An Icarian Perspective...

... on Evolution.

It's so easy to be negative. Or to criticise. Or to poke fun. Or to be dismissive. Or frustrated, or rude, or confrontational! Of course it is, but it's also increasingly far more difficult to be positive, or to take seriously, or to endorse either the actions, or else the intent of many of 'those' with authority and/or the means to advance their own interests over and above those of others.

Why on Earth would we elect to behave in any way, other than in opposition to the vast majority of that to which we are every day required and expected, often instructed by decree, to adhere to and to obey?

We have found that there is currently in operation a particular system which now always presides. And it currently presides in one very specific and efficient way for some people... whilst presiding in an altogether less forgiving manner for most other people. Arranged about the vast acreage between these two extremes there may be the aspiring climbers, or else the tired descenders. And there may well be others, lesser royalty, beta-landed gentry, the currently powerful, and those who are now becoming less so. But the vast majority of us are still pretty much pitched and paid in the camp labelled 'recipients.'

We- that is the 'we' who are of recipient class- may well delude ourselves that we are, in some small manner, participants, that we have a modicum of investment within and for the system. And, we sort of of do... but only sort of. And this 'sort of,' for the most significant part, is also much of an illusion, so much smoke and mirrors, slight of hand, prestidigitation. Yet even so, our part is such that without it those other parts would not also be possible, and even should we continue to play this role those other parts will most likely prove ultimately to be unsustainable.

Should such as our current niche situation transpire to come about in the wider animal kingdom- and we would be arrogant to consider ourselves in any way superior to these other creatures- a given species may respond in any of a number of ways. It may seemingly compliantly succumb yet also adapt accordingly to quickly cut, or otherwise ameliorate, its loses. It may simply die out. It may search out an alternative habitat. It may bite or otherwise fight back. Or it may investigate other and further-afield alternatives. Never does it really remain static, always instead dynamic... nature is most ingenious and it is most cunning! 

It may evolve! It may evolve or it may die!

27th October 2015

I was glib enough, in a previous post and several months back, to have suggested that the mega-wealthy no longer even breathe the same air as most other people. And it should be recognised that they are well able to access vastly different qualities and quantities of the air, water and land than are 'the rest.' Better sunshine, better ocean tides, better living spaces, better food, better healthcare, better transport, better education, better light, better pretty-much-everything really. We might well consider this accumulation of variables to constitute an entirely different habitat. And, isn't this how a single species branches out and gradually evolves to become more than one species?

Perhaps the topmost offshoots will have (or may need) smaller lungs, differently coloured eyes, cleaner complexions, better teeth, less robust skeletons, more delicate stomachs, certainly larger hands!

Those left behind, as 'twere, may be left to inhabit the 'off-cuts.' They may all breathe the less rarified air, drink of more soiled waters, occupy the more cramped spaces, but will they all elect to simply flow along precisely the same evolutionary stream?

7th November 2015

God, who despite not existing, we are often encouraged to believe as having entrusted us with free-will, so, will we employ this free-will for good, or will we otherwise, and once again, squander it? Either way the evidence to date would seem to very strongly contest that we will not be acting collectively. Instead, perhaps, some might elect to act to reduce the impact of such inferior habitat, whereas others may elect, albeit unconsciously, to further compromise their lot. Battling, often individually, invariably in harmful contrast to one another, we shall likely tier even the leftovers.

Much as have those Galapagos finches, we may effectively simply end up with slightly larger or smaller bills, and further a greater or lesser means to settle those bills. Or maybe the differences will be significantly greater than this?

Maybe one of those 'differences' will gradually (or conceivably quite swiftly) evolve blue or multicoloured skin, emblazoned perhaps with all manner of text and illustration? There will be misspellings! There will be geographic, historic and other inaccuracies, but there will be a map, of sorts, of the evolution of the species... how cool would that be? 

Hinges may appear as if screwed behind the knees. Tights may not so much be worn as secreted from the flesh, offering neither warmth nor the appearance of such, wholly holey... not so much cool then as chilled?

