dovunque al mondo or rent to own

Last night I got a chance to spend a cultural evening out and saw moving production of Giacomo Puccini's Madame Butterfly, hosted in the very fancy venue of the storied state theatre.  I was expecting tragedy and melodrama, being an opera, but did not recall the actual story and subject, thinking wisps of what I remembered to be possibly a contemporary interpretation: an American naval officer is stationed in Nagasaki at the turn of the century, and through the US Consul acting as an intermediary, purchases a house staffed with domestics and is introduced to the breathtaking and available Butterfly. 
Despondent and restless though afraid to make a commitment, the Navy officer decides to wed Butterfly—at least until he can find a "proper American wife" and due to Japanese mores and marriage laws (as interpreted at the time by an Italian librettist) in comparison to the relatively stricter rules regarding divorce (but not polygamy) in America.  The officer, Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton speaks of a lease of nine-hundred ninety nine years with the option of quiting in the coming months.  Butterfly has already garnered her family’s displeasure by marrying a foreigner—a wealthy local businessman is also making overtures for Butterfly's affections but she rebuffs his advances, and covertly converts to Christianity for the sake of her new life, renouncing Buddhism and her ancestral, household gods.  A short while later, the officer is assigned to another port of call in the US and is away for three years.  Butterfly divulges to the Consul, whom she hopes to implore for her husband to return, that she had born the officer a son in secret.
The Consul does manage to arrange the officer's return, but the officer brings his new American bride with him and plans to take custody of the young child and raise him in America.   This modern opera is itself a direct adaptation of earlier stories, but I am not sure in what context and what allegorical elements are intentionally writ, how direct and literal, but it was certainly the musical element of the score that came across as most emotive. As the orchestra was striking its limbering cacophony before the curtains parted, those strains they played of the Star-Spangled Banner, the US anthem—were random exercises, like hearing snatches from the Miss Marple theme or scales during this warm-up—and not samplings from the liet motif. We'll have to have a night at opera together real soon.

sky of blue, sea of green

Kottke reports on an exciting application from the American navy which successfully demonstrates that the components of sea water can be easily converted into fuel—almost directly from the laboratory without intervening conceptional re-engineering. It seems nearly too terribly simple and straightforward to be true, a few more technical details found on the link. Though this engine, work-horse portends to be primarily a barge system, something for slowly but steadily transporting cargo en mass, if it delivers on its promise, I can imagine gondoliers—or private submariners below—punting about through urban waterways and the relaunch of thalassocracies, maritime powers that ruled the spaces between lands when it seemed that buoyancy mattered more.

call box

Locals, in Cheltenham just three kilometers from the GCHQ campus, believe that guerrilla graffiti
artist Banksy may have been behind this mural of authorities wiring tapping this phone booth. Area residents are delighted and the artwork has become a big tourist attraction.

kleinstaaterei

With the level of public will or involvement remaining unclear and the source of dissent an elusive factor—strange to consider in the first place that regions are careening towards the right to assert their independence with only the ultimate goal being to align themselves with another power in sight, the cities of Ukraine, though under the microscope and garnering much attention, do tend to be overlooked, imagined out of context, scale or compartmentalised.  Much is being said about psyche and exceptionalism, the economic importance of the industrial eastern part of the country, the need for stability and security thereof with also quite a bit of name-calling, like the US styling of counter insurgency efforts by the government in Kyiv as anti-terror operations or pledges to shore up debts, but there is little in terms, I think, in terms of profiles for these metropolitan cities, which have their own character and history.

Donetsk grew out of factory workers’ dormitories built by a steel and coal magnate from Wales named John James Hughes in 1869 (strangely, not long after hostilities ended), while under commission for the Russian Imperial Navy.  The settlement was originally named Hughesovka in honour of the Welch industrialist, who was a genius although functionally illiterate and could not read minuscule letters—Юз, yuz being the closest approximate sound.  Staffed with skilled and well-educated workers, the metalworks soon grew self-sufficient and with the Bolshevik revolution, the city’s name changed several times.  It seems hard for a boom town—especially one that has never gone bust, just like so many in this region, that is relatively young as well, to establish for itself an identity—and I am sure being known, by turns, as Yuzovka, Trotsk, Stalino and then after a tributary of the Don river, may have not helped with cohesion.  Looking on from outside, I am astounded by the vast swaths of land that continue to defy recognition and know there’s much unknown out there, aided and hindered by the tough schooling in geography that conflict teaches—since, although this rust belt (Donetsk incidentally won international recognition as the cleanest factory town in the world, in 1970) is emerging as the focus of attention, having of course existed all along (or at least since its founding, not all that long ago) and having existed as an independent entity even under Soviet auspices but it was easier to understand the map as a bloc, it is also a struggle to follow along with the series of contentions and we become prone to perfunctory judgments.

legend

If you travel as much as we do, you might find yourselves outgrowing the standard quiver of icons that come with Google Maps. Adding to the compliment is easy and I have re-coloured the map markers for many future adventurers, distinguished by the broadening palette. Though they are not the sharpest tacks, please feel free to use them (clicking on each icon as the source image for the symbol on your personalised map) or create your own cartographic legend. Keep in mind the parameters for the standard icons are 32 by 32 pixels and use a imaging-program that retains the transparency for portable network graphics (.PNG) format files.

dii consentes

The funny and clever site College Humor has created a pantheon of gods and goddess that patronise different spheres of internet activity. This list is pretty good and surely you've encountered all these deities embodied in some form or another. What other olympians or minor gods in residence (Ganymede, Cupid or Momus, the god of satire and mockery—Iris, the personification of the rainbow) would you include as internet titans?

timeliness, objectivity, narrative

We all would instantly recognize the iconic and candid images of photojournalist Alfred Eisenstaedt, and know them just by a caption of a few words, limning in the rest—but before Kottke shared this spontaneously happy picture, I did not realise who it was on the other side of the shutter, much less appreciate that the litany of celebrated pictures were courtesy of the same individual. Eisenstaedt had a definite excelling talent for finding himself in the right place at the right time, as well for framing a subject, and captured such unforgettable subjects for Life magazine as the couple kissing in Times Square for Victory over Japan Day, Albert Einstein, Sophia Loren, Marilyn Monroe, Ernest Hemingway, Joseph Goebbels at the League of Nations (as we know them) and the ice-skating waiters of St. Moritz.