Before Anne Jefferson, floods bored me.
I didn't used to put a lot of thought into how rivers overran. I knew the basics: too much water = overflowing banks. Simple equation, one even an Arizonan can solve. We watched it happen. Rain had a difficult time soaking into hard desert earth. So, every rainstorm, there would be flash floods, and every monsoon season, at least a few people who didn't quite grasp the fact that those floods were, in fact, flash, and furious: they'd get caught by surprise, and stranded, or drown. On one memorable occasion, some New River folk decided it would be a great idea to drive a backhoe into a flooding desert river that was usually a wash so they could see how deep the water was.
It's not a great idea to do that. It's too bad so many of them didn't survive to learn the lesson.
I learned my lessons from other people, and stayed away from flooded things. If the road had water over it (and believe me, Phoenix has lots of roads that seem built specifically so they can flood reliably every summer storm), I'd go another way. I never lived in a place too close to water. I knew vaguely what a floodplain was - it was the place non-natives built houses, and then wondered why they got washed out every few years when the rivers rose. I didn't directly experience a life-impacting flood until I moved to El Norte. Back in November of '07, right after I'd begun working for my present company, North Creek flooded so bad we got evacuated. I had to drive through water that reached the bottom of my car doors - something I'd been told never to do, but the police were there directing traffic, and it was the only way out. I thought I'd come home to find I could float up to my third-floor windows, but Forbes Creek had behaved itself beautifully, and we were as dry as one can get in a Seattle-area winter.
That still didn't make me think much of floods. In some vague way, the waterways in my story worlds would usually behave themselves. I thought of flooding on small scales, sometimes, but never really considered how rivers misbehave and what people who must live beside them do in order to tame them. Floods? Pfft. Boring. We had bigger matters to attend.
Then came Anne.
She's in to something I'd never thought had anything much to do with geology: hydrology. When she wrote a blog post, chances were you'd be getting damp. This is a big world, and more than just strictly local bits of it flood. Some of those floods can impact a region, some an entire country. And, as she said in the title of one memorable blog post, "A flood is a disaster when people are in the way."
Right. So, rivers don't behave themselves all the time. But we like to live by them. So what does a civilization do to deal with it? How do you tame the savage beast?
In order to understand how a river or stream might be at least semi-controlled, you've got to understand how it behaves. What causes it to flood? And what sort of flood does it flood - because I've discovered through her posts that rivers aren't just large generic entities. They have behaviors. A lot of factors influence how they'll flood and what those floods will be like. You get in to geology and geomorphology, even biology. What happens after you've asserted your authority? Because if you change the character of a waterway, you change habitats, and even small changes can lead to drastic impacts. You and I might think nothing of removing a log from a stream so it doesn't get all stagnant and backed up, but the critters who like that large woody debris might have something to say about it. If removing wood from a stream can have such dramatic impact, how much more can a dam, or dredging, or levees cause?
These are things I've never thought about before, not in any but the most fuzzy detail, but my characters have to know it. My civilizations have to deal with it. They have to deal with matters of sediment, how water undercuts banks and digs holes and behaves in different environments. If I want to have a realistic world built, I have to remember that rivers will be rivers, and have a science all their own. And sometimes, quite often in fact, they don't do what you wish them to do.
Because of Anne, I've added a whole new word to my lexicon: hydrogeology. I pay attention to what streams and rivers are up to. I look at watersheds in a completely different way. They fascinate me in ways they never could before. And when I finish this novel and you (hopefully) enjoy it, if there's an authentic ring to the rivers, remember: it began with Anne.
15 September, 2011
14 September, 2011
"Adorers of the Good Science of Rock-breaking"
"Make them like me adorers of the good science of rock-breaking," Charles Darwin told Charles Lyell once, long ago. This, from a man who also once said of Robert Jameson's lectures on geology and zoology, "The sole effect they produced on me was the determination never as long as I lived to read a book on Geology." That, of course, was before Adam Sedgwick lectured him in geology and took him out for field work, which seems to have done the trick. He did read another book on geology, Lyell's Principles of Geology, which became his constant companion on his voyage with the Beagle. The concepts of geology prepared him to think in deep time. Without his passion for geology, without deep time sinking deep in his mind, the theory of evolution that changed the world might not be Darwin's.
I have become, like Darwin, an adorer of the good science of rock-breaking.
It's a love that bloomed late. It's always been there, since I was little and wondered at the mountains rising in my back window; at the vast chasm in the ground that revealed billions of years; at the sea that had become fields of stone. But just a bud, tucked away, unopened. I thought I knew what I wanted and needed from life: a degree in some sort of writerly discipline, like English or maybe History, until I decided the additional debt I'd have to take on wouldn't teach me any more than I could teach myself, and I left academia for the world of daytime wage-slavery and nighttime scribbling. I set geology aside, because what a fantasy writer needed couldn't be found in earth and stone. So I thought. I searched the stars, delved into physics, waved fondly to geology on my way to geography. I knew the basics: plates moved, mountains rose where they crashed. Enough to determine the shape of an imaginary world, wasn't that?
No.
And there was the small matter of a subduction zone, now: I'd moved away from the fossil seas. I didn't understand this terrible and beautiful new place. It wasn't a landscape I'd grown up with. So I explored it a bit, and the more I explored, the more I needed to understand, the more I realized a story world should be so much more than an ocean with a few haphazard continents sketched in. I wanted to understand this world so that I could understand that. So I delved, deep, into deep time, into continental crust and ocean floor. I turned to books on geology. They weren't enough. I found a few geobloggers. They were more, still not enough. I began writing geology in order to understand it, because there's no better way to learn than by teaching someone else. And it still wasn't enough.
The more I learned, the more I realized I didn't know.
And that isn't precisely the problem. If it was, I could decide that knowing a little more than most is quite enough to be going on with, and settle down, content with my little gems of knowledge. If I'd just stayed a bit more ignorant, it would have been okay.
There's a metaphor that explains why those few shining gems, no matter how many more I acquire, will never be enough. It's in the story I'm writing right now, in which Nahash, the Serpent of the Elder Tree, is tasked with giving knowledge and wisdom to a young girl. And this is what he does, the first time they meet:
Should I ever become a famous speculative fiction author, people will accuse me of being autobiographical. And, aside from the fact that I was an adult when I ate that fruit and drank that spring water, and didn't actually munch unidentified fruit and drink from the spring of an actual World Tree Serpent, they'll be quite correct. This is completely autobiographical. Since taking a bigger bite and a deeper drink from the fruit and springs of science, especially geology, I've been starving and parched. I'm desperate enough for more that I've considered going deep into debt for a degree I may never earn a living from. I'd beggar myself to get a full meal, and I know I'd walk away with a $30,000+ tab, and I'd still be starving. Add several fistfuls of dollars for grad school, and I'd still feel I hadn't had more than a bite to eat and a drop to drink.
There's no going back, now I'm an adorer of the good science of rock-breaking. There's no end to it, you see. It's a vast old Earth, and there's no way for any of us to know everything about it. And even if we could, have a look out in space - lots more planets out there, all unknown, all fascinating, all with incredible rocks to break.
Anne Jefferson asked, "If you are a geology enthusiast but not professional… what do you wish you could get in additional formal and informal education? What would you like from geosciences students, faculty, and professionals that would make your enthusiasm more informed and more fun?"
And these are the things I'll say to you professionals and pending professionals, you professors and students, you who have careers at surveys and for companies:
Do not withhold your passion.
If there's a book within you, write it. Let your love pour onto the page. Put as much of your knowledge and wisdom into words as you are able, and get it into my hands. You don't even need a publisher in this digital age: you can upload it as an ebook. I'll take whatever you've got. And if you need a wordsmith's help, well, you know where to find me.
If something fascinates you, blog it. Even if it's complicated and you think it's of doubtful interest to anyone outside of the geotribe, post it up there where I can see it. If you love it enough to spend time explaining it, chances are I'll love it enough to spend time doing my best to comprehend it.
If you've written a paper, share it. Blog about it, maybe even offer to send me a .pdf if you can. There's a huge, expensive double-barrier between laypeople and papers: the language is technical and hard, and the journals charge so much that even if we're willing to put in the work, we may not have the funds. We've already spent our ready cash on books and rock hammers and various, y'see. But if you're allowed to send out a copy, and you can give me an iota of understanding, I'll read it, struggle with it, combine it with those other precious bits of knowledge until I've made some sense of it.
Show me what you see. Post those pictures of outcrops. If we're in the same neighborhood with some time to spare, put those rocks in my hands. I know you've got a career and a family, and can't lead many field trips, but if you can take even a few of us out, do it. We'll happily keep you in meals, beer and gas money just for the chance to see the world through your eyes, in real time and real life.
Answer questions as time allows.
Point us at resources.
Let us eavesdrop on your conversations with other geologists and geology students.
And hell, if you want to make some spare cash, and you're not in a position where there might be a conflict of interest, consider teaching some online classes for a fee. There's plenty of us who can't quite afford college, but could scrape together some bucks for the opportunity to learn something directly from the experts.We'd practically kill for that opportunity, but the days when you were allowed to break rocks in prison are pretty much over, so there's not quite as much incentive to break the law.
In other words, mostly do what you're doing now, with maybe a few added extras.
That's what those of us without the cash for a college degree and not even a single community college class on offer need. We just need you to share as much as you can, challenge us as much as you can.
And you there, with the students: make them, like me, adorers of the good science of rock-breaking. Send them out into the world with passion, a hammer, and a desire to babble to the poor starving, parched enthusiasts hoping for just one more bite to eat and drop to drink.
This post is dedicated to the geobloggers who adopted me, answer questions and write remarkable posts and answer my plaintive "I can haz pdf?!" cries with a grin and a quick email. Dedicated most of all to Lockwood, who taught me how to properly break a rock, and gave me such rocks to break! Thanks will never be enough, so when you're next in the Pacific Northwest, my darlings, I shall give you a fine road cut (or several), a substantial meal, and more than one beer. And I meant what I said about being your wordsmith, should you ever need help writing a book.
 |
| Outcrop on Doherty Ridge. Photo by Cujo. |
It's a love that bloomed late. It's always been there, since I was little and wondered at the mountains rising in my back window; at the vast chasm in the ground that revealed billions of years; at the sea that had become fields of stone. But just a bud, tucked away, unopened. I thought I knew what I wanted and needed from life: a degree in some sort of writerly discipline, like English or maybe History, until I decided the additional debt I'd have to take on wouldn't teach me any more than I could teach myself, and I left academia for the world of daytime wage-slavery and nighttime scribbling. I set geology aside, because what a fantasy writer needed couldn't be found in earth and stone. So I thought. I searched the stars, delved into physics, waved fondly to geology on my way to geography. I knew the basics: plates moved, mountains rose where they crashed. Enough to determine the shape of an imaginary world, wasn't that?
