Thank you, Terry Teachout, for pointing out this splendid gallery of old Edward Gorey cover illustrations.

I posted some time back about how the words for owl are similarly onomatopoeic in widely divergent languages. Well, here's another one: owl in Chumash is muhu (stress on the ultimate).

May we please have many more sites like the Inezeño Chumash Language Tutorial? It's a very well done, fast site, and though it probably won't lead anyone to fluency in Chumash, it's quite fascinating to a browser like myself. Language tutorials which would be particularly useful to me would be Kabardian Circassian, Latvian, Lappish, and especially Kazakh.

(Thanks again, Languagehat!)

This is what happens when your only artistic concern is that the characters depicted meet certain quotas for race and gender. You start preferring The Matrix to Lord of the Rings. We should probably stop reading the Iliad, too. And Newton, of course. Yech.

Via Andrew Sullivan.

If Kim Jong-Il is going to declare himself "Guardian Deity of the Planet", I have certain objections, which may only be solved in single combat. Mr. Kim, I await your response.

Take heed, neer-do-wells, and grovel in fear of us opera enthusiasts:

MIAMI, Feb 09, 2004 (United Press International via COMTEX) — A Miami judge has devised a plan to punish offenders who play their car stereos too loudly by insisting they join him in his chambers and listen to opera.

Verdi seems pretty clement for a first offence, and second time offenders ought to be scared straight by Tristan. But three strikes and it's Wozzeck for you!

And here's a site worthy of the sidebar, the Aberdeen Bestiary Project. It loads a bit slowly for me, but it has excellent quality images of the original bestiary, with a translation of the latin adjacent; and further down each page are the Latin and translation side by side. And we learn things such as this:

There is an animal called the hyena, which inhabits the tombs of the dead and feeds on their bodies. Its nature is that it is sometimes male, sometimes female, and it is therefore an unclean animal. Since its spine is rigid, all in one piece, it cannot turn round except by turning its body right around.

And this piece of lore should come as no surprise to Buffy fans:

[I]t stalks the sheepfolds of shepherds and circles their houses by night, and by listening carefully learns their speech, so that it can imitate the human voice, in order to fall on any man whom it has lured out at night.

Some good classical music related articles: Andante has an interesting review of the new opera The Tempest by Thomas Adès. You may remember Adès from his previous opera Powder Her Face, about the sexual promiscuity of the Duchess of Argyll, which contained the notorious "fellatio aria". The Tempest sounds more promising, but in need of some revision. (Update: The Tempest no longer sounds promising.)

And here is an interesting article about recovered and reconstructed musical works. It discusses the recent performance of Grieg's juvenile symphony, which he had explicitly instructed "must never be performed." The article goes on to defend the practice of resurrecting buried compositions on the grounds that it has unearthed some very worthwhile material.

Without that practice, we wouldn't have the 10th Symphonies of Mahler, Schubert, or Beethoven — even if the Beethoven has not caught the public's imagination, the Schubert is underperformed, and the Mahler for many years suffered the wilful dismissal of numerous conductors...

We certainly would not have all of the formidable body of work by Sibelius the Destroyer, who made a bonfire of his aspirations and insecurities, including his Eighth Symphony, of which nothing survives, at least one version of his Fifth Symphony (though, mercifully, he either didn't have in his possession, or failed to burn, the orchestral parts for the amazingly original and innovative first version, which has been meticulously re-assembled and is available on CD for all to hear and marvel at). Nor would we have his complete scenic music for Karelia — not merely the famous three-movement flagship concert-opener of the Suite, but a 50-minute work of endless revelations into the thinking and working processes of Finland's greatest composer.

The only such work in my collection (revivals of forgotten Baroque repetoire aren't the same thing) is Schubert's Unfinished (MacKerras conducting) with a scherzo completed by Brian Newbould, and some entr'acte music from Rosamunde for the finale. I rather like the scherzo in and of itself; it does sound like Schubert to me, and is full of the sudden shifts to the major which lend the Unfinished much of its beauty. But frankly, I love the completed movements of the Unfinished for their shortness, their focus, the way they leave you feeling that not a note too many was played. But the Rosamunde finale ruins these proportions, and the piece itself has nowhere near the concentration of the first two movements. So a hit and a miss for musical forensics. Given the potential pay-off, I'll take those odds; I can't wait to hear the 50-minute Karelia.

