More to be added later- need some time to organize media space.
Play this:
Loreena McKennitt – The dark night of the soul
Upon a darkened night
the flame of love was burning in my breast
And by a lantern bright
I fled my house while all in quiet rest
Shrouded by the night
and by the secret stair I quickly fled
The veil concealed my eyes
while all within lay quiet as the dead
Chorus
Oh night thou was my guide
oh night more loving than the rising sun
Oh night that joined the lover
to the beloved one
transforming each of them into the other
Upon that misty night
in secrecy, beyond such mortal sight
Without a guide or light
than that which burned so deeply in my heart
That fire t’was led me on
and shone more bright than of the midday sun
To where he waited still
it was a place where no one else could come
Chorus
Within my pounding heart
which kept itself entirely for him
He fell into his sleep
beneath the cedars all my love I gave
And by the fortress walls
the wind would brush his hair against his brow
And with its smoothest hand
caressed my every sense it would allow
Chorus
I lost myself to him
and laid my face upon my lovers breast
And care and grief grew dim
as in the mornings mist became the light
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair
Loreena writes in the CD booklet about this song:
May, 1993 – Stratford … have been reading through the poetry of 15th century Spain, and I find myself drawn to one by the mystic writer and visionary St. John of the Cross; the untitled work is an exquisite, richly metaphoric love poem between himself and his god. It could pass as a love poem between any two at any time … His approach seems more akin to early Islamic or Judaic works in its more direct route to communication to his god … I have gone over three different translations of the poem, and am struck by how much a translation can alter our interpretation. Am reminded that most holy scriptures come to us in translation, resulting in a diversity of views.
Music by Loreena McKennitt
Lyrics by St. John of the Cross (San Juan de la Cruz), arr. and adapted by Loreena McKennitt
From: The mask and mirror (1994).
Mad Liberation by Moonlight- KBOO monthly mental health talk show.We are going on 4 years now.We were unable to be on the air last week- and if you were paying attention, the moon was big and full- but we plan to make up for it this Friday night. That’s Friday January 28th really late (1 am).
If you get up before 1 am on Saturdays, as a rule, you can call it Saturday morning.
For most of us it’s really late Friday night.
All the same details as usual:KBOO 90.7 fm in Portland or streamed on the web at http://kboo.fm/
Call in at 503-231-8187 to be on the radio (or show up at the studio).Topics are whatever you want to talk about. Some hot items right now are the current legislative work to reform the Psychiatric Security Review Board.
If you are like me and don’t stay up that late, set your alarm and see if it doesn’t grab your attention. If we can’t keep you awake, then go back to sleep.
If you want to listen to some past shows, they can be found here- https://rickpdx.wordpress.com/mad-liberation-by-moonlight-archives/
You are already a star. Show the world. KBOO 90.7 FM, Friday night from 1 to 2 am, call us at 503-231-8187.
-Rick
Below: public art by Norm Magnussen- The I-75 Project
About the project, Magnusson writes:
…unlike most artworks on social or political themes, these markers don’t merely speak to the small group of viewers that seek out such work in galleries and museums; instead, they gently insert themselves into the public realm. ”Are they real?” is a question viewers frequently ask, meaning “are they state-sponsored?” I love this confusion and hope to slip a message in while people are mulling it over.
These markers are just the kind of public art I really enjoy: gently assertive and non-confrontational, firmly thought-provoking and pretty to look at and just a little bit subversive.
Don Waisanen, in his article here, concludes:
That the project is as much about the use of wide-open public spaces as it is about the carefully crafted messages speaks volumes about how innovation may best work in our age. With so little room to communicate messages of social conscience in our message-dense environment, these signs are apt demonstrations of how to pick and choose a context for sociological critique.
below- poet Diane Wakoski-
“I have had to learn to live with my face”
Bye bye for now, stay happy (unless that’s not on your list today).
The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:
The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.
Crunchy numbers
Madison Square Garden can seat 20,000 people for a concert. This blog was viewed about 62,000 times in 2010. If it were a concert at Madison Square Garden, it would have performed about 3 times.
In 2010, there were 53 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 277 posts.
I thought last week would be easy. I expected a quiet workplace with most activities on hold and many people (including my supervisor) gone.
Not to be. Life comes at you fast. Best to slow it down from the inside, the outside not being reliable.
I guess the most shocking thing was that someone killed themselves. Someone I knew. Someone I had seen earlier in that same day. Someone who appeared to be in a better mood than usual.
It isn’t like this is an odd occurrence here. It’s happened a couple times before since I’ve been working here. It’s still very hard on people. I spent a lot of time hanging out with folks who were especially effected. Mostly just being available. Some wanted to talk, some wanted to sit next to someone who understood.
