NEDERLAND, NETHERLANDS, HOLLAND, PAYS-BAS, HOLANDA, PAISES BAJOS, Barendrecht, Un pueblo llamado Barendrecht, A town called Barendrecht, Une ville appelée Barendrecht, LAGARTIJAS, LEZARDS , LIZARDS, HAGEDISSEN, ECHSEN, LAGARTO,

 

AXOLOTIS.-

 

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

 

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

 

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

 

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

 

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

 

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

 

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

 

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

 

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

 

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

 

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.

  

Il fut une époque où je pensais beaucoup aux axolotls. J’allais les voir à l’aquarium du Jardin des Plantes et je passais des heures à les regarder, à observer leur immobilité, leurs mouvements obscurs. Et maintenant je suis un axolotl. Le hasard me conduisit vers eux un matin de printemps où Paris déployait sa queue de paon après le lent hiver. Je descendis le boulevard Saint-Marcel, celui de l’hôpital, je vis les premiers verts parmi tout le gris et je me souvins des lions. J’étais très amis des lions et des panthères, mais je n’étais jamais entré dans l’enceinte humide et sombre des aquariums. Je laissai ma bicyclette contre les grilles et j’allais voir les tulipes. Les lions étaient laids et tristes et ma panthère dormait. Je me décidai pour les aquariums et, après avoir regardé avec indifférence des poissons ordinaires, je tombai par hasard sur les axolotls. Je passai une heure à les regarder, puis je partis, incapable de penser à autre chose.

 

À la bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève je consultai un dictionnaire et j’appris que les axolotls étaient les formes larvaires, pourvues de branchies, de batraciens du genre amblystone. Qu’ils étaient originaires du Mexique, je le savais déjà, rien qu’à voir leur petit visage aztèque. Je lus qu’on en avait trouvé des spécimens en Afrique capables de vivre hors de l’eau pendant les périodes de sécheresse et qui reprenaient leur vie normale à la saison des pluies. On donnait leur nom espagnol, ajolote, on signalait qu’ils étaient comestibles et qu’on utilisait leur huile (on ne l’utilise plus) comme l’huile de foie de morue.

 

Je ne voulus pas consulter d’ouvrages spécialisés mais je revins le jour suivant au jardin des Plantes. Je pris l’habitude d’y aller tous les matins, et parfois même matin et soir. Le gardien des aquariums souriait d’un air perplexe en prenant mon ticket. Je m’appuyais contre la barre de fer qui borde les aquariums et je regardais les axolotls. Il n’y avait rien d’étrange à cela ; dès le premier instant j’avais senti que quelque chose me liait à eux, quelque chose d’infiniment lointain et oublié qui cependant nous unissait encore. Il m’avait suffit de m’arrêter un matin devant cet aquarium où des bulles couraient dans l’eau. Les axolotls s’entassaient sur l’étroit et misérable (personne mieux que moi ne sait à quel point il est étroit et misérable) fond de pierre et de mousse. Il y en avait neuf, la plupart d’entre eux appuyaient leur tête contre la vitre et regardaient de leurs yeux d’or ceux qui s’approchaient. Troublé, presque honteux, je trouvais qu’il y avait de l’impudeur à se pencher sur ces formes silencieuses et immobiles entassées au fond de l’aquarium. Mentalement, j’en isolai un, un peu à l’écart sur la droite, pour mieux l’étudier. Je vis un petit corps rose, translucide (je pensai aux statuettes chinoises en verre laiteux), semblable à un petit lézard de quinze centimètres, terminé par une queue de poisson d’une extraordinaire délicatesse - c’est la partie la plus sensible de notre corps. Sur son dos, une nageoire transparente se rattachait à la queue ; mais ce furent les pattes qui me fascinèrent, des pattes d’une incroyable finesse, terminés par de tout petits doigts avec des ongles - absolument humains, sans pourtant avoir la forme de la main humaine - mais comment aurais-je pu ignorer qu’ils étaient humains ? c’est alors que je découvris leurs yeux, leur visage. Un visage inexpressif sans autre trait que les yeux, deux orifices comme des têtes d’épingles entièrement d’or transparent, sans aucune vie, mais qui regardaient et qui se laissaient pénétrer par mon regard qui passait à travers le point doré et se perdait dans un mystère diaphane. Un très mince halo noir entourait l’oeil et l’inscrivait dans la chair rose, dans la pierre rose de la tête vaguement triangulaire, au contours courbes et irréguliers, qui la faisaient ressembler à une statue rongée par le temps. La bouche était dissimulée par le plan triangulaire de la tête et ce n’est que de profil que l’on s’apercevait qu’elle était très grande. Vue de face, c’était une fine rainure, comme une fissure dans de l’albâtre. De chaque côté de la tête, à la place des oreilles, se dressaient de très petites branches rouges comme du corail, une excroissance végétale, les branchies, je suppose. C’était la seule chose qui eût l’air vivante dans ce corps. Chaque vingt secondes elles se dressaient, toutes raides, puis s’abaissaient de nouveau. Parfois une patte bougeait, à peine, et je voyais les doigts minuscules se poser doucement sur la mousse. C’est que nous n’aimons pas beaucoup bouger, l’aquarium est si étroit ; si peu que nous remuions nous heurtons la tête ou la queue d’un autre ; il s’ensuit des difficultés, des disputes, de la fatigue. Le temps se sent moins si l’on reste immobile.

 

Ce fut leur immobilité qui me fit me pencher vers eux, fasciné, la première fois que je les vis. Il me sembla comprendre obscurément leur volonté secrète : abolir l’espace et le temps par une immobilité pleine d’indifférence. Par la suite, j’appris à mieux les comprendre, les branchies qui se contractent, les petites pattes fines qui tâtonnent sur les pierres, leurs fuites brusques (ils nagent par une simple ondulation du corps) me prouvèrent qu’ils étaient capables de s’évader de cette torpeur minérale où ils passaient des heures entières. Leurs yeux surtout m’obsédaient. A côté d’eux, dans les autres aquariums, des poissons me montraient la stupide simplicité de leurs beaux yeux semblables aux nôtres. Les yeux des axolotls me parlaient de la présence d’une vie différente, d’une autre façon de regarder. Je collais mon visage à la vitre (le gardien, inquiet, toussait de temps en temps) pour mieux voir les tout petits points dorés, cette ouverture sur le monde infiniment lent et éloigné des bêtes roses. Inutile de frapper du doigt contre la vitre, sous leur nez, jamais la moindre réaction. Les yeux d’or continuaient à brûler de leur douce et terrible lumière, continuaient à me regarder du fond d’un abîme insondable qui me donnait le vertige.

 

Et cependant les axolotls étaient proches de nous. Je le savais avant même de devenir un axolotl. Je le sus dès le jour où je m’approchai d’eux pour la première fois. Les traits anthropomorphiques d’un singe accusent la différence qu’il y a entre lui et nous, contrairement à ce que pensent la plupart des gens. L’absence totale de ressemblance entre un axolotl et un être humain me prouva que ma reconnaissance

était valable, que je ne m’appuyais pas sur des analogies faciles. Il y avait bien les petites mains. Mais un lézard a les mêmes mains et ne ressemble en rien à l’homme. Je crois que tout venait de la tête des axolotls, de sa forme triangulaire rose et de ses petits yeux d’or. Cela regardait et savait. Cela réclamait. Les axolotls n’étaient pas des animaux.

 

De là à tomber dans la mythologie, il n’y avait qu’un pas, facile à franchir, presque inévitable. Je finis par voir dans les axolotls une métamorphose qui n’arrivait pas à renoncer tout à fait à une mystérieuse humanité. Je les imaginais conscients, esclaves de leur corps, condamnés indéfiniment à un silence abyssal, à une méditation désespérée. Leur regard aveugle, le petit disque d’or inexpressif - et cependant terriblement lucide - me pénétrait comme un message : "Sauve-nous, sauve-nous." Je me surprenais en train de murmurer des paroles de consolation, de transmettre des espoirs puérils. Ils continuaient à me regarder, immobiles. Soudain les petites branches roses se dressaient sur leur tête, et je sentais à ce moment-là comme une douleur sourde. Ils me voyaient peut-être, ils captaient mes efforts pour pénétrer dans l’impénétrable de leur vie. Ce n’étaient pas des êtres humains mais jamais je ne m’étais senti un rapport aussi étroit entre des animaux et moi. Les axolotls étaient comme témoins de quelque chose et parfois ils devenaient de terribles juges. Je me trouvais ignoble devant eux, il y avait dans ces yeux transparents une si effrayante pureté. C’était des larves, mais larve veut dire masque et aussi fantôme. Derrière ces visages aztèques, inexpressifs, et cependant d’une cruauté implacable, quelle image attendait

son heure ?

 

Ils me faisaient peur. Je crois que sans la présence du gardien et des autres visiteurs je n’aurais jamais osé rester devant eux. " Vous les mangez des yeux ", me disait le gardien en riant, et il devait penser que je n’étais pas tout à fait normal. Il ne se rendait pas compte que c’était eux qui me dévoraient lentement des yeux, en un cannibalisme d’or. Loin d’eux je ne pouvais penser à autre chose, comme s’ils m’influençaient à distance. Je finis par y aller tous les jours et la nuit je les imaginais immobiles dans l’obscurité, avançant lentement une petite patte qui rencontrait soudain celle d’un autre. Leurs yeux voyaient peut-être la nuit et le jour pour eux n’avait pas de fin. Les yeux des axolotls n’ont pas de paupières.

 

Maintenant je sais qu’il n’y a rien eu d’étrange dans tout cela, que cela devait arriver. Ils me reconnaissaient un peu plus chaque matin quand je me penchais vers l’aquarium. Ils souffraient. Chaque fibre de mon corps enregistrait cette souffrance bâillonnée, cette torture rigide au fond de l’eau. Ils épiaient quelque chose, un lointain royaume aboli, un temps de liberté où le monde avait appartenu aux axolotls. Une expression aussi terrible qui arrivait à vaincre l’impassibilité forcée de ces visages de pierre contenait sûrement un message de douleur, la preuve de cette condamnation éternelle, de cet enfer liquide qu’ils enduraient. En vain essayai-je de me persuader que c’était ma propre sensibilité qui projetait sur les axolotls une conscience qu’ils n’avaient pas. Eux et moi nous savions. C’est pour cela que ce qui arriva n’est pas étrange. Je collais mon visage à la vitre de l’aquarium, mes yeux essayèrent une fois de plus de percer le mystère de ces yeux d’or sans iris et sans pupille. Je voyais de très près la tête d’un axolotl immobile contre la vitre. Puis mon visage s’éloigna et je compris. Une seule chose était étrange : continuer à penser comme avant, savoir. Quand j’en pris conscience, je ressentis l’horreur de celui qui s’éveille enterré vivant. Au-dehors, mon visage s’approchait à nouveau de la vitre, je voyais ma bouche aux lèvres serrées par l’effort que je faisais pour comprendre les axolotls. J’étais un axolotl et je venais de savoir en un éclair qu’aucune communication n’était possible. Il était hors de l’aquarium, sa pensée était une pensée hors de l’aquarium. Tout en le connaissant, tout en étant lui-même, j’étais un axolotl et j’étais dans mon monde. L’horreur venait de ce que - je le sus instantanément - je me croyais prisonnier dans le corps d’un axolotl, transféré en lui avec ma pensée d’homme, enterré vivant dans un axolotl, condamné à me mouvoir en toute lucidité parmi des créatures insensibles. Mais cette impression ne dura pas, une patte vint effleurer mon visage et en me tournant un peu je vis un axolotl à côté de moi qui me regardait et je compris que lui aussi savait, sans communication possible mais si clairement. Ou bien j’étais encore en l’homme, ou bien nous pensions comme des êtres humains, incapables de nous exprimer, limités à l’éclat doré de nos yeux qui regardaient ce visage d’homme collé à la vitre.

 

Il revint encore plusieurs fois mais il vient moins souvent à présent. Des semaines se passent sans qu’on le voie. Il est venu hier, il m’a regardé longuement et puis il est parti brusquement. Il me semble que ce n’est plus à nous qu’il s’intéresse, qu’il obéit plutôt à une habitude. Comme penser est la seule chose que je puisse faire, je pense beaucoup à lui. Pendant un certain temps nous avons continué d’être en communication lui et moi, et il se sentait plus que jamais lié au mystère qui l’obsédait. Mais les ponts sont coupés à présent, car ce qui était son obsession est devenu un axolotl, étranger à sa vie d’homme. Je crois qu’au début je pouvais encore revenir en lui, dans une certaine mesure - ah ! seulement dans une certaine

mesure - et maintenir éveillé son désir de mieux nous connaître. Maintenant je suis définitivement un axolotl et si je pense comme un être humain c’est tout simplement parce que les axolotls pensent comme les humains sous leur masque de pierre rose. Il me semble que j’étais arrivé à lui communiquer cette vérité, les premiers jours, lorsque j’étais encore en lui. Et dans cette solitude finale vers laquelle il ne revient déjà plus, cela me console de penser qu’il va peut-être écrire quelque chose sur nous ; il croira qu’il invente un conte et il écrira tout cela sur les axolotls.

 

Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

Stivan, a small settlement on Adriatic Sea island Cres in Kvarner bay, is an almost abandoned place. Incredibly stony ground, almost nonexistent arable soil, not close enough to the sea shore to be of interest for tourists, offers little to survive. Some old fig trees and olive trees and sheep, this is all one can rely on. But it is situated in a great landscape, in an open, rather flat (as the whole south part of the island) Mediterranean landscape, harsh, wind-swept and sunny, with mild spring and autumn climate and hot summers. Yet, 200 years ago men was capable not only to survive here but also to live full lives and to build large stony farmhouses like this one on my pictures. Now it is a ruin worth nothing, defeated by time and overtaken by Wulfen's Spurge (Euphorbia wulfeni).

+++ DISCLAIMER +++

Nothing you see here is real, even though the conversion or the presented background story might be based on historical facts. BEWARE!

  

Some background:

The outbreak of the war in Europe in September 1939 did not immediately affect the status of the Armée de l'Air in French Indochina because it had the task of defending a wide area of Southeast Asia, including the future Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. And yet its array of airplanes seemed inadequate to perform any kind of real defense against any incursion by an enemy, because there were less than 100 airplanes available to it, all obsolescent or obsolete. In September 1931, Japan invaded and occupied Manchuria. This was an area of northeast China, which encompassed the provinces of Jilin, Liaoning and Heilongjiang. Nearly six whole years later, in July 1937, the Second Sino-Japanese War had begun. As yet, the French colonial authorities were hoping that the Japanese would not be brazen enough to take on the might of a European power. However, it became increasingly likely after the German invasion of Poland in September 1939, since Japan was part of the Axis alliance and thus Germany's ally.

 

On September 26, 1940, Japanese troops landed in Haiphong, violating a cease-fire which had been signed only the previous day. From the middle of the following month, the French became heavily involved in repelling Japanese army assaults. Following the Fall of France in 1940, Thais perceived a chance to regain the territories they had lost years earlier. The collapse of Metropolitan France made the French hold on Indochina tenuous. After the Japanese invasion of French Indochina in September 1940, the French were forced to allow the Japanese to set up military bases. This seemingly subservient behavior convinced the Thai regime that Vichy France would not seriously resist a confrontation with Thailand.

 

During the French-Thai War, the Thai Air Force achieved several air-to-air-victories in dogfights against the Vichy Armée de l'Air. During World War II, the Thai Air Force supported the Royal Thai Army in its occupation of the Shan States of Burma as somewhat reluctant allies of the Japanese and took part in the defense of Bangkok against allied air raids in the latter part of the war, achieving some successes against state-of-the-art aircraft like the P-51 Mustang and the B-29 Superfortress. During these times, the RTAF was actively supplied by the Japanese with Imperial Japanese Army Air Force aircraft such as the Ki-43 "Oscar," and the Ki-27 "Nate." Other RTAF personnel took an active part the anti-Japanese resistance movement.

 

French forces in Indochina consisted of an army of approximately fifty thousand men, The most obvious deficiency of the French army lay in its shortage of armor; however, the Armée de l'Air had in its inventory approximately a hundred aircraft, of which around sixty could be considered first line. These consisted of thirty Potez 25 TOEs, four Farman 221s, eight Loire 130 flying boats, six Potez 542s, nine Morane M.S.406s.

 

The M.S.406 was a French fighter aircraft developed and manufactured by Morane-Saulnier starting in 1938. In response to a requirement for a fighter issued by the French Air Force in 1934, Morane-Saulnier built a prototype, designated MS.405, of mixed materials. This had the distinction of being the company's first low-wing monoplane, as well as the first to feature an enclosed cockpit, and the first design with a retracting undercarriage. The entry to service of the M.S.406 to the French Air Force in early 1939 represented the first modern fighter aircraft to be adopted by the service, and the type was also used in the French overseas colonies. The M.S.406 was France's most numerous fighter during the Second World War and one of only two French designs to exceed 1,000 in number. At the beginning of the war, it was one of only two French-built aircraft capable of 400 km/h (250 mph) – the other being the Potez 630.

 

Although a sturdy and highly manoeuvrable fighter aircraft, the M.S.406 was considered underpowered and weakly armed when compared to its contemporaries, esp. over continental Europe. Most critically, the M.S.406 was outperformed by the Messerschmitt Bf 109E during the Battle of France and no serious threat to the German fighter. In less advanced theatres like Indochina, though, the M.S. 406 was a respectable contender, but its numbers were low.

 

When the French-Thai War broke out in Indochina, the Thai Army was a relatively well-equipped force, consisting of some sixty thousand men, with artillery and tanks. The Royal Thai Navy — consisting of several vessels, including two coastal defence ships, twelve torpedo boats and four submarines — was inferior to the French naval forces, though, but the Royal Thai Air Force held both a quantitative and qualitative edge over l'Armee de l'Air. Among the 140 aircraft that composed the air force's initial first-line strength were twenty-four Mitsubishi Ki-30 light bombers, nine Mitsubishi Ki-21 and six Martin B-10 twin-engine bombers, seventy Vought Corsair dive bombers, and twenty-five Curtiss Hawk 75 fighters.

 

While nationalistic demonstrations and anti-French rallies were held in Bangkok, border skirmishes erupted along the Mekong frontier. The superior Royal Thai Air Force conducted daytime bombing runs over Vientiane, Sisophon, and Battambang with impunity. The French retaliated with their own planes, but the damage caused was less than equal. The activities of the Thai air force, particularly in the field of dive-bombing, was such that Admiral Jean Decoux, the governor of French Indochina, grudgingly remarked that the Thai planes seemed to have been flown by men with plenty of war experience.

 

In early January 1941, the Thai Burapha and Isan Armies launched their offensive on Laos and Cambodia. French resistance was instantaneous, but many units were simply swept along by the better-equipped Thai forces, with some French equipment – including some aircraft – being captured and immediately pressed into Thai army service. The Thais swiftly took Laos, but Cambodia proved a much harder nut to crack.

 

On January 16, 1941 the French launched a large counterattack on the Thai-held villages of Yang Dang Khum and Phum Preav, initiating the fiercest battle of the war. Because of over-complicated orders and nonexistent intelligence, the French counterattacks were cut to pieces and fighting ended with a French withdrawal from the area. The Thais were unable to pursue the retreating French, as their forward tanks were kept in check by the gunnery of French Foreign Legion artillerists.

 

On January 24, the final air battle took place when Thai bombers raided the French airfield at Angkor near Siem Reap, which quickly fell. The last Thai mission commenced at 0710 hours on January 28, when the Martins of the 50th Bomber Squadron set out on a raid on Sisophon, escorted by three Hawk 75Ns of the 60th Fighter Squadron.

 

Although the French won an important naval victory over the Thais, Japan forced the French to accept Japanese mediation of a peace treaty that returned the disputed territory to Thai control. A general armistice was arranged by Japan to go into effect on January 28. On May 9 a peace treaty was signed in Tokyo, with the French being coerced by the Japanese into relinquishing their hold on the disputed territories. However, the French (now part of the Axis Forces’ Vichy regime) were left in place to administer the rump colony of Indochina until 9 March 1945, when the Japanese staged a coup d'état in French Indochina and took control, establishing their own colony, the Empire of Vietnam, as a puppet state controlled by Tokyo.

 

Until then, Japanese authorities heavily influenced the diminishing Vichy French presence in the region and handed over a lot of leftover military hardware to its own allies, primarily the Thai forces. However, there was not much left to be distributed: about 30% of the French aircraft were rendered unserviceable by the end of the French-Thai War in early 1941, some as a result of minor damage sustained in air raids that remained unrepaired. The Armée de l'Air admitted the loss of only one Farman F221 and two Morane M.S.406s destroyed on the ground, but, in reality, its losses were greater and the influence of Japan on the leftover stock was fogged in order to save face. However, even in 1944, single former Vichy French aircraft and tanks were still active in the region, primarily under Thai flag.

  

General characteristics:

Crew: 1

Length: 8.17 m (26 ft 10 in)

Wingspan: 10.61 m (34 ft 10 in)

Height: 3.25 m (10 ft 8 in)

Wing area: 16 m2 (170 sq ft)

Empty weight: 1,895 kg (4,178 lb)

Gross weight: 2,540 kg (5,600 lb)

 

Powerplant:

1 × Hispano-Suiza 12Y-31 V-12 liquid-cooled piston engine with

619 kW (830 hp) for take-off at 2,520 rpm at sea level,

driving a 3-bladed variable-pitch propeller, 3 m (9 ft 10 in) diameter

 

Performance:

Maximum speed: 490 km/h (304 mph; 265 kn) at 4,500 m (14,764 ft)

Stall speed: 160 km/h (99 mph, 86 kn) without flaps

135 km/h (84 mph; 73 kn) with flaps

Range: 1,100 km (680 mi, 590 nmi) at 66% power

Combat range: 720 km (450 mi, 390 nmi)

Endurance: 2 hours 20 minutes 30 seconds (average combat mission)

Service ceiling: 9,400 m (30,800 ft)

Time to altitude: 2,000 m (6,562 ft) in 2 minutes 32 seconds

9,000 m (29,528 ft) in 21 minutes 37 seconds

Wing loading: 154 kg/m2 (32 lb/sq ft)

Power/mass: 2.95 kg/kW (4.85 lb/hp)

Take-off run to 8 m (26 ft): 270 m (886 ft)

Landing run from 8 m (26 ft): 340 m (1,115 ft)

 

Armament:

1× 20 mm (0.787 in) Hispano-Suiza HS.404 cannon, firing through the propeller hub

2× 7.5 mm (0.295 in) MAC 1934 machine guns in the outer wings

  

The kit and its assembly:

This quick build was created in the wake of the “Captured” group build at whatifmodellers.com and actually is a personal interpretation of someone else’s idea, namely of fellow modeler NARSES who came up with the idea of a captured French M.S. 406 in Indochina under a new Thai flag. I found the idea so weird, yet realistic, that I decided to build one, too.

 

The model is the very simple but quite acceptable M.S. 406 from Hobby Boss. Externally the model is nice, with recessed panel lines and a basic landing gear. Internally, it is rather bleak, even though it has a full cockpit with a floor, integrally molded seat and even some details behind the pilot’s armor bulkhead. The canopy is a single piece and very clear, but it comes with massive locator bars, so that I decided to keep the canopy closed and added a pilot figure to cover the minimal interior. I was lucky to find a Japanese (though pretty “flat”) WWII pilot in the donor bank, left over from a Hasegawa model. I also gave the figure some seat belts (made from adhesive tape), but the rest remained unchanged – even the original metal axis for the propeller was used. I just replaced the machine gun barrels with hollow steel needles and added a pitot on the wing, which is probably part of the kit but not indicated in the instructions. The same is true for the foldable ventral antenna.

 

The build was finished quickly, in the course of just a single evening, including the pilot and some overall PSR.

  

Painting and markings:

My interpretation of a French aircraft in Thai service after the French-Thai War stuck closely to the real world Vichy livery, which was the standard French camouflage in grey/green/brown with light blue-grey undersides (all from ModelMaster’s Authentic Color range), together with a yellow-and-red-striped cowling (a base with Humbrol 69 and red decal stripes added later) and a white cheatline long the fuselage. The tail of French aircraft in Indochina was painted all-red from early 1941 onwards upon Japanese command, because of friendly fire incidents. This was adopted for the model (with a mix of Humbrol 19 and some 73), which is supposed to belong into the 1942 time frame.

 

As a captured aircraft, the original French roundels were replaced/overpainted with red disks/hinomaru, and then Thai elephant markings added on top. That’s a personal idea, ordnance directly supplied to the Thai forces from Japan had the simple, square “elephant flag” emblem directly applied to the wings and the fin (but no fuselage roundel). The all-red tail was taken over, but I painted the rudder in a dark IJA green, since it would formerly carry a French fin flash. The same green was used to overpaint a serial number on the fin and a former squadron emblem under the cockpit.

The hinomaru come from a PrintScale Ki-46 sheet, and these markings are intentionally a bit oversized, so that they cover well the former French markings and are highly visible. The elephant markings some from a PrintScale Ki-27 sheet, so that the red tone on both sources are very close to each other. The Ki-27 sheet also provided the Thai ciphers “3” and “4”, combined into a “34”.

 

The interior was painted in medium grey, and the model externally received some signs of wear and tear in the form of dry-brushed leading edges and around the cockpit as well as some soot stains behind the exhaust stubs and the machine guns. Finally, the model was sealed with a coat of matt acrylic varnish (Italeri).

  

A quick build, and the easy-build Hobby Boss M.S. 406 is certainly not as crisp as a “real” model, but in this case the story behind the weird livery was more in the focus than the canvas underneath. However, an interesting result, and the hybrid paint scheme with heritage from three different operators make the aircraft an unusual, if not exotic sight.

