View allAll Photos Tagged obfuscation
Driving across the Maasai Mara this particular evening on the way back to the camp the sunset was beautiful. A line of impala could be seen softly silhouetted just below an obfuscated horizon. The slender figures of these delicate creatures would probably not render on a photograph. Suddenly, an off-road vehicle appeared, rambling across the plains and sending aloft a trail of dust behind it. The dust was set aglow adding highlights to the fiery horizon on this perfect Massai Mara evening and silhouetting the grazing impala. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Suffering, in all it's varied forms, is what exactly?
A compounding of fractured soul, so matter-of-factly,
She said that He Himself said,
That surgery is an art gallery of faith instead
Masterpieces where health invariably decreases
Swan songs of broken hearts where love ceases
To enliven home truth's of carefree surrealism
One empty soul does not make another idealism,
Minimal is the grey day that paves the way for darkness
Looming on the horizon of unseen weathering blackness
A colossus of sky with the upper land
Nature the only card, saviour, and prophet to hand
Fear may only be a feeling, but the feeling is beyond fear itself
As they say, depression is expectant as we each try to find oneself
In the mire of news, be it the betrayal of the health of our citizens
Or just the assassination of natural resources wealth, that bloody well glistens
In the headlights and highlights of our obit we now live in memory alone
"A Song for Departure" plays upon the mind that cannot find adequate words to bemoan
The lack of attention paid to the well-being of Mother Nature, ageism spammed!
We are seeking the revolution for the revolving Earth whose door's are jammed
By the annual quagmire of festive exposure by all means time is spent!
Here by the grace of God, we breathe in life, in a place, in grace Heaven sent
It's tempting to stop reading, as it is to cease listening, turning a blind eye as well, why not?
But dare I say, it's nigh on impossible for very long to do the whole damned lot!
Mother Nature, She is suffering can't you see upon this obdurate land
We tune-in to be deceived, ghost hunters and faithful followers of a new kind of religious brand
Detect only what the illusion alludes to in the lost art of heart and soul
In part, life is already obfuscated with it's own toxins, we're the decade on parole
1988, 1998, 2008, I remember well, the future that is coming too soon
Here before tomorrow ever knows what to do with itself, we must find the answers to be in tune
Petty arguments wage wars within the minds of boys whose toys have been confiscated by ignorance
A belief of faith cannot be true if it sees red at every turn, nor can it bring hope for the children in whom we bestow what kind of continuance?
Benevolence is awaited with a youthful eagerness that has grown old waiting on the wings of fighters
Knives replace fists that substitute backs for tables in the cities full of such blighters
Intervention risks life and death for the removal of compassion brings the hooded underworld
That has now come up to grab society by the ruddy throat twirled
A society indeed, un-policed and unappeased the x-factor of fearless nerves
Can no longer meet with the supply, that which steals warns of what it serves
We're a breed apart though we never used to be and never should be
Walking tall when we should be down on our damned knees begging for forgiveness until we all finally agree
So the trepidant beggars of belief peaceably fly in the face of popular opinion,
For the standards of today will invariably fail the tests of time and ever-changing dominion
If you feel the force of scientific tribulation, will it numb the senses of tomorrow
Can the government's diet, passed fit for us all, sustain us through political sorrow?
If a smile should pass your face someday, cherish it's presence upon the lifestyle that forgot how to use it
Wear yourself well, but for the love of life we must address what does reciprocally befit.
by anglia24
09h55: 02/10/2008
©2008anglia24
Once upon a fleeting thought, there lived a lexicon named Lulu. She was a peculiar sort, fond of playing with words and phrases in ways that upturned literary conventions. One day, she stumbled upon an idea so radical, so unexpected, that it made her head spin.
She decided to craft a story with language as the central character, bending and shaping it to fit her whims. She named the character Kip, and sent him forth into a world of semiotics in search of the ultimate poetic notion. Kip encountered all manner of linguistic wonders, from the fluid fluidity of free verse, to the rigid structure of haiku. As Kip journeyed deeper into this strange new realm, he discovered that all was not as it seemed. For amidst the linguistic creations lay a labyrinth of obfuscations which threatened to hide the ultimate notion forever.
But then, just as Kip was about to find his way out of the maze, Lulu pulled the rug from under him. For she had been manipulating the narrative all along, twisting and turning the words to suit her own ends. Kip realized, too late, that he was but a pawn in Lulu's game.
And with a sly smile, Lulu let out a wicked laugh, revelling in the knowledge that the notion Kip searched for can never be expressed in words.
For more AI inspired micro stories please visit neural-narrative.blogspot.com/
This amazing bridge has a total length of 17 km and spans the Tejo river close to Lisbon. The image has been taken during an exceptionally wet morning and I frequently had to remove condensation water from the lens which was obfuscating the pictures.
a grounding experience for sure; and
what do you want to do next? in
drawing out the complexities of each side;
what keeps you fresh, its opposite exhausts?
what facilitates & magnifies the right vision,
and the wrong one frustrates the spirit?
welcome and farewell, beneath the veil.
dualities of yearning as well as doubt.
offsprings an obfuscated state of consciousness.
when nothing stands still, how you stand fully present?
not a present tense self who evades questions about the past.
can you create your Truth-maps? way for the -
dream-maps to be internalized into the narrative -
when naturally more value is given to connection, harmony,
respect, and to honour the truth transcending the moment.
an honest inquiry and a sustained attention to see,
how obstacles that also clarify the path;
character in how you move through the day...
character in solitude where reflective choices are made
character in fortitude where equilibrium precedes choice
and this thought-process takes great practice -
to see emotional texture in words and silences
in all of these gestures, never a deceit.
♦
Satsang - Communion with the Truth. Sarvopari Agnya:
निजाऽऽत्मानं ब्रह्मरूपं देहत्रयविलक्षणम्।
विभाव्योपासनं कार्यं सदैव परब्रह्मणः॥११६॥
_____________ | i
Rit avadti nathi; te shu je, Sachu che ne Dradh Vishwas
— HDH Mahant Swami Maharaj. 19 Feb 2023, Mumbai.
.
To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of the arts.
— Thoreau
I could be brown I could be blue I could be violet sky
...let me take this to mananam sukh... ek inch khasvanu nahi
Or it may be sundown. Which one it is I'm not allowed to say. In addition, the colors in this photo have been deliberately obfuscated in order to conceal the whereabouts of this most secret of top secret places.
... is the new website, er, blog, er, Haven For Authorial Misery, www.terribleminds.com.
Yes, that's right, peeps, the new website is up and functioning and, I'm proud to say, it doesn't look like a bag of hot garbage! That's a win for you and a win for me, right? Right.
Mind you, before you click over there, I'm warning you: it's sodden with profanity, it's positively gluey with foul ideas and septic madness. Caveat lector, it is not for tender eyes! It will burn a hole in your morality centers! It will turn you into a monster deprived of happ thoughts and driven only on a fuel of slowly-cooking discontendness! Oh noes!
...
Okay, I might be exagerrating a little. Point is, you'll find bad words over there. That's really the warning.
Anyway, enjoy this picture of gleaming drops on the roseglow bush.
Still bright and shiny after their repaints into Genesee and Wyoming colours, 90014 Over the Rainbow and 90048 lead dead 90005 Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson and 4S88 14.33 Felixstowe North FLT - Coatbridge FLT up Belstead Bank (south of Ipswich). [Pole, 2/6 sections (~2.7m)]
I'd come here mainly for this train, although didn't know what was on it until it appeared. I'd not checked RTT until I got here, and then found the train had apparently not yet left Felixstowe - which was actually incorrect, and the train was simply not reporting on the schedule RTT had picked up (with the obfuscated reporting number 456L). However, sitting in Ipswich yard was a "489M"; there appeared to be no trains on RTT which matched this, so I assumed (hoped?) it was actually 4S88. (Of course, I could have checked the Charlwoodhouse "Live Rail" site, which does show the train having reported correctly throughout its journey, and also that the obfuscated reporting number had changed from 456L to 489M before it set off.)