No.
And there was the small matter of a subduction zone, now: I'd moved away from the fossil seas. I didn't understand this terrible and beautiful new place. It wasn't a landscape I'd grown up with. So I explored it a bit, and the more I explored, the more I needed to understand, the more I realized a story world should be so much more than an ocean with a few haphazard continents sketched in. I wanted to understand this world so that I could understand that. So I delved, deep, into deep time, into continental crust and ocean floor. I turned to books on geology. They weren't enough. I found a few geobloggers. They were more, still not enough. I began writing geology in order to understand it, because there's no better way to learn than by teaching someone else. And it still wasn't enough.
The more I learned, the more I realized I didn't know.
And that isn't precisely the problem. If it was, I could decide that knowing a little more than most is quite enough to be going on with, and settle down, content with my little gems of knowledge. If I'd just stayed a bit more ignorant, it would have been okay.
There's a metaphor that explains why those few shining gems, no matter how many more I acquire, will never be enough. It's in the story I'm writing right now, in which Nahash, the Serpent of the Elder Tree, is tasked with giving knowledge and wisdom to a young girl. And this is what he does, the first time they meet:
He led her round the tree, to the spring that bubbled out from between the roots, clear and deep. Another branch hung low there, and there was fruit on it, so heavy and ripe it was ready to fall. He plucked one of the fruits and turned back to her. "This fruit is knowledge. Do you see? It's probably sweet. Could be sour. You won't know until you've tasted it." He held it out. She reached for it, but he pulled it back. "There's something else. Once you've tasted it, no matter whether it's sour or sweet, you'll always be hungry. You'll starve. And that water, there-" He waved at the spring. "Sweetest water in the world, maybe the whole universe, but once you've had a drink from it you'll always be thirsty. Starving and parched. Is that how you want to spend your life? There are other ways of living, you know, and some of them are no less worthy. Some of them are even fun. Or so I've heard."
She held out her hand, but didn't speak.
"Are you quite sure? Because there's no going back, you know. Not ever."
Should I ever become a famous speculative fiction author, people will accuse me of being autobiographical. And, aside from the fact that I was an adult when I ate that fruit and drank that spring water, and didn't actually munch unidentified fruit and drink from the spring of an actual World Tree Serpent, they'll be quite correct. This is completely autobiographical. Since taking a bigger bite and a deeper drink from the fruit and springs of science, especially geology, I've been starving and parched. I'm desperate enough for more that I've considered going deep into debt for a degree I may never earn a living from. I'd beggar myself to get a full meal, and I know I'd walk away with a $30,000+ tab, and I'd still be starving. Add several fistfuls of dollars for grad school, and I'd still feel I hadn't had more than a bite to eat and a drop to drink.
There's no going back, now I'm an adorer of the good science of rock-breaking. There's no end to it, you see. It's a vast old Earth, and there's no way for any of us to know everything about it. And even if we could, have a look out in space - lots more planets out there, all unknown, all fascinating, all with incredible rocks to break.
 |
| On Doherty Ridge, with George's rock hammer. Photo by Cujo. |
Anne Jefferson asked, "If you are a geology enthusiast but not professional… what do you wish you could get in additional formal and informal education? What would you like from geosciences students, faculty, and professionals that would make your enthusiasm more informed and more fun?"
And these are the things I'll say to you professionals and pending professionals, you professors and students, you who have careers at surveys and for companies:
Do not withhold your passion.
If there's a book within you, write it. Let your love pour onto the page. Put as much of your knowledge and wisdom into words as you are able, and get it into my hands. You don't even need a publisher in this digital age: you can upload it as an ebook. I'll take whatever you've got. And if you need a wordsmith's help, well, you know where to find me.
If something fascinates you, blog it. Even if it's complicated and you think it's of doubtful interest to anyone outside of the geotribe, post it up there where I can see it. If you love it enough to spend time explaining it, chances are I'll love it enough to spend time doing my best to comprehend it.
If you've written a paper, share it. Blog about it, maybe even offer to send me a .pdf if you can. There's a huge, expensive double-barrier between laypeople and papers: the language is technical and hard, and the journals charge so much that even if we're willing to put in the work, we may not have the funds. We've already spent our ready cash on books and rock hammers and various, y'see. But if you're allowed to send out a copy, and you can give me an iota of understanding, I'll read it, struggle with it, combine it with those other precious bits of knowledge until I've made some sense of it.
Show me what you see. Post those pictures of outcrops. If we're in the same neighborhood with some time to spare, put those rocks in my hands. I know you've got a career and a family, and can't lead many field trips, but if you can take even a few of us out, do it. We'll happily keep you in meals, beer and gas money just for the chance to see the world through your eyes, in real time and real life.
Answer questions as time allows.
Point us at resources.
Let us eavesdrop on your conversations with other geologists and geology students.
And hell, if you want to make some spare cash, and you're not in a position where there might be a conflict of interest, consider teaching some online classes for a fee. There's plenty of us who can't quite afford college, but could scrape together some bucks for the opportunity to learn something directly from the experts.We'd practically kill for that opportunity, but the days when you were allowed to break rocks in prison are pretty much over, so there's not quite as much incentive to break the law.
In other words, mostly do what you're doing now, with maybe a few added extras.
That's what those of us without the cash for a college degree and not even a single community college class on offer need. We just need you to share as much as you can, challenge us as much as you can.
And you there, with the students: make them, like me, adorers of the good science of rock-breaking. Send them out into the world with passion, a hammer, and a desire to babble to the poor starving, parched enthusiasts hoping for just one more bite to eat and drop to drink.
 |
| Lockwood, Dana, rocks and rock hammer on Doherty Ridge. Photo by Cujo. |
This post is dedicated to the geobloggers who adopted me, answer questions and write remarkable posts and answer my plaintive "I can haz pdf?!" cries with a grin and a quick email. Dedicated most of all to Lockwood, who taught me how to properly break a rock, and gave me such rocks to break! Thanks will never be enough, so when you're next in the Pacific Northwest, my darlings, I shall give you a fine road cut (or several), a substantial meal, and more than one beer. And I meant what I said about being your wordsmith, should you ever need help writing a book.
13 September, 2011
Dojo Summer Sessions: I Shall Require Topics
Summer's drawing to a close, and the winter writing season is very nearly upon us. The Muse is back from wherever she spent her summer vacation. It looks like winter will be coming early. There's a sharp chill in the night air, and a certain gleam in her eye that says I'm in for it. She also appears to have acquired a new whip. Dear, oh dear.
So I'm furiously loading up on posts before summer ends in order to clear the decks for some marathon fiction writing. I'll need at least 30 Dojo posts fired up and ready to go in advance. I've got about half that nearing completion, and I'm running a bit low on ideas.
Topics. I require topics. What haven't I covered in the Dojo that you'd like to see covered? Pepper me with questions about all things writing, whether fiction or blogging. Tell me what you struggle with. Are there contentious issues in the wordsmithing world you'd like to see me tackle with nothing more than my wits and perhaps a rock hammer? Get them to me. If you don't want to go public, you can always find dhunterauthor at yahoo. DM me on Twitter. Drop me a line on Google+, only you'd better do that before October, because I've plans to abandon it willy-nilly if it continues to be evil. You can even find me on Facebook: although I tend to neglect that place shamefully, they always notify me by email when something gets messaged or posted.
Right, then. Fire away.
So I'm furiously loading up on posts before summer ends in order to clear the decks for some marathon fiction writing. I'll need at least 30 Dojo posts fired up and ready to go in advance. I've got about half that nearing completion, and I'm running a bit low on ideas.
Topics. I require topics. What haven't I covered in the Dojo that you'd like to see covered? Pepper me with questions about all things writing, whether fiction or blogging. Tell me what you struggle with. Are there contentious issues in the wordsmithing world you'd like to see me tackle with nothing more than my wits and perhaps a rock hammer? Get them to me. If you don't want to go public, you can always find dhunterauthor at yahoo. DM me on Twitter. Drop me a line on Google+, only you'd better do that before October, because I've plans to abandon it willy-nilly if it continues to be evil. You can even find me on Facebook: although I tend to neglect that place shamefully, they always notify me by email when something gets messaged or posted.
Right, then. Fire away.
12 September, 2011
Los Links 9/9
Slightly less links than usual, I'm afraid. But some great stuff in here. Do enjoy!
Irene
Deshler Photography: Hurricane Irene - Record Flooding in Vermont.
Science
Speakeasy Science: Et tu, Science Magazine?
Scientific American: Lessons from Sherlock Holmes: Don’t Underestimate the Importance of Imagination.
Almost Diamonds: Humor Study Is Funny Peculiar.
Neurotic Physiology: Friday Weird Science: Are men really funnier than women? Who's asking?
Looking for Detachment: Report on an Afterwork Field Trip.
Mountain Beltway: Friday fold: duplex structure in the gastropod limestone and A dismaying course, part I: climate change.
The Open Source Paleontologist: How do you read the literature? Thoughts on academic maturation.
The Thoughtful Animal: Animal Imagination: The Dog That Pretended to Feed a Frog (and Other Tales).
White Coat Underground: You’re all gonna die!
Highly Allochthonous: Scenic Saturday: Sliced, diced and weathered.
Life as a Geologist: Kinky Columns.
AnimalWise: The “Yellow Snow” Test.
Georneys: Geology Word of the Week: N is for Nummulite.
The Last Word on Nothing: Guest Post: Microscope, DIY, 3 Minutes.
Not Exactly Rocket Science: Bacteria use electric wires to shock uranium out of groundwater and Hummingbirds dive to sing with their tails.
Uncovered Earth: Geoblogging the Northwest.
Macworld: FTC: No, your smartphone can't heal acne.
Scientific American: How Accurate Are Memories of 9/11?
Quest: Local Geological State Parks to Close.
Ars Technica: Why my fellow physicists think they know everything (and why they're wrong).
New York Times: Where Early Dinosaurs Lived, Deal Expands a National Park.
Scientific American: What We Know about Black Holes.
Culturing Science: On vaccines: scientists can’t stop doing science because of crazy people.
History of Geology: September 2, 1806: The landslide of Goldau.
Writing
Mad Genius Club: He Beats Me But He’s My Publisher.
Galley Cat: How Publishers & Authors Can Use SoundCloud.
Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Pitch versus query.
A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Not Caring.
Dear Author: Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.
The Creative Penn: How To Write Fight Scenes With Alan Baxter.
Atheism and Religion
Choice in Dying: The Bishop of Swindon is an Ass.
Greta Christina's Blog: Diplomacy and Accomodationism Are Not The Same Thing.
