force. potential. no visual.

la force du potentiel électrique [mesurée, en système international en Volt]

Pour un circuit fermé donné, plus la force électromotrice (f.e.m.) de la pile est grande, plus le courant circulant dans le circuit est intense.

La concentration des électrons varie tout au long du circuit. C’est à la borne négative qu’elle est la plus forte et à la borne positive qu’elle est la plus faible.

Le potentiel V est maximal à la borne positive et minimal à la borne négative.

Entre deux points A et B d’un circuit on peut ainsi définir une différence de potentiel

( V_A-V_B) ou tension électrique (U_AB)

one man i respect a lot used to have electricity in his wrist. due to an old injury, when you touched this spot, it tingled like mad. i am getting ahead of myself. this high voltage folder will not abate as the night moves on. the sound of typing is altered by darkness. i think of his music of chance, and the twists in each of our lives’ trajectories. they are only understood by the principle of getting outside of their point of origin, in time or space. an epistemology we hold so dear, as it simplifies things. and then there is the crazy idea that there is, perhaps, just one electron. everywhere at once yet nowhere.

perhaps you understand my words better than others’ because they are written for you. no magic in that.

can anyone spare a faraday cage so i can go to sleep?

miranda (w.h. auden)

My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely,
As the poor and sad are real to the good king,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

Up jumped the Black Man behind the elder tree,
Turned a somersault and ran away waving;
My Dear One is mine as mirrors are lonely.

The Witch gave a squawk; her venomous body
Melted into light as water leaves a spring,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

At his crossroads, too, the Ancient prayed for me,
Down his wasted cheeks tears of joy were running:
My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely.

He kissed me awake, and no one was sorry;
The sun shone on sails, eyes, pebbles, anything,
And the high green hill sits always by the sea.

So to remember our changing garden, we
Are linked as children in a circle dancing:
My dear one is mine as mirrors are lonely,
And the high, green hill sits always by the sea.

	-- W. H. Auden

traveltime, timetravel.

so much to tell about the last three weeks, but most of all this:

Ich brach in solcher Eile auf, dass ich nicht richtig Abschied nehmen konnte und dass das Gefuhl mich auf der Heimreise begleitete, ich haette mich nur unzureichend bedankt.

we reveled in the colours of the dunes and the warmth of the air. we met many people that were kind and taught us various things. such as the viscosity of pap, the microscopic brain of chickens, the perfection of zebra stripes, the unexpected elephant in the area, plants and woods of the bush to live and eat, the way a baobab does not bend its twigs, the sweet heaviness of papaya, the memories of childhood.

how can so much beauty and sadness coexist?

here’s a riddle…

Three cannibals and three anthropologists have to cross a river. The boat they have is only big enough for two people.

The cannibals will do as requested, even if they are on the other side of the river, with one exception. If at any point in time there are more cannibals on one side of the river than anthropologists, the cannibals will eat them.

What plan can the anthropologists use for crossing the river so they don’t get eaten?

Note: One anthropologist can not control two cannibals on land, nor can one anthropologist on land control two cannibals on the boat if they are all on the same side of the river. This means an anthropologist will not survive being rowed across the river by a cannibal if there is one cannibal on the other side.

(thanks to greeni)

♥

lovely film, beautiful cinematography and set design, great story, interesting characters.

read the short story here.

la bandera (pablo neruda).

Levántate conmigo.

Nadie quisiera
como yo quedarse
sobre la almohada en que tus párpados
quieren cerrar el mundo para mí.
Allí también quisiera
dejar dormir mi sangre
rodeando tu dulzura.

Pero levántate,
tú, levántate,
pero conmigo levántate
y salgamos reunidos
a luchar cuerpo a cuerpo
contra las telarañas del malvado,
contra el sistema que reparte el hambre,
contra la organización de la miseria.

Vamos,
y tú, mi estrella, junto a mí,
recién nacida de mi propia arcilla,
ya habrás hallado el manantial que ocultas
y en medio del fuego estarás
junto a mí,
con tus ojos bravíos,
alzando mi bandera.

no words today. sad.

to this tune. i really like adam duritz’s improvisations on the rain king.

not an island again… accepting, but wishing it would go away.

frumoasa ca o stea…

inspired by masha’s chapter, i was thinking about scale a lot today. i find it intriguing why it is that when writing a thesis in anthropology we are thinking about ’scales’ and what this implies about our perception of the world. walking along in the sun the question occurred to me why, in english, the word is the same to describe the outer shells of a fish and when, later i checked my friend the OED, i had a surprise. the meanings of ’scale’ have varied a lot throughout time, and there are seven entries under the noun ’scale’ in the OED, all covering multiple things and processes.

etymology for beginners (you know i like this kind of crap…)

[a. ON. skál str. fem., bowl, pl. (weighing) scales (Sw. skål, Da. skaal: cf.

SKOAL) = OHG. scