Starting today – The Nail Files. https://widgetworld3.wordpress.com/podcasts/
The Nail Files is a history, a user’s guide and an essential resource for children.
It was compiled by Matilda McBain under the direction of Eloise Spengler, Chief of Operations of the Nail File Organisation. The Files contain juicy details of things adults did wrong when they were young. Their purpose is to remind them that everyone makes mistakes. The objective is to lessen punishment for children if/when they accidentally do something wrong. Accidentally is the operative word and that is the reason the Files are multifunctional. They include strict instructions on how the files should be used; offer tips on the upkeep and maintenance of parents or whoever is in charge and share ideas on when and how to get adults to talk about their misbegotten childhoods.
The Nail Files was written for my children and have been enjoyed by my friends their children and early teens.
Photo:Bjørn Christian Tørrissen https://widgetworld3.wordpress.com/podcasts/
It’s Tuesday. The second blue sky of the week, first to carry winter’s bite. Grass has that damp wilted look that echoes cold. Its edges are withered. The ivy on the telegraph pole has gone spindly and cobwebs glisten left, right and centre. You’d swear we had a spider invasion but it’s only the cold making them shine. Like lace they are, and fine lace at that.
‘Silver sparkled circles shine
When morning casts her dew
Golden glints on every line
As sunshine scatters through
Wakey, wakey little one
No time to stay abed
Stretch your legs and fix your web
Your children must be fed.’
Who wrote that? Was it a man or a woman? I think it was a man. Could have been a woman with a mannish name. ‘Twas one of those names you could give a man or woman. Was it Francis? Maybe it was Leslie. Was it Leslie I wonder? Feck. I can’t remember. Now I’ll spend the whole day thinking about it and it won’t come to me ’til three o’clock tomorrow morning. What’s the bet? And I won’t get a wink of sleep ’til that happens. Photo:Muhammad Mahdi KarimI’m a right egit, myself and my spider poems. Haven’t spiders always been around, no more than myself? Webs and wrinkles. The old reliables and I sporting both side by side. I have enough on me to cover the hide of an elephant. Dementia too, that’s what the neighbours will think if they hear me talking to myself, and worse still, reciting poetry I must have learnt sixty years ago. Thank God for thick walls, otherwise I’d be in a home for the bewildered.
Mind you, that was a catchy poem though I was always convinced, man or woman, ‘twas written by someone who liked to persecute small children. Either that or he hated them outright. ‘Silver sparkled circles shine.’ Jesus! What child could say that? And who in their right mind would ask them to? I must have been the best part of a week trying to get my mouth around it when we had to learn it in school. And poor Bridie Murray, herself and her lisp. She had half the class drowned by the time she got to the end of the first verse, and herself damn near drowned by the end of the second, God bless the mark. But no one teased her for it. Who would dare? She was a foot and a half taller than all the rest of us and had four strapping brothers that were nothing short of giants. ‘Sparkled silver circles’ my backside. I can’t get it right even now.
I have a theory, well, two theories in fact. The first is that each year, at the end of Spring a particular conference is held in every state in Australia. The delegates are flies. These conferences are coordinated with an effort that puts us wingless, two-leggers to shame. At these conferences minutes are read, papers are presented, then discussed and debated. This is followed by an evening of cocktails and cowpats, a social occasion that usually sorts out the flies from the larvae. Sensible flies always manage to behave at these events. With age comes wisdom I suppose. Then you have the constipated flies who wouldn’t know fun if it hit them in the thorax. Overindulgent flies, on the other hand, usually have to spend the entire next day apologising for their indiscretions. And so on. Anyway, the whole conference concludes amidst the usual scandal and gossip. On the way out each fly is given the conference equivalent of a show bag. This bag contains badges, stickers, promotional leaflets, sometimes a scarf, always a request for a donation of sorts. The bag also holds their roster of activities for the forthcoming year. These rosters cater to each individual fly, which I think is truly incredible if not downright miraculous.
Courtesy: HubbleSite
In this roster, each fly delegate is given a number, an address and a mission. Fly XZ214539 for example is allocated to Joe Smith in South Australia (real name and address withheld). Once contact has been made between them, Joe is given the dubious privilege of waving, swatting and swearing at Fly XZ214539 for the entire summer. Wherever Joe goes, Fly XZ214539 is there. Whatever Joe does, Fly XZ214539 shares the moment. They’re inseparable.
