Stardust, the LHC, and Walt Whitman

We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon



Today at CERN's Large Hadron Collider (LHC) near Geneva, Switzerland, experiments were conducted in hopes of answering unresolved questions in particle physics which could yield clues to the nature of the early Universe.


Recipe for a Universe

from CERN (European Organization for Nuclear Research http://public.web.cern.ch/public/en/About/About-en.html)

Take a massive explosion to create plenty of stardust and a raging heat. Simmer for an eternity in a background of cosmic microwaves. Let the ingredients congeal and leave to cool and serve cold with cultures of tiny organisms 13.7 billion years later.

To understand the basic ingredients and the ‘cooking conditions’ of the cosmos, from the beginning of time to the present day, particle physicists have to try and reverse-engineer the ‘dish’ of the Universe. Within the complex concoction, cryptic clues hide the instructions for the cosmic recipe.
Slowly simmer.

Space, time, matter... everything originated in the Big Bang, an incommensurably huge explosion that happened 13.7 billion years ago. The Universe was then incredibly hot and dense but only a few moments after, as it started to cool down, the conditions were just right to give rise to the building blocks of matter – in particular, the quarks and electrons of which we are all made. A few millionths of a second later, quarks aggregated to produce protons and neutrons, which in turn were bundled into nuclei three minutes later.

Then, as the Universe continued to expand and cool, things began to happen more slowly. It took 380,000 years for the electrons to be trapped in orbits around nuclei, forming the first atoms. These were mainly helium and hydrogen, which are still by far the most abundant elements in the Universe.

Another 1.6 million years later, gravity began to take control as clouds of gas began to form stars and galaxies. Since then heavier atoms, such as carbon, oxygen and iron, of which we are all made, have been continuously ‘cooked’ in the hearts of the stars and stirred in with the rest of the Universe each time a star comes to a spectacular end as a supernova.
http://public.web.cern.ch/public/en/Science/Recipe-en.html




When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.



We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we got to get ourselves back to the garden.



Hubble Space Telescope photos: http://heritage.stsci.edu/1999/38/index.html
http://heritage.stsci.edu/2009/32/index.html
http://hubblesite.org/gallery/album/star/pr2007004a/web_print/

"Woodstock" words and music by Joni Mitchell, performed by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Woodstock-lyrics-Crosby-Stills-Nash-and-Young/8785F994FB9FF1854825

When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer: http://www.bartleby.com/142/180.html

The Silken Tent

This is one of my favorite Robert Frost poems.


The Silken Tent

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To every thing on earth the compass round,
And only by one's going slightly taut,
In the capriciousness of summer air,
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

poemhunter.com





stock.xchng



In looking for images for this poem, I found the website of artist Joanna Tlok, who does lovely oil paintings of landscapes composed of silk fabric. Please visit it at www.joannatlok.com

For Cathy

When You Wish Upon a Star


When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

Music by Leigh Harline / Lyrics by Ned Washington

Performed in the Disney movie "Pinocchio" by Jiminy Cricket (Cliff Edwards)

1940 Academy Award for Best Original Song; ranked seventh in "100 Greatest Songs in Film History" by the American Film Institute.

Avocado Madness

I wonder what has happened to the Sacred Destination of the Day picture? I should check it out, but I've just had too much going on. I might have to drop it for a while if they are having problems.


Do avocados do strange things to my brain? I was peeling an avocado just now for a late night snack and remembered that sometimes in a moment of silliness I used to call them "Avogadros." Remember ol' Avogadro, the Italian who came up with a number to represent the number of atoms, molecules, etc., in a mole of something? That number, 6.02214179(30)×1023 (that should be 10 to the 23rd, but I fail to be able to get this thing to do superscripts at this time--well, it is 3:00 in the morning) was given the honorary name of Avogadro's number or Avogadro's constant. I don't think he was the first to actually come up with the number, but that's another tangent for another time. Anyway, I was thinking about calling avocados Avogadros and realized that I'd never had the urge to refer to Avogadro as "Avocado."

