There ought to be a word for geologic processes that happen on a human scale. Maybe the most ready-at-hand word for that right now is “climate change.”
When the Pacific Ocean volcano known as Hunga Tonga-Hunga-Haʻapai erupted in 2015, it created a new landmass by fusing two islands together. When it erupted a month ago, it mostly destroyed them.
Compare the instant generation and pulverization of land to the timescale that created the Grand Canyon: on the order of millions, if not tens of millions of years. Or the time it took the Appalachian Mountains to be raised and then lowered to their present height: over a billion years. When it comes to lengths of time, geology is second only to cosmology. But you can’t touch the stars, or dig them up.
Most of the coal that created modern industry came into being several hundred million years ago, during the “Carboniferous” Period, when carbon was being pulled out of the atmosphere on the scale of mountain ranges. Now–this is the “now” of the recent past–a good percentage of that coal has come out of the ground and back into the air.
There ought to be a term for this, because the main byproduct of a geologic event on human scale is energy release–unbelievable quantities of energy, over barely longer than a human lifetime: the razing of mountains, volcanic explosions, enough heat to raise the temperature of an entire planet.
Thinking more about weather and meteorology, ancient and modern. Aristotle:
[Meteorology] is concerned with events that are natural, though their order is less perfect than that of the [stars and the heavens]. They take place in the region nearest to the motion of the stars. Such are the milky way, and comets, and the movements of meteors. It studies also all the affections we may call common to air and water, and the kinds and parts of the earth and the affections of its parts. These throw light on the causes of winds and earthquakes and all the consequences the motions of these kinds and parts involve. Of these things some puzzle us, while others admit of explanation in some degree. Further, the inquiry is concerned with the falling of thunderbolts and with whirlwinds and fire-winds, and further, the recurrent affections produced in these same bodies by concretion. When the inquiry into these matters is concluded let us consider what account we can give, in accordance with the method we have followed, of animals and plants, both generally and in detail.
For the ancient Egyptians, the circumpolar zone was the realm of immortality, the home of the Imperishable Stars. In following their circular paths around the north celestial pole, those that never rose and never set became synonymous with eternal life. (Echoes of the Ancient Skies, 104)
E.C. Crupp, Echoes of the Ancient Skies. Dover, 2003.
Seen from my neighborhood on a clear day, near dusk:
The birds were headed south, roughly parallel to the lake. Given the time of year, the size of the flock, and their great height (at least several hundred feet off the ground), I took it they might be leaving Chicago for the year. I don’t know what kind of birds I saw, but there is something about their situation–this was such a distinctive day in their lives, they were in for a dangerous trip filled with unknowns–that made me want to get just a few seconds on video.
In his comprehensive Bird Migration, Ian Newton writes about the advantages of the V-formation:
This is usual among geese, swans, gulls, cranes, pelicans, cormorants
and others. Each individual flies behind and to the side of the one in front, benefiting from its slipstream, gaining lift and reduced drag. This is possible because each bird sheds vortices from its wing-tips which gives lift to the one behind. Individuals flying in V-formation have been estimated to save 12–20 per cent on energy costs compared with birds flying alone. The lead bird has no such advantage in power saving, and frequently relinquishes its position, pulling out and joining the line further back.
(Chapter 4, Migratory Flight)
Ian Newton, Bird Migration. Collins New Naturalist Library (Volume 113), 2010.
In each successive year of my life, I pay less attention to sports than the one before it. But still, sport–especially professional sports–has to be one of those foundational categories of “content” on the web, accounting for a sizable percentage of all information stored and exchanged. There must be some internet law to the effect that the more there is written about some topic, the more likely that content is to be automatically generated in the future–or to read like it is. In the case of sports the problem is overdetermined; it was plagued by clichés long before the internet. And so it’s exciting to come across an article on sport that doesn’t look like it was written by a bot or a human working from a template–even better if it’s about a “sport” that is near-impossible to professionalize.
I loved this article about a long-distance hiker, Will ‘Akuna’ Robinson, who has dedicated the current phase of his life to hiking–in part because of what he experienced as a veteran in the most recent Iraq War–and who stands out because he is one of a few Black “thru-hikers” on any American trail.
To my knowledge there is no niche on the internet, no website or forum, dedicated exclusively to true amateur sports. And no, I don’t mean “amateur” as in “you haven’t gotten paid yet,” or “if you were good enough you could get paid.” I mean a site dedicated to people who pursue sport for some other reason. I could imagine it drawing in a completely different type of audience, one that had little in common with that for professional sports. Maybe the pressure to cross-subsidize articles like this one, on hiking, with pro sports journalism that makes $$$, is too great. Then again, it’s not like that business model is doing all that well, either.
I created this site because I wanted a place for quick impressions: what I’d seen, read and heard.
