wideeyedfunk

Category: Science

  • Fear.

    We were on the island to learn about prehistoric Aleuts and the ecological past. But between us and Aleut occupation of the place, World War II happened. We hiked across maritime tundra landscapes scattered with symmetrical cereal-bowl bomb craters. We mapped what felt like an endless series of Japanese entrenchment features and the young men on the crew talked about gun emplacements, turkey shoots, and the Pacific Theater of War. They were terribly excited and they stood in the old emplacements waving their arms around, arguing over probable tactics, logistics, and use of terrain in defense of bays.

    Japanese trench on Bering Sea coast. Photo by H. Harmsen 2014.
    Japanese trench on Bering Sea coast. Photo by H. Harmsen 2014.

    I sighed over my graph paper and measuring tapes because I wasn’t there to learn more about World War II. Nonetheless, I was there, the WWII sites were there, and finally it occurred to me that I was thinking about the soldiers who built and maintained these trenches as people – not as machines of war and history. Young men scrambled in these irritatingly numerous trenches in the same howling wind and rain I was experiencing. Except, I was wearing newest generation protective clothing and they wore wet wool and soaking leather. Except, I was listening to the slush of the Bering Sea and they listened for incoming planes. Except, I was there because I fought for the opportunity and they were there because they were sent.

    And, in fact, these young men were enemies of the United States. If the plan had worked, everything would be different now. Empathizing with their peril and discomfort felt awkward.

    Then, someone on the crew found the caves.

    Japanese WWII cave openings on the Bering Sea coast. Photos by B. Hoffman 2014.
    Japanese WWII cave openings on the Bering Sea coast. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.

    Japanese soldiers excavated tunnels where ever possible on the island. They are narrow, low, winding tunnels carved into poorly consolidated deposits. I stooped into one a few years ago and thought about being packed in there with hundreds of other people during a bomb raid. Didn’t feel safe. At all.

    These caves were different in execution if the same in theme. Two small openings peeked out from tall grass on the wall of a tiny stream valley. You could poke your head in and see bits and pieces left behind. You could tell that the two caves curved around and connected deep in the hillside. The situation could not have been more adventure-style archaeology if it tried. Small, secret entrance, dimly-lit cavern, treasures – we all acted calm but our little archaeology hearts were pounding.

    Japanese WWII cave opening. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.
    Japanese WWII cave opening. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.

    “Ok,” I told the crew, “None of you are going in there. It’s too risky and I’m not getting on the sat phone to tell your families I lost you.” The young men with WWII fever gave me hard eyes. The determined young women gave me hard eyes. The other senior researchers didn’t care. The openings, after all, were very small. There was going to be crawling through mud and soldier yuck undisturbed for more than 60 years. “I’ll go,” I stated. There were mutterings of various kinds, I employed selective deafness protocol.

    I strapped on my headlamp. Shoved measuring tapes in my pockets. Hung my camera inside of my raincoat and heaved myself up into a cave opening. I dangled there, balanced on my waist. My head was in WWII, my feet in 2014.

    WEF thinking about life, science, fear. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.
    WEF thinking about life, science, fear. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.

    I looked at the floor – how deep was the muck? I looked at the shredding timbering on the walls and ceiling – how rotten was the wood?

    The timbers. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.
    The timbers. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.

    I looked at the slabs of rock on the ceiling – up close they looked sort of massive. And tilty. And broken. I dangled in the opening for long enough that a few crew members shoved their heads in next to my hips to see.

    The ceiling. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.
    The ceiling. Photo by B. Hoffman 2014.

    We breathed in there together. I tried to calm my pounding heart and stop my shaking hands. It looked terrifying. I was surely going to die in there. I thought about The Spouse. Hamish. I had a philosophical discussion with myself about the pursuit of knowledge. About eccentric and driven versus insane. When I was pretty sure my legs would hold me and my voice wouldn’t quaver, I slid back out – rebirthed myself really because at that moment I got my life back – “Too risky,” I said. And learned, once again, that fear keeps us alive.

    * You can visit B. Hoffman’s Flickr page for other project pictures.

  • The benevolent dictator at Christmas.

    My absolute dominion over the thousands of beings in my WidedEyedDemesne is of the gentlest nature. This is my moral and ethical choice – as you know, with great power comes great responsibility. In the holiday season, I strive to make the lives of my WideEyedSubjects shine brightly.

    For Hamish the Corgi, a stuffed Olaf the Snowman waits under the tree – Sven the Reindeer is sitting next to him, having no notion that he is a gift for Miss Tibbit and that his days are short. Fitz (the betta fish are always named Fitz) will have a new moss ball. Wiggins the Ancient Cat received a teeth cleaning and three extractions – the vet tells me this was a gift of life. This almost made my heart swell in direct proportion to the shrinking of the WideEyedTreasury.

    Innocents waiting under the tree.
    Innocents waiting under the tree.

    The hundreds of red wigglers in the worm bin, so content to ooze in the dim moistness – I’ve got three eggs shells and some mushroom stems for them. Wiggle worms, and squirm. Enjoy your holiday feast and think warm thoughts of my largess as you produce compost for the territorial gardens.

