IRFD report

My excursion in honor of the first ever International Rock-Flipping Day (IRFD), September 2, was disappointing. I was full of hope, given the cicada-filled trees outside my apartment and the bizarre insectoid life I’ve already encountered in the few weeks I’ve been in Washington, DC. But in increasing frustration, I flipped no less than three rocks in the well-watered garden outside my apartment complex, then two more rocks in the dryish park – in desperation, I even flipped a derelict toaster oven!

toaster.jpg

The only animal I found under any of these objects was one incredibly common pillbug. And I couldn’t even get a decent photo of it before it ran away.

pillbug.jpg

I suppose it could have been worse. After all, the unpretentious, unpoisonous, friendly pillbug is the semi-official mascot of IRFD, depicted on the snazzy badge created by Jason at cephalopodcast:

irfdlogo.jpg

I’ve always loved pillbugs – the glossier and rounder, the better. (I have much less affection for their cousins the sowbugs, because they cannot roll themselves into perfect little balls). Pillbugs were also the occasion for the first great biological discovery of my life. During my childhood rock-flipping phase, I encountered a pillbug brooding its offspring (ghostly white, pin-head-sized versions of their parent). I was mystified; I thought insects simply laid eggs and left them without the slightest regard. So I looked up pillbugs (actually I probably looked up “roly-polies,” because that’s what we called them) and learned they aren’t insects (hexapods) at all. They’re crustaceans. Isopods like sowbugs and pillbugs are closer relations to lobsters and shrimp – even to barnacles – than to anything you’d usually find in your garden, including the very similar millipedes (myriapods). The astonishment of that taxonomic discovery has never left me, and probably went a long way to making me a biologist.

But the wonder doesn’t stop there. As we all know by now, the ocean harbors giant versions of nearly everything – including pillbugs! I wouldn’t care to run into the giant isopod, Bathynomus giganteus:

380353_028542ead3.jpg

Deep Sea Giant IsopodCoda’s flickr stream

or this:

isopod_450.jpg
Giant Isopod – NOAA explorer

Why are giant isopods so darn big? I have no clue, but Deep-Sea News took a good try at the question. (You might also ask why terrestrial arthropods are not larger; a recent paper in PNAS identified the oxygen-delivering tracheal system as the limiting factor for certain species of beetle).

Today I was a little disappointed that there were no hexapods or myriapods or arachnids to be seen – not even under the toaster oven. But walking dejectedly back to the apartment with my empty camera, I saw a doe and her still-dappled fawn – definitely too large to have squeezed out from under a rock, but enough to satisfy my frustrated biophilia. Perhaps next year’s IRFD will give more conventional results (mark your calendar now).

deer.jpg

In the meantime, check out everyone else’s experiences here: most had much better luck than I did!

Posted in Biology, Blogs and Blogging, Frivolity, Science | 4 Comments

The Bestiary on WPR

On Sunday, Wisconsin Public Radio’s “To The Best of Our Knowledge” aired an interesting episode called The Bestiary, about cryptozoology, strange biology, and mythology. You can stream it on the website.

I found the handling of the Archaea a bit awkward, as sometimes happens in mainstream science journalism, but I was fascinated by Tim Friend’s suggestion that the microbe-rich rust coating the hull of the Titanic constitutes a novel ecosystem and perhaps a novel communal lifeform. This is not so farfetched, when you consider that each of our bodies contains more bacterial cells than human cells. We are a carefully balanced melange of person and germ.

And Nicholas Christopher’s fictional take on historical bestiaries (more reviews from his site) sounds like the perfect late-summer cafe reading. Here’s a memorable sound-byte from Christopher:

In the 18th century, one species disappeared every four years. In the nineteenth century, it’s about one species per year. By 1975, it was one thousand species per year. And in 2000, it’s 40,000 per year, in other words, 110 per day. . . .I found this mind-boggling, the idea that, you know, at the end of this day, 110 creatures will have disappeared. . .

I realized after a while that animals that you and I might have known or have seen or known of as children, your children will know of only as stories, and children beyond them will know of really as myths, and in a way some of these books really did chronicle animals that have come and gone.

Via Endicott Redux

Posted in Biology, Books | 4 Comments

Square America

na12.jpg

Via Dandelion Diva, a treasure trove of disturbing, provoking Ephemericana:

Square America: Snapshots & Vernacular Photography.

a132.jpg

na14.jpg

a49.jpg

Posted in Artists & Art, Ephemera, Photography | 1 Comment

Juxtaposition: Icy chiasma

xy.jpg

Y and X cubosomes?