NEDERLAND, NETHERLANDS, HOLLAND, PAYS-BAS, HOLANDA, PAISES BAJOS, Barendrecht, Un pueblo llamado Barendrecht, A town called Barendrecht, Une ville appelée Barendrecht, LAGARTIJAS, LEZARDS , LIZARDS, HAGEDISSEN, ECHSEN, LAGARTO,

  

AXOLOTIS.-

 

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

 

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

 

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

 

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

 

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

 

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

 

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

 

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

 

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

 

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

 

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.

  

Il fut une époque où je pensais beaucoup aux axolotls. J’allais les voir à l’aquarium du Jardin des Plantes et je passais des heures à les regarder, à observer leur immobilité, leurs mouvements obscurs. Et maintenant je suis un axolotl. Le hasard me conduisit vers eux un matin de printemps où Paris déployait sa queue de paon après le lent hiver. Je descendis le boulevard Saint-Marcel, celui de l’hôpital, je vis les premiers verts parmi tout le gris et je me souvins des lions. J’étais très amis des lions et des panthères, mais je n’étais jamais entré dans l’enceinte humide et sombre des aquariums. Je laissai ma bicyclette contre les grilles et j’allais voir les tulipes. Les lions étaient laids et tristes et ma panthère dormait. Je me décidai pour les aquariums et, après avoir regardé avec indifférence des poissons ordinaires, je tombai par hasard sur les axolotls. Je passai une heure à les regarder, puis je partis, incapable de penser à autre chose.

 

À la bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève je consultai un dictionnaire et j’appris que les axolotls étaient les formes larvaires, pourvues de branchies, de batraciens du genre amblystone. Qu’ils étaient originaires du Mexique, je le savais déjà, rien qu’à voir leur petit visage aztèque. Je lus qu’on en avait trouvé des spécimens en Afrique capables de vivre hors de l’eau pendant les périodes de sécheresse et qui reprenaient leur vie normale à la saison des pluies. On donnait leur nom espagnol, ajolote, on signalait qu’ils étaient comestibles et qu’on utilisait leur huile (on ne l’utilise plus) comme l’huile de foie de morue.

 

Je ne voulus pas consulter d’ouvrages spécialisés mais je revins le jour suivant au jardin des Plantes. Je pris l’habitude d’y aller tous les matins, et parfois même matin et soir. Le gardien des aquariums souriait d’un air perplexe en prenant mon ticket. Je m’appuyais contre la barre de fer qui borde les aquariums et je regardais les axolotls. Il n’y avait rien d’étrange à cela ; dès le premier instant j’avais senti que quelque chose me liait à eux, quelque chose d’infiniment lointain et oublié qui cependant nous unissait encore. Il m’avait suffit de m’arrêter un matin devant cet aquarium où des bulles couraient dans l’eau. Les axolotls s’entassaient sur l’étroit et misérable (personne mieux que moi ne sait à quel point il est étroit et misérable) fond de pierre et de mousse. Il y en avait neuf, la plupart d’entre eux appuyaient leur tête contre la vitre et regardaient de leurs yeux d’or ceux qui s’approchaient. Troublé, presque honteux, je trouvais qu’il y avait de l’impudeur à se pencher sur ces formes silencieuses et immobiles entassées au fond de l’aquarium. Mentalement, j’en isolai un, un peu à l’écart sur la droite, pour mieux l’étudier. Je vis un petit corps rose, translucide (je pensai aux statuettes chinoises en verre laiteux), semblable à un petit lézard de quinze centimètres, terminé par une queue de poisson d’une extraordinaire délicatesse - c’est la partie la plus sensible de notre corps. Sur son dos, une nageoire transparente se rattachait à la queue ; mais ce furent les pattes qui me fascinèrent, des pattes d’une incroyable finesse, terminés par de tout petits doigts avec des ongles - absolument humains, sans pourtant avoir la forme de la main humaine - mais comment aurais-je pu ignorer qu’ils étaient humains ? c’est alors que je découvris leurs yeux, leur visage. Un visage inexpressif sans autre trait que les yeux, deux orifices comme des têtes d’épingles entièrement d’or transparent, sans aucune vie, mais qui regardaient et qui se laissaient pénétrer par mon regard qui passait à travers le point doré et se perdait dans un mystère diaphane. Un très mince halo noir entourait l’oeil et l’inscrivait dans la chair rose, dans la pierre rose de la tête vaguement triangulaire, au contours courbes et irréguliers, qui la faisaient ressembler à une statue rongée par le temps. La bouche était dissimulée par le plan triangulaire de la tête et ce n’est que de profil que l’on s’apercevait qu’elle était très grande. Vue de face, c’était une fine rainure, comme une fissure dans de l’albâtre. De chaque côté de la tête, à la place des oreilles, se dressaient de très petites branches rouges comme du corail, une excroissance végétale, les branchies, je suppose. C’était la seule chose qui eût l’air vivante dans ce corps. Chaque vingt secondes elles se dressaient, toutes raides, puis s’abaissaient de nouveau. Parfois une patte bougeait, à peine, et je voyais les doigts minuscules se poser doucement sur la mousse. C’est que nous n’aimons pas beaucoup bouger, l’aquarium est si étroit ; si peu que nous remuions nous heurtons la tête ou la queue d’un autre ; il s’ensuit des difficultés, des disputes, de la fatigue. Le temps se sent moins si l’on reste immobile.

 

Ce fut leur immobilité qui me fit me pencher vers eux, fasciné, la première fois que je les vis. Il me sembla comprendre obscurément leur volonté secrète : abolir l’espace et le temps par une immobilité pleine d’indifférence. Par la suite, j’appris à mieux les comprendre, les branchies qui se contractent, les petites pattes fines qui tâtonnent sur les pierres, leurs fuites brusques (ils nagent par une simple ondulation du corps) me prouvèrent qu’ils étaient capables de s’évader de cette torpeur minérale où ils passaient des heures entières. Leurs yeux surtout m’obsédaient. A côté d’eux, dans les autres aquariums, des poissons me montraient la stupide simplicité de leurs beaux yeux semblables aux nôtres. Les yeux des axolotls me parlaient de la présence d’une vie différente, d’une autre façon de regarder. Je collais mon visage à la vitre (le gardien, inquiet, toussait de temps en temps) pour mieux voir les tout petits points dorés, cette ouverture sur le monde infiniment lent et éloigné des bêtes roses. Inutile de frapper du doigt contre la vitre, sous leur nez, jamais la moindre réaction. Les yeux d’or continuaient à brûler de leur douce et terrible lumière, continuaient à me regarder du fond d’un abîme insondable qui me donnait le vertige.

 

Et cependant les axolotls étaient proches de nous. Je le savais avant même de devenir un axolotl. Je le sus dès le jour où je m’approchai d’eux pour la première fois. Les traits anthropomorphiques d’un singe accusent la différence qu’il y a entre lui et nous, contrairement à ce que pensent la plupart des gens. L’absence totale de ressemblance entre un axolotl et un être humain me prouva que ma reconnaissance

était valable, que je ne m’appuyais pas sur des analogies faciles. Il y avait bien les petites mains. Mais un lézard a les mêmes mains et ne ressemble en rien à l’homme. Je crois que tout venait de la tête des axolotls, de sa forme triangulaire rose et de ses petits yeux d’or. Cela regardait et savait. Cela réclamait. Les axolotls n’étaient pas des animaux.

 

De là à tomber dans la mythologie, il n’y avait qu’un pas, facile à franchir, presque inévitable. Je finis par voir dans les axolotls une métamorphose qui n’arrivait pas à renoncer tout à fait à une mystérieuse humanité. Je les imaginais conscients, esclaves de leur corps, condamnés indéfiniment à un silence abyssal, à une méditation désespérée. Leur regard aveugle, le petit disque d’or inexpressif - et cependant terriblement lucide - me pénétrait comme un message : "Sauve-nous, sauve-nous." Je me surprenais en train de murmurer des paroles de consolation, de transmettre des espoirs puérils. Ils continuaient à me regarder, immobiles. Soudain les petites branches roses se dressaient sur leur tête, et je sentais à ce moment-là comme une douleur sourde. Ils me voyaient peut-être, ils captaient mes efforts pour pénétrer dans l’impénétrable de leur vie. Ce n’étaient pas des êtres humains mais jamais je ne m’étais senti un rapport aussi étroit entre des animaux et moi. Les axolotls étaient comme témoins de quelque chose et parfois ils devenaient de terribles juges. Je me trouvais ignoble devant eux, il y avait dans ces yeux transparents une si effrayante pureté. C’était des larves, mais larve veut dire masque et aussi fantôme. Derrière ces visages aztèques, inexpressifs, et cependant d’une cruauté implacable, quelle image attendait

son heure ?

 

Ils me faisaient peur. Je crois que sans la présence du gardien et des autres visiteurs je n’aurais jamais osé rester devant eux. " Vous les mangez des yeux ", me disait le gardien en riant, et il devait penser que je n’étais pas tout à fait normal. Il ne se rendait pas compte que c’était eux qui me dévoraient lentement des yeux, en un cannibalisme d’or. Loin d’eux je ne pouvais penser à autre chose, comme s’ils m’influençaient à distance. Je finis par y aller tous les jours et la nuit je les imaginais immobiles dans l’obscurité, avançant lentement une petite patte qui rencontrait soudain celle d’un autre. Leurs yeux voyaient peut-être la nuit et le jour pour eux n’avait pas de fin. Les yeux des axolotls n’ont pas de paupières.

 

Maintenant je sais qu’il n’y a rien eu d’étrange dans tout cela, que cela devait arriver. Ils me reconnaissaient un peu plus chaque matin quand je me penchais vers l’aquarium. Ils souffraient. Chaque fibre de mon corps enregistrait cette souffrance bâillonnée, cette torture rigide au fond de l’eau. Ils épiaient quelque chose, un lointain royaume aboli, un temps de liberté où le monde avait appartenu aux axolotls. Une expression aussi terrible qui arrivait à vaincre l’impassibilité forcée de ces visages de pierre contenait sûrement un message de douleur, la preuve de cette condamnation éternelle, de cet enfer liquide qu’ils enduraient. En vain essayai-je de me persuader que c’était ma propre sensibilité qui projetait sur les axolotls une conscience qu’ils n’avaient pas. Eux et moi nous savions. C’est pour cela que ce qui arriva n’est pas étrange. Je collais mon visage à la vitre de l’aquarium, mes yeux essayèrent une fois de plus de percer le mystère de ces yeux d’or sans iris et sans pupille. Je voyais de très près la tête d’un axolotl immobile contre la vitre. Puis mon visage s’éloigna et je compris. Une seule chose était étrange : continuer à penser comme avant, savoir. Quand j’en pris conscience, je ressentis l’horreur de celui qui s’éveille enterré vivant. Au-dehors, mon visage s’approchait à nouveau de la vitre, je voyais ma bouche aux lèvres serrées par l’effort que je faisais pour comprendre les axolotls. J’étais un axolotl et je venais de savoir en un éclair qu’aucune communication n’était possible. Il était hors de l’aquarium, sa pensée était une pensée hors de l’aquarium. Tout en le connaissant, tout en étant lui-même, j’étais un axolotl et j’étais dans mon monde. L’horreur venait de ce que - je le sus instantanément - je me croyais prisonnier dans le corps d’un axolotl, transféré en lui avec ma pensée d’homme, enterré vivant dans un axolotl, condamné à me mouvoir en toute lucidité parmi des créatures insensibles. Mais cette impression ne dura pas, une patte vint effleurer mon visage et en me tournant un peu je vis un axolotl à côté de moi qui me regardait et je compris que lui aussi savait, sans communication possible mais si clairement. Ou bien j’étais encore en l’homme, ou bien nous pensions comme des êtres humains, incapables de nous exprimer, limités à l’éclat doré de nos yeux qui regardaient ce visage d’homme collé à la vitre.

 

Il revint encore plusieurs fois mais il vient moins souvent à présent. Des semaines se passent sans qu’on le voie. Il est venu hier, il m’a regardé longuement et puis il est parti brusquement. Il me semble que ce n’est plus à nous qu’il s’intéresse, qu’il obéit plutôt à une habitude. Comme penser est la seule chose que je puisse faire, je pense beaucoup à lui. Pendant un certain temps nous avons continué d’être en communication lui et moi, et il se sentait plus que jamais lié au mystère qui l’obsédait. Mais les ponts sont coupés à présent, car ce qui était son obsession est devenu un axolotl, étranger à sa vie d’homme. Je crois qu’au début je pouvais encore revenir en lui, dans une certaine mesure - ah ! seulement dans une certaine

mesure - et maintenir éveillé son désir de mieux nous connaître. Maintenant je suis définitivement un axolotl et si je pense comme un être humain c’est tout simplement parce que les axolotls pensent comme les humains sous leur masque de pierre rose. Il me semble que j’étais arrivé à lui communiquer cette vérité, les premiers jours, lorsque j’étais encore en lui. Et dans cette solitude finale vers laquelle il ne revient déjà plus, cela me console de penser qu’il va peut-être écrire quelque chose sur nous ; il croira qu’il invente un conte et il écrira tout cela sur les axolotls.

 

Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

NEDERLAND, NETHERLANDS, HOLLAND, PAYS-BAS, HOLANDA, PAISES BAJOS, Barendrecht, Un pueblo llamado Barendrecht, A town called Barendrecht, Une ville appelée Barendrecht, LAGARTIJAS, LEZARDS , LIZARDS, HAGEDISSEN, ECHSEN, LAGARTO,

  

AXOLOTIS.-

 

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

 

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

 

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

 

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

 

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

 

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

 

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

 

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

 

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

 

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

 

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.

  

Il fut une époque où je pensais beaucoup aux axolotls. J’allais les voir à l’aquarium du Jardin des Plantes et je passais des heures à les regarder, à observer leur immobilité, leurs mouvements obscurs. Et maintenant je suis un axolotl. Le hasard me conduisit vers eux un matin de printemps où Paris déployait sa queue de paon après le lent hiver. Je descendis le boulevard Saint-Marcel, celui de l’hôpital, je vis les premiers verts parmi tout le gris et je me souvins des lions. J’étais très amis des lions et des panthères, mais je n’étais jamais entré dans l’enceinte humide et sombre des aquariums. Je laissai ma bicyclette contre les grilles et j’allais voir les tulipes. Les lions étaient laids et tristes et ma panthère dormait. Je me décidai pour les aquariums et, après avoir regardé avec indifférence des poissons ordinaires, je tombai par hasard sur les axolotls. Je passai une heure à les regarder, puis je partis, incapable de penser à autre chose.

 

À la bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève je consultai un dictionnaire et j’appris que les axolotls étaient les formes larvaires, pourvues de branchies, de batraciens du genre amblystone. Qu’ils étaient originaires du Mexique, je le savais déjà, rien qu’à voir leur petit visage aztèque. Je lus qu’on en avait trouvé des spécimens en Afrique capables de vivre hors de l’eau pendant les périodes de sécheresse et qui reprenaient leur vie normale à la saison des pluies. On donnait leur nom espagnol, ajolote, on signalait qu’ils étaient comestibles et qu’on utilisait leur huile (on ne l’utilise plus) comme l’huile de foie de morue.

 

Je ne voulus pas consulter d’ouvrages spécialisés mais je revins le jour suivant au jardin des Plantes. Je pris l’habitude d’y aller tous les matins, et parfois même matin et soir. Le gardien des aquariums souriait d’un air perplexe en prenant mon ticket. Je m’appuyais contre la barre de fer qui borde les aquariums et je regardais les axolotls. Il n’y avait rien d’étrange à cela ; dès le premier instant j’avais senti que quelque chose me liait à eux, quelque chose d’infiniment lointain et oublié qui cependant nous unissait encore. Il m’avait suffit de m’arrêter un matin devant cet aquarium où des bulles couraient dans l’eau. Les axolotls s’entassaient sur l’étroit et misérable (personne mieux que moi ne sait à quel point il est étroit et misérable) fond de pierre et de mousse. Il y en avait neuf, la plupart d’entre eux appuyaient leur tête contre la vitre et regardaient de leurs yeux d’or ceux qui s’approchaient. Troublé, presque honteux, je trouvais qu’il y avait de l’impudeur à se pencher sur ces formes silencieuses et immobiles entassées au fond de l’aquarium. Mentalement, j’en isolai un, un peu à l’écart sur la droite, pour mieux l’étudier. Je vis un petit corps rose, translucide (je pensai aux statuettes chinoises en verre laiteux), semblable à un petit lézard de quinze centimètres, terminé par une queue de poisson d’une extraordinaire délicatesse - c’est la partie la plus sensible de notre corps. Sur son dos, une nageoire transparente se rattachait à la queue ; mais ce furent les pattes qui me fascinèrent, des pattes d’une incroyable finesse, terminés par de tout petits doigts avec des ongles - absolument humains, sans pourtant avoir la forme de la main humaine - mais comment aurais-je pu ignorer qu’ils étaient humains ? c’est alors que je découvris leurs yeux, leur visage. Un visage inexpressif sans autre trait que les yeux, deux orifices comme des têtes d’épingles entièrement d’or transparent, sans aucune vie, mais qui regardaient et qui se laissaient pénétrer par mon regard qui passait à travers le point doré et se perdait dans un mystère diaphane. Un très mince halo noir entourait l’oeil et l’inscrivait dans la chair rose, dans la pierre rose de la tête vaguement triangulaire, au contours courbes et irréguliers, qui la faisaient ressembler à une statue rongée par le temps. La bouche était dissimulée par le plan triangulaire de la tête et ce n’est que de profil que l’on s’apercevait qu’elle était très grande. Vue de face, c’était une fine rainure, comme une fissure dans de l’albâtre. De chaque côté de la tête, à la place des oreilles, se dressaient de très petites branches rouges comme du corail, une excroissance végétale, les branchies, je suppose. C’était la seule chose qui eût l’air vivante dans ce corps. Chaque vingt secondes elles se dressaient, toutes raides, puis s’abaissaient de nouveau. Parfois une patte bougeait, à peine, et je voyais les doigts minuscules se poser doucement sur la mousse. C’est que nous n’aimons pas beaucoup bouger, l’aquarium est si étroit ; si peu que nous remuions nous heurtons la tête ou la queue d’un autre ; il s’ensuit des difficultés, des disputes, de la fatigue. Le temps se sent moins si l’on reste immobile.

 

Ce fut leur immobilité qui me fit me pencher vers eux, fasciné, la première fois que je les vis. Il me sembla comprendre obscurément leur volonté secrète : abolir l’espace et le temps par une immobilité pleine d’indifférence. Par la suite, j’appris à mieux les comprendre, les branchies qui se contractent, les petites pattes fines qui tâtonnent sur les pierres, leurs fuites brusques (ils nagent par une simple ondulation du corps) me prouvèrent qu’ils étaient capables de s’évader de cette torpeur minérale où ils passaient des heures entières. Leurs yeux surtout m’obsédaient. A côté d’eux, dans les autres aquariums, des poissons me montraient la stupide simplicité de leurs beaux yeux semblables aux nôtres. Les yeux des axolotls me parlaient de la présence d’une vie différente, d’une autre façon de regarder. Je collais mon visage à la vitre (le gardien, inquiet, toussait de temps en temps) pour mieux voir les tout petits points dorés, cette ouverture sur le monde infiniment lent et éloigné des bêtes roses. Inutile de frapper du doigt contre la vitre, sous leur nez, jamais la moindre réaction. Les yeux d’or continuaient à brûler de leur douce et terrible lumière, continuaient à me regarder du fond d’un abîme insondable qui me donnait le vertige.

 

Et cependant les axolotls étaient proches de nous. Je le savais avant même de devenir un axolotl. Je le sus dès le jour où je m’approchai d’eux pour la première fois. Les traits anthropomorphiques d’un singe accusent la différence qu’il y a entre lui et nous, contrairement à ce que pensent la plupart des gens. L’absence totale de ressemblance entre un axolotl et un être humain me prouva que ma reconnaissance

était valable, que je ne m’appuyais pas sur des analogies faciles. Il y avait bien les petites mains. Mais un lézard a les mêmes mains et ne ressemble en rien à l’homme. Je crois que tout venait de la tête des axolotls, de sa forme triangulaire rose et de ses petits yeux d’or. Cela regardait et savait. Cela réclamait. Les axolotls n’étaient pas des animaux.

 

De là à tomber dans la mythologie, il n’y avait qu’un pas, facile à franchir, presque inévitable. Je finis par voir dans les axolotls une métamorphose qui n’arrivait pas à renoncer tout à fait à une mystérieuse humanité. Je les imaginais conscients, esclaves de leur corps, condamnés indéfiniment à un silence abyssal, à une méditation désespérée. Leur regard aveugle, le petit disque d’or inexpressif - et cependant terriblement lucide - me pénétrait comme un message : "Sauve-nous, sauve-nous." Je me surprenais en train de murmurer des paroles de consolation, de transmettre des espoirs puérils. Ils continuaient à me regarder, immobiles. Soudain les petites branches roses se dressaient sur leur tête, et je sentais à ce moment-là comme une douleur sourde. Ils me voyaient peut-être, ils captaient mes efforts pour pénétrer dans l’impénétrable de leur vie. Ce n’étaient pas des êtres humains mais jamais je ne m’étais senti un rapport aussi étroit entre des animaux et moi. Les axolotls étaient comme témoins de quelque chose et parfois ils devenaient de terribles juges. Je me trouvais ignoble devant eux, il y avait dans ces yeux transparents une si effrayante pureté. C’était des larves, mais larve veut dire masque et aussi fantôme. Derrière ces visages aztèques, inexpressifs, et cependant d’une cruauté implacable, quelle image attendait

son heure ?

 

Ils me faisaient peur. Je crois que sans la présence du gardien et des autres visiteurs je n’aurais jamais osé rester devant eux. " Vous les mangez des yeux ", me disait le gardien en riant, et il devait penser que je n’étais pas tout à fait normal. Il ne se rendait pas compte que c’était eux qui me dévoraient lentement des yeux, en un cannibalisme d’or. Loin d’eux je ne pouvais penser à autre chose, comme s’ils m’influençaient à distance. Je finis par y aller tous les jours et la nuit je les imaginais immobiles dans l’obscurité, avançant lentement une petite patte qui rencontrait soudain celle d’un autre. Leurs yeux voyaient peut-être la nuit et le jour pour eux n’avait pas de fin. Les yeux des axolotls n’ont pas de paupières.

 

Maintenant je sais qu’il n’y a rien eu d’étrange dans tout cela, que cela devait arriver. Ils me reconnaissaient un peu plus chaque matin quand je me penchais vers l’aquarium. Ils souffraient. Chaque fibre de mon corps enregistrait cette souffrance bâillonnée, cette torture rigide au fond de l’eau. Ils épiaient quelque chose, un lointain royaume aboli, un temps de liberté où le monde avait appartenu aux axolotls. Une expression aussi terrible qui arrivait à vaincre l’impassibilité forcée de ces visages de pierre contenait sûrement un message de douleur, la preuve de cette condamnation éternelle, de cet enfer liquide qu’ils enduraient. En vain essayai-je de me persuader que c’était ma propre sensibilité qui projetait sur les axolotls une conscience qu’ils n’avaient pas. Eux et moi nous savions. C’est pour cela que ce qui arriva n’est pas étrange. Je collais mon visage à la vitre de l’aquarium, mes yeux essayèrent une fois de plus de percer le mystère de ces yeux d’or sans iris et sans pupille. Je voyais de très près la tête d’un axolotl immobile contre la vitre. Puis mon visage s’éloigna et je compris. Une seule chose était étrange : continuer à penser comme avant, savoir. Quand j’en pris conscience, je ressentis l’horreur de celui qui s’éveille enterré vivant. Au-dehors, mon visage s’approchait à nouveau de la vitre, je voyais ma bouche aux lèvres serrées par l’effort que je faisais pour comprendre les axolotls. J’étais un axolotl et je venais de savoir en un éclair qu’aucune communication n’était possible. Il était hors de l’aquarium, sa pensée était une pensée hors de l’aquarium. Tout en le connaissant, tout en étant lui-même, j’étais un axolotl et j’étais dans mon monde. L’horreur venait de ce que - je le sus instantanément - je me croyais prisonnier dans le corps d’un axolotl, transféré en lui avec ma pensée d’homme, enterré vivant dans un axolotl, condamné à me mouvoir en toute lucidité parmi des créatures insensibles. Mais cette impression ne dura pas, une patte vint effleurer mon visage et en me tournant un peu je vis un axolotl à côté de moi qui me regardait et je compris que lui aussi savait, sans communication possible mais si clairement. Ou bien j’étais encore en l’homme, ou bien nous pensions comme des êtres humains, incapables de nous exprimer, limités à l’éclat doré de nos yeux qui regardaient ce visage d’homme collé à la vitre.

 

Il revint encore plusieurs fois mais il vient moins souvent à présent. Des semaines se passent sans qu’on le voie. Il est venu hier, il m’a regardé longuement et puis il est parti brusquement. Il me semble que ce n’est plus à nous qu’il s’intéresse, qu’il obéit plutôt à une habitude. Comme penser est la seule chose que je puisse faire, je pense beaucoup à lui. Pendant un certain temps nous avons continué d’être en communication lui et moi, et il se sentait plus que jamais lié au mystère qui l’obsédait. Mais les ponts sont coupés à présent, car ce qui était son obsession est devenu un axolotl, étranger à sa vie d’homme. Je crois qu’au début je pouvais encore revenir en lui, dans une certaine mesure - ah ! seulement dans une certaine

mesure - et maintenir éveillé son désir de mieux nous connaître. Maintenant je suis définitivement un axolotl et si je pense comme un être humain c’est tout simplement parce que les axolotls pensent comme les humains sous leur masque de pierre rose. Il me semble que j’étais arrivé à lui communiquer cette vérité, les premiers jours, lorsque j’étais encore en lui. Et dans cette solitude finale vers laquelle il ne revient déjà plus, cela me console de penser qu’il va peut-être écrire quelque chose sur nous ; il croira qu’il invente un conte et il écrira tout cela sur les axolotls.

