory that I consider to be wonderfully unique. Very few things smell as fresh and clean as shaving cream mixed by hand with a stiff horsehair brush. It smells like creamy, fresh soap, but man-soap. No flower perfume smells are involved. My grandfather was sure and unhesitant in his actions. He always appeared to me to be as comfortable as if he was in his barbershop. His clear intent and knowledge is a comforting memory. The shaving cream was whipped in a heavy, white glass cup with a stiff brush. It felt right for him to mix it himself rather than succumb to the convenience of an aerosol can of creamed soap. It was all part of the experience that he offered. All his movements felt so right and they still do.

The sick man’s wife usually brought in a teakettle full of boiling-hot water. She poured the steaming water over a fresh, white towel that Grandpa had brought from the leather bag. The sick man always smiled when Grandpa put that steamy towel over his face so only his nose and mouth showed. I was always the only one in the room to flinch at the sight and conjured feeling of such heat on my own face. Even the barely awake sick men smiled. The clear pleasure of such an act always struck me as odd, until I was grown.

I can now ponder the trust issues involved with allowing a man to scrape the skin of your face with an amazingly sharp razor. It was not a matter of submission for a sick man to allow my grandfather to do such a thing. There was trust. This truth is clear to me now and it was good.

About that time, my thoughts usually returned to me being the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas. Hair was trimmed and oiled. The comb and rosewater tonic finished the job.. The temperature, smell and feeling of the room were changed. Things were a little bit better for a while. The dark cloud that had been covering hope was blown away for a few moments. My grandfather did some important things in his life.

I never saw any money, eggs, bacon, live chickens or anything else change hands in these times. But I always saw smiles and handshakes exchanged. It always smelled wonderful, like a barbershop when we left…like my grandfather’s barbershop.

www.ericluck.net

EM-160718-GAG-018 by Minister Erik McGregor

Queer Nation, Gays Against Guns, LGBTQ groups and allies, and anti-gun violence advocates held a protest outside Trump Tower in New York City on the first night of the Republican National Convention to express to Donald Trump and the Republican Party their thoughts and feelings about them, their anti-LGBT platform, and the blood money that continues to flow to them from the NRA. The Republican Party, with its unrelenting anti-LGBT rhetoric, bears ultimate responsibility for the anti-LGBT killings in Orlando on June 12. Its unshakable, blind allegiance to the NRA is responsible for the unrelenting epidemic of gun violence in the United States—in Columbine, Aurora, Santa Barbara, Newtown, and, most recently, Dallas.

Le Gardien de Philae. – The Guardian of Philae. by François

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Majestueux et imperturbable, ce chat règne sur le temple de Philae, observant d’un air nonchalant les visiteurs qui passent. Son regard marqué par le temps et son pelage usé racontent l’histoire d’un survivant au cœur de ces ruines antiques. Ici, entre les pierres millénaires, il incarne l’âme du lieu, témoin silencieux de l’éternité.

Majestic and unshakable, this cat rules over the Temple of Philae, watching the passing visitors with a nonchalant gaze. His weathered expression and worn fur tell the story of a survivor in the heart of these ancient ruins. Here, among the millennia-old stones, he embodies the spirit of the place, a silent witness to eternity.

echo's travel by ElizaBeth

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For Me again Monday and Shelly's creative month of 'Shocktober' themes, starting with Fears and Phobias.

My list of phobias is pretty run-of-the-mill, so today I decided to play with the out of the ordinary sort. As a general rule I don't regularly watch horror movies - I've always had way too over-active an imagination and am way too good at scaring myself once I have an image in my head. (I can't walk around in the dark or venture down into the basement without eventually scaring myself into a high-pitched "meeeep" and a running jump back to where I started).

But once in a while, I can't resist putting myself through the heart racing thrill of a good scare (and isn't that part of the fun this time of year?).

I'm not bothered by the guts and gore movies with parts flying five ways from Friday - what really gets me is the sudden, shocking, appearance of what wasn't, just moments earlier. The awakening. The unshakable sense that once revealed, it can't be contained again. And worse - the lingering thought left behind, that things that are passing, out-of-sight, behind me...right...now.