The Meming of Life: The power of two.
Almost Diamonds: We Are Indeed on a Slippery Slope.
New Statesman: What would Jesus ban?
Women's Issues
Butterflies and Wheels: How to patronize the wimminz.
JAYFK: Oh No They Didn’t: JC Penney still missing the mark.
Feministing: Finally a beer just for women!
RH Reality Check: Court Victory in South Dakota's Misinformed Consent Law.
Almost Diamonds: Women Can Teach; You Just Can’t Be Obliged to Listen.
Skepticlawyer: Miss Manners and playing the victim.
Tiger Beatdown: CHRONICLES OF MANSPLAINING: Professor Feminism and the Deleted Comments of Doom and “Elitism:” Now, It Basically Just Means “Not Having Sex With Everybody”.
Whatever: Shut Up and Listen.
Love Joy Feminism: Men and Women in Christian Patriarchy: Masters and Slaves or Equals?
Politics
Grist: Conservative pundits grapple with ‘anti-science’ charge, flail.
Talking Points Memo: Columnist: Registering Poor To Vote 'Like Handing Out Burglary Tools To Criminals'.
Forever in Hell: Skin in the Game.
Mike the Mad Biologist: Is 12,000 Lives Worth a Re-Election? Because People Have to Breathe This Crap.
Political Carnival: Tea bagger to TPC reader: You’re “less than human because your husband is half Hispanic & half Irish.”
The Telegraph: Jon Huntsman, the lone voice of scientific sanity in the US Republican Presidential race.
Grist: Rick Perry: Just because global warming is a ‘fact’ doesn’t mean it’s real and Even Tea Partiers don’t think environmental protection kills jobs.
Decrepit Old Fool: The Galileo Gambit; rule number one is…
Dan's Wild Wild Science Journal: Science, The Tea Party and The Dunning-Kruger Effect.
Pam's House Blend: Per Save California, Gay Activists Are “Kidnapping The Brains Of Our Kids”.
Guardian News Blog: Is Rick Perry a 21st-century Galileo?
Bad Astronomy: Republican candidates, global warming, evolution, and reality.
Mother Jones: Audio: Chris Christie Lets Loose at Secret Koch Brothers Confab.
Society and Culture
Time: Beware of the Gonzo Nature-TV Presenter.
Pull My Finger: Dumbest. Blog. Ever.
New York Times: On Flood Plain, Pondering Wisdom of Rebuilding Anew.
The Hermitage: In which Hermitage is a pissy black person.
Lifehacker: How I Got My Stolen Laptop Back Within 24 Hours Using Prey.
Stupid Evil Bastard: Beware cold calls from people claiming to be from Microsoft about problems with your computer.
Inside Higher Ed: A Dissenter Is Fired.
Lousy Canuck: Al, why haven’t I leaped yet!?
Nymwars
Bob Blakley: Google+ Can Be A Social Network Or The Name Police – Not Both.
All Things D: Superman vs. Google+ (Comic).
Irene
Deshler Photography: Hurricane Irene - Record Flooding in Vermont.
Science
Speakeasy Science: Et tu, Science Magazine?
Scientific American: Lessons from Sherlock Holmes: Don’t Underestimate the Importance of Imagination.
Almost Diamonds: Humor Study Is Funny Peculiar.
Neurotic Physiology: Friday Weird Science: Are men really funnier than women? Who's asking?
Looking for Detachment: Report on an Afterwork Field Trip.
Mountain Beltway: Friday fold: duplex structure in the gastropod limestone and A dismaying course, part I: climate change.
The Open Source Paleontologist: How do you read the literature? Thoughts on academic maturation.
The Thoughtful Animal: Animal Imagination: The Dog That Pretended to Feed a Frog (and Other Tales).
White Coat Underground: You’re all gonna die!
Highly Allochthonous: Scenic Saturday: Sliced, diced and weathered.
Life as a Geologist: Kinky Columns.
AnimalWise: The “Yellow Snow” Test.
Georneys: Geology Word of the Week: N is for Nummulite.
The Last Word on Nothing: Guest Post: Microscope, DIY, 3 Minutes.
Not Exactly Rocket Science: Bacteria use electric wires to shock uranium out of groundwater and Hummingbirds dive to sing with their tails.
Uncovered Earth: Geoblogging the Northwest.
Macworld: FTC: No, your smartphone can't heal acne.
Scientific American: How Accurate Are Memories of 9/11?
Quest: Local Geological State Parks to Close.
Ars Technica: Why my fellow physicists think they know everything (and why they're wrong).
New York Times: Where Early Dinosaurs Lived, Deal Expands a National Park.
Scientific American: What We Know about Black Holes.
Culturing Science: On vaccines: scientists can’t stop doing science because of crazy people.
History of Geology: September 2, 1806: The landslide of Goldau.
Writing
Mad Genius Club: He Beats Me But He’s My Publisher.
Galley Cat: How Publishers & Authors Can Use SoundCloud.
Janet Reid, Literary Agent: Pitch versus query.
A Newbie's Guide to Publishing: Not Caring.
Dear Author: Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.
The Creative Penn: How To Write Fight Scenes With Alan Baxter.
Atheism and Religion
Choice in Dying: The Bishop of Swindon is an Ass.
Greta Christina's Blog: Diplomacy and Accomodationism Are Not The Same Thing.
The Meming of Life: The power of two.
Almost Diamonds: We Are Indeed on a Slippery Slope.
New Statesman: What would Jesus ban?
Women's Issues
Butterflies and Wheels: How to patronize the wimminz.
JAYFK: Oh No They Didn’t: JC Penney still missing the mark.
Feministing: Finally a beer just for women!
RH Reality Check: Court Victory in South Dakota's Misinformed Consent Law.
Almost Diamonds: Women Can Teach; You Just Can’t Be Obliged to Listen.
Skepticlawyer: Miss Manners and playing the victim.
Tiger Beatdown: CHRONICLES OF MANSPLAINING: Professor Feminism and the Deleted Comments of Doom and “Elitism:” Now, It Basically Just Means “Not Having Sex With Everybody”.
Whatever: Shut Up and Listen.
Love Joy Feminism: Men and Women in Christian Patriarchy: Masters and Slaves or Equals?
Politics
Grist: Conservative pundits grapple with ‘anti-science’ charge, flail.
Talking Points Memo: Columnist: Registering Poor To Vote 'Like Handing Out Burglary Tools To Criminals'.
Forever in Hell: Skin in the Game.
Mike the Mad Biologist: Is 12,000 Lives Worth a Re-Election? Because People Have to Breathe This Crap.
Political Carnival: Tea bagger to TPC reader: You’re “less than human because your husband is half Hispanic & half Irish.”
The Telegraph: Jon Huntsman, the lone voice of scientific sanity in the US Republican Presidential race.
Grist: Rick Perry: Just because global warming is a ‘fact’ doesn’t mean it’s real and Even Tea Partiers don’t think environmental protection kills jobs.
Decrepit Old Fool: The Galileo Gambit; rule number one is…
Dan's Wild Wild Science Journal: Science, The Tea Party and The Dunning-Kruger Effect.
Pam's House Blend: Per Save California, Gay Activists Are “Kidnapping The Brains Of Our Kids”.
Guardian News Blog: Is Rick Perry a 21st-century Galileo?
Bad Astronomy: Republican candidates, global warming, evolution, and reality.
Mother Jones: Audio: Chris Christie Lets Loose at Secret Koch Brothers Confab.
Society and Culture
Time: Beware of the Gonzo Nature-TV Presenter.
Pull My Finger: Dumbest. Blog. Ever.
New York Times: On Flood Plain, Pondering Wisdom of Rebuilding Anew.
The Hermitage: In which Hermitage is a pissy black person.
Lifehacker: How I Got My Stolen Laptop Back Within 24 Hours Using Prey.
Stupid Evil Bastard: Beware cold calls from people claiming to be from Microsoft about problems with your computer.
Inside Higher Ed: A Dissenter Is Fired.
Lousy Canuck: Al, why haven’t I leaped yet!?
Nymwars
Bob Blakley: Google+ Can Be A Social Network Or The Name Police – Not Both.
All Things D: Superman vs. Google+ (Comic).
11 September, 2011
We Have to Remember
Ten years ago today, the world changed.
It changes every day. Someone, somewhere, each day, finds themselves facing what they'd never expected to face. Wars break out, violence erupts; or there's a fire, or a flood, or some other catastrophic event that means they will never live as they once did. Even if they rebuild their lives, even if they prosper, there's always that memory, tucked away, and it colors everything. The world changed. It will never, can never, be the same.
Ten years ago today, we in America faced one of those world-changing events. And we are not the same.
In Flagstaff, that September day was achingly beautiful. The sun shone like a second spring. I'd woken late, as usual, and pottered around getting ready for work. There was no television in my house, no phone, no internet, no radio. I'd gotten rid of all those things, living in splendid near-isolation, because all of the things I needed to connect with the world were just a block away at work. So I didn't know. The world hadn't changed yet. I walked to work slowly, savoring the last of the flowers, blooming white and gleaming against the bark and cinders in the landscaping at the gym. I listened to birds singing their day away. I basked in the sun, and felt an overwhelming joy in it. Soon, winter would come, kill all the flowers and drape everything in cold, wet white. But right here, right now, it was warm and brilliant and perfect, a perfect moment. I was smiling as I arrived at work.
Where one of my coworkers, hunched on a bench outside, looked up at me and said, "We're at war."
And the world changed.
It changes every day. Someone, somewhere, each day, finds themselves facing what they'd never expected to face. Wars break out, violence erupts; or there's a fire, or a flood, or some other catastrophic event that means they will never live as they once did. Even if they rebuild their lives, even if they prosper, there's always that memory, tucked away, and it colors everything. The world changed. It will never, can never, be the same.
Ten years ago today, we in America faced one of those world-changing events. And we are not the same.
In Flagstaff, that September day was achingly beautiful. The sun shone like a second spring. I'd woken late, as usual, and pottered around getting ready for work. There was no television in my house, no phone, no internet, no radio. I'd gotten rid of all those things, living in splendid near-isolation, because all of the things I needed to connect with the world were just a block away at work. So I didn't know. The world hadn't changed yet. I walked to work slowly, savoring the last of the flowers, blooming white and gleaming against the bark and cinders in the landscaping at the gym. I listened to birds singing their day away. I basked in the sun, and felt an overwhelming joy in it. Soon, winter would come, kill all the flowers and drape everything in cold, wet white. But right here, right now, it was warm and brilliant and perfect, a perfect moment. I was smiling as I arrived at work.
Where one of my coworkers, hunched on a bench outside, looked up at me and said, "We're at war."
