Tuesday, April 30, 2013

The Conet Project / 1111 Edition




For more than 45 years the Shortwave radio spectrum has been used by the worlds intelligence agencies to transmit secret messages. These messages are transmitted by hundreds of “Numbers Stations”.

Shortwave Numbers Stations are a perfect method of anonymous, one way communication. Spies located anywhere in the world can be communicated to by their masters via small, locally available, and unmodified Shortwave receivers. The encryption system used by Numbers Stations, known as a “one time pad” is unbreakable. Combine this with the fact that it is almost impossible to track down the message recipients once they are inserted into the enemy country, it becomes clear just how powerful the Numbers Station system is.
These stations use very rigid schedules, and transmit in many different languages, employing male and female voices repeating strings of numbers or phonetic letters day and night, all year round. The voices are of varying pitches and intonation; there is even a German station 'The Swedish Rhapsody' that transmitted a female child's voice!



Sunday, April 28, 2013

Library of Congress Photo Archive

http://www.loc.gov/pictures/

C.T. Hibino, artist, Manzanar Relocation Center


Was England will! WW1 Propaganda



Old methods of farming: hoeing mountain fields, North Sikkim



Saturday, April 27, 2013

Friday, April 26, 2013

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Anzac Biscuits


- 1 cup (90g) rolled oats
- 1 cup (150g) plain (all-purpose) flour
- ⅓ cup (150g) caster (superfine) sugar
- ¾ cup (60g) desiccated coconut
- 2 tablespoons golden syrup
- 125g
- 1 teaspoon bicarbonate of (baking) soda
- 2 tablespoons hot water

Preheat oven to 160°C. Mix the oats, flour, sugar and coconut in a bowl. Place the golden syrup and butter in a saucepan over low heat and melt. Mix the bicarbonate of soda with the water and add to the butter mixture. Add to the dry ingredients and mix well. Place tablespoons of the mixture, leaving space between each one for spreading, onto baking trays lined with non-stick baking paper and flatten to about 7cm in diameter. Bake for 8–10 minutes or until a deep brown. Cool on trays for 5 minutes, then transfer to wire racks to cool completely. Makes 28