Bonus fear: Sequels. Dammit - just when I finally manage to convince myself that there was a reasonable resolution, somebody goes and stirs that business up again?

Happy MAM!

Baron Antoine-Jean Gros - Portrait of Françoise Simonnier and Her Daughter by Pau NG

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Baron Antoine-Jean Gros - Portrait of Françoise Simonnier and Her Daughter

We are grateful to Gérard Auguier for confirming this portrait to be by Antoine-Jean Gros, based on firsthand inspection. Though he knows of no other instance of Gros painting a repetition, he believes this work to be an autograph second version of the portrait of Françoise Simonnier and her Daughter which is now in the collection of the Wallraf-Richarz Museum, Cologne (WRM2682).

Françoise Simonnier was a laundress and the mistress of Gros, with whom she had a daughter in 1827. Gros depicts her as a radiant young woman holding their child on her lap; the girl pulls gently at the bodice of her mother’s dress revealing her breast. Both sitters engage the viewer directly, drawing them into this intimate moment. Gros, who had been in a long and unhappy marriage, arranged for Françoise to live in Brussels where he set her up with a regular income and legally adopted their child, Françoise-Cécile, in 1830. In a letter written in October 1829 to his friend, the artist Joseph-Denis Odevaere, Gros described Françoise as unschooled but “active, adroite, d’un probité à toute épreuve, généreuse jusqu’à l’imprudence envers les malades ou les malheureux, trop confiante envers les emprunteurs (energetic, adroit, possessing unshakable integrity, generous to the point of imprudence with the sick and unfortunate, and too trusting with borrowers."). In another letter to Odevaere, dated 12 November 1829, Gros worried that she might sell a painting that he was sending to her.

The painting he refers to is probably identifiable with the portrait now in the Wallraf-Richartz Museum and which descended in the family of Gros’s daughter. It is tempting to speculate that the reason Gros painted two versions, a unique occurrence in the artist’s oeuvre, was in order to send one to Françoise in Brussels and, perhaps, keep another for himself. Gros’s wife eventually agreed to accept the child into their home in Paris. This arrangement, however, did not last long due to her jealousy of the girl and Gros arranged for his daughter to live at a pension where he would secretly visit her. Françoise died in 1835 and Gros, who had been suffering from depression, due not only to his troubled domestic life but, perhaps, even more so to the perceived failure of his career, drowned himself in the Seine later that same year. Françoise-Cécile eventually married the Marquis Léon de Lestang-Parade (1812-1887), a history and portrait painter.

Sisters and Santa, early 1970's by Robert Barone

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We had an unshakable faith in Santa Claus and a penchant for silly photos.

BABUSHKA - SNAPSHOT OF A KILLER (Chapter Three) - (Selected by GETTY IMAGES) by DESPITE STRAIGHT LINES (Paul Williams)

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.

***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 12th 2015

CREATIVE RF gty.im/tbc MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**

This photograph became my 642nd frame to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection and I am very grateful to them for such a wonderful opportunity.

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BABUSHKA - SNAPSHOT OF A KILLER (Chapter Three)

.

Экстаз УБИТЬ (Из уст СМЕРТИ)

THE ECSTASY OF THE KILL

(FROM THE LIPS OF AN ASSASSIN)

.

Only a fool or a blind woman could fail to witness the irony of the location as Mother nature nestles me close to her bosom and blood flows freely over the serenity and solitude of the field in which I kneel. Mercifully I am neither a fool nor a blind woman, though my burdens and failings are many fold and plain to see if you would but prick the surface of my being, care to look deep within my psyche.

The flesh writhes beneath me, eyes glazing over as the last vestiges of life pulse and pump through the failing arteries like the final spurts of fuel in a boat engine, the power fading rapidly, fits and starts and the vessel left floundering on a sea of tranquillity. There is a moment of sublime ecstasy, an inner peace as my victim looks me in the eye, the realization of their demise registering upon wide eyes and trembling lips. The sweet beauty of the kill as my blade or bullet enters unwilling flesh and the shock and pain of the act of supreme violation gives way to the calm sensation of painless inevitability.