And here (via Instapundit) is an excellent article on synaesthesia, an experience which I think many classical music fans can well imagine, if not undergo for themselves. Recent tests seem to confirm that synaesthesia is a real phenomenon, at least inasmuch as it works with enough consistancy to be meaningfully studied.

I now probably qualify for card-carrying membership in a whole 'nother order of loonies: yesterday, I heard the Taos Hum (summary, more thorough site). Or something fitting its description, at any rate. I rode up to the top of the Santa Fe ski area's triple lift, at 12,000 feet, and discarded my skis to continue uphill on foot. Fortunately, it's been sunny and windy up there on the crest of the Sangre de Cristos, and I was able, sans snowshoes, to walk on the hardened surfaces of snowdrifts too deep for my ski pole to find a bottom. The constant wind had sculpted the snow quite beautifully, like polished white wood with graceful curving grain. After thrashing through one final, particularly unfriendly drift, I left treeline behind. The upper slopes of Deception Peak usually stay free of snow; there's just rock and sky up there, and the curling orange fronds of the alpine grasses, covered in traceries of ice.

I climbed out some distance on the craggy ridge between Deception and Lake Peaks, and was enjoying the views; giant avalanche bowls on either side of me, the Truchas peaks towering to the North, and the huge mountains of Colorado hulking white on the far horizon. And then I started hearing the Hum, a deep hollow whistle somewhat like the lowest notes on a bass flute, frequently augmented by a rumbling pulsation which is indeed (as so many Hum hearers claim) like a distant diesel engine. The sound was quite distinct and steady and kept going for several minutes at a time. It would go away when I moved and return again, when I found another favourable spot, I suppose. Given the nature of the noise and the context, I have no doubt that I was hearing low frequency sound generated by the constant wind on the knife-edged ridge. Nambé Basin, right below me, is more or less a half-mile-wide, thousand-foot-high parabola, and I wonder if it mightn't have added some resonance. The diesel-engine pulsations seemed to me like the throbbing sounds you get from two slightly different pitches sounding together, like when two guitar strings are not quite in tune.

The West wind is very constant in the spring in New Mexico, and the crest of the Sangres is the highest thing around by a wide margin. From the ski area, we often see the clouds above the ridge spreading vertically into the upper atmosphere as the wind shoots up off the mountains, as though it's hit a ski jump; it's like looking at five-thousand-foot columns of boiling water from below. It would therefore not surprise me if sounds like what I heard sometimes go on for some time, and resonate into odd spots in the mountain valleys. This certainly does not explain all aspects of the Hum reported by chronic sufferers, but it's the only explanation I know of which Occam's Razor leaves intact.

Andrew Stuttaford should know better. To say that all Medieval philosophy "mixed ignorance with magical thinking, obscurantism, economic illiteracy and absurd and obsessive dogmatism" is as absurd as deciding that since Popper and Wittgenstein were both from Vienna, their views are identical.

What of St. Thomas Aquinas? Boethius? Ascham, mentioned below? Roger Bacon and his gunpowder? St. Teresa of Avila? Dante? Hildegarde von Bingen? The unknown author of Gawain, and The Pearl? Andrea Marini? For too long the Middle Ages have been viewed as ignorance mingled with fanaticism, filth, and malice. Any honest reader of the works from that vast period (and one so heterogenous! "Medieval" means nothing but the time between the fall of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance, a nearly useless division) will come to the conclusion that men of the time were as clear-minded as modern ones, and often more so.

Moreover, to identify Medieval Philosophy with Leftist leaning is absurd, as Natalie Solent mentioned some time ago. "Economic illiteracy", quotha!

As for absurd and obsessive dogmatism, St. Thomas was, in his mild, scholarly way, at war. He was warring against the encroachment of Islam, and the Islamic use of Aristotelian philosophy. He was, indeed, not reconciling Christianity to Aristotle, but bringing Aristotle, as far as was possible, into the Christian fold. He had to confront subtle and brilliant minds, and to do so needed subtlety, brilliance, and not a few pages.

Magical thinking? Maybe, but to the Medieval mind the world was full of marvels. I wonder if their overestimation of its wonderfulness is not less culpable than our current underestimation. And obscurantism is a product of mankind, no less than shit. It will be with us as long as we are men, and is not restricted to one period of history. We just have better-defined channels for it nowadays.

Via Cronaca, a sinister look at the Ice Age.

Left-handedness does indeed confer benefits, as any fencer can tell you. Lefty gladiators in the Roman Arenas were universally feared, though that was, at least in part, due to the tactics of the time.

But the advantage disappears when lefties are as common as righties, since it depends on the habits of the opponent. Which may explain why lefties are a constant minority, since, if they got too common, their tricks were less useful. As their numbers diminished, they became more successful, and more numerous, until that upper limit was reached. Eventually, some balance would be achieved.

I'm not sure that lefties have such compensations today, what with corkscrews and gravy-boats replacing the sword and buckler. Perhaps we'll see them disappear. They might die sooner, anyway. And after all, "sinistrality is thus nothing more than an expression of infantile negativism and falls into the same category as contrariness in feeding and elimination, retardation in speech, and general perverseness in so far as the infant with meager outlets can express it", as Abram Blau would have it.

I was searching for an online version of Ascham's Toxophilus, a minutely detailed text on the use of the bow, and the spiritual benefits thereby obtained, when I came across a full text of The Scholemaster, his guide to teaching children Latin. His feelings towards punishment are what we would now call "enlightened":

If your scholer do misse sometimes, in marking rightlie these foresaid sixe thinges, chide not hastelie: for that shall, both dull his witte, and discorage his diligence: but monish him gentelie: which shall make
him, both willing to amende, and glad to go forward in loue and hope of learning.

And further along he discourages beating! Of course, when one is tutor to Princess Elizabeth, such reprimands are impolitic, and in any case unnecessary.

The middle of The Scholemaster has as xenophobic a rant about Italy as anything found in George Silver (link via AEMMA) in his Paradoxes of Defense. Silver hates the Italians for introducing the dishonest and unmanly rapier, which he derides. He has deeds on his side to back this opinion: his challenge to one Italian master went unanswered, and he himself discusses the occasion on which he did meet such a school.

Ascham, it seems, agrees; his Toxophilus was a reaction to the English adopting Continental swordplay, and abandoning the longbow. Agincourt speaks loudly on his behalf.

If anyone has a link to Toxophilus which does not require registration, that would be lovely.

By the way, toxon means bow, not poison (toxikos, from a bow. Just like that for which Odysseus was looking, when events overtook him). The other word for bow is bios, which is exactly the sort of coincidence that sent Medieval alchemists on allegorical journeys almost as rambling as this post.

Apparently, the recently-discovered mask has in fact done few favours for the decipherment of Isthmian Script. The proposed decipherment has not produced a credible text out of the writing on the mask, and the whole attempt is drawing some serious criticism from other experts.

And while I'm on the subject of those unmentionable things of which the very thought destroys our sanity, here's a cute little plush one. Who's a cute little Old One? Yes you is!

Nit-pickery: this fellow seems to me much more of an Elder One (as opposed to an "Old One", or "Great One", or "Great Old One"), per Mountains of Madness. Radial symmetry, tentacles, sails with which to catch "the aetheric winds".

Back from my exceeding relaxing honeymoon, during which I saw some really excellent critters (though, sadly, no Happyface Spiders. Wrong island). On the same site, check out these carnivorous caterpillars. Especially Fig. 2. Iä! Iä! Taste the wrath of Nyarlathotep, Drosophila conspicua!

My good friends at Boojum Expeditions have recently brought some Mongolian cowboys to the 20th annual National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada.

The Mongolians impressed not only with their music but with their colorful national dress, their culinary skills and their epic poetry.  They also caught on fast to traditional American Cowboy fun like dancing and drinking.

Making the link between cowboys around the world is an important part of the Elko celebration, which in its 20 years has invited cowboys from various other countries to participate and share their love of horses, livestock and wide open spaces.

Mongolia certainly has stunning amounts of those last three, as does Nevada, but my personal experience has lead me to doubt the impressiveness of Mongol culinary skills.

Don't miss this recent Hubble image of the M64 galaxy. I recommend the full size image.

Science has recently become aware that pigeons navigate not only by magnetic means but also by landmarks. The birds have been clearly tracked following roadways and turning at particular intersections. But pigeon keepers in my acquaintance have been aware of this behavior for some time. One who flies birds in New Mexico has observed:

Here in the desert Southwest, racing homers will go around any of the "Sky Islands" they encounter, always. Landmarks like I-10 and I-25 are used here as well; birds I trained west or north virtually followed the interstates as far as they could before breaking off at key points.

Underrated birds, pigeons.

Speaking of music, a British harp enthusiast has undertaken the laudable project of reconstructing the Harp of Ur, which was a casualty in the looting of the Iraqi museum. He's receiving help not only from an Iraqi calligrapher and an Iraqi harpist, but also from the RAF, who have procured Mesopotamian cedar wood, that the reconstruction may be as authentic as possible. Despite this, the ignorant will doubtless persist in claiming that Western civilization has no respect for other cultures. I mostly wonder if the reconstructed harp will ever be used to accompany the Sumerian version of Blue Suede Shoes.

Check out this excellent round-up of disastrous opera performances. My personal favourite is this inspired escape from disaster, in one of my very favourite operas:

As Jezibaba the witch, in the Met’s Rusalka, [Dolora Zajick] had a mechanical cat with glowing eyes and a tail and head that moved back and forth. “While throwing things into the cauldron to make a spell, I would hit the head of the cat with a spoon and sing, ‘Hop, my cat!’ Well, I hit the head too hard, and it fell off, but the tail kept going, and I started to laugh, so I threw it into the cauldron with the rest of the stuff, but the eyes were still glowing! I think the PETA people were upset.”

Are you looking for a thumping good read on an obscure topic? I'm always happy to oblige. Check out Eagle Dreams, by my very close and dear acquaintance Stephen Bodio. For a summary of the book's character, I cannot better the kind review of John Derbyshire:

This is a very striking and unusual book, sufficiently so that I imagine the people responsible for awarding it a Dewey Decimal number, in order to properly shelve it in libraries, must have engaged in some head-scratching. Is Eagle Dreams sport, travel, or zoology? You will have to make up your own mind. I have put it among my travel books, along with Paul Theroux, Eric Newby and Robert Byron; and I believe that those distinguished persons would welcome Stephen Bodio into their company as an equal.

The book is about the Kazakh eagle falconers of western Mongolia (pehaps you saw the pictures in National Geographic?). Falconry, along with many other animal domestications, very likely began in this part of the world, and the Kazakhs are the gods of falconry. They suppliment their herding income by hunting fur-bearing mammals, mostly fox, but occasionally wolf and lynx, with their eagles; and they also enlist the help of horses, tazi dogs, and even dachshunds (a gift from the Germans Stalin exiled to Kazakhstan in the '30s). Their tradition survived the Soviets, and is currently coming face to face with modern tourism, which may be its salvation or its doom.

Eagle Dreams was a very difficult book to get published, due to the abstruseness of its subject and to its political incorrectitude, for falconry is unquestionably a blood-sport. The book has therefore received appallingly little attention from the mainstream media. Mr. Derbyshire's recent mention of Mr. Bodio, apropos of gun freedoms here in southwestern Outback, will probably do the book few favours with the liberal establishment. But these things which so offend New York publishers may well appeal to the world's anti-idiotarian intellectual crowd. Fellow bloggers, we seek a favour: if you are at all moved by the idea of a 5,000 year old alliance between man, horse, hound, and a gold-feathered thunderbolt from heaven in pursuit of their prey, please give Mr. Bodio's book what publicity is in your power, or at least mention it to anyone you know who may be interested.

To prove that eagle falconry is a very noteworthy practice, I cite no less an authority than the Circassians, in whose writings I have recently found very stirring references to the sport:

... what appeared to be a horseman showed up in their midst. This is how they tell of his manner and appearance. The horse on which he rode had a neck like a snake's. His lance, which he wielded against the Chintas, rumbled like thunder. On his head was a gleaming helmet that shone like the sun. To either side of this rider ran two hounds, staying ever near, and above him soared a great eagle circling in the air. He struck fear into the hearts of the Chintas when they saw him, and in their panic they could not escape from before him. That horseman came among them and hewed them down, destroying the army that had invaded the land of the Narts.

