spoils of creation

Bobby Corwen is born 🐤

and in the end when you find out Mika has been sabotaging other people to get jobs this is Ann's response:

Also, this webring has citrus, so be warned!!!!

here is a map of the path of the eclipse (from timeanddate)

Above: three different species of lerp psyllid

These tiny, aphid-like creatures are commonly known as lerp psyllids or jumping plant lice. Their nymphs have specialized mouthparts that can extract the sap from certain plants, and the sugar is then excreted as a liquid that quickly crystalizes when it hits the air, allowing the nymphs to build intricate structures known as lerps.

Above: psyllid nymphs hiding beneath their lerps, likely Creiis corniculatus and Creiis costatus

As this article explains:

Lerps are basically pure starch with some proteins and fats. They are created by psyllids, which are tiny, sap-sucking insects. When psyllid nymphs imbibe tree sap, their gut absorbs the amino acids and nutrients, but they quickly excrete the water as honeydew and the sugar as lerps.

Above: the lerps of two different psyllids from genus Cardiaspina

Each species produces its own distinctive type of lerp. Some of these structures resemble clamshells, while others have a fuzzy, glassy, or basket-like appearance; most lerps measure roughly 1-5mm in diameter, but some have a wavy or tube-like shape that can extend to a length of more than 10mm.

Above: a pair of exposed psyllid nymphs

These structures provide the nymphs with some measure of protection from parasites, predators, and dehydration, but they can also attract some unwanted attention:

Unfortunately for psyllids, their homes taste sweet (containing more starch than cane sugar) and are a prized food of birds, mammals and opportunistic humans. The level of sweetness fluctuates depending on the season, the weather, and the species of psyllid.

Above: animals feeding on some sweet, delicious lerps

The nymphs themselves are tiny, and their bodies often have a flat, oblong shape that allows them to slide beneath their lerps more effectively. They spend all five stages of their nymphal development tucked beneath their lerps; if the structure is damaged, removed, or destroyed, the nymph immediately begins to construct a new one.

Above: genus Hyalinaspis and genus Cardiaspina

When the nymph finally reaches maturity, it sheds its exuvia (molted exoskeleton) and emerges from the lerp as an adult psyllid. The adults are winged insects that look like miniature cicadas, with their bodies typically measuring less than 5mm long (that's about 1/5th of an inch).

Most lerp-forming psyllids are native to Australia, but they also occur as an invasive species in many other parts of the world.

Above: nymphs of genus Glycaspis and Cardiaspina

Lerps have traditionally been incorporated into the beliefs and practices of Aboriginal cultures in Australia, which is home to more than 300 different species of lerp-producing psyllid:

Lerps feature in Aboriginal calendars, ceremonies, mythology, and cosmology, all of which have embedded biocultural knowledge about the time and place for optimal collection. These insects are central to Indigenous cultures, yet Western science knows surprisingly little about their taxonomy, biology, and ecology.

The term "lerp" actually comes from the indigenous word lerep, which means "sweet" in the Wemba-Wemba language of southeastern Australia.

Above: Eucalyptolyma maideni, also known as a spotted gum lerp psyllid, hiding beneath its fern-like lerp

Sources & More Info:

Land for Wildlife: Lerps: One of Nature's Sweet Offerings

Business Queensland: Psyllids and Lerps

Journal of Ethnobiology: Indigenous Use of Lerps in Australia: So Much More than a Sweet Treat

Aboriginal Peoples and Terrestrial Invertebrates in Australia: Lerp and Honeydew

iNaturalist: Subfamily Spondyliaspidinae

Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” sonata, first published over two hundreds years ago, is notoriously considered one of the most difficult-to-play piano pieces of all time.

In particular, when Beethoven sent it to his publisher in 1818, he allegedly said, “Now you have a sonata that will keep the pianists busy when it is played 50 years hence!”, and much has been made of the fact that it wasn’t publicly performed in its entirety until eighteen years later, by Franz Liszt himself.

Except that’s a bit of a deceptive statistic. See, when Beethoven published Hammerklavier, public solo piano recitals/concerts weren’t really a thing yet. Symphonies, sure; concertos, definitely. But sonatas were “parlor” music—a thing played by amateurs, often skilled amateurs, but amateurs nonetheless, in little sitting-rooms for a bit of entertainment after dinner, or at private salons with a guest list in the low dozens. (And mostly they were meant to be sight-read! The culture of obsessively polishing a piece to make it “performance-ready” wasn’t as much of a thing, back then.) People bought these things the way they bought novels, and, just as someone might buy a copy of Joyce’s Ulysses today and enjoy puzzling over the thing, even if they never read the whole thing or feel like they fully “get” it, well… some folks would enjoy sonatas the same way.

So yeah, Hammerklavier didn’t have its first public performance until Liszt played it in the Salle Érard. But also, Liszt basically invented the format of “star virtuoso pianist hogging the stage for two hours” in order to get a public audience at all.

But in the meantime—I think about how wonderful it must’ve been, tooling around on the piano during that 18-year-span where there was no evidence that thing even was playable, or that, if playable, that the thing even made sense. Beethoven was nearly totally deaf by this point, after all, a fact that was publicly known—had he totally lost it? people had to wonder. And the only way to find out would be… well, trying it out yourself!

It has the sound of a gimmick. And I’ll bet it was, at least a little bit—but just because something’s more interesting to play than listen to doesn’t mean it’s failing in its goal. (Though fwiw it is very interesting to listen to.)

It also has the sound of, like, Dark Souls, to be honest. Proto-video game culture. A new game drops and people are asking each other: can anyone beat this boss? can you beat this boss? do you still consider your time on the game well-spent even if you never 100% it?

Biographies generally agree that Beethoven’s metronome markings (which only appear in his later work, and only *some* of his later work) are preposterous—often borderline-unplayable, and certainly not very musical. I couldn’t find a recording of anyone trying to play Hammerklavier at the marked 138bpm tempo, so I got a computer to do it—and burst out laughing at the result because, yeah, 138bpm is fucking NUTS. But whether intentional or accidental, I love the audacity of its being there, like a taunt: I dare you to do more. I dare you to do better. I dare you to try.

Much has been made of how difficulty’s a way of keeping people out—but it’s also a way of inviting people in, I think. It says: do this hard thing and you will be rewarded. You will be rewarded in the trying. Because the trying is the thing that makes the music live; there is no music without you.

Here’s an old bit from an interview with the game designer Porpentine:

“The purpose of a puzzle [in a game] is to provide resistance. For me, that resistance doesn’t need to be coercive or challenging, just interesting and aesthetic. My mechanics are to be touched. Games are perhaps the most intimate art because the player must remain touching at all times. They must touch or the game does not exist.”