Ruminations on personal writing

by Melanie in IA

You know how I write, partly to make sense of things? You know how I reveal a fair amount, but fairly quietly? Sometimes I don’t want to do that. Sometimes I want to be really forthright, loud, say it out loud. Sometimes I’m tired of censoring and being restrained and editing my words so someone unseen won’t take them wrong. Usually that unseen person either a) won’t read them at all or b) doesn’t matter at all. Why censor myself for them?

Why not just say exactly what I think, how I think it? Why not explain exactly what happened, about ANYTHING, and how I feel about it? Why not name names? Why not burn bridges? Why worry what anyone else thinks?

I wish I could go all out like that. I think I would be a better writer if I learned to be more bold. If I felt comfortable like that. But I don’t trust enough, ironically. Trust only goes so far.

Getting rid of stuff

A parent dies; a child moves out. Time passes and we accumulate things, usually at a faster pace than we rid ourselves of them. And one day we look around and realize we have a problem. In many ways it’s a problem of good fortune, but it’s a problem nonetheless.

The problem is stuff. Well, I take that back. The problem isn’t stuff. It’s what stuff does to our mental and physical spaces. Stuff is in our way.

What spurs you to finally get rid of stuff? A change in circumstances, such as a move, an addition or absence of a family member in the household? A look around in disgust or frustration? How much time do you spend moving things, cleaning around things, pushing through things? How much stuff do you need?

In my prior career, I worked with trust officers in a large bank, which often served as executor or administrator for estates. In that capacity, or as trustee for some of our clients who could no longer take care of their own affairs, the trust officers cleaned out homes. They didn’t physically do the cleaning, but they needed to fully assess the assets and determine where things should go. It could take many days immersed in other people’s stuff. Then they would wash their hands, go home, and get rid of things in their own homes.

A lot of us have dealt with the belongings of parents after their death or move to a nursing home. A lot of us understand the emotions of making those decisions, and the tangles of decisions when multiple family members are involved. In some ways, the trust officers’ job is easy, because they have the luxury of objectivity.

There is a spectrum, of course, of those who keep things. When my dad moved to his last home, a small townhouse, he got rid of everything that wasn’t useful to him, or aesthetically important. Music and artwork he kept. It was easy for him, not a sentimental guy. I am not as far to that end of the spectrum as he was.

But one thing he did keep is a teddy bear, which my son and I had sent to him after his divorce. He’d said one thing he missed was having someone to hold. Son was about 5 at the time, and helped me pick a teddy for my dad.

When Dad was in the hospital for the last time (dying from lymphoma), we went to his townhouse and saw there, on his bed, was the teddy bear.

That bear lives with us now, and is not a thing I would give away, either.

Aside from a few things like that, I’m not very nostalgic for things. Scrapbooking, photo albums, boxes full of sentimental items – that’s just not me. Maybe it’s because I’m the youngest of five children born in quick succession. Most of my clothes and toys when I was a kid were hand-me-downs. By the time I was done using it, it was used up and went away. And mostly I didn’t have a sense of anything being just mine, so I’m not very possessive that way. It makes it easy to get rid of things.

As a quilter, I do have fabric. Some quilters have rooms full of fabric, garages, basements, extra sheds, full of fabric. Compared to many quilters I know, I don’t have a lot. All of it fits in the top of one TV armoire, neatly separated into plastic bins by color. When bins are overflowing, when there is too much fabric to fit, I feel uneasy, as if I need to get busy, sew more, use more, justify the possession of such wealth. I do use it, but I can’t shake the feeling that my inflow of new fabrics shouldn’t be more, on average, than what I use.

I do not want to die with a room full of fabric that should have been quilts instead. I’ve heard too many stories of women who die, whose relatives end up taking all that cloth to the dump. That’s not just a waste of money – at $10 a yard or so, quilting fabric is expensive! It’s also a waste of opportunity.

But fabric isn’t the only issue, is it? As you look around, what do you see that would baffle your heirs? Is it the secret stash of plastic grocery bags, more than enough to cover your city in plastic? The glass jars with lids, which are never used again? The books falling from every surface, ones you’re no longer attached to for the content, but just can’t seem to part with? A closet full of clothes that no one will wear again? The full contents of your parents’ house?

Stuff. Everyone has it. No one knows what to do with it.

Generally, there are three things to do with stuff, besides just keep it. Throw it away, give it away, or sell it. That sounds simple, yes? Of course it isn’t always.

Syzygy ✩ Supernovae and Black Holes

“conjunction or opposition of a heavenly body with the sun,” 1650s, from L.L. syzygia,
from Gk. syzygia “yoke, pair, union of two, conjunction,”
from syzygein “to yoke together,”
from syn- “together” + zygon “yoke” – Online Etymology Dictionary

Syzygy is one of my most favorite words. Astronomy and Space Exploration have many interesting connections. Stories often have several syzygies one can see.

What is a Supernova?
Stars which are several times more massive than our Sun end their lives in a spectacular explosion called a Supernova. The explosion occurs when the fuel for the fusion process in the core is depleted. This lack of outward pressure, which combats the inward gravitational pull, allows the star to collapse. As it shrinks, the core grows hotter and denser. New nuclear reactions begin and temporarily halt the collapse of the core. When the remaining core nuclear is basically just iron, nothing is left to fuse. Fusion in the core ends. Very quickly, the star begins its final gravitational collapse. The core temperature rises to many billions of degrees. The iron atoms are crushed together. The force of gravity is greater than the repulsive force between the nuclei of iron. The core then recoils. The energy of the recoil produces a shock wave through the star envelope. The envelope material is heated and fuses to form new and heavier elements and radioactive isotopes. The material is exploded away from the star core and is known as a supernova remnant. Many of these are seen. Here are examples.

The smaller supernovae leave behind a spinning neutron core only a few tens of miles across. Larger supernovae exert such tremendous inward shock forces that even the neutron core collapses into a black hole. It is so small and dense, that light is not fast enough to escape.

Turn Up Your Volume before you watch this video. It is an audio rendition of supernovae events in a small part of the sky. How it was done is explained below.

1. First, search for Supernovae over a long time interval.
From April, 2003 until August, 2006, the Canada-France-Hawaii Telescope (CFHT) watched four parts of the sky as often as possible. Armed with the largest digital camera in the known universe, CFHT monitored these four fields for a special type of Supernova (called Type Ia) which are created by the thermonuclear detonation of white-dwarf stars. These four fields covered roughly 16 times the area of the full Moon on the sky, or roughly 1/10,000 of the entire sky. Even though such a small fraction of the sky was monitored, 241 Type Ia Supernovae were seen during the period of observation.

The positions of all the Supernova are illustrated as time progresses. The animation is rendered at 15 frames per second, and each frame corresponds to just under a single day (1 sec of video = 2 wks of real time).

2. Assign each Supernova a note to play.
Distance to each Supernova determines the volume of the note. Closer is louder. Each Supernova follows a similar pattern of brightening and then fading. But they each also have some variations.

The pitch of the notes used was determined by the Supernova’s “stretch,” a property of how the Supernova brightens and fades. Higher stretch values played higher notes. The pitches were drawn from a Phrygian dominant scale for those who understand music theory.

3. Assign the instruments to be played.
Only two instruments were used. Notes of Supernovae in more massive galaxies were played by upright bass. Those in less massive galaxies were played by piano.

Creators of this Work – Alex H. Parker (University of Victoria) and Melissa L. Graham (University of California Santa Barbara / LCOGT).

Can Supernovae Cause a Black Hole?
Yes, they can. If a Supernova is more than several Solar masses, it can produce a Black Hole. You would not see the Black Hole. But, the influence of the Black Hole on the surroundings could be detected. Matter can be seen in a whirling accretion disc rushing around at tremendous speeds as it falls inward. There are often jets of high energy particles that are visible along the axis of spin. Light can be bent as it passes through the intense gravitational field from a distant galaxy to our telescopes. This gravitational lensing effect can distort images or cause multiple images of the distant galaxy.

Our own Milky Way galaxy apparently has a supermassive Black Hole at its core. It is about 4 million times the mass of our Sun. Detailed motion studies of the innermost stars reveal they are in orbit about an unseen object.

