neighbors took out a big tree from their backyard and we've been seeing a pair of small woodpeckers at our hummingbird feeder -- perhaps not a coincidence! for them it's a 2-course meal of sugar water and the tiny ants that make the long journey up the trellis to the feeder
we couldn't figure out the lyrics to that song for a long time -- sounded like "i'm gonna stop the boat," which was too far removed from the actual line for web search to help
New Bird Poster! It's got 37 hand painted birdies of Eastern Canada at half their true size, based on photos I've taken myself. Bird names in Latin, English, and French.
How easily happiness begins by
dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter
slithers and swirls across the floor
of the sauté pan, especially if its
errant path crosses a tiny slick
of olive oil. Then a tumble of onions.
This could mean soup or risotto
or chutney (from the Sanskrit
chatni, to lick). Slowly the onions
go limp and then nacreous
and then what cookbooks call clear,
though if they were eyes you could see
clearly the cataracts in them.
It’s true it can make you weep
to peel them, to unfurl and to tease
from the taut ball first the brittle,
caramel-colored and decrepit
papery outside layer, the least
recent the reticent onion
wrapped around its growing body,
for there’s nothing to an onion
but skin, and it’s true you can go on
weeping as you go on in, through
the moist middle skins, the sweetest
and thickest, and you can go on
in to the core, to the bud-like,
acrid, fibrous skins densely
clustered there, stalky and in-
complete, and these are the most
pungent, like the nuggets of nightmare
and rage and murmury animal
comfort that infant humans secrete.
This is the best domestic perfume.
You sit down to eat with a rumor
of onions still on your twice-washed
hands and lift to your mouth a hint
of a story about loam and usual
endurance. It’s there when you clean up
and rinse the wine glasses and make
a joke, and you leave the minutest
whiff of it on the light switch,
later, when you climb the stairs.
mums are cringe. this is within expected behaviour. it’s in the job description.
I'm a music history nerd.
I'm into every style of music. My playlist is a nightmare, ask anyone who's been in a car with me. Could be electropop, could be opera, could be math rock, could be rap, could be rocksteady, could be doo-wop, could be doom metal, could be folk, could be hip hop, etc. Etc.
Hitting shuffle in my car is always a good time.
I've never quite followed the thread of anyone finding a style of music cringe, tbh.
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize there’s nothing in there. Not metaphorically—the armor is literally empty. It doesn’t appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body might’ve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what he’ll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.
There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.
Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.
I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.
—
I didn’t edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
we might suggest Elestrine as the Queen of Swords, referring to Crowley's "Book of Thoth" description: "In her right hand, she bears a sword; in her left hand, the newly severed head of a bearded man. She is the clear, conscious perception of Idea, the Liberator of the Mind.... If ill-dignified...[s]he will be cruel, sly, deceitful, and unreliable; in this way, very dangerous...."
Charles' personality we might suggest as the Prince of Disks: "great energy brought to bear upon the most solid of practical matters." but the end of the book suggests him as an instigator of the Great Work: what Crowley calls "Art" and others call "Temperance."
(Crowley's court cards are King (fire), Queen (water), Prince (air), and Princess (earth). we read the traditional Tarot binaries as universal forces, like protons and electrons (or electrons and positrons), not as some kind of normative statement about what humans should be.)
Julia is the Hermit. Crowley associates the card with Virgo and therefore Persephone. Julia also gets taken from the ordinary world against her will and must follow a being of shadowy intent. the card is also tied to Mercury and thus water, slowly attacking and dissolving -- the activity of a student. academics are Hermits in their studies. in the sense that Julia goes on a transformative journey and must overcome her ignorance of this new world, she is also the Fool, but the same is true of any new PhD candidate (we laugh and cry simultaneously at the memory).
it's easier to map personalities to court cards. Julia, Elsevier, and Lester feel more universal.