At exactly the correct time, "489M" moved out of Ipswich yard, and my assumption proved to be correct. 90005 was dead in the train, apparently, in order to return it to Crewe after being used at Ipswich for crew training (following the return of Freightliner 90s to East Anglia after the withdrawal of the 86s a few months earlier).
Over the years, the vegetation on the cutting side here has gradually increased (as everywhere!), and having come here last summer I discovered that there was only really one place I could stand on my ladders in order to get a clear view of Up trains. However, using the pole extended by just one section allows you to stand almost anywhere, and make sure that the shadows of the wooden electricity pylons are not on the locos. But going higher (or standing further back than this position) means the wires for the Down line will clip the top of the locos.
To see my non-transport pictures, visit www.flickr.com/photos/137275498@N03/.
Still a lot of photos to publish of the last weekend but I can not resist sharing this beautiful specimen photographed today
I have passed this scene many times during all four seasons and I have never stopped. The other day, a blanket of winter fog crept over the marsh, obfuscating the distant landscape and bringing the little bare tree into sharp focus. Due to a distinct lack of color in the landscape, it seemed to call out for a rich monochrome treatment--in this case sepia, but without affecting the sky too much.
From the Secret Diary of Sir E. A. Wallis Budge
======================
May the reader forgive the heretofore desultory nature of my public writings and scholarly correspondences. Legends, born of facts as they are, must be drowned in innumerable numbers of their brethren pursuant to general obfuscation. This, in turn, leads to the healthy investigation and digestion of what ought to be harmless antiquity.
This concealment has become my true life's work. For I cannot allow the war-weary world to sully itself with the deep truths of creation. My one warning was not heeded. So I seek to destroy the terrible link, those carvings which must never again be unlocked. I bear the responsibility willingly, that others may not suffer the same fate of those wretched souls beneath the museum. I cannot aid them now. They are beyond saving. May Heaven grant that the collection of the goddess remains forever sealed.
What's in a name?
A brown vine or liana snake, or is it a common sharp-nosed snake? Common names pose an inherent danger of mis-communication. They often rely on physical characteristics that may or may not be polymorphic within a population, and thus your green vine snake and brown vine snake may be one and the same species. Moreover, different cultures, languages, geographical ranges, etc... a huge variety of obfuscating factors make common names unreliable, which is why whenever possible the binomial latin name is preferred. Philodryas argentea, ah, much clearer...Or is it Xenoxybelis argenteus...hmmmm...
Taxonomy isn't necessarily a field that you would think experiences revolutionary advances, however, to a discipline which once relied on observation, physiological determinants, natural history and more recently, advances in microscopy, genetics has done just that. However, this has also opened up a whole new set of questions and dilemmas. Reconciling earlier identifications with new genetic analyses which may not square. Genetics is not just an additional tool in the kit of scientific methodology, it is a usurper, and many other perfectly valid, and important tools have fallen out of favour as a result.
Moreover, the definition of species, ironically, seems to be evolving with our new tools. The old definition of a distinct population which lives, and reproduces together to produce viable offspring is under attack. Genetic homologies are finding more and more support. And yet, the variability of the gene pool within a breeding population is a difficult thing to separate from marker genes for a species. To a certain extent, this is a line in the sand.
There is no argument that genetics is a valuable and powerful tool which can parse out differences and provide a degree of exactitude beyond morphological observation, to the very base-pair essence of an individual. This is reductionism. It is amazing the degree of detail it can provide, but it is dangerous, and its risks are glossed over in academia in the pell-mell pursuit down the rabbit hole to publish, always something new, always new knowledge (regardless of its merit). As one starts describing genes, quarks, gluons, the stuff that make up life, one becomes gradually more and more removed from what life actually is. Are we more than the sum of our parts? Perhaps in our quest for knowledge, our dissection of life, we have killed the patient and our post-mortem is not as close to "Truth" as we thought. Nowadays, specialization, often to an absurd degree is the norm. Rare is the renaissance man, the polymath. Nature doesn't have separate classrooms for physics, biology, chemistry, etc...it is all in the open air, messy and wonderful.
And so what's in a name? - Apparently a convoluted history of contending ideologies, convictions, descriptions, and emotions.
See more amazing #reptilesofSani.