Click the Graphic to Watch Them Move

This animation region of space is exceedingly small at about 1×1 seconds of arc. It reveals the the innermost star paths from 1995 to 2010. The mass of the Black Hole (✩) is calculated from Kepler’s Laws of planetary motion. The arrow at the left side of the animation sets the distance scale at 0.1″ (seconds of arc). For reference, a circle = 360 degrees of arc. One degree = 60 minutes of arc. One minute = 60 seconds of arc. Hold your thumb at arms length and cover the Moon or Sun. That is 1/2 degree, or 30 minutes of arc. The Moon subtends 30×60 or 1800 seconds of arc. So, this patch of sky is tiny. It is about as large as the diameter of a medium sized crater on the Moon as viewed from Earth.

We are stardust.
If it weren’t for Supernovae, the heaviest elements would be iron. That is the top rung of the fusion process in star cores. Because of the tremendous shock waves of supernovae, fusions of  nucleii of elements heavier that iron are possible, giving us the much wider range of naturally occurring elements. Many of the elements in the rocks and minerals and our bodies came from a Supernova in our vicinity of space.

Flyers

by Melanie

An origin myth

Sky dominated my view, expansive and welcoming. Flyers found air space at varying levels, like planes directed by hidden air traffic controllers. Swooping low, barn swallows performed touch-and-go exercises. Higher, clouds of blackbirds undulated almost across the horizon. They signaled cooler weather coming, but it was not fall yet. For now, clear, indirect light silhouetted the birds against pale blue.

At ground level, thistles reached upward, tough and tall. Goldenrod, flowering heads brushed lengthwise, reminded me of ancient brooms, worn down from years sweeping the stone hearth. Queen Anne’s lace had curled into tight clusters, pregnant with seeds waiting to spill forth.

Pelicans were back, flying so high, wingtips reflecting the late afternoon sun. They looked like confetti drifting slowly in a circle, until they wheeled and changed direction, moving closer in view. For me, the pelicans’ appearance always seemed like a gift. Now, with such perfect timing, the pelicans must be a good omen.

I needed a good omen. The year was difficult in many ways, full of extremes, joy marred by illness and tragedy. The cancer and anorexia were merely death threats. The murders were unbearable and incomprehensible, tearing the fragile scrim, the illusion of safety.

I flew, too, but I flew alone. As with the pelicans above me, it was easier to fly than walk, my body awkward and unbalanced on the ground. Like Icarus, I used my wings to escape. Unlike him, I flew low, skimming the rooftops and crowns of trees. The view from above, in motion, removed details I needed to ignore. Instead I could focus, just on moving forward, and then on landing safely.

The sun shifted and blackbirds and pelicans moved on. As the leaves curled and fell, as dew on the dried maize reflected morning light, death hovered around us. The sky became broader still, opening through stark bare branches.

Waiting, I still flew. Crows bossed during the day. In the evenings they settled, scores in stands of trees, chattering odd noises like rusty hinges.

I posed no threat to them, did not disturb them from their roosts, even while I prepared to make my own. Landing, nesting, I had flown past the sorrows of the summer, though they were visible to me when I turned.

Flying snow, flurrying, melting; the fall did not readily concede to death. The rising sun brightened the sky, warming the earth again. And on that day, I gave birth to a flyer.

Fledged now, he flies for us as well as himself. Soon he will fly like the pelicans, broad wingspan carrying him higher, beyond view. Leaving and returning, a good omen.

Out the Front Window – A Raccoon Gaze

How I See It

I was up before dawn one morning in the fall and gazed out the front window across the lawn. It was still dark. The streetlight added a little illumination to the scene. Out the corner of my eye on the left a small figure dashed across the drive between bushes. It was followed by another and another until five raccoons were in view. As soon as they reached the lawn, they walked a few steps and stopped to probe and feel the grass for a moment. Then, a few more steps, they stopped to check again and again. I have seen patches on golf courses where raccoons have torn up large areas of turf in search of grubs. They can be very destructive as you can see in this photo. Fortunately, they found no grubs in our yard this time.

What does one call a crowd, or herd, or fleet…

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Viewing Heavenly Bodies on Computer

Heaven? A Fairy Story Says Hawking

How I See It

A belief that heaven or an afterlife awaits us is a “fairy story” for people afraid of death, Stephen Hawking has said. In a dismissal that underlines his firm rejection of religious comforts, Britain’s most eminent scientist said there was nothing beyond the moment when the brain flickers for the final time.