The effects were not contained just within the ward where the suicide happened. Lots of people knew the woman. She’s been there awhile. She’s wanted to die for as long as anyone remembers.
The building where it happened. Top floor, Unit 50 I.
Another event, a much better one, came at midweek; also unexpected. On Monday I met someone who was new- that is new to the environment where I work. They found themselves locked up through December and their landlord sent a letter saying that they were throwing out her stuff, cleaning out her room and… well, tough luck landing in psychiatric prison.
I was able to take a state car up to Portland and along with a very nice nurse we went through the garbage in the compactor room and saved, retrieved much of her stuff. Probably the unit staff will throw most of it out but we got her some clothes, some personal papers and many many technical manuals in English and Chinese. We did not find some of the papers she wanted- her citizenship documents.
In the new hospital there will not be any real storage room to speak of. An oversight, I guess. But it means that people admitted here will basically lose everything.
Enough about work. There were several good moments and many useful ones.
Some of What I’ve Been Thinking
The wave of fear has strong momentum but if you stop pushing it, it subsides. So maybe I don’t need to worry about fear, although it’s hold on me still scares me 😉 -It dies of starvation when I’m done feeding it.
My most intrusive fears have to do with my sense of self-worth. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that I’m not okay- not adequate, not acceptable. It comes out in interpersonal communication when somebody is angry with me or thinks the worst of me. Not always, just sometimes. I’m trying to be aware- this seems to help. When I see what it is I can stop pushing the wave.
I half know my connection with everything. I say “half” because I notice it only intermittently and I’m often completely oblivious. When I look, it emerges from the edges of my self-perception- my wholeness withing the world is made real through the very same spaces/ surfaces/ thoughts that separate me. For example: My skin would seem to be both my boundary and my bridge to the world. Same thing for eyes/ vision, sound, speech, breath… I can’t really speak this adequately so it’s time to stop.
“I felt a suddenness.”
Maybe I’m not done- I am falling slowly through an intangible screen. The screen is the surface upon which the movie of time is being played/ shown. Behind the screen is the light, the projector that creates the illusion of movement, shape and everything else that can be named- the movie. As I am passing through the screen, the projector, the light and … it all disappears.
Once, following a particularly high meditative state, I found that I could not look at anything, any separate thing, without losing myself in oneness with the Big Picture. Then I would find there was no picture at all. I would lose any awareness of self and regain self-consciousness much later. Then I would look at something again, or have a thought, or breathe- and it would start all over again. Sometimes I am still passing through that screen, or just about to- clumsily- falling into reality as though by tripping over my shoelaces.
How things work- from various sources
(click if it doesn’t animate automatically)
Newcomen Engine
Wikipedia says: The atmospheric engine invented by Thomas Newcomen in 1712, today referred to as a Newcomen steam engine (or simply Newcomen engine), was the first practical device to harness the power of steam to produce mechanical work. Newcomen engines were used throughout Britain and Europe, principally to pump water out ofmines, starting in the early 18th century. James Watt‘s later engine was an improved version. Although Watt is far more famous today, Newcomen rightly deserves the first credit for the widespread introduction of steam power.
Stirling Engine
“Air in the engine is cyclically heated (by an alcohol burner) and expands to push the power piston (shown in blue) to the right. As the power piston moves to the right, the yellow linkage forces the loose-fitting, red “piston” (on the left half of the machine) to displace air to the cooler side of the engine. The air on the cool side loses heat to the outside world and contracts, pulling the blue piston to the left. The air is again displaced, sending it back to the hotter region of the engine, and the cycle repeats.
The Stirling engine cycle can also be used “in reverse”, to convert rotating motion into a temperature differential (and thus provide refrigeration).”
Stirlings can be made inexpensively, are robust, and can use a variety of fuel sources, such as animal dung, which makes them valuable for areas which lack forests or other common fuel sources.
-description by beatnik
Wankel Engine
A pretty high revving engine, but the low compression ratio meant stinky efficiency. Even in racing, better fuel efficiency means you don’t stop for fuel as often. (larryrose11)
“a lot of the issues people associate with wankels have been pretty well suppressed or solved entirely in the current generation (renesis), but you still can’t park an RX8 on grass, and they do still need a bit of special treatment.” (Akaishi)
Above: Torpedo- boat destroyer system- Also how Transformers poop.
Constant Velocity (CV) Joint. They’re in pretty much every front wheel drive car. This is a very simplified diagram of how a CV joint works- the real thing is hella durable.
Manual Transmission Mechanism- Wikipedia says: ”
A manual transmission, also known as a manual gearbox or standard transmission (informally, a “manual”, “straight shift”, “stick (shift)”, or “straight drive”) is a type of transmission used in motor vehicle applications. It generally uses a driver-operated clutch, typically operated by a pedal or lever, for regulating torque transfer from the internal combustion engine to the transmission, and a gear stick, either operated by hand (as in a car) or by foot (as on a motorcycle).