I hold them close to my flesh, their life force ebbing away with every second as the death throes take a hold of their carcass and those beautiful eyes glaze over with a resigned acceptance that this life has all but ended. Prayers to false prophets and metal Gods, the repenting of a life of sin, or the simple and elegant demise of those no longer in denial as the truth hits home and whatever awaits them in the afterlife comes knocking. I will never tire of the sheer poetry of the kill, the romance of it all, the orgasmic pleasure that no other act could bring. There is a power over another living being that is far deeper and more satisfying than any other experience or pleasure I have ever encountered.

On this occasion the kill is swift as I retract the cold steel of my trusty blade from the warmth of those pierced ribs where it lay embedded just seconds previously. Powell expels a breath as I cradle his head in my palm, his left hand still tightly gripping my knife hand as I peel his clammy digits from my flesh one by one, liking unravelling the legs of a house spider from one's grip, placing his hand down at his side. The rich ruby red blood spurting with rhythmic pulses from the puncture mark begins to slow as his heart ceases and eyes glaze over to the lifeless form that signals his demise. I swear you can see the moment of death as life pails to insignificance and a whitish haze wafts over those pupils like a soft velvety sheet. The clean up begins, and my gloves are bagged along with the cloth to clean my knife and the anti bacterial cleaning agent which removes all traces of DNA before evaporating into thin air.

The fluids are my recipe, learned years previously and containing chemicals sufficient to halt the invasive probing of even the most ardent of crime scene investigators looking to solve a major crime and rise to fame on the back of my handy work. Not a chance pal, this gal's been around the block a few times in her career.

You know, it's funny what a mark will offer you when he realizes that his time has come to face the grim reaper and depart this life he so loves, or at least believe that he does. Gleaming new Ferrari's, safety deposit numbers and the promise of a lifetime's wealth, his word that he will skip town and disappear like a ghost never again to surface, earnest assurances, desperate claims that always fall upon deaf ears and blinkered eyes. That's not to say that I've never been tempted by such lucrative offers, I'm flesh and blood after all.

In my younger days I recall how one mark, bound and tied, bleeding profusely from the slit in his nostril that induced him to spill the beans and tell me the number to his house safe in which were located the documents I required to complete my mission, omitted to inform me of the two hungry Doberman's like Cerberus at the gates of Hades, taking me by surprise as, unprepared and ill equipped I made good my entrance into his abode. Pinning me to the kitchen worktop and ripping at my flesh with venomous intent and sharpened teeth, the dogs from Hell brought out in me a determination and will to prevail the likes of which I had until that point in my life never realized. Lightning quick reflexes and the assistance of my ankle holstered Smith & Wesson Model 36, despatched the hounds, rather messily if my recollections serve me right before I returned to my captive and relieved him entirely of his bodily skin. Those final hours as he bled out must have been the very epitome of agony itself.

As I rise to my feet, standing over Powell's body, I hold in my hand the worthless homage to a God who cared little, a gold crucifix taken as a memento of the kill, a foible of mine I guess. I take one final look at the face of betrayal. Biting the hand that feeds you in any organisation is a foolish and deadly game, but in our profession, it is the gravest error of judgement, no matter the financial reward. With Dmitri safely in hiding, kidnapped to all intents and purposes to the outside world, dwelling in the darkest recesses where only his shadow knows his true whereabouts, I am free to roam the realms of possibility, tracking down the internal mole responsible for the deaths of two of my finest peers. Vladimir, Dmitri's most trusted driver and head bodyguard is by now decomposing, along side that other buffoon who fell so easily at my hand, their carcasses disposed of by the organisation as housekeeping and self preservation rules go swiftly into operation. Vladimir's part in the betrayal exposed and punished with the brutal force that all parties in the underworld live and die by, those same rules now governing the capture of Dmitri's hostage taker, operative Babushka, little old me.