...Then [baby Shebatinuquo] was placed in the underground house, and a mighty horse, a sharp eagle, and a swift hound were all brought and placed there with him so that they might be raised together.

May I be so bold as to suggest that these salvations of Nart culture may yet come to the aid of all cultures worth saving?

I find the oddest news interesting. Apparently, mainstream health officials are now acknowledging that wood cutting boards are more sanitary than synthetic (thanks again, Cronaca). The manager of my rafting company's Idaho operation was therefore way ahead of the curve. We've been using wooden tables on our river trips for several years now, despite continued pressure from the Utah health Nazis (an angry rant about whom is here) to use disgusting, uncleanable plastic tablecloths. Our Idaho manager is an impressive guy in any case, though; he's a muscleman who went to university on a football scholarship, promptly blew out his knee, and then used the scholarship to study neuroscience. I challenge you to name another white-water rafting operation which has an aquarium full of zebra-fish and African clawed frogs, courtesy of the University of Oregon, in its warehouse.

I have only just become aware that Maurice Sendak, author and illustrator of children's books, has a substantial connection to the world of opera. I've known for some time that Where the Wild Things Are and Higgledy Piggledy Pop were set as short operas with music by Oliver Knussen, though I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing these works. But Sendak is also something of a force in the world of opera production, and I like what little I've seen of his designs immensely. Here's an illustration from his designs for Die Zauberflöte; and here's a picture of his Hansel & Gretel. Alas, I am so far unable to find any online image of his designs for Prokofiev's Love for Three Oranges.

Of a similar appeal is this die-cut toy theatre, with sets, props, and characters, based on Edward Gorey's production of Dracula (it was my Christmas gift to Odious). I am not in the least surprised that Renfield wears Gorey's "white shoes intended for tennis"; I only wonder that I hadn't realized it earlier.

Here's an interesting blog by a linguist who is wandering through Siberia on his own, meditating on the Altaic hypothesis, boreal cultures, and odder things. Well worth a look.

Here's an amusing article on Latin as a living language. Apparently the Vatican employs a committee of lucky sods who get to spend their days choosing the best Latin terms for such modern innovations as the hot dog (pastillum botello fartum) or the hippie (conformitatis osor). I am not astounded, though, by the news that the Finnish Broadcasting Company has been putting out weekly bulletins in Latin for fourteen years, for their fellow countryman Dr. Jukka Ammondt has surely gone them one better. Dr. Ammondt put out a recording some time back of Elvis songs in Latin, and his work eventually earned him a medal from the Pope. He was not content to rest on his laurels, however, as he has gone on to record a translation of Blue Suede Shoes into Sumerian. Bravo!

"But my sandals of sky-blue leather do not touch" comes out in Sumerian, the world's oldest written language (it died out around 2000 BC), as: "Nig-na-me si-ib-ak-ke-en, e-sir kus-za-gin-gu ba-ra-tag-ge-en."

"Elvis would have fitted just fine in the Sumerian society, for love songs and intoxicating music were important parts of the enormously popular cult of the goddess Inanna."

Today is our blogversary! O & P have been haranguing anyone willing to listen about man-eating hyenas, Kant, Transcaucausia and the like for a very long time, and we've now been doing it in print for one year. Thank you, patient readers, for your kind indulgence!

I'm off on my honeymoon, and if you think I'm going to be posting, even in italics, you're sadly mistaken. I'll be far too busy trying to smuggle my crochet hook through security.

A newly discovered mask has significantly expanded the known corpus of Isthmian script, also known as Epi-Olmec. Decipherment of this language is apparently going well, good news if you like reading about warrior kings who could turn into animals and sacrifice their brothers-in-law. The mask is pretty cool, though; the writing is carved on the inside of the face.

And here is some Aztec poetry, some of which is pretty good. I especially like some of King Nezahualcoyotl's works, which tend to dwell on the transcience of this world and longing for eternal truth.

All the earth is a grave and nothing escapes it, nothing is so perfect
that it does not descend to its tomb. Rivers, rivulets, fountains and
waters flow, but never return to their joyful beginnings; anxiously
they hasten on the vast realms of the rain god. As they widen their
banks, they also fashion the sad urn of their burial.

Update:Apparently, the disovery of the mask has in fact done few favours for the decipherment of Isthmian Script. The proposed decipherment has not produced a credible text out of the writing on the mask, and the whole attempt is drawing some serious criticism from other experts.