I have always wondered how this worked. This is so cool.
Reciprocating movements
Radial Engine
Comments:
“it doesn’t get better when you realize there were versions of this where the driveshaft was hard-mounted to the plane and the propeller was bolted to the crank case.”
“Radials don’t leak oil they mark their territory. A little contancorous but so sooo nice!”
“Some of the finest piston engines ever built were radials. Perhaps most notably the Pratt & Whitney R-2800, without which, it can easily be argued, the Allies would have lost the air war in the Pacific.”
blandoon sez: “I would agree with that assessment – from what I hear, there are only a handful of shops left, at most, that can overhaul something like an R-3350 (Anderson Airmotive is the one I know of).
The R-3350 in particular has always been a troubled beast, because it was pushed into wartime service when not altogether ready (primarily to power the B-29), and it had a long and painful early life before it became something close to reliable. But it has never been as dependable as its smaller, older stepbrother, the R-2800. From what I understand this is why there are a good number of Pratt-powered Douglas DC-6s left, but almost no DC-7s – they used the Wright engine, and were discarded almost as soon as jets became available.
FIFI, the only remaining flyable B-29, had its four early-model 3350s replaced with later units that are not authentic to the airplane, but were custom-built (by the aforementioned Anderson Airmotive) out of a hybrid of different later-model parts, with custom engine mounts and exhaust and so forth. It cost something like $4 million to do this, but otherwise it would have been impossible to get the airplane reliable enough to tour the airshow circuit.”
Maltese Cross Mechanism
Comment: “Nicholson Baker wrote a fantastic essay about the Maltese Cross mechanism and its use in film projectors/cameras in his book The Size of Thoughts.” -vidiot
Unrelated, so far
Goopy New Year!
Click the pictures below for full size-
Space
Some pictures I’ve found. Click for full size these are big.
This morning I walked to get some coffee, trying to perk up before being in a day long interviewing panel for my department at work. I was wearing the light jacket lining of my double layer coat because it wasn’t too cold. It’s a bright morning, no drizzle. I felt in the pocket of my coat I found a sea shell fragment. Fairly small, it must be something I picked up at the beach last summer. It reminded me of another coat I wore 15-20 years ago.
That coat was a leather jacket- nothing at all like the cloth coat I’m wearing this morning. I lost it one day when I left it in our unlocked car while watching a movie with my family. It was a winter day something like today. I brought the coat along but decided that it was too warm to wear and so left it behind when we went into the theater. I didn’t lock the car- I rarely locked anything in those days.
After the movie I immediately became frantic trying to find it. Had I put it in the trunk? Was it behind a seat? Nope, it was gone. Gone gone gone.
On the way home I started crying. It wasn’t because it was an expensive coat, although it was. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t get attached to things because they have some material value.
This is the thing: In that coat was a small drawstring pouch. In the pouch were some rather ordinary looking beach rocks and shell fragments. These are what I mourned; mourn is not too strong a word.
Going even further back in time I can see myself walking on the beach with my daughter. First born, these memories begin before my two sons entered the world. She would see rocks and shells she liked everywhere. Then she would hand them to me to carry, not wanting to fill her pockets- for reasons I still don’t understand.
Over a dozen or so years this pattern never changed. She always found many things of all sizes that she just had to have and I just had to carry.
When she was about 13 and she was nearly full-grown, a sassy teenager, we were once again walking on the beach. This time her younger brothers were along. They found things on the beach and put them in their own pockets.
In those days Erin and I argued often and I found myself often annoyed. She found stones and shells- and told me to carry them.
I responded with irritation. I said, no, I wouldn’t carry them- she should carry them herself. She took my hand and looked me in the eye with a very serious expression. For once she didn’t respond to my irritation with her own. She said these words: “Really, Dad. Please take these. You will want them later.”
These days I look back and wonder how I had become so hard.
A bit confused I put the “beach treasures” and others she found in my pocket. She didn’t ask for them when we got back to the room and somehow they stayed in my pocket. That was our last trip to the beach with Erin.
I don’t know how many times I have revisited that day- thousands?- at least. Wishing I could go back and be a different, more understanding father.
Within a few months Erin was dead. She completed suicide in her room on April 5th, 1993. The small stones and shells became very precious to me.
I put these in a small cloth drawstring pouch and carried them everywhere. They helped me remember her but even more they helped me remember how precious was each moment, how irreplaceable was each opportunity to be gentle, compassionate.
Different coat today. No stones, just one shell. I still cried.
moon soup 