 

Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

Operation “Salt City" resulted in the arrest of 248 individuals from May through September 2015. Of those arrested, 124 were active gang members. During the operation 22 firearms, more than $237,000 in U.S. currency, 70 grams of heroin, 266 grams of cocaine, and 723 grams of marijuana with a total estimated street value of almost $44,000 was taken off Syracuse streets by participating agencies.

Operation Salt City is part of the U.S. Marshals nation-wide “Triple Beam” gang reduction initiative. Triple Beam partners federal, state, and local law enforcement to reduce violent crime and take dangerous offenders off the streets. The goal of the U.S. Marshals Gang Enforcement Program is to seek out and disrupt illegal gang activity in areas of the country with smaller or nonexistent gang enforcement units by providing manpower, funding and the Marshals’ renowned fugitive tracking abilities.

 

Photo by Shane T. McCoy / US Marshals

The second stop on the way home from my college visit was in Richmond!

 

The Richmond Kmart appears to be a former Grants (and thus reminded me of the Erie Kmart that I visited last summer). It is very noticeably bigger than Anderson; it is also very nice; it has a Kmart Express gas station and it has a former Kmart Cafe (that still has the counter/displays, the full menu board and even the register! Looks like a more recent KCafe closure from what I've seen; if anybody else here has any more information I would like to know more about it!). This store appears to be doing fairly well for one of the last remaining stores in/near the Miami Valley.

 

Of course, I had to check out the Kmart Express after my main store rounds were complete, so I headed over there and looked around. This is the second Kmart Express I've seen, but the first one I have actually visited, as the other one (at the now nonexistent Brooklyn Super Kmart) had already closed. I didn't buy anything at this KExpress though, as I had spent my money in the main store. Hopefully next time I can buy some coffee or donuts from Kmart Express while going to/from Anderson (if I plan another college visit to Anderson U, which is likely)!

 

Hopefully the Richmond Kmart will still be able to remain "normal" for a good time longer...I like this store! :D

 

Kmart #7246 - 3150 National Road West - Richmond, Indiana

+++ DISCLAIMER +++

Nothing you see here is real, even though the conversion or the presented background story might be based on historical facts. BEWARE!

  

Some background:

The outbreak of the war in Europe in September 1939 did not immediately affect the status of the Armée de l'Air in French Indochina because it had the task of defending a wide area of Southeast Asia, including the future Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. And yet its array of airplanes seemed inadequate to perform any kind of real defense against any incursion by an enemy, because there were less than 100 airplanes available to it, all obsolescent or obsolete. In September 1931, Japan invaded and occupied Manchuria. This was an area of northeast China, which encompassed the provinces of Jilin, Liaoning and Heilongjiang. Nearly six whole years later, in July 1937, the Second Sino-Japanese War had begun. As yet, the French colonial authorities were hoping that the Japanese would not be brazen enough to take on the might of a European power. However, it became increasingly likely after the German invasion of Poland in September 1939, since Japan was part of the Axis alliance and thus Germany's ally.

 

On September 26, 1940, Japanese troops landed in Haiphong, violating a cease-fire which had been signed only the previous day. From the middle of the following month, the French became heavily involved in repelling Japanese army assaults. Following the Fall of France in 1940, Thais perceived a chance to regain the territories they had lost years earlier. The collapse of Metropolitan France made the French hold on Indochina tenuous. After the Japanese invasion of French Indochina in September 1940, the French were forced to allow the Japanese to set up military bases. This seemingly subservient behavior convinced the Thai regime that Vichy France would not seriously resist a confrontation with Thailand.

 

During the French-Thai War, the Thai Air Force achieved several air-to-air-victories in dogfights against the Vichy Armée de l'Air. During World War II, the Thai Air Force supported the Royal Thai Army in its occupation of the Shan States of Burma as somewhat reluctant allies of the Japanese and took part in the defense of Bangkok against allied air raids in the latter part of the war, achieving some successes against state-of-the-art aircraft like the P-51 Mustang and the B-29 Superfortress. During these times, the RTAF was actively supplied by the Japanese with Imperial Japanese Army Air Force aircraft such as the Ki-43 "Oscar," and the Ki-27 "Nate." Other RTAF personnel took an active part the anti-Japanese resistance movement.

 

French forces in Indochina consisted of an army of approximately fifty thousand men, The most obvious deficiency of the French army lay in its shortage of armor; however, the Armée de l'Air had in its inventory approximately a hundred aircraft, of which around sixty could be considered first line. These consisted of thirty Potez 25 TOEs, four Farman 221s, eight Loire 130 flying boats, six Potez 542s, nine Morane M.S.406s.

 

The M.S.406 was a French fighter aircraft developed and manufactured by Morane-Saulnier starting in 1938. In response to a requirement for a fighter issued by the French Air Force in 1934, Morane-Saulnier built a prototype, designated MS.405, of mixed materials. This had the distinction of being the company's first low-wing monoplane, as well as the first to feature an enclosed cockpit, and the first design with a retracting undercarriage. The entry to service of the M.S.406 to the French Air Force in early 1939 represented the first modern fighter aircraft to be adopted by the service, and the type was also used in the French overseas colonies. The M.S.406 was France's most numerous fighter during the Second World War and one of only two French designs to exceed 1,000 in number. At the beginning of the war, it was one of only two French-built aircraft capable of 400 km/h (250 mph) – the other being the Potez 630.

 

Although a sturdy and highly manoeuvrable fighter aircraft, the M.S.406 was considered underpowered and weakly armed when compared to its contemporaries, esp. over continental Europe. Most critically, the M.S.406 was outperformed by the Messerschmitt Bf 109E during the Battle of France and no serious threat to the German fighter. In less advanced theatres like Indochina, though, the M.S. 406 was a respectable contender, but its numbers were low.

 

When the French-Thai War broke out in Indochina, the Thai Army was a relatively well-equipped force, consisting of some sixty thousand men, with artillery and tanks. The Royal Thai Navy — consisting of several vessels, including two coastal defence ships, twelve torpedo boats and four submarines — was inferior to the French naval forces, though, but the Royal Thai Air Force held both a quantitative and qualitative edge over l'Armee de l'Air. Among the 140 aircraft that composed the air force's initial first-line strength were twenty-four Mitsubishi Ki-30 light bombers, nine Mitsubishi Ki-21 and six Martin B-10 twin-engine bombers, seventy Vought Corsair dive bombers, and twenty-five Curtiss Hawk 75 fighters.

 

While nationalistic demonstrations and anti-French rallies were held in Bangkok, border skirmishes erupted along the Mekong frontier. The superior Royal Thai Air Force conducted daytime bombing runs over Vientiane, Sisophon, and Battambang with impunity. The French retaliated with their own planes, but the damage caused was less than equal. The activities of the Thai air force, particularly in the field of dive-bombing, was such that Admiral Jean Decoux, the governor of French Indochina, grudgingly remarked that the Thai planes seemed to have been flown by men with plenty of war experience.

 

In early January 1941, the Thai Burapha and Isan Armies launched their offensive on Laos and Cambodia. French resistance was instantaneous, but many units were simply swept along by the better-equipped Thai forces, with some French equipment – including some aircraft – being captured and immediately pressed into Thai army service. The Thais swiftly took Laos, but Cambodia proved a much harder nut to crack.

 

On January 16, 1941 the French launched a large counterattack on the Thai-held villages of Yang Dang Khum and Phum Preav, initiating the fiercest battle of the war. Because of over-complicated orders and nonexistent intelligence, the French counterattacks were cut to pieces and fighting ended with a French withdrawal from the area. The Thais were unable to pursue the retreating French, as their forward tanks were kept in check by the gunnery of French Foreign Legion artillerists.

 

On January 24, the final air battle took place when Thai bombers raided the French airfield at Angkor near Siem Reap, which quickly fell. The last Thai mission commenced at 0710 hours on January 28, when the Martins of the 50th Bomber Squadron set out on a raid on Sisophon, escorted by three Hawk 75Ns of the 60th Fighter Squadron.

 

Although the French won an important naval victory over the Thais, Japan forced the French to accept Japanese mediation of a peace treaty that returned the disputed territory to Thai control. A general armistice was arranged by Japan to go into effect on January 28. On May 9 a peace treaty was signed in Tokyo, with the French being coerced by the Japanese into relinquishing their hold on the disputed territories. However, the French (now part of the Axis Forces’ Vichy regime) were left in place to administer the rump colony of Indochina until 9 March 1945, when the Japanese staged a coup d'état in French Indochina and took control, establishing their own colony, the Empire of Vietnam, as a puppet state controlled by Tokyo.

 

Until then, Japanese authorities heavily influenced the diminishing Vichy French presence in the region and handed over a lot of leftover military hardware to its own allies, primarily the Thai forces. However, there was not much left to be distributed: about 30% of the French aircraft were rendered unserviceable by the end of the French-Thai War in early 1941, some as a result of minor damage sustained in air raids that remained unrepaired. The Armée de l'Air admitted the loss of only one Farman F221 and two Morane M.S.406s destroyed on the ground, but, in reality, its losses were greater and the influence of Japan on the leftover stock was fogged in order to save face. However, even in 1944, single former Vichy French aircraft and tanks were still active in the region, primarily under Thai flag.

  

General characteristics:

Crew: 1

Length: 8.17 m (26 ft 10 in)

Wingspan: 10.61 m (34 ft 10 in)

Height: 3.25 m (10 ft 8 in)

Wing area: 16 m2 (170 sq ft)

Empty weight: 1,895 kg (4,178 lb)

Gross weight: 2,540 kg (5,600 lb)

 

Powerplant:

1 × Hispano-Suiza 12Y-31 V-12 liquid-cooled piston engine with

619 kW (830 hp) for take-off at 2,520 rpm at sea level,

driving a 3-bladed variable-pitch propeller, 3 m (9 ft 10 in) diameter

 

Performance:

Maximum speed: 490 km/h (304 mph; 265 kn) at 4,500 m (14,764 ft)

Stall speed: 160 km/h (99 mph, 86 kn) without flaps

135 km/h (84 mph; 73 kn) with flaps

Range: 1,100 km (680 mi, 590 nmi) at 66% power

Combat range: 720 km (450 mi, 390 nmi)

Endurance: 2 hours 20 minutes 30 seconds (average combat mission)

Service ceiling: 9,400 m (30,800 ft)

Time to altitude: 2,000 m (6,562 ft) in 2 minutes 32 seconds

9,000 m (29,528 ft) in 21 minutes 37 seconds

Wing loading: 154 kg/m2 (32 lb/sq ft)

Power/mass: 2.95 kg/kW (4.85 lb/hp)

Take-off run to 8 m (26 ft): 270 m (886 ft)

Landing run from 8 m (26 ft): 340 m (1,115 ft)

 

Armament:

1× 20 mm (0.787 in) Hispano-Suiza HS.404 cannon, firing through the propeller hub

2× 7.5 mm (0.295 in) MAC 1934 machine guns in the outer wings

  

The kit and its assembly:

This quick build was created in the wake of the “Captured” group build at whatifmodellers.com and actually is a personal interpretation of someone else’s idea, namely of fellow modeler NARSES who came up with the idea of a captured French M.S. 406 in Indochina under a new Thai flag. I found the idea so weird, yet realistic, that I decided to build one, too.

 

The model is the very simple but quite acceptable M.S. 406 from Hobby Boss. Externally the model is nice, with recessed panel lines and a basic landing gear. Internally, it is rather bleak, even though it has a full cockpit with a floor, integrally molded seat and even some details behind the pilot’s armor bulkhead. The canopy is a single piece and very clear, but it comes with massive locator bars, so that I decided to keep the canopy closed and added a pilot figure to cover the minimal interior. I was lucky to find a Japanese (though pretty “flat”) WWII pilot in the donor bank, left over from a Hasegawa model. I also gave the figure some seat belts (made from adhesive tape), but the rest remained unchanged – even the original metal axis for the propeller was used. I just replaced the machine gun barrels with hollow steel needles and added a pitot on the wing, which is probably part of the kit but not indicated in the instructions. The same is true for the foldable ventral antenna.

 

The build was finished quickly, in the course of just a single evening, including the pilot and some overall PSR.

  

Painting and markings:

My interpretation of a French aircraft in Thai service after the French-Thai War stuck closely to the real world Vichy livery, which was the standard French camouflage in grey/green/brown with light blue-grey undersides (all from ModelMaster’s Authentic Color range), together with a yellow-and-red-striped cowling (a base with Humbrol 69 and red decal stripes added later) and a white cheatline long the fuselage. The tail of French aircraft in Indochina was painted all-red from early 1941 onwards upon Japanese command, because of friendly fire incidents. This was adopted for the model (with a mix of Humbrol 19 and some 73), which is supposed to belong into the 1942 time frame.

 

As a captured aircraft, the original French roundels were replaced/overpainted with red disks/hinomaru, and then Thai elephant markings added on top. That’s a personal idea, ordnance directly supplied to the Thai forces from Japan had the simple, square “elephant flag” emblem directly applied to the wings and the fin (but no fuselage roundel). The all-red tail was taken over, but I painted the rudder in a dark IJA green, since it would formerly carry a French fin flash. The same green was used to overpaint a serial number on the fin and a former squadron emblem under the cockpit.

The hinomaru come from a PrintScale Ki-46 sheet, and these markings are intentionally a bit oversized, so that they cover well the former French markings and are highly visible. The elephant markings some from a PrintScale Ki-27 sheet, so that the red tone on both sources are very close to each other. The Ki-27 sheet also provided the Thai ciphers “3” and “4”, combined into a “34”.

 

The interior was painted in medium grey, and the model externally received some signs of wear and tear in the form of dry-brushed leading edges and around the cockpit as well as some soot stains behind the exhaust stubs and the machine guns. Finally, the model was sealed with a coat of matt acrylic varnish (Italeri).

  

A quick build, and the easy-build Hobby Boss M.S. 406 is certainly not as crisp as a “real” model, but in this case the story behind the weird livery was more in the focus than the canvas underneath. However, an interesting result, and the hybrid paint scheme with heritage from three different operators make the aircraft an unusual, if not exotic sight.

NEDERLAND, NETHERLANDS, HOLLAND, PAYS-BAS, HOLANDA, PAISES BAJOS, Barendrecht, Un pueblo llamado Barendrecht, A town called Barendrecht, Une ville appelée Barendrecht, LAGARTIJAS, LEZARDS , LIZARDS, HAGEDISSEN, ECHSEN, LAGARTO,

  

AXOLOTIS.-

 

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

 

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

 

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

 

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

 

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

 

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

 

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

 

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

 

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

 

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

 

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.

  

Il fut une époque où je pensais beaucoup aux axolotls. J’allais les voir à l’aquarium du Jardin des Plantes et je passais des heures à les regarder, à observer leur immobilité, leurs mouvements obscurs. Et maintenant je suis un axolotl. Le hasard me conduisit vers eux un matin de printemps où Paris déployait sa queue de paon après le lent hiver. Je descendis le boulevard Saint-Marcel, celui de l’hôpital, je vis les premiers verts parmi tout le gris et je me souvins des lions. J’étais très amis des lions et des panthères, mais je n’étais jamais entré dans l’enceinte humide et sombre des aquariums. Je laissai ma bicyclette contre les grilles et j’allais voir les tulipes. Les lions étaient laids et tristes et ma panthère dormait. Je me décidai pour les aquariums et, après avoir regardé avec indifférence des poissons ordinaires, je tombai par hasard sur les axolotls. Je passai une heure à les regarder, puis je partis, incapable de penser à autre chose.

 

À la bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève je consultai un dictionnaire et j’appris que les axolotls étaient les formes larvaires, pourvues de branchies, de batraciens du genre amblystone. Qu’ils étaient originaires du Mexique, je le savais déjà, rien qu’à voir leur petit visage aztèque. Je lus qu’on en avait trouvé des spécimens en Afrique capables de vivre hors de l’eau pendant les périodes de sécheresse et qui reprenaient leur vie normale à la saison des pluies. On donnait leur nom espagnol, ajolote, on signalait qu’ils étaient comestibles et qu’on utilisait leur huile (on ne l’utilise plus) comme l’huile de foie de morue.

 

Je ne voulus pas consulter d’ouvrages spécialisés mais je revins le jour suivant au jardin des Plantes. Je pris l’habitude d’y aller tous les matins, et parfois même matin et soir. Le gardien des aquariums souriait d’un air perplexe en prenant mon ticket. Je m’appuyais contre la barre de fer qui borde les aquariums et je regardais les axolotls. Il n’y avait rien d’étrange à cela ; dès le premier instant j’avais senti que quelque chose me liait à eux, quelque chose d’infiniment lointain et oublié qui cependant nous unissait encore. Il m’avait suffit de m’arrêter un matin devant cet aquarium où des bulles couraient dans l’eau. Les axolotls s’entassaient sur l’étroit et misérable (personne mieux que moi ne sait à quel point il est étroit et misérable) fond de pierre et de mousse. Il y en avait neuf, la plupart d’entre eux appuyaient leur tête contre la vitre et regardaient de leurs yeux d’or ceux qui s’approchaient. Troublé, presque honteux, je trouvais qu’il y avait de l’impudeur à se pencher sur ces formes silencieuses et immobiles entassées au fond de l’aquarium. Mentalement, j’en isolai un, un peu à l’écart sur la droite, pour mieux l’étudier. Je vis un petit corps rose, translucide (je pensai aux statuettes chinoises en verre laiteux), semblable à un petit lézard de quinze centimètres, terminé par une queue de poisson d’une extraordinaire délicatesse - c’est la partie la plus sensible de notre corps. Sur son dos, une nageoire transparente se rattachait à la queue ; mais ce furent les pattes qui me fascinèrent, des pattes d’une incroyable finesse, terminés par de tout petits doigts avec des ongles - absolument humains, sans pourtant avoir la forme de la main humaine - mais comment aurais-je pu ignorer qu’ils étaient humains ? c’est alors que je découvris leurs yeux, leur visage. Un visage inexpressif sans autre trait que les yeux, deux orifices comme des têtes d’épingles entièrement d’or transparent, sans aucune vie, mais qui regardaient et qui se laissaient pénétrer par mon regard qui passait à travers le point doré et se perdait dans un mystère diaphane. Un très mince halo noir entourait l’oeil et l’inscrivait dans la chair rose, dans la pierre rose de la tête vaguement triangulaire, au contours courbes et irréguliers, qui la faisaient ressembler à une statue rongée par le temps. La bouche était dissimulée par le plan triangulaire de la tête et ce n’est que de profil que l’on s’apercevait qu’elle était très grande. Vue de face, c’était une fine rainure, comme une fissure dans de l’albâtre. De chaque côté de la tête, à la place des oreilles, se dressaient de très petites branches rouges comme du corail, une excroissance végétale, les branchies, je suppose. C’était la seule chose qui eût l’air vivante dans ce corps. Chaque vingt secondes elles se dressaient, toutes raides, puis s’abaissaient de nouveau. Parfois une patte bougeait, à peine, et je voyais les doigts minuscules se poser doucement sur la mousse. C’est que nous n’aimons pas beaucoup bouger, l’aquarium est si étroit ; si peu que nous remuions nous heurtons la tête ou la queue d’un autre ; il s’ensuit des difficultés, des disputes, de la fatigue. Le temps se sent moins si l’on reste immobile.

 

Ce fut leur immobilité qui me fit me pencher vers eux, fasciné, la première fois que je les vis. Il me sembla comprendre obscurément leur volonté secrète : abolir l’espace et le temps par une immobilité pleine d’indifférence. Par la suite, j’appris à mieux les comprendre, les branchies qui se contractent, les petites pattes fines qui tâtonnent sur les pierres, leurs fuites brusques (ils nagent par une simple ondulation du corps) me prouvèrent qu’ils étaient capables de s’évader de cette torpeur minérale où ils passaient des heures entières. Leurs yeux surtout m’obsédaient. A côté d’eux, dans les autres aquariums, des poissons me montraient la stupide simplicité de leurs beaux yeux semblables aux nôtres. Les yeux des axolotls me parlaient de la présence d’une vie différente, d’une autre façon de regarder. Je collais mon visage à la vitre (le gardien, inquiet, toussait de temps en temps) pour mieux voir les tout petits points dorés, cette ouverture sur le monde infiniment lent et éloigné des bêtes roses. Inutile de frapper du doigt contre la vitre, sous leur nez, jamais la moindre réaction. Les yeux d’or continuaient à brûler de leur douce et terrible lumière, continuaient à me regarder du fond d’un abîme insondable qui me donnait le vertige.

 

Et cependant les axolotls étaient proches de nous. Je le savais avant même de devenir un axolotl. Je le sus dès le jour où je m’approchai d’eux pour la première fois. Les traits anthropomorphiques d’un singe accusent la différence qu’il y a entre lui et nous, contrairement à ce que pensent la plupart des gens. L’absence totale de ressemblance entre un axolotl et un être humain me prouva que ma reconnaissance

était valable, que je ne m’appuyais pas sur des analogies faciles. Il y avait bien les petites mains. Mais un lézard a les mêmes mains et ne ressemble en rien à l’homme. Je crois que tout venait de la tête des axolotls, de sa forme triangulaire rose et de ses petits yeux d’or. Cela regardait et savait. Cela réclamait. Les axolotls n’étaient pas des animaux.

 

De là à tomber dans la mythologie, il n’y avait qu’un pas, facile à franchir, presque inévitable. Je finis par voir dans les axolotls une métamorphose qui n’arrivait pas à renoncer tout à fait à une mystérieuse humanité. Je les imaginais conscients, esclaves de leur corps, condamnés indéfiniment à un silence abyssal, à une méditation désespérée. Leur regard aveugle, le petit disque d’or inexpressif - et cependant terriblement lucide - me pénétrait comme un message : "Sauve-nous, sauve-nous." Je me surprenais en train de murmurer des paroles de consolation, de transmettre des espoirs puérils. Ils continuaient à me regarder, immobiles. Soudain les petites branches roses se dressaient sur leur tête, et je sentais à ce moment-là comme une douleur sourde. Ils me voyaient peut-être, ils captaient mes efforts pour pénétrer dans l’impénétrable de leur vie. Ce n’étaient pas des êtres humains mais jamais je ne m’étais senti un rapport aussi étroit entre des animaux et moi. Les axolotls étaient comme témoins de quelque chose et parfois ils devenaient de terribles juges. Je me trouvais ignoble devant eux, il y avait dans ces yeux transparents une si effrayante pureté. C’était des larves, mais larve veut dire masque et aussi fantôme. Derrière ces visages aztèques, inexpressifs, et cependant d’une cruauté implacable, quelle image attendait

son heure ?

 

Ils me faisaient peur. Je crois que sans la présence du gardien et des autres visiteurs je n’aurais jamais osé rester devant eux. " Vous les mangez des yeux ", me disait le gardien en riant, et il devait penser que je n’étais pas tout à fait normal. Il ne se rendait pas compte que c’était eux qui me dévoraient lentement des yeux, en un cannibalisme d’or. Loin d’eux je ne pouvais penser à autre chose, comme s’ils m’influençaient à distance. Je finis par y aller tous les jours et la nuit je les imaginais immobiles dans l’obscurité, avançant lentement une petite patte qui rencontrait soudain celle d’un autre. Leurs yeux voyaient peut-être la nuit et le jour pour eux n’avait pas de fin. Les yeux des axolotls n’ont pas de paupières.

 

Maintenant je sais qu’il n’y a rien eu d’étrange dans tout cela, que cela devait arriver. Ils me reconnaissaient un peu plus chaque matin quand je me penchais vers l’aquarium. Ils souffraient. Chaque fibre de mon corps enregistrait cette souffrance bâillonnée, cette torture rigide au fond de l’eau. Ils épiaient quelque chose, un lointain royaume aboli, un temps de liberté où le monde avait appartenu aux axolotls. Une expression aussi terrible qui arrivait à vaincre l’impassibilité forcée de ces visages de pierre contenait sûrement un message de douleur, la preuve de cette condamnation éternelle, de cet enfer liquide qu’ils enduraient. En vain essayai-je de me persuader que c’était ma propre sensibilité qui projetait sur les axolotls une conscience qu’ils n’avaient pas. Eux et moi nous savions. C’est pour cela que ce qui arriva n’est pas étrange. Je collais mon visage à la vitre de l’aquarium, mes yeux essayèrent une fois de plus de percer le mystère de ces yeux d’or sans iris et sans pupille. Je voyais de très près la tête d’un axolotl immobile contre la vitre. Puis mon visage s’éloigna et je compris. Une seule chose était étrange : continuer à penser comme avant, savoir. Quand j’en pris conscience, je ressentis l’horreur de celui qui s’éveille enterré vivant. Au-dehors, mon visage s’approchait à nouveau de la vitre, je voyais ma bouche aux lèvres serrées par l’effort que je faisais pour comprendre les axolotls. J’étais un axolotl et je venais de savoir en un éclair qu’aucune communication n’était possible. Il était hors de l’aquarium, sa pensée était une pensée hors de l’aquarium. Tout en le connaissant, tout en étant lui-même, j’étais un axolotl et j’étais dans mon monde. L’horreur venait de ce que - je le sus instantanément - je me croyais prisonnier dans le corps d’un axolotl, transféré en lui avec ma pensée d’homme, enterré vivant dans un axolotl, condamné à me mouvoir en toute lucidité parmi des créatures insensibles. Mais cette impression ne dura pas, une patte vint effleurer mon visage et en me tournant un peu je vis un axolotl à côté de moi qui me regardait et je compris que lui aussi savait, sans communication possible mais si clairement. Ou bien j’étais encore en l’homme, ou bien nous pensions comme des êtres humains, incapables de nous exprimer, limités à l’éclat doré de nos yeux qui regardaient ce visage d’homme collé à la vitre.

