Former congressman Anthony Weiner’s old haunts are coming back into the spotlight once again after he was arrested and sentenced to 21 months in prison for sexting a minor. A list recently released to the public contains information on all of Anthony Weiner’s contacts; names, addresses, work, and so forth. The kicker? All of this information was released straight from Weiner’s laptop, which is currently being held under evidence by the FBI.
It’s important to note that we are not trying to “witch hunt” anyone, and this information is not meant for you to do the same. We are not interested in doxxing these individuals, rather we are interested in reporting on the doxxing list that was released, potentially by a rogue FBI agent. This laptop is under FBI surveillance and the reason we know this is because they found emails sent between him and Hillary Clinton back when the email scandal was all anyone ever talked about. Who else but someone in the FBI would have released this? We aren’t saying that it’s definitely a member of the FBI, but who else could possibly be responsible?
Now, on to the list. There is a grand total of 639 individuals who are having their private information exposed for all the world to see. [HT: Ol’ Remus] And now here are those updates to your Christmas Card List.
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Excerpts from Nicolás Gómez Dávila’s “Escolios a un texto implícito” (1977)
The existence of the authentic reactionary is usually a scandal to the progressive. His presence causes a vague discomfort. In the face of the reactionary attitude the progressive experiences a slight scorn, accompanied by surprise and restlessness. In order to soothe his apprehensions, the progressive is in the habit of interpreting this unseasonable and shocking attitude as a guise for self-interest or as a symptom of stupidity; but only the journalist, the politician, and the fool are not secretly flustered before the tenacity with which the loftiest intelligences of the West, for the past one hundred fifty years, amass objections against the modern world.
Where Christianity disappears, greed, envy, and lust invent a thousand ideologies to justify themselves.
The modern metropolis is not a city; it is a disease.
Society until yesterday had notables; today it only has celebrities.
In the modern state there now exist only two parties: citizens and bureaucracy.
Fashion, even more than technology, is the cause of the modern world’s uniformity.
Democracy has terror for its means and totalitarianism for its end.
Here’s the full English translation of Don Colacho’s Aphorisms in PDF. It’s the only freely available translation of his works available at this time. Click and download the PDF.
Every big-mouth gun-hating politician, every Leftard columnist and TV talking airhead, every yapping SJW on FaceSpace or MyBook or Twaddle. They’ll be doxxed, then they’ll be found dancing at the end of a wire under a bridge or a lightpost. Their houses will burn down. Their cars will explode. The cities where they think they’re strong will go dark, cold, and hungry. Trucks won’t run, train tracks will go missing, air transport will get shot down, or shot up, bridges will fall and people will rise. Then all the money, oil, gasoline, and clout your side thinks will run things will disappear like fog on a hot day. Raconteur Report: Once And For All
The Left Is Reaping the Whirlwind of the Culture They Made | The left wants to get rid of feminine modesty and masculine protectiveness and social restrictions on sex — but when the abuse and rape and harassment rise to the surface, they start whining about toxic manhood. Perhaps they should have listened to the Catholic apologist G.K. Chesterton, who wrote about the difference between reforming society and deforming it — a passage that was neatly paraphrased by John F. Kennedy: “Don’t ever take a fence down until you know the reason it was put up.”
Total US Firearms: Not 300 Million, but 412-660 Million? The numbers are all over the place, and many of them seem to recursively refer to one another, not exactly building confidence in the rigor of their development. But they seem to cluster around a Narrative-friendly 300 million. But what if that number is wrong? We believe that the correct number is much higher — somewhere between 412 and 660 million. You may wonder how we came to that number, so buckle up (and cringe, if you’re a math-phobe, although it never gets too theoretical): unlike most of the academics and reporters we linked above, we’re going to use publicly available data, and show our work.
No one is going to end school shootings because schools shootings are not the real problem. So be prepared for them to get worse and to not be limited to schools. When your culture falls apart, the people in it fall apart. Some of them turn into TrigglyPuff. Some turn into Nikolas Cruz. But what did we expect was going to happen? That’s not a rhetorical question, except in the sense that no one really thought to ask it. What Did We Think Was Going To Happen? – Men Of The West
Not only do I disagree with gun control, I find it hard to pay the requisite minimal respect to it. Gun control means we’re going to put together some rules that say you can’t have certain types of guns, right? Murder is against certain rules we have in place already. So we’re talking about people who are ready, willing and able to break rules. And what we’re talking about is more rules. We’re having a debate about whether this would be effective? Why are we even having the debate? We know it won’t be. House of Eratosthenes
Sense of Events: Mass shootings: “Hope is not a method and wishes are not plans” Entry security and simple access to school grounds must become more arduous than now, all the time. Every active doorway into a school must become guarded, and not by teachers or staff. Metal detectors and backpack inspections, all intrusive, yes, must become the routine. Metal detector scanning? Get used to the idea. Arrival times for grades, not just for schools, must become staggered to avoid large clusters of students standing outside the school, presenting mass targets and to avoid large numbers enduring bad weather awaiting entry. End-of-day exits must likewise be staggered.