Now, given the breathtakingly short life span of a fly (adults usually live 15 to 25 days), Joe should, theoretically, only suffer in the short term from the singular and undivided attention of Fly XZ214539. But flies, crafty little buggers that they are, have covered that eventuality. At some point in their evolution the ancesters of Fly XZ214539 learned to pass this mission on to their surviving offspring, just before they expire. Joe’s fly is testimony to this tradition. This effectively means that Joe Smith hasn’t a hope in hell of a moment’s peace for at least five months, especially when you consider that Fly XZ214539 and his missus could, potentially, produce 191,010,000,000,000,000,000 offspring in that time. So, basically as long as there is a Joe, he will always have his fly, or two (the second one being the apprentice).
Courtesy: NASA, ESA, AURA/Caltech, Palomar Observatory
My other theory is that, like flies, each and every one of us has a black dog of depression to share our lives with. For most of us this is a pretty normal state of affairs. Their presence helps us define our happiness because at some time they have taught us sadness. Through them we experience desolation which makes us appreciate better times. We celebrate the light in our lives because they have shown us despair. This is the normal state of affairs.
Unfortunately, with the black dog of depression there are a vast number of breeds. Therein lies the problem. Some people, the lucky ones, get a chihuahua. Small innocuous, pathetic really, it occasionally nips, sometimes leaves a scratch and then goes back to sleep in its corner for as long as it suits him. Others get a greyhound that hits at the speed of a locomotive and leaves its target reeling for days, weeks or even months. This breed usually leaves a scar but eventually it moves on, hopefully not to return for quite a while, if ever. Then there’s the bullmastiff, that bloody great monster. Slow, sure and persistent it straddles its prey, latches onto their jugular and their souls then watches perversely as its victim fights for every single breath. And like a true bullmastiff, it is nearly impossible to prise its jaws open or slide out from under its seventy-kilo bulk. Nearly impossible, but not quite.
That black dog is aptly named. It thrives on darkness. The bigger the black dog, the more perversely faithful it seems. At night time, when the world sleeps, it wakes to feed. It knows its victim is alone and unprotected and that is precisely when it and you need distraction.
The logical thing to do is to take it for a walk.
You don’t have to go far. Just go to your window. Open the curtains and look out and up, at the night sky. Up there thousands, millions, billions of lights, lifetimes away, share the night with you. They also share it with the black dog that sits beside, or on top of thought and feeling. But if you look take your black dog and look at him, then through him, then past him he will start to melt into the darkness and the stars will shine through. If you keep staring, and focus on those stars, that black dog can disappear completely until all that’s left are two red, glowing eyes. Those eyes can become orbiting satellites, and pretty insignificant ones at that, when you compare them to the beauty of the world at night. The stars above that always light the darkness, even on cloudy nights can even illuminate the shadows left by the black dog.
NGC 4414, a typical spiral galaxy in the constellation Coma Berenices, is about 55,000 light-years in diameter and approximately 60 million light-years away from Earth.NASA Headquarters – Greatest Images of NASA
Now, under that night sky we might seem small, nearly insignificant. But, as the stars are part of something larger, so are we, even if the black dog says otherwise. What’s more, we share a common purpose. Basically, only the biggest, the most important stars have planets to orbit them. Only they have the strength to draw lesser beings towards them and hold them in their grasp. Only they have a truly magnetic power. While we might not all be aware of it, this is where our lives intersect with the stars above. In the grand scheme of life, whether we are rich or poor, happy or sad, tired or emotional we too have our orbiting planets. Joe Smith found his with Fly XZ214539 and his offspring. The rest of us enjoy the company of the friends and relatives of Fly XZ214539.
So, if that black dog starts to prowl remember, look up. Look to the stars. Incredible worlds evolve just above us, waiting to be explored and considered. Our lives, our worries are tiny in comparison. In this present moment also, each of us is a macrocosm for another world, equally amazing. As we live and breathe we are constantly and eternally being circumnavigated, examined and probed by others more humble. To Fly XZ214539, his compatriots and an even smaller host of bugs, all of us are special. We are the focus of their conferences, the purpose of their showbags, the highlight of their rosters, the legacy for their larvae. Even if this doesn’t seem important to us, from their perspective we are, truly, the centre of the universe. We have a place.