On 21 May 1946, with seven colleagues watching, Slotin performed an experiment that involved the creation of one of the first steps of a fission reaction by placing two half-spheres of beryllium (a neutron reflector) around a 3.5-inch-diameter (89 mm) plutonium core. The experiment used the same 6.2-kilogram (13.7 lb) plutonium core that had irradiated Daghlian, later called the "demon core" for its role in the two accidents. Slotin grasped the upper 228.6 mm (9-inch) beryllium hemisphere[17] with his left hand through a thumb hole at the top while he maintained the separation of the half-spheres using the blade of a screwdriver with his right hand, having removed the shims normally used. Using a screwdriver was not a normal part of the experimental protocol.[2][13]
At 3:20 p.m., the screwdriver slipped and the upper beryllium hemisphere fell, causing a "prompt critical" reaction and a burst of hard radiation.[9] At the time, the scientists in the room observed the blue glow of air ionization and felt a heat wave. Slotin experienced a sour taste in his mouth and an intense burning sensation in his left hand. He jerked his left hand upward, lifting the upper beryllium hemisphere, and dropped it to the floor, ending the reaction. He had already been exposed to a lethal dose of neutron radiation.[2] At the time of the accident, dosimetry badges were in a locked box about 100 feet (30 m) from where the reaction occurred. Realizing that no one in the room had their film badges on, "immediately after the accident Dr. Slotin asked Dr. Raemer E. Schreiber to have the badges taken from the lead box and placed on the critical assembly".[17] This peculiar response was of no value for determining the actual doses received by the men in the room and put Schreiber at "great personal risk" of additional exposure. A report later concluded that a heavy dose of radiation may produce vertigo and can leave a person "in no condition for rational behavior."[17] As soon as Slotin left the building he vomited, a common reaction from exposure to extremely intense ionizing radiation. Slotin's colleagues rushed him to the hospital, but the radiation damage was irreversible.[2]
the National Museum of Nuclear Science and History in Albuquerque displays the mechanical parts of an example Godiva device -- it's a silly lever thingie that requires human effort to hold down and goes back up to a safe state when you let go, but it could have saved two lives if they had bothered to stop and think about how "fucking around with a screwdriver" could have gone wrong
Also: "At the time of the accident, dosimetry badges were in a locked box about 100 feet (30 m) from where the reaction occurred" -- they KNEW they were fucking around
On 21 May 1946, with seven colleagues watching, Slotin performed an experiment that involved the creation of one of the first steps of a fission reaction by placing two half-spheres of beryllium (a neutron reflector) around a 3.5-inch-diameter (89 mm) plutonium core. The experiment used the same 6.2-kilogram (13.7 lb) plutonium core that had irradiated Daghlian, later called the "demon core" for its role in the two accidents. Slotin grasped the upper 228.6 mm (9-inch) beryllium hemisphere[17] with his left hand through a thumb hole at the top while he maintained the separation of the half-spheres using the blade of a screwdriver with his right hand, having removed the shims normally used. Using a screwdriver was not a normal part of the experimental protocol.[2][13]
At 3:20 p.m., the screwdriver slipped and the upper beryllium hemisphere fell, causing a "prompt critical" reaction and a burst of hard radiation.[9] At the time, the scientists in the room observed the blue glow of air ionization and felt a heat wave. Slotin experienced a sour taste in his mouth and an intense burning sensation in his left hand. He jerked his left hand upward, lifting the upper beryllium hemisphere, and dropped it to the floor, ending the reaction. He had already been exposed to a lethal dose of neutron radiation.[2] At the time of the accident, dosimetry badges were in a locked box about 100 feet (30 m) from where the reaction occurred. Realizing that no one in the room had their film badges on, "immediately after the accident Dr. Slotin asked Dr. Raemer E. Schreiber to have the badges taken from the lead box and placed on the critical assembly".[17] This peculiar response was of no value for determining the actual doses received by the men in the room and put Schreiber at "great personal risk" of additional exposure. A report later concluded that a heavy dose of radiation may produce vertigo and can leave a person "in no condition for rational behavior."[17] As soon as Slotin left the building he vomited, a common reaction from exposure to extremely intense ionizing radiation. Slotin's colleagues rushed him to the hospital, but the radiation damage was irreversible.[2]
the National Museum of Nuclear Science and History in Albuquerque displays the mechanical parts of an example Godiva device -- it's a silly lever thingie that requires human effort to hold down and goes back up to a safe state when you let go, but it could have saved two lives if they had bothered to stop and think about how "fucking around with a screwdriver" could have gone wrong
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