10th July 2016

Conveniently, or perhaps not, this potential-species-offshoot may effectively read like a book- not necessarily a very well written book- laying out for the future scientist almost traces of the evolutionary pathways. Several earlier cultures will perhaps also be in evidence, misrepresented through the accumulated rainbow clash of historical mis-facts.

Whether it is to be the stretched-hollow earlobe of the Karen peoples, or else some powerful Maori tattoo, perhaps a pincushioned face, maybe a split tongue, it is most important that the assimilated culture is referenced much as a superhero comic book might be. "Those hieroglyphs there? That means 'Chelsea F C reigns supreme in our hearts'" Or maybe not? 

Or will it yet be the turn of those devoid of peripheral vision? Of course, they do not really need it anyway, able to hasten along any given footpath or walkway without so much as a glance to the side, ahead even. Is it even likely that, for these immersed souls, peripheral does not actually exist? We see them ghosting past but they are not really there at all. Should we venture to reach out and test the theory we may find that their image is now little more than a trace, a memory, of those who they once were, before having transcended the virtual plain. Perhaps they now inhabit some parallel and 'virtual' dimension, but who's really to say? Perhaps it is our's that is the illusion, and their's the reality? If we dare to peer into the tiny screen will we also be drawn towards that brighter, more sparkly, more perfect world?

6th November 2017

Perhaps the liars, those who are no longer able to effectively communicate beyond their own kind, will rise to the fore. Although the serious likelihood of such 'creatures' being able to even eke out an evolutionary niche for themselves seems, at best, tenuous. Whatever, if not, will then become of those who have basted so long in the exuded juices of the false prophets, those mouthpieces of the CEOs and those of higher office? Perhaps they will yet be able to turn it around and to once again reside amongst those who they have thought to rise above and excrete upon. Or will such a greyer and far-lesser reality be beyond and below their powers to adapt?

Their false Gods and their masters will by then have abandoned them, and will have pulled up the ladder. So, will the new reality sting their eyes, will it offend their ears, will the air taste too fowl for them; will this evolutionary branch simply soon fizzle out altogether? Will Douglas Adams's Gilgafrincham Ark Fleet Ship B at long last be fighting its way from the archives and into a belated reality?

12th August 2014

On the surface the world would appear to have little to offer those who will have spent their respective lifetimes pretending and arguing that their false world presides over everybody else's real one. But then, within this type there resides the most slippery and evasive of humankind. Is it not true that these 'peoples' have effectively exuded the oils upon which the Icarians have slithered into the ascendancy? Whatever else there will surely be more than enough oil to go round! Perhaps then another of the evolutionary offshoots will simply render them for fuel?

Deeply immersed within a cloying sediment of subterfuge, lies and misrepresentation, the human species prepares itself for its next stratospheric evolutionary leap! It's not going to be a very pretty sight!

Having clawed their (respective) ways to the position of an assumed supremacy over all other (remaining) lifeforms- to have become the 'dominant' species for the short duration of just 200,000 years- yet (seemingly) set to continue this questionable reign, the Homo sapiens group curiously died out suddenly approximately 500 million years ago. Around this time, evidence from gathered fossil and plastinated evidence would seem to imply that, at least four known great ape species from the Homo sapiens group were eking out their own respective toeholds upon the third planet.
Homo icarians
Homo hyacinthum
Homo telefono
and Homo mendacium  
Catastrophically, this (apparent) divergence chanced to coincide with the planet undergoing its seventh mass extinction event (biotic crisis), significantly hastened as a consequence of the activities of the Homo sapiens complex. Toxification of the global troposphere and of the water tables, however, appears to have merely hastened the rise of a fifth (recognised) ape-mimic (or pseudo-animal) classification, that of the Plastiforms, more specifically the Digerendum plasticus race. The evolution of this 'species' appears to have taken place ostensibly, although not exclusively, upon the mass of the newest (eighth) continent. The rapid toxification of the planet may also have been one of the factors that effectively hastened the sudden diversification of the Homo sapiens group, immediately prior to its ultimate demise.   