 

Il revint encore plusieurs fois mais il vient moins souvent à présent. Des semaines se passent sans qu’on le voie. Il est venu hier, il m’a regardé longuement et puis il est parti brusquement. Il me semble que ce n’est plus à nous qu’il s’intéresse, qu’il obéit plutôt à une habitude. Comme penser est la seule chose que je puisse faire, je pense beaucoup à lui. Pendant un certain temps nous avons continué d’être en communication lui et moi, et il se sentait plus que jamais lié au mystère qui l’obsédait. Mais les ponts sont coupés à présent, car ce qui était son obsession est devenu un axolotl, étranger à sa vie d’homme. Je crois qu’au début je pouvais encore revenir en lui, dans une certaine mesure - ah ! seulement dans une certaine

mesure - et maintenir éveillé son désir de mieux nous connaître. Maintenant je suis définitivement un axolotl et si je pense comme un être humain c’est tout simplement parce que les axolotls pensent comme les humains sous leur masque de pierre rose. Il me semble que j’étais arrivé à lui communiquer cette vérité, les premiers jours, lorsque j’étais encore en lui. Et dans cette solitude finale vers laquelle il ne revient déjà plus, cela me console de penser qu’il va peut-être écrire quelque chose sur nous ; il croira qu’il invente un conte et il écrira tout cela sur les axolotls.

 

Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

NEDERLAND, NETHERLANDS, HOLLAND, PAYS-BAS, HOLANDA, PAISES BAJOS, Barendrecht, Un pueblo llamado Barendrecht, A town called Barendrecht, Une ville appelée Barendrecht, LAGARTIJAS, LEZARDS , LIZARDS, HAGEDISSEN, ECHSEN, LAGARTO,

 

AXOLOTIS.-

 

There was a time when I thought a great deal about the axolotls. I went to see them in the aquarium at the Jardin des Plantes and stayed for hours watching them, observing their immobility, their faint movements. Now I am an axolotl.

 

I got to them by chance one spring morning when Paris was spreading its peacock tail after a slow wintertime. I was heading down tbe boulevard Port-Royal, then I took Saint-Marcel and L'Hôpital and saw green among all that grey and remembered the lions. I was friend of the lions and panthers, but had never gone into the dark, humid building that was the aquarium. I left my bike against tbe gratings and went to look at the tulips. The lions were sad and ugly and my panther was asleep. I decided on the aquarium, looked obliquely at banal fish until, unexpectedly, I hit it off with the axolotls. I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else.

 

In the library at Sainte-Geneviève, I consulted a dictionary and learned that axolotls are the larval stage (provided with gills) of a species of salamander of the genus Ambystoma. That they were Mexican I knew already by looking at them and their little pink Aztec faces and the placard at the top of the tank. I read that specimens of them had been found in Africa capable of living on dry land during the periods of drought, and continuing their life under water when the rainy season came. I found their Spanish name, ajolote, and the mention that they were edible, and that their oil was used (no longer used, it said ) like cod-liver oil.

 

I didn't care to look up any of the specialized works, but the next day I went back to the Jardin des Plantes. I began to go every morning, morning and aftemoon some days. The aquarium guard smiled perplexedly taking my ticket. I would lean up against the iron bar in front of the tanks and set to watching them. There's nothing strange in this, because after the first minute I knew that we were linked, that something infinitely lost and distant kept pulling us together. It had been enough to detain me that first morning in front of the sheet of glass where some bubbles rose through the water. The axolotls huddled on the wretched narrow (only I can know how narrow and wretched) floor of moss and stone in the tank. There were nine specimens, and the majority pressed their heads against the glass, looking with their eyes of gold at whoever came near them. Disconcerted, almost ashamed, I felt it a lewdness to be peering at these silent and immobile figures heaped at the bottom of the tank. Mentally I isolated one, situated on the right and somewhat apart from the others, to study it better. I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery. A very slender black halo ringed the eye and etched it onto the pink flesh, onto the rosy stone of the head, vaguely triangular, but with curved and triangular sides which gave it a total likeness to a statuette corroded by time. The mouth was masked by the triangular plane of the face, its considerable size would be guessed only in profile; in front a delicate crevice barely slit the lifeless stone. On both sides of the head where the ears should have been, there grew three tiny sprigs, red as coral, a vegetal outgrowth, the gills, I suppose. And they were the only thing quick about it; every ten or fifteen seconds the sprigs pricked up stiffly and again subsided. Once in a while a foot would barely move, I saw the diminutive toes poise mildly on the moss. It's that we don't enjoy moving a lot, and the tank is so cramped—we barely move in any direction and we're hitting one of the others with our tail or our head—difficulties arise, fights, tiredness. The time feels like it's less if we stay quietly.

 

It was their quietness that made me lean toward them fascinated the first time I saw the axolotls. Obscurely I seemed to understand their secret will, to abolish space and time with an indifferent immobility. I knew better later; the gill contraction, the tentative reckoning of the delicate feet on the stones, the abrupt swimming (some of them swim with a simple undulation of the body) proved to me that they were capable of escaping that mineral lethargy in which they spent whole hours. Above all else, their eyes obsessed me. In the standing tanks on either side of them, different fishes showed me the simple stupidity of their handsome eyes so similar to our own. The eyes of the axolotls spoke to me of the presence of a different life, of another way of seeing. Glueing my face to the glass (the guard would cough fussily once in a while), I tried to see better those diminutive golden points, that entrance to the infinitely slow and remote world of these rosy creatures. It was useless to tap with one finger on the glass directly in front of their faces; they never gave the least reaction. The golden eyes continued burning with their soft, terrible light; they continued looking at me from an unfathomable depth which made me dizzy.

 

And nevertheless they were close. I knew it before this, before being an axolotl. I learned it the day I came near them for the first time. The anthropomorphic features of a monkey reveal the reverse of what most people believe, the distance that is traveled from them to us. The absolute lack of similarity between axolotls and human beings proved to me that my recognition was valid, that I was not propping myself up with easy analogies. Only the little hands . . . But an eft, the common newt, has such hands also, and we are not at all alike. I think it was the axolotls' heads, that triangular pink shape with the tiny eyes of gold. That looked and knew. That laid the claim. They were not animals.

 

It would seem easy, almost obvious, to fall into mythology. I began seeing in the axolotls a metamorphosis which did not succeed in revoking a mysterious humanity. I imagined them aware, slaves of their bodies, condemned infinitely to the silence of the abyss, to a hopeless meditation. Their blind gaze, the diminutive gold disc without expression and nonetheless terribly shining, went through me like a message: "Save us, save us." I caught myself mumbling words of advice, conveying childish hopes. They continued to look at me, immobile; from time to time the rosy branches of the gills stiffened. In that instant I felt a muted pain; perhaps they were seeing me, attracting my strength to penetrate into the impenetrable thing of their lives. They were not human beings, but I had found in no animal such a profound relation with myself. The axolotls were like witnesses of something, and at times like horrible judges. I felt ignoble in front of them; there was such a terrifying purity in those transparent eyes. They were larvas, but larva means disguise and also phantom. Behind those Aztec faces, without expression but of an implacable cruelty, what semblance was awaiting its hour?

 

I was afraid of them. I think that had it not been for feeling the proximity of other visitors and the guard, I would not have been bold enough to remain alone with them. "You eat them alive with your eyes, hey," the guard said, laughing; he likely thought I was a little cracked. What he didn't notice was that it was they devouring me slowly with their eyes, in a cannibalism of gold. At any distance from the aquarium, I had only to think of them, it was as though I were being affected from a distance. It got to the point that I was going every day, and at night I thought of them immobile in the darkness, slowly putting a hand out which immediately encountered another. Perhaps their eyes could see in the dead of night, and for them the day continued indefinitely. The eyes of axolotls have no lids.

 

I know now that there was nothing strange, that that had to occur. Leaning over in front of the tank each morning, the recognition was greater. They were suffering, every fiber of my body reached toward that stifled pain, that stiff torment at the bottom of the tank. They were lying in wait for something, a remote dominion destroyed, an age of liberty when the world had been that of the axolotls. Not possible that such a terrible expression which was attaining the overthrow of that forced blankness on their stone faces should carry any message other than one of pain, proof of that eternal sentence, of that liquid hell they were undergoing. Hopelessly, I wanted to prove to myself that my own sensibility was projecting a nonexistent consciousness upon the axolotls. They and I knew. So there was nothing strange in what happened. My face was pressed against the glass of the aquarium, my eyes were attempting once more to penetrate the mystery of those eyes of gold without iris, without pupil. I saw from very close up the face of an axolotl immobile next to the glass. No transition and no surprise, I saw my face against the glass, I saw it on the outside of the tank, I saw it on the other side of the glass. Then my face drew back and I understood.

 

Only one thing was strange: to go on thinking as usual, to know. To realize that was, for the first moment, like the horror of a man buried alive awaking to his fate. Outside, my face came close to the glass again, I saw my mouth, the lips compressed with the effort of understanding the axolotls. I was an axolotl and now I knew instantly that no understanding was possible. He was outside the aquarium, his thinking was a thinking outside the tank. Recognizlng him, being him himself, I was an axolotl and in my world. The horror began—I learned in the same moment —of believing myself prisoner in the body of an axolotl, metamorphosed into him with my human mind intact, buried alive in an axolotl, condemned to move lucidly among unconscious creatures. But that stopped when a foot just grazed my face, when I moved just a little to one side and saw an axolotl next to me who was looking at me, and understood that he knew also, no communication possible, but very clearly. Or I was also in him, or all of us were thinking humanlike, incapable of expression, limited to the golden splendor of our eyes looking at the face of the man pressed against the aquarium.

 

He returned many times, but he comes less often now. Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit. Since the only thing I do is think, I could think about him a lot. It occurs to me that at the beginning we continued to communicate, that he felt more than ever one with the mystery which was claiming him. But the bridges were broken between him and me, because what was his obsession is now an axolotl, alien to his human life. I think that at the beginning I was capable of returning to him in a certain way—ah, only in a certain way—and of keeping awake his desire to know us better. I am an axolotl for good now, and if I think like a man it's only because every axolotl thinks like a man inside his rosy stone semblance. I believe that all this succeeded in communicating something to him in those first days, when I was still he. And in this final solitude to which he no longer comes, I console myself by thinking that perhaps he is going to write a story about us, that, believing he's making up a story, he's going to write all this about axolotls.

  

Il fut une époque où je pensais beaucoup aux axolotls. J’allais les voir à l’aquarium du Jardin des Plantes et je passais des heures à les regarder, à observer leur immobilité, leurs mouvements obscurs. Et maintenant je suis un axolotl. Le hasard me conduisit vers eux un matin de printemps où Paris déployait sa queue de paon après le lent hiver. Je descendis le boulevard Saint-Marcel, celui de l’hôpital, je vis les premiers verts parmi tout le gris et je me souvins des lions. J’étais très amis des lions et des panthères, mais je n’étais jamais entré dans l’enceinte humide et sombre des aquariums. Je laissai ma bicyclette contre les grilles et j’allais voir les tulipes. Les lions étaient laids et tristes et ma panthère dormait. Je me décidai pour les aquariums et, après avoir regardé avec indifférence des poissons ordinaires, je tombai par hasard sur les axolotls. Je passai une heure à les regarder, puis je partis, incapable de penser à autre chose.

 

À la bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève je consultai un dictionnaire et j’appris que les axolotls étaient les formes larvaires, pourvues de branchies, de batraciens du genre amblystone. Qu’ils étaient originaires du Mexique, je le savais déjà, rien qu’à voir leur petit visage aztèque. Je lus qu’on en avait trouvé des spécimens en Afrique capables de vivre hors de l’eau pendant les périodes de sécheresse et qui reprenaient leur vie normale à la saison des pluies. On donnait leur nom espagnol, ajolote, on signalait qu’ils étaient comestibles et qu’on utilisait leur huile (on ne l’utilise plus) comme l’huile de foie de morue.

 

Je ne voulus pas consulter d’ouvrages spécialisés mais je revins le jour suivant au jardin des Plantes. Je pris l’habitude d’y aller tous les matins, et parfois même matin et soir. Le gardien des aquariums souriait d’un air perplexe en prenant mon ticket. Je m’appuyais contre la barre de fer qui borde les aquariums et je regardais les axolotls. Il n’y avait rien d’étrange à cela ; dès le premier instant j’avais senti que quelque chose me liait à eux, quelque chose d’infiniment lointain et oublié qui cependant nous unissait encore. Il m’avait suffit de m’arrêter un matin devant cet aquarium où des bulles couraient dans l’eau. Les axolotls s’entassaient sur l’étroit et misérable (personne mieux que moi ne sait à quel point il est étroit et misérable) fond de pierre et de mousse. Il y en avait neuf, la plupart d’entre eux appuyaient leur tête contre la vitre et regardaient de leurs yeux d’or ceux qui s’approchaient. Troublé, presque honteux, je trouvais qu’il y avait de l’impudeur à se pencher sur ces formes silencieuses et immobiles entassées au fond de l’aquarium. Mentalement, j’en isolai un, un peu à l’écart sur la droite, pour mieux l’étudier. Je vis un petit corps rose, translucide (je pensai aux statuettes chinoises en verre laiteux), semblable à un petit lézard de quinze centimètres, terminé par une queue de poisson d’une extraordinaire délicatesse - c’est la partie la plus sensible de notre corps. Sur son dos, une nageoire transparente se rattachait à la queue ; mais ce furent les pattes qui me fascinèrent, des pattes d’une incroyable finesse, terminés par de tout petits doigts avec des ongles - absolument humains, sans pourtant avoir la forme de la main humaine - mais comment aurais-je pu ignorer qu’ils étaient humains ? c’est alors que je découvris leurs yeux, leur visage. Un visage inexpressif sans autre trait que les yeux, deux orifices comme des têtes d’épingles entièrement d’or transparent, sans aucune vie, mais qui regardaient et qui se laissaient pénétrer par mon regard qui passait à travers le point doré et se perdait dans un mystère diaphane. Un très mince halo noir entourait l’oeil et l’inscrivait dans la chair rose, dans la pierre rose de la tête vaguement triangulaire, au contours courbes et irréguliers, qui la faisaient ressembler à une statue rongée par le temps. La bouche était dissimulée par le plan triangulaire de la tête et ce n’est que de profil que l’on s’apercevait qu’elle était très grande. Vue de face, c’était une fine rainure, comme une fissure dans de l’albâtre. De chaque côté de la tête, à la place des oreilles, se dressaient de très petites branches rouges comme du corail, une excroissance végétale, les branchies, je suppose. C’était la seule chose qui eût l’air vivante dans ce corps. Chaque vingt secondes elles se dressaient, toutes raides, puis s’abaissaient de nouveau. Parfois une patte bougeait, à peine, et je voyais les doigts minuscules se poser doucement sur la mousse. C’est que nous n’aimons pas beaucoup bouger, l’aquarium est si étroit ; si peu que nous remuions nous heurtons la tête ou la queue d’un autre ; il s’ensuit des difficultés, des disputes, de la fatigue. Le temps se sent moins si l’on reste immobile.

 

Ce fut leur immobilité qui me fit me pencher vers eux, fasciné, la première fois que je les vis. Il me sembla comprendre obscurément leur volonté secrète : abolir l’espace et le temps par une immobilité pleine d’indifférence. Par la suite, j’appris à mieux les comprendre, les branchies qui se contractent, les petites pattes fines qui tâtonnent sur les pierres, leurs fuites brusques (ils nagent par une simple ondulation du corps) me prouvèrent qu’ils étaient capables de s’évader de cette torpeur minérale où ils passaient des heures entières. Leurs yeux surtout m’obsédaient. A côté d’eux, dans les autres aquariums, des poissons me montraient la stupide simplicité de leurs beaux yeux semblables aux nôtres. Les yeux des axolotls me parlaient de la présence d’une vie différente, d’une autre façon de regarder. Je collais mon visage à la vitre (le gardien, inquiet, toussait de temps en temps) pour mieux voir les tout petits points dorés, cette ouverture sur le monde infiniment lent et éloigné des bêtes roses. Inutile de frapper du doigt contre la vitre, sous leur nez, jamais la moindre réaction. Les yeux d’or continuaient à brûler de leur douce et terrible lumière, continuaient à me regarder du fond d’un abîme insondable qui me donnait le vertige.

 

Et cependant les axolotls étaient proches de nous. Je le savais avant même de devenir un axolotl. Je le sus dès le jour où je m’approchai d’eux pour la première fois. Les traits anthropomorphiques d’un singe accusent la différence qu’il y a entre lui et nous, contrairement à ce que pensent la plupart des gens. L’absence totale de ressemblance entre un axolotl et un être humain me prouva que ma reconnaissance

était valable, que je ne m’appuyais pas sur des analogies faciles. Il y avait bien les petites mains. Mais un lézard a les mêmes mains et ne ressemble en rien à l’homme. Je crois que tout venait de la tête des axolotls, de sa forme triangulaire rose et de ses petits yeux d’or. Cela regardait et savait. Cela réclamait. Les axolotls n’étaient pas des animaux.

 

De là à tomber dans la mythologie, il n’y avait qu’un pas, facile à franchir, presque inévitable. Je finis par voir dans les axolotls une métamorphose qui n’arrivait pas à renoncer tout à fait à une mystérieuse humanité. Je les imaginais conscients, esclaves de leur corps, condamnés indéfiniment à un silence abyssal, à une méditation désespérée. Leur regard aveugle, le petit disque d’or inexpressif - et cependant terriblement lucide - me pénétrait comme un message : "Sauve-nous, sauve-nous." Je me surprenais en train de murmurer des paroles de consolation, de transmettre des espoirs puérils. Ils continuaient à me regarder, immobiles. Soudain les petites branches roses se dressaient sur leur tête, et je sentais à ce moment-là comme une douleur sourde. Ils me voyaient peut-être, ils captaient mes efforts pour pénétrer dans l’impénétrable de leur vie. Ce n’étaient pas des êtres humains mais jamais je ne m’étais senti un rapport aussi étroit entre des animaux et moi. Les axolotls étaient comme témoins de quelque chose et parfois ils devenaient de terribles juges. Je me trouvais ignoble devant eux, il y avait dans ces yeux transparents une si effrayante pureté. C’était des larves, mais larve veut dire masque et aussi fantôme. Derrière ces visages aztèques, inexpressifs, et cependant d’une cruauté implacable, quelle image attendait

son heure ?

 

Ils me faisaient peur. Je crois que sans la présence du gardien et des autres visiteurs je n’aurais jamais osé rester devant eux. " Vous les mangez des yeux ", me disait le gardien en riant, et il devait penser que je n’étais pas tout à fait normal. Il ne se rendait pas compte que c’était eux qui me dévoraient lentement des yeux, en un cannibalisme d’or. Loin d’eux je ne pouvais penser à autre chose, comme s’ils m’influençaient à distance. Je finis par y aller tous les jours et la nuit je les imaginais immobiles dans l’obscurité, avançant lentement une petite patte qui rencontrait soudain celle d’un autre. Leurs yeux voyaient peut-être la nuit et le jour pour eux n’avait pas de fin. Les yeux des axolotls n’ont pas de paupières.

 

Maintenant je sais qu’il n’y a rien eu d’étrange dans tout cela, que cela devait arriver. Ils me reconnaissaient un peu plus chaque matin quand je me penchais vers l’aquarium. Ils souffraient. Chaque fibre de mon corps enregistrait cette souffrance bâillonnée, cette torture rigide au fond de l’eau. Ils épiaient quelque chose, un lointain royaume aboli, un temps de liberté où le monde avait appartenu aux axolotls. Une expression aussi terrible qui arrivait à vaincre l’impassibilité forcée de ces visages de pierre contenait sûrement un message de douleur, la preuve de cette condamnation éternelle, de cet enfer liquide qu’ils enduraient. En vain essayai-je de me persuader que c’était ma propre sensibilité qui projetait sur les axolotls une conscience qu’ils n’avaient pas. Eux et moi nous savions. C’est pour cela que ce qui arriva n’est pas étrange. Je collais mon visage à la vitre de l’aquarium, mes yeux essayèrent une fois de plus de percer le mystère de ces yeux d’or sans iris et sans pupille. Je voyais de très près la tête d’un axolotl immobile contre la vitre. Puis mon visage s’éloigna et je compris. Une seule chose était étrange : continuer à penser comme avant, savoir. Quand j’en pris conscience, je ressentis l’horreur de celui qui s’éveille enterré vivant. Au-dehors, mon visage s’approchait à nouveau de la vitre, je voyais ma bouche aux lèvres serrées par l’effort que je faisais pour comprendre les axolotls. J’étais un axolotl et je venais de savoir en un éclair qu’aucune communication n’était possible. Il était hors de l’aquarium, sa pensée était une pensée hors de l’aquarium. Tout en le connaissant, tout en étant lui-même, j’étais un axolotl et j’étais dans mon monde. L’horreur venait de ce que - je le sus instantanément - je me croyais prisonnier dans le corps d’un axolotl, transféré en lui avec ma pensée d’homme, enterré vivant dans un axolotl, condamné à me mouvoir en toute lucidité parmi des créatures insensibles. Mais cette impression ne dura pas, une patte vint effleurer mon visage et en me tournant un peu je vis un axolotl à côté de moi qui me regardait et je compris que lui aussi savait, sans communication possible mais si clairement. Ou bien j’étais encore en l’homme, ou bien nous pensions comme des êtres humains, incapables de nous exprimer, limités à l’éclat doré de nos yeux qui regardaient ce visage d’homme collé à la vitre.

 

Il revint encore plusieurs fois mais il vient moins souvent à présent. Des semaines se passent sans qu’on le voie. Il est venu hier, il m’a regardé longuement et puis il est parti brusquement. Il me semble que ce n’est plus à nous qu’il s’intéresse, qu’il obéit plutôt à une habitude. Comme penser est la seule chose que je puisse faire, je pense beaucoup à lui. Pendant un certain temps nous avons continué d’être en communication lui et moi, et il se sentait plus que jamais lié au mystère qui l’obsédait. Mais les ponts sont coupés à présent, car ce qui était son obsession est devenu un axolotl, étranger à sa vie d’homme. Je crois qu’au début je pouvais encore revenir en lui, dans une certaine mesure - ah ! seulement dans une certaine

mesure - et maintenir éveillé son désir de mieux nous connaître. Maintenant je suis définitivement un axolotl et si je pense comme un être humain c’est tout simplement parce que les axolotls pensent comme les humains sous leur masque de pierre rose. Il me semble que j’étais arrivé à lui communiquer cette vérité, les premiers jours, lorsque j’étais encore en lui. Et dans cette solitude finale vers laquelle il ne revient déjà plus, cela me console de penser qu’il va peut-être écrire quelque chose sur nous ; il croira qu’il invente un conte et il écrira tout cela sur les axolotls.

 

Julio Cortázar (1914-1984)

 

ABSOLUTELY BETTER ON BLACK

  

Dico a voi, ehi, paladino! – insisté Carlomagno.

- Com’è che non mostrate la faccia al vostro re?

 

La voce uscì netta dal barbazzale.

- Perché io non esisto, sire.

 

da Il cavaliere inesistente di Italo Calvino

from The Nonexistent Knight by Italo Calvino

 

--------------------------------

 

This photos been taken during the last Christmas (25th december 2011) in Capracotta (Molise), Italy. At that time it was a very cold snow storm in the little village at 1421 m (A.M.S.L). My cousin (that you see in this photos) was wearing a traditional cloak from Capracotta called "Cuappot a Rota", so I could not resist to ask him to go out in the snow storm with this scenic and traditional cloak! :) It was very cold and windy so I was compleatily freezing, but I'm pretty satisfied with the result! :)

 

-------------------------------------------------------------

Posters and Art Prints are now available @ ArtFlakes

  

Copyright © Francesca Alviani All rights reserved

Thanks for visiting!

We got off our coach (after a mornings tour around Seville) and headed for the Alcazar! We didn't go on the boat trip, so we followed the tour guide towards the Cathedral, before we made our own way to the Alcazar.

 

On Av de la Constitucion in Seville facing the cathedral and The Archivo General de Indias.

 

Metro Centro

 

Metrocenter is the T1 line tram operated by TUSSAM running down the center of the city of Seville ( Spain ). Binds the exchanger of San Bernardo station to Plaza Nueva , with a distance of 2.2 km .

 

The first phase opened on October 28th of 2007 , while the second phase (opened on April 15 of 2011 ) extends the route from San Bernardo Prado up to connect to the Metro and Cercanías Renfe.

 

In the tram are valid both urban bus pass in any modality, and the Metropolitan Intermodal Transport Consortium card.

  

The tram stop is the Archivo de Indias.

 

Metro Centro tram no 303.

 

Near the Edificio Coliseo España.

 

Edificio Coliseo España

 

The Colosseum Spain, has become an icon in the new Constitution Avenue. The building has gone through many experiences throughout its history, some speak of monumentality and glamor, others neglect and contempt.

 

The roaring twenties, led to the arrival of new services Sevilla hitherto nonexistent, and many public and private buildings, hotels, fire stations, train stations and of course, cinemas and theaters arise. This was done the Teatro Coliseo Cinema Spain, a building that would house something as modern as the film, but without forgetting the Sevillian touch. The film would not get a plot in the Seville and Andalusian architecture well into the thirties, where Deco architecture was chosen.

 

Currently used as offices of the Board of Andalucia

🎵 singing in really creepy unison 🎶

 

🎵🎤 Come with us

Come be with us

We will be close to you

You will be one of us 🎶🎶

 

l-r:

Leafmon

A Slime Digimon which has a breath of fresh greens (a tiny leaf) on its tail. It has many of the elements of a plant and the composition of its body includes chlorophyll, so it photosynthesizes to grow. It possesses a leaf-shaped tail, and the leaf protects it from intense sunlight or when it is raining. Due to its pure nature, it doesn't distrust others even if they are frightening. However, it is just a little bit shy. As it was just born it is unable to battle, but its innocent spirit, overflowing with vitality, can make the surrounding people remember pure feelings that were forgotten, wrapping them in a calm air. However, if one tries to mess with it too much, it will spit acidic bubbles to intimidate them.

