The Eternal City

https://exhibits.stanford.edu/lanciani/browse

Pale Fire - Hypertext

Stranger Things Season 2

Dark Sun: Shattered Lands

The Spider of Yabzhi Taktser By Woeser

http://highpeakspureearth.com/2017/poem-the-spider-of-yabzhi-taktser-by-woeser/



Translation by Ian Boyden



That afternoon the savage light
fell on ordinary, worldly faces,
the faces golden
as if stone were turned to gold,
transformed into unusual treasure.

We walked Jiangsu Road . Yes,
the Jiangsu Road in the southern part of Lhasa.
The road’s name is a violation that does not belong here—
you understand?
Although I am older than my two friends,
I’m an acha  who’s a full head shorter.
We spoke Tibetan, Chinese, and English,
although I only speak Chinese and Tibetan.
We were followed, I don’t know by who or how many.
They were like tails we couldn’t shake loose.
They stood there on the corners,
their eyes like cunning rats,
with their tiny swallowed hearts,
such trembling, wretched obsequious worms.
And there in the shadows of the roadside trees
people milled about outside of shops
their faces void of light
discussing business
riddled with anxiety.

We walked through Central Beijing Road ,
this holy city so long ago embedded with foreign names.
Each name is like its own occupation—one after another,
everyone’s grown so accustomed to them,
no one knows to think the names are strange.
Sunshine, ah, golden sunshine,
our warm shadows fell long across the colorful floor tiles.
Surveillance cameras everywhere
hung in the high places
their eyes fell upon our bodies
on everyone’s bodies—
it seemed our backs grew cold.
Even so, I didn’t want to turn my head to look.
I didn’t want to stop,
I just wanted to keep going forward
and so we walked with long strides.
We grinned and laughed—
we were so handsome
cherishing this moment of apparent freedom
and together we sighed the slogan of the oppressor
“So Happy and Blessed!”

Go straight, then turn right—
how many times have I returned to visit Yabzhi Takster?
This mansion which carries the family name of His Holiness
was built more than sixty years ago, half of it already in ruins.
However, I don’t want to retell history—
the earliest happy gathering,
the rapid tumble to impermanence
after being forced to abandon it,
the tears they shed while leaving.
Those who occupied it were outsiders
who wore green clothes, blue clothes,
outsiders reincarnated as hungry ghosts,
reincarnated as hermit crabs occupying the shell of another.
Today, the ancient orchards and gardens
have become a parking lot
a Sichuan restaurant
a shopping mall.
Many parts of the main building
and the outer courtyards have collapsed,
almost no windows still intact.

We stood on the roof of a nearby market
and looked down.
I was astonished at this huge wound that cannot be healed
astonished to see the mansion was so close to the Phodrang Potala
—so close, so close.

I harbored tears filled with self-criticism:
I’m an incapable, powerless waste.

We walked into the empty wilderness of the outer courtyard
half-filled with weeds and wildflowers,
half-filled with bicycles and motorcycles.
A senseless warehouse.
A man and woman who seemed like workers
passed by carrying plastic bags.
Four or five tall, lacquer-black mastiffs
were chained in a corner downstairs
their eyes of desperation.
They could only show their sharp teeth,
could only utter futile barks.
They belonged to the owner of a nearby Sichuan restaurant
who was waiting to sell them at a good price.
A few days later when we snuck in again
we ran into him as he came to feed them.
He assumed the posture of the owner
but his bluff to expel us had no effect.
He called a man wearing a security uniform—a Tibetan—
to rid the place of us.
But I asked him in Tibetan, “Who is the real owner of this place?”
My question rendered him helpless,
na, na, unable to form a sentence.