    And my dermestid subjects, my thousands of loyal flesh eating beetles, for generations of their heritage I ’ve cared for them. Do they have oral histories of their arrival into my territories? Do they teach each new larval group of the great hand which delivers food and water under a searing bright light? When food grows scarce and all flesh is consumed from the skeletons, do they pour libations and perform sacrifice to me?

    Dermestid territory, let the feast begin!
    Dermestid territory, let the feast begin!

    My dermestids will be pleased with any gift, but I want them to grow and prosper and be content in the coming winter for my freezer is full of specimens to deflesh and I’ll need the hungry bellies of their young. I thought long, resting my chin in hand, what will please them? Ah, it came to me…the bison head, the fine fats and proteins of the bison brain, rare and rich gifts that all can share.  Feast well my small subjects!

    Merry Christmas Friends. May you also have a fine day of love, kindness, and feasting.

  • I went to Space today.

    I just watched the Orion deep-space capsule flight test video. I watched the capsule leave Earth, the fiery tails of the booster rockets glowing against a dawn sky, wishing I were one of the 27,000 people who watched it live this morning. Then I saw the blue curve of our planet emerge against black space from a camera mounted on the capsule. The world shrank and space grew. Then, and you have to stay with the video to the end, then the booster rockets detached and the crew module floated alone in space. My heart floated with it.

    Take five minutes from your day and watch the video.

    The capsule is home again, splashed into the Pacific Ocean, but for a little while today I went to space with it.

  • The dogs will not have the last peanut butter cup.

    The vastiness of the cosmos has been replaced by wonderment at the intricacies of mammalian interiors around here lately. The WideEyedLaundry is full of gored up shirts and khakis. My mind, in moments of distraction, traces ropey muscles, rubbery tendons, and white bones rather than the sparkle of faraway stars and dark matter. I imagine muscles flexing, tendons pulling, and mighty bison hooves stomping on dusty ground.

    A buffalo died at the zoo a week or two ago. The strange nature of my job calls on me to transform this creature from fur and flesh to clean, white skeleton. The process involves waterproof shoes, a U-Haul van rental, several students, many scalpels, and protective gloves.

    BisonDefleshing a bison used to be normal. Well, not yesterday normal, not for me. But most of our human past required the ability to make dinner from something that used to be walking around. Personally make dinner, not abstract-grocery-plastic-wrapped-into-a-frying-pan-dinner. Now, it’s a little strange for most people.

    I just can’t help but notice the way things go together in there, under the skin. I can’t help but marvel that it all works. I can’t help but realize that the bison and all of the creatures who passed through the lab before it this past year smell like food. Except the woodchuck. He had been on the side of the road for a bit too long and he smelled greenish. Not grass greenish. Bile greenish.

    Smelling dinner all day, being up to my elbows in what is now biological waste rather than forthcoming meals, makes me want to dine on things that didn’t once have perceptions.

    Yesterday after the bison I was standing in line at Trader Joe’s buying pizza dough, cheese, and beer. (Not, you’ll notice, plastic wrapped meat). My eye fell on the impulse buy shelf at the checkout: “Perfect for the ride home!” the little sign said. I peered closer – ah, a little bag of dark chocolate peanut butter cups. Perfect indeed!

    20141104_191555This evening there was one left. One. I poured myself a glass of wine and shuffled the little guy out of the packet. I don’t know what happened but it flew out of my hand. I heard it ping against the microwave door, knock against the front of the fridge. I saw a gleam of the foil wrapper as it spun to the floor. To the Dog Zone. That peanut butter cup is safe in my belly now, but I’m telling you that there was an ugly period of fending off Miss Tibbit and Hamish and scrambling around to beat them to it. We won’t discuss that further.

    For better or for worse, I know what the inside of a bison looks like. Therefore, I, not the dogs, get the last peanut butter cup.

  • …time is passing at an accelerated rate –

    I looked out my office window this morning and saw yellow maple leaves scattered all over the yard. The borage in the garden is barely clinging to abundant life. The bees are a little less busy in the blooms. It isn’t summer anymore.

    Time is passing.

    Normally I don’t think much about the seasons changing, except to contemplate on the untidy lack of straightness in our planet’s axis relative to the orbital plane. That bothers me kind of a lot. Things should be straight, not at weird angles making everything all tilty and awkward and winter and summer.

    But I keep noticing – time is passing.

    Yesterday was trash day. Our junky old dishwasher didn’t last even an hour out on the curb. And that’s fine, except that I would be willing to swear that it just was trash day the day before that. It only comes once a week so if every day is trash day in my mind, what is happening to the days in between?

    Time is passing in a blur of researching and writing and analyzing ancient tools and remnants of dinners eaten thousands of years past. There’s joy in the accelerated time phase. I’m confused a lot and rely on daily lists written in a little purple Moleskine. When the lists fail to direct my actions, I stand and pat my pockets, “where am I going?” I ask WideEyedResearchAssistant B. “Upstairs to the talk,” she tells me. I stagger out of the lab to find the seminar room.