CPAC converged There is absolutely no point in relying upon the conservatives to accomplish anything except your surrender. Conservatives have COMPLETELY failed in literally every possible way. It was a movement that was always destined to fail, since it was never anything more than a posture and a pose. About the only progressive objective that conservatives haven’t embraced is your disarmament.
The Russians Didn’t File a FISA Warrant… | The Russians didn’t keep Hillary out of Wisconsin; the Russians didn’t make Hillary use personal email; the Russians didn’t hire Fusion-GPS; the Russians didn’t pay Christopher Steele; the Russians didn’t make a dossier or deliver work product to the State Dept; the Russians didn’t do the unmasking of campaign officials.
“Common Sense” Gun Control, the FBI, Concealed Handguns & Other Memes of Our Age Who among you believes that the progressives, who immediately take over any new program or policy, would not “weaponize” mental health to attack political opponents? Do you trust some Silicon Valley soy boy nerds to develop an algorithm, along the lines of those being developed to “prevent extremist speech and thought from the internet,” that would not be or quickly become a politicized weapon to suppress conservatives?
The Media’s Walk-of-Shame Won’t End – Each morning, the media floozies trudge through the quad wearing their “I’m With Her” t-shirts from the night before while they come up with a new cover story for their bad behavior. They lie, distort what actually happened, change the subject, and make excuses for why they got in bed with an ungrateful lover. “Hey, it’s better than sleeping with that other guy!” They insist they’re not being used, but everyone who sees them meander back to the dorm knows they are.
Understanding the California Mind Law enforcement in California hinges on ignoring felonies to focus on misdemeanors and infractions. Or rather, if a Californian is deemed to be law-abiding, a legal resident, and with some means, the regulatory state will audit, inspect, and likely fine his property and behavior in hopes of raising revenue.
Liberals Fail, Volume XXXVII – Bathe in their tears. The salty goodness of their sob juice will add a radiant glow to your skin and put a spring in your step.
“What scaled and feathered fetish shakes awake our loamy sleep
in these sealed vaults where dust and sand erase our golden masks
hammered over dreaming faces drowned in tinted musk?
Here where the spider curls and chitters in the crystal locket.
Here as time’s mouth leeches blood and brain and bids
the leather skin to tighten in on the empty, staring socket,
and bind the breath that laughed within the dusk?”
Here is your thin tin trowel,
And here your sable brush,
For prying loose these mitered stones,
And sweeping off the dust
That sifts between these shaded souls
Like paling ebony snow,
As you squat above the site
Where you worshiped once below.
Come thrust your torch
Through shattered walls,
And map the stains on stone,
And explicate these distant deaths
From strewn patterns of bone.
The distance that such deaths define
Is measured by that ageless path
That winds up from the sea’s last limb
Meandering to the blood’s demands,
And, rolling over shells’ sharp rims,
Finally finds its well-trod way
To midnight’s flaming brands
Where vacant, lusting faces grin
Within masks of whitened clay.
This path slopes through the stunted woods
Where the mantis ruts and broods,
Then spirals down to the sacred caves
Where men in twitching files repeat
The witless chants of wind and waves.
“Thick curds of rancid smoke performed our genuflections.
Our flayed limbs writhed, then steamed in screams of light.
Our lidless eyes became one daring crow’s confections.
Our shriveled nerves shrank back from the chittering coal’s delight.
Our marrow melted fast as flames licked up our blackened bones.
Our gaping mouths spewed rancid smoke as if they would relate
the secret magic flint and steel on tethered flesh create.”
Here is your iron pick,
And here your crested spoon.
Not silver, true, but still
The emblem of your art,
Which is, to wit,
To lay these bodies bare;
Explain their ritual agonies,
Deduce their sorry fate,
Describe their diet, sex,
The colors of their hair,
And tell how long
Their ashen lair
Has lain beneath
Our present pleasant State.