 

Pururumon

A Slime Digimon with a chubby body similar to silicon, it jiggles flabbily when it crawls forward. Both of its small fins are unexpectedly handy, but to be absolutely precise it is not yet able to fly. As it loves the smell of the sun, on days with good weather it lies sprawled on the lawn and smells the scent of grass with a sniff, immersing it in a good mood. If it gets in a pinch, it foams out acidic bubbles and covers the opponent in them, then seizes the opportunity to flee.

 

Tsubumon

A Baby Digimon which has an appearance like a seed, although it is not a Plant-species Digimon. It cannot fly, but it is able to move over land, water, or anywhere, while hopping and bouncing, and it is said that there is no place where Tsubumon cannot move through. However, because of its small body it is sent flying on days with a strong wind, and as a result of that it is often mistaken for a Plant-species. With its Signature Move "San no Awa", it drives off the opponent.

 

Chicomon

A small, blue-colored, Dragon Digimon child. Although it is small and powerless, it has the potential to evolve to every Dragon Digimon. For that reason, it is a Digimon that is considered exceedingly valuable by tamers and researchers of Dragon Digimon. It is cherished due to its personality of friendliness and overflowing curiosity, characteristic of Baby Digimon. Just like other Baby Digimon, it spits acidic bubbles to attack, but as usual, their power is nonexistent.

 

Yukimi Botamon

A Baby Digimon whose whole body is covered in fluffy, white hair. It is considered a species of Botamon, and was named "Yukimi Botamon" after its white body, but the details are not clearly known. It is weak to heat, and tends to prefer cold places, so its body feels cold to the touch. Its attack technique is breathing out freezing cold air (Diamond Dust). When Yukimi Botamon exhales, the moisture in the air freezes, and falls while brilliantly glittering.

__________________________

A year of the shows and performers of the Bijou Planks Theater.

Lake Ronkonkoma Long Island New York 11779 USA August 2020

 

Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island's largest freshwater lake, is in Suffolk County, New York, United States, and has a circumference of about 2 miles (3.2 km), and is 0.65 miles (1.05 km) across on average. A kettle lake formed by retreating glaciers, it is owned by the Town of Islip under the terms of the Nichols Patent. The land around it is controlled by three town governments - Smithtown, Islip and Brookhaven. The name Ronkonkoma comes from an Algonquian expression meaning "boundary fishing-lake", also earlier written as Raconkumake and Raconkamuck

  

Lake Ronkonkoma served as a boundary between lands occupied by four Native American communities: Nissequogues Setaukets Secatogues and Unkechaugs

 

The lake was created by a retreating glacier.

 

The primary gamefish is bass

 

The most prevalent legend is about Princess Ronkonkoma, an Indian princess who died at the lake in the mid-1600s. One version of the story is that she was walking across the ice one winter when she met and fell in love with an English woodcutter named Hugh Birdsall, who lived across the lake. However, her father—chief of the Setauket tribe—forbade their relationship. So every day for 7 years, she would write letters on pieces of bark, row to the middle of the lake, and float the letters across the lake to Hugh. Then, after all those years of being kept apart from her love, she rowed to the middle of the lake and stabbed herself to death.

 

There are variations on this particular story, such as that the princess drowned herself after learning about her lover's death, and that her body washed up in Connecticut (which ties into the idea that the lake is bottomless, and that there are underground channels to other lakes). While there's no proof the princess ever existed, Hugh Birdsall was a real person who eventually moved back to England and got married there.

 

In any case, the story goes that she claims a boy's life every year either to avenge her lover's death, or to try to find herself a soulmate in death. And the statistics back up this "curse": of all the recorded drownings on this lake, the vast majority have been young males.

 

Subscribe

Dr. David S. Igneri was the head lifeguard at Lake Ronkonkoma for 32 summers, and says there were at least 30 deaths during that time, all males. On the program Weird U.S., which aired on the History Channel in 2005, Igneri explains that one of the biggest challenges was that visibility in the lake is nonexistent after about the first 10 feet; if anyone submerges lower than that, no one will be able to rescue the person because the lake becomes enveloped in total blackness.

 

In 1965, Igneri had a recurring nightmare about trying to complete a rescue. He dove deep into the lake and panicked because he lost his orientation. When he got to the surface, he heard fireworks. Although Igneri was not previously interested in the paranormal, he believed this dream was a warning that someone was going to drown on the Fourth of July. He warned his staff of 11 lifeguards—and sure enough, late that afternoon, an epileptic 15-year-old boy had a seizure and went down in the water. The lifeguards dove for 45 minutes and did everything they could, but could not find the boy. As Igneri swam back to the surface after his last dive, fireworks went off.

  

Author Michael R. Ebert, who must be the foremost authority on the legends of Lake Ronkonkoma. He published the spiral-bound book "The Curse of Lake Ronkonkoma" in 2002, and it is available at the Sachem, Connetquot and Smithtown libraries.

 

The first time he remembers hearing about the lake's "curse" was when he attended Ronkonkoma Junior High School in the early 1990s and one of his classmates drowned in the lake.

 

"If I remember correctly, he and some friends were supposedly drinking beer on a rowboat and were horsing around when he fell in and was unable to swim to shore due to his bulky winter clothes."

 

After Ebert's college graduation, he searched for more information about the lake's legends in local history books, but found little—which convinced him to write his own book. He spent about six months visiting libraries and the Lake Ronkonkoma Historical Society to research articles, maps and geographical studies dating back to the early 1900s.

 

In addition to the stories about Princess Ronkonkoma and the bottomless lake, Ebert also found several other mysteries, such as the way the lake rises and falls with no relation to local rainfall. "The Indians believed it to be the work of Manitos, the great spirit of the lake," he says. "One study showed that over 7 years in the early 1900s, the rainfall on Long Island was below the usual average by about 52 inches, yet the lake rose 7 feet."

 

Then there were the rumors of "healing properties" of the lake, supposedly started by a Brooklyn businessman who wanted to capitalize on the lake's appeal as a local tourist attraction in the 1900s. "The guy even reportedly sold 'lake juice' in small vials, and I found an old ad promoting the lake as a health resort that cured diseases," says Ebert.

 

So whether you believe the lake will heal what ails you, or that a vengeful princess spirit is out there waiting to drown you, there's no denying that Lake Ronkonkoma is one of Long Island's most whispered-about points of interest.

 

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#CurseOfLakeRonkonkoma

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#APicnicWithoutSnacks

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#LongIslandNY

 

Lake Ronkonkoma Long Island New York 11779 USA August 2020

 

Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island's largest freshwater lake, is in Suffolk County, New York, United States, and has a circumference of about 2 miles (3.2 km), and is 0.65 miles (1.05 km) across on average. A kettle lake formed by retreating glaciers, it is owned by the Town of Islip under the terms of the Nichols Patent. The land around it is controlled by three town governments - Smithtown, Islip and Brookhaven. The name Ronkonkoma comes from an Algonquian expression meaning "boundary fishing-lake", also earlier written as Raconkumake and Raconkamuck

  

Lake Ronkonkoma served as a boundary between lands occupied by four Native American communities: Nissequogues Setaukets Secatogues and Unkechaugs

 

The lake was created by a retreating glacier.

 

The primary gamefish is bass

 

The most prevalent legend is about Princess Ronkonkoma, an Indian princess who died at the lake in the mid-1600s. One version of the story is that she was walking across the ice one winter when she met and fell in love with an English woodcutter named Hugh Birdsall, who lived across the lake. However, her father—chief of the Setauket tribe—forbade their relationship. So every day for 7 years, she would write letters on pieces of bark, row to the middle of the lake, and float the letters across the lake to Hugh. Then, after all those years of being kept apart from her love, she rowed to the middle of the lake and stabbed herself to death.

 

There are variations on this particular story, such as that the princess drowned herself after learning about her lover's death, and that her body washed up in Connecticut (which ties into the idea that the lake is bottomless, and that there are underground channels to other lakes). While there's no proof the princess ever existed, Hugh Birdsall was a real person who eventually moved back to England and got married there.

 

In any case, the story goes that she claims a boy's life every year either to avenge her lover's death, or to try to find herself a soulmate in death. And the statistics back up this "curse": of all the recorded drownings on this lake, the vast majority have been young males.

 

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Dr. David S. Igneri was the head lifeguard at Lake Ronkonkoma for 32 summers, and says there were at least 30 deaths during that time, all males. On the program Weird U.S., which aired on the History Channel in 2005, Igneri explains that one of the biggest challenges was that visibility in the lake is nonexistent after about the first 10 feet; if anyone submerges lower than that, no one will be able to rescue the person because the lake becomes enveloped in total blackness.

 

In 1965, Igneri had a recurring nightmare about trying to complete a rescue. He dove deep into the lake and panicked because he lost his orientation. When he got to the surface, he heard fireworks. Although Igneri was not previously interested in the paranormal, he believed this dream was a warning that someone was going to drown on the Fourth of July. He warned his staff of 11 lifeguards—and sure enough, late that afternoon, an epileptic 15-year-old boy had a seizure and went down in the water. The lifeguards dove for 45 minutes and did everything they could, but could not find the boy. As Igneri swam back to the surface after his last dive, fireworks went off.

  

Author Michael R. Ebert, who must be the foremost authority on the legends of Lake Ronkonkoma. He published the spiral-bound book "The Curse of Lake Ronkonkoma" in 2002, and it is available at the Sachem, Connetquot and Smithtown libraries.

 

The first time he remembers hearing about the lake's "curse" was when he attended Ronkonkoma Junior High School in the early 1990s and one of his classmates drowned in the lake.

 

"If I remember correctly, he and some friends were supposedly drinking beer on a rowboat and were horsing around when he fell in and was unable to swim to shore due to his bulky winter clothes."

 

After Ebert's college graduation, he searched for more information about the lake's legends in local history books, but found little—which convinced him to write his own book. He spent about six months visiting libraries and the Lake Ronkonkoma Historical Society to research articles, maps and geographical studies dating back to the early 1900s.

 

In addition to the stories about Princess Ronkonkoma and the bottomless lake, Ebert also found several other mysteries, such as the way the lake rises and falls with no relation to local rainfall. "The Indians believed it to be the work of Manitos, the great spirit of the lake," he says. "One study showed that over 7 years in the early 1900s, the rainfall on Long Island was below the usual average by about 52 inches, yet the lake rose 7 feet."

 

Then there were the rumors of "healing properties" of the lake, supposedly started by a Brooklyn businessman who wanted to capitalize on the lake's appeal as a local tourist attraction in the 1900s. "The guy even reportedly sold 'lake juice' in small vials, and I found an old ad promoting the lake as a health resort that cured diseases," says Ebert.

 

So whether you believe the lake will heal what ails you, or that a vengeful princess spirit is out there waiting to drown you, there's no denying that Lake Ronkonkoma is one of Long Island's most whispered-about points of interest.

 

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Lake Ronkonkoma Long Island New York 11779 USA August 2020

 

Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island's largest freshwater lake, is in Suffolk County, New York, United States, and has a circumference of about 2 miles (3.2 km), and is 0.65 miles (1.05 km) across on average. A kettle lake formed by retreating glaciers, it is owned by the Town of Islip under the terms of the Nichols Patent. The land around it is controlled by three town governments - Smithtown, Islip and Brookhaven. The name Ronkonkoma comes from an Algonquian expression meaning "boundary fishing-lake", also earlier written as Raconkumake and Raconkamuck

  

Lake Ronkonkoma served as a boundary between lands occupied by four Native American communities: Nissequogues Setaukets Secatogues and Unkechaugs

 

The lake was created by a retreating glacier.

 

The primary gamefish is bass

 

The most prevalent legend is about Princess Ronkonkoma, an Indian princess who died at the lake in the mid-1600s. One version of the story is that she was walking across the ice one winter when she met and fell in love with an English woodcutter named Hugh Birdsall, who lived across the lake. However, her father—chief of the Setauket tribe—forbade their relationship. So every day for 7 years, she would write letters on pieces of bark, row to the middle of the lake, and float the letters across the lake to Hugh. Then, after all those years of being kept apart from her love, she rowed to the middle of the lake and stabbed herself to death.

 

There are variations on this particular story, such as that the princess drowned herself after learning about her lover's death, and that her body washed up in Connecticut (which ties into the idea that the lake is bottomless, and that there are underground channels to other lakes). While there's no proof the princess ever existed, Hugh Birdsall was a real person who eventually moved back to England and got married there.

 

In any case, the story goes that she claims a boy's life every year either to avenge her lover's death, or to try to find herself a soulmate in death. And the statistics back up this "curse": of all the recorded drownings on this lake, the vast majority have been young males.

 

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Dr. David S. Igneri was the head lifeguard at Lake Ronkonkoma for 32 summers, and says there were at least 30 deaths during that time, all males. On the program Weird U.S., which aired on the History Channel in 2005, Igneri explains that one of the biggest challenges was that visibility in the lake is nonexistent after about the first 10 feet; if anyone submerges lower than that, no one will be able to rescue the person because the lake becomes enveloped in total blackness.

 

In 1965, Igneri had a recurring nightmare about trying to complete a rescue. He dove deep into the lake and panicked because he lost his orientation. When he got to the surface, he heard fireworks. Although Igneri was not previously interested in the paranormal, he believed this dream was a warning that someone was going to drown on the Fourth of July. He warned his staff of 11 lifeguards—and sure enough, late that afternoon, an epileptic 15-year-old boy had a seizure and went down in the water. The lifeguards dove for 45 minutes and did everything they could, but could not find the boy. As Igneri swam back to the surface after his last dive, fireworks went off.

  

Author Michael R. Ebert, who must be the foremost authority on the legends of Lake Ronkonkoma. He published the spiral-bound book "The Curse of Lake Ronkonkoma" in 2002, and it is available at the Sachem, Connetquot and Smithtown libraries.

 

The first time he remembers hearing about the lake's "curse" was when he attended Ronkonkoma Junior High School in the early 1990s and one of his classmates drowned in the lake.

 

"If I remember correctly, he and some friends were supposedly drinking beer on a rowboat and were horsing around when he fell in and was unable to swim to shore due to his bulky winter clothes."

 

After Ebert's college graduation, he searched for more information about the lake's legends in local history books, but found little—which convinced him to write his own book. He spent about six months visiting libraries and the Lake Ronkonkoma Historical Society to research articles, maps and geographical studies dating back to the early 1900s.

 

In addition to the stories about Princess Ronkonkoma and the bottomless lake, Ebert also found several other mysteries, such as the way the lake rises and falls with no relation to local rainfall. "The Indians believed it to be the work of Manitos, the great spirit of the lake," he says. "One study showed that over 7 years in the early 1900s, the rainfall on Long Island was below the usual average by about 52 inches, yet the lake rose 7 feet."

 

Then there were the rumors of "healing properties" of the lake, supposedly started by a Brooklyn businessman who wanted to capitalize on the lake's appeal as a local tourist attraction in the 1900s. "The guy even reportedly sold 'lake juice' in small vials, and I found an old ad promoting the lake as a health resort that cured diseases," says Ebert.

 

So whether you believe the lake will heal what ails you, or that a vengeful princess spirit is out there waiting to drown you, there's no denying that Lake Ronkonkoma is one of Long Island's most whispered-about points of interest.

 

Hashtags

#LakeRonkonkoma

#LakeRonkonkoma

#Lake

#Ronkonkoma

#TheCurseOfLakeRonkonkoma

#CurseOfLakeRonkonkoma

#MichaelEbert

#DavidIgneri

#PrincessRonkonkoma

#LadyOfTheLake

#TheLadyOfTheLake

#IndianPrincess

#PrincessTuskawanta

#Princess

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#SetauketIndian

#Sachem

#ChiefOfTheSetauketTribe

#ChiefSetauket

#SetalcottTribe

#Setalcott

#AlgonquinNation

#Algonquin

#EnglishSettlers

#HughBirdsall

#Whirlpool

Curse

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CursedLake

NewYorkFolkloreSociety

NewYorkFolklore

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FourthOfJuly

#TheWitchesOfLakeRonkonkoma

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#APicnicWithoutSnacks

#PicnicWithoutSnacks

#LongIslandNY

 

Flipped even more hair over, and now it's starting to look better. Now I look like I have one of those nonexistent secrets that cover models do without all the pain that cover models put up with. Or the figure. Dang it! :)

Leamington is a municipality in Essex County, Ontario, Canada. With a population of 28,403, it is the second largest municipality in the Windsor-Essex County area (after the separated municipality of Windsor, Ontario). It includes Point Pelee, the southernmost point of mainland Canada.

 

Known as the "Tomato Capital of Canada", it is the location of a tomato processing factory owned by Highbury-Canco, previously owned until 2014 by the Heinz Company. Due to its location in the southernmost part of Canada, Leamington uses the motto "Sun Parlour of Canada". In 2006, MoneySense Magazine ranked Leamington as the No. 1 best place to live in Canada.

 

Leamington enjoys the second warmest climate in Canada, after the Lower Mainland of British Columbia.

 

Leamington has been known for its tourism and attractions and is known as the tomato capital of Canada. Leamington's attractions include cycle paths and nearby Point Pelee National Park. Leamington also has a large and modern marina. The town's water tower, visible for miles in the flat southern Ontario landscape, is also in the shape and colour of a giant tomato. Celebrating its position as an agricultural powerhouse and its heritage as the H. J. Heinz Company's centre for processing "red goods," the city hosts a "Tomato Festival" each August, as a kickoff of the tomato-harvesting season. Car shows, beauty pageants, parades, and a fair are featured at the festival.

 

Leamington's position on the north shore of Lake Erie makes it an important recreational centre. The tourist information booth in the centre of town is a large fiberglass tomato.

 

Leamington is also home to Point Pelee National Park, which contains the southernmost point on mainland Canada and draws thousands of visitors annually and is also home to one of the largest migrations of Monarch butterflies annually.

 

Known as the tomato capital of Canada, Leamington became the home of the H. J. Heinz factory in 1908. The Heinz products are shipped from Leamington, with English and French labels, mostly to the United States. Ketchup and baby food are the main products. In November 2013 Heinz announced that it would close the Leamington plant in 2014, meaning job losses for 740 employees at the plant and hundreds more support workers.

 

Due to a 54-year-old law in Canada, which bans the use of tomato paste in tomato juice, Highbury Canco still produces tomato juice and other products for Heinzs. Around 250 workers still process canned products at the over 100 year old factory.

 

Leamington has also been known for its greenhouses, and now has the largest concentration of commercial greenhouses in all of North America, with 1,969 acres (797 ha) of greenhouse vegetable production in the general area. Major products of the greenhouse industry, in addition to tomatoes, are peppers, cucumbers, roses, and other flowers. Hydroponic farming has been very successfully adopted by many greenhouse operators in Leamington. Historically, tobacco was an important crop in the area, but tobacco production declined in the 1960s and today is virtually nonexistent.

 

Migrant workers, mostly Mexican and Caribbean seasonal labourers, annually arrive in the region to work in Leamington's greenhouses and farms. Several Mexican and Jamaican shops and a Mexican consulate have opened to service the migrants.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leamington,_Ontario

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:Text_of_Creative_Commons_...

"Friday the 13th - Better Than Monday Whatever"

 

marketplace.secondlife.com/p/CHILLaXe-Friday-13th-Shorts/...

 

Swap your Monday blues for some Friday thrills with these hilarious "Friday the 13th - Better Than Monday Whatever" shorts! Featuring an adorable Baby Jason donning his iconic hockey mask, these black shorts are perfect for those who prefer their scares cute and their Mondays nonexistent. Whether you're chilling at home plotting your next move or slashing through beach waves, these shorts will keep you comfy and ready for any mischief. Because honestly, Mondays has nothing on Friday....😈🎃

2010.

A nonexistent creature made from Playdoh, marbles and Photoshop

Rare in Nl. Photo taken on heathland, Zilvense heide near Loenen.

 

Oedipoda caerulescens is a medium-sized grasshopper, between 15 and 21 mm for males and between 22 to 28 mm for females. The body coloration varies greatly depending on the substrate on which the animals have developed: reddish brown, gray, yellowish, or even completely dark or bright. The forewings are crossed most often by two or three pale bands, but the most striking characteristic, very visible when the insect flies away, is the bright coloration of the hind wings, a beautiful turquoise highlighted with a black marginal stripe. Furthermore, the posterior femora have a notch on their upper surface. At rest, confusion is possible with other Oedipoda species such as O. germanica.

 

Oedipoda caerulescens frequents dry areas with low and open vegetation: dunes, heathlands, grasslands on sand and sunlit limestone rocks. Many stations correspond to land recently used for human activities, such as coal spoil heaps, quarries and pits, the ballast of railway tracks, etc. It is exclusively a terrestrial insect, and its cryptic coloration often matches its substrate. The female lays her eggs in bare, dry soil. In this species, acoustic emissions are virtually nonexistent. The diet consists mainly of grasses.

Operation “Salt City" resulted in the arrest of 248 individuals from May through September 2015. Of those arrested, 124 were active gang members. During the operation 22 firearms, more than $237,000 in U.S. currency, 70 grams of heroin, 266 grams of cocaine, and 723 grams of marijuana with a total estimated street value of almost $44,000 was taken off Syracuse streets by participating agencies.

Operation Salt City is part of the U.S. Marshals nation-wide “Triple Beam” gang reduction initiative. Triple Beam partners federal, state, and local law enforcement to reduce violent crime and take dangerous offenders off the streets. The goal of the U.S. Marshals Gang Enforcement Program is to seek out and disrupt illegal gang activity in areas of the country with smaller or nonexistent gang enforcement units by providing manpower, funding and the Marshals’ renowned fugitive tracking abilities.

 

Photo by Shane T. McCoy / US Marshals

In Japanese mythology the primal female, Izanami (top left), "the female inviter", who together with the primal male, Izanagi, created the first entities - the islands of Japan, mountains and finally fire, at which point she died and went to the underworld.

 

Such was her partners mourning, he spoke to himself liberally, that he decided to go to the underworld to get her out. Despite her warning he looked at Izanami, and saw that she was dead! This should not have been a surprise, but he was horrified and fled. Izanami gave chase and the two parted at the gates of hell with the following promise.

 

Inazami: "If you trap me in the underworld with that rock I will kill 1000 children a day"

 

Inazagi: "I will make 1500 parturition huts (where Japanese women go in myth and reality to give birth)."

 

Like the myth of the Fall, in Genesis, this creation myth has a taboo (on birth hence the "parturition huts" rather than fig leaves hiding sex) and explains the origin of death, the separation of two worlds, and the beginning of going forth and multiplying.

 

The Japanese population has increased ever since, until, five years ago, when in 2010 it started to fall. It occurred to me that Izanami must be out and about. But I did not know what that might mean.

 

More recently I have tended to believe that these primal females that are shut in caves, hell or our breasts, are the interlocutors that some Western psychologists and philosophers claim underpins the narrative self. I met her a long time ago, in a brief moment of psychosis and presumed it was only me. Still more recently I have seen that Freud and Derrida are hinting at the same structure. It is not only me. Izanami is listening to everyone who talks 'to themselves'.

 

Who was she? Izanami helps her partner drip brine from his "pond lance" to create the first "self-stiffening" island. She accepts (but must not give) invitations to sex. When she invites the results are disasterous, so she just says yes, "Ah! what a fair and lovely man!". Izanami affirms. Until that her partner realised that she was dead, Izanami made him feel really good about himself. She completed him. Izanami is the great male-ego-massager.

 

This is what the narrative self does for you. Our self-narratives allow us to spin self-evaluations in a positive direction, and in the West this tendency has spun out of control (Twenge & Campbell, 2009; Ehrenreich, 2009, Dawes, 1994). While there are still lots of people with low self esteem the USA, and they are maintaining the birth rate, it has been pointed out that self-esttem correlates with low teen pregnancy, (Mecca, Smelser, & Vasconcellos, 1989), high use of contraceptives (Ager, Shea, & Agronow, 1982; Cvetkovich & Grote 1980: Herold, Goodwin, & Lero 1979; Hornick, Doran, & Crawford 1979: see Mecca, Smelser, & Vasconcellos, 1989) and the singles culture that has exploded since the 1960's and 70s in the USA (Twenge & Campbell, 2009) .

 

A Japanese television presenter (Hasegawa, 2014) has made a similar claim regarding the declinging birth rate in Japan. "The decline in the Japanese birth rate does not stop because young people love themselves more than raising children." (日本の少子化が止まらないのは、若者が子育てよりも自分のことが大好きだから).

 

The opinion of one commentator is all very well but what about hard research?

 

Nagahisa, Kashiwa, (2003) gave adult married women a questionnaire about how they felt about their lives containing containing 21 questions (Table 3, p 42 bottom three factors shown), upon which they performed an exploratory factor analysis to see which items grouped with which others. They found that there were four main factors in the womens lives which they named (reordered to match Table 4)

 

1) Satisfaction with husband

2) Satisfaction as parent.

3) Satisfaction with self.

4) Impatience and disillusment with own individuality.

 

Unfortunately for my theory, self-esteem correlates positively, and self-dillusionment negatively with satisfaction with parenthood. My hypothesis was not upheld. I thought that hypothesis may have been supported when I first started writing this since the factors are ordered differently in Table 3 and 4 in the original paper.

 

Still the paper tested satisfaction with parent child relationship and not the intention to have more or less children. I shall have to do my own research. The prediction is that self-esteem will be related to sexual self-worth (see Anderson, 1990) rather than as valuations of and as a parent. It is probably more appropriate to investigate Japanese male self esteem and desire for children.

 

The Japanese have been pushing self-esteem on their children since the 1990s. They now have a large sector of their population that not only see themselves positively (in the usual Japanese autoscopic manner) but narrate themselves positively as well. As Hasegawa (2014) says, these hybrids are unliklely to want involve themselves in childrearing.

 

Bibliography

Ehrenreich, B. (2009). Bright-sided: How the relentless promotion of positive thinking has undermined America. Macmillan.