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Into the Dusk-Charged Air

Far from the Rappahannock, the silent
Danube moves along toward the sea.
The brown and green Nile rolls slowly
Like the Niagara's welling descent.
Tractors stood on the green banks of the Loire
Near where it joined the Cher.
The St. Lawrence prods among black stones
And mud. But the Arno is all stones.
Wind ruffles the Hudson's
Surface. The Irawaddy is overflowing.
But the yellowish, gray Tiber
Is contained within steep banks. The Isar
Flows too fast to swim in, the Jordan's water
Courses over the flat land. The Allegheny and its boats
Were dark blue. The Moskowa is
Gray boats. The Amstel flows slowly.
Leaves fall into the Connecticut as it passes
Underneath. The Liffey is full of sewage,
Like the Seine, but unlike
The brownish-yellow Dordogne.
Mountains hem in the Colorado
And the Oder is very deep, almost
As deep as the Congo is wide.
The plain banks of the Neva are
Gray. The dark Saône flows silently.
And the Volga is long and wide
As it flows across the brownish land. The Ebro
Is blue, and slow. The Shannon flows
Swiftly between its banks. The Mississippi
Is one of the world's longest rivers, like the Amazon.
It has the Missouri for a tributary.
The Harlem flows amid factories
And buildings. The Nelson is in Canada,
Flowing. Through hard banks the Dubawnt
Forces its way. People walk near the Trent.
The landscape around the Mohawk stretches away;
The Rubicon is merely a brook.
In winter the Main
Surges; the Rhine sings its eternal song.
The Rhône slogs along through whitish banks
And the Rio Grande spins tales of the past.
The Loir bursts its frozen shackles
But the Moldau's wet mud ensnares it.
The East catches the light.
Near the Escaut the noise of factories echoes
And the sinuous Humboldt gurgles wildly.
The Po too flows, and the many-colored
Thames. Into the Atlantic Ocean
Pours the Garonne. Few ships navigate
On the Housatonic, but quite a few can be seen
On the Elbe. For centuries
The Afton has flowed.
If the Rio Negro
Could abandon its song, and the Magdalena
The jungle flowers, the Tagus
Would still flow serenely, and the Ohio
Abrade its slate banks. The tan Euphrates would
Sidle silently across the world. The Yukon
Was choked with ice, but the Susquehanna still pushed
Bravely along. The Dee caught the day's last flares
Like the Pilcomayo's carrion rose.
The Peace offered eternal fragrance
Perhaps, but the Mackenzie churned livid mud
Like tan chalk-marks. Near where
The Brahmaputra slapped swollen dikes
And the Pechora? The São Francisco
Skulks amid gray, rubbery nettles. The Liard's
Reflexes are slow, and the Arkansas erodes
Anthracite hummocks. The Paraná stinks.
The Ottawa is light emerald green
Among grays. Better that the Indus fade
In steaming sands! Let the Brazos
Freeze solid! And the Wabash turn to a leaden
Cinder of ice! The Marañón is too tepid, we must
Find a way to freeze it hard. The Ural
Is freezing slowly in the blasts. The black Yonne
Congeals nicely. And the Petit-Morin
Curls up on the solid earth. The Inn
Does not remember better times, and the Merrimack's
Galvanized. The Ganges is liquid snow by now;
The Vyatka's ice-gray. The once-molten Tennessee s
Curdled. The Japurá is a pack of ice. Gelid
The Columbia's gray loam banks. The Don's merely
A giant icicle. The Niger freezes, slowly.
The interminable Lena plods on
But the Purus' mercurial waters are icy, grim
With cold. The Loing is choked with fragments of ice.
The Weser is frozen, like liquid air.
And so is the Kama. And the beige, thickly flowing
Tocantins. The rivers bask in the cold.
The stern Uruguay chafes its banks,
A mass of ice. The Hooghly is solid
Ice. The Adour is silent, motionless.
The lovely Tigris is nothing but scratchy ice
Like the Yellowstone, with its osier-clustered banks.
The Mekong is beginning to thaw out a little
And the Donets gurgles beneath the
Huge blocks of ice. The Manzanares gushes free.
The Illinois darts through the sunny air again.
But the Dnieper is still ice-bound. Somewhere
The Salado propels irs floes, but the Roosevelt's
Frozen. The Oka is frozen solider
Than the Somme. The Minho slumbers
In winter, nor does the Snake
Remember August. Hilarious, the Canadian
Is solid ice. The Madeira slavers
Across the thawing fields, and the Plata laughs.
The Dvina soaks up the snow. The Sava's
Temperature is above freezing. The Avon
Carols noiselessly. The Drôme presses
Grass banks; the Adige's frozen
Surface is like gray pebbles.

Birds circle the Ticino. In winter
The Var was dark blue, unfrozen. The
Thwaite, cold, is choked with sandy ice;
The Ardèche glistens feebly through the freezing rain.

- John Ashbery

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A representation of a 4D object in 3D space

A square has 4 corners, a cube has 2 x 4 = 8 corners, and a tesseract has 2 x 8 = 16 corners.

A square has 4 edges, a cube has 2 x 4 + 4 = 12 edges, and a tesseract has 2 x 12 + 8 = 32 edges. (Here the +4 comes from the fact that a square has 4 corners, and the +8 comes from the fact that a cube has 8 corners.)

A square has 1 square, a cube has 2 x 1 + 4 = 6 squares, and a tesseract has 2 x 6 + 12 = 24 squares. (Here the +4 comes from the fact that a square has 4 edges, and the +12 comes from the fact that a cube has 12 edges.)

A cube has 1 cube, and a tesseract has 2 x 1 + 6 = 8 cubes. (Here the +6 comes from the fact that a cube has 6 squares.)


Monday, April 22, 2013

Sunday, April 21, 2013

The Richat Structure


The Richat Structure, also known as the Eye of the Sahara and Guelb er Richat, is a prominent circular feature in the Sahara desert of west–central Mauritania near Ouadane. This structure is a deeply eroded, slightly elliptical, 40 km in diameter, dome. The sedimentary rock exposed in this dome range in age from Late Proterozoic within the center of the dome to Ordovician sandstone around its edges. The sedimentary rocks comprising this structure dip outward at 10°-20°. Differential erosion of resistant layers of quartzite has created high-relief circular cuestas. Its center consists of a siliceous breccia covering an area that is at least 3 km in diameter.


Friday, April 19, 2013

Never met a girl like you before


Now just like in a song from days of yore

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Bockscar




I think it was necessary to drop one, but the second one could have easily been avoided. I think Japan would have capitulated anyway.