Here are some peoples whom I could really get to like, if this exerpt from their mythology is indicative of their general outlook:

The Narts were courageous, energetic, bold, and good-hearted. Thus they lived until God sent down a small swallow.

"Do you want to be few and live a short life but have great fame and have your courage be an example for others forevermore?" asked the swallow. "Or perhaps you would prefer that there be many of you, that your numbers will be great, that you will have whatever you wish to eat and drink, and that you will all live long lives but without ever knowing battle or glory?"

Then without calling a council, but with a reply as quick as thought itself, the Narts said, "We do not want to be like cattle. We do not want to reproduce in great numbers. We want to live with human dignity.

If our lives are to be short,
Then let our fame be great!
Let us not depart from truth!
Let us not know grief!
Let us live in freedom!"

Belated thanks to Natalie Solent for pointing out this profound truth. I'll see that and raise you this one, told to me by a river guide and attributed to another river guide whose name I can't remember:

Good judgement is based on experience; and experience is based on bad judgement.

Good Lord, it's a five-legged dog! What more can I say?

There's some very disturbing legislation afoot related to archeology and cultural sites. Typically, California is the proudly idiotarian vanguard, with the feds not far behind.

I don't write well on this issue, because I'm utterly unable to muster any shred of sympathy for the views of the other side. (Readers seeking intelligent commentary would do well to chech out Moira Breen's thoughts on the subject.) I can only conclude that our opponents' steadfast desire for ignorance stems from a deep spiritual insecurity and doubt as to their beliefs' viability in the modern world. When a belief system can no longer react to scientific or cultural changes, it is dead; the die-hard believers may still commune in their cloisters with the ghost of their faith, but it provides neither comfort nor ethical guidance to the laity. A faith which shuns science is shunning reality, and is therefore of little relevance to the world its believers must inhabit. If Native Americans want their culture to remain an inviolate museum piece, fit only for the contemplation of tourists red and white, that is easily achievable. If they want a culture which will actually define the lives of future generations and provide them with surprise and inspiration, then they need to study Kennewick Man, and see what they discover about themselves.

Digression: I think that this phobia that any interaction with modern reality will destroy their culture is also responsible for the disappointing lack of creativity in the Native American music scene. The only alternatives to traditional drumming, chanting, and fluting seem to be generic rock with 'Red-Power' lyrics, or equally bland New-Age/Dance-club synthesizer-techno washes. I have certainly not heard anything on the level of the neo-tribal music coming out of Eurasia (check out the Saami and Tuvans, for instance), in which traditional techniques and modern sounds interact very agressively and creatively.

Thanks to Chas Clifton for the Kennewick-related links.

Life imitates Neal Stephenson, though I'm not sure we can count on the Mauritians to dedicate themselves to the creation of an offshore data haven to the extent they ought.

In pretty much unrelated news, trials of a new malaria vaccine are said to be going well.

The Red Book of the Peoples of the Russian Empire is likely to keep me fascinated for quite some time. Minority Languages of Russia is another handy reference, if you're amused by this sort of thing.

I received as a Christmas gift a scam of SEA-MONKEYS (as the luridly illustrated, randomly capitalized instruction manual would have it). Apparently some effort has gone into their breeding:

Although Sea-Monkeys are a species of brine shrimp, they are unique. We not only unlocked the most elusive secrets of their life-cycle, we created new formulas to keep them alive under conditions found in the average home--an accomplishment never before achieved! Finally, after years of crossbreeding [with what, asks Peculiar], we developed a hybrid SUPER Sea-Monkey! [die ÜberMeeraffen!]

One can almost taste the God complex. Which I intend to enjoy a great deal, as my...creations battle for my approval, to be grudgingly given [are we starting Anglo-Saxon verse? --Peculiar. Slow shrinks the shrimps/The water level lowers... --Odious] to those survivors which demonstrate such traits as courage, ruthlessness, and genetic purity.

At first, of course, this plan is only in the first stages. The universe is being prepared for such life as I see fit to visit upon it. But their antics, I am assured, cannot fail to amuse and delight! Item:

Sea-Monkeys cannot be "trained" the way that you train an animal of higher intelligence like a dog, cat or chimpanzee. However, you can easily make them appear to actually OBEY YOUR COMMANDS by means of simple tricks....