The Post-America Sexual Market, In A Photo | This photo captures the modern post-America sexual market better than any other I’ve seen of the genre. You’ve got two men (at least one presenting symptoms of early onset soyboyism) sharing sangrias over candlelight at a hipster bar with one fat chick who may as well be running a bizarro world reverse harem.
Rongorongo Of all the literatures in the world, the smallest and most enigmatic belongs without question to the people of Easter Island. It is written in a script Rongorongo that no one can decipher. Experts cannot even agree whether it is an alphabet, a syllabary, a mnemonic, or a rebus. Its entire corpus consists of two dozen texts. The longest, consisting of a few thousand signs, winds its way around a magnificent ceremonial staff. The shortest texts — if they can even be called that — consist of barely more than a single sign. One took the form of a tattoo on a man’s back. Another was carved onto a human skull.
So-called “gun-free zones” are nothing less than veiled concentration camps, wherein the powers-that-be can keep their hands clean, instead letting insane boys pumped full of psychosis-inducing drugs and retarded, inbred musloids do what The Pill and Planned Parenthood don’t quite manage.
Michael Crichton was right about fake news. And we love it We’ve reached a new height of speculative stupidity since the US election. It has infected the entire world, with people in other countries fighting with President Trump on Twitter and European countries releasing videos countering and mocking speculation….. There’s always been a proper place for speculation. It’s called the editorial page. But journalists in all mediums don’t seem to care any longer about keeping stories as neutral and fact-based as possible. Opinions and biases have always been in news stories, but most writers always made a conscious effort to overcome bias and favour facts over opinions. So what changed? Why did the media shift?
There are two times in a man’s life when he should not speculate: when he can’t afford it and when he can. —Mark Twain
Beginning: At any time between 1750 and 1930 if you asked educated people to describe the aim of poetry, art or music, they would have replied “beauty.”
And if you had asked for the point of that you would have learned that beauty is a value, as important as truth and goodness. Then in the 20th century beauty stopped being important. Art increasingly aimed to disturb and to break moral taboos. It was not beauty but originality however achieved and at whatever moral cost that won the prizes. Not only has art made a cult of ugliness. Architecture too has become soul-less and sterile. And it is not just our physical surroundings that have become ugly. Our language, our music and our manners are increasingly raucous, self-centered and offensive as though beauty and good taste have no real place in our lives. One word is written large on all these ugly things and that word is “Me.” My profits, my desires, my pleasures. And art has nothing to say in response to this except “Yeah, go for it!”
I think we are losing beauty and there is a danger that with it we will lose the meaning of life. I’m Roger Scruton, philosopher and writer. My trade is to ask questions. During the last few years I have been asking questions about beauty. Beauty has been central to our civilisation for over 2000 years. From its beginnings in ancient Greece philosophy has reflected on the place of beauty in art, poetry, music, architecture and everyday life. Philosophers have argued that through the pursuit of beauty we shape the world as a home. We also come to understand our own nature as spiritual beings. But our world has turned its back on beauty and because of that we find ourselves surrounded by ugliness and alienation.
I want to persuade you that beauty matters; that it is not just a subjective thing, but a universal need of human beings. If we ignore this need we find ourselves in a spiritual desert. I want to show you the path out of that desert. It is a path that leads to home……. Full Transcript Here
Another Win For Gun Free School Zones I’m not going to link to the 12,000 articles and breaking news headlines. School? Check. Deranged sociopath? Check. Troubled history? Check? Looking to be famous by shooting his way onto the news? Check. Repaid in spades by the orgiastic news coverage nationwide? Check. Bad guy with gun stopped by good guy(s) with gun? Check. You can fill the rest in yourself in a day or two. Or take a shot now, and be 90% right without even looking.
George Soros is a rootless grifter, who has no allegiance to any government. That makes sense with legitimate political leaders, but Killing him would be no different than droning a terrorist. Some argue that international law prohibits targeted assassinations, but international law is mostly meaningless. The Israelis have been using targeted assassination against whoever they like for a long time, including the murder of Canadian engineer Gerald Bull. The US has droned more Arabs than we can count.
First Human Case of Eye Worm When she looked down, she says, “there was a worm on my finger.”
— Tokerware (@Tokerwaredotcom) February 12, 2018
Smear the Episcopalian It is remarkable just how gay the Episcopal church has become in the last couple of generations….Perhaps it is the final humiliation the new ruling class is inflicting on their vanquished predecessors.