Photographed for the #SaniProject2017. Follow us at @destinationecuador #Sanilodge #paulbertner.
From the Old Rosslyn Inn with a date stone of 1660 here is a view of Rosslyn Chapel founded in 1446. Should you wish to take the view through the window across the garden furniture you can take in the shapely garden plinth on the way to the gate to the chapel. This old iron gate is locked and the open window lock sits nicely over the locked gate. You can consider the bird guano as either luck, or as an obfuscation of the possible mysteries, or much more likely the scene as we look at it. The current crop of Trees of Life between Collegehill House and Rosslyn Chapel add much to the potential of vista wreathed in mystification even though this is the bare branch Winter look and surely the best view possible? The window with tartan drapes flooded by Winter Sun was to my vision best seen as a scene of four reflections.
© PHH Sykes 2022
phhsykes@gmail.com
Welcome to Rosslyn Chapel
From the Old Rosslyn Inn with a date stone of 1660 here is a view of Rosslyn Chapel founded in 1446. Should you wish to take the view through the window across the garden furniture you can take in the shapely garden plinth on the way to the gate to the chapel. This old iron gate is locked and the open window lock sits nicely over the locked gate. You can consider the bird guano as either luck, or as an obfuscation of the possible mysteries, or much more likely the scene as we look at it. The current crop of Trees of Life between Collegehill House and Rosslyn Chapel add much to the potential of vista wreathed in mystification even though this is the bare branch Winter look and surely the best view possible? The window with tartan drapes flooded by Winter Sun was to my vision best seen as a scene of four reflections.
© PHH Sykes 2022
phhsykes@gmail.com
Welcome to Rosslyn Chapel
St. Ives is a visually stunning museum town. A shell of second homes and holiday lets. Restaurants, bars, galleries and clothing stores dominate the town, each one squeezed into a converted building whose original use has been long obfuscated.
There is a seemingly active art scene with many studio spaces still in existence around town. There is a TATE where the gasometer used to be (the architecture of the TATE pays homage to said gasometer, but not very well), the St. Ives Arts Club soldiers on, and of course Barbara Hepworth is everywhere.
Residents tend to live up the hill or in Carbis Bay or elsewhere nearby, their families having long ago sold the original family homes and businesses to out of towners and developers.
At this time of year, especially mid-week at night, the strange population mix and empty houses gives St. Ives a forlorn feeling.
However, despite all of this St. Ives somehow manages to remain a welcoming and easy place to be outside of the summer months and school half terms. And it is very pretty.
The WyrdWood was a wonderful place filled with natures beasts and the kind eleven folk welcomed all who entered. One fateful day human loggers came to visit. They bought their saws and savage blades...
The Thorn King cast a mighty spell shrouding the forest in brambles and hiding its true size. Now he and his subjects only have to remove the odd vagrant from their midst.
Beast-man - A nimble woodland Scout
Thumper - A powerful fighter
Dryad - An animated Tree spirit
The Thorn King - A powerful mage and ruler of WyrdWood
Faery - a mischievous spirit who beguiles unwanted visitors away from the woods, using tricks and spells of misdirection and obfuscation.
In September the Festival of Lights took place in Berlin, there were more than 100 different installations throughout the city. Unfortunately the few that I checked out nearby close to where I live were not well suited to photograph, often they were too crowded or the installation was partially obfuscated. Nothing really clicked for me.
On my way home I tried a few shots near Friedrichstrasse to capture the tram from the BVG company. Trams and buses are brightly colored in yellow tones which makes for nice long exposures.
I have always known this species as White-winged Black Tern (Chlidonias leucopterus) though I have noticed most books have now dropped the word "Black" which obfuscates its relationship with Black Tern (Chlidonias niger). The smaller, darker terns that only nest in freshwater habitats are known as "Marsh" terns, all in the genus Chlidonias, which means swallow-like. Leucopterus simply means white-winged. White-winged Black Terns breed on freshwater lakes in East Europe across central Asia to China. Birds move south for winter so European birds winter in Africa, which is where I photographed this. In breeding plumage they have black bodies with contrasting white wings but after a moult in September they become rather nondescript pale grey. In fact they are very similar to non-breeding Black Terns which retain a dark notch where the wing meets the shoulder, which is absent in White-winged Black Terns like this (Confusingly this shoulder notch is absent in American Black Terns of subspecies surinamensis). They are rare but annual wanderers to Britain, often in spring, so most of the ones I have seen have been in black and white breeding plumage. This subtly plumaged bird was wintering on Lake Tana in Ethiopia, Africa's highest lake.
