Animals

smile a lot by Jackie Branc photographer

ANIMALS

ANIMALS

smile a lot by Jackie Branc photographer

SMILE A LOT – increasing uneasiness with the relationship between man and beast | Photograph © Jackie Branc, 2023. All rights reserved.

Animals are like us — they feel, love, suffer, write and read books, create museums and history, and eat people.

Animals are like us — they feel, love, suffer, write and read books, create museums and history, and eat people.

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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Fever

Fever – Surreal Short Prose by Jackie Branc, © Jackie Branc, 2026. All rights reserved

FEVER

FEVER

Photograph © Jackie Branc, 2023. All rights reserved.

Another euthanasia today. I’ve lost count of which one this week. The Underground, whether it likes it or not, is travelling south faster with each passing day. It’s exhausting. All the more so as the weather forecasts for the coming weeks grow increasingly dire. The day has doubled; it is now forty-eight hours long, and still lengthening. We are not getting enough sleep, dear neighbours from Victoria line carriage no. 11017—doctors, lawyers, philosophers, poets, millers, construction assistants. Except for sociologists; there are none here.

I swore by Apollo the physician, by Asclepius, by Hygieia and Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, calling them to witness, that I would keep my life and my art pure and honourable. And to you as well, Dionysus—three times 50 ml of Scotch in my pocket, one already emptied, for it is 10:10 a.m. in the former day, and my head still rings from yesterday’s visitation of yours.

For I have another visit today—to a patient reported by the ever-diligent public order services. I shall be there at 11:11 a.m., if life proceeds as usual. Pairs of numbers. The biological clock is remarkably precise, which makes it easy for paranoia to conjure self-referential visions of a mystical weight, an intentional glimpse into the absolute. 11017. Three ones and a seven.

A suicide—though I cannot recall which one this week, perhaps a euthanasia—delays the train by six minutes. Or perhaps twelve? They say it affects the driver’s mental state. As does the doubling of the day. The day after tomorrow, they were forecasting a tripling.

Soho—sleepless Carnaby Street. I knock on the door, the number withheld under medical confidentiality. The patient: a man of fifty. He suffers from severe obesity. Surgical reduction of the stomach has not helped. He is a superman and despises my Christian mercy. In the name of the Father and of the Son—on the stairwell, the second of the three 50 ml bottles.

I pass the patient’s neighbour; I remember her from my last visit. A Polish woman. In her home, Professor Białynicki-Birula [1] competes for airtime with Izabela Trojanowska [2]. Her husband delayed the Victoria line today by six minutes. “I gave him a spoonful of neutron matter this morning,” she says, exhausted.

I ask—to whom?

“He’s put on an ungodly amount of weight. Good Lord, how can one let oneself go like that? The Antichrist.”

“Administering neutron matter is illegal, madam,” I warn her coolly, but she continues:

“He got it into his head that he would absorb Proxima Centauri first, and then reach for Alpha. A pompous idiot. The Transfiguration of the Lord.”

[1]. Izabela Trojanowska
A Polish singer and actress who rose to prominence in the late 1970s and was especially popular in Poland during the 1980s, known for her distinctive blend of rock and new wave, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Izabela_Trojanowska

[2]. Iwo Białynicki-Birula
A Polish theoretical physicist (b. 1934), noted for his contributions to quantum optics and the theory of electromagnetic fields, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iwo_Bia%C5%82ynicki-Birula

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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Mirror (definition)

Mirror (definition)

A mirror, or looking glass — a smooth surface that reflects light, thereby producing an image of objects placed before it. Also, a device equipped with such a surface, used for the reflection of images.

A mirror is the simplest type of optical reflector. Its surface is almost always flat, and its principal purpose is for a woman to look at herself in it — a woman who, only a few days ago, declared that she no longer loves you. Slightly dazed, you offer polite approval of her preparations for a night out as she studies her reflection. You lay it on thick, telling her she looks lovely, sitting on the sofa in a grey jumper — you rather pitiful creature. Then, after the characteristic clicking of high heels, comes the snap of the door lock — the signal that you may now drink alone, shedding a few tears as you do so.

That is a mirror — a reflecting surface, by means of which an image is formed of the objects placed before it.

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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The Prototype Came First — of the Chicken

Chicken or the egg

The Prototype Came First — of the Chicken

Laying prototype eggs. There would be nothing remarkable in this, were it not for the assumption concealed within the word “prototype” — namely, the existence of an intelligent first cause, a causa efficiens; an act of deliberate agency. Entangling oneself in the theory of the chicken leads inevitably to the establishment of a final cause, a causa finalis, and as we know from experience, the end of our poor chicken’s teleological journey is broth.