Item:

It seems that at mating time in the Animal Kingdom, the males engage in combat to win the fin, paw, flipper, hoof, wing, or what-have-you, of their "lady-love". Since they too are animals, your Sea-Monkeys are no exception, and they also have the right to make "fools" of themselves if they are so inclined. You may think they look cute or funny when you see your pugnacious pets get into a fight, but remember--to them, the battle is very serious, and can (on very rare occasion), even end in death for one of the tiny combatants. [Certain people's view of the Israelis, what? --Peculiar]

I can also apparently introduce chemicals to create desired behaviors:

Item No. 84- "CUPIDS ARROW" Mating Powder
For shy Sea-Monkeys afraid of "marriage", this fabulous formula will give them a quick trip "to the altar"! Once "hooked" ['Hooked'? Oh, dear. --Odious], former "bachelor" Sea-Monkeys will fill your tank with oodles of cute babies--fast.

I was unable to find the chemical that will cause massive wars, but after some experimentation, I'm sure we'll stumble across it. My money's on sweet lady Geneva.

Moreover, they are insured:

Names given must be Socially Acceptable, i.e. names such as: Stinky, Slimy, Sneaky etc. will not be allowed as your sensitive pets might be offended. Give them nice "Sunday School" names. Suggestions: Scamper, Moby Dick, Davy Jones, Barry Cuda, Barry Goldwater [!], Sharkey [Per Tolkien? --Odious], Agamemnon, Puddles, Finn, Peppy, Flippy, etc.

This Policy NOT VALID in the event of death due to the following causes: Chain Lightning; Chain Smoking; Earthquake; Tidal Wave; Permanent Wave; Meteoric Showers; April Showers; Invasion of Earth by Space Monsters; Mongol, Etruscan or Viking Plunder and Conquest OR (especially) Accidentally-Knocked-Over-Container of Water All Over The-Good-Living-Room Carpet!

Go forth, my minions, and pillage! I am become Death, destroyer of worlds!

'"Scientists should look to nature and biology for well-defined answers, especially in fields like optics," Hanlon said.'

Sage advice, and apropos of bioluminescent squid (Hawaiian bobtail squid, Euprymma scolopes, to be exact). Apparently these things are also offering inspiration for nanotechnologists.

A close friend of mine has been diagnosed with breast cancer. I'm not sure what to write about this. I'm only doing it because she received an odd "cancer survivor kit", and requested that I blog about it.

Inside it was a small ceramic figure, consisting of a woman with stop-light red hair wrapped in leaves, and man, wearing a strawberry for a hat, tangled in vines, both supporting a large, red strawberry. They are apparently a "Punsawana", although what that is escapes both traditional research and the Internet-enhanced variety. A slip of paper gives the following information:

A small being of great mystery, whose origins and time of existence are unknown. Some call them tricksters, others say protectors. But all agree on their story telling [sic] and gift of laughter.
GULL

It is, so far as I can tell, a pagan idol. And not a good one, even, but one made up by someone who's read too much George MacDonald.

Also includes was one of these tapes, in the theta frequency, whatever that means. I can't bring myself to trust any such thing, when it doesn't link to the studies to which it so proudly alludes.

These are not things to help. These are things to distract, in a particularly cloying way, from the grim truth of cancer.

My friend is Russian Orthodox, and arranged a moleben for the ailing. There's no dancing around the issue in such a ceremony; there's a sick sister in Christ, and we want her to be better. You healed Peter's mother-in-law, You healed the paralytic lying on his bed, the prayers say; You have told us that our prayers will be answered if they are given in faithfulness; then heal her, your handmaid.

The priest, afterwards, spoke briefly, saying that the age of miracles is not over. It only lapses when we lapse. Shall I confess? Miracles are hard for me, to understand and to believe. I'm too philosophical in such matters; too philosophical even to accept the silly "sub-atomic" miracles proposed by silly people who want to have their cake and eat it too. The game is not worth the candle if the rules can be changed all of a sudden. Without the possibility of losing, why play?