Antique muzzle for donkey – with harness Juan R. Lascorz“He’s not happy.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“He rang you?”
“Last night…”
“Said he’d dig up the dirt.”
“Who’d listen to him, only a go between. I wouldn’t worry.”
“What’s happening at your end?”
“It’s not pretty. ”
“Bet there’s a few running for cover.”
“No one’s making eye contact, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s next.”
“Nothing. We put a muzzle on it. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. It’ll blow over.”
“D’ya think?”
“They’ve no teeth. Just say nothin.”
“But the media…”
“Like I said, head down, mouth shut. Their hands are tied.”
“Who tied them?”
“That’d be telling!”
“Jeez you’re a fair man!”
“No flies on me, and if there are, they’re paying rent.”
Censorship is the suppression of speech or other public communication which may be considered objectionable, harmful, sensitive, or inconvenient as determined by a government, media outlet, or other controlling body. It can be done by governments and private organizations or by individuals. It occurs in a variety of different contexts for a variety of reasons. It may or may not be legal. Many countries provide strong protections against censorship by law, but none of these protections are absolute and it is frequently necessary to balance conflicting rights in order to determine what can and cannot be censored. Corporate censorship is the process by which editors in corporate media outlets intervene to disrupt the publishing of information that portrays their business or business partners in a negative light, or intervene to prevent alternate offers from reaching public exposure.
Political censorship ccurs when governments hold back information from their citizens. This is often done to exert control over the populace and prevent free expression that might foment rebellion.
(Wikipedia)
“Hello?”
“How’d they get them?”
“What?”
“You know f****in’ well what. Who handed them over?”
“I have no idea.”
“You little p***k. I made you. Do you hear me? I MADE you! You wouldn’t have a pot to piss in if it wasn’t for me. Who did it?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Listen to me now, and listen carefully. I am NOT going down for this monumental f*** up. I am not taking the fall. All eyes are on me now but let me tell you I’ll take every last one of you with me. D’ya hear! D’YA HEAR ME?”
“F*** off for yourself you f***in’ egit. Didn’t cover your tracks, did you? The first rule of business – cover your arse. Don’t blame me for your stupidity.”
“I know where the bodies are buried. I’ll tell them everything.”
“I’d like to see you prove it.”
“I f****** will.”
“And how? Do you think I was stupid enough to leave a trail? You’re a joke. That’s what you are. You served your function. Bring it on and see what happens.”
“They’re camped outside my door. My wife can’t bring the kids to school! They-”
“Ask me do I care. You made your bed now f*** off and don’t call me again!
“I’ll end you. I WILL!”
“You’re all wind and piss like a young crow.”
“You P*****!”
Integrity is a concept of consistency of actions, values, methods, measures, principles, expectations, and outcomes. In ethics, integrity is regarded as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one’s actions. Integrity can be regarded as the opposite of hypocrisy, in that integrity regards internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.
The word “integrity” stems from the Latin adjective integer (whole, complete). In this context, integrity is the inner sense of “wholeness” deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others “have integrity” to the extent that they act according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold. Honesty refers to a facet of moral character and connotes positive and virtuous attributes such as integrity, truthfulness and straightforwardness along with the absence of lying, cheating or theft. Honesty is revered in many cultures and religions. Honesty means being truthful, trustworthy, loyal, fair and sincere. Honesty also means straight forward conduct.(Wikipedia)
“We need seven billion.”
“Crap! that’s a lot of moolah. F***ing hell we only have €14 billion. You’re asking me to play silly buggers with regulations.”
“We’re already in breach… 7 billion isn’t a lot if you say it fast. We’ll call it bridging.”
“When will you pay it back?”
“Never you clown. Look! This isn’t rocket science. We want money, you have it, hand it over.”
“Why?”
“Because…just because.”
“But..but,”
“Oh shut the f*** up you idiot.”
“I’ll have to borrow from overseas.”
“Ask me do I care.”
Jail Cell Andrew BardwellCorruption is an abuse of a position of trust in order to gain an undue advantage.