In an exclusive interview with the Guardian, the cosmologist shared his thoughts on death, M-theory, human purpose and our chance existence. Hawking has had his zero-g astronaut training. He is prepared for any possibility.

Hawking spoke at the 2011 Google Zeitgeist Conference in Hertfordshire. The video of his talk is below. Hawking presented M Theory as the grand solution. It’s a family of different theories working similarly to a grouping of maps. He also discussed the role of cosmology, the inflation of the universe and the Planck satellite.

Speaking to Google’s Zeitgeist Conference in Hertfordshire, the author…

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My stash is NOT making me happy

by Melanie in IA

Quilters love fabric. Some quilters love fabric so much, they buy more of it than they will ever use. There is a great yahoo group called “Stashbusters,” devoted to helping quilters push through their stash and their projects. A local shop has a Sunday group called “SABLE,” or “stash acquired beyond lifetime expectancy.”

I don’t have too much stash. My stash problem is of a different sort. More about that in a minute.

Where or when did you develop your love of fabric?  My love comes from my mother. My mother could make anything. With a very limited budget and five young children, she sewed, built and refinished furniture, upholstered, painted rooms, rewired lamps, and generally did anything she could to create a comfortable home for us. When I was little, she made dresses for my sisters and me. When we were married, she made the bridesmaids’ dresses. She paid a lot of bills doing alterations and custom sewing, and for several years, she made costumes for community theatre productions.

Her creativity was well suited for costume-making. I remember shopping expeditions to find fabrics. How many little girls can identify moiré satins and taffetas and brocades, twills and crepes and organzas? We spent a lot of time feeling the fabrics, as that was part of how she could tell how well it would drape, how it would reflect the stage lights, and how rich or poor the character would look.

I still love fabric. I still go to the stores and fondle the bolts, unroll a yard or more to check the drape, stand back to “ooh” and “aah” over the beautiful colors and patterns. I sort through my own small stash before beginning each project, and I enjoy touching each piece.

Sewing From Stash

Some people account for yardage purchased and yardage used, letting them know just how much they have in “inventory.” I’ve never done that, but I do have ONE cabinet in which my fabric lives. (All of my quilting stash is in the top of it.) I can tell when the cabinet is getting fuller and emptier. Unlike Old Mother Hubbard, my cabinet is far from bare. But the bins are getting a little lighter.

One of the things I love about sewing from stash is the push to greater creativity. Figuring out how to make things go together, what blocks I have yardage to make, whether they’ll need to be scrappy or not, are all creative decisions that are different when sewing from stash than when buying new yardage. Scrappy quilts make great use of stash, with small amounts cut from many fabrics. Other projects, though, call for more cohesion in color or pattern, making it hard to quilt from stash.

Quilters love fabric. Some are fabric collectors, seeking out new treasures wherever they go and building a stash that would last several lifetimes. Others buy only enough for the project at hand. It’s likely there is a happy medium.

And when you keep your stash fairly small as I do, occasionally  you need some major stash replenishment.

Is your stash making you happy?
Recently I read an essay that suggested thinking about the kind of fabric you used when you started quilting, what you are using now, and what you would like to use as your art develops. Then over time, deliberately move your stash toward the art you want to make. What should you do with the “old” stash?  Use it, sell it, or give it away. Free yourself from caring for things you no longer need. Remove reminders of projects you know you will never make, and the guilt that goes with seeing them all the time. Reduce the time it takes to dig through stacks of fabric you don’t even like. Allow your creativity to expand when you are not weighed down sorting, folding, and storing the old stash. When you are no longer moving around the old, you will have time and space to try something new.

My stash is NOT making me happy.
I have the wrong stuff.

I’ve especially noticed the problem with my reds and greens, the two colors I use most. Over the last couple of years, my reds have devolved  to the point that they are all the same — there is little variety. They are RED, some red with fine designs, some red on red, some just red. But they are RED. Not enough variety.

The same problem exists in a somewhat different way with my greens. I actually have two bins of green, one of light greens and one of dark greens. Even so, there is not enough variety.

When I want to choose from my color palette, I don’t have enough to choose from, and it’s hard to make my quilts feel fresh and interesting. I want to continue to evolve in how I used color and shape, but my limited stash is making that harder to do.

Shopping for stash.
Though I do buy fabric just for stash, most of my purchases are for specific projects. Usually when I am buying, I don’t have a fully developed project plan, so I buy what I assume is “too much,” and pieces I might not use, knowing anything left will help fill out my bins.