Another time I was up late eating avocados with my daughter and her friend and had another brain attack. At the time, we were watching a TV program about the demise of the dinosaurs. Of course, it got around to a discussion of the cataclysmic meteor impact in the Yucatan and spent a good bit of time talking about the Chicxulub crater. The girls thought "Chicxulub" was just about one of the most entertaining words they had ever heard. I told them about the Central American archaeological sites and their wonderful place names and we had a delightful time trying to pronounce them. Then we decided that we needed to give our cats these names as their formal names in addition to the regular everyday names by which they are known in our family. Naturally, this led to a recitation of T.S. Eliot's poem, "The Naming of Cats." We got very silly with our name choosing. We came up with some of the following:

Stormy: Quetzalcoatl (of course she's the feathered serpent because of her fluffy, feathered coat)

PetCat: Huitztilopoctli (Aztec tribal god), although we feel that Tlaxcalli (tortilla/maize pancake) is probably more suitable to his bulk

Pester: K'uk'ulcan (also the feathered serpent because of her tortie coat)

Pushkin: currently Tenochtitlan (Place of the Cactus Rock), but could get changed to TzinTzunTzan (Place of Hummingbirds because of the way she flits around)

We really wanted to call one of them Tz'ibilchaltun, but decided we might leave that for one of the rabbits (tuchtli) who are getting formal names as well. We christened the garage Tuchtlan (Place of Many Rabbits).

The following day, I emailed my friends and gave them the cats' new names. One asked what else we were ingesting in addition to the avocado. I promise, the only things we consumed were avocados, soft drinks, water, and crackers.

The Naming Of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

T.S. Eliot (from Famous Poets and Poems.com)

(all images are from Wikipedia)

For Phyllis

My friend, Phyllis, grew up in Kentucky horse country. Here is a poem by James Wright (Poets.org) that I thought she might like.












A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.















top photo:
http://rockinghranch.freeservers.com/photo.html
bottom photo:
http://www.doublediamond.org

For Memorial Day

TAPS

Day is done...Gone the sun
From the lake...
From the hills...
From the sky.
All is well...Safely rest
God is nigh.

Fading light....Dims the sight
And a star....Gems the sky....Gleaming bright
From afar....Drawing nigh
Falls the night.

Composed By Major General Daniel Butterfield

Spinning

Here is a poem by Walt Whitman that I often think of when I am spinning.

A Noiseless, Patient Spider


A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.





The photo is of a lovely black and yellow argiope, commonly known as a "writing spider." They are among my favorite spiders, but I'm also fond of jumping spiders and wolf spiders. The little black and white drawing is of a spider "ballooning." It is letting out strands of silk filament to catch the wind so that it may be carried away on the breeze to a new location. Scientists believe that this is how spiders managed to spread themselves all over the world--even across large bodies of water--just by letting themselves be blown about on the wind, sailing along on their little silk threads.

When I am spinning, the fiber becomes a part of me. As I spin, filament after filament twists together to form a thread that goes from hand to wheel, twisting and winding in a harmony I cannot describe, but feel and sense as the fiber slips out from my hand, twirling and winding onto the bobbin. I am reeling out my thoughts, my energy, my love, my spirit, my soul into a thread that will connect me to something else. Someone else. Someplace else. "Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to connect them;" as the poet says. The thread from me, from my hands, out, out to where I cannot go. Taking part of me with it; taking me out with it. I draft and draw out the fiber; I draft and draw out my soul. Unlike the spider, I cannot balloon myself away on my fragile thread to other places, other worlds, but the fiber I spin can take a part of me with it wherever it goes. It carries a part of me as long as it lasts for I have put my very self, a part of me, into my thread. The noiseless, patient spider sending itself out on a fine thread. The noiseless, patient spinner sending herself out on a fine thread, her soul out on a little twisted filament.

"Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul"."



(read this poem and more at poets.org)

What and Where Is Art?

Success! I seem to have fixed the font problem--for now.