This 2006 view is no more from the US1 bridge, as the condos being built in the foreground obfuscated the tracks as this northbound heads for Jax. December 2006.
Breaking from Ecuador. Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado. Coolest damn thing in Colorado. Best seen large.
Nothing too dramatic here, just some misty coastal goodness...
[Explore # 227]
----------------------------
Please don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media
without my explicit permission.
© All rights reserved
----------------------------
© Copyright John C. House, Everyday Miracles Photography. All Rights Reserved. Please do not use in any way without my express consent. As always, this is better viewed large.
This was taken from the top of Clingman's Dome, the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains at 6,643 feet (2,025 m). When clear, it is possible to see for some ways, but that is an important caveat, since it is very often the case that the mists of the Smokeys and the clouds themselves obfuscate the view. When seeking a sunset, it is a roll of the dice, with conditions often changing rapidly for the hour or so before the sun sets and the 30 minutes or so afterwards. Clouds roll in and engulf the peak only to move out and leave the promise of a little color. Color looks promising only to have clouds blot it out last minute.
This shot was taken during the waiting time, about an hour before actual sunset. The clouds and mists were completely covering the sun, and filling in the valleys. Only a hint of color was making its way through the clouds. It was impossible to know what things would look like in an hour, but the waiting was peaceful with a beauty of its own.
What's in a name?
A brown vine or liana snake, or is it a common sharp-nosed snake? Common names pose an inherent danger of mis-communication. They often rely on physical characteristics that may or may not be polymorphic within a population, and thus your green vine snake and brown vine snake may be one and the same species. Moreover, different cultures, languages, geographical ranges, etc... a huge variety of obfuscating factors make common names unreliable, which is why whenever possible the binomial latin name is preferred. Philodryas argentea, ah, much clearer...Or is it Xenoxybelis argenteus...hmmmm...
Taxonomy isn't necessarily a field that you would think experiences revolutionary advances, however, to a discipline which once relied on observation, physiological determinants, natural history and more recently, advances in microscopy, genetics has done just that. However, this has also opened up a whole new set of questions and dilemmas. Reconciling earlier identifications with new genetic analyses which may not square. Genetics is not just an additional tool in the kit of scientific methodology, it is a usurper, and many other perfectly valid, and important tools have fallen out of favour as a result.
Moreover, the definition of species, ironically, seems to be evolving with our new tools. The old definition of a distinct population which lives, and reproduces together to produce viable offspring is under attack. Genetic homologies are finding more and more support. And yet, the variability of the gene pool within a breeding population is a difficult thing to separate from marker genes for a species. To a certain extent, this is a line in the sand.
There is no argument that genetics is a valuable and powerful tool which can parse out differences and provide a degree of exactitude beyond morphological observation, to the very base-pair essence of an individual. This is reductionism. It is amazing the degree of detail it can provide, but it is dangerous, and its risks are glossed over in academia in the pell-mell pursuit down the rabbit hole to publish, always something new, always new knowledge (regardless of its merit). As one starts describing genes, quarks, gluons, the stuff that make up life, one becomes gradually more and more removed from what life actually is. Are we more than the sum of our parts? Perhaps in our quest for knowledge, our dissection of life, we have killed the patient and our post-mortem is not as close to "Truth" as we thought. Nowadays, specialization, often to an absurd degree is the norm. Rare is the renaissance man, the polymath. Nature doesn't have separate classrooms for physics, biology, chemistry, etc...it is all in the open air, messy and wonderful.
And so what's in a name? - Apparently a convoluted history of contending ideologies, convictions, descriptions, and emotions.
See more amazing #reptilesofSani.