Gradually it was disclosed to me that the line separating good and evil passes not through states, nor between classes, nor between political parties either – but right through every human heart – and through all human hearts. — Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
“Killers continue targeting locations where guns are not allowed. Ninety-eight percent of public mass shootings in this country occur in gun-free zones — the Florida school being one of them.” Repeal gun-free zones —
Not the first. Not the last. Not the worst. Not the least. A criminal psychopath shoots up a “gun-free” school and kills a number of children and adults. A sane reaction would be to make any tacit or explicit “gun free zones” become “guarded with guns zones” tomorrow. A sane reaction would be trained members of the teaching and administrative staffs at our schools with CCW permits and CCWs. A sane reaction would be to treat schools in the same way we treat access to planes at the airport; scanners and metal detectors with armed guards at a single entrance. A sane reaction would be to treat the insect who did this would be an execution by rope, bullet, or wood chipper livestreamed on the Internet “pour encourage les autres.”
All these things are well known and rapid, inexpensive solutions to the problem of school security.
None of these reasonable solutions to school shootings will be initiated . None whatsoever by the organs of government, especially the now utterly depraved, incompetent, and insane FBI.
What will be done is more of THE DUMBTH and not one solution will be put in place. That is guaranteed by THE DUMBTH among us.
Dumbth (pron. dum-th) adj: a tendency toward muddleheadedness, or willful stupidity appearing in all segments of American life.
Enough already. We’re beyond a “conversation” on this blather. We are numb to the dumbth.
We will, should we pay attention to this Nth iteration of the dumpth of school shootings, be forced to listen to the endless rants,whines, and skin-blistering flatulations of the muddled multitudes who think that, (1) We can with our magic wands (Dare I dumbth it?) “de-gunify” American life; and (2) that want ing to leave current gun-free zone policy in place makes you a wonderful human being, while seeing and saying that this is deep and deadly dumbth that makes you worse than the psychopathic killer. These dried owl pellets of dumbth policy have been festering inside America for decades now and, since we no longer punch these clowns in their clown noses, there is no let up to their blather. This is what needs to change in our “conversation” about mass shootings.
We will also, should we choose to look for it, be confronted for the lebenty-lebenth time, with the insistance that the gun-free zones that have caused repeated slaughters within their bounderies need to be expanded. I guess the thought is that if you make the borders of the gun-free zone big enough psychopaths will simply wear themselves out walking around in it looking for victims. Why we send our children, daily, to these “gun-free slaughter zones” is beyond any sane man’s comprehension. Those that maintain and propose “gun free zones” need to be taken to the top of a very tall building and defenestrated with extreme prejudice.
We will have to inform the dumbth among us of the one adamantine truth about guns in America: “Just because your “gun free zones” fail over and over again, you DO NOT get to disarm free men under any circumstances.”
We need to remind the dumbth among us in the strongest possible terms that it is a sin to disarm a free man, and that “the wages of sin is death.” Any attempt at confiscation will cost lives, many lives, and fail.
In the meantime, in between time, it remains the case that the dumbth among us will run their standard whines and foot-stamping “gun free zone” blather. As they do we will again become numb to the dumbth.
Until the “gun-free zones” of America are expunged, psychopaths will continue to walk into these feeding lots of American children and kill them with impunity. When they do the Marching Moron Brigades of the Dumbth Army will again take to the barricades and pour their putrid blather out. Me? I’m numb to the dumpth, but not to the need to start punching these traitors in the teeth. Not all of them, but just enough pour encourage les autres.
In the meantime….
I’ve got a case of Old Damnation for when you get here, my friend
We can have ourselves a party before they come
In the meantime I’m cleaning my gun
for Emma Jean (“And they saved each other every day.”)
How, when my emerald voices pray
In the crystal heart, and the bright chimes
Sound along the shoals of day,
Shall I not search the among the stones
For your mist-shadowed silent lips,
And listen in the vaults of bones
For those wave-shattered psalms of seas
That promise me , oh my bright shade,
The flame that bends my soul to thee?
For is not love that trace of flame,
That sign seen far in silhouette
Between the edge of stars and earth,
In that place where winds on water step?
And if I read in heaven pale
These ancient signs, these lines on slate
That in translation, told our tale
As if our tale was marked on bone
Banked in halls of bronze and stone,
Would you believe those faded marks
No man can read or waking see?
Would you emerge from stone to say
Our history begins today?
I speak, I know, I know, at slant
And seldom cleave the circle straight,
But your geometries enchant
And I stand frozen at your gate.