Dawes, R. (1994). House of Cards. New York: Free Press. (Quoted by Heine. et al. 1999. Early critique of Self-Esteem movement, republished 2009)

Hisanaga, Kashiwagi (1999) 永久ひさ子, & 柏木惠子. 成人期女性における資源配分と生活感.教育心理学研究 Vol. 47 (1999) No. 2 p. 170-179

Hasegawa, Y. 長谷川富.(2014).日本の少子化が止まらないのは、若者が子育てよりも自分のことが大好きだから. Blog post.

spotlight-media.jp/article/93578650305704689

Mecca, A. M., Smelser, N. J., & Vasconcellos, J. (Eds.). (1989). The social importance of self-esteem. Univ of California Press.

Jean M. Twenge, W. Keith Campbell (2009) The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement, Free Press.

 

Notes

 

The "pond spear" of Izanagi and Izanami is usually translated as jewelled spear from a reading of the 沼 character used in the Kojiki to mean jewel. But the Kojiki rarely uses characters phonetically alone unless it says so ("these three characters should be read phonetically") so the lance was jeweled and one from a bog or pond. Weapon's entering a reflective pond, is repeated in the next section of the Kojiki when Susano'o meets Izanagi's replacement above the "well in the middle of heaven" and allows his sister to chew up his sword and spit it into this new pond.

 

Much of Japanese mythic creation takes place over water often dripping upon them. I think that this is an attempt to illustrate the "contradictory" (Nishida) looping of the klien bottle of the visual self. For that which sees, consciousness, to see itself, the face in the mirror must at the same time cover it, become it. So Japanese heroes and heroines, and the first person of Japanese songs, are often crying, spitting, and dripping impure symblos above mirrored surfaces.

 

Jean M. Twenge, W. Keith Campbell (2009) The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement

 

books.google.co.jp/books?isbn=1416575995

 

At the same time that the interest in self-esttem and self-expression ramped up, the culture begam to move away from community-oriented thinking. As Robert Putnam showed in his bestseller, Bowling Alone, membership in groups such as Kiwanis, the PTA, and even bowling leagues began to decline in the '70s. Personal relationships showed similar trends. The divorce rate skyrocketed, young people began tomarry later, and the birth rate plummeted. Singles culture, practically nonexistent in the 1950's and 1960's was all the rage, with singles only aparment complexes springing up and disco rooms full of gold-chain wearing bachelors and young bachelorettes trying not to spraing their ankles dancing to "Stayin Aliv" in four inch platform heels. A few other atuhors have also pegged the roots of the narcissim epidemic to the 70's..."the "Me" Decade"

 

publishing.cdlib.org/ucpressebooks/view?docId=ft6c6006v5&...

 

Four of the five studies investigating the association between selfesteem and contraceptive use report similar findings: low self-esteem is associated with less frequent or less sustained use of contraceptives. ...No study demonstrates a link between low self-esteem and effective use of contraceptives.

 

Ager, Shea, and Agronow 1982

Cvetkovich and Grote 1980

Herold, Goodwin, and Lero 1979

MacKinnon Self-Esteem Scale

Hornick, Doran, and Crawford 1979

Rogel and Zuehlke 1982

 

high self-esteem has been associated with effective contraception primarily for white adolescents, thereby limiting the applicability of these findings to other groups. Nevertheless, there is sufficient correlational evidence to further consider a possible causal link between self-esteem and contraceptive use.

www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?recnum=1446

 

Males become sexual predators whose self-esteem rests on mastering women, maneuvering them to relinquish sexual favors without commitment or support from the man.35 A male's status will actually be enhanced to the extent his mastery of women allows him to parasitically draw economic and material support from them.

 

Elijah Anderson, Streetwise: Race, Class, and Change in an Urban Community (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1990), pp. 112-119.

 

news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1368&dat=19900818&...

Self-esteem, values called tools to help curb teen pregnancy.

 

www.overpopulation.org/pop-sustainability.html

 

Dr. Adamu: Giving them information on how to control their reproduction and get health care - and that there is a choice - empowers them and gives them the self-esteem to choose the number and the spacing of their children.

 

Dr Potts: If you respect women and give them a choice, they will tend to have fewer children.

 

spotlight-media.jp/article/93578650305704689

 

日本の少子化が止まらないのは、若者が子育てよりも自分のことが大好きだからフリーアナウンサ 長谷川豊

Minke Whale meat on the menu at Vinhusid Steakhouse, Reykjavík, Iceland. I boycotted all restaurants which served it © Linda Dawn Hammond / IndyFoto.com March 14, 2014

I boycotted ALL restaurants which served whale, shark or puffin (Lundi) while visiting Iceland. Whale meat and puffins (Lundi) are also on the menu at Hereford Steikhus, Reykjavík, Iceland

According to Elding, a great Icelandic eco whale watching tour, only 5% of the whales killed in Iceland are consumed by locals and 40% by tourists looking for a kick. Some of whom had just stepped off the whale watching tour- very hypocritical. Since a campaign by IFAW to stop this opportunistic experimentation, tourist consumption has dropped to 20%. Now the one company still killing fin and minke whales, Hvalur, managed by Kristján Loftsso (Kristjan Loftsson), is selling byproducts of its cruel product to a local beer company, Steðja Brewery. I'm adding them to my boycott list. I later learned that the picturesque Icelandic horses we see offered for rides to tourists are also bred for meat. © Linda Dawn Hammond / IndyFoto.com Feb 21, 2014

www.ifaw.org/united-states/our-work/whales/meet-us-don%E2...

Meet Us Don't Eat Us: Campaign to take whale meat off the menu for tourists

 

Tourists who visit Iceland during the summer may be greeted by a high-profile campaign from IFAW and Ice Whale (Icelandic Whale Watching Association), encouraging them to enjoy responsible whale watching but to avoid sampling whale meat.

 

The campaign, Meet Us Don't Eat Us is aimed at dispelling the myth some tourists believe that whale meat is a popular dish enjoyed by most Icelanders. However, according to a 2010 Gallup poll survey, only about 5% of Icelanders say they eat it regularly.

Similarly, many people believe Iceland's commercial whaling is a centuries-old tradition, but in reality it started in 1948 and stopped in 1989, with a few boats resuming minke whaling in 2003, initially for so-called scientific research.

IFAW believes an estimated 40% of tourists are persuaded to eat whale meat while in Iceland, mainly out of curiosity. The result is that whales are killed every year just to be sampled by tourists.

The Meet Us Don't Eat Us campaign urges visitors to think carefully about the menu choices they make in the country's excellent restaurants to ensure they don't go home with a bad taste in their mouths.

The campaign, which runs from June to September, is being promoted around Reykjavik by volunteers dressed in whale tail costumes. The volunteers will be talking to tourists in downtown Reykjavik and asking them to sign postcards promising to avoid whale meat and asking Iceland to stop whaling.

The campaign, which ran for the first time in 2011, has ruffled some feathers in Iceland. Despite IFAW signing and paying a four-month contract to place adverts in Keflavik Airport last year, the airport's general manager ordered IFAW to remove them shortly after they went on display following complaints from whalers. The campaign then sparked a major media debate in the country on the issue of free speech and IFAW was delighted to see many Icelanders, including politicians, speak out in defence of the campaign.

In early May, 2012 Kristjan Loftsson, the lone Icelandic whaler responsible for killing 280 endangered fin whales in Icelandic waters over the past six years, told Icelandic media that because of economic issues, including difficulties in trading the meat with Japan following its tsunami tragedy, he would not be fin whaling in 2012. This is the second year in a row that Loftsson has cancelled the hunt, having laid off 30 staff last year. IFAW welcomed this decision and sees it as a positive sign that Loftsson recognises that fin whaling is uneconomic. Icelanders traditionally do not eat fin whale meat and these whales have been killed with a view to selling the meat to Japan, which has so far met with little success.

 

However, commercial hunting of minke whales in Iceland continues. In total, 58 minke whales were killed last season, by two companies. This was from a self-allocated catch limit of 216. IFAW urges Iceland to end all whaling now to protect whales for future generations and to safeguard its successful whale watching industry.

IFAW ran the first workshop looking into the feasibility of whale watching in Iceland more than 20 years ago and has worked closely with Icelandic whale watch operators for several years to promote whale watching as a humane and profitable alternative to the cruelty of whaling.

www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2014/01/iceland...

Iceland's Newest Beer Ingredient: Whale

One brewery is experimenting with a whale of an ale or technically, an ale of a whale.

SVATI KIRSTEN NARULA

JAN 9 2014, 12:46 PM ET

 

Iceland doesn't treat cetaceans the way most of the world wants them to be treated. Like Japan and Norway, Iceland has continued to hunt fin and minke whales in defiance of an international moratorium on the practice. It's not a challenge to find a restaurant serving whale meat in the capital city of Reykjavík. With all this in mind, is it really surprising that Iceland's whaling business has recently teamed up with a brewery to produce "whale beer"?

 

Steðja Brewery

Hvalur, the company managed by "the Icelandic Ahab" Kristján Loftsson, is providing whale mealâa byproduct of processing the animal's meat and oilâto Steðja Brewery to create a limited edition product tied to Iceland's annual mid-winter festival Thorrablot. The beer, marketed as a drink for "true vikings," will only be available from January 24 through February 22. It's 5.2 percent alcohol and is supposedly "healthy" by virtue of containing whale, which is, according to the brewery, high in protein and low in fat.

Dagbjartur Ariliusson, the brewery's owner, told reporters that whale beer makes sense in the context of Thorrablot and the country's history. For many centuries, he said, they have celebrated this festival by eating "cured food, including whale fat, and now we have the beer to drink with this food." Pickled whale blubber is a traditional Thorrablot menu item.

Like so much else Iceland does with whales, the development is drawing impassioned ire from conservationists and anti-whaling activists. The Whale and Dolphin Conservation (WDC) society's campaign managers have called the beer launch an attempt "to diversify whale products in the face of almost nonexistent local consumer demand" and "about as immoral and outrageous as you can get." WDC has also gone after Hvalur for "perversely" powering its whale-hunting ships with whale oil.

The outcry probably won't stop tourists from rushing to sample whale steaks and sashimi at Reykjavík restaurants. Even if whale beer doesn't taste very good because, let's be honest, putting meat of any kind in beer is uncommon and gross it could, one day, be yet another item on a traveler's bucket list.

 

www.ifaw.org/united-states/news/september-drew-end-so-did...

As September drew to an end, so did whaling in Iceland, but for how long?

By: Robbie Marsland

Posted: Mon, 10/14/2013

2013 was a grim year, with a decrease in minke whales killed offset by a vast increase in the number of fin whales killed.

There are two types of whaling in Iceland.

 

These days, minke whaling is carried out primarily by one vessel, Hrafnreyður KÃ-100.

The number of whales killed each season for the small Icelandic whale meat market has dropped from 58 in 2011, to 52 in 2012 and 35 this year.

Less than 5% of Icelanders regularly eat whale meat and thanks to IFAW's Meet Us Don't Eat Us and Whale Friendly Restaurants initiatives in the country, the percentage of tourists eating whale meat has dropped from around 40% to around 20%.

SEE ALSO: "Whale friendly" is the way forward for Icelandic tourism

Not only are sales down for the minke whalers, but it looks like their costs are up. Facing an extended whale watching sanctuary and the displeasure of the Icelandic tourism community, this year the minke whalers kept out of the enormous Faxafloi bay outside Reykjavik, the capital.

They motored around Iceland's western fjords and started to worry the whale watchers in the north of Iceland between Akureyri and Husavik the northern home of Icelandic whale watching. Not surprisingly, their presence there was also hotly contested by whale watching companies.

So as the winter storms start hitting Iceland, we will have to wait and see if the whalers decide it is worth enduring further international and national criticism to go out and cruelly kill minke whales for a steadily declining market that must yield little or no financial return¦

Fin whales are the second species hunted and cruelly killed in Iceland.

In recent years fin whales have only been hunted by one operator. He is Kristjan Loftsson, the son of a whaler who made a fortune from whaling in the 60s, 70s and 80s - before the vast majority of the world (including Iceland) saw sense and stopped killing whales.

Mr Loftsson started killing fin whales again in 2009. No-one was really sure why he started again because fin whale meat is not eaten in Iceland, and the only other place international trade laws allow him to sell the meat is Japan, and they don't seem overly keen to buy fin whale meat from him.

So it wasn't a surprise when Mr Loftsson didn't go fin whaling in 2011 and 2012. But it was a surprise when he sent his ships out to kill the second largest whale in the world again last June.

As of the end of September his two 1940s steam-driven whaling boats had dragged 134 fin whales back to his whaling station just outside Reykjavik.

But it's not been plain sailing for Mr Loftsson this season.

He was used to the idea of there being celebrations when he brought in the first fin whale of the season. Instead of showing a proud Mr Loftsson flensing (cutting up) his first whale, the newspapers chose to cover the small crowd of demonstrators on the hill above the station holding the banner: What's the point in Icelandic whaling?

Later in the season one of his minority shareholders was quoted in the national newspapers as being very concerned that the fin whaling was losing money and depreciating the value of the company shares.

Loftsson's worst moment came in July when a consignment of his fin whale meat was rejected by the port of Rotterdam which wanted nothing to do with his cruel and controversial trade.

Not only that but he had to see photos plastered all over the TV and newspapers of a whale watching boat greeting the returning whale meat with enormous pointing hands and, once again, the message What's the point in Icelandic whaling?

Rotterdam was closed to his trade and so his export options seem to be dwindling.

2013 was a grim year for us with a decrease in minke whales killed offset by a vast increase in the number of fin whales killed.

However, there does seem to have been a sea change in Icelandic attitudes towards this so-called industry and more and more people are asking themselves and in public, what is the point of Icelandic whaling?

--RM

IFAW will continue to work closely with the whale watching and tourism sector and supportive MPs over the winter months. Stay tuned!

HORSE SLAUGHTER of foals in Iceland

 

www.pferd-und-fleisch.de/Horsemeat/iceland.htm

 

ICELANDIC SLAUGHTERHOUSE ADVERTISES FOR HORSES TO FEED OVERSEAS DINERS

MAY 5, 2012 VIVIAN GRANT FARRELL

 

tuesdayshorse.wordpress.com/2012/05/05/icelandic-slaughte...

A GOD VICTORIOUS JOURNEY Part 1 of 2

by Patricia Diane Cota-Robles

  

Every time I am blessed with the awesome gift of participating in a facet of the unfolding Divine Plan involving the Company of Heaven and dedicated Lightworkers from around the world, I know without question that this blessed planet and ALL her Life are going to succeed in our Ascension in the Light. Our Pilgrimage to the sacred sites along the Mediterranean Sea and the South of France confirmed this Truth for me.

 

The reality is that the miracles that took place during our Pilgrimage transcend what can be expressed in words, but I will do my best to share with you the events of our journey. There were 103 pilgrims who physically joined us on this trip. We were all very aware that there were also thousands of Lightworkers joining with us in consciousness. We held each and every one of you securely in the Divinity of our hearts, and we reveled in the loving support that we received from around the world.

 

To understand the importance of this mission, I would like to briefly share with you why our Father-Mother God sent forth the Clarion Call for assistance from embodied Lightworkers in this endeavor.

 

We are at a critical turning point in the evolution of this sweet Earth. In order for us to accomplish the next step in our evolutionary process, we must reverse the adverse effects of Humanity’s fall from Grace. This process involves bringing into balance the Divine Masculine and the Divine Feminine Polarities of God within every person’s Heart Flame. It also involves preparing every Heart Flame and the physical, etheric, mental and emotional bodies of each soul, to withstand the 5th-Dimensional frequencies of our I AM Presence, our true God reality.

 

Prior to the fall, the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of our Father-Mother God were balanced within every person on Earth. The Masculine Polarity of our Father God activated our left-brain hemispheres and radiated into the physical plane through the power center of our Throat Chakras. This frequency of Divine Light radiated as a sapphire blue Flame of Power within the Immortal Victorious Threefold Flame in our hearts. The Feminine Polarity of our Mother God activated our right-brain hemispheres and radiated into the physical plane through the love center of our Heart Chakras. This frequency of Divine Light radiated as a crystalline pink Flame of Love within the Threefold Flame in our hearts.

 

These two perfectly balanced polarities of our Father-Mother God then merged into one powerful Violet Flame. This Sacred Fire blazed through our brains and awakened our spiritual brain centers to their full Divine Potential. These centers consist of our pituitary, pineal, hypothalamus glands and the ganglionic centers at the base of our brains.

 

With the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of God balanced within our brains and our spiritual centers activated to their full potential, our Crown Chakras of Enlightenment opened to full breadth birthing the Son or Daughter of God, The Christ or Christ Consciousness, within every person. This frequency of Divine Light radiated as a golden-yellow Flame of Enlightenment within the Threefold Flame in our hearts.

 

The Immortal Victorious Threefold Flame pulsating in every heart is the physical expression of the Holy Trinity in the world of form. In order for a Son or Daughter of God to exist, this blue, pink and gold Flame, representing the Power, Love and Wisdom of our God Parents and Their Beloved Child, must be present within the heart. In order for a Son or Daughter of God to reach his or her full Divine Potential, however, the Threefold Flame must not only exist it must be balanced. This means the perfect balance of our Father God’s Power and our Mother God’s Love, which is better known as the Holy Spirit. Through this balance, the Beloved Child of God—The Christ—is birthed within every person.

 

In our evolutionary process, there came a point in time when the Sons and Daughters of God evolving on Earth made the free-will choice to use our gift of Life in ways that conflicted with God’s Will. Through our thoughts, words, actions and feelings, we created gross mutations of the patterns of perfection pulsating within the Causal Body of God. These human miscreations began manifesting on Earth as aging, decay, disease, lack and limitation, fear, war, violence, corruption, inclement weather conditions, cataclysmic Earth changes and every other malady existing on Earth today.

 

In a futile attempt to keep ourselves from feeling so much pain, we closed our Heart Chakras to try to block our ability to feel. This fateful decision closed the portal through which our Mother God radiated Her Love into the physical plane. This forced our Mother God to withdraw to a mere trickle of Her original Divine Potential. Without the balance of our Mother God’s Divine Love, our right-brain hemispheres became almost dormant. This caused our spiritual brain centers to atrophy and our Crown Chakras of Enlightenment to close. We lost contact with The Christ within. We forgot that we are Beloved Children of God, and we lost awareness of the fact that all our Father-Mother God has is ours.

 

For aeons of time, we have been buried in the effluvia of our human miscreations. Age after Age enlightened Beings, Avatars, Buddhas and Adepts have embodied to try to awaken Humanity to the Truth of who we are and why we are in this Earthly school of learning. Progress has been painfully slow, often nonexistent.

 

Finally, a little over 2,000 years ago, during the inception of the Piscean Age, a plan was set into motion to anchor the archetypes for Humanity’s pathway back to Christ Consciousness. This plan, much like what is occurring now at the dawn of the Aquarian Age, involved embodied Lightworkers working in unison with the entire Company of Heaven.

 

The plan was for two willing representatives of our Father-Mother God to embody on Earth to cocreate the matrix of Divine Balance for the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of our Father-Mother God. This matrix was to be created by these two soul’s modeling the path of Divine Love that would open the Heart Chakra and allow the return of our Mother God through the Baptism of the Holy Spirit.

 

The souls chosen to accomplish this monumental feat were Beloved Jesus and his Divine Complement or Twin Flame, Beloved Mary Magdalene. Jesus in his full capacity as a Son of God volunteered to anchor the matrix for the Divine Masculine, and Mary Magdalene in her full capacity as a Daughter of God volunteered to anchor the matrix for the Divine Feminine.

 

To herald the coming of the these two resplendent Beings, and to bring the Divine Ceremony that would initiate their mission, the Being we know as John the Baptist volunteered to embody on Earth.

 

Jesus and Mary Magdalene descended to Earth together and began the preparation for their sacred mission. This was not an easy task. The fragmented, fear-based human ego, which developed when Humanity closed our Heart Chakras, thus preventing our power from being balanced with love and reverence for Life, has been fighting tooth and nail for millennia to try to block the return of our Mother God. This manipulative faction of our fallen personality was not going to give up its control of our lives easily.

 

Jesus and Mary Magdalene knew that the fallen consciousness of Humanity was not going to allow people to immediately grasp the opportunity to balance the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of God within their hearts. In fact, they knew that it would be centuries before we really understood what they were trying to teach us. That is why in Revelations Jesus says to John the Beloved ,“In the Day of the Seventh Angel, when he begins to sound, the mystery of God will be fulfilled and time will be no more.”

 

During the Piscean Age, the 6th Solar Aspect of Deity was the predominant influence. Now, during the Aquarian Age, the 7th Solar Aspect of Deity is the predominant influence. This is the Day of the Seventh Angel, and he is beginning to sound.

 

Jesus said that the voice of the 7th Angel would proclaim the time of the Second Coming of The Christ. This heralds the return of Christ Consciousness within every man, woman and child. This will occur through the return of our Mother God and the Baptism of the Holy Spirit, the Baptism by Sacred Fire.

 

In spite of the overwhelming resistance, Jesus and Mary Magdalene accomplished their mission and anchored the matrix for the balance of the Divine Feminine and Masculine Polarities of God within every evolving soul’s Heart Flame. This occurred whether a person was in or out of embodiment or if the soul was from the past, present or future.

 

After Jesus’ crucifixion, Resurrection and Ascension plans were set into motion to protect Mary Magdalene from the wrath of the people who were still resisting the return of our Mother God. The Essene Brotherhood and Sisterhood, along with Mother Mary, Joseph of Arimathea, John the Beloved and some of the other disciples, guarded Mary Magdalene and the daughter she and Jesus had conceived.

 

Mary Magdalene was over-Lighted by the Company of Heaven and safely guided to various locations on the planet where she was able to anchor the matrix for the Divine Balance of our Mother God into the body of Mother Earth. This prepared the way for the coming of the Seventh Angel and the day when he would begin to sound, when our Mother God would at last reclaim Her rightful place within the hearts of the Children of God. This would be a time when Christ Consciousness would once again be birthed into the hearts and minds of Humanity.

 

The Truth about Mary Magdalene’s mission and the fact that she was anchoring the matrix for the return of our Mother God was cloaked in secrecy to conceal the plan from the masses and to prevent the plan from being blocked through the abuse of power being wielded by Humanity’s patriarchal human egos.

 

Her protectors were well aware of her mission, and after her Ascension they steadfastly held the Immaculate Concept for the return of our Mother God. These selfless exponents of God’s Will formed mystery schools and passed the information on in veiled and mysterious symbols that could not be deciphered by the common man or woman.

 

The newly formed Christian churches had difficulty blocking the groundswell of information that kept surfacing in mysterious ways about Mary Magdalene and her relationship with Jesus, her Beloved Twin Flame. Various Gospels were being circulated, which gave conflicting accounts of what really occurred during the pageantry and the founding of the Christian Dispensation.

 

In 325 AD, the Roman Emperor Constantine I decided that the confusion in the Christian doctrine needed to be stopped and that the various factions needed a unified belief system. He called a meeting of over 300 bishops and organized what has been noted as the first Ecumenical Council. This was the Council of Nicaea.

 

During this gathering he denounced Arianism, which was founded by the theologian Arius. These teachings taught that Jesus was a Son of God, as are all the Children of Earth. He reiterated that God is within every person, and that people do not need to depend on Human Beings outside of themselves in order to communicate with God or to receive God’s Forgiveness.

 

This belief system interfered greatly with the power and control of the priesthood and the Church, so Constantine ordered Arius to cease and desist in teaching such heresy. At the end of the gathering Constantine ordered a vote, and all but three bishops signed the Nicaean Creed forbidding Arianism.

 

Constantine felt this vote of support gave him the right to proceed with his mission. He gathered the 48 gospels that were being circulated amongst the various factions of the Church. He went through all of them carefully and selected only the four gospels that indicated that Jesus was Divine—above all other Human Beings. These four gospels were unnamed, as were many of the 48 gospels. Constantine made the executive decision to name the gospels he chose to be included in the Bible: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

 

He then proceeded to go through the rest of the teachings in the Bible. In order to maintain the supreme power of the Church and the patriarchal priesthood, he removed any reference to the relationship between Mary Magdalene and Jesus, as well as any reference he could identify regarding reincarnation. Constantine’s actions redefined the status of Christianity, and formed the basis for the Bible used today throughout the Christian world.

 

Even with this obvious betrayal of the Truth, the mission of Jesus and Mary Magdalene could not be suppressed. To the total consternation of the Church, the reality of their spiritual and intimate relationship kept surfacing. One by one, the seekers of Truth were guided to the mystery schools and secret societies. Little by little, they learned about the sacred mission of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.

 

In 590 AD, Pope Gregory I had had enough and was determined to once and for all put an end to this threat to the patriarchal supremacy of the Church. With the stroke of the pen, Pope Gregory I declared Mary Magdalene to be a prostitute and asserted that she was seething with seven evil spirits. This was the very first time that Mary Magdalene was said to be a prostitute. That unconscionable lie was written nearly 600 years after her embodiment. As far as the Church was concerned, this concocted story squelched the rumors about Jesus and Mary Magdalene’s marriage.

 

In order to maintain a semblance of damage control, the Church leaders tried to transfer the attention from Mary Magdalene to Jesus’ Mother, the Virgin Mary. This was a futile effort in their attempt to block the return of our Mother God, because Beloved Mother Mary was an important Aspect of the Divine Feminine herself.

 

As the forerunners of the Divine Feminine progressed through those tumultuous times, Mother Mary protected the Truth about Mary Magdalene by holding the exoteric focus of the Divine Mother. At the same time, Mary Magdalene continued her mission of preparing the way for the return of our Mother God through esoteric circles and her teachings within the sacred mystery schools and secret societies.

 

For centuries, the Immaculate Concept of Mary Magdalene’s Divine Mission with Beloved Jesus was guarded from the outer world by her valiant protectors. With unfailing tenacity, these selfless souls prepared for the Day of the Seventh Angel when the return of our Mother God would be brought to fruition.