Walking up the stairs from the garbage-strewn ground floor
we held our breath as we passed
through a winding corridor crosshatched with cracks.
A few rows of iron railings purchased from India
had bloomed rust but were still sturdy,
their consecutive patterns of sunlight and shadow
framing an unknowable maze like a foreign country.
We leaned on a railing and looked around.
The original white walls were mottled,
the black window frames had split apart,
the ends of the eaves were carved
with sacred animals, magic clouds, and lotus flowers.
Rotten wood strained
to support the structure of the mansion
and in a dark hall lined with ten or so columns
several shabby tables and chairs were scattered about,
discarded by the last people who left.
A few beams of light
fell obliquely from a clear story
through flying dust, flickering phantoms
as if they were monks wearing masks slowly performing Cham
I noticed a window to the northwest
through this opening lined with blades of glass
I could perfectly see the Phodrang Potala
and it seemed like I was looking into the past,
and saw, within all the worry and grief
of the first years of the occupation,
the commitment of the Venerable Youth .
I turned from this only to be shocked again
by a broken mirror hanging from a pillar.
I hung there, reflected as a helpless Self
carrying an expression
of the desire to hide from the world.
I didn’t dare get closer,
I was scared I might catch a glimpse of a singular shadow
fleeing in a panic in the middle of the night,
1959.
I was scared I might hear His Holiness
who has passed most of his life in foreign countries,
might hear him whisper:
“Your home, your friends, your country—suddenly lost…”

Is it possible
I lived here in a previous life?
That I endured all the parting?
Is it possible
in the past I was in so much pain
I did not want to live,
yet exhausted my mind just to survive?
Unexpectedly there rose the desire to escape
but still I lingered in this room filled with vestigial traces:
the walls covered with old portraits of popular Hong Kong stars,
a front page of Tibet Daily from over twenty years ago
covering news of the 14th National Congress of the Chinese Communist Party,
a completely shredded print of the Potala Palace,
Chinese characters pasted to some of the doors
reading “Blessing” and “Great Prosperity in the New Year.”
Another door carried the Chinese word “Office” written in red lacquer
and pasted to yet another door, a deathly pale seal:
Petition presented on January 5, 2005…
And a long-bearded Chinese door god,
his right hand holding a pagoda,
his left hand lifting an iron hammer.
In one nook there was a goat skull with a pair of empty eyes
its two burned horns curling out
as if in the past it were desperate for help.
In another nook, the original arkar floor was gone
and from the cracks there grew small blades of grass
full of life.
In another spot, a chunk of wood the size of your hand—
which must have been a gorgeous column cap that fell long ago:
the paint still there
the carving still there.
It was the essence of this ancient house—
I quietly slipped it into my backpack.

A single piece of turquoise hangs from my neck
it is my secret guide
that led me to the destiny of my next encounter:

Dom!

Hanging outside a broken window
and floating dangerously in midair,
dom, a spider trapped in threads it spit out itself,
floated on a web so thin it could almost not be seen.
It had already become a mummy
looking into the abyss,
into a section of tragic collapse.
Was it the only dead bit of life here?
Was it the only existing guardian here?
Had it overestimated its own position?
Had it wanted to capture these invincible demons?

Hanging in front of my eyes, the spider was another mirror,
its lacquer-black carapace glimmering in the traitorous light.
Through some kind of struggle, it had become a metaphor.
I dared not touch it, afraid that in that instant
it might disappear.

I think back to those years.
This symbolic animal must not have been the only one of its kind,
and there must have been the host’s house pets too—
there must have been cats and mice
and dogs, the special Lhasa apso, running back and forth
from the Buddha hall to the living room and the bedrooms
perhaps peacefully falling asleep.
And surely a big dog too?
I mean a mastiff from the grasslands.
He would have stayed in the yard with the gatekeeper,
stood at the entrance of the main gate—loyal, devoted, invincible.

Dom—this is how one says “spider” in Tibetan
the m soft, almost non-existent.

Domthag—this is how one says “spider web”
the m subtle as if it were being swallowed.

Compared with other lifeforms
the spider’s vitality is perhaps more tenacious:
it is easier for it to hide itself in another place and survive.
And yet it is also easier for the spider to die alone
in a violent, unnatural death that goes unreported.

This spider, “born like a fortress to imprison enemies,”
wove the world into a lifetime of web,
bound by and to itself,
unable to extricate itself from its own threads—

just like us
and our unfathomable fate.

Woeser
Beijing
July 31 – August 3, 2017

Translated by Ian Boyden
San Juan Island
September 19, 2017

Translator’s note: This is poem of extraordinary scale and complexity. I called on many of my friends to help me figure out how to render it into English. My deepest thanks to Rong Sun, Dechen Pemba, Jim Canary, Jennifer Boyden, and Sam Hamill for their insights and suggestions. And my great gratitude to Woeser for her patience with my many questions as I worked to understand the poem as completely as I possibly could.

