The woodpecker is capable of repeatedly pecking the wood of a tree, suffering deceleration in the order of 10,000 m/s. Read more at @ The Hammock Papers. (Thank you Rob.)
It’s dark, I grope, I grip the wooden arm of the bannister at the top of the stairs. I’m about to take the first step down and here it comes. Not just one morning, every morning.
Must be Mandelstam’s Blossom. It hovers. It hammers. It is now. It is not. It ruptures and raptures. I try to turn, to turn away to Light. Yet and yet and yet, it pulls me back. A beckoning for what? To what?
55° F. Saturday morning. I’m on the front porch. Rain is spitting Autumn, the season has turned.
I look down. Gray shirt. Gray shorts. Gray water bottle. Gray and Blue shoes. I look up, Gray skies. Synchronicity – cosmic alignment. [Read more…]
- This is a photo of the SpaceX Falcon 9 rocket explosion by an eyewitness in Cape Canaveral, Florida at 9:07 a.m. on Thursday, September 1. Thankfully, no people were near the rocket while the propellant was being loaded, so there were no injuries from the blast. More background information at Business Insider.
- Youtube of explosion here.
- Image source: this isn’t happiness
Source: Biomorphosis. Stone Curlew incubating eggs. Keeping a low profile is what the stone curlew does best. When confronted with danger these birds either scurry away to cover, or freeze on the spot hoping to blend into the background.
5:45 am. I round the corner to Cove Island – low tide. The sulfur released from the exposed mud fills the lungs – gas, pungent smelling salts.
Geese float silently in the shadows.
I’m around the loop and back, 1/4 mile from the entrance. GPS flashes 4.1 miles in. I don’t glance at the time, that’s been a year now, I’ve conceded. “Matured.” Over 25 years of daily tracking of body weight and notating work-outs, first in a log book, then Excel spreadsheets and now Google Sheets. And also, now, on a parallel path on a digital step tracker which automatically feeds volumes of data into machines and is charted and graphed and spliced into pieces – all of which I never look at. The logging, the tracking, the effort, I mean Really! WHO CARES?
Yet, the tension pulls at both ends, a medieval body rack tearing the limbs from the torso. Wired to Do, whipped by a Mind that makes you Do and strapped to a Body that can no longer Do. And, the Head swims in rip currents.