I've been taught, as I've trained in my martial art, that anger is the consequence of seeing oneself as a victim. The proper attitude, the effective attitude, in a self-defense situation and in life, is to remain calm, in action mind. Consider your options. Think, "what am I going to do with this situation?". But what am I to do with this? I can't break it in two like a board. I can't outmanuever it, change fighting ranges, gain surprise against it. I can't help her in any way but prayer, which feels so thin to me right now. I am angry, angry at the people who misdiagnosed her earlier, angry at the doctors for not being able to fix it right now. I'm angry at God, for putting this on someone so kind and loving.

I won't take the advice of Job's wife. I'm not railing at the sky, waving my impotent fists. I will ask His help in this, because, despite all rational objections, I don't care. I want her to be better. And I will ask the saints to pray for her, since while we have to sleep sometimes, they don't. Their prayers can be constant. For those of you so inclined, yours would be appreciated as well. For those of you who are thinking that this is just another means of distraction from the real issue, a cure for cancer would be nice.

My favorite novel, The Reivers, is discussed here.

Via, once more, Arts and Letters Daily.

Just in time, via Arts and Letters Daily, comes this article by Oliver Sacks.

Whatever the mechanism, the fusing of discrete visual frames or snapshots is a prerequisite for continuity, for a flowing, mobile consciousness. Such a dynamic consciousness probably first arose in reptiles a quarter of a billion years ago. It seems probable that no such stream of consciousness exists in an amphibian, like a frog, which shows no active attention, and no visual following of events. The frog does not have a visual world or visual consciousness as we know it, only a purely automatic ability to recognize an insect-like object if this enters its visual field, and to dart out its tongue in response. It has been said that a frog's vision is, in effect, no more than a fly-catching mechanism.

And:

From such a relatively simple primary consciousness, we leap to human consciousness, with the advent of language and self-consciousness and an explicit sense of the past and the future. And it is this which gives a thematic and personal continuity to the consciousness of every individual. As I write I am sitting at a café on Seventh Avenue, watching the world go by. My attention and focus dart to and fro—a girl in a red dress goes by, a man walking a funny dog, the sun (at last!) emerging from the clouds. These are all events which catch my attention for a moment as they happen. Why, out of a thousand possible perceptions, are these the ones I seize upon? Reflections, memories, associations lie behind them. For consciousness is always active and selective—charged with feelings and meanings uniquely our own, informing our choices and interfusing our perceptions. So it is not just Seventh Avenue that I see, but my Seventh Avenue, marked by my own selfhood and identity

We add to our world our consciousness, and impose our modes of intuition on each stimulus. That's all (Kantian) idealism claims. Not that "it's all in our heads", not that the "ideal world" is primary and the real world a shadow (although I would claim that, if provoked, but it's not necessary right now); just that we cannot separate ourselves from what we observe, without losing all observation.

And you've got to respect a guy that seems able to get a giant squid on the cover of his book, despite their irrelevance to the subject matter.

I regret that I haven't got much to say on Shostakovich's Lermontov settings. There's nothing wrong with them, though my Russian isn't up to judging whether or not they are effective settings of the texts. One must attribute some of their lack of vigour to the the Communist Party Committee's resolution of 1948, which (according to the liner notes) "obliged the composer to make his music accessible to the broad masses of working people". The Lermontov poems were set in 1950.

On a brighter note, I have been informed of an interestingly Romantic note in Lermontov's ancestry:

In 1502 a scheme was laid to settle Scots, known as strong warriors, in the Belarusian and Ukrainian castles on Dnieper, devastated by the war - to defend the country from Muscovites and Turks. About the same time the first Scots appeared in the Muscovian army. From then on they fought for both sides, very frequently changing their master to the higher bidder. Famous poet of 19th century, Mikhail Lermontov, "Russian Byron," was a descendant of Scottish mercenary George Learmont who changed his sides several times in wars between Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and Russia until he finally settled in Moscow ca. 1613.

Splendid! And here's an edition of A Hero of Our Time whose cover was drawn by Edward Gorey.

Another post at USS Clueless, with which I generally agree. I would point out that while the post-moderns have already declared that they've gone "beyond good and evil", a democracy always tends that way, as it struggles to become more inclusive, less judgmental. What preserves a democracy, or even a republic, is the ideals on which it was founded, and the strength with which the people clasp those ideals. In the case of the United States of America, those ideals are rather firmly enunciated.