33 things Jin Shentang likes (as translated by B. O'Kane)

 

  
 
 
 

  
 

 
 

20,000 leagues under the sea

Watch of the Week: Dornblüth and Sohn

http://www.watchwallpapers.com/dbse.htm

I hear, much support for the monarchy

Written During the Rain One Night and Sent Back North

Why not just use asteroids for planetary bombardment since rocks are free?

Town of Cats

At Koenji Station, Tengo boarded the Chuo Line inbound rapid-service train. The car was empty. He had nothing planned that day. Wherever he went and whatever he did (or didn’t do) was entirely up to him. It was ten o’clock on a windless summer morning, and the sun was beating down. The train passed Shinjuku, Yotsuya, Ochanomizu, and arrived at Tokyo Central Station, the end of the line. Everyone got off, and Tengo followed suit. Then he sat on a bench and gave some thought to where he should go. “I can go anywhere I decide to,” he told himself. “It looks as if it’s going to be a hot day. I could go to the seashore.” He raised his head and studied the platform guide.

At that point, he realized what he had been doing all along.

He tried shaking his head a few times, but the idea that had struck him would not go away. He had probably made up his mind unconsciously the moment he boarded the Chuo Line train in Koenji. He heaved a sigh, stood up from the bench, and asked a station employee for the fastest connection to Chikura. The man flipped through the pages of a thick volume of train schedules. He should take the 11:30 special express train to Tateyama, the man said, and transfer there to a local; he would arrive at Chikura shortly after two o’clock. Tengo bought a Tokyo-Chikura round-trip ticket. Then he went to a restaurant in the station and ordered rice and curry and a salad.

Going to see his father was a depressing prospect. He had never much liked the man, and his father had no special love for him, either. He had retired four years earlier and, soon afterward, entered a sanatorium in Chikura that specialized in patients with cognitive disorders. Tengo had visited him there no more than twice—the first time just after he had entered the facility, when a procedural problem required Tengo, as the only relative, to be there. The second visit had also involved an administrative matter. Two times: that was it.

The sanatorium stood on a large plot of land by the coast. It was an odd combination of elegant old wooden buildings and new three-story reinforced-concrete buildings. The air was fresh, however, and, aside from the roar of the surf, it was always quiet. An imposing pine grove formed a windbreak along the edge of the garden. And the medical facilities were excellent. With his health insurance, retirement bonus, savings, and pension, Tengo’s father could probably spend the rest of his life there quite comfortably. He might not leave behind any sizable inheritance, but at least he would be taken care of, for which Tengo was tremendously grateful. Tengo had no intention of taking anything from him or giving anything to him. They were two separate human beings who had come from—and were heading toward—entirely different places. By chance, they had spent some years of life together—that was all. It was a shame that it had come to that, but there was absolutely nothing that Tengo could do about it.

Tengo paid his check and went to the platform to wait for the Tateyama train. His only fellow-passengers were happy-looking families heading out for a few days at the beach.


Most people think of Sunday as a day of rest. Throughout his childhood, however, Tengo had never once viewed Sunday as a day to enjoy. For him, Sunday was like a misshapen moon that showed only its dark side. When the weekend came, his whole body began to feel sluggish and achy, and his appetite would disappear. He had even prayed for Sunday not to come, though his prayers were never answered.

When Tengo was a boy, his father was a collector of subscription fees for NHK—Japan’s quasi-governmental radio and television network—and, every Sunday, he would take Tengo with him as he went door to door soliciting payment. Tengo had started going on these rounds before he entered kindergarten and continued through fifth grade without a single weekend off. He had no idea whether other NHK fee collectors worked on Sundays, but, for as long as he could remember, his father always had. If anything, his father worked with even more enthusiasm than usual, because on Sundays he could catch the people who were usually out during the week.

