And More Archaeology

Seems like there are cool finds after cool finds, and I wasn't invited... :) This one is from Rome--there's always something to be found in Rome. I suspect as they build more and more of those urban deep garages, there will be more of these. At least that was my experience back in Budapest and Hungary in general: urban construction and highway projects funded archaeology there for long years now.

Treasure!

A find of a lifetime--largest Anglo-Saxon hoard in history found on British farm by a 55-year old man.
Stuff that made me apply to study Archeology the first place. Take a look at the images--the quality of the pieces is stunning.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Just shoot me now.
Because otherwise I'll die of elevated cholesterol and foodgasm.
No, seriously. Check it out.
Evil, evil woman.

And this one. This one I shall try this weekend. And then I'll die.

I tried her monkey bread. It kills the one I've made before so much it's not even funny.

I am in trouble, folks.

The Funny!

Okay, this is hilarious. Go try it. It reminds me of the game we played while at a scorching summertime dig at the medieval palace I worked for.
I especially like the asthmatic assasin.

An ancient labyrinth deep beneath the streets of Dallas. A murderous cult determined to protect it. A white-knuckled race to uncover the United States Postal Service's darkest secret.

The Serpentine Enigma

When renowned Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon is summoned to the Carousel Club to analyze a mysterious geometric form—imprinted on a gold ring lying next to the mangled body of the head docent—he discovers evidence of the unthinkable: the resurgence of the ancient cult of the Quintinati, a secret branch of the United States Postal Service that has surfaced from the shadows to carry out its legendary vendetta against its mortal enemy, the Vatican.
Langdon's worst fears are confirmed when a messenger from the Quintinati appears at Dealey Plaza to deliver a deadly ultimatum: Turn over the archbishop, or one cherub will disappear from the Sistine Chapel every day. As the city braces for disaster, Langdon joins forces with the Amazonian and brilliant daughter of the murdered docent in a desperate bid to crack the code that will reveal the cult's secret plan.
Embarking on a frantic hunt, Langdon and his companion follow a 500-year-old trail through Dallas's most venerable churches and historic libraries, pursued by a asthmatic assassin the cult has sent to thwart them. What they discover threatens to expose a conspiracy that goes all the way back to Benjamin Franklin and the very founding of the United States Postal Service.

Today

Gerald Vanderleun's poem for today:

The Missing

Their silence keeps me sleepless for I know:

Within that smoke their ash still falls as snow,

To settle on our flesh like fading stars

Dissolve into sharp sparks at break of day.

At dawn a distant shudder in the earth

Disclosed the flight of fire into steel,

The shaking not of subways underground,

But screams from inside flowers made of flame.

We stood upon the Heights like men of straw

Transfixed by flames that started in the sky,

And watched them plunging down in death’s ballet

Too far removed to hear their falling cry.

By noon that band of smoke loomed low

Upon the harbor’s skin and made us gasp;

A hand of smoke that in its curdled crawl

Kept reaching to extend its lethal grasp.

The harp strung bridge held up ten thousand souls

Who’d screaming run beneath the paws of death,

Like dusted ghosts that lived but were not sure

If they lived in light or only for a breath.

They’d writhed and spun within that storm of smoke

And stumbled out to light and clearer air,

To find upon the river’s further shore

No sanctuary other than despair.

The sirens scraped the sky and jets carved arcs

Within a heaven empty of all hope,

That marked its epicenter with one streak

Of black on polished bone where silver'd stood.

By evening all their ash had settled so

That on the leaves outside my window glowed

Their souls in small bright stars until the rain

Cleaned all of what could not be clean again.

We breathed that smoke that bent and crawled.

We learned to hate that smoke that lingered so.

We knew that blood could only answer blood,

And so we yearned to go but not to go.

Within the city shrines were our resolve.

We placed them where our grief would best anneal.

Upon our walls and trees their faces loomed

To gaze at us from time beyond repeal.

Their last lost summer faded into ash.

Their faces faded into name scratched stones.

Our years flowed into endless desert seas

Where warplanes prowl in search of bones.

In time their smoke and ash became but words

In stories told at dinner, told by rote,

Or in the comments made by magazines

For whom the "larger issues" were of note.

In time their faces faded with the rains,

The little altars thick with wax were scraped,

But still beneath clear plastic they endure

To remind us all that we have not escaped.

Six Months

Happy Half-Year Birthday, Peanut!