And the world changed.
Trek Into the Past
So. Star Trek turned 45 last Thursday. Wow.
It's been nearly twenty years since I lost my Star Trek innocence. I wasn't much of a sci-fi fan as a teenager, especially not the teevee shows. I loved Buck Rogers and Battlestar Galactica and... that was just about it. I truly believed most of those shows were horribly corny, with awful special effects and atrocious writing. I was above all that. I would never ever in my entire life become a Star Trek fan. Star Trek fans were pathetic and weird.
Ah, youth. So full of certainty and so full of shit.
Then my friend Ryan spent a few days with us on his summer break from college. This happened at the same time they'd started releasing Star Trek: The Next Generation on VHS. Yes, I am dating myself. Shut up. Anyway, Ryan saw these while we were at Wal-Mart one afternoon and snapped them up with evident glee. His little face just glowed. And he assumed that I, of course, would watch them with him.
"No," I said. "I hate Star Trek."
His face. So shocked. He pitched. He pleaded. He cajoled. He seemed to give up in the face of my continued refusal. I should've known better. Ryan was a man who could hear the word no, but not when it came to entertainment he believed in. And he could be a devious little bastard.
He also knew me very well. Since he was staying at my place with a herd of other friends, he had easy access to both me and backup. So at 8 in the ay-em, when I was still dead unconscious, he came into my bedroom. "We're gonna watch Star Trek."
I think I meant to say something like, "That's nice, dear. I'm going to continue sleeping," but what I really said was, "Groan."
He started in on a let's-watch-Star-Trek-together sales pitch, ending with, "C'mon. Just one."
"If you want me to watch Star Trek," I said, "you'll have to carry me out there."
And so he did. He scooped me right out of bed. He's not the strongest man in the universe, but he was determined. Picture him staggering through my chaotic bedroom, trying to avoid tripping over debris, navigating hazards, while I watched the approaching door with the certainty that I was about to have my head cracked open upon it, if he didn't fall and squish me first. I was about to die because a friend wanted me to watch Star Trek.
We made it to the living room with only minor bruising. He deposited me in front of the television whilst the other houseguests laughed and roared their approval. Ryan may not have been a strong man, but he was a smart man. He stuffed a Coke in my hand, knowing that at this hour and so equipped, I wouldn't have the will to move for at least an hour, and an hour was all he needed. Then he turned on the telly.
The episode, for those interested, was "The Naked Now." Yeah. If you know it, you're already laughing.
By the end of that hour, I was hooked. By the end of summer, I was a full-on fan. I became an officer in our local fan club. I dressed as Deanna Troi for Ryan's next visit (which didn't shock him half so much as the fact that I was wearing makeup). I loved the friend who constantly wore his starship captain's uniform, and didn't think it at all weird that he'd spent months figuring out how to say, "Take your ticket and get on the damned boat" in Klingon. He worked for a boat rental company, it made perfect sense.
I owned the Enterprise's manual. I wrote Star Trek fan fic. I read the books (and to this day, Q-in-Law is one of my favorite reading experiences. Read it. You'll laugh). I watched all the movies. And I discovered a wealth of stories I hadn't even known existed.
Star Trek taught me that sci-fi could be awesome, even in the television industry, even when the special effects weren't all that. It taught me that this genre could tell amazing stories.
I rather drifted away after those halcyon early years of passion. I no longer read the books or write the fan fic. I don't belong to a fan group, or keep up on the new spinoffs, or even all of the movies. But I haven't stopped loving Star Trek.
I'll always want my tea. Earl Grey. Hot.
I'll always want to see them boldly going where no show has gone before, even if I'm not along for every voyage.
Engage.
It's been nearly twenty years since I lost my Star Trek innocence. I wasn't much of a sci-fi fan as a teenager, especially not the teevee shows. I loved Buck Rogers and Battlestar Galactica and... that was just about it. I truly believed most of those shows were horribly corny, with awful special effects and atrocious writing. I was above all that. I would never ever in my entire life become a Star Trek fan. Star Trek fans were pathetic and weird.
Ah, youth. So full of certainty and so full of shit.
Then my friend Ryan spent a few days with us on his summer break from college. This happened at the same time they'd started releasing Star Trek: The Next Generation on VHS. Yes, I am dating myself. Shut up. Anyway, Ryan saw these while we were at Wal-Mart one afternoon and snapped them up with evident glee. His little face just glowed. And he assumed that I, of course, would watch them with him.
"No," I said. "I hate Star Trek."
His face. So shocked. He pitched. He pleaded. He cajoled. He seemed to give up in the face of my continued refusal. I should've known better. Ryan was a man who could hear the word no, but not when it came to entertainment he believed in. And he could be a devious little bastard.
He also knew me very well. Since he was staying at my place with a herd of other friends, he had easy access to both me and backup. So at 8 in the ay-em, when I was still dead unconscious, he came into my bedroom. "We're gonna watch Star Trek."
I think I meant to say something like, "That's nice, dear. I'm going to continue sleeping," but what I really said was, "Groan."
He started in on a let's-watch-Star-Trek-together sales pitch, ending with, "C'mon. Just one."
"If you want me to watch Star Trek," I said, "you'll have to carry me out there."
And so he did. He scooped me right out of bed. He's not the strongest man in the universe, but he was determined. Picture him staggering through my chaotic bedroom, trying to avoid tripping over debris, navigating hazards, while I watched the approaching door with the certainty that I was about to have my head cracked open upon it, if he didn't fall and squish me first. I was about to die because a friend wanted me to watch Star Trek.
We made it to the living room with only minor bruising. He deposited me in front of the television whilst the other houseguests laughed and roared their approval. Ryan may not have been a strong man, but he was a smart man. He stuffed a Coke in my hand, knowing that at this hour and so equipped, I wouldn't have the will to move for at least an hour, and an hour was all he needed. Then he turned on the telly.
The episode, for those interested, was "The Naked Now." Yeah. If you know it, you're already laughing.
By the end of that hour, I was hooked. By the end of summer, I was a full-on fan. I became an officer in our local fan club. I dressed as Deanna Troi for Ryan's next visit (which didn't shock him half so much as the fact that I was wearing makeup). I loved the friend who constantly wore his starship captain's uniform, and didn't think it at all weird that he'd spent months figuring out how to say, "Take your ticket and get on the damned boat" in Klingon. He worked for a boat rental company, it made perfect sense.
I owned the Enterprise's manual. I wrote Star Trek fan fic. I read the books (and to this day, Q-in-Law is one of my favorite reading experiences. Read it. You'll laugh). I watched all the movies. And I discovered a wealth of stories I hadn't even known existed.
Star Trek taught me that sci-fi could be awesome, even in the television industry, even when the special effects weren't all that. It taught me that this genre could tell amazing stories.
I rather drifted away after those halcyon early years of passion. I no longer read the books or write the fan fic. I don't belong to a fan group, or keep up on the new spinoffs, or even all of the movies. But I haven't stopped loving Star Trek.
I'll always want my tea. Earl Grey. Hot.
I'll always want to see them boldly going where no show has gone before, even if I'm not along for every voyage.
Engage.
10 September, 2011
This Student Gives Me Hope
I don't know who she is, only what she has done. And what she has done is this: become a banned book library. When her school decided upon a list of things the kids absolutely must not read, due to parental outrage and a belief kids can be kept from great literature and harsh truths, she tested their limits by bringing in a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. When it caught the eye of a fellow student, she lent it out. And then things snowballed, and she now runs a clandestine locker-library full of banned books, which kids who had no interest in good books until they were forbidden to read them are now thoroughly enjoying.
Firstly, we have a young woman who's passionate about books. I already love her.
Secondly, we have a young woman who's not prepared to be told what she can and cannot read. Love kicks up a notch.
Thirdly, we have a young woman who's getting other young men and women reading intensely. Love shoots through the roof and becomes adoration.
I have news for parents and school authorities who believe they can shelter children from things they think are too awful for young minds: you'll fail. You have failed. You've always failed. Unless this was a very clever reverse-psychology ploy to get kids interested in books, in which case you've succeeded brilliantly. Bravo. A cunning plan - quite evocative of the way the potato was introduced to Greece.
Too bad I doubt the administration was that smart.
We jaded adults may believe kids these days are incapable of deep thought and literacy and scholarship, and we are so very, very wrong if we believe that. Look at this student. Look at what she and her fellow students are doing. Look at how much books matter to them. Enough to take not-inconsequential risks for. And they are smart enough and confident enough to decide what they can and cannot read, all for themselves, to hell with the naysayers.
I love this to pieces. It tells me that, despite rumors to the contrary, we're not raising a nation of apathetic know-nothings, although we've been trying very hard to do so. No, we've got a crop of brilliant, bold, and brave kids coming up, and the world will be better for them.
I just hope that once my books get published, they're summarily banned. I'd like to have this kind of readership. I want kids like this at my signings. Unleashing that wise, unruly literary mob upon the unsuspecting citizens of this increasingly stifled country would make me twelve kinds of happy, and prouder than I'll ever have words to express.
Firstly, we have a young woman who's passionate about books. I already love her.
Secondly, we have a young woman who's not prepared to be told what she can and cannot read. Love kicks up a notch.
Thirdly, we have a young woman who's getting other young men and women reading intensely. Love shoots through the roof and becomes adoration.
I have news for parents and school authorities who believe they can shelter children from things they think are too awful for young minds: you'll fail. You have failed. You've always failed. Unless this was a very clever reverse-psychology ploy to get kids interested in books, in which case you've succeeded brilliantly. Bravo. A cunning plan - quite evocative of the way the potato was introduced to Greece.
Too bad I doubt the administration was that smart.
We jaded adults may believe kids these days are incapable of deep thought and literacy and scholarship, and we are so very, very wrong if we believe that. Look at this student. Look at what she and her fellow students are doing. Look at how much books matter to them. Enough to take not-inconsequential risks for. And they are smart enough and confident enough to decide what they can and cannot read, all for themselves, to hell with the naysayers.
I love this to pieces. It tells me that, despite rumors to the contrary, we're not raising a nation of apathetic know-nothings, although we've been trying very hard to do so. No, we've got a crop of brilliant, bold, and brave kids coming up, and the world will be better for them.
I just hope that once my books get published, they're summarily banned. I'd like to have this kind of readership. I want kids like this at my signings. Unleashing that wise, unruly literary mob upon the unsuspecting citizens of this increasingly stifled country would make me twelve kinds of happy, and prouder than I'll ever have words to express.
09 September, 2011
This Is Madness
I'll be driving down to Burien, WA tomorrow night to take part in some serious insanity: Burien Little Theatre's 9-10-11 fundraising event. 24 hours of delightful chaos. I shall be liveblogging it from around 10pm to the wee hours.
