This dog in the car got really happy to see someone and started to wriggle its bum.

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Gordian worms live inside crickets for long periods, feeding on the cricket's diet. Once fully grown, they inject chemicals into the cricket's brain, brainwashing it and forcing it to kill itself by jumping into water. Once in water, the worm wriggles out.

Wriggling

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Gordian worm live inside crickets for long periods, feeding on the cricket's diet. Once fully grown, they inject chemicals into the ... all » cricket's brain brainwashing it and forcing it to kill itself by jumping into the water. Once in water, the worm wriggles out of the writhing body and swims off in search of a mate. Article published in Apr 06 Nature magazine

Bark,bark! Whooeh gave you permission to enter the petrified forest? Oh, so you both thought you could sit there, smoke a joint and perform your lurid sex acts in front of my little shoots, did you? Well I am holding you with my roots. The tentacles are going to tighten around you and throttle you! They will pull you under the moist earth and your fermenting bodies will feed my trunk for the bleak autumn. No you cannot leave! Have you not twigged on? Your rotten corpses will decay and fester with lots of fat wriggling grubs feeding on your remains, which is mulch needed in the grounds! Furrt, furrt, oh, I see you have deposited some fertilizer on the soil! I branch you kindly for your gift! Bark, bark!

"And" by Mr. David Hart And am I he who time knows not, and Am I he who careth not? For minutes can like hours prey And hours can like minutes stray In my annealed soul your wraith remains. Mindless I canst naught your name contain. And colors dance while music pirouettes-- Swirling harmonies nudge, wriggle, Jounce and cavort in step As seconds can like days invade And years can like minutes parade, And rhyming colors float and dazzle in And out from one whose silence oft yields a shout. Yea, time, hail me in maelstroms of ecstasy without rue Pray time, forsake me not as being forever true. And minutes melt into hours with ne'er a fight, For one whose love oft rebuked, laughs at his plight

"And" by Mr. David Hart And am I he who time knows not, and Am I he who careth not? For minutes can like hours prey And hours can like minutes stray In my annealed soul your wraith remains. Mindless I canst naught your name contain. And colors dance while music pirouettes-- Swirling harmonies nudge, wriggle, Jounce and cavort in step As seconds can like days invade And years can like minutes parade, And rhyming colors float and dazzle in And out from one whose silence oft yields a shout. Yea, time, hail me in maelstroms of ecstasy without rue Pray time, forsake me not as being forever true. And minutes melt into hours with ne'er a fight, For one whose love oft rebuked, laughs at his plight Published 2001 by Poetry**** this poem in other languages www.poetrypoem****/hart1

Six-year-old Gracie, a golden retriever, is seen jumping into the lap of her beloved master Lieutenant Andrew Schmidt, rolling over and wriggling in joy after he returned safely to his home .. Read The Full Story on link .. *******www.lite-news****/excited-pet-dog-greets-soldier-back-from-afghanistan/

There is a lot of work involved in raising a happy, healthy and well trained dog. Before you bring that wriggling, ball of fluff home, you should take some things into consideration. Find out more at *******www.obediencetrainingfordogsblog****

Transcript by Newsy**** BY STEVEN SPARKMAN You're watching multisource tech news analysis from Newsy Somehow Stephen Colbert manages to get all kinds of things named after him. Hockey mascots, treadmills in space, and now a remote control for worms. Researchers at Harvard have developed a way to switch motor neurons on and off in a tiny wriggling roundworm. The system is called “Controlling Locomotion and Behavior in Real-Time,” or CoLBeRT, and it’s a breakthrough in a new field called optogenetics. Optogenetics involves genetically engineering organisms, like roundworms or mice, to have light-sensitive proteins in particular cells. Researchers can then turn those cells on or off by exposing the organism to light, either by shining it on the whole organism or by directing it with fiber optic cables. (Video from: CoLBeRT) But the roundworm C. elegans provides an opportunity to perform precise tests on a moving organism. Scientific American explains why this worm is so special. “Because the worm's body is transparent, sharply focused lasers, pointed with an accuracy of 30 microns, could turn on or suppress individual neurons with no need for electrodes or other invasive methods.” Shooting a laser at one particular cell in a moving animal is a tough chore, and that’s where the CoLBeRT program comes into play. Science News explains how it works. “[A] computer program that the team developed figures out where in the microscope’s field of view a target cell is. Once the cell is pinpointed, the program directs lasers so that a tiny beam of light hits the cell. … As the worm’s position changes, that information is fed back into the computer program, and the laser is adjusted.” This technique is helping scientists understand how cells work together to create complex behaviors and movements, like the wriggling of a worm. For instance, here they activate two neurons which tell the worm it’s time to back up. By manipulating individual cells while a system is in motion, researchers can figure out exactly what each cell contributes to the whole. (Video from: CoLBeRT) Naming a machine that turns cells on and off by remote after a TV personality makes sense when you think about it. After all, audiences can turn Stephen Colbert on and off with their remotes every night. Get more multisource video news analysis from Newsy

Emanuele Rubini sculptor presents new artworks "Double Flight, Evolution of the form, Wriggle” Emanuele Rubini Self-taught sculptor, he works with the marble since 1997. He participate at Italian and International Simposia and important solo and group exhibitions in Italy. His monumental works are in public and private collections in Italy. The artworks of small and medium size are in private collections in Italy, Spain, Germany, Lichtenstein, England, United States. Born in Puglia, now he live and work in Carrara in Tuscany.

From the historic sculpture studio Nicoli founded in 1863 in Carrara where they worked the greatest names in international sculpture like Henry Moore ..., Santiago Calatrava, Mimmo Paladino, Michelangelo Pistoletto, Giuliano Vangi, Alberto Viani, Sironi, Arturo Martini, Cardenas, Fausto Melotti, ... up to Paul McCarthy, Louise Bourgeois, Vanessa Beecroft, Anish Kapoor, Jan Fabre… the Italian sculptor Emmanuele Rubini in this video by renowned sculpture studio produces new work in the black marble of Belgium entitled “Wriggle”

T. S. Eliot reads his poem The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. * Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?' Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?' Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- (They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!') My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin-- (They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!') Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all-- Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? . . . . . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet--and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'-- If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.' And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: 'That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.' . . . . . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. ----------------------- * Epigraph: If I thought my answer were given to anyone who would ever return to the world, this flame would stand still without moving any further. But since never from this abyss has anyone ever returned alive, if what I hear is true, without fear of infamy I answer you. ~ Dante - Inferno XXVII, 61-66