Corruption is also defined as ‘the misuse of entrusted
power for private gain’. It can take many forms in the public and private sectors.
Public corruption involves the misuse of public office for private gain, while private
corruption is between individuals in the private sector, for example, organised
criminals extorting money from a local business.
Fraud can be defined as intentional deception made for personal gain or to cause
damage or loss to another person. It can take many forms and can be perpetrated
against individuals, private and public organisations and at local, national and
international levels.
WHITE PAPER ON CRIME – Discussion Document No. 3 – October 2010 p.16 http://www.justice.ie
Federal Bureau of Prisons Wikimedia commons… the harm caused by major instances
of fraud can have more substantial long-term impacts on individuals and economies
than the offences of many street criminals (Weisburd and Waring 2001). p.37
Page 38 –The Criminal Evidence Act 1992 provides for the admissibility into
evidence of documents/uplifted material in circumstances where this material is
accompanied by a certificate. A number of statutes address the admissibility of
documentary evidence in prosecutions under those particular statutes, e.g., Company
Law Enforcement Act 2001, Competition Act 2002, and Companies Act 1990. p.38
A small number of very serious offences carry higher penalties.
Examples include fraudulent trading (carrying on a company’s business
knowing that its increasing debts will never be paid) and market abuse
(such as insider dealing of company shares that are listed on a stock
exchange).
Page 4 – The High Court can make an individual personally liable for all of a
company’s debts in certain circumstances, including where they are
found:
• to have known that they were involved in carrying on company
business either recklessly or with an intention to defraud someone;
or
• not to have kept proper books of account in a company, which in
turn contributed to the company’s inability to pay its debts.
Company creditors and liquidators can make these Court applications.
Page 5 -Where misconduct arises in companies that cannot pay their debts, the
High Court may take other exceptional measures, including the arrest
of company officers and the seizure of personal property if the officers
are evading responsibility for some of the debt. Liquidators and the
ODCE can ask the Court to act in this way.
Page 6 –If anyone is prejudiced (negatively affected) by the conduct of a company or one of its officers or has concerns that the conduct of the
company or one of its officers may not be lawful, they should:
• take independent professional advice to find out what legal
remedies they may have;
• report any breach of company law to the ODCE; or
• report a breach of any other law to the Garda Síochána or the
responsible regulatory body.
From – Penalties for breaches of Company Law – A Quick Guide
The Office of the Director of Corporate Enforcement
Reflections, refractions, repose – Student Lodging – the installation
Vincent van Gogh Self-portrait Detail from the Venus (Botticelli) Temple lion, Japanese porcelain Chokwesculpture Wikipedia.org
Student lodging can seem like the ultimate unmade bed, and evoke strong responses by virtue of its laissez faire approach to everyday life. But that is its attraction – the power inherent in the image. It juxtaposes the desire to ignore with the horror of seeing – albeit accidentally. It is natural, organic. It is visceral. It is based on the immediate, the contradictory, a melding of the conscious with the unconscious, suggesting the possibilities and potentialities of its creator(s).
The result is an incredibly imaginative utilisation of everyday items. Items specifically chosen to highlight the charged environment in which they live and an expression of life lived on the fringe and on a budget. From your first step inside the hallway, to your circumnavigation of mop heads, bin lids and extraneous street signs in the back yard on departure, every cubic inch beckons, unfolds and informs. One visit is just not enough simply because highlights are hard to pick from such masterful crafting of chaos. Full immersion is vital to appreciate the whole experience and this can only be achieved through a series of visits. The viewer must commit themselves, totally and without reservation otherwise questions such as ‘Did I just see what I think I saw? Did that bag move? Is that even possible? Why?’ will forever remain unanswered. Like, dislike, accept, reject – it’s your choice – but you will question and analyse despite your best effort not to. Among the highlights……
‘Haven’t seen him for a week’ – Dirty sheets/beercans/ashtrays/dead insects/animal carcasses/marine life – anything goes and in some cases, nothing is spared.