Photographed for the #SaniProject2017. Follow us at @destinationecuador #Sanilodge #paulbertner.
Culprit: Red Alert 2 - 200 Meters
Fleet escort ekranomere destroyer (mis-designated by international classification systems as a cruiser, later corrected). While no hull number is visible in this example, it is typical of the class, most of which were harboured at Ballovyarny in converted submarine docks "sold off" to SPATTER★VF by HYDRATE as part of the obfuscation around Belera's early rocket programs.
The confusion stems primarily from analysis of early spy photography, which showed nearby GG-C-2 'Gormless' anti-shipping missiles being loaded onto a VVsch-14's cargo ramp—it later transpired that this photograph was staged, the missiles instead meant for a 'Virago'-class cruiser moored in another dock.
—
3/5ths of a "navy" and the game isn't even on yet, definitely doing better than the last two (I say, as the navy plan balloons from 3 "ships" to 5 >_<). Multi-view... probably tomorrow, just have to do the ortho renders.
Once more. .no more war!
Damn it's so frustrating. .
This current aggression with Iran being completely fueled by the trumpsters in order to misdirect and obfuscate and keep the criminals in power. .
©MadDreamer 2👽22/All rights reserved. Do not use without written permission from photographer/artist.
Meh. Snort. Gurgle.
A perfect picture for today: feeling sick, sore throat, back hurts, head is... well, foggy.
So, a picture of fog.
I know, I know. Not subtle.
Achoo. Rrgh. Blech. Snif.
My initial reaction to this scene was one of wonder. It was amazing to see the extent to which Mother Nature had reclaimed the old house. It just did not seem possible that this much vegetation could have grown so close, and moreover, so tall. The upper portions had reached well past the second story and towered way over my head. And there was nothing orderly about the overgrowth. It seemed a labyrinth of tangled branches mingled with the barbed wire-like thorns of wild rose bushes. I was dismayed that the overgrowth prevented a clear sightline of the house. But the longer I stood here, the more I began to appreciate the creepy atmosphere. On one level it reinforced the sense of utter neglect and abandonment. But on another level, it was as if the overgrowth was encapsulating the house, preventing both entry and egress. Moreover there was something very sinister about not being able to see the house clearly. Here it required some imagination to sense the mass of the structure through this layer of organic obfuscation. Deciding this was in fact the defining camera angle, I began to walk backwards in order to widen the view. After just a couple of steps I was completely ensnared by vines, unable to move back even one more inch (and even forward motion seemed very limited, as if the vines had somehow coiled around my ankles...a chilling thought indeed). The effect of being within the grip of the vegetation was complete, and the house seemed to loom over me, ever darker and more menacing. I love when an experience like this becomes more 3D. I don't want to be just a bystander; I really want to get involved at a deeper level, make some sort of connection. Here I really felt one.
www.myjewishlearning.com/2009/04/27/the-cabalists-daughter/
The Cabalist’s Daughter
BY MATTHUE ROTH | APRIL 27, 2009
“The Cabalist’s Daughter is a bipolar sort of book. On one hand, it’s a crazy, unhinged vision of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement, starting with a wild supposition and growing steadily wilder from the first page onwards–what if the Lubavitcher Rebbe had a clone? On the other, it’s a pretty serious book that touches upon messianism, rape, global warming, peace in the Mideast, and those perpetually-impending nuclear crises that the news people are so fond of reporting about.
Of course, it’s not actually the Rebbe, and it’s not officially Chabad that’s being portrayed here — it’s the Cosmic Wisdom movement, a Hasidic group filled with “Cosmic Wisdomnik” rabbis with hospice houses spread out all over the world. The book opens with the leader of the Cosmic Wisdom movement, known only as the Cabalist, visiting the grave of the previous CW leader, his father-in-law, and having one of those supernatural rabbi conversations.
Soon after, the Cabalist has a heart attack. In the hospital, boys from the Cosmic Wisdom yeshiva keep a vigil over their leader and recite psalms, believing that, as long as there’s a Jew keeping watch, the Cabalist is safe from death. Of course, one of the boys falls asleep, and the Cabalist immediately dies — but, as the moment of death, the boy snatches a shirt with some some stray genetic material on it, runs it across the street to the Columbia University laboratory that his father funds, and instigates a procedure to clone the just-departed (and heirless) Cabalist.