Under suspicion, on the run from those on my own team as the undercover investigations proceed, I must follow my orders, taking out those like Powell who were little fish in the pool of deception. Only Dmitri's second in command, operative 'Snake', is now privy to Dmitri's orders and movements as they unleash me, their most fearsome operative to hunt down the mole within. I'm buzzing with adrenalin, high on the thrill of being once more so close to Dmitri, a team reunited just like the old days.

Looking at that gold crucifix angers me so. Mankind's interpretation of religious belief has for centuries been the root of all evil as civilisations clash and bloody wars are fought with all denominations fighting in the name of their token God's and false prophets. My own family were destroyed by such religious divide as my mothers deeply routed Orthodox Christianity fell battered and bruised at the feet of the Armenian Gregorian hypocrisy of the man she loved and bore children for. Rarely sober, ever lecherous, he brutalised any poor fool who crossed his path, whether with fists or sexual deviance, he was feared and loathed in equal measures by all who knew him, and hated everything and everyone from the bottom of his whiskey glass.

By sixteen, I had attracted the attention of many young men, thankfully inheriting the beauty of my Mother's side, though my father refused me permission to date anyone unless first vetted by him for wealth and prospects. Sweet Arkady was my first love, tall and muscular with beautiful green eyes like jewels that shone with an intensity that etched forever their mark on my soul. Penniless and full of wistful ideals, just a nobody from the poorer section of Vorobyevy Gory near the State University where he was a student, and a handful of years my senior when we first met, he was kind hearted and gentle of touch, a smile that could light up an entire room and a demeanour which won over all and everyone who were blessed enough to have him cross their paths.

We would lay in the grass and talk for hours against the backdrop of Moscow in all it's glory, and how he made me laugh and cry, in the same instance as my heart felt fit to burst with love and happiness. He took me to Izmaylonsky Park and told me how he loved me the night I last ever touched his face and kissed his gentle lips. If ever I had known what fate would await him in the shadows of the night I would surely have never let him leave my side, or else slit my own wrists in a pact of eternal love. His battered body was discovered a week after his disappearance in Tverskaya street, though neither the apathy of the general public nor the corruption of the Police, firmly bought and paid for in the pocket of the higher forces of violence, could care less about a poor boy or his unfortunate demise. A pauper's funeral, a shallow grave, three lines in the local press and life went about it's business as if nothing had occurred.

My father laughed and gloated at my heartbreak, nights of sobbing into my damp pillow for fear of waking him and receiving yet another beating with his thick leather belt which hung over the fireplace as a warning to us all when not adorning his odious flesh. I can still hear those pitiful cries of my mother begging for mercy though powerless to prevent his actions. It was not so long after Arkady's murder that I discovered the characteristics that I had genetically inherited from my dear father. My mother lay in Novaya Basmannaya Hospital after her husband had taken retribution with a porcelain statue of Christ, for a passing comment made in jest that little pleased the overbearing pig. The irony of such a weapon used against a woman of such unerring faith and unshakable belief is all too painful to take. A beating so severe that she would never again view the world through both eyes, a life of servitude at the monsters beck and call as he amused himself with worthless whores, including the many weeks that she clung onto life in her hospital bed, and the growing tide of resentment within my tortured soul, finally welled up.

Like a caged tiger, seizing opportunity and relishing every second, I summoned up every ounce of strength from within, fuelled by the anger and resentment I had clutched like a worthless rag doll for so many years harboured against this vile and odious man.

Retribution was swift and relentless. Felled with a succession of blows to the head from the simple glass paperweight my mother had given me for my eighteenth birthday, I pummelled his skull until a mosaic of blood and brain matter resembling a map of Africa adorned our family home and the bastard breathed no more than shallow snorts through the cavities not wholly destroyed by my anger. I finished him off with the symbol of his very own aggression, wrapping his precious leather belt around that thick neck of his and pulling until the veins in his neck and face seemed fit to burst.