If you're round Burien tomorrow, I beseech you, come down! Join the chaos! Be entertained! Support community theatre! And goggle at the poor souls who won't sleep and will barely eat for 24 hours so that the show can go on.
If you're round Burien tomorrow, I beseech you, come down! Join the chaos! Be entertained! Support community theatre! And goggle at the poor souls who won't sleep and will barely eat for 24 hours so that the show can go on.
Yeah, About That Lighthouse....
It was barely bloody visible. No matter. We had one of those glorious, rare, clear, and very warm days that would have led to some spectacular views. Only, those glorious, rare, clear and very warm days have led to quite a lot of forest fires, so there was a remarkable amount of smoke in the air, cutting visibility considerably.
Sigh.
Still. 'Twas lovely. The sun shone, waves crashed, and I got me feet wet. Not bad as far as possibly last adventures of the summer season go. I'd been missing the Sound. Our adventures this summer involved more fire than water, and it just seems obscene to live half an hour from one of the most beautiful bodies of water on earth and not get out to see it.
We went to Alki Point. From there, you can see just about everything round Seattle that makes it so geologically interesting. Shall we take a tour? We don't even have to walk about much.
We saw a lighthouse. Sorta. If you enlarge this photo by lots, you'll see the lighthouse at Discovery Park standing at the very end of land, there. And you can see those wonderful bluffs I'm so enamored with.
Continuing on...
Sigh.
Still. 'Twas lovely. The sun shone, waves crashed, and I got me feet wet. Not bad as far as possibly last adventures of the summer season go. I'd been missing the Sound. Our adventures this summer involved more fire than water, and it just seems obscene to live half an hour from one of the most beautiful bodies of water on earth and not get out to see it.
We went to Alki Point. From there, you can see just about everything round Seattle that makes it so geologically interesting. Shall we take a tour? We don't even have to walk about much.
 |
| Discovery |
Continuing on...
08 September, 2011
Is There Anything More Pathetic Than Flood Geologists at GSA Meetings?
Yup. Actually, there is. And this is why the announcement that Flood geologists, those poor dumb souls who are so besotted with a Bronze Age work of fiction, are once again coming to the GSA's annual meeting should have you rubbing your hands with glee. Because, you see, the only thing more pathetic than Flood geologists is the fact that their own research has disproved their inane flood hypothesis.
Oh, yes, my darlings. That's delicious, isn't it? Tuck your napkin under your chin and go sink your teeth in to this bit of yum: "The defeat of Flood geology by Flood geology." It's eleven meaty pages of pure, savory, gourmet geo-goodness.
Really, all you need to do is grab Figure 1 and print it. Carry it with you. It's got everything neatly laid out, with little icons showing what bit of evidence says that the whole entire earth couldn't have been underwater at that time. And remember, this is evidence creationist geologists have found through their own research.
Here's my own quick-and-dirty summary:
And some of them know it:
Yup. Pretty much. And these poor inane souls are going to be at GSA, shouting "Gorilla! It's a gorilla!" every time you show them a duck.
Show them Figure 1, and they might just cry.
Oh, yes, my darlings. That's delicious, isn't it? Tuck your napkin under your chin and go sink your teeth in to this bit of yum: "The defeat of Flood geology by Flood geology." It's eleven meaty pages of pure, savory, gourmet geo-goodness.
Really, all you need to do is grab Figure 1 and print it. Carry it with you. It's got everything neatly laid out, with little icons showing what bit of evidence says that the whole entire earth couldn't have been underwater at that time. And remember, this is evidence creationist geologists have found through their own research.
Here's my own quick-and-dirty summary:
Subaerial deposits - raindrop impressions, dessication cracks, continental basalts, in-situ root beds, dinosaur eggs, glaciation, fossil charcoal, eolian dunes, paleosol, trackways.When you plot where examples of all of the above are found on a handy geologic timescale, you end up eliminating every bit of it, except for the Hadean Eon. It just doesn't work. It can't work.
Low- energy deposits and long pass ages of time: Cretaceous chalk, algal growths, various sea critter beds, reefs, lacrustine (lake) deposits, fluvial (stream or river) deposits.
Diversification of terrestrial animals: "Because such speciation cannot occur during a single year when the entire planet is underwater and during most of which the relevant animals are dead, [flood geologist S.J. Robinson] argued that the entire post-Carboniferous portion of the geologic column must be post-Flood."
The Mountains of Ararat: can't have Noah landing there if they don't exist, and any flood deposits would have to be on top of them, so, uh, y'know, it was some other mountains of Ararat!
And some of them know it:
So what's a Flood geologist to do?In the words of Flood geologist Max Hunter (2009:88), “It is somewhat ironic…that, almost a half century after publication of The Genesis Flood by Whitcomb and Morris in 1961, the geologic record attributed to the Genesis Flood is currently being assailed on all sides by diluvialists…[and] there remains not one square kilometer of rock at the earth’s surface that is indisputably Flood deposited.”
The continued denial of the implications of their own findings is an example of what I call the gorilla mindset: the attitude that if something looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, but religious dogma says it is a gorilla, then it is a gorilla.
 |
| According to Flood geologists, this is a gorilla. |
Yup. Pretty much. And these poor inane souls are going to be at GSA, shouting "Gorilla! It's a gorilla!" every time you show them a duck.
Show them Figure 1, and they might just cry.
07 September, 2011
The Long Reach of Mount Mazama
A caldera eruption is a massively violent thing. We're not talking the quiet calderas in shield volcanoes like Mauna Loa and Kilauea, which love erupting and frequently pour burning hot stuff all over the landscape, but generally stick to easygoing lava flows that allow people to get out of the way. We're not even talking about Fernandina Island, which had a caldera collapse in 1968 and is too dangerous for Galapagos-goers to visit. No, we're talking about the kinds of eruptions that happen fast, big and explosively.
We're talking about the kinds of eruptions that hurl ash and pumice so high and so far that the landscape for hundreds or thousands of miles around is blanketed in thick, choking ash. We're talking about eruptions that bury landscapes for hundreds of square miles in pumice fields tens of feet thick.
We're talking about the kind of eruption whose traces are still fresh and clear more than seven thousand years later.
It's hard to wrap your mind around this, but here we are: over thirty miles from Mount Mazama as the crow flies. Only now have we come near the northern boundary of the pumice fields, and they are still between six and eight feet thick.
Perspective time. I'm standing in a place where, if I'd been able to stand still during the fallout from the eruption, I'd have been over my head in pumice. Over thirty miles away, not in the path of any lahars or pyroclastic flows or any such excitements, and if I'd had a one-story house, it would have been buried to the eaves. And, people, these aren't itty-bitty bits of pumice. Stuff landing here reached up to nearly two inches long.
Now, pumice is light, I grant you that. But it's not exactly aerodynamic. Toss it up in the air, and it doesn't take very long to come back down. So just imagine the force needed to hurl one and two inch chunks of it over thirty miles to land in blankets that would have buried even basketball players standing on their tip-toes.
It's difficult to imagine. We just haven't had many events like that in our living memory. In fact, when my intrepid companion and I got to talking about caldera eruptions the other day, I had to ask Erik Klemetti when the last one was. Mount Pinatubo fits the bill: maclargehuge eruption with worldwide consequences that left a caldera nearly two miles across. Note that Erik called that a "small" caldera collapse! It's the closest to Mount Mazama we've come in the information age.
Then there was the Valley of 10,000 Smokes. Krakatau. Tambora. That last was the largest eruption in recorded history. I mention this because Pinatubo was a measly VEI 6. A piddly little colossal eruption. Mount Mazama, on the other hand, rated up there with Tambora: a VEI 7. Super-colossal.
And it has left its mark, so far away.
In the background, there are mountains, yes. In the foreground, flat or gently-rolling land. When Mount Mazama spewed its guts all over the landscape, it filled in valleys and leveled things out. The pumice-filled ash doesn't hold moisture well, so the scrappy Ponderosas, already in the rain shadow of the Cascades, are even more starved for water. This isn't a land that supports riots of vegetation. The only things that survive here are those used to doing without.
Close to the road, you'll notice all these lovely red and black bits mixed in with the yellow-white pumice. Those are cinders, trucked in and scattered on the road for traction on snowy winter days. I have to admit something to you: my heart did a little bound of joy, because that's what the roadsides in Flagstaff look like (usually minus the large pieces of pumice, but not always - we've got a stratovolcano that liked coating the area in pyroclastics, too). Things weren't so colorful before people came along and started spreading cinders on the roads. Just tough green plants, tan ash, and pale pumice as far as the eye could see.
I scrambled to the top of the cut to try to get away from contaminating cinders. No such luck. But I got to see scenes that could have come from my childhood: Ponderosa pines doing their best to make a living, scrubby little bushes with water-miser leaves, and plenty of dead wood, all fighting to hold on to loose, ashy, easily-drained ground. It's a small hill, not much taller than I am, but a hell of a climb in all that loose stuff. Little clouds of ash puffed up and coated my shoes. Moisture seemed sucked instantly from my skin. It smelled of volcanic earth and pine resin, and if you've never smelled that before, you're in for a treat. It's one of the most beautiful scents on earth.
And as you stand there, you ponder the force it takes to create a landscape like this, and your poor brain boggles. Thing is, this is only the beginning. By journey's end, you may just feel you've experienced a caldera eruption inside your own skull.
Lockwood DeWitt: Tour guide of Oregon geology extraordinaire, and without whom I wouldn't have known what the hell I was seeing.
We're talking about the kinds of eruptions that hurl ash and pumice so high and so far that the landscape for hundreds or thousands of miles around is blanketed in thick, choking ash. We're talking about eruptions that bury landscapes for hundreds of square miles in pumice fields tens of feet thick.
We're talking about the kind of eruption whose traces are still fresh and clear more than seven thousand years later.
 |
| Road cut through Mount Mazama pumice, Route 58 |
Perspective time. I'm standing in a place where, if I'd been able to stand still during the fallout from the eruption, I'd have been over my head in pumice. Over thirty miles away, not in the path of any lahars or pyroclastic flows or any such excitements, and if I'd had a one-story house, it would have been buried to the eaves. And, people, these aren't itty-bitty bits of pumice. Stuff landing here reached up to nearly two inches long.
 |
| Mount Mazama Pumice, collected at the road cut on 58 |
It's difficult to imagine. We just haven't had many events like that in our living memory. In fact, when my intrepid companion and I got to talking about caldera eruptions the other day, I had to ask Erik Klemetti when the last one was. Mount Pinatubo fits the bill: maclargehuge eruption with worldwide consequences that left a caldera nearly two miles across. Note that Erik called that a "small" caldera collapse! It's the closest to Mount Mazama we've come in the information age.