-Hans Bethe, physicist



MR. TAKAHASHI: We were about to fall in on the ground the Hiroshima Municipal Junior High School on this spot. The position of the school building was not so different from what it is today and the platform was not positioned, too. We were about to form lines facing the front, we saw a B-29 approaching and about fly over us. All of us were looking up the sky, pointing out the aircraft. Then the teachers came out from the school building and the class leaders gave the command to fall in. Our faces were all shifted from the direction of the sky to that of the platform. That was the moment when the blast came. And then the tremendous noise came and we were left in the dark. I couldn't see anything at the moment of explosion just like in this picture. We had been blown by the blast. Of course, I couldn't realize this until the darkness disappeared. I was actually blown about 10 m. My friends were all marked down on the ground by the blast just like this. Everything collapsed for as far as I could see. I felt the city of Hiroshima had disappeared all of a sudden. Then I looked at myself and found my clothes had turned into rags due to the heat. I was probably burned at the back of the head, on my back, on both arms and both legs. My skin was peeling and hanging like this. Automatically I began to walk heading west because that was the direction of my home. After a while, I noticed somebody calling my name. I looked around and found a friend of mine who lived in my town and was studying at the same school. His name was Yamamoto. He was badly burnt just like myself. We walked toward the river. And on the way we saw many victims. I saw a man whose skin was completely peeled off the upper half of his body and a woman whose eye balls were sticking out. Her whole baby was bleeding. A mother and her baby were lying with a skin completely peeled off. We desperately made a way crawling. And finally we reached the river bank. At the same moment, a fire broke out. We made a narrow escape from the fire. If we had been slower by even one second, we would have been killed by the fire. Fire was blowing into the sky becoming 4 or even 5m high. There was a small wooden bridge left, which had not been destroyed by the blast. I went over to the other side of the river using that bridge. But Yamamoto was not with me any more. He was lost somewhere. I remember I crossed the river by myself and on the other side, I purged myself into the water three times. The heat was tremendous . And I felt like my body was burning all over. For my burning body the cold water of the river was as precious as the treasure. Then I left the river, and I walked along the railroad tracks in the direction of my home. On the way, I ran into an another friend of mine, Tokujiro Hatta. I wondered why the soles of his feet were badly burnt. It was unthinkable to get burned there. But it was undeniable fact the soles were peeling and red muscle was exposed. Even I myself was terribly burnt, I could not go home ignoring him. I made him crawl using his arms and knees. Next, I made him stand on his heels and I supported him. We walked heading toward my home repeating the two methods. When we were resting because we were so exhausted, I found my grandfather's brother and his wife, in other words, great uncle and great aunt, coming toward us. That was quite coincidence. As you know, we have a proverb about meeting Buddha in Hell. My encounter with my relatives at that time was just like that. They seem to be the Buddha to me wandering in the living hell.

Afterwards I was under medical treatment for one year and half and I miraculously recovered. Out of sixty of junior high school classmates, only ten of us are alive today. Yamamoto and Hatta soon died from the acute radiation disease. The radiation corroded the bodies and killed them. I myself am still alive on this earth suffering after-effect of the bomb. I have to see regularly an ear doctor, an eye doctor, a dermatologist and a surgeon. I feel uneasy about my health every day. Further, on both of my hands, I have keloids. My injury was most serious on my right hand and I used to have terrible keloids at right here. I had it removed by surgery in 1954, which enabled me to move my wrist a little bit like this. For my four fingers are fixed just like this, and my elbow is fixed at one hundred twenty degrees and doesn't move. The muscle and bones are attached each other. Also the fourth finger of my right hand doesn't have a normal nail. It has a black nail. A piece of glass which was blown by the blast stuck here and destroyed the cells of the base of the finger now. That is why a black nail continues to grow and from now on, too, it will continue to be black and never become normal. Anyway I'm alive today together with nine of my classmates for this forty years. I've been living believing that we can never waste the depth of the victims. I've been living on dragging my body full of sickness and from time to time I question myself I wonder if it is worth living in such hardship and pain and I become desperate. But it's time I manage to pull myself together and I tell myself once my life was saved, I should fulfill my mission as a survivor in other words it has been and it is my belief that those who survived must continue to talk about our experiences. The hand down the awful memories to future generations representing the silent voices of those who had to die in misery. Throughout my life, I would like to fulfill this mission by talking about my experience both here in Japan and overseas.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

de Brazza



A romantic figure, once the toast of Paris, Pierre Savorgnan de Brazza, whom French schoolbooks call "the greatest French explorer of his time," is now relatively unknown even in Europe.