Devaluation of the Species
Charles-phenol A Cyber-Darwin (The year of our creation 5,000,000,001)

The Flat Earth Society

As all half-decent photographers will know, it is all about the light. The subject matter is therefore entirely of a secondary importance; because without the right light nothing else matters, or if it does then any resultant substandard image pretty much soon determines that it really doesn't.

Ansel Adams understood this implicitly. He would get up well before the dawn and he would lug his bulky view finder camera and other boxed paraphernalia- his immaculately prepared large-format glass plates- to the pre-located spot of choice, entirely in order to pay his own particular homage to 'the light.' Few, if any, have ever paid it better, or to greater effect. 

Adams would have probably marvelled at the modern alternatives to his cumbersome 'box.' No doubt he would have wondered about the vast pool of buttons, dials and variable settings and functions, all of which are but slaves to 'the light.' Either they are a means to more easily capture 'it,' or else they are a means to taming 'it.' If all else fails, then they are a means to substituting for either a lack thereof, or else a surfeit of 'the same.' Ergo, it is all about the light!  


I was reminded of as much, just last autumn, when I happened to find myself perched upon Hunstanton's clifftops at the point of sunrise. The precise blend of perfect light with which I was met was of my very particular favourite; there was a weather front of quite spectacular proportions, fast approaching from the west, yet the sun behind me had slanted in under the darkening leading edge to throw every crest, and estuarine dimple, every blade of grass, into perfect relief. I think that I have never seen a more wonderful nor a more terrible image! I learned, several weeks later, that such a phenomenon as I was witnessing had only twice before been recorded. And so, curiosity duly whetted, I thereby determined to dig further. 


The cloud that had so fascinated me, that of a cumulo-stratus structuring, was unnaturally low, weighted down by the pressure of the greater and far more extensive 'front.' Entirely more conventional, this otherwise typical weather front was characteristically and decidedly blue-black in appearance, almost bruised. It was this entirely familiar 'belt' that had so perfectly captured the light. But, as I am here endeavouring to establish, 'twas the lower roll of cloud that had taken on a spectacular, an almost biblical or otherwise magical appearance! 




The rising sun had so precisely positioned itself that the roll had temporarily assumed a buttery golden appearance, quite 'solid' and glistening so as to appear to be literally generating its own peculiar light. I doubt that the roll had been more than 300 feet in height, yet so low at the underside of the curve of its face that one could almost have reached up and brushed one's fingers against the polished surface, that is if one had been standing upon one of the few tethered boats in the immediate estuary. The roll of cloud was actually a tad more elevated than this, slightly fewer than 100 feet above the waters. It extended as far to the sides in either direction as the eye could see, or at least as far as mine were able to determine.

All of this of itself was wondrous enough to quite simply demand one's attention, yet there was something even more otherworldly about this image. Upon its flawless, peculiarly-glistening surface, there above the mirroring estuary, I saw, in such immaculate and astounding detail, my own projected shadow. There was time to wave and to test the image, and 'twas definitely mine, of me and of my old telescope. At first this curious shadow had delighted me, yet as the roll moved ever closer, and the image resolved itself into ever crisper focus, I could not help but feel a certain chill creeping into my bones. I know not what the cause of this uncertainty was, suffice to write that I was somewhat relieved when the roll grew so close as to seem to suddenly rise up and over my head. 

Almost beyond the range of my imperfect hearing there was (I think it was) a sort of hiss, as if of sand being blown across a beach, or maybe it was more of a deep rumble, the type that may register more in the pit of one's stomach than in one's ears, rather more felt or sensed than heard- I longed to thrust my outstretched palm into the mass, but it was just too far above my head- either way, throughout the whole experience, the curious roll seemed to retain the mass or consistency of a solid shape, that of a golden cylinder, one that was, it seemed, entirely capable of uniquely generating something approximating sound. 

I searched up and down the clifftops, hoping for another soul with whom to compare 'notes,' but the scene was otherwise unpopulated, and soon to be replaced by, and immersed in, a thick and drenching fog that made driving home decidedly unpleasant, extremely hazardous for the first mile or two. This, before the rain proper set in for the remainder of the morning and the better part of the afternoon. 