Then there was the Valley of 10,000 Smokes. Krakatau. Tambora. That last was the largest eruption in recorded history. I mention this because Pinatubo was a measly VEI 6. A piddly little colossal eruption. Mount Mazama, on the other hand, rated up there with Tambora: a VEI 7. Super-colossal.
And it has left its mark, so far away.
 |
| Pumice Flats |
 |
| Mount Mazama Pumice mixed with cinders. I should get a centimeter scale tattooed on my thumb, shouldn't I? |
 |
| Mount Mazama Pumice and cinders at top of cut |
And as you stand there, you ponder the force it takes to create a landscape like this, and your poor brain boggles. Thing is, this is only the beginning. By journey's end, you may just feel you've experienced a caldera eruption inside your own skull.
Ye olde indispensable references:
Roadside Geology of Oregon: Especially the marginalia, oddly enough.
Erik Klemetti: My go-to man for all things volcano, even on a Sunday, even on a holiday weekend.
Anne Jefferson: Who is not just a master of floods, it turns out, but knows some kick-ass volcanoes such as Fernandina.
06 September, 2011
Dojo Summer Sessions: The Writer's Gut
My heart sister says important things about writing. And you may say to yourself, "Well, of course, Dana would think so - Nicole's the sister she never had." That's true. Yes, I am partial. But there's also another factor: Nicole writes for a living, so when she says things about writing, these important things, it behooves an aspiring author to listen for reasons beyond the fact Dana loves and trusts her.
She had this to say just recently:
But what did I get hung up on? The "writer's gut." What is that? What is this "writer's gut"? Why should I trust it?
I'm not one much for talk of instinct and intuition anymore. I used to be. Then I started hanging round with scientists, who subject their "gut instinct" to rigorous testing. They're so often wrong, these intuitions, these leaps. The writer's gut, you see, is an instinct. It's an intuition. Why should we trust it?
Because those instincts and intuitions are hard-won, my friends. They only happen after we've worked ourselves bloody, after we've been writing for a long time. The writer's gut is different from that first flush of creativity, that alluring idea, that wild self-confidence you feel before you've actually picked up a pen and run up against harsh reality. The writer's gut is developed only after years, perhaps decades, of hard, lonely work.
It's your subconscious writer's mind, the one you acquired after a billion failed drafts and some writing classes and/or workshops and reading countless books on writing and blogs on writing, the one that listened to and absorbed what the experts (i.e., successful authors you worshipped) told you about how to write, watching the story unfold and clearing its throat meaningfully on occasion.
It plugs you in to a high-voltage current and gives you the buzz of your life when you're on to something, when you're working with an idea that will lead to a fantastic story. It takes your brain and gives it a good hard wrench when you've hared off in the wrong damned direction. It can't always articulate what's wrong and what's right. But if you listen just right, you can tell what it means. And when you've learnt to listen to it, it can keep you on a path that everybody says you shouldn't take but turns out to be the right one in the end. It can steer you round stumbling blocks. It can tell you when you've gone badly astray and must backtrack rather than stumble stubbornly ahead.
Is it wrong? I'm sure it sometimes is. But if you've honed it, you can trust it most of the time.
I don't actually think of it as my "writer's gut." I think of it as the story. The story knows better than I do. It always does. It knows what it wants and needs. It knows if I'm the right writer for it. I've got a hard drive full of story ideas, amazing ideas, wonderful ideas that would make fabulous stories, but I know I can't write them. My writer's gut tells me they're not my stories. Perhaps someday I'll be able to give them free to a good home. They should have adoption centers for abandoned story ideas. But there are ideas that look up at me with those big, soulful eyes, and wriggle just a little, and I know they're mine. I know, even if they look ridiculous to other people at first, that I can help them grow into something sleek and beautiful and enchanting. There are stories that are mine to tell, and I recognize them now. They make it easier to regretfully pass the other stories by, leave them for another.
My writer's gut also knows when I've gotten ahead of myself. It knows when a story idea is mine, but I'm not ready for it yet. Then it slows me down to a gentle halt, directs me to do some more work before coming back to that story. I'm manifestly not ready now for some of the ideas I have got. There are plenty of others to work with in the mean time. My writer's gut tells me that this is fine. All of my stories will be better served in the end by writing the ones I'm prepared for first. There are stories I told ten years ago I couldn't tell now, and stories I'm telling now I couldn't have told ten years ago. And eventually, with work and care, they'll be drawn together into a body of work, whole and complete, and ready to make their own way in the world.
You may wonder why I haven't tried publishing those stories. My writer's gut again. It tells me to wait, just now. I write out of order. After long consultation with my writer's gut, it's been determined that this is the proper way for me to write, but not to publish. That's fine. Stories are patient. These stories will be just fine waiting a few more years until their siblings are ready to join them in that grand adventure that is finding an audience.
I can hear the publish-or-perish crowd howling in protest just now, but they shan't overrule my writer's gut. Theirs tells them to push their work out in the world, and they are right - for those works. Not these. I used to beat myself up over not being like them. No more. No, I've learned to listen to that instinct that's telling me it's all right to wait until the stories are ready. Not forever. Not until they're perfect, because nothing ever is, but until they are as right as they need to be.
The thing about this writer's gut is, you know your stories better than anyone else possibly can. You live them. They are inside you. And that's what gives you the instincts you have got. Instinct is just a word for something you know so well you can't articulate it. But it's not that silly intuition that's no better than tossing divining sticks or a pair of gaming dice. It's that intuition that comes from knowing something very, very well.
So, yes, when you've lived with your stories long enough to know them more intimately than you've ever known a lover, emblazon these words upon your wall, so that you will never forget them:
She had this to say just recently:
She's right. She's right about all of it. And those last lines, particularly, are ones that are now burned into my writer's soul and will not let go, because they are true, and I sometimes need to hear them stated that starkly so that I am reminded of the truth.I have to trust myself as I write these stories. I have feelings about which stories will work and which should probably be included only in my journal. And I have those feelings for a reason. My writer's gut is telling me which direction to go. I just have to trust it.
As writers, it's sometimes easy to trust other people's opinions more than our own. After all, writers are seeking approval of fellow writers, agents and publishers and, ultimately, readers. We want to know that what we're doing is going to be read and enjoyed by people.
But only you know the best way to do your characters justice. Only you know how to write your stories. You have to trust yourself.
But what did I get hung up on? The "writer's gut." What is that? What is this "writer's gut"? Why should I trust it?
I'm not one much for talk of instinct and intuition anymore. I used to be. Then I started hanging round with scientists, who subject their "gut instinct" to rigorous testing. They're so often wrong, these intuitions, these leaps. The writer's gut, you see, is an instinct. It's an intuition. Why should we trust it?
Because those instincts and intuitions are hard-won, my friends. They only happen after we've worked ourselves bloody, after we've been writing for a long time. The writer's gut is different from that first flush of creativity, that alluring idea, that wild self-confidence you feel before you've actually picked up a pen and run up against harsh reality. The writer's gut is developed only after years, perhaps decades, of hard, lonely work.
It's your subconscious writer's mind, the one you acquired after a billion failed drafts and some writing classes and/or workshops and reading countless books on writing and blogs on writing, the one that listened to and absorbed what the experts (i.e., successful authors you worshipped) told you about how to write, watching the story unfold and clearing its throat meaningfully on occasion.
It plugs you in to a high-voltage current and gives you the buzz of your life when you're on to something, when you're working with an idea that will lead to a fantastic story. It takes your brain and gives it a good hard wrench when you've hared off in the wrong damned direction. It can't always articulate what's wrong and what's right. But if you listen just right, you can tell what it means. And when you've learnt to listen to it, it can keep you on a path that everybody says you shouldn't take but turns out to be the right one in the end. It can steer you round stumbling blocks. It can tell you when you've gone badly astray and must backtrack rather than stumble stubbornly ahead.
Is it wrong? I'm sure it sometimes is. But if you've honed it, you can trust it most of the time.
I don't actually think of it as my "writer's gut." I think of it as the story. The story knows better than I do. It always does. It knows what it wants and needs. It knows if I'm the right writer for it. I've got a hard drive full of story ideas, amazing ideas, wonderful ideas that would make fabulous stories, but I know I can't write them. My writer's gut tells me they're not my stories. Perhaps someday I'll be able to give them free to a good home. They should have adoption centers for abandoned story ideas. But there are ideas that look up at me with those big, soulful eyes, and wriggle just a little, and I know they're mine. I know, even if they look ridiculous to other people at first, that I can help them grow into something sleek and beautiful and enchanting. There are stories that are mine to tell, and I recognize them now. They make it easier to regretfully pass the other stories by, leave them for another.
My writer's gut also knows when I've gotten ahead of myself. It knows when a story idea is mine, but I'm not ready for it yet. Then it slows me down to a gentle halt, directs me to do some more work before coming back to that story. I'm manifestly not ready now for some of the ideas I have got. There are plenty of others to work with in the mean time. My writer's gut tells me that this is fine. All of my stories will be better served in the end by writing the ones I'm prepared for first. There are stories I told ten years ago I couldn't tell now, and stories I'm telling now I couldn't have told ten years ago. And eventually, with work and care, they'll be drawn together into a body of work, whole and complete, and ready to make their own way in the world.
You may wonder why I haven't tried publishing those stories. My writer's gut again. It tells me to wait, just now. I write out of order. After long consultation with my writer's gut, it's been determined that this is the proper way for me to write, but not to publish. That's fine. Stories are patient. These stories will be just fine waiting a few more years until their siblings are ready to join them in that grand adventure that is finding an audience.
I can hear the publish-or-perish crowd howling in protest just now, but they shan't overrule my writer's gut. Theirs tells them to push their work out in the world, and they are right - for those works. Not these. I used to beat myself up over not being like them. No more. No, I've learned to listen to that instinct that's telling me it's all right to wait until the stories are ready. Not forever. Not until they're perfect, because nothing ever is, but until they are as right as they need to be.
The thing about this writer's gut is, you know your stories better than anyone else possibly can. You live them. They are inside you. And that's what gives you the instincts you have got. Instinct is just a word for something you know so well you can't articulate it. But it's not that silly intuition that's no better than tossing divining sticks or a pair of gaming dice. It's that intuition that comes from knowing something very, very well.
So, yes, when you've lived with your stories long enough to know them more intimately than you've ever known a lover, emblazon these words upon your wall, so that you will never forget them:
And then, write.But only you know the best way to do your characters justice. Only you know how to write your stories. You have to trust yourself.
05 September, 2011
New Post on ASRI
For my Wise Readers: Leaping Into the Saddle of the Horse I'd Put Out to Pasture. In which I explain why I've been so horribly out of touch with so many people, and announce the short story I'm working on.