 

Throughout history there are bits and pieces of information regarding the souls fulfilling the service of protecting the mission of Mary Magdalene and Jesus, but most of them are terribly distorted and contaminated with misinformation from the patriarchal Church. The groups most noteworthy in this mission were the Essenes, the Druids, the Cathars and the Knights Templar.

 

Within the historic documentations of England, Spain, France and places throughout the Mediterranean, the mystical stories of the Essenes, Druids, Cathars and the Knights Templar can still be found. The most blatant proof of the Church’s attempt to suppress the secret knowledge of the Divine Feminine is revealed in the accounts of the horrific persecution and the brutal demise of these dedicated Lightworkers during the Crusades and the Inquisition.

 

Since the dawning of the Aquarian Age, which took place a few decades ago, Lightworkers have been making Pilgrimages to the areas where these atrocities took place. The intent of these Pilgrimages was to transmute the Etheric Records of the pain and suffering involved in protecting the Truth of the return of our Mother God. This purification was an important facet of the Divine Plan that had to be completed before the blocked Heart Meridian within the body of Mother Earth could be reopened. This Heart Meridian is the portal through which the completion of Mary Magdalene and Jesus’ Divine Mission will be fulfilled. It is the portal through which the Divine Balance of the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of God will be reactivated in the body of Mother Earth.

 

That brings us to our recent Pilgrimage. To signal to the world that the purification of the past had been completed and that all was in readiness for the next phase of the Divine Plan, an amazing outer-world event took place. On October 13, 1307, the Knights Templar throughout France were arrested and placed in prisons where they were tortured and eventually died. This was a massive endeavor orchestrated by the Inquisition to prevent the Knights from revealing the secret of Mary Magdalene and the Divine Feminine.

 

On October 13, 2007, exactly 700 years later, the Vatican revealed that it had found some 800-year-old documents from the Knights Templar, which had mysteriously been misplaced. The Vatican said that the documents would be released to the world, and they apologized for their transgressions.

 

In this monumental year of completion, this veiled message from the Church asking for forgiveness for its past transgressions involving the Knights Templar was broadcast on CNN via satellite throughout the world. As Humanity focused our attention on this message, the transmutation of the atrocities of the past was brought to completion. This event occurred the day before our glorious Pilgrimage began.

 

We had been told by our Father-Mother God that the time for the opening of the blocked Heart Meridian in the body of Mother Earth had come. This is the meridian that the Essenes, Druids, Cathars and Knights Templar and been protecting over centuries of time in preparation for the return of our Mother God. This was the same meridian along which Mary Magdalene anchored the matrix for the Divine Balance of the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of God in the years following Jesus’ Ascension.

 

Our God Parents said that those of us who were motivated by our Heart’s Call to make the sacrifice of our time, energy and money to accomplish this mission, had made this Pilgrimage again and again over centuries of time. They told us that the ancient footsteps we would be walking in were our own.

 

On October 14, 103 pilgrims from 15 countries began the journey to Barcelona, Spain. We arrived on October 15, and after settling into our hotel we gathered for a group dinner. During that time, Archangel Raphael Consecrated each of our Earthly Bodies and lifted us into a frequency that would allow us to be the most effective conductors of Light possible. We were each given a sacred necklace with a symbol of the open Heart of the Divine Feminine to wear during our holy adventure.

 

On October 16, we had breakfast together and loaded the busses for a tour of Barcelona. Barcelona has over 2,000 years of history. It became a Roman colony in 133 BC. Many of the churches and cathedrals in Barcelona are dedicated to various female Saints, but the grandest of them all is dedicated to the Holy Family: Mary, Joseph and Jesus. These are the Beings in the Christian Dispensation who represent the Divine Father, the Divine Mother and the Holy Child of God, The Christ. They are the representatives of the Sacred Fire, the Holy Trinity, blazing in every person’s heart.

 

This magnificent edifice is called the Temple of the Sagrada Familia. One facet of the structure is called the Central Portal of Birth. Two colossal domes are dedicated to the Virgin Mary and Jesus, The Christ, respectively. This is an example of the outer-world service of Mother Mary in which she is standing in for the esoteric mission of Mary Magdalene.

 

In the sacred endeavor of building this Temple, the architect, Antoni Gaudi, created a staggering sense of verticality, a meeting point between Heaven and Earth, God and Humanity.

 

After our tour of Barcelona, we progressed to the dock to board our beautiful cruise ship to begin our Pilgrimage through the Mediterranean. In Ages past, the Pilgrimage we were embarking on to the various positions along the Heart Meridian of Mother Earth was an arduous and dangerous feat. In this day and age, the trip is made by millions of travelers every year on luxurious cruise ships. This is not by chance. Divine Intervention has played an important part in this phenomenon.

 

The Beings of Light from the Realms of Truth set the tone for our adventure. They revealed to us that the collective body of Lightworkers present on this Pilgrimage represented the microcosm of the macrocosm of Humanity. They said that our collective life experiences through all of our Earthly sojourns contained a fragment of the Earthly experience of every evolving soul on Earth. We were told that the Etheric Records of the painful experiences of the past were now transmuted, and our mission was to serve as surrogates on behalf of all Humanity as we anchored the archetypes for the New Earth. We were also asked by our Father-Mother God to serve as acupuncture needles along the Heart Meridian of Mother Earth.

 

Our guidance from On High was to focus on the Immaculate Concept of Heaven on Earth, as we opened the Heart Meridian and cleared the way for the Divine Balance of the Masculine and Feminine Polarities of God within Humanity and the body of Mother Earth.

 

The Company of Heaven perceived our sense of awe and assured us that we already had everything we needed within our Beings to accomplish our individual facets of this Divine Plan. We were told that each of us had been preparing for lifetimes for this Cosmic Moment, so as one unified Heart Flame we released any feelings of doubt or inadequacy and invoked our I AM Presence to take full dominion of our thoughts, words, actions and feelings.

 

The Company of Heaven asked that during our trek through the Mediterranean, we not organize any group tours involving all of the 103 people on this mission. Instead, we were each instructed to listen to our inner guidance and to participate individually in the available tours and opportunities that resonated in our heart of hearts. The end result of this plan was that our group traversed each location north, south, east and west. This enabled us to cover the gamut of each acupuncture point along the Heart Meridian of Mother Earth.

 

On October 17, we reached the Isle of Mallorca in the Bay of Palma. The first settlers came to this island around the 5th century BC. Most of them came from the South of France. In the year 123 BC, Mallorca came under Roman rule.

 

One of the most important and emblematic monuments on this island is the Cathedral of Mallorca. It was the custom in medieval times to dedicate the first churches built in towns reconquered from “the pagans” to Jesus or Mother Mary. In Mallorca, which is an important point along the Heart Meridian of Mother Earth and thus a facet of the portal for the return of our Mother God, the cathedral was dedicated to Mother Mary.

 

August 15, the day celebrated as Mother Mary’s Ascension Day, is the local Feast Day. The devotion to Mother Mary, the Divine Mother, is reflected throughout the history of the cathedral and the works of art contained within it. The cathedral adopted as its seal the Throne of Mary on the waves. The water element represents the Emotional Body and the feeling nature of our Mother God.

  

Mel Gibson's movie "The Passion" set out to be a statement and work-of-art with the simultaneous desire to exhibit the Gospel message in a unique form for film (produced entirely in latin and aramaic languages without subtitles), centered on the affliction of Jesus of Nazareth at the hands of his persecutors some 2000 years ago.

 

The first controversy which stirred about this film was that it would, unlike its predecessors in cinema, 'tell it like it is,' a no-holds-barred bloody spectacle... because that is precisely what happened to Jesus; the vicious prison beatings - his beard plucked from his face, the public lashing with a device designed to shred away flesh down to the bone -- 39 times -- to the crushing ordeal of carrying his cross through the streets while being spat upon, pelted with stones and shards of glass, to the literal nerve-splitting, excruciating crucifixion; that's where the word comes from -- "ex" = out of & "crusia" = the cross. The ordeal of Christ's unjust torture and murder by his conspirators through the agency of the Roman government is intrinsic to the story. Even the Apostle Peter, a Jew, did not hold back in his excoriation of what they had done: "But ye denied the Holy One and the Just, and desired a murderer to be granted unto you; And killed the Prince of life, whom God hath raised from the dead; whereof we are witnesses" (Acts 3:14-15). The history, politics and iconoclastic nature of Jesus' revolutionary message to the Jews is pivotal. Inexpendable. For any one element to be removed, diminishes the whole.

 

In times past cinema and theatre have attempted to deliver the story wrapped in everything from outlandishly wooden performances with crucifixions so romanticized as to be silly (ie, "The Greatest Story Ever Told" with Max Von Sydow) to revoltingly humanistic rapes of the Gospel like the late 70s "Godspell," where Christ is reduced to a superman-clown performing magic tricks to song-n-dance Gospel messages... and no resurrection. Franco Zeffirelli in 1977 attempted a tour de force in his multi-part mini-series for televison, "Jesus of Nazareth," but even it fell short of capturing the true pangs of the horror in the death of Jesus, though it scored very big points for artistry and adhering to most essential Gospel profundities. Later, Martin Scorsese would overshadow the Gospel message almost entirely, yet while creating an unforgettable crucifixion that had people weeping openly in the theatres. The right combination has simply never been accomplished. Gibson's "The Passion" promised to be the 'great white hope'. But once again, forces entangle and overthrow...

 

The next big controversy centered around Gibson's personal motives for making the film, attacks on his personal life, past, even his family began to surface. Out of this the well known stench of Jewish Defense League and ADL mindlessness began to waft through the air. Sure enough, it was eventually revealed the Gibson and company were being intimidated and harassed by Jewish groups in a snit to 'change' his film -- and alter history -- to make Jews more comfortable with their historic role in the death of the man who single handedly changed western civilization forever. The audacity alone is astonishing, but not surprising. Not anymore.

 

Meanwhile, Ernst Zundel, in failing health, rots away in a Canadian jail cell while a confederacy of Orwellian dunces attempt to prosecute him for his 'thoughts,' clearly to make an example of him to anyone who would dare question the accuracy of Holocaust numbers or demand historical veracity.

 

Meanwhile Mordechai Vanunu is spending his 12th year in an Israeli maximum security prison for daring to speak out about Israel's secretive nuclear program in what is hailed by the U.S. as the shining example of 'democracy' for the mid-east.

 

Meanwhile David Icke is being systematically pursued and persecuted by deranged anti-defamation squads and other fascist groups along his lecture and books tours because they believe his speaking of "reptilian" alien beings is code-speak for "Jews" trickled out to a clandestine neo-nazi organization disguised as Icke/UFO/NWO aficionados.

 

Gibson and company have clearly caved in to Jewish influence and demands and "softened" the film, extracting scenes and circumstances which cast Jews in an unfavorable light, be it historically valid or not. Gibson started off as a true firebrand in this endeavor, with a passion for his 'passion' -- for him to be suddenly and skillfully nipped in the bud on this work of art must have more to do with mere money, public relations or civic minded-ness. No, it is clear, considering the atmosphere of our times, something far more disturbing in skullduggery is going on behind the scenes. Someone is likely being threatened with physical harm. There are times when one can just sense that something more is happening beyond the veil, and this is one of them. When people suddenly go coldly silent, when they hack off whole limbs of their statues, rewrite entire plays, find themselves on a blacklist... someone somewhere has been pushed into that corner of suffering extortion on a level no one should have to face. There are those who don't believe such power exists nor is wielded in this world. Those people are simply fools.

 

This is not going to stop. Jewish "defense" organizations and those who sympathize with them are steadily crucifying one person after another, one voice after another, one artwork, author, play, expression, political party, politician or public servant after another on their cross of coerced appeasement. They don't give a damn about the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, freedom of expression, freedom of speech or religion -- they don't give a damn about anyone or anything but themselves, and even THEY don't represent JEWS! They are entirely self-appointed overseers of some nonexistent Jewish mythos that lays claims to everything from holy land to moral absolution on the world stage to justification of racist/Apartheid government to media control over how Jews are treated in an industry their own people, for the most part, seemingly control. These people are in severe denial, history has no meaning to them, truth is of no value whatsoever. The truth be damned, so long as a star chamber of Jews have their way. Gee... is this scenario FAMILIAR or what???

 

They are a tiny group of extremists; powerful, evil, unrelenting social dictators who have discovered that they can trump the game anytime they want with the 'Jew card' and pull everything to a sickening, deafening stop, and silence not only their critics but alter history and art and politics to their own twisted bent. And what's worse, their actions bring about untold persecutions by thickheaded racist morons who are their antithetical equal opposites, bent on persecuting every Jew for what this powerful minority of Jews do in their name.

 

These people and these organizations need to be exposed, defied at every turn and legally destroyed before they utterly dominate every aspect of our lives. These are serious times. There are serious consequences to complacency. It can last just so long before their cries of "anti-semitism" and "nazi" to rouse the ire of the sensitive soon fall on scolded ears who have also felt their unrighteous indignation as they burn everything of truth in their path toward the ultimate victory of complete control. But before it reaches that point, we have to do something about it. Speak up, speak out, sacrifice what is necessary for truth. Gibson needs to. I expected him to. He has failed. He is clearly unwilling to take the cup offered him. We all need to. Or the tentacles of this insidious monster will squeeze and crush out every bit of life and light left in this world.

(By Alton Raines 8-14-2003)

 

"To all -

 

"Allegedly, in just a few weeks, on March 1, 2010, Europe's best-known political prisoner and my husband, Ernst Zundel, is scheduled to be released from prison. In an emotional telephone conversation with him yesterday, he told me that he is entering the most dangerous phase of his life yet - that the "restrictions" on him will be "Draconian." I leave it up to you to read into that what you will.

 

"For one, we take it for granted that, at the very least, he will not be allowed a passport, which means he cannot travel anywhere outside the largely Zionist-controlled EU. Since I cannot join him for various reasons, private and political, this means that for the time being, our marriage will have to be "on hold."

 

"This morning I was sent an excellent, a bit outdated summary of what the Zundel Struggle is really all about. Even though I dislike just being sent a link, in this case I will make an exception and send you one because this article is well-written and graphically beautifully organized and lends itself to hard copy and cyber reproduction. Please spread and post it far and wide.

 

www.revisionists.com/revisionists/zundel.html

 

"There are plans, of course, to wrestle Ernst away from his tormentors, of which you will hear more in weeks and months to come. If you can afford to join our struggle financially, please let me know, and I will put you on our Power Letter list which goes out once a month. However, this letter goes only to active supporters who take this struggle seriously and understand what it takes to succeed.

 

"Please do not reply to this email - instead, write me a short note and send it to irimland@zundelsite.org

 

"I thank you in advance."

 

Ingrid Zündel

 

A nonexistent creature made from Playdoh, marbles and Photoshop

..nonexistent

Operation “Salt City" resulted in the arrest of 248 individuals from May through September 2015. Of those arrested, 124 were active gang members. During the operation 22 firearms, more than $237,000 in U.S. currency, 70 grams of heroin, 266 grams of cocaine, and 723 grams of marijuana with a total estimated street value of almost $44,000 was taken off Syracuse streets by participating agencies.

Operation Salt City is part of the U.S. Marshals nation-wide “Triple Beam” gang reduction initiative. Triple Beam partners federal, state, and local law enforcement to reduce violent crime and take dangerous offenders off the streets. The goal of the U.S. Marshals Gang Enforcement Program is to seek out and disrupt illegal gang activity in areas of the country with smaller or nonexistent gang enforcement units by providing manpower, funding and the Marshals’ renowned fugitive tracking abilities.

 

Photo by Shane T. McCoy / US Marshals

The thing that always annoyed me about this setup is that so much space is used up, I can hardly put a book and some papers on the desk to work with. So I was wondering what took up the most space, and it is most definitely the laptop. If it wasn't there I have a lot more space that I can use. Also the model is quite old, more than 3 years old. It isn't that well supported by the new OS versions anymore, and the battery life is nonexistent. Another thing that annoyed me where all those cables that I always had to plug in and out. I used to have an USB hub, but the old laptop/OS had problems with that - it wouldn't wake up after hibernation if the USB hub was connected....

 

So I was looking for some better way of setting up my desktop, and after A LOT of thinking, fiddling around, more thinking, going to hardware shops (e.g. media market and medimax hardware discounters) and thinking about what to buy, more thinking and annoying my friends, I finally came up with something (don't laugh, it actually took me half a year of thinking this through - but for now I am pretty happy with the result).

An article by Paul Schubert, titled “Montana’s Tourist Wilderness,” first appeared in the April 30, 1960 issue of “The Saturday Evening Post.” The article included a photo of Many Glacier Hotel, one of four lodges in Glacier National Park (and the basis for the image above). Years later the article led me to seek out that Montana wilderness. The view of those staggering peaks across Swiftcurrent Lake hasn’t changed a bit since Paul Schubert’s article went to print – it’s still one of the most famous landscapes in the U.S National Park System.

 

The horses and the trails are still there. While a few things have evolved since April 1960, the tradition of exploring the Many Glacier valley from the saddle remains alive and well. Today, the exclusive horseback riding concessionaire inside the park is Swan Mountain Outfitters. Their Many Glacier Corral is located just up the hill from the hotel, right at the back of the main parking lot, and operates seasonally, typically from mid-June through mid-September.

 

It is worth noting that Many Glacier Hotel intentionally preserves its historic feel—meaning no television or air conditioning in the rooms, and Wi-Fi is largely nonexistent. It encourages everyone to spend their evenings down in the expansive, fire-lit lobby or out on the deck.

 

Nature morte à la tête de mouton

 

"We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves.

The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies - all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.

Most island universes are sufficiently like one another to Permit of inferential understanding or even of mutual empathy or "feeling into." Thus, remembering our own bereavements and humiliations, we can condole with others in analogous circumstances, can put ourselves (always, of course, in a slightly Pickwickian sense) in their places. But in certain cases communication between universes is incomplete or even nonexistent. The mind is its own place, and the Places inhabited by the insane and the exceptionally gifted are so different from the places where ordinary men and women live, that there is little or no common ground of memory to serve as a basis for understanding or fellow feeling. Words are uttered, but fail to enlighten. The things and events to which the symbols refer belong to mutually exclusive realms of experience." A.H.

  

O mañana de domingo, tarde de jueves.

 

Louvre, 2010

+++ DISCLAIMER +++

Nothing you see here is real, even though the conversion or the presented background story might be based on historical facts. BEWARE!

  

Some background:

The outbreak of the war in Europe in September 1939 did not immediately affect the status of the Armée de l'Air in French Indochina because it had the task of defending a wide area of Southeast Asia, including the future Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. And yet its array of airplanes seemed inadequate to perform any kind of real defense against any incursion by an enemy, because there were less than 100 airplanes available to it, all obsolescent or obsolete. In September 1931, Japan invaded and occupied Manchuria. This was an area of northeast China, which encompassed the provinces of Jilin, Liaoning and Heilongjiang. Nearly six whole years later, in July 1937, the Second Sino-Japanese War had begun. As yet, the French colonial authorities were hoping that the Japanese would not be brazen enough to take on the might of a European power. However, it became increasingly likely after the German invasion of Poland in September 1939, since Japan was part of the Axis alliance and thus Germany's ally.

 

On September 26, 1940, Japanese troops landed in Haiphong, violating a cease-fire which had been signed only the previous day. From the middle of the following month, the French became heavily involved in repelling Japanese army assaults. Following the Fall of France in 1940, Thais perceived a chance to regain the territories they had lost years earlier. The collapse of Metropolitan France made the French hold on Indochina tenuous. After the Japanese invasion of French Indochina in September 1940, the French were forced to allow the Japanese to set up military bases. This seemingly subservient behavior convinced the Thai regime that Vichy France would not seriously resist a confrontation with Thailand.

 

During the French-Thai War, the Thai Air Force achieved several air-to-air-victories in dogfights against the Vichy Armée de l'Air. During World War II, the Thai Air Force supported the Royal Thai Army in its occupation of the Shan States of Burma as somewhat reluctant allies of the Japanese and took part in the defense of Bangkok against allied air raids in the latter part of the war, achieving some successes against state-of-the-art aircraft like the P-51 Mustang and the B-29 Superfortress. During these times, the RTAF was actively supplied by the Japanese with Imperial Japanese Army Air Force aircraft such as the Ki-43 "Oscar," and the Ki-27 "Nate." Other RTAF personnel took an active part the anti-Japanese resistance movement.

 

French forces in Indochina consisted of an army of approximately fifty thousand men, The most obvious deficiency of the French army lay in its shortage of armor; however, the Armée de l'Air had in its inventory approximately a hundred aircraft, of which around sixty could be considered first line. These consisted of thirty Potez 25 TOEs, four Farman 221s, eight Loire 130 flying boats, six Potez 542s, nine Morane M.S.406s.

 

The M.S.406 was a French fighter aircraft developed and manufactured by Morane-Saulnier starting in 1938. In response to a requirement for a fighter issued by the French Air Force in 1934, Morane-Saulnier built a prototype, designated MS.405, of mixed materials. This had the distinction of being the company's first low-wing monoplane, as well as the first to feature an enclosed cockpit, and the first design with a retracting undercarriage. The entry to service of the M.S.406 to the French Air Force in early 1939 represented the first modern fighter aircraft to be adopted by the service, and the type was also used in the French overseas colonies. The M.S.406 was France's most numerous fighter during the Second World War and one of only two French designs to exceed 1,000 in number. At the beginning of the war, it was one of only two French-built aircraft capable of 400 km/h (250 mph) – the other being the Potez 630.

 

Although a sturdy and highly manoeuvrable fighter aircraft, the M.S.406 was considered underpowered and weakly armed when compared to its contemporaries, esp. over continental Europe. Most critically, the M.S.406 was outperformed by the Messerschmitt Bf 109E during the Battle of France and no serious threat to the German fighter. In less advanced theatres like Indochina, though, the M.S. 406 was a respectable contender, but its numbers were low.

 

When the French-Thai War broke out in Indochina, the Thai Army was a relatively well-equipped force, consisting of some sixty thousand men, with artillery and tanks. The Royal Thai Navy — consisting of several vessels, including two coastal defence ships, twelve torpedo boats and four submarines — was inferior to the French naval forces, though, but the Royal Thai Air Force held both a quantitative and qualitative edge over l'Armee de l'Air. Among the 140 aircraft that composed the air force's initial first-line strength were twenty-four Mitsubishi Ki-30 light bombers, nine Mitsubishi Ki-21 and six Martin B-10 twin-engine bombers, seventy Vought Corsair dive bombers, and twenty-five Curtiss Hawk 75 fighters.

 

While nationalistic demonstrations and anti-French rallies were held in Bangkok, border skirmishes erupted along the Mekong frontier. The superior Royal Thai Air Force conducted daytime bombing runs over Vientiane, Sisophon, and Battambang with impunity. The French retaliated with their own planes, but the damage caused was less than equal. The activities of the Thai air force, particularly in the field of dive-bombing, was such that Admiral Jean Decoux, the governor of French Indochina, grudgingly remarked that the Thai planes seemed to have been flown by men with plenty of war experience.

 

In early January 1941, the Thai Burapha and Isan Armies launched their offensive on Laos and Cambodia. French resistance was instantaneous, but many units were simply swept along by the better-equipped Thai forces, with some French equipment – including some aircraft – being captured and immediately pressed into Thai army service. The Thais swiftly took Laos, but Cambodia proved a much harder nut to crack.

 

On January 16, 1941 the French launched a large counterattack on the Thai-held villages of Yang Dang Khum and Phum Preav, initiating the fiercest battle of the war. Because of over-complicated orders and nonexistent intelligence, the French counterattacks were cut to pieces and fighting ended with a French withdrawal from the area. The Thais were unable to pursue the retreating French, as their forward tanks were kept in check by the gunnery of French Foreign Legion artillerists.

 

On January 24, the final air battle took place when Thai bombers raided the French airfield at Angkor near Siem Reap, which quickly fell. The last Thai mission commenced at 0710 hours on January 28, when the Martins of the 50th Bomber Squadron set out on a raid on Sisophon, escorted by three Hawk 75Ns of the 60th Fighter Squadron.

 

Although the French won an important naval victory over the Thais, Japan forced the French to accept Japanese mediation of a peace treaty that returned the disputed territory to Thai control. A general armistice was arranged by Japan to go into effect on January 28. On May 9 a peace treaty was signed in Tokyo, with the French being coerced by the Japanese into relinquishing their hold on the disputed territories. However, the French (now part of the Axis Forces’ Vichy regime) were left in place to administer the rump colony of Indochina until 9 March 1945, when the Japanese staged a coup d'état in French Indochina and took control, establishing their own colony, the Empire of Vietnam, as a puppet state controlled by Tokyo.

 

Until then, Japanese authorities heavily influenced the diminishing Vichy French presence in the region and handed over a lot of leftover military hardware to its own allies, primarily the Thai forces. However, there was not much left to be distributed: about 30% of the French aircraft were rendered unserviceable by the end of the French-Thai War in early 1941, some as a result of minor damage sustained in air raids that remained unrepaired. The Armée de l'Air admitted the loss of only one Farman F221 and two Morane M.S.406s destroyed on the ground, but, in reality, its losses were greater and the influence of Japan on the leftover stock was fogged in order to save face. However, even in 1944, single former Vichy French aircraft and tanks were still active in the region, primarily under Thai flag.