I was later to learn that this magical light phenomenon had been 'once' before recorded in Victorian times. On this other occasion the accompanying cloud mass had proven fatal, consisting significantly of pea-souper-smog industrial-particles. That bitter veil had lain heavily upon the landscape and, before it had lifted or rather blown out, it had claimed over thee-hundred lives, almost exclusively from pulmonary complications. Of course, such a smog- rather greyer, considerably less golden- in Victorian Britain had been a frequent and an all-too-natural consequence of industrial pollution- albeit rather less prevalent upon Norfolk's rural coastline- yet, so significant was the death-toll on this occasion that it was briefly rumoured that the Black Death of the Middle Ages might have again returned to plague our shores. 



More pertinent to my consequent research, the curious additional phenomenon of the strange golden light had also been detailed, and this was down, almost entirely, to the curiosity of one minor meteorological student, by the name of Delaney Kingston. Had the young man been rather more caucasian, rather less Asian, I feel certain that this valuable historical record would have been afforded far greater attention. 

What young Delaney, a fortunate survivor of the culling Victorian smog, had also gone on to unearth was that of one further significant prior instance of such a golden-light phenomenon, its occurrence having also been an almost overlooked aside of book margin 'insignificance,' referring back a further millennium to the days of Viking raids upon our shores, way back in the late eighth century. 

The 'pencilled' note to which Delaney Kingston alluded in his writings has, I am led to believe, long since been misplaced, but Delaney's consequent writings not only help to enlighten us regarding the instance but also manage to considerably flesh out the curious meteorological details. In his short essay, Delaney manages to draw together such diverse cross-references as the Brothers Grimm together with that of early Norse Mythology. 

"Mirror mirror on the 'wall,' who in this land is fairest of all?" is an oft misquoted line from Snow White (Brothers Grimm, published in 1812). The precise wording of the original is now irretrievably buried in the mists of time, but what we do know is that the Grimm line was in turn lifted from an earlier Norse text. Further, we can be fairly certain that the now (Disney) corrupted line was gleaned from a longer Norse 'plea bargain,' a plea culminating in a worshipful prayer to the Goddess Hel herself.

"There are none more magnificent, nor more munificent than yourself, Omniscient Hel!" or some such desperately grovelling attempt to evade The Goddess's wrath, we learn, was to be a beseeching conclusion, cried into the face of the onrushing storm. The absolute terror in finding oneself teetering at the very edge of mortal existence- the ultimate abyss- was said to have been enough to have brought about an immediate termination to (all) mortal life. But, presumably a literate handful at least survived long enough to recount the tale.



It almost goes without the need to remind ourselves that in the eighth century man-created-pollution would have been almost nonexistent, deforestation would have been as of nothing, and that the reclamation of marshy landscape would have been far beyond the wit of humankind. Consequently, the marsh mists rolling in from Western Scandinavia would have been, at various times of the year, an almost daily occurrence, perhaps through unique and once-in-a-generation-juxtapositioning- to be sun-gilded, as on my autumn morn, from the east. Quite how many occurrences there were, of that imperfect timing, whereby one's own image could be captured upon the golden wave, we can only speculate, except to note that glimpses into the very mouth of Hell would surely not have been a daily occurrence, otherwise those clever Vikings would surely have started to ask a few more questions. Any consequent death toll would have been down entirely to heart-failure- quite literally scared to death!  

Imagine, if you will, that desperate Viking, standing at the face of the blinding light, believed to be the literal rolling back of the edge of The Earth, Hell's golden underbelly momentarily exposed to all of those about to be crushed into nothingness under it's mighty bulk, or else cast into the void. The poor desperate soul might actually have thought that he or she could actually see their own perfect reflection- every flawed and impure thought and action captured therein- staring back at him or her from the polished underside of The Earth. "Omniscient Mirror of Hel, might my people not be pure enough of soul, spirit and deed to this once be considered worthy of salvation?" The moment of reckoning had surely arrived!

Truly Hel was one spoilt brat, more than fully prepared, as are many of today's fictitious Gods and Goddesses, to gather up both bat and ball and to thoroughly spoil the game for everybody else concerned. 