Count Pietro di Brazza Savorgnani grew up in Rome, where he spent his boyhood reading adventure novels and poring over atlases, using his imagination to fill in the spaces marked "unknown territory" on maps of Africa. He set his heart on a career in the navy, but Risorgimento Italy did not have a well-established fleet. With the help of a family friend, Pietro entered the French naval academy in 1870; at 21 he adopted French citizenship and officially changed his name.

Brazza's first sight of central Africa came in 1872, as his ship neared present-day Gabon on an antislavery mission. Trading posts had been established along the coast, but the interior remained a mystery to Europeans. The following year, his plan to explore equatorial Africa with an eye toward commerce and colonization found favor with the French government. He began preparing a new kind of colonial mission, with a minimum of arms and several tons of cloth, glassware, and tools to be used for barter and as gifts for the tribal chieftains, explaining that he intended to use violence only as a last resort. His entire staff consisted of two Europeans (a doctor and a naturalist), 12 Senegalese infantrymen, and two native interpreters. Between 1875 and 1878 this first mission covered 900 miles of inland territory, discovering several rivers and many plant and animal species unknown in Europe, all with the aid of the native tribes. Brazza's natural charm and unhurried manner always seemed to enable him to establish friendly relations.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Monday, April 15, 2013

The Song

The name whispered through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible butterfly it flittered from lip to lip, never said out loud, never forgotten. Whenever protection money was handed over to the gangs - or to the policia - the name was muttered underbreath like a curse. When children were whisked off the street by their parents to avoid the bullets that filled the air, the name was offered up in prayer. When a junky broke through a bathroom window to steal for the next hit, the name rained down in anger.

The poor, the hungry, the weak, the exploited; they lit their candles for one name. For one man.

Barros, son of Garros.

The saviour of the favela crouched beneath the overhanging roof to stay out of the rain. Fishing amongst his rags he took out a crumpled cigarette and a lighter. After a few strikes the flint caught, its spark flaring brightly against the darkening evening. He drew deep on the fire he had created. Exhaling, he looked through the cool blue smoke at Magdalena, sitting on her front step.

‘So, grandmother,’ said Barros. ‘I have come to say farewell.’

‘Fare me no wells, Barros son of Garros,’ said Magdalena. ‘I know where you are going. To see Vorpales.’

Barros spat on the ground at the mention of the name. ‘Aye, grandmother. I am. You know it is time.’

Magdalena reached her hand into a small brown bag she held in her lap and pulled out a plantain.

‘You see this plantain Barros? They always remind me of your father. He had stuffed plantain between his ears and would not listen to wise words when he heard them. This plantain, I think it is reminding me of you now. Who knows where Vorpales’ secret cash room is? Is it wise old Magdalena, or is it stupid plantain head Barros? Well?’

‘It is wise Magdalena,’ said Barros, smiling.

‘And who knows when Vorpales will be in his secret cash room, without any guards? Is it wise old Magdalena, or Mr Stupid Plantain Head?’

‘You know all, grandmother. But I cannot ask you.’

‘Nobody asked anything, who has a stupid head full of plantain and will do what I say?’

‘Grandmother.’

‘Plantain?’

Barros sighed. ‘When will I live to best you in an argument?’

‘Your father asked me the same question. For a stupid plantain, he should have known better. Now come on.’

The two figures moved out into the rain that was still falling, the water draining away into shallow ditches that just overflowed again, pouring water back onto the streets. As they made their way uphill, the detritus of poverty; broken chairs, empty bottles and fallen souls, swept past them and behind them and into history. The water began to rise, covering their feet, then their ankles, then up to their shins. Magdalena grabbed Barros’ arm and stopped, leaning into the shadow of a building and out of the current.

‘Hold Barros. Hold. I need to rest.’

‘Wait here grandmother. Just tell me the way and you can stay here.’

‘No Barros. I said no. I just need. I just need some strength.’

The song began a hundred years before in the slave fields, its tune shaped by hatred and misery, its rhythm formed by beatings and punishment. But it was a song that drew strength from oppression, and gave strength to the oppressed. A song that was passed down from generation to generation, kept secret but kept alive as new oppressions, and new masters came to power. It was the song of hope that Barros began to sing to Magdalena, sodden and wet, in the back corner of the favela.

Although Barros would never know it, these were his last moments that would immortalise him forever, as together they stumbled forward in the rain, singing softly at first, and then louder and louder until the song of hope echoed through the narrow alleyways of the favela. Like an invisible trumpet, it was shouted from mouth to mouth, never to be forgotten. Whenever protection money was refused to be paid to the gangs - or to the policia - the song was sung like a talisman. When children played on the streets that had been taken back by the people, they sung the song with joy and laughter. Whenever a family came together again at the end of a long day, the song was sung with quiet thanks.