  

General characteristics:

Crew: 1

Length: 8.17 m (26 ft 10 in)

Wingspan: 10.61 m (34 ft 10 in)

Height: 3.25 m (10 ft 8 in)

Wing area: 16 m2 (170 sq ft)

Empty weight: 1,895 kg (4,178 lb)

Gross weight: 2,540 kg (5,600 lb)

 

Powerplant:

1 × Hispano-Suiza 12Y-31 V-12 liquid-cooled piston engine with

619 kW (830 hp) for take-off at 2,520 rpm at sea level,

driving a 3-bladed variable-pitch propeller, 3 m (9 ft 10 in) diameter

 

Performance:

Maximum speed: 490 km/h (304 mph; 265 kn) at 4,500 m (14,764 ft)

Stall speed: 160 km/h (99 mph, 86 kn) without flaps

135 km/h (84 mph; 73 kn) with flaps

Range: 1,100 km (680 mi, 590 nmi) at 66% power

Combat range: 720 km (450 mi, 390 nmi)

Endurance: 2 hours 20 minutes 30 seconds (average combat mission)

Service ceiling: 9,400 m (30,800 ft)

Time to altitude: 2,000 m (6,562 ft) in 2 minutes 32 seconds

9,000 m (29,528 ft) in 21 minutes 37 seconds

Wing loading: 154 kg/m2 (32 lb/sq ft)

Power/mass: 2.95 kg/kW (4.85 lb/hp)

Take-off run to 8 m (26 ft): 270 m (886 ft)

Landing run from 8 m (26 ft): 340 m (1,115 ft)

 

Armament:

1× 20 mm (0.787 in) Hispano-Suiza HS.404 cannon, firing through the propeller hub

2× 7.5 mm (0.295 in) MAC 1934 machine guns in the outer wings

  

The kit and its assembly:

This quick build was created in the wake of the “Captured” group build at whatifmodellers.com and actually is a personal interpretation of someone else’s idea, namely of fellow modeler NARSES who came up with the idea of a captured French M.S. 406 in Indochina under a new Thai flag. I found the idea so weird, yet realistic, that I decided to build one, too.

 

The model is the very simple but quite acceptable M.S. 406 from Hobby Boss. Externally the model is nice, with recessed panel lines and a basic landing gear. Internally, it is rather bleak, even though it has a full cockpit with a floor, integrally molded seat and even some details behind the pilot’s armor bulkhead. The canopy is a single piece and very clear, but it comes with massive locator bars, so that I decided to keep the canopy closed and added a pilot figure to cover the minimal interior. I was lucky to find a Japanese (though pretty “flat”) WWII pilot in the donor bank, left over from a Hasegawa model. I also gave the figure some seat belts (made from adhesive tape), but the rest remained unchanged – even the original metal axis for the propeller was used. I just replaced the machine gun barrels with hollow steel needles and added a pitot on the wing, which is probably part of the kit but not indicated in the instructions. The same is true for the foldable ventral antenna.

 

The build was finished quickly, in the course of just a single evening, including the pilot and some overall PSR.

  

Painting and markings:

My interpretation of a French aircraft in Thai service after the French-Thai War stuck closely to the real world Vichy livery, which was the standard French camouflage in grey/green/brown with light blue-grey undersides (all from ModelMaster’s Authentic Color range), together with a yellow-and-red-striped cowling (a base with Humbrol 69 and red decal stripes added later) and a white cheatline long the fuselage. The tail of French aircraft in Indochina was painted all-red from early 1941 onwards upon Japanese command, because of friendly fire incidents. This was adopted for the model (with a mix of Humbrol 19 and some 73), which is supposed to belong into the 1942 time frame.

 

As a captured aircraft, the original French roundels were replaced/overpainted with red disks/hinomaru, and then Thai elephant markings added on top. That’s a personal idea, ordnance directly supplied to the Thai forces from Japan had the simple, square “elephant flag” emblem directly applied to the wings and the fin (but no fuselage roundel). The all-red tail was taken over, but I painted the rudder in a dark IJA green, since it would formerly carry a French fin flash. The same green was used to overpaint a serial number on the fin and a former squadron emblem under the cockpit.

The hinomaru come from a PrintScale Ki-46 sheet, and these markings are intentionally a bit oversized, so that they cover well the former French markings and are highly visible. The elephant markings some from a PrintScale Ki-27 sheet, so that the red tone on both sources are very close to each other. The Ki-27 sheet also provided the Thai ciphers “3” and “4”, combined into a “34”.

 

The interior was painted in medium grey, and the model externally received some signs of wear and tear in the form of dry-brushed leading edges and around the cockpit as well as some soot stains behind the exhaust stubs and the machine guns. Finally, the model was sealed with a coat of matt acrylic varnish (Italeri).

  

A quick build, and the easy-build Hobby Boss M.S. 406 is certainly not as crisp as a “real” model, but in this case the story behind the weird livery was more in the focus than the canvas underneath. However, an interesting result, and the hybrid paint scheme with heritage from three different operators make the aircraft an unusual, if not exotic sight.

Vancouver, BC

Weteringschans 16/01/2013 15h33

Officially the name Weteringcircuit is nonexistent but everyone in Amsterdam knows where it is. Since 2002 tramline 25 makes a strange twist through Amsterdam due to the important contruction works of the Noord-Zuid métro line in the Ferdinand Bolstraat. This Combino is coming from Frederiksplein and instead of turning immediately right from Weteringschans to Vijzelgracht and Vijzelstraat it has to make a loop around the square because there is no direct right turn. It is still (2013) not sure when the normal route will be reset for service.

More information about tramline 25:

Wikipedia - Tramline 25 (Dutch)

Amsterdamse Trams - Lijn 25 (Cor Fijma, Dutch)

Zephyr is worried. The severe storm season has been been very mild - almost nonexistent - so far. But she knows that one certain group of Midwest storm devas far too well. They're just biding their time, waiting for the right moment.....

Operation “Salt City" resulted in the arrest of 248 individuals from May through September 2015. Of those arrested, 124 were active gang members. During the operation 22 firearms, more than $237,000 in U.S. currency, 70 grams of heroin, 266 grams of cocaine, and 723 grams of marijuana with a total estimated street value of almost $44,000 was taken off Syracuse streets by participating agencies.

Operation Salt City is part of the U.S. Marshals nation-wide “Triple Beam” gang reduction initiative. Triple Beam partners federal, state, and local law enforcement to reduce violent crime and take dangerous offenders off the streets. The goal of the U.S. Marshals Gang Enforcement Program is to seek out and disrupt illegal gang activity in areas of the country with smaller or nonexistent gang enforcement units by providing manpower, funding and the Marshals’ renowned fugitive tracking abilities.

 

Photo by Shane T. McCoy / US Marshals

+++ DISCLAIMER +++

Nothing you see here is real, even though the conversion or the presented background story might be based on historical facts. BEWARE!

  

Some background:

The outbreak of the war in Europe in September 1939 did not immediately affect the status of the Armée de l'Air in French Indochina because it had the task of defending a wide area of Southeast Asia, including the future Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. And yet its array of airplanes seemed inadequate to perform any kind of real defense against any incursion by an enemy, because there were less than 100 airplanes available to it, all obsolescent or obsolete. In September 1931, Japan invaded and occupied Manchuria. This was an area of northeast China, which encompassed the provinces of Jilin, Liaoning and Heilongjiang. Nearly six whole years later, in July 1937, the Second Sino-Japanese War had begun. As yet, the French colonial authorities were hoping that the Japanese would not be brazen enough to take on the might of a European power. However, it became increasingly likely after the German invasion of Poland in September 1939, since Japan was part of the Axis alliance and thus Germany's ally.

 

On September 26, 1940, Japanese troops landed in Haiphong, violating a cease-fire which had been signed only the previous day. From the middle of the following month, the French became heavily involved in repelling Japanese army assaults. Following the Fall of France in 1940, Thais perceived a chance to regain the territories they had lost years earlier. The collapse of Metropolitan France made the French hold on Indochina tenuous. After the Japanese invasion of French Indochina in September 1940, the French were forced to allow the Japanese to set up military bases. This seemingly subservient behavior convinced the Thai regime that Vichy France would not seriously resist a confrontation with Thailand.

 

During the French-Thai War, the Thai Air Force achieved several air-to-air-victories in dogfights against the Vichy Armée de l'Air. During World War II, the Thai Air Force supported the Royal Thai Army in its occupation of the Shan States of Burma as somewhat reluctant allies of the Japanese and took part in the defense of Bangkok against allied air raids in the latter part of the war, achieving some successes against state-of-the-art aircraft like the P-51 Mustang and the B-29 Superfortress. During these times, the RTAF was actively supplied by the Japanese with Imperial Japanese Army Air Force aircraft such as the Ki-43 "Oscar," and the Ki-27 "Nate." Other RTAF personnel took an active part the anti-Japanese resistance movement.

 

French forces in Indochina consisted of an army of approximately fifty thousand men, The most obvious deficiency of the French army lay in its shortage of armor; however, the Armée de l'Air had in its inventory approximately a hundred aircraft, of which around sixty could be considered first line. These consisted of thirty Potez 25 TOEs, four Farman 221s, eight Loire 130 flying boats, six Potez 542s, nine Morane M.S.406s.

 

The M.S.406 was a French fighter aircraft developed and manufactured by Morane-Saulnier starting in 1938. In response to a requirement for a fighter issued by the French Air Force in 1934, Morane-Saulnier built a prototype, designated MS.405, of mixed materials. This had the distinction of being the company's first low-wing monoplane, as well as the first to feature an enclosed cockpit, and the first design with a retracting undercarriage. The entry to service of the M.S.406 to the French Air Force in early 1939 represented the first modern fighter aircraft to be adopted by the service, and the type was also used in the French overseas colonies. The M.S.406 was France's most numerous fighter during the Second World War and one of only two French designs to exceed 1,000 in number. At the beginning of the war, it was one of only two French-built aircraft capable of 400 km/h (250 mph) – the other being the Potez 630.

 

Although a sturdy and highly manoeuvrable fighter aircraft, the M.S.406 was considered underpowered and weakly armed when compared to its contemporaries, esp. over continental Europe. Most critically, the M.S.406 was outperformed by the Messerschmitt Bf 109E during the Battle of France and no serious threat to the German fighter. In less advanced theatres like Indochina, though, the M.S. 406 was a respectable contender, but its numbers were low.

 

When the French-Thai War broke out in Indochina, the Thai Army was a relatively well-equipped force, consisting of some sixty thousand men, with artillery and tanks. The Royal Thai Navy — consisting of several vessels, including two coastal defence ships, twelve torpedo boats and four submarines — was inferior to the French naval forces, though, but the Royal Thai Air Force held both a quantitative and qualitative edge over l'Armee de l'Air. Among the 140 aircraft that composed the air force's initial first-line strength were twenty-four Mitsubishi Ki-30 light bombers, nine Mitsubishi Ki-21 and six Martin B-10 twin-engine bombers, seventy Vought Corsair dive bombers, and twenty-five Curtiss Hawk 75 fighters.

 

While nationalistic demonstrations and anti-French rallies were held in Bangkok, border skirmishes erupted along the Mekong frontier. The superior Royal Thai Air Force conducted daytime bombing runs over Vientiane, Sisophon, and Battambang with impunity. The French retaliated with their own planes, but the damage caused was less than equal. The activities of the Thai air force, particularly in the field of dive-bombing, was such that Admiral Jean Decoux, the governor of French Indochina, grudgingly remarked that the Thai planes seemed to have been flown by men with plenty of war experience.

 

In early January 1941, the Thai Burapha and Isan Armies launched their offensive on Laos and Cambodia. French resistance was instantaneous, but many units were simply swept along by the better-equipped Thai forces, with some French equipment – including some aircraft – being captured and immediately pressed into Thai army service. The Thais swiftly took Laos, but Cambodia proved a much harder nut to crack.

 

On January 16, 1941 the French launched a large counterattack on the Thai-held villages of Yang Dang Khum and Phum Preav, initiating the fiercest battle of the war. Because of over-complicated orders and nonexistent intelligence, the French counterattacks were cut to pieces and fighting ended with a French withdrawal from the area. The Thais were unable to pursue the retreating French, as their forward tanks were kept in check by the gunnery of French Foreign Legion artillerists.

 

On January 24, the final air battle took place when Thai bombers raided the French airfield at Angkor near Siem Reap, which quickly fell. The last Thai mission commenced at 0710 hours on January 28, when the Martins of the 50th Bomber Squadron set out on a raid on Sisophon, escorted by three Hawk 75Ns of the 60th Fighter Squadron.

 

Although the French won an important naval victory over the Thais, Japan forced the French to accept Japanese mediation of a peace treaty that returned the disputed territory to Thai control. A general armistice was arranged by Japan to go into effect on January 28. On May 9 a peace treaty was signed in Tokyo, with the French being coerced by the Japanese into relinquishing their hold on the disputed territories. However, the French (now part of the Axis Forces’ Vichy regime) were left in place to administer the rump colony of Indochina until 9 March 1945, when the Japanese staged a coup d'état in French Indochina and took control, establishing their own colony, the Empire of Vietnam, as a puppet state controlled by Tokyo.

 

Until then, Japanese authorities heavily influenced the diminishing Vichy French presence in the region and handed over a lot of leftover military hardware to its own allies, primarily the Thai forces. However, there was not much left to be distributed: about 30% of the French aircraft were rendered unserviceable by the end of the French-Thai War in early 1941, some as a result of minor damage sustained in air raids that remained unrepaired. The Armée de l'Air admitted the loss of only one Farman F221 and two Morane M.S.406s destroyed on the ground, but, in reality, its losses were greater and the influence of Japan on the leftover stock was fogged in order to save face. However, even in 1944, single former Vichy French aircraft and tanks were still active in the region, primarily under Thai flag.

  

General characteristics:

Crew: 1

Length: 8.17 m (26 ft 10 in)

Wingspan: 10.61 m (34 ft 10 in)

Height: 3.25 m (10 ft 8 in)

Wing area: 16 m2 (170 sq ft)

Empty weight: 1,895 kg (4,178 lb)

Gross weight: 2,540 kg (5,600 lb)

 

Powerplant:

1 × Hispano-Suiza 12Y-31 V-12 liquid-cooled piston engine with

619 kW (830 hp) for take-off at 2,520 rpm at sea level,

driving a 3-bladed variable-pitch propeller, 3 m (9 ft 10 in) diameter

 

Performance:

Maximum speed: 490 km/h (304 mph; 265 kn) at 4,500 m (14,764 ft)

Stall speed: 160 km/h (99 mph, 86 kn) without flaps

135 km/h (84 mph; 73 kn) with flaps

Range: 1,100 km (680 mi, 590 nmi) at 66% power

Combat range: 720 km (450 mi, 390 nmi)

Endurance: 2 hours 20 minutes 30 seconds (average combat mission)

Service ceiling: 9,400 m (30,800 ft)

Time to altitude: 2,000 m (6,562 ft) in 2 minutes 32 seconds

9,000 m (29,528 ft) in 21 minutes 37 seconds

Wing loading: 154 kg/m2 (32 lb/sq ft)

Power/mass: 2.95 kg/kW (4.85 lb/hp)

Take-off run to 8 m (26 ft): 270 m (886 ft)

Landing run from 8 m (26 ft): 340 m (1,115 ft)

 

Armament:

1× 20 mm (0.787 in) Hispano-Suiza HS.404 cannon, firing through the propeller hub

2× 7.5 mm (0.295 in) MAC 1934 machine guns in the outer wings

  

The kit and its assembly:

This quick build was created in the wake of the “Captured” group build at whatifmodellers.com and actually is a personal interpretation of someone else’s idea, namely of fellow modeler NARSES who came up with the idea of a captured French M.S. 406 in Indochina under a new Thai flag. I found the idea so weird, yet realistic, that I decided to build one, too.

 

The model is the very simple but quite acceptable M.S. 406 from Hobby Boss. Externally the model is nice, with recessed panel lines and a basic landing gear. Internally, it is rather bleak, even though it has a full cockpit with a floor, integrally molded seat and even some details behind the pilot’s armor bulkhead. The canopy is a single piece and very clear, but it comes with massive locator bars, so that I decided to keep the canopy closed and added a pilot figure to cover the minimal interior. I was lucky to find a Japanese (though pretty “flat”) WWII pilot in the donor bank, left over from a Hasegawa model. I also gave the figure some seat belts (made from adhesive tape), but the rest remained unchanged – even the original metal axis for the propeller was used. I just replaced the machine gun barrels with hollow steel needles and added a pitot on the wing, which is probably part of the kit but not indicated in the instructions. The same is true for the foldable ventral antenna.

 

The build was finished quickly, in the course of just a single evening, including the pilot and some overall PSR.

  

Painting and markings:

My interpretation of a French aircraft in Thai service after the French-Thai War stuck closely to the real world Vichy livery, which was the standard French camouflage in grey/green/brown with light blue-grey undersides (all from ModelMaster’s Authentic Color range), together with a yellow-and-red-striped cowling (a base with Humbrol 69 and red decal stripes added later) and a white cheatline long the fuselage. The tail of French aircraft in Indochina was painted all-red from early 1941 onwards upon Japanese command, because of friendly fire incidents. This was adopted for the model (with a mix of Humbrol 19 and some 73), which is supposed to belong into the 1942 time frame.

 

As a captured aircraft, the original French roundels were replaced/overpainted with red disks/hinomaru, and then Thai elephant markings added on top. That’s a personal idea, ordnance directly supplied to the Thai forces from Japan had the simple, square “elephant flag” emblem directly applied to the wings and the fin (but no fuselage roundel). The all-red tail was taken over, but I painted the rudder in a dark IJA green, since it would formerly carry a French fin flash. The same green was used to overpaint a serial number on the fin and a former squadron emblem under the cockpit.

The hinomaru come from a PrintScale Ki-46 sheet, and these markings are intentionally a bit oversized, so that they cover well the former French markings and are highly visible. The elephant markings some from a PrintScale Ki-27 sheet, so that the red tone on both sources are very close to each other. The Ki-27 sheet also provided the Thai ciphers “3” and “4”, combined into a “34”.

 

The interior was painted in medium grey, and the model externally received some signs of wear and tear in the form of dry-brushed leading edges and around the cockpit as well as some soot stains behind the exhaust stubs and the machine guns. Finally, the model was sealed with a coat of matt acrylic varnish (Italeri).

  

A quick build, and the easy-build Hobby Boss M.S. 406 is certainly not as crisp as a “real” model, but in this case the story behind the weird livery was more in the focus than the canvas underneath. However, an interesting result, and the hybrid paint scheme with heritage from three different operators make the aircraft an unusual, if not exotic sight.

Though personalized art appeared during World War I, and occasionally grew to incorporate the entire aircraft, most pilots carried a saying or a slogan, or a family crest, or squadron symbol. Some were named, but nose art was not common. During World War II, nose art not only saw its true beginnings, but its heyday.

 

No one knows exactly who started nose art first--it appeared with both the British and the Germans around the first time, with RAF pilots painting Hitler being kicked or skulls and crossbones on their aircraft, while German nose art was usually a personal symbol, named for a girlfriend or adopting a mascot (such as Adolf Galland using Mickey Mouse, something Walt Disney likely didn't approve of). It would be with the Americans, and a lesser extent the Canadians, that nose art truly became common--and started including its most famous forms, which was usually half-naked or completely naked women. This was not always true, but it often was.

 

The quality of nose art depended on the squadron or wing artist. Some of it was rather crude, while others were equal to the finest pinup artists in the United States, such as Alberto Vargas. For men thousands of miles away from home and lonely, a curvaceous blonde on a B-17 or a P-51 made that loneliness a bit easier. Others thought naked women were a little crude, and just limited themselves to names, or depicted animals, cartoon characters, or patriotic emblems, or caricatures of the Axis dictators they were fighting.

 

Generally speaking, there was little censorship, with squadron and group commanders rarely intervening on names or pictures; the pilots themselves practiced self-censorship, with profanity almost unknown, and full-frontal nudity nearly nonexistent. After the loss of a B-17 named "Murder Inc.," which the Germans captured and used to make propaganda, the 8th Air Force, at least, set up a nose art committee that reviewed the nose art of aircraft--but even it rarely wielded its veto. For the most part, nose art was limited only by the crew's imagination and the artist's ability. The British tended to stay away from the lurid nudes of the Americans, though the Canadians adopted them as well. (The Axis also did not use nose art in this fashion, and neither did the Soviets, who usually confined themselves to patriotic slogans on their aircraft, such as "For Stalin!" or "In the Spirit of the Motherland!")

 

When World War II ended, so did nose art, for the most part. In the peacetime, postwar armed forces, the idea of having naked women were wives and children could see it was not something the postwar USAF or Navy wanted, and when it wasn't scrapped, it was painted over. A few units (especially those away from home and family) still allowed it, but it would take Korea to begin a renaissance of nose art.

 

Though P-39N 42-18814 served in New Guinea, it is unknown if it served with "Girlie's" actual unit, the 71st Reconnaissance Group at Tadji, New Guinea. The real "Girlie" was a different P-39, but 42-18814 was painted as her to give one of Pima's World War II aircraft some nose art--or in this case, door art. This is a faithful recreation of "Girlie," showing the skill of some of the artists during the war. Surprisingly, both the real and recreated "Girlie" is wearing a swimsuit, rather than nude. This P-39, as mentioned, is on display at the Pima Air and Space Museum.

 

Operation “Salt City" resulted in the arrest of 248 individuals from May through September 2015. Of those arrested, 124 were active gang members. During the operation 22 firearms, more than $237,000 in U.S. currency, 70 grams of heroin, 266 grams of cocaine, and 723 grams of marijuana with a total estimated street value of almost $44,000 was taken off Syracuse streets by participating agencies.

Operation Salt City is part of the U.S. Marshals nation-wide “Triple Beam” gang reduction initiative. Triple Beam partners federal, state, and local law enforcement to reduce violent crime and take dangerous offenders off the streets. The goal of the U.S. Marshals Gang Enforcement Program is to seek out and disrupt illegal gang activity in areas of the country with smaller or nonexistent gang enforcement units by providing manpower, funding and the Marshals’ renowned fugitive tracking abilities.

 

Photo by Shane T. McCoy / US Marshals

The second stop on the way home from my college visit was in Richmond!

 

The Richmond Kmart appears to be a former Grants (and thus reminded me of the Erie Kmart that I visited last summer). It is very noticeably bigger than Anderson; it is also very nice; it has a Kmart Express gas station and it has a former Kmart Cafe (that still has the counter/displays, the full menu board and even the register! Looks like a more recent KCafe closure from what I've seen; if anybody else here has any more information I would like to know more about it!). This store appears to be doing fairly well for one of the last remaining stores in/near the Miami Valley.

 

Of course, I had to check out the Kmart Express after my main store rounds were complete, so I headed over there and looked around. This is the second Kmart Express I've seen, but the first one I have actually visited, as the other one (at the now nonexistent Brooklyn Super Kmart) had already closed. I didn't buy anything at this KExpress though, as I had spent my money in the main store. Hopefully next time I can buy some coffee or donuts from Kmart Express while going to/from Anderson (if I plan another college visit to Anderson U, which is likely)!

 

Hopefully the Richmond Kmart will still be able to remain "normal" for a good time longer...I like this store! :D

 

Kmart #7246 - 3150 National Road West - Richmond, Indiana

Inspired by Klaksvík and Vardø. Two fjords nearly meet; the isthmus in between and two safe harbours create perfect place for a city. 2011.

The city of Klamme, also entirely hand-drawn. The city is situated in an unlikely geographic setting: One part on a cliff, uptown, and a part on the cliff's base where the river flows. 2010.

This is one of those items that, in another reality, I would have totally taken from this abandonment and put it in my nonexistent trophy case.

an all to common scene along the transcanada highway. overheard a trucker say that the "privacy act out to apply to truckers being able to relieve themselves in private" in reference to the cheapness of this country where roadside stops are few and nonexistent, the result being a highway biohazard of human urine containers, feces, diapers, plastic u name it.................

 

follow me on facebook @ Bullfrogphoto

For groups fgr, happy sundays, funny faces, ugly underwear group and things you may not know about me.

The things you may not know are added as notes.

Testimonals to tiny wings and gooner-licious.

Uhm.. only two.. but that is because I only have two contacts in fgr so far.. =tom= I hope you will forgive me for that..

 

I noticed a parking lot wall painted with a mural of a cityscape on Toronto’s Queen Street West. I noted that it would make an interesting background with a touch of color and wondered briefly how I would position myself and a subject. The direction of the light on this overcast day dictated that I would have to stand pretty much exactly where a car was parked to complete the image that was in my mind.

 

Just then a man standing at the nearby streetcar stop gestured to my camera and asked if I was going to take his picture. He wasn’t that compatible with the background but since he had basically volunteered I shifted gears to tell him I would like to take his photo for a project I am doing. With that he abruptly announced “No projects. I hate projects!” He turned his back and stepped into the street to look for the nonexistent streetcar. Not sure if he was pulling my leg, I waited for him to turn around and said “So, how about it?” He repeated his dislike of projects and said no. I thanked him for hearing me out (he hadn’t) and wished him a good day.

 

I think all of us on this project have learned that a negative experience seems to open the door for a positive experience and that’s what happened next. This man and his girlfriend came down the street and I thought he would be an excellent subject for the parking lot wall. He was game and I gave him my contact card as we walked a few paces down the street to the parking lot and his friend Kristie said she’d be glad to wait. Meet Jason.

 

My first photo of Jason was of him holding his coffee cup but when I realized his eyes needed brightening, I asked if he could hand the coffee cup to Kristie so that he could handle the reflector for me. I guess I could have recruited her to hold the reflector but I have a small reflector and I think it and the coffee cup would have needed to be in the same space.

 

I was still trying to deal with the car being right where I wanted to be. Imagine someone being so inconsiderate as to park their car in the middle of my studio! I felt the photo would be better balanced and have better impact if I could gain a slightly higher perspective. I stood on a concrete ledge by the car’s front bumper and leaned back over the wet hood of the car (it was now starting to rain again). I switched the image from the electronic viewfinder to the LCD and held the camera over my head to create this portrait. I was pleased with the result.

 

We exchanged information and I found out that Jason is a 23 year old tattoo artist who works from his home. Kristie chimed in “And he’s really good at it.” I would have loved to see some of his work or even see him plying his artistry. I had hoped that if he worked in a shop I might be able to visit it firsthand and see how tattooing is done.

 

Thank you Jason (and Kristie) for your participation in 100 Strangers. You are Stranger #657 in Round 7 of my project.

 

Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by the other photographers in our group at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page.