Tengo’s father had several reasons for taking him along on his rounds. One reason was that he could not leave the boy at home alone. On weekdays and Saturdays, Tengo could go to school or to day care, but these institutions were closed on Sundays. Another reason, Tengo’s father said, was that it was important for a father to show his son what kind of work he did. A child should learn early on what activity was supporting him, and he should appreciate the importance of labor. Tengo’s father had been sent out to work in the fields on his father’s farm, on Sunday like any other day, from the time he was old enough to understand anything. He had even been kept out of school during the busiest seasons. To him, such a life was a given.

Tengo’s father’s third and final reason was a more calculating one, which was why it had left the deepest scars on his son’s heart. Tengo’s father was well aware that having a small child with him made his job easier. Even people who were determined not to pay often ended up forking over the money when a little boy was staring up at them, which was why Tengo’s father saved his most difficult routes for Sunday. Tengo sensed from the beginning that this was the role he was expected to play, and he absolutely hated it. But he also felt that he had to perform it as cleverly as he could in order to please his father. If he pleased his father, he would be treated kindly that day. He might as well have been a trained monkey.

Tengo’s one consolation was that his father’s beat was fairly far from home. They lived in a suburban residential district outside the city of Ichikawa, and his father’s rounds were in the center of the city. At least he was able to avoid doing collections at the homes of his classmates. Occasionally, though, while walking in the downtown shopping area, he would spot a classmate on the street. When this happened, he ducked behind his father to keep from being noticed.

On Monday mornings, his school friends would talk excitedly about where they had gone and what they had done the day before. They went to amusement parks and zoos and baseball games. In the summer, they went swimming, in the winter skiing. But Tengo had nothing to talk about. From morning to evening on Sundays, he and his father rang the doorbells of strangers’ houses, bowed their heads, and took money from whoever came to the door. If people didn’t want to pay, his father would threaten or cajole them. If they tried to talk their way out of paying, his father would raise his voice. Sometimes he would curse at them like stray dogs. Such experiences were not the sort of thing that Tengo could share with friends. He could not help feeling like a kind of alien in the society of middle-class children of white-collar workers. He lived a different kind of life in a different world. Luckily, his grades were outstanding, as was his athletic ability. So even though he was an alien he was never an outcast. In most circumstances, he was treated with respect. But whenever the other boys invited him to go somewhere or to visit their homes on a Sunday he had to turn them down. Soon, they stopped asking.

Ezra Orion, Intergalactic Sculpture

Doot Dude

Jean-Henri Casimir Fabre

http://www.efabre.net/

TNG: Mirror Broken

The whistling song

Sargon II: King of Assyria

Gran Turismo Sport

Anne Carson

Six Ways to Compute the Relative Value of Australian Amounts, 1828 to the Present

https://www.measuringworth.com/australiacompare/index.php


In 1932, the year it opened, the fare on the Sydney Harbour Bridge was 6 pence for a car (half that for horse and rider.) In 2011, the relative real price of that 6 pence is $1.93 and the relative labor price is almost $8.00. The income value is $14.00. The current fare on the bridge and the tunnel is a maximum of $4.00, so the commute is a bit more expensive in in terms of goods, but lots cheaper in relative earnings.


An important moment in Australia's industrial development was the first all-Australian mass produced car. The Holden 48-215, commonly known as the "FX", was unveiled at the end of 1948 with a price tag of £733. The sticker price clearly increased but looking at it in 2015 terms we find a price tag of $37440 using the CPI measure. Using the GDP deflator results in a slightly higher value, namely $42,360, though still not dramatically different from the prices of current popular full sized sedan car models. In terms of labour costs the price tag represents $116,740 in 2015 values, using average weekly earnings, which indicates that the average worker had to work substantially longer than their modern counterparts to be able to afford such a car.


Attracting qualified medical personal to remote locations seems to have been a problem now and then. In 1870 the mining community of Yankalilla on the Fleurieu Peninsula advertised for a new surgeon as their current one had decided to move on to even more remote areas. The ad stated that the annual income of the previous resident had never fallen below £260 a year. What does that income buy today? Using the CPI to bring it to 2015 values results in $29,420, hardly an enticing salary. However, compared to average weekly earnings the income represents $285,400, a number quite in line with today's salaries for specialized medical doctors.