Genetics being what it is, the cloning works — but, unexpectedly, the Cabalist’s clone is a girl. She’s taken in by one of his chief followers and raised, knowing that she’s adopted, but ignorant of her true parentage. At the age of twenty, however, her true nature begins to be revealed. First, at a brothel in Scranton, Pennsylvania, the unlikely Nechama (a near-anagram of Menachem, the name of both the fictional Cabalist and the real-world Lubavitcher Rebbe) makes miracles happen and heals the mentally and physically injured women there. She then travels the country helping the disadvantaged, giving strength to labor unions, and riling up the populace…basically, exercising her messianic powers and building up her stamina to fight against the powers of the devil, or Samael, whose minions soon come after her.
The promotional copy compares Cabalist’s Daughter to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. In reality, it’s more similar to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s novel Good Omens, a retelling of the Christian Apocalypse, both satirizing religion and complementing it. It’s like when you make fun of one of your friends, clapping him on the back and promising that everything is okay while knowing that, at the same time, knowing there’s an element of truth to the barb.
By most accounts, Yanover displays an intimate familiarity with certain leaders of Chabad. A few mistakes — sometimes trivial, sometimes glaring — occasionally make their way through: when Nechama’s adoptive father, one of the most hardcore Hasidim in the book, who kisses and touches her freely — which most Hasidic men wouldn’t do in public with their own birth daughters, let alone adoptive daughters, who, according to Chabad halakhah, are treated with the same stringencies as two unrelated people. Lengthy excerpts from the fictional Cabbalist’s Handbook for Practical Messianic Redemption — again, a massive hat-tip to Hitchhiker’s Guide — round out the story, digressing into sometimes-Midrash-based, sometimes fantastical apocrypha of Biblical characters and mystical techniques.
At times, Cabalist seems like it’s written for complete insiders, with its esoteric allusions and extended winks at the reader. But then you’ll arrive at footnotes, some of them necessary — and some of the explanations, among them Purim (Festival of Lots) and tefillin (phylacteries), more obfuscating than the words they’re supposedly defining.
But that’s just me nitpicking. For part of my criticism, I should issue a caveat: I’m not Lubavitch, but I have a lot of familiarity and family within the movement, including, if I’m not mistaken, one or two of the elder rabbis portrayed here. There’s something about watching your home turf fictionalized that’s both jarring and thrilling, and I suppose I’m reacting within that. As weird as it is to see both Chabad and Judaism given a clinical once-over within the confines of this book, it’s also really cool, like seeing an action movie shot in your home neighborhood. As the aliens land and military bases storm the streets and sidewalks, it makes you want to shout out in the theater: “Hey! That’s my sidewalk!”
And, indeed, when all Hell breaks loose in the second half of the story — starting with (spoiler!) a cool little East Village bar exploding, and continuing with an all-out bombing of the main street of Crown Heights — it almost fills the reader with a feeling of giddiness. Yanover has taken his time and arranged his chess game meticulously; now he’s smoothly, calculatedly blowing it up, piece by piece. And when the concepts and characters that seemed tedious at first are set in motion, piece by piece, it’s Glorious — both in the quotidian and Divine senses of the word — to watch.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk to Yori Yanover himself about his girl messiah, his ties to Chabad, and how it felt to blow up Brooklyn.”
Culprit: Red Alert 2 - 200 Meters
Fleet escort ekranomere destroyer (mis-designated by international classification systems as a cruiser, later corrected). While no hull number is visible in this example, it is typical of the class, most of which were harboured at Ballovyarny in converted submarine docks "sold off" to SPATTER★VF by HYDRATE as part of the obfuscation around Belera's early rocket programs.
The confusion stems primarily from analysis of early spy photography, which showed nearby GG-C-2 'Gormless' anti-shipping missiles being loaded onto a VVsch-14's cargo ramp—it later transpired that this photograph was staged, the missiles instead meant for a 'Virago-class cruiser moored in another dock.