In my first post, I talked a little about how art can touch the spirit. I do not seek to define art, but I find it necessary to give some sort of statement about what I consider art to be. There are many sources out there providing discussions of what constitutes art and I encourage you to take a look at some of them. There is even the question of whether art can be defined. Ask yourself, "What is art?" and see what you come up with. I think our initial reaction might be that art is something that is aesthetically pleasing, but that is certainly not always the case, especially when each individual has his or her own idea of aesthetics.

Art is certainly something that touches the senses, but it does not always have a positive effect. Each of us has our own idea of what is pleasing to the senses. Beauty truly does lie in the eye [or mind] of the beholder. I say that art is that which stimulates the senses or the mind by conveying ideas or emotions in a variety of ways. There is visual art, auditory art, performance art, and art that comes from the skillful manipulation of materials. We could call this latter type of art "craft," but where do we draw the line between art and craft? Is one spiritually uplifting and the other mundane, ordinary? Is there a level of execution, manipulation, and mastery of the materials and skills that elevates craft to art? What is the difference between a craftsman and an artisan? I will leave you to answer those questions in your own way.

Rather than attempting to define art and list all of its many variations, I prefer to think about the many ways I encounter and experience art throughout the day. This raises another question: Is art that which is only produced by human beings? I believe that art, or that which stimulates the senses, is not limited to being an expression of human creativity. I believe that art also is found in the natural world. For me, art is all around us. I am surrounded by the art I find in nature as well as the art that is created by my fellow humans. Each time I step outside or share the company of my non-human companions, I have the opportunity to experience art: that which stimulates the senses or the mind by conveying ideas or emotions. To illustrate this, I leave you with a poem by William Wordsworth (another of those memorized in high school--gee, we did a lot of that back in the Dark Ages). The photo is from a few days spent at Destin last summer.

"My heart leaps up when I behold"

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

So It Begins

I've been thinking about doing a blog for some time, but wasn't sure that I would have enough to say to sustain it. A few of my friends have encouraged me to give it a try, so I guess we'll see what happens. Since I am new to this, I'm sort of groping in the dark. I plan to focus on the art in my life: that which I produce (including my spinning and knitting), the art I see in nature, the various aspects of the arts that I have an opportunity to experience, and probably some things like my family life, my pets, and whatever else strikes my fancy and lifts my spirit the way art does. This is a work in progress. We'll see how we progress.

I am calling this "Art in the Wind." This is a phrase that my daughter and I came up with several years ago after we spent the day at our local arts festival that is held each spring. One of the kids' make-and-take booths featured windsocks that the kids could make using strips of Mylar, ribbon, beads, feathers, and other goodies. After she made hers, we brought it home and hung it in a tree in the back yard (I also got to make one and it went in another tree). We decided that this would be the first of many pieces of "tree jewelry" that we would make during the summer. We looked for a name to call our tree jewelry and settled on "Art in the Wind" because it is art and it blows in the wind. I liked it so much that I began using it for all my other artistic creations and eventually came up with a logo. I used a fine, broad Sheaffer calligraphy nib to draw two wavy lines, one above the other, over which I wrote "Art" and allowed the wavy lines to form the crosses for the "A" and "t." As soon as I'm a little more proficient at this, I'll try to post a photo of it.

I also like "Art in the Wind" because art refreshes my spirit like a gentle breeze on a hot summer day. And there is something fleeting about it, too, in the same way that the breeze blows past us and is gone or the notes of a song or a musical composition or birdsong give us a brief moment of artistic experience and touch the spirit, but do not linger; though tangible while we hear them, the notes are gone as soon as they are heard. Even though we can create works of art and architecture that may last for many years, nothing we create will last forever. I am reminded of one of my favorite poems that I had to memorize in high school. It was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley in the first half of the 19th century.

Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.



The poem is about the remains of a colossal statue built for a powerful and egotistical Egyptian ruler who thought his dynasty would last for all time. Neither his monuments nor his reign were everlasting. I think there is a lesson for us all.

I create my art for my own enjoyment and that of my friends and other folks who share similar interests or who enjoy the things I create. It is fleeting. I know it will not last. It will blow away on the winds of time, but while it is here, perhaps it will give someone a momentary smile.

(photo courtesy way2egypt.com)