For the very first time in his life, this worthless creature of vile intentions and odious character was powerless and without the menace to bully and cajole as he had done since his days as a street fighter, earning change on the tough streets. And you know, I swear as his weakening breath allowed one final lunge at my flesh with those monstrous arms of his, I saw in his red and watering eyes the merest hint of fear as I tightened the belt one final notch and he choked his last seconds of life before falling limp below my vengeful hands. Not an ounce of remorse, nor a pang of guilt for what I had just done, I felt an immense euphoria, a great release. A fitting way to watch the monster draw his last breath, and a first taste of the euphoria of the kill that wetted my appetite in ways I could not have imagine.

When the act was done I summoned my broken mother, foolishly expecting her to be thankful for her daughters actions, free at last to live and breathe without the shadow of violence and oppression constantly overhead. Instead, my mother wept and fell upon the still warm body, lamenting her loss, and declaring her undying love for the source of all of her woes. I learned a lot about the weakness within us all that day, and vowed never again to shed a tear over another human being. I grew stronger with the courage of my convictions, the blackness of my heart and became whole through my bloody vengeance which shaped my character and fashioned my outlook on the perils of love and life. A custodial sentence of eight years in Mozhaisk 5, a prison camp situated in a Moscow suburb along with nine hundred other inmates and three hundred female civilian staff was my punishment for discovering my father's aggression and rage that pulsed through my veins on the night that I killed him. And within those walls, how quickly my young body adapted to the survival instincts necessary in the dog eat dog environment where one eye kept open whilst sleeping was your only insurance of not waking up dead.

My mother passed away a broken hearted, lonely shadow of her former self, and true to my vow, not a tear was shed upon receiving the news. Soon, I had a reputation for violence, an appetite for pain and with the help of the resident alpha females from all walks of the underworld, I was earmarked for recruitment upon my sudden and unexpected release. Never underestimate the reach and corruption of the underworld, and I dare say my freedom came at a hefty price. For is anybody ever truly free in this life? For my part, I am tethered inexorably to a machine that is more powerful and far reaching than anyone could ever imagine.

But enough of life viewed through rose tinted spectacles, enough foolhardy reminiscing. Life is a series of actions and consequences, twists of fate beyond our control, a ride of the wildest fucking nature that we attempt to tame and control but never really succeed in doing so. Time now for me to make my exit as Powell's body begins to cool amidst the bramble and weeds. A hire car and false name, tracks covered and a shallow grave to hide the rotting flesh amongst the shit where it will feel at home. A minnow in the big scheme of things, drawn into the open by the lure of my demise, he showed his hand too soon and paid for his ineptitude with his life. But there are bigger fish to catch and spear, and I must await my next orders from Dmitri, wherever he may be right now.

.

Rewritten in July 2011 from an original story penned in August 2010

Photograph taken at 06:16am on July 28th 2011 off Beachy Head Road in Eastbourne, East Sussex, England.

Nikon D700 62mm 1/640s f/8.0 iso1100

Nikkor AF-S 24-70mm f/2.8G ED IF. UV filter. Manfrotto 055XPro Carbon fibre tripod & Manfrotto 327 RC2 pistol grip magnesium ball head. Nikon MC-DC2 remote shutter release. Nikon GP-1

Oxburgh Hall, National Trust, Norfolk by staubyns

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Despite its fortified appearance, the moated Oxburgh Hall in Norfolk was intentionally built as a family home. It was completed in 1482 for Sir Edmund Bedingfeld and the Bedingfelds have lived here ever since, surviving Civil War, periods of near dereliction, and, in the 20th century, the threat of demolition.

The Bedingfelds’ unshakable Catholic faith and commitment to preserving their history are a potent combination, expressed throughout this remarkable place in its architecture, collections and landscape. Add to this the family’s strong royal connections, and a powerful story unfolds.

From the National Trust

Show window. by Mitsushiro Nakagawa

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Title:

Show window.

( LUMIX G3 shot )

Manhattan. New York. USA. 2017. … 7 / 8

Images:

Beck - Cycle + Morning

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54737038151/in/dateposted...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My new novel.