‘Your turn’ – cigarette butts impaled on cocktail sticks, painted with tiny faces – adorning the tops of old milk cartons – life meets death – and smiles…
‘Good for the brain’ – Prawn shells spoon along sink/cooker and worktop – all paying homage to a large tuna head in a strategically placed basin (very short lived and quite smelly installation in the later stages – but worth the viewing)
‘RB & C’ – Empty toilet rolls neatly cut and covering every bannister of a stairwell. A felt tip pen provided for notes, dedications and reminesences from stairwell users.
‘Never again’ – Empty rolls 2 – tile/streak/stain and mould. All combine to express the visceral reality of an attempt to cleanse, to purify and restore the body corporeal – at the expense of all else..
Flesh fly, (Sarcophagidae), Austin’s Ferry, Tasmania, Australia JJ Harrison
… and further down the hall – the void aka the hotpress – empty – untraversed and unexplored. This installation is supported by audio, soft scratchings, barely audible squeaks, a polarisation of neglect, destain and the transferral of responsibility denied by all. If you experience one of these installations, all else pales..Dead cows (standard in any butcher shop window until health regulations became more stringent), are passe. Dead butterflies, equally so (check your windowsill in Autumn for them, if you prefer bluebottles – check attic in winter). Dead sharks – absolutely banal in comparison to six fish fingers installed in the salad compartment of a fridge for nine weeks – menthol tissues recommended throughout viewing.
A large proportion of these installations inspire healthy competition among and between students. This occasionally results in refreshingly unique collaborations. At one of these installations I was particularly drawn to a faux Christmas tree decorated with toilet paper, bottle caps, a rolling pin and foil from takeaways, carefully manipulated and hung. To me they seemed a harmonious combination of belief, tradition and reality tinged with a pang of post Christmas regret. The party’s over – it left by the back door and got lost in the shed.
Mop Arnoldius Wikipedia.org
These works, though intriguing, rarely reach their full potential, purely through lack of funding. Grants are insufficient for students to do little more than exist. Others barely get by on part time employment. For the vast majority, parents are not an option – their minimalist lifestyle is unable to sustain – anything.
A large proportion of these students are absorbed into multinational companies on completion of their degrees – wouldn’t it be nice if these companies supported them more during their academic and artistic development?<
NOTE
Most installations are seasonal. Access is rarely problematic if based on some form of relationship with a student or students (ie parent, brother, sisters, girlfriend/boyfriend etc). A generous donation may allow the uninitiated entry. The optimum time to visit is eight weeks after college has started as by that time all household rosters have been forgotten and resolutions abandoned.
Enough said.
Detail from “A Thousand Li of River and Mountains” (千里江山) hand scroll in ink and color on silk. 11.91 meters x 55.8 cm. (3d part) Located in Palace Museum, Beijing. Date 1096 – 1119 Wang Ximeng (王希孟)
I was on the Galway to Dublin train, departing Ceannt Station at 7.30 am. Stopping at Athenry, Ballinasloe, Athlone, Tullamore, Portarlington, Sallins and finally, Heuston Station in Dublin.
I wasn’t happy. I had a nice week at home, met the girls, went out, slept late, did nothing. Got fed, fussed over and shown off.
And to think, seven short days ago I was beside myself with bad mind. I didn’t want to waste my holidays at home. I wanted to head somewhere, anywhere as long as it was hot – and not home. But I was broke as usual and I had to take the days. The boss told me to. Now I was sorry to leave.
“Oh, you’re back!” said Mrs Fallon when I went down for the milk.
“Well, look who’s here!” said Ger Collins when I popped in for some wool.
“Well, the dead arose and appeared to many,” said Elizabeth Ward. I only passed her on the street.
“How’s the big smoke treating you?” asked Mr Hynes at the corner.
I swear, you can’t escape notice, comment or question at home, but you know I wasn’t too put out. It was nice to be a name as well as a face. Now it was back to the big smoke. There were only a couple of people on the train. T’was quiet thank God. I really wasn’t in the mood for anything. Didn’t go to bed until 3 am trying to stretch out my final hours. I got myself settled and watched the station walls meld into gravel, grass and farmland. The rhythm was nice. I counted the cars heading to work along the old Oranmore road. It would be nice to be closer to home. I’m tragic – imagine – only a week ago I was like a demon at the thought of being home.