Castles made of Sand.

Just the other day weather and chance found me contemplating our wonderful Norfolk coast. The tide was out and the- much depleted in recent year's- bird migration had been pushed back, virtually to the distant horizon.

Being interested in nature and most things nature-wise (as well as many things less so) I would have far preferred that the tide were bustling fully in, the waves angrily rearing up, before pounding down with unholy force upon the trembling shore, whilst birds in their thousands slipped the peaks and troughs, winging their ways to pastures new, in preparation for the changing season. But, as I have already made clear, this was not the case.

Instead I happened to find myself contemplating the marvellously weathered groynes, in speechless awe of the manner in which nature is able to quietly work its undeniable magic, subtly reclaiming these meagre defences against the stealthy depletion of our sand. I watched, from a distance, as a wizened salty sea dog, some thirty metres away, worked loose an embedded stone, from a sand smoothed crevice in the timbers.

Thanks to Robert Radford.

So fascinated was I, by his patient determination, that I allowed myself to drift into one of those other-worldly trances, where time most certainly slows to a crawl. I have not the faintest idea for how long I stood in entranced observation, neither, I am sure, would science have been able to enlighten me further as to the duration. Outside, in the fuller world, probably no more than a dozen or so silky rippled waves would have had time to snake their meandering ways across the sodden sands, yet, encased inside my skull, I had been free to wander back and forth in history, conversing animatedly and at length with several significant characters, even drinking deep into the night with one such, in a tavern that common sense tells me had almost certainly nestled not more than a strong-armed stone's throw from where I presently stood. That there is no longer any sign of such a place, nor any reference to such in any unearthed historical document, does little to convince me of the error of my unswerving certainty, from my conviction that there it once rose, proudly from a nook in the cliff's pinnacle.

Perhaps at that very spot, mesmerised still, I would have remained, had I not been rudely startled back to the present by the suddenly close up and more confrontational face of the self same sea dog. Perhaps he was right to have enquired of me what the blazes I was doing- it matters not in the grander scheme of things- rooted knee-deep in the North Sea, gesticulating wildly, as if in conversation with another.

Upon rejoining the present I was initially somewhat relieved to have been redirected, albeit rather too late for the satisfactory salvation of my best pair of Testoni, hand-made shoes. Fortune is not always the most companionable of colleagues, but it transpired that he had, this time at least, chosen to deal me a mixed hand. My shoes may have been ruined- the cheque for replacement is already winging its way over seas- but the sea dog was not, as I had earlier presumed, in the slightest degree confrontational. On the contrary, he was- mistakenly, I can assure you- more concerned for my mental health. The deeply creviced face, as deep as if rivulets of flood water had been eroding the same for decades, presented as a delta of life's experiences. And I again risked more hostile challenge as I stared in amazed embarrassment- like a Victorian gentleman at a thankfully-now-discredited freak show- when the features before me softened, morphed and realigned themselves in to what I still like to think of as some sort of a smile. I had inadvertently amused the character, I think, by disclosing the precise sum of money paid for my unsalvageable shoes.

Thanks also to wandee007

Had the aforementioned tavern still been present I am certain that we would, by now, have become regulars; highly likely the best of friends. Instead, we had to settle for the warming tipple- actually rather fierce for my tender and sophisticated palate- that issued forth from a curiously battered and misshapen hip flask, shared upon the very spot where the certain tavern had once stood. Few could be so fortunate as to have shared such enriching conversation with one so generous of opinion and anecdote. Few could be so fortunate as to have been gifted such life-lessons, gleaned from such hard-earned and pained experiences. It is indeed one of life's more valuable lessons to have expended so much energy and so many words, over such deeply vital and learned topics as I was privileged to have done that afternoon. This was tempered only slightly by my own poor memory, with regards to many of the finer points discussed, and not helped in the grander scheme by the cruel and thudding headache with which I still find myself. Undoubtedly such an intellectual workout will make heavy demands upon the unaccustomed brain.