B♭ (B flat)

Volume 11. 😄

What follows is still in its first-draft stage. It will go through further revisions.

The crucial passages have not been made public.

(Of course, this is not the final manuscript.)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My New Novel.

B♭ (B Flat)

— The darkest hour comes just before dawn —

The dawn in New York brought that phrase back to mind.

It was something Amir once heard from Professor Zakaria of the Faculty of Engineering at the Islamic University.

The professor, in his lifetime, had struggled between theory and reality, yet instilled in his disciples a calm and unshakable resolve.

Amir studied electrical engineering; Rafi Ghannam, architecture.

Each possessed talents that complemented the other.

After mastering the structures of the world, Rafi had gone on to extend his knowledge into electrical engineering, reaching from machinery to programs.

To the two of them, the vulnerabilities of America’s IT networks were but an open book.

In the dim underground floor, where bare fluorescent lights flickered, Rafi crouched at the intersection of the switchboard and the drainage duct.

Beneath his electrician’s vest and helmet, the red earth–colored scarf of Gaza wrapped his neck.

Amir stood beside him, scuffing his dusty work boots against the floor, fighting down his unease.

“Hurry. The morning shift will be here soon.”

“Quiet. Every sound echoes down here.”

Rafi answered evenly, opening his toolbox.

Inside lay a modified pressure switch and a block of C4, black and light-absorbing, gleaming like coal.

The device was to be set in the hidden recess where the structural beam and wiring shaft crossed—a “node” that, once sealed, could never be retrieved.

“Once it’s buried here, no one will ever find it.”

“...But are you sure? Is five years really the right time?”

“It must be five years. When the building stands complete, when it has been forgotten—then the blast will become the return of memory.”

Amir studied his profile and nodded silently.

Every motion of Rafi’s hand, each measured breath, carried the authority of a father, a teacher.

The hand that once learned to build was now preparing to destroy.

A slow tide of trust and kinship welled in Amir’s chest.

The sound of a fan turning, the rasp of chalk on blackboard—these rose in Rafi’s memory.

In the night lecture hall of the university, he had filled his notebook with shear angles of beams and the breaking points of concrete.

The lecturer, pointing to the diagram on the blackboard, had said quietly:

“When a structure collapses, it is not from defect. It follows the very will of its design.”

The classroom had fallen utterly silent at those words.

To know what would sway, what would endure, what would crack with sound during a vibration test—that knowledge was what could transform collapse into form.

That winter, Rafi’s family lost their home to an Israeli airstrike along the coast.

Despair turned to rage, rage to resolve, and resolve gave strength to his hands.

Amir, too, carried the same wound, and shared in that resolve.

Five years earlier, Rafi had begun to set up pirate radio.

Through networks of Caribbean and Hispanic immigrant communities, he passed messages quietly.

Every social platform and smartphone was under watch.

They restricted themselves to the barest communications, leaving only casual, trivial exchanges for daily use.

When he pressed the switch, a faint click was swallowed into the night’s silence.

A small red lamp lit up, linking him to nearby companions.

At two in the morning, a woman’s voice drifted from FM 87.9.

Through the static hush, a poem unfurled:

“If the world should end, I want to be singing alone.”

The verse Rafi chose was the emblem of his quiet resolve.

Amir listened to that voice while gazing at Rafi’s back.

What they undertook was not mere destruction—it was the embodiment of lost memory and anger, the crystallization of their trust and mutual understanding.

In darkness and silence, their plan advanced steadily.

The theory of architecture and the principles of electrical engineering, the pain of the past, and the will of those who had survived—all of it flowed quietly forward, converging toward a future act of ruin.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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:

music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD

iTunes Playlist Link::

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

3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally

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Title.

ショウウィンドウ。

( LUMIX G3 shot )

マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 7 / 8

Images.