The song of hope. The song of Barros, son of Garros.

Friday, April 12, 2013

Sacrifice

It wanted to sacrifice one of the new iPads. You know, the whole deal – candles, pentagrams, incantations – with a shiny slab of glass and metal ‘designed in California’ sitting right there in the middle of it all. Not working of course. (The whole ‘eons of darkness’ thing was bit of an own goal in retrospect). But that didn’t stop the ceremony going ahead. The end result was a small, charred pile of glass and metal. Pretty much the exact same result as the attempts with the iPad 2, the iPad and the various iPhones we had tried.

At least the Apple gizmos were physical objects. I mean, geez, there was a hell of an argument when It wanted to sacrifice a sub-prime mortgage. How do you explain collateralised security to something which only has a loose concept of time? Let alone the idea of ‘commerce’. Didn’t matter. The name had been descryed so we had to sacrifice it. I think It was a bit disappointed when It saw just a small piece of paper on the altar. You can never tell what It’s feeling I know, but all those blood gutters had been hewed into the obsidian for a reason.

There was an easier run after that. The portrait of Mao from the Tienanmen Gate, the left hand of Christ the Redeemer, the Magna Carta. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty busy, but it wasn’t complicated like.

Global warming was tricky. How do you ritually disembowel four hundred and fifty parts per million of carbon in the atmosphere? An SUV? Too gauche. Carbon Trading Permits? That would just be the sub-prime disaster all over again. In the end we stuck a polar bear up there. It’s kind of symbolic I guess, and I thought some good old fashioned blood-letting might cheer It up a bit.

I still don’t know why terrorism came up. Good grief, It is literally the ‘Lord Of’. The whole place runs on terror; it’s our religion, our currency, our daily bread. And now it wanted to sacrifice it? I just didn’t know what to do.

‘I will be the sacrifice’ It said.

‘How can you sacrifice yourself? Kind of defeats the purpose doesn’t it?’

‘Do you remember why we came here? What we did all this for?’

‘Doesn't matter.'

'Do you still love me?'

Gordon Bennett. Is that what this was all about? 'You're not my wife anymore. You're the Dark Lord.'

She smiled that smile that creased the corners of her soft blue eyes. She always knew my weaknesses. I picked up the knife.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Internationale situationniste

On the Passage of a few People through a Rather Brief Moment in Time: The Situationist International 1956-1972 

In societies dominated by modern conditions of production, life is presented as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has receded into a representation.




A better translation (although a horrible site design).

http://www.bopsecrets.org/SI/debord/

Monday, April 8, 2013

Sunday, April 7, 2013

The Library of Unwritten Books

"So, uh, Uncle Tory, what exactly is it you do here?" said Tim.

"Well, I'm a librarian aren't I," replied Tory.

Tim looked around the bare apartment. "I don't see many books."

Tory smiled. "Ah lad, right you are. That's because it's a library of unwritten books, see?"

"Uh," Tim hesitated. "How can you be a librarian of unwritten books?"

"It's like, well. It's like I'm a harbourmaster see, standing out on the pier at night. All I have is one small lantern of me own imagination to try and see out over the water. I know ships are out there, in the darkness, sailing to and fro. But I can't see what they look like or where they're going. Occasionally one may venture closer to shore where my small lantern can shed some light on it. But many of these books, like the ships, stay out in the darkness. But they still need a light to refer to. That's my job."

"Well wouldn't that make you a lighthouse, not a harbourmaster?"

"Look kid, it's my metaphor, I'll call it what I want."

"But if no one has written a book, there's nothing to catalogue," said Tim.

"You'd think that, but it's not quite true. Everyone wants to have written a book, but very few people ever want to actually write one. It's the writing part that's hard, see. Much easier just to dream up your perfect book in your head without all that messy writing business. All I do is catalogue what people are thinking. And there you have it, a perfect library filled with perfect books that are never written."

"I'm not sure I understand Uncle Tory."

"Tell you what kid, as a favour to you for helpin' me, I'll catalogue your unwritten book in the library."

"I don't have one."

"Don't piss about with me, you must have a book that you think about, in the quiet hours, that you want to have written."

"Well, yes. Sort of."

"OK then out with it, and I will catalogue it. Only a twenty dollar stocking fee."