The Wuchang Uprising of October 10, 1911

The Wuchang Uprising of October 10, 1911 started the Xinhai Revolution, which led to the collapse of the Qing Dynasty and the establishment of the Republic of China (ROC). In 1900, the ruling Qing Dynasty created a modernized army called the "New Army". At the time, the city of Wuchang, on the Yangtze River in the province of Hubei, had the most modern military industry. It began manufacturing weapons and other military equipment for the New Army. Sun Yat-sen's revolutionary ideas extensively influenced the officers and soldiers of the New Army in Wuchang; many joined revolutionary organizations.

Hubei government's announcement to the residents after the uprising


The uprising itself broke out by accident. Revolutionaries in the Russian concession of the city had been building bombs, one of which accidentally exploded. This led police to investigate, and they discovered lists of Literary Society members within the New Army. Facing arrest, and certain execution, they staged a coup. The local officials panicked and fled, and the army took over the city in less than a day. The revolutionaries then telegraphed the other provinces asking them to declare their independence. Within six weeks, fifteen provinces had seceded.

Artillery to fight against the Qing army


The revolt was still considered merely the latest in a series of mutinies that had occurred in southern China. It was widely expected to be put down quickly, and ended up having much larger implications only because the Qing dynasty delayed action against the rebellion, allowing provincial assemblies in many southern provinces to declare independence from the Qing and declare allegiance to the rebellion.



Revolutionaries was in conflict with the Qing army in Hankou.


Sun Yat-sen himself played no direct part in the uprising. He was traveling in the United States, trying to drum up support from overseas Chinese. He found out about the uprising by reading a newspaper report in Denver, Colorado. Within the Revolutionary Alliance, Sun had favored an uprising in his native Guangdong, citing local anti-Manchu sentiment. Sun's rival within the Alliance, Huang Xing, had favored an uprising in central China and had been planning an uprising for late October. The revolutionary leaders were thus caught off guard, leaving the mutineers without a leader. Li Yuanhong was dragged from under his bed and forced at gunpoint to become the leader of the Rebellion, and went on to become the only man to ever serve twice as president of the republican government of Beijing.

Many Chinese had felt that the Qing dynasty had lost the mandate of heaven, and this may have contributed to the revolt. Natural disasters, such as fires and floods, are often considered portents, and the Yangtze had overflowed its banks in 1911; the revolting troops were situated near that river. Such a flood would have had a profound psychological impact on government officials, rebels, peasants, and other Chinese in the vicinity. The flood had killed 100,000 people.

Revolutionaries ready to attach the Qing army in Hankou after the Wuchang uprising.


The Qing government, led by the regent 2nd Prince Chun, failed to respond for a crucial few weeks. This gave the revolutionaries time to declare a provisional government. They were joined by other provincial assemblies. Within a month, representatives from the seceding provinces had met and declared a Republic of China. Sun returned to China on December 25, and though he was elected provisional president of the Republic of China by the representatives of the sixteen provisional assemblies (an act that angered Yuan Shikai), Sun Yat-sen was aware of Yuan Shikai's military power and so he supported an earlier deal that left Yuan in charge.

Katsushika Hokusai Complete Works

https://www.katsushikahokusai.org/

Katsushika Hokusai (葛飾北斎, Katsushika Hokusai? 1760–May 10, 1849) was a Japanese artist, ukiyo-e painter and printmaker of the Edo period. In his time he was Japan's leading expert on Chinese painting. Born in Edo (now Tokyo), Hokusai is best-known as author of the woodblock print series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (c. 1831) which includes the iconic and internationally recognized print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa, created during the 1820s. Hokusai created the "Thirty-Six Views" both as a response to a domestic travel boom and as part of a personal obsession with Mount Fuji. It was this series, specifically The Great Wave print and Fuji in Clear Weather, that secured Hokusai’s fame both within Japan and overseas. As historian Richard Lane concludes, “Indeed, if there is one work that made Hokusai's name, both in Japan and abroad, it must be this monumental print-series...” While Hokusai's work prior to this series is certainly important, it was not until this series that he gained broad recognition and left a lasting impact on the art world. It was The Great Wave print that initially received, and continues to receive, acclaim and popularity in the Western world.

Lock 'n Load: Heroes of Stalingrad

Art of the Poster 1880-1918

https://www.flickr.com/photos/69184488@N06/sets/72157636362161535