Unearthed from the wisdoms hiding in the darkened corners of memory I was, I certainly recall, further enlightened as to one fascinating historical point; one which alludes cyclically back to the groynes to which I now feel so deeply indebted. Indeed so indebted do I feel that I am driven to share such, before memory devises yet more cruel tricks upon my ailing brain.

The earliest groynes, you will no doubt already know, were built with a somewhat different purpose to that with which we associate them today. Perhaps what you have not yet learned is that the earliest builders of these magnificently defiant structures were highly superstitious. Why would they not be, what with so much that was happening in their world still largely open to misinterpretation and misunderstanding?

Whilst struggling with the ocean's currents, the power of the waves, the drawing of the shifting sands away from their feet and their attempts at securing lasting foundations, the groyne builders would naturally have had time to ponder the huge weight of seemingly insurmountable forces waged against their efforts. They, naturally, searched for signs and clues as to exactly what they were pitched against and they found these signs, or rather thought that they had, in the conspicuous cormorant.

And again to Arvind Balaraman.

The cormorant, a bird that they had watched for decades, openly depleting their own fish stocks, darkly watching and waiting until the humans were on the verge of capitalising upon their efforts before darting in and, often, making off with many of the very best specimens. The builders already 'knew' that black was the colour of the night, a time of human vulnerability, one of untold mysterious sounds (not yet understood) and otherworldly happenings. Obviously these birds were not to be trusted; rather they were birds that necessity dictated would need close watching. And, as we all know, when something is watched more closely than perhaps we are accustomed to new, fresh and previously unnoticed observations are sometimes chanced upon.

Thus, it was noticed that the cormorant, contrary to centuries of assumption, was not actually a bird at all. How could it be, with its strange habit of slowly sinking into the very waves that it was pretending to embrace, its bizarre 'dragon-like' habit of standing with its wings outstretched against the drying winds? No wonder so many ships were being lost at sea, what with so many free-moving dragons bobbing upon its surface, or watching its ebb and flow from various vantage points; seemingly hungry birds during the day but, now-understood-to-be, only far smaller shadows of something considerably more sinister of a dark night.

Many of the earliest attempts at groyne building were, of course, unsuccessful. Some, painstakingly erected, and proudly exclaimed to be thoroughly storm-worthy structures, would disappear without trace during the persistent ravages of a winter's night, before even the first signs of seaweed or barnacle were able to set up home, much to many a patron's distress and cost. By this time the builders, by necessity nomadic, travelling on to wherever the next job might be, had long since gone, taking with them the full and unjust payment for their shoddy workmanship. If only there were some means of testing the stability of these 'finished' groynes, before nature's next destructive visit to the same shores?

And, finally, thanks to Worakit Sirijinda.

Luckily, there was a then cabin boy, quickly to climb to third in command of the Mary Rose (thus prematurely lost on the 19th July 1545), by the name of Sebastian Threaks, who loved nothing more than to fritter away the hours, making observed notes about nature. Had his reputed to be copious notebooks survived the wrecking of King Henry's favourite ship (and had they not in some manner been found to be sacrilegious) it is possible that he may have set the course of natural history forward by centuries and have become as much of a household name as the likes of Charles Darwin. Alas, the fickle finger of fate!

The one and only surviving detail that has travelled down the centuries, believed to have been passed on through word of mouth, via a close colleague and rather more fortunate sailor upon the Mary Rose, was that Sebastian had noticed that no cormorant had ever been seen to settle upon the end of an un-seaworhy groyne. It was almost as if these mysterious non-bird creatures were able to sense the groyne's foundations shifting beneath the sands and, naturally, not being a true and thus confident swimming bird, the creatures were unprepared to risk being cast, still sodden, back into the seething ocean.

So, based purely upon the stated observations of one Sebastian Theaks, a system was devised, whereby no payment for a finished groyne would exchange hands until the patron had witnessed the settling of a cormorant upon this same groyne. If the cormorant settled for long enough not only would it ensure full payment for the builder, it might also find itself on the receiving end of a well-aimed rock or spear, ensuring the builder also a full bounty from the Lord Admiral himself, in gratitude for his efforts at helping to rid the sea of its night-time haunts.