Last night while drinking some water, I noticed that two ice cubes had fused, forming a complex that resembled an X chromosome in metaphase: two chromatids joined by a wee little centromere! I realized at that point that I really am a big science dork. But I thought it was pretty enough to share anyway.

I think that’s probably a Y cubosome off to the left, with its chromatids stretched end-to-end. Why my glass of water has only sex cubosomes and no autosomes, I have no idea. The analogy breaks down, ok?

chr_xy_indigo_f.jpg

Y and X chromosomes: copyright Indigo Instruments

PS. My water glass photo kind of resembles the Rosalind Franklin art I posted about earlier, doesn’t it? Huh.

Posted in Biology, Frivolity | 3 Comments

A Different Kind of Asperger’s

Tim Page has a remarkable essay in the August 20 New Yorker about his personal experience with Asperger’s syndrome:

In the fall of 2000, in the course of what had become a protracted effort to identify—and, if possible, alleviate—my lifelong unease, I was told that I had Asperger’s syndrome. I had never heard of the condition, which had been recognized by the American Psychiatric Association only six years earlier. Nevertheless, the diagnosis was one of those rare clinical confirmations which are met mostly with relief. Here, finally, was an objective explanation for some of my strengths and weaknesses, the simultaneous capacity for unbroken work and all-encompassing recall, linked inextricably to a driven, uncomfortable personality.

This essay blew my mind. Despite my reservations, I’m now pretty sure I have Asperger’s myself. Which may make it unwise to marry an engineer after all!

What makes Page’s account so startling is that he is a writer: a writer not of technology, but of arts and culture. He has an excellent grasp of language and social norms – he could not be more different from the inarticulate, socially unengaged, math-geek Asperger’s stereotype. I’ve never encountered Asperger’s from this perspective before; in fact, I thought writing an allusion-heavy, adjective-saturated, wry memoir for the New Yorker would be indelible proof one did not have it!

Like Page, I’ve never had any problem with language or art. Like Page, I still don’t know my right from my left. Like Page, I tend to be hypersensitive and emotional in disproportionate ways:

So preoccupied are we with our inner imperatives that the outer world may overwhelm and confuse. What anguished pity I used to feel for piñatas at birthday parties, those papier-mâché donkeys with their amiable smiles about to be shattered by little brutes with bats. On at least one occasion, I begged for a stay of execution and eventually had to be taken home, weeping, convinced that I had just witnessed the braining of a new and sympathetic acquaintance. Caring for inanimate objects came easily. Learning to make genuine connections with people—much as I desperately wanted them—was a bewildering process. I felt like an alien, always about to be exposed. Or, to adapt another hoary but useful analogy, not only did I not see the forest for the trees; I was so intensely distracted that I missed the trees for the species of lichen on their bark.

I don’t think that differs in any important way from the hysterical tantrum I threw in kindergarten at my friend Josh, who stomped on a colony of ants, or the time I burst into tears because another friend drew some birds so badly, they appeared painfully deformed. Or the fact that I sold my first car for $500, because I knew a buyer willing to pay fair market value for it would kill it, I mean, have it broken up for parts.

Continue reading

Posted in Biology, Department of the Drama | 3 Comments

Poem of the Week: set upon a golden bough and sing

avianfegerl.jpg

Judith Fegerl

Via the Athanasius Kircher Society: artist Judith Fegerl has created a sculpture that mechanically replicates the song of a nightingale.

It may sound like a nightingale, but to me it looks more like the viscera of several giant music boxes lashed together and suspended in a robot butcher’s shop. Perhaps the art lies in the cognitive dissonance?

Fegerl claims as inspiration the Hans Christian Andersen story, but one can’t build a mechanical nightingale without dragging in Keats (Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!) and the lofty, mystic Yeats.  Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium” is one of my five favorite poems, and one of the few I still have memorized.  It captures the artist-intellectual’s conflicted desire to supplant the unmanageable, messy passions of the body with the perfected, reassuring eternity of art.  Once out of Nature . . . but do we really want to escape Nature? Wouldn’t we prefer to stop it, stay it, halt the sun at the very cusp of summer?

If technology ever gives us the power to extend the summer of our lives indefinitely, will we still feel the need to create lasting art?

“Sailing to Byzantium”
William Butler Yeats, 1927

I

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
–Those dying generations — at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enameling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Posted in Artists & Art, Poetry | Comments Off

Our minds and the universe – what else is there?