I am aware of the weight of responsibility that comes with such politically incorrect treatment of the bird, and I defend myself by admitting my present inability to immediately abandon the intellectual tradition that, in perhaps its most developed form, was bequeathed to us by Descartes. “Technique” — an anthropocentric craft — has since required the atomisation of nearly every domain of life, so that its elements may function in harmony. Interlocking cogs. A simplification, naturally, yet it seems that this tendency has since come to dominate Western thought.

Like all tools, these too must wear out. Nothing new in that. From Anaximander and his apeiron, from the whole to the parts through the thought of Parmenides set in motion by the forces of Empedocles, to the atom of Democritus — the apex of a historical sine wave which, by its nature, attains a maximum of truth; whether upper or lower is a matter of convention. We know what followed. And today? Perhaps we are near such a peak.

By way of example: born of a certain fatigue with the successes of vacuum cleaner engineering and other electric kettles, there arise curiosities such as Bennett’s “mathematical ethics”, founded upon the probabilistic framework of a quantum model as full of holes as a sieve, and binary sequences. Everything becomes measurable. Almost. And yet that “almost” makes all the difference.

Within this atomic clutter, however, there is no shortage of romantic iconoclasts. History teems with them — take Cardano [1], for instance, whose complex numbers, with their so-called imaginary unit, acquire over time — not least in quantum mechanics — a kind of naïve physical reality. There is neither time nor space here for further examples. But I shall choose one as a special case, close to our own times.

Though it may seem somewhat naïve to the professional philosopher, it leaves behind a certain epistemic unease and charts a path from the general to the particular. The apeiron of Anaximander makes itself felt through an unknowable archē, marked by infinity — a governing principle beyond reach. I speak of the work of David Bohm, a consequence of the non-locality of physical phenomena, in his alternative quantum mechanics — an interpretation undervalued by the dogmatists of the Copenhagen school. Undervalued, perhaps, out of fear of the necessity to admit that not everything lies within the bounds of knowledge.

An endless subject — or perhaps, more fittingly, an endless broth.

P.S.

Coming back down to earth — that seems a good idea for today. The chicken legs are defrosting, and as we all know, broth is good for one’s health. Delicious. For now, John Stewart Bell’s theorem still holds up — time to cook the noodles…

[1] In the romantic determinism of Girolamo Cardano, he commits suicide because the date of death he had predicted fails to come to pass.

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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The Space Mission of Anglo-Saxon Analytical Philosophers

Philosophical Flights Agency
Anglo-Saxon analytical philosophers’ mission

Gemini | Jackie Branc

The Space Mission

of Anglo-Saxon Analytical Philosophers

Philosophical Flights Agency

We have lost contact with the orbital craft of the Anglo-Saxon analytical philosophers’ mission. At the last PFA Congress, the Philosophical Flights Agency expressed concern for the crew’s moral condition. We recall the incident — after the seventh orbit of Earth, the navigator heard invective directed at him from the left hemisphere of the first pilot’s brain. He filed a lawsuit, together with an already prepared appeal submitted by the right hemisphere of the first pilot’s brain, in which we read, among other things: “Can a pig in a sty, pelted with insults, blush with anger? Certainly not! Hence my calm and my conviction that I am incapable of stirring you, barbarian.” The right hemisphere’s appeal had been prepared in anticipation of a lawsuit from the first pilot’s left hemisphere. This statement triggered a feverish debate on board, ranging across the problem of personal identity as required for the navigation of a spacecraft. Questions also arose: is the first pilot right- or left-handed?

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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They Were a Wonderful Family

Playa de Cala Ambolo, photo by Jackie Branc

They Were a Wonderful Family

Playa de Cala Ambolo, photo by Jackie Branc

Well-ordered, self-assured, composed. Free of addictions. The children bound for Cambridge. Medical histories blindingly clean for at least a generation back — no trace of alcoholism, no Adult Children of Alcoholics baggage. No personality disorders, let alone psychosis. Well, the occasional bout of hay fever. Naturally financially secure, professionally fulfilled. Agnostics — at least that is how they described themselves. Stress limited to the misadventures of Modern Family in her case, and Home Improvement in his.

A holiday on Spain’s eastern coast. Pressed into beach loungers by sheer happiness, pleasantly tipsy on Tinto de Verano, adrift in an endorphin haze. Softly, safely, without a twinge of pain, they died of boredom — in perfect refrain.

© 2026 – Jackie Branc

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