But now I need to shop for stash. Yesterday I went with three other women on a little road trip to LeClaire, Iowa. There is a quilt shop there with yardage different from what closer shops carry, making it worth the trip. I bought four fat quarters to add to my “lights,” a yard of red-on-red that is different (REALLY!), and two yards of a blue print that is neither childish nor masculine. Besides those, I added a couple of other cuts, including a panel print for quilting practice.

These will help, but I’ll need to budget more time and money to move my stash forward. Fresh colors evoke new combinations of shape, also, allowing me to evolve as a quilter.

Out the Back Window – Ant & Aphid

How I See It

In a past summer, it was about time to trim back some of the bridal wreath bushes near the house. The many black ants were troublesome. They were about 1/2″ long on many of the tips of the small branches. They seemed very intent doing something slowly and deliberately. A closer look revealed tiny, light green aphids had been herded by the ants toward the ends of the small branches.

 

Ants and aphids have a relationship called Mutualism. The relationship serves to benefit both the ant and the aphids. The ant obtains a sweet source of food from the abdomen called honeydew. The aphids are protected on the branch by the ant. Each can exist independently of the other. But, both parties benefit when together. Here is a link to a better close-up view of ants herding their aphids together. The link also talks about the mortal enemy…

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Seeing clearly/grief or suffering

by Melanie

This spring I’m taking a writing class called “Writing Our Spiritual Lives.” I’m not a religious person, and my spirituality is based on connection — how we are connected as humans, and how we are connected to our environment. Still, as a writer, there’s value in a class that pushes me to think more deeply about this, and that helps provide insight into others’ thinking.

During class we have two short writing exercises. The instructor provides prompts, and off we go, writing as much nonsense or sense as we can in the short time allotted.

Last night’s first prompt was to write about seeing clearly. With only five minutes to frame the prompt, compose a theme, and write, it’s pretty rough stuff. Here’s my take, cleaned up a little but not revised.

It crystallized in those moments, the hate or disdain. I’d had it all wrong. I’d thought of him as an ally. He was not.

“There will be a train wreck,” he warned. It was a train wreck of his own making. His wish to control me, my husband, overwhelmed anything that made sense.

We’d pushed at each other some over the months, but I thought I’d gained his respect. He added me as an editor, congratulated me on my milestone. I thought he was glad to have me around.

Do you remember the old show from the 1960s with Chuck Connors? “Branded.” It was about an Army officer in the Old West who was deemed a coward. Stripped of his epaulets and brass buttons, sabre broken in two, he was sent from the fort with great ceremony, his reputation in tatters.

No ceremony here, but thanks to my enemy — no ally he — I was branded, unceremoniously kicked to the curb. No mystery remained about our relationship. He is my enemy, a man who does not deserve my respect.

The second exercise allowed about fifteen minutes to write. The prompt was to write about grief or suffering.

Pushing my eyes open, the darkness doesn’t change. Enveloping me, painting the room, darkness. I stretch slightly, easing the muscles of my lower back, noticing my toes as they brush the nubby sheet above them. Thick as the darkness is the silence.

No birds sing at this hour. Of course the barred owls could call any time of day. But they are absent, and I note their silence again.

Blinking, the room brightens for me. I can see the contrast between ceiling and wall. I note the soft green glow of the night light in the bathroom. But the silence persists.

I should know the difference by now. Cold silence sounds different from warm. While I know that now, while I am here with you, I do not know it in those waking moments. It is always cold silence, and empty, and alone.

My mind turns to welcoming the girls, calling our son, arranging for music, for a eulogy. I think of how to announce this. Odd how the quiet turns my mind to the noises of comfort. Daughter’s soothing voice, smooth and velvety; Son, stoic, never wordy. I see Jim’s face overlaid on his. I hear Jim’s laughter when he laughs.

The music, blues guitar, some of the favorites. Griz will play, as Jim played most evenings for several years. Only Griz will play better.

I hear the condolences through the silence, including from those who love us and those who have hurt us.

And blinking again, I can see the light beginning to peek through curtain edges. I shift again a little. The warm silence breaks. Jim stretches and turns. My grief, objective as it was, ends. And we reach for each other under the sheets.