From one of the most personally resonant essays I’ve read lately, by Mary Ruefle:

I had recently one of the most astonishing experiences of my reading life. On page 248 in The Rings of Saturn, W. C. Sebald is recounting his interviews with one Thomas Abrams, an English farmer who has been working on a model of the temple of Jerusalem–you know, gluing little bits of wood together–for twenty years, including the painstaking research required for historical accuracy. There are ducks on the farm and at one point Abrams says to Sebald, “I have always kept ducks, even as a child, and the colors of their plumage, in particular the dark green and snow white, seemed to me the only possible answer to the questions that are on my mind.” It is an odd thing to say, but Sebald’s book is a long walk of oddities. I did not remember this passage in particular until later the same day when I was reading the dictionary, where I came upon the meaning of the word speculum: 1) an instrument inserted into a body passage for inspection; 2) an ancient mirror; 3) a medieval compendium of all knowledge; 4) a drawing showing the relative position of all the planets; and 5) a patch of color on the secondary wings of most ducks and some other birds. Did Sebald know that a compendium of all knowledge and the ducks’ plumage were one and the same? Did Abrams? Or was I the only one for whom the duck passage made perfect, original sense? I sat in my chair, shocked. I am not a scholar, but for the imaginative reader there can be discoveries, connections between books, that explode the day and one’s heart and the long years that have led to the moment. . .

In one sense, reading is a great waste of time. In another sense, it is a great extension of time, a way for one person to live a thousand and one lives in a single lifespan, to watch the great impersonal universe at work again and again, to watch the great personal psyche spar with it, to suffer affliction and weakness and injury, to die and watch those you love die, until the very dizziness of it all becomes a source of compassion for ourselves, and our language, which we alone created, and without which the letter that slipped under the door could never have been written, or, once in a thousand lives–is that too much to ask?–retrieved, and read. Did I mention supreme joy? That is why I read: I want everything to be okay. That’s why I read when I was a lonely kid and that’s why I read now that I’m a scared adult. It’s a sincere desire, but a sincere desire always complicates things–the universe has a peculiar reaction to our sincere desires. Still, I believe the planet on the table, even when wounded and imperfect, fragmented and deprived, is worthy of being called whole. Our minds and the universe–what else is there? Margaret Mead described intellectuals as those who are bored when they don’t have the chance to talk interestingly enough. Now a book will talk interestingly to you. George Steiner describes the intellectual as one who can’t read without a pencil in her hand. One who wants to talk back to the book, not take notes but make them: one who might write “The giraffe speaks!” in the margin. In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

From “Someone Reading a book is a Sign of Order in the World” by Mary Ruefle
Planet on the Table: Poets on the Reading Life
Excerpted here

Discovered via AndrewJShields

Posted in Books, Department of the Drama, Poetry | 1 Comment

There might be some internal conflict here

Apparently Karl Rove considers himself both Beowulf and Grendel. How strange. And to think I always thought he was the smartest of the bunch. . .

Via In the Middle

Posted in Frivolity, Littademia | 2 Comments

Flip that rock!

Remember when you were a kid, and you’d flip over a rock just to enjoy being grossed out by all the many-legged photosensitive beasties suddenly scurrying out at you? Miss that skin-crawling thrill of discovery? You’re in luck! Via Negativa has declared September 2 International Rock-Flipping Day.

I have no idea what would happen if every scientist in the world flipped a rock at the same time all around the planet, but I don’t think we want to find out, so you can flip your rock any time on September 2. Paint, photograph, observe, identify, or otherwise document what you uncover:

The point is simply to have fun, and hopefully learn something at the same time. We don’t want to over-determine what that something should be: those of a more scientific frame of mind might focus on i.d.s or ecological interactions, while those of an artistic or poetic bent could go in a different direction entirely. Pictures alone would suffice, of course.

There’s even a flickr pool for uploading your rocky revelations.

And put the rock back, of course. We don’t want a bunch of homeless centipedes, beetles and grubs.

Posted in Biology, Blogs and Blogging | 3 Comments

Let’s play some more!

ilikethisgame.jpg

I was a little distracted, and completely missed my blogiversary on August 24. Bioephemera is one year (and four days) old!

If you haven’t been around that long, you might be interested to see my very first post. Looking back, I think this blog is pretty much what I hoped it would be from the beginning – except I should get more art done, and I have many more readers and friends here than I ever expected.

Thank you all! And please stick around for my second blogiversary. . . same place, next year. ;)

Posted in Blogs and Blogging, Department of the Drama | 7 Comments