Bee Here Now

Russian Bee Stamps 2005


British Bee Stamps 2015


Elsewhere other-accessible

Royal Mail bee stamps designed to raise awareness of species

Wails from the Crypt

From the depths of the crypt at St Giles
Came a scream that resounded for miles…
Said the vicar: “Good gracious!
Has Father Ignatius
Forgotten the Bishop has piles?”

(Anonymous)


Elsewhere other-accessible…

Doc Proc — a review of Dr Miriam B. Stimbers’ Botty: An Unnatural History of the Backside (2014)

Delta Skelta

“When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide,
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
Till I get to the bottom and I see you again.” — The Beatles, “Helter Skelter” (1968)


First stage of fractal #1











Animated fractal #1


First stage of fractal #2













Animated fractal #2

See-Saw Jaw

From Sierpiński triangle to T-square to Mandibles (and back again) (animated)
(Open in new window if distorted)


Elsewhere other-accessible…

Mandibular Metamorphosis — explaining the animation above
Agnathous Analysis — more on the Sierpiński triangle and T-square fractal

Genoa Ultramarina

«Il mare è la civiltà», disse [Franco Scoglio] una volta, «il sentimento, la passione, le tempeste, ma l’amore, gli sbarchi, le partenze, il mare è tutto. La follia va di pari passo con il mare». — Ultrà. Il volto nascosto delle tifoserie di calcio in Italia, Tobias Jones (2020)

• “The sea is civilization,” [Franco Scoglio] said once, “sentiment, passion, storms, love, landings, leavings, the sea is everything… madness walks with the sea.” — Ultra: The Underworld of Italian Football, Tobias Jones (2019)


Post-Performative Post-Scriptum

I’m not sure if the Italian is the original Italian or an Italian translation of Jones’s English translation of the original Italian. But it seems to be the former.


Elsewhere other-accessible…

Franco Scoglio en italiano
Franco Scoglio in English

Down in the Bassment

Cover of Damned to Earth’s self-titled debut


I like the cover and the music.


Previously Pre-Posted…

Museek — in which I don’t like the cover but do like the music
A Little Light Night Music — in which I don’t like the music but do like the cover

ConstKunst

John Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s Grounds (1825, Frick Collection)


Elsewhere other-engageable…

• Discussion of Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s Grounds (1823) at Wikipedia

Tri Num Sum

The Sum of ten consecutive Triangular Numbers:

Starting with T0 = 0, in base 10,

The sum of the first 10 triangular numbers from T0 to T9 = 165
The sum of the next 10 triangular numbers from T10 to T19 = 1165
The sum of the next 10 triangular numbers from T20 to T29 = 3165
The sum of the next 10 triangular numbers from T30 to T39 = 6165
The sum of the next 10 triangular numbers from T40 to T49 = 10165
The sum of the next 10 triangular numbers from T50 to T59 = 15165

and so on.

The same pattern is evident in other bases [when summing T0 to Tbase-1 and so on].


• As submitted by Julian Beauchamp, 9v19, to Shyam Sunder Gupta’s “Fascinating Triangular Numbers”.

Toxik TikTok

“Libs of TikTok is shaping our entire political conversation about the rights of LGBTQ people to participate in society,” [Ari] Drennen said. “It feels like they’re single-handedly taking us back a decade in terms of the public discourse around LGBTQ rights. It’s been like nothing we’ve ever really seen.” — “Meet the woman behind Libs of TikTok, secretly fueling the right’s outrage machine”, The Washington Post, 19iv22.


Elsewhere other-accessible

Ex-Term-In-Ate! — interrogating issues around “in terms of”…
All posts interrogating issues around “in terms of”…

HMortuis

“The Garden of Prosperpine”

By Algernon Charles Swinburne


Here, where the world is quiet;
         Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
         In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
         A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
         And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
         For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
         And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
         And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
         Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
         And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
         No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
         Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
         For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
         In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
         All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
         Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
         He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
         Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
         In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
         Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
         With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love’s who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
         From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
         She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
            The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
         And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
         The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
         And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
         Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,
         And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
         Time stoops to no man’s lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
         Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
         From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
         Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
         Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
         Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
         Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
         In an eternal night.