Beck - Cycle + Morning

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54737038151/in/dateposted...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

僕の新しい小説。

　B♭　（ビーフラット）

第11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。

(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）

ーー　夜明け前が、一番暗い　ーー

　ニューヨークの夜明けは、その言葉を思い出させた。アミールが、イスラム大学工学部のザカリア教授から聞いた言葉だ。教授は生前、理論と現実の狭間で苦悩しつつも、弟子たちに冷静な意思を植え付けた。アミールは電気工学を、ラフィ・ガンナムは建築学を学び、互いに補完し合う才能を持っていた。ラフィは世界中の構造物を理解した後、電気工学へ知識を広げ、電子機器からプログラムまで手を伸ばしていた。アメリカの脆弱なITネットワークを熟知することなど、二人にとっては容易いことだった。

　地下フロアの蛍光灯がむき出しの薄暗い空間で、ラフィは配電盤と排水ダクトの交差部にしゃがみ込んだ。電工業者のベストとヘルメットの下、ガザの赤土色のスカーフが彼の首を覆う。アミールはその横で、埃まみれの作業靴を床で擦りながら、緊張を抑えていた。

「早くしてくれ。もうすぐ朝の組が来る」

「静かにしろ、音が響く」

　ラフィは冷静に答え、工具箱を開いた。中には改造された圧力スイッチと、光を吸い込むように黒光りするC4が収まっていた。仕掛けるのは、構造梁と配線シャフトが交差する“ノード”の背面——完成すれば、二度と取り外すことのできない場所だ。

「ここに埋めたら、二度と誰にも見つからない」

「……でも、本当に５年後でいいのか？」

「５年経った時こそ意味がある。建物が完成し、忘れ去られた時に——爆破は記憶の復活になる」

　アミールは横顔を見つめ、静かに頷いた。ラフィの手の動き、呼吸の一つ一つが、師としての父のように頼もしく感じられた。建築を学んだ者の手が、今、建築を破壊する準備をしている。信頼と共感の感覚が、胸の奥にじわりと広がった。

　扇風機の回る音と乾いた黒板の響きが、ラフィの記憶を呼び覚ます。大学の夜の講義室で、彼は梁の剪断角とコンクリートの破断点をノートに描き込んだ。講師は黒板の図を指し、静かに言った。

「構造が崩壊するのは、欠陥ではなく“設計の意思”に従ったときです」

　その言葉に教室は静まり返った。振動試験でどこが揺れ、どこが耐え、どこが音を立てるか。それを理解することが、崩壊を“形”に変える。

　その冬、ラフィの家族はイスラエルによる湾岸の空爆で家を失った。絶望は怒りに、怒りは意思に変わり、ラフィの手に力を宿した。アミールもまた、同じ痛みを知る者として、その意思を分かち合っていた。

　５年前、ラフィはパイレーツラジオを設置し始めた。カリブ系やヒスパニック系の移民コミュニティのネットワークを利用し、伝令を静かに届ける。SNSやスマートフォンはすべて監視されている。彼らは必要最小限の通信にとどめ、日常的な他愛ないやり取りだけに絞った。

　スイッチを押すと微かなクリック音が夜の静けさに吸い込まれる。小さな赤いランプが灯り、近隣の同胞たちに接続された。

　午前2時、FM87.9から女の声が流れた。砂嵐のような静寂の中、詩が紡がれる。

「この世界が終わるなら、私はひとりで歌っていたい」

　ラフィが選んだ一節は、彼の静かな決意の象徴だった。

　アミールはその声を聞きながら、ラフィの背中を見つめた。彼らが行うのは単なる破壊ではない——失われた記憶と怒りの象徴であり、互いの信頼と理解の結晶でもあった。闇と静寂の中で、二人の計画は着実に進行する。建築の理論と電気工学、過去の痛み、そして生き延びた者の意志が、未来の破壊へと静かに繋がっていくのだ。

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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。

10

9

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54720346098/in/dateposted...

8

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54713957969/in/dateposted...

7

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54703714420/in/dateposted...

6

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54696914108/in/dateposted...

5

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54686544606/in/dateposted...

4

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54653035442/in/dateposted...

3

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54639396885/in/dateposted...

2

www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...

1

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。

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』

3

Shots fired at Trump rally