The idea goes back a few years, when I pulled together a simple website to draft new ideas. That became my “long” site, long.linesandripples.com, a place for informal, but complete, essayistic and blog-type writing. What gets written on the long site takes from a few days to weeks to complete, and I can develop only a fraction of what interests me. I wanted the option to produce quick posts more often, if only to see in a single sentence or two whether I was onto something, or to get something out there–a passage, an image, a sound–that was worth noting in granular form, for its own sake.
Social media is always an option for this type of need, but I dislike the default “push” model of most big social networks. I can think of no friend, acquaintance or passerby who needs to get every last update on this site ;). If you want that, there is always the RSS feed.
tl;dr: this is an at attempt at a personal feed: a little like Twitter, with more flexibility in format, greater independence from the everyday, just as much spontaneity–and a lot more fun. Let me know what you think.
Winter isn’t here yet, but the weather in Chicago is showing real signs of its existence. Nights below freezing; unforeseen bursts of snow; and the most characteristic of all: dull, uniform overcast skies, which appear featureless from the ground.
Looking at clouds is usually associated with boredom, but I would argue that one’s boredom is better assessed by what kind of clouds you are looking at.
One of the things I miss during the colder months are the complex cloudscapes. Not that these can’t appear in winter; if you see something like the picture above in January, you should pay attention and savor it, for it’s less likely to happen the next day. This is because there is simply less heat thrown into the atmosphere in winter, and heat is the scarce ingredient that churns with the more plentiful cool air. These thermal fault lines in the sky are the cause of the most interesting clouds.
And clouds, in keeping with their reputation for the ephemeral, are at their most interesting when the air is moving, and when their formations are short-lived, a transitional state.
David Ludlum, The National Audobon Society Field Guide to North American Weather. Knopf, 1991.
Gavin Pretor-Pinney, The Cloud Collector’s Handbook. Chronicle Books, 2011.
I live in a very walkable neighborhood in Chicago, and have walked almost everywhere I need to go daily for more than a decade. I’ve been thinking more about the meaning of all this walking in the last few years, mostly by building a reading list on the topic and informally going through it. One of the best I’ve read is Rebecca Solnit’s Wanderlust: A History of Walking.
The book came out more than twenty years ago, in 2000, but I see no evidence that advances in technology or changes in society have dated it. Walking has had the status of a gratuitously simple, stubbornly un-innovative way of getting around for at least 100 years. Because it is so obvious that walking is behind the times, whenever there is a desire to return to basics, or a burst of nostalgia for simple things–at that point the topic of walking will be due for a revival. I think we had one last year, during the pandemic.
What I have taken from Solnit’s book is that walking is one of those subtle, mostly deniable ways in which people express a disdain for hierarchy, routine and structure. The authorities that offer an alternative to walking–businesses, governments–do it because they think everyone wants to eliminate downtime between the appointed parts of that day; people insist on that time. The walker is neither here nor there, in a liminal state (51), dropped off the official record. Walking remains one of the best ways to disguise doing nothing (5). Walking “connects different interiors” which would otherwise remain unconnected (9). The spaces between, for example, the gym and the workplace, can have meaning if a person is in a position to look at them. And finally, because walking is too ordinary to be interesting, it has no true experts (ix), only amateurs who use it for their own reasons.
Before Halloween recedes even further, one recommendation I have to cram
The collaboration between the artist Leonard Baskin and the poet Richard
I never paid much attention to Baskin’s work, until I came across it
while searching out Halloween books for my son. Many people have seen
the FDR memorial in Washington, D.C., where Baskin contributed a bronze
of the president’s coffin being carried by a horse-drawn carriage.
Baskin and Michelson were friends and co-authors on several books for
children, and Michelson helped promote Baskin’s work in an important
art gallery he still owns and runs in
Northampton, Massachusetts. Baskin died in 2000. The
wrote at the top of his gallery page for Baskin is worth reading.
Their books are written with a sense of humor, and illustrated in a
style that walks right up to being inappropriately scary for kids.
Still, they remain whimsical, sometimes even ridiculous:
Baskin was mostly an artist for grownups, but his style is a natural fit
for the lighthearted scares of Halloween. Many of the illustrations in
these books are just samples from Baskin\’s longer-running projects. For
example, the “ghoul” in Did You Say Ghosts? appears to be based on a
long study of the raptor
gallery is a
beautiful and careful memorial to his friend, and includes much material
cataloged in several out-of-print books of Baskin’s work. I’d recommend
spending a few minutes there. No website lasts forever, and Michelson’s
is a great one. It’s the kind of site you can get lost in, anything but
Leonard Baskin and Richard Michelson. Animals That Ought to Be. Simon
& Schuster, 1996.
Leonard Baskin and Richard Michelson. Did You Say Ghosts?. Simon &