Yet still I sense our centers touch
As deep as senses hope to know
In that rose room that hovers high
Above all memory of snow.
And so above the ocean I,
Released from arms and earth entire,
Relive within this room of steel
The ashen memory of your fire,
That in such mansions once I slept,
Most fortunate of all blessed men,
And breathed your breath,
Embraced your heart,
That my stilled heart might beat again.
“I’m no yenta, but I think this is going to work.” – Jim Rogers
“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Submitted for your consideration an item from 2009 most notable for its soothing palliative tone in which the previously perverted strives to be normalized. As the age’s intellectual insanity assumes the proportions of a plague, the experience of reading the herald of these plague years, the New York Times, becomes more and more like reading dispatches from the alternate universe of “hoping these changes stick.” That the changes can only stick if the core of the more normative America holds both economically and militarily (even as the ‘changy’ culture struggles to destroy it) is where the hoping enters in.
Still it is an item imbued with sweetness in the coyly named “Weddings & Celebrations” section of the Times. It really has it all when it comes to the modern nature of love in a time of cultural cholera: Vows – Kate Adamick and Kay Diaz – Weddings and Celebrations – NYTimes.com [Emphasis carefully added]
“The two women were introduced Feb. 4, 2008, via an e-mail message from their mutual friend, Jim Rogers, the New York State deputy attorney general in the social justice division, for which Ms. Diaz, 45, is a senior trial counsel….
On Valentine’s Day the women exchanged photographs. “It’s an absolute bonus she is as beautiful as she is,” Ms. Adamick said. They scheduled their first phone call four days later. Lengthy, nightly conversations ensued….
The next day Ms. Adamick flew back to New York from California. To her surprise, Ms. Diaz was waiting for her at Newark Liberty airport with two dozen roses. The connection was instantaneous. “She dropped the flowers on the ground and kissed me,” Ms. Adamick said. “We were making out in the car like two teenagers,” Ms. Diaz said. By the following morning they were engaged. ‘It just came out of my mouth…‘ ”
A little more than a year later, on May 8, the couple were legally married by Jeanne Laughlin, a Connecticut justice of the peace, in a conference room at the Stamford Government Center.
They exchanged yellow pipe-cleaner rings, saving their engraved gold bands for their public ceremony the next day, when Mr. Rogers — who had introduced them — led them through their vows in the three-story atrium of 632 on Hudson, an event space in a 19th-century New York town house.
“All my life I searched for you, but never thought I’d find you,” Ms. Adamick said. “All my life I dreamed of you, but never dreamed you were real.”
Mr. Rogers said, “You may both kiss the bride,” and their 96 friends and family cheered as the couple smiled exuberantly.
“And,” as Walter Cronkite would totalled up the whole passel of perfection if he’d attended, “That’s the way it is.”
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
ADDITION (Thanks to Commentor Tim):
Was Sally Champion a tragic spinster, locked up in her mansion of despair, never to move on from the death of her intended husband? As it turns out: NO.
From her obituary we learn that Sally, devastated by Michael’s death, moved from Canada to London and became the technical director of the Royal Opera House. She spent her later years traveling all over the world, trekking the Himalayas and the Andes, and, while sailing around Antarctica, survived a 98-foot rogue wave that knocked out the ship’s navigation equipment.
She was buried, “as she had always wished, in a grave beside Michael in the church down the road from the house she had always loved so much.” Cemetery Love & Death Mystery
“My family knew Michael’s family well, we grew up next door to them in Milton, Scotland and they were lovely people. Here’s a photo of (l-r) Sally, Michael, my mother and father and Michael’s mother and father. This was taken shortly before the tragic event. I was 14 in ’77 and remember well when my parents went down to England for a wedding but came back from a funeral. Sally was never married.”
“What is it about? Like all Greek songs, about Love and Death.” — Melina Mercouri, Phaedra
“The Politics of life are easy. It’s the Poetics that are tough.”
I’m still working out what I meant when I wrote that. It’ll take me life plus 99 years.
The Poetics of life are much more persistent in their knocking at the door of your inner self than the Politics. Politics have their seasons, but the Poetics are our constant companions, waking and sleeping, thinking and dreaming. In a very real sense, since they run deeper than the Politics, the Poetics are the Politics’ power source. But what are the Poetics about? Simply put, they are “like all Greek songs, about love and death.”
I’ve done a dance or two with death over the years. I’ve found that he’s not very graceful and he always wants to lead.