Tim frowned. "What? Twenty dollars for me to tell you a story? Shouldn't you pay me?" he said.

"No it wouldn't work that way see. I'm cataloging you right? Your work will be in the library, numbered and all. The money is just a way of confirming like, in your own mind, that makes it a real transaction."

"I don't know Uncle Tory. Twenty dollars?"

"Flat rate. Applies to all writers I'm afraid."

"OK then, if you say so," Tim fished out his wallet. "But this is my entire week's pocket money. I don't have any more."

"That's fine Timmy boy. Fine and dandy." Tory's eyes focused on the note. "Now just hand it over, there's a good boy. No need to tell your ma 'bout this by the by. You'll go right in the library you will."

Tim slowly held out the note and Tory leaped forward and snatched it away, stuffing it down into his pocket, smiling. He could taste the whiskey already.

"So," said Tim. "Do you want to hear the story?"

"What? Oh right then. Let's have it," said Tory. "What's it called?"

"It's a murder mystery called 'The Mystery of Murder Mansion.'"

Tory frowned. "That's it?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just kind of, well, boring innit?"

"I think it sounds mysterious," said Tim.

"Well if by 'sounds mysterious' you mean it sounds like the word mysterious, being that the word is right there in the title, then yeah. I guess. But it's a bit vague. What's it about?"

"Well, it's about this boy who solves..."

Tory slapped his face. "Oh gawd, stop stop stop," he said. "Look kid. People don't want to read about that guff nowadays."

"Well what do they want to read?"

"You know, stupid shit. Like robot vampires that have sex with zombies while fighting off an alien invasion."

"I don't read that sort of stuff."

"Well you're not most people. Tell you what, instead of 'mystery house of mysteries', or whatever you called it, lets call it, uh, 'The Unctillious Adventures of Candyshreikers Anonymous'. A classic whodunit where a three hundred year old Jack Russell terrier must solve an ancient pharaoh's curse with the help of a talking prosthetic."

"Prosthetic what?"

"Never you mind. Kids these days, I don't know."

"That's it?"

"Of course, that's a grand book," said Tory.

"And that's my entry into the library of unwritten books?"

"Too right it is. Now shove off, it's almost closing time down at the local and your Uncle Tory has to go and check out some works by Glen Livet."

"Is he a Scottish author?"

"Yeah, well, Scottish at least. Now I tol' you. Bugger off."

Friday, April 5, 2013

What was the date one million days ago?


To get 1,000,000 days in years, first divide by 365.2425 (the length of a year averaged over 400 years; 365.25 doesn’t take the non-leap-yearness of years divisible by 100 but not by 400). That gives approximately 2,737.907 years. To get more specific, let’s take 2,400 years (876,582 days) out, which leaves us with 123,418 days. In every 100 years after a 400-multiple, there are 36,524 days, so we can subtract another 3 of those (109,572), giving us 2,700 years plus 13,846 days. Every 4 years in the next century equals 1,461 days, so we can subtract 9 of those (13,149), giving 2,736 years and 697 days. Another 365 days off gives 2,737 years and 332 days. (Depending on what year the calculation starts and ends in, it might be 331 days instead of 332.)

Since you’re trying to find how long ago that is, we know what year the calculation starts in, but saying what day the answer is is troublesome, because we didn’t always use the Gregorian calendar which is in current use. And 2,700 years ago, we didn’t even have the Julian calendar yet. So I’ll just pretend that we’re using the current-day calendar. I'll also pretend that, since there wasn't a year 0, that 1 BC, 5 BC, 9 BC, etc. are leap years using today's calendar. Following the 400-year rule, 101 BC, 201 BC, and 301 BC would not be leap years, but 401 BC would be.

2,400 years ago (2013-2400 = -387, then -387-1 = -388, so 388 B.C.) was 876,582 days ago. 300 years before that was (3×35,524)+1 days before that; you have to add another day because you're passing 401 BC, which was a leap year. That puts us in 688 BC, with today's date, and another 13,845 days to go. Going back another 36 years takes off (9×1,461)-1 days; you have to subtract another day because you're passing 701, which was not a leap year. That puts us in 724 BC with today's date, and another 697 days. Subtract 366 since 725 BC was a leap year, putting us in 725 BC with today's date, and 331 days left to go. If today is April 5, then 331 days ago in a non-leap year would April 5 in 726 BC plus 34 days, which would be:

May 9 726 BC. (A Wednesday to be precise).


Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Tuesday, April 2, 2013