    I sort of wonder how long this superquick passage of time will last.

    What day is this?

  • The moon over my Hammie.

    No, actually Hamish the Corgi was too wiggly. He couldn’t get himself settled enough to peer through the 12mm lens at the moon. He kept trying to put his meaty paw on the telescope tube for balance and he was sort of kicking around in my arms. I know he was disappointed, but he can try again next time.

    I stared at the craters, I like the ones with the impact cone in the middle. I don’t know why. The WideEyedSpouse sort of pushed at me. “Hey, let me have a turn,” he sniveled. I took one more look and stepped back from the Celestron, immediately looking up at the now-puny moon hanging above my neighbor’s house. It was lame in comparison to looking at it with the telescope.

    Moon

    After what felt like A THOUSAND YEARS, I politely asked the Spouse to move. “Come on man,” I whined, “you are totally hogging the telescope.” He engaged the selective deafness protocol. “Come ON,” I stepped into his personal space. He put his shoulder toward me. I was outraged, “Gah,” I said. I looked around for support against this injustice but it was just me and the dogs and they didn’t really care. “Just one more picture,” he told me. Sure. Like I was born yesterday.

  • Dark energy and love.

    Yesterday evening I was reading about the form of the visible universe in my new backyard astronomy book. The WideEyedSpouse was doing something involving dinner while I sat at the awesome vintage kitchen table. Wiggins the Ancient Cat kept trying to put his butt on the page. Tibbit the Useless rested her chin on my knee. She was bound for disappointment, as I was reading not eating. Hamish the Corgi sat looking at me, learning about the universe through our mental link.

    Stars. Planets. Constellations. Yeah, yeah. Nothing new there. (Except that I discovered that I should be able to see the Milky Way directly above my house right now and all I can see is the glare of my neighbors’ anti-thief lights. Annoying, but what can do you? Cities are creepy.)

    Then, I looked at a photograph from the Hubble that captured hundreds of whirling galaxies. They face every which way. They are different colors. Big ones, little ones. Galaxies all over the place in every direction. There are billions of them. I felt a weird nerve rush.

    I didn’t know there were so many. Did you? Sure ok, the astronomers and physicists know but. I never realized. Did you know a little one is running into ours over on the other side? Holy cats.

    I looked at a depiction of the distribution of galaxies in the known universe. They cluster in strings and clots. They look like rumples of ocean foam on the incoming tide.  I sort of wondered what was in between. The astronomy book said there was nothing in between. That seemed weird but ok with me. I like a tidy universe. I guess it isn’t so simple.

    Evidently there is dark matter.

    Evidently there is dark matter-energy and it is abundant.

    Evidently we, the universe, are expanding because of this hypothesized dark energy and eventually all will be diffuse. All will be isolated and alone, beyond each other’s detection – unable to even know that anything else is out there.

    The WideEyedSpouse and I have been married for 19 years and 40 minutes as the clock looks at this moment. I’m sitting here at the desk worried about deadlines and dark energy. The WideEyedSpouse is 30 feet and 2 stories away worried about getting the racing stripes placed correctly on the Mini Cooper S. Our little bit of the universe isn’t expanding too quickly for us. I don’t think it can.

  • I dreamed of flesh eating beetles.

    I dreamed of flesh eating beetles and mortifying tissue and woke with the sense memory of the smell of decay.

    I blame the Turdus migratorius from yesterday. It wasn’t his fault, poor little robin, that one of the students found him dead on the road and collected him for the lab. It certainly wasn’t his fault that a skilled graduate student showed me how to skin and eviscerate a little songbird using his carcass. We recorded data for science and the permits, and plucked and skinned and removed blobs from inside him using forceps. We wrapped him in cheesecloth (did the cheesecloth company ever imagine such a use?) and put him in the lab fridge to dry out for a couple of days. It made me think of dry aging a nice roast. Might have to hit the butcher later.

    The dermestid tank, the flesh eating beetle habitat, was right next to us while we worked on the bird. Did they watch us prepare their supper? The larvae will creep through the cheesecloth and snack like crazy when we put the robin in there on Saturday. Just think, while you are enjoying your Saturday morning coffee and pastries before tackling the weekend chores, the dermestid larvae will be tying on bibs and settling in for the smorgasborg.

    We’ll have a nice clean skeleton in a week or so. That American Robin, number UBZA-002, will contribute to federally funded research about mutually impactful human and environmental relationships for generations. He’ll visit schools as part of a science class lecture about archaeology. He’ll teach graduate students about bird skeletons. He is transforming from performing flight with wings through physical space to causing flights of mind through ideas and hypotheses.  Is that some kind of bird rapture?

    The WideEyedSpouse won’t let me keep the dermestid tank here in the WideEyedHousehold. He says keeping flesh eating beetles in the basement is like housing a zombie. “If I fall down or something when I’m working out, next thing you know my leg is gone,” he argues. “Er…” I have no response.