I'll be posting that story to ye olde writing blog, which is invitation only. I know at least one of you wanted an invite a bit ago. I got the email at a time when I didn't have time to log on and send you said invite, promptly forgot to flag the email, and it got buried under a mountain of other stuff. I have no idea where it is. So please, ask again! And for anyone else who wants to become a Wise Reader, email me. Yahoo knows me as dhunterauthor.
I'll be setting aside an hour or so to do such housekeeping, and maybe even correspond with a few friends who must think my email is broken or that I'm not willing to think of them anymore. Neither is true! I can't wait for the day when we can email people with our thoughts no matter where we are. I'll be better at this whole communication thing then.
Right. Off tocontinue slaving for my Muse get some writing done. Labor Day indeed...
I'll be posting that story to ye olde writing blog, which is invitation only. I know at least one of you wanted an invite a bit ago. I got the email at a time when I didn't have time to log on and send you said invite, promptly forgot to flag the email, and it got buried under a mountain of other stuff. I have no idea where it is. So please, ask again! And for anyone else who wants to become a Wise Reader, email me. Yahoo knows me as dhunterauthor.
I'll be setting aside an hour or so to do such housekeeping, and maybe even correspond with a few friends who must think my email is broken or that I'm not willing to think of them anymore. Neither is true! I can't wait for the day when we can email people with our thoughts no matter where we are. I'll be better at this whole communication thing then.
Right. Off to
Los Links 9/2
Another week, another passel o' links. Funny. Somehow, I'd felt that I hadn't done much reading this past week. Apparently I was wrong...
Irene
Grist: Global warming will make future hurricanes worse, full stop and U.S. Navy’s wave-power buoy plays chicken with Irene, wins.
The New Yorker: Vermont Floods: A Bad Day for Baal.
ThinkProgress: Eric Cantor Won’t Support Any Hurricane Disaster Funding Without Massive Cuts To First Responders.
Mike the Mad Biologist: GOP Response to Hurricane Irene: Take More Hostages.
Guardian: Hurricane Irene or Britain adopting misogynistic attitudes: I know which I find scarier.
Kate Messner: After Irene: A small-town Adirondack library needs your help.
Slobber and Spittle: Call it a PSA and Are You Afraid Yet?
Virginia Earthquake
Mountain Beltway: Damage to the Ecuadorian Embassy.
Washington Post: Five myths about earthquakes.
Science
Glacial Till: One Year Blogiversray of Glacial Till and Meteorite Monday: Shergottites.
The Dynamic Earth: Backup Amazon (in case the other one breaks?).
Scientific American: Diamond World Discovered By Astronomers.
Professor Astronomy: A diamond planet? I dunno..
Dinosaur Tracking: An Ode to Archaeopteryx.
Not Exactly Rocket Science: The lost plague – London graveyards suggest that Black Death strain may be extinct and Bacteria: resisting antibiotics since at least 30,000 BC.
ABQJournal: Study: American Indians May Be More Affected by Climate Change.
Research Digest: The woman misdiagnosed with Alzheimer's, and how we can all be affected by the suggestion that we have psychological problems.
National Groundwater Association: Protect Your Groundwater Day.
DC's Improbable Science: A thoroughly dangerous charity: YesToLife promotes nonsense cancer treatments.
Gary Schwitzer's HealthNewsReview Blog: NBC urges women >40 to ask about CRP test - something not supported by evidence.
Georneys: Geology Word of the Week: M is for Migmatite.
Highly Allochthonous: Scenic Saturday: Ropy pahoehoe on a biogenic beach.
NASA Earth Observatory: Why I love Geologists.
Science Sushi: Observations: Tuna and Mythbusting 101: Sharks will cure cancer.
Grist: Fox News viewers ‘confused’ by Bill Nye, science in general.
Scientific American: Lessons from Sherlock Holmes: Perspective Is Everything, Details Alone Are Nothing.
Superbug: Borders are Irrelevant: Polio Returns to China and Antibiotic Prescribing to Kids — Down, But Still Too Much.
Scientific American: The Bearable Closeness of Being: Why Cities Create Community.
The Scicurious Brain: Muscle fatigue may be all in your head.
The Dynamic Earth: Drilling for Oil...in the Everglades?
Forbes: Can Our Pruney Fingers Help Us Build Better Rain Treads?
Myrmecos: A mural on moth wings.
Cosmic Variance: Ten Things Everyone Should Know About Time.
Gizmodo: First Quantum Computer Simulator Operates at the Speed of Light.
Bad Astronomy: No, a new study does not show cosmic-rays are connected to global warming.
Andrew Alden: Higher Profile for Geoforensics.
Think Progress: Scientist: “The Murdoch Media Empire Has Cost Humanity Perhaps One or Two Decades in Battle Against Climate Change.”
Respectful Insolence: The ultimate homeopathic remedy.
Writing
My Own Brand of Madness: Going Indie - Is it worth it?
The Book Designer: Independent Publishing: That’s Evolution!
Confessions of a Science Librarian: On the evilness of the emerging ebook app ecosystem.
The Writing Bomb: Letter to the Beginning Indie Author.
The Passive Voice: Ebook Formatting Red Flags, Writers who oppose agency pricing aren’t acting in their own self-interest, and How to Misunderstand a Contract.
Compound Eye: Creative Commons Is Not Public Domain.
Barry Hutchinson: Meeting Neil Gaiman.
Melissa Walker: Cover Stories: Wintering Well.
Almost Diamonds: The Love of Problematic Literature.
Nieman Journalism Lab: Amazon’s new @author feature launches, and changes (just a bit) what a book is all about.
Patricia C. Wrede: Telling details vs. clutter.
The Book Designer: 5 Great Fonts for Book Covers.
Nathan Bransford: On the Internet There Is No Such Thing as a Brand. There Is Only You.
Atheism and Religion
Alternet: Are Michele Bachmann's Views About 'Christian Submission' Even More Extreme Than She's Letting On?
Why Evolution is True: An atheist who almost believes in God.
Almost Diamonds: The Accommodationism Challenges.
Open Parachute: Martydom of the priveliged.
mlkshk: Norse Crisis flowchart (source link at bottom).
Pharyngula: As an American Atheist, I am disgusted by the 9/11 coloring book.
The Spirited Atheist: College too late, too little for secular studies in America.
Life on the Hill: I'm Coming Out.
Women's Issues
Guardian: It isn't girls who need to watch their words.
Alternet: How I Escaped the "Biblical Family Values" Nightmare That Drives Perry, Bachmann, and Tea Party Politics.
Skepchick: Too Pretty To Do Homework.
XX Factor: Some Good News for Pro-Choicers.
Guardian: Rick Perry's demeaning abortion doctrine.
The Smart Set: Old Boys Club.
Laurie Hale Anderson: District that tried to ban SPEAK accused of covering up rapes.
Rethinking Vision Forum: Why I Wish I Went to College.
Politics
A Leaf Warbler's Gleanings: Science and Democracy in the Arab Spring and American Fall.
Paul Krugman: Republicans Against Science.
Mother Jones: The Right, Anti-bacterials, and the "Nanny State".
Margaret and Helen: Who has the better bouffant?
Rolling Stone: The GOP War on Voting.
Butterflies and Wheels: The history of dissident thought.
Culture of Science: On The Privilege To Serve This Country.
Scientific American: Can Politicians be Trusted with Science?
Nymwars
GigaOm: It’s official: Google wants to own your online identity.
Lauren Weinstein's Blog: Real Names, Guilt, Self-Censorship, and the Identity War.
Guardian: Google Plus forces us to discuss identity.
Society and Culture
Loudoun Times: Potomac Falls woman removed from son’s Boy Scout troop.
Almost Diamonds: Male Rape Victims: Let's Talk About the Men.
Millard Fillmore's Bathtub: Quote of the moment: Diane Ravitch, history won’t be kind to those who attacked teachers.
On Liberty: "Racial Profiling First Hand".
BBC: After the sludge: Rebuilding Hungary's towns.
Salon: Confessions of a bad teacher.
NeuroTribes: Dear United Airlines: I Want My Kindle, and My Dignity, Back.
New York Times: How to Fix Our Math Education.
Teddy Partridge: Jury Unable to Reach Verdict in Gay Student’s Killing — UPDATE: Mistrial.
CNN: West Virginia learns Finland's 'most honorable profession': Teacher.
On Becoming a Domestic and Laboratory Goddess: Unclench Your Butthole Before You Talk About Bias.
Hudson Valley Geologist: Good quote on education.
The New Civil Rights Movement: Student Of Anti-Gay Florida Teacher Jerry Buell Speaks Out - Exclusive!
Irene
Grist: Global warming will make future hurricanes worse, full stop and U.S. Navy’s wave-power buoy plays chicken with Irene, wins.
The New Yorker: Vermont Floods: A Bad Day for Baal.
ThinkProgress: Eric Cantor Won’t Support Any Hurricane Disaster Funding Without Massive Cuts To First Responders.
Mike the Mad Biologist: GOP Response to Hurricane Irene: Take More Hostages.
Guardian: Hurricane Irene or Britain adopting misogynistic attitudes: I know which I find scarier.
Kate Messner: After Irene: A small-town Adirondack library needs your help.
Slobber and Spittle: Call it a PSA and Are You Afraid Yet?
Virginia Earthquake
Mountain Beltway: Damage to the Ecuadorian Embassy.
Washington Post: Five myths about earthquakes.
Science
Glacial Till: One Year Blogiversray of Glacial Till and Meteorite Monday: Shergottites.
The Dynamic Earth: Backup Amazon (in case the other one breaks?).
Scientific American: Diamond World Discovered By Astronomers.
Professor Astronomy: A diamond planet? I dunno..
Dinosaur Tracking: An Ode to Archaeopteryx.
Not Exactly Rocket Science: The lost plague – London graveyards suggest that Black Death strain may be extinct and Bacteria: resisting antibiotics since at least 30,000 BC.
ABQJournal: Study: American Indians May Be More Affected by Climate Change.
Research Digest: The woman misdiagnosed with Alzheimer's, and how we can all be affected by the suggestion that we have psychological problems.
National Groundwater Association: Protect Your Groundwater Day.
DC's Improbable Science: A thoroughly dangerous charity: YesToLife promotes nonsense cancer treatments.
Gary Schwitzer's HealthNewsReview Blog: NBC urges women >40 to ask about CRP test - something not supported by evidence.
Georneys: Geology Word of the Week: M is for Migmatite.
Highly Allochthonous: Scenic Saturday: Ropy pahoehoe on a biogenic beach.
NASA Earth Observatory: Why I love Geologists.