Once, during a long-lost summer, I was the night driver for a hearse at a mortuary. In the wee small hours of the morning, I’d drive the on-duty mortician to pick up a man or a woman’s or a child’s body from wherever it had become just a body. In the hot California delta night I’d drive the mortician, both of us in Blues Brothers suits, to a hospital basement, a home bedroom, a city morgue, or, one time, to a shabby skid row hotel where the leaking wicker basket holding the suicide had to be held vertically in the creaking ancient elevator for all eight slow floors.
I’ve been alone in the waiting room with my mother when the surgeon, still drying his hands on a towel, walked through the door and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Van der Leun, but we just couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
I’ve stood in a room high above Central Park West where the only sound was a death rattle in an old man’s throat, and told the doctor on the telephone that there was really no reason to send the emergency resuscitation crew for the twelfth time in half as many months. I sat quietly holding the old man’s hand for around thirty minutes until his breathing stopped. Then I left that room, told my in-laws he was dead, and watched them mask their expressions of relief.
I’ve found my name carved into the stone monument at Battery Park that lists those that died at sea during the Second World War. I’ve found the names of two men I went to high school with carved on the Vietnam wall in Washington.
If I’d managed to keep one address book for my contemporaries since graduating from high school, it would, as they say, be beginning to fill up with dead people and that rate would increase.
I’ve stood on the Promenade on Brooklyn Heights and seen two towers fall and reduce thousands of people to ash and dust in what seemed like less time than it has taken you to read to this period.
I have sometimes, I confess, “been half in love with easeful death,” but no one living escapes that siren call. The trick there is to lash yourself to the mast of the day, pray, and somehow, through the grace of God, just sail on by.
By now, like many others of my age, I’ve seen death personally and professionally, retail and wholesale. There really is, when you move with it, nothing to love about the dance of death. The only response is, as Prufrock knew, to see “the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.”
So I know something — not a lot, but something — about that old Greek theme of death and it scares me about as much as it should scare, I imagine, any man. And, having now briefly been dead, the fear is perhaps less shrill but more persistent; a tempo of a fading drum heard far off, cast back over the horizon but still approaching.
What I know increasingly little about, and what really frightens me, is the other theme of the Greek songs, love. These days it seems that it will take more than a lifetime to figure love out.
Love frightens me because, unlike death, love cannot be understood. Love can only be given, gotten, taken or dropped. Like death, it would seem that, once discovered, there’s no end to it — or, to take Hemingway’s point of view, no good end to it since one way or another death will trump love — in this world at least.
Love is where the Poetics of life collide with the Politics. It’s a collision where the possibility having to call in the MedEvac helicopter and the coroner is always present; where wreckage is assured and survival never promised. Falling in love is, as a comedian noted, like buying a puppy. You are purchasing a tragedy.
No, that’s not quite right. Say rather you are purchasing a hybrid; a tragicomedy or a comic tragedy, since love always has, for those of us removed from its immediate drama, elements of the ridiculous, slices of the sublime, and not a few moments of boffo laughter at the shambling human animal.
Still, it would be nice if I could understand the nature of love and my absurd role in the love dramas of my life. If the joke, in the end, is on me it would be nice to be able to say that I “get it.”
Nice but not, I think, necessary. Even if I never get it, I do know one thing for certain about love, “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
First published 2009– added to and altered since.
The [Very] Small Pale Blueish / Purplish Dot
‘Single Atom in an Ion Trap’, by David Nadlinger, from the University of Oxford, shows the atom held by the fields emanating from the metal electrodes surrounding it. The distance between the small needle tips is about two millimetres.
When illuminated by a laser of the right blue-violet colour the atom absorbs and re-emits light particles sufficiently quickly for an ordinary camera to capture it in a long exposure photograph. The winning picture was taken through a window of the ultra-high vacuum chamber that houses the ion trap.
David Nadlinger, explained how the photograph came about: “The idea of being able to see a single atom with the naked eye had struck me as a wonderfully direct and visceral bridge between the miniscule quantum world and our macroscopic reality. A back-of-the-envelope calculation showed the numbers to be on my side, and when I set off to the lab with camera and tripods one quiet Sunday afternoon, I was rewarded with this particular picture of a small, pale blue dot.” Single Trapped Atom Captures Science Photography Competition’s top prize – EPSRC website
These are the days of miracle and wonder
This is the long distance call
The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
The way we look to us all, Oh yeah
The way we look to a distant constellation
That’s dying in a corner of the sky
These are the days of miracle and wonder
And don’t cry baby, don’t cry, don’t cry