They got on at Athenry. First stop. 7.44 am. Six of them all female. Three young girls. They were teenagers but different ages. One looked about thirteen, the other, fifteen, the third, eighteen? Nineteen? They couldn’t have been friends heading to Dublin for the day. Too much of an age gap there. Didn’t look like sisters either. The other three followed in their wake. At first glance I knew the teenagers were cousins. Cousins most definitely. Each of them resembled one of the older women and the three women resembled each other. Those women had to be sisters. They had the look. Similar but different if you know what I mean. The tallest one was very smartly dressed. An expensive white shirt with some lovely detail around the collar. When she sat beside me I could see it was embroidered with a soft green vine that ran just around the rim. Her coat was beige. Her scarf was woven. A green thread amidst the beige background made the embroidered collar pop, co-ordinating the entire ensemble beautifully. Subtle and elegant. Naturally, when the coat came off the cardigan also matched.
The next one was glamorous. Shoulder length hair, perfect makeup, a long leather coat that billowed behind her purposeful walk. Her top was grey, cut on a bias, flowing, eye-catching. She smiled and nodded at me, as did her sister before her. I smiled back and pretended I was settling for a nap. Then came the third – the antithesis of the other two. Denim jeans, slightly too big, stripy shirt – slightly too big, matching cardigan – slightly too big, matching coat and scarf – slightly too big (the coat that is). The overall effect was slightly ruffled. Another grin, another returned. The elegant one spoke first.
Julius Schorzman
“Where are you sitting? Ladies.” She swung round and gestured to the teens
“Sit back there will ye? All together. We’ll get something to eat when she comes with the food. I’d shoot my mother for a coffee?”
“Move your backside, I can’t get past”. The leather coat had an equally large and glamorous handbag.
“Maeve did you bring the cards?” Her name was Maeve.
“I thought you had them Finola. Feck. Hold on I’ll check my bag.” The elegant one was Finola.
“We can’t go without cards. Who has the cards? Have ye the cards back there?”
“No.”
“Mum, can I have my ipod?”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t even my coat off.” The ruffled one was divesting herself with a flourish, heedless of Maeve who had to dodge the onslaught and sit at the same time.
“Jeez Emer! You nearly had my eye out. Will you hurry up and sit down before we get moving. You can take your coat off then.”Emer was the ruffled one.
“I have to do it now. I’m melting. Hot flush! Hot flush!”
” We’re moving,” said Finola.
” Sit, quick. Emer, you’ll survive ten more seconds for God’s sake. Will you sit!”
The train lurched throwing Maeve and Emer together opposite me. Finola plopped down beside me, carefully.
“Hello again,” she smiled.
“Take no notice,” she nodded in the direction of the other two.
“They don’t get out often.”
“Speak for yourself!”
Maeve leant across and grinned.
“You poor thing, this could be the longest journey of your life!”
“Offer it up to the Holy Souls,” chirped Emer.
And off we went.
Back then residue analysis was just a fledgling science. Not only that, a considerable number of external influences seriously affected the accuracy of its findings. Artefacts were often affected by exposure, weathering, climatic conditions, post-depositional disturbance by human or animal or a combination of any and all of these factors.
If stone tools managed to survive that onslaught and still retain a skerrick of promising dirt they then had to endure occasionally questionable excavation procedures, post excavation handling and, the nemesis of all residue analysts; curation. Curation was that century’s old habit of washing, buffing and polishing artefacts, removing all visible and a huge proportion of microscopic residue in the process. The habit was hard to break.
Some of the more promising artefacts ended up in a laboratory for analysis. They were treated to 0.5cc of a 5% ammonium hydroxide cocktail to relax their molecules. This was followed by an invigorating ultrasonic clean, a darn good rotation and a quick spin. The subsequent ‘dishwater’ collected was then treated with a reverence bordering on idolatry. These dribbles were subjected to a plethora of mixes, applications, potions, procedures and shocks and DNA sequences began to expose themselves. As soon as they reared a barely distinguishable head we PCR’d the living daylights out of them.
Mind you, despite this trojan effort one still had to accept the possibility of cross-contamination of artefacts in the course of testing, flaws in the testing process or human error. As a result, if and when a result of any magnitude was achieved, the hopeful student had to clutch their hard earned results close to their heart and run the gauntlet of responses ranging from guarded opinion to doubt, disbelief or pure distain from supervisors, professors, scientific colleagues. That was the ultimate rite of passage.
Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s Pandora
Nonetheless residue analysis became increasingly popular, and rightly so. It was the smoking gun of prehistory. Pregnant with promise it continued to attract serious and sustained attention from many over the years. We had a huge supply of artefacts to tinker with at the time. The mother lode lay in Upper Palaeolithic sites in the South of France. Abri Pataud, Pech Merle, Font de Gaume, La Madeleine, Laussel and of course Chauvet Cave. Serology Laboratories joined the cause, as did Departments of Forensic Sciences from Canada to Australia. Notes were traded, secrets shared and alliances made in corridors of academia on six continents.Under the microscopic ministrations of science tiny micro cracks in the tools begun to expose themselves. Weapons that had been curated to a fine sheen were also found to contain enough residues in these cracks to obtain DNA sequences. The stones surrendered their secrets, in detail. We learned that at some point in time many of those little and not so little stone tools had embedded themselves in sheep, bear, caribou, musk ox, and the ubiquitous woolly mammoth.
Besides impaling the hides of a wide range of species a number of these tools were found to have scratched, pierced or poked the hands that made them. We had ancient human DNA.
Progress continued, exponentially. It continued in tandem with developments in cloning. Long story short, we slowly opened Pandora’s Box. By 2030 we had out first fully fledged wooly mammoth. Then came the sabre tooth. That horrid business with the giant sloth is best forgotten.
Venus of Abri Pataud, carved 21,000 years ago.
Success came at a price, for me. During an excavation at Font de Gaume, Les Ezyies I slipped descending from the cave and whacked, walloped and bounced my way down the slope. I slashed my head open on a rock and ended up senseless at the feet of a hysterical tourist. The local guide was very decent particularly as I wasn’t part of his group. I was watered, bandaged hospitalised, released and returned to my hotel quicker than you could say litigation. Not that I would, though I did pinch a nerve in my spine which successfully hampered movement for the rest of my natural life.
Close up of “Sue” T-Rex replica skull at the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago, IL. ScottRobertAnselmo
I wasn’t as upset as I thought I would be. A University degree makes one very attractive to the Public Service, and vice versa I suppose (particularly if sitting seems the least painful way to spend a day). I learned that having Master’s increased my wages exponentially. A PhD meant an office with a view. I was glad to kiss goodbye to the world of archaeology. I spent the next twenty-five years shuffling between departments secure in the reliable arms of our glorious Government.
In hindsight, I should never have got involved in archaeology. What was I thinking? It had the lowest intake on campus, the scruffiest staff and a reputation for profound weirdness. Indiana Jones wasn’t re released until I was in second year. It was a golden oldie – it came out the year my mother was born. It hit cult status fast. In the blink of an eye we went from being University nerds to the coolest kids on campus. That was fun. Then came the remakes of Jurassic Park I, II, III and IV. Those made us demi-gods. Still, I should have walked away sooner, That fall at Font de Gaume..that fall… I came, I saw, I fell, I bled. Most importantly, I bled. When I fell at Font de Gaume, there was lots of sharp gravel. When I woke I was confused, like you are when you faint and wake up and wonder why you seem to be in a strange position. I was on my side, dazed. Someone had turned me while they waited for an ambulance. My head was cut. I remember the blood, seeping, onto the stone, into the stone. Into the cracks.
Residue analysis has come a long way. They can identify, isolate, retrieve, amplify almost anything. They can clone, and they can copy. Except, I don’t know who they are. I’m not myself. I can’t see properly, can’t hear properly. From time to time amorphous blobs drift across the blurred line of my vision. I try to speak but it’s like my head has melted yet, they are privy to my thoughts. Like now. They’re listening in. Taking notes. Forcing my reflections from me. I never thought that possible. Then again, no one thought residue analysis was possible once, or cloning. Seems I got the best of both worlds.
There’s no pain, no sensation at all really. Sometimes groups of blobs surround me and a vague feeling of pressure suggests I’m being moved. That used to hurt, badly, I remember.
Residue analysis.
Cloning. Cloning in parts at least.
Wonder what year it is?
The Burren and Beyond 