Science Sushi: Observations: Tuna and Mythbusting 101: Sharks will cure cancer.
Grist: Fox News viewers ‘confused’ by Bill Nye, science in general.
Scientific American: Lessons from Sherlock Holmes: Perspective Is Everything, Details Alone Are Nothing.
Superbug: Borders are Irrelevant: Polio Returns to China and Antibiotic Prescribing to Kids — Down, But Still Too Much.
Scientific American: The Bearable Closeness of Being: Why Cities Create Community.
The Scicurious Brain: Muscle fatigue may be all in your head.
The Dynamic Earth: Drilling for Oil...in the Everglades?
Forbes: Can Our Pruney Fingers Help Us Build Better Rain Treads?
Myrmecos: A mural on moth wings.
Cosmic Variance: Ten Things Everyone Should Know About Time.
Gizmodo: First Quantum Computer Simulator Operates at the Speed of Light.
Bad Astronomy: No, a new study does not show cosmic-rays are connected to global warming.
Andrew Alden: Higher Profile for Geoforensics.
Think Progress: Scientist: “The Murdoch Media Empire Has Cost Humanity Perhaps One or Two Decades in Battle Against Climate Change.”
Respectful Insolence: The ultimate homeopathic remedy.
Writing
My Own Brand of Madness: Going Indie - Is it worth it?
The Book Designer: Independent Publishing: That’s Evolution!
Confessions of a Science Librarian: On the evilness of the emerging ebook app ecosystem.
The Writing Bomb: Letter to the Beginning Indie Author.
The Passive Voice: Ebook Formatting Red Flags, Writers who oppose agency pricing aren’t acting in their own self-interest, and How to Misunderstand a Contract.
Compound Eye: Creative Commons Is Not Public Domain.
Barry Hutchinson: Meeting Neil Gaiman.
Melissa Walker: Cover Stories: Wintering Well.
Almost Diamonds: The Love of Problematic Literature.
Nieman Journalism Lab: Amazon’s new @author feature launches, and changes (just a bit) what a book is all about.
Patricia C. Wrede: Telling details vs. clutter.
The Book Designer: 5 Great Fonts for Book Covers.
Nathan Bransford: On the Internet There Is No Such Thing as a Brand. There Is Only You.
Atheism and Religion
Alternet: Are Michele Bachmann's Views About 'Christian Submission' Even More Extreme Than She's Letting On?
Why Evolution is True: An atheist who almost believes in God.
Almost Diamonds: The Accommodationism Challenges.
Open Parachute: Martydom of the priveliged.
mlkshk: Norse Crisis flowchart (source link at bottom).
Pharyngula: As an American Atheist, I am disgusted by the 9/11 coloring book.
The Spirited Atheist: College too late, too little for secular studies in America.
Life on the Hill: I'm Coming Out.
Women's Issues
Guardian: It isn't girls who need to watch their words.
Alternet: How I Escaped the "Biblical Family Values" Nightmare That Drives Perry, Bachmann, and Tea Party Politics.
Skepchick: Too Pretty To Do Homework.
XX Factor: Some Good News for Pro-Choicers.
Guardian: Rick Perry's demeaning abortion doctrine.
The Smart Set: Old Boys Club.
Laurie Hale Anderson: District that tried to ban SPEAK accused of covering up rapes.
Rethinking Vision Forum: Why I Wish I Went to College.
Politics
A Leaf Warbler's Gleanings: Science and Democracy in the Arab Spring and American Fall.
Paul Krugman: Republicans Against Science.
Mother Jones: The Right, Anti-bacterials, and the "Nanny State".
Margaret and Helen: Who has the better bouffant?
Rolling Stone: The GOP War on Voting.
Butterflies and Wheels: The history of dissident thought.
Culture of Science: On The Privilege To Serve This Country.
Scientific American: Can Politicians be Trusted with Science?
Nymwars
GigaOm: It’s official: Google wants to own your online identity.
Lauren Weinstein's Blog: Real Names, Guilt, Self-Censorship, and the Identity War.
Guardian: Google Plus forces us to discuss identity.
Society and Culture
Loudoun Times: Potomac Falls woman removed from son’s Boy Scout troop.
Almost Diamonds: Male Rape Victims: Let's Talk About the Men.
Millard Fillmore's Bathtub: Quote of the moment: Diane Ravitch, history won’t be kind to those who attacked teachers.
On Liberty: "Racial Profiling First Hand".
BBC: After the sludge: Rebuilding Hungary's towns.
Salon: Confessions of a bad teacher.
NeuroTribes: Dear United Airlines: I Want My Kindle, and My Dignity, Back.
New York Times: How to Fix Our Math Education.
Teddy Partridge: Jury Unable to Reach Verdict in Gay Student’s Killing — UPDATE: Mistrial.
CNN: West Virginia learns Finland's 'most honorable profession': Teacher.
On Becoming a Domestic and Laboratory Goddess: Unclench Your Butthole Before You Talk About Bias.
Hudson Valley Geologist: Good quote on education.
The New Civil Rights Movement: Student Of Anti-Gay Florida Teacher Jerry Buell Speaks Out - Exclusive!
04 September, 2011
I Can't Show You This Picture, But You Must See It
I have this weird respect for copyright, so I didn't want to embed this, but you really have to see it. Then come back and we'll talk about it.
Yeah, that's some kind of delicious, isn't it just? More where that came from, at David Rankin's website. So many sights there that reminded me of the not-so-halcyon days when I lived in Page. The only thing good about Page was the scenery. No complaints there, my friends - it's truly dramatic. And David managed to capture an extra dollop of drama there. Fantastic.
I thought I recognized that old local icon, the Navajo Generating Station, but I wrote to him about it just to be sure. He advised, "The photo was taken with a telephoto lens from southern Utah just across the UT/AZ border looking at the Navajo Generating Station and LeChee Rock." Four years I lived there, and I never knew that was LeChee Rock. We callow kids didn't know the names of most of the mesas. We just kind of pointed at them and said "That one" when discussing them. I think the only reason we knew Page is built on Manson Mesa is because, hey, it's Manson.
I used to go out at night up to the place on the edge of the mesa where it was rumored a whole settlement had blown sky-high one Halloween night back in the '50s, and I'd stand there looking beyond the barely-lit airstrip out to the Navajo Generating Station. You wouldn't normally think of a coal-fired plant as beautiful, but it was. Standing out there alone in the bare desert, the only light beyond Page for miles aside from the moon and stars, it looked like a ship in a sandy sea, sailing serenely among rocky icebergs. I mean, seriously. Go look at it again. Take your eyes off the lightning and really look at the plant. Doesn't that look just like a grand old steamship, floating out there against the mesas? David captured it just as I remember it. Only he managed to capture so much more: the stark, dark cliffs standing against storm-torn skies.
This is what I was talking about when I told you about slickrock. Those mesas rose up from the desert floor, stark and still. The storms rolling in over them are bloody amazing to watch. Only you'll want to do it from high ground. David's shot what I'm talking about. It may not even be raining within a hundred miles of where you are, but suddenly, a sound, a roar, and water, swift and deep and treacherous. You can't outrun it, and if you're in a slot canyon, you can't out-climb it, either. People have died because they didn't understand this about the desert: even here, you can drown.
But to stand in a high place, to watch the lightning strike and the rain arrow down, to hear the wind roar through the barren rock - that you won't trade for anything. To see the storm-light on the red rock, watch colors and hues change, dappled over ten or fifty or a hundred miles around you, painting an already painted desert - that's a vision that will imprint itself indelibly. It stays.
I want to go back. I want to sit in the high places, and watch the sun explore ancient rocks. I want to hear a silence so profound it's like a physical force. I want to lie back against that smooth, bare slickrock and stare into an endless sky. And I want to see the storms again, smell a petrichor so intense it tangles up and overwhelms the more prosaic scent of sand, feel that shock of chill air from a thunderstorm that washes over the skin like a mist and leaves you with goosebumps in a hundred degrees. I love and miss those things.
I'm glad I have such images to remind me.
Yeah, that's some kind of delicious, isn't it just? More where that came from, at David Rankin's website. So many sights there that reminded me of the not-so-halcyon days when I lived in Page. The only thing good about Page was the scenery. No complaints there, my friends - it's truly dramatic. And David managed to capture an extra dollop of drama there. Fantastic.
I thought I recognized that old local icon, the Navajo Generating Station, but I wrote to him about it just to be sure. He advised, "The photo was taken with a telephoto lens from southern Utah just across the UT/AZ border looking at the Navajo Generating Station and LeChee Rock." Four years I lived there, and I never knew that was LeChee Rock. We callow kids didn't know the names of most of the mesas. We just kind of pointed at them and said "That one" when discussing them. I think the only reason we knew Page is built on Manson Mesa is because, hey, it's Manson.
I used to go out at night up to the place on the edge of the mesa where it was rumored a whole settlement had blown sky-high one Halloween night back in the '50s, and I'd stand there looking beyond the barely-lit airstrip out to the Navajo Generating Station. You wouldn't normally think of a coal-fired plant as beautiful, but it was. Standing out there alone in the bare desert, the only light beyond Page for miles aside from the moon and stars, it looked like a ship in a sandy sea, sailing serenely among rocky icebergs. I mean, seriously. Go look at it again. Take your eyes off the lightning and really look at the plant. Doesn't that look just like a grand old steamship, floating out there against the mesas? David captured it just as I remember it. Only he managed to capture so much more: the stark, dark cliffs standing against storm-torn skies.
This is what I was talking about when I told you about slickrock. Those mesas rose up from the desert floor, stark and still. The storms rolling in over them are bloody amazing to watch. Only you'll want to do it from high ground. David's shot what I'm talking about. It may not even be raining within a hundred miles of where you are, but suddenly, a sound, a roar, and water, swift and deep and treacherous. You can't outrun it, and if you're in a slot canyon, you can't out-climb it, either. People have died because they didn't understand this about the desert: even here, you can drown.
But to stand in a high place, to watch the lightning strike and the rain arrow down, to hear the wind roar through the barren rock - that you won't trade for anything. To see the storm-light on the red rock, watch colors and hues change, dappled over ten or fifty or a hundred miles around you, painting an already painted desert - that's a vision that will imprint itself indelibly. It stays.
I want to go back. I want to sit in the high places, and watch the sun explore ancient rocks. I want to hear a silence so profound it's like a physical force. I want to lie back against that smooth, bare slickrock and stare into an endless sky. And I want to see the storms again, smell a petrichor so intense it tangles up and overwhelms the more prosaic scent of sand, feel that shock of chill air from a thunderstorm that washes over the skin like a mist and leaves you with goosebumps in a hundred degrees. I love and miss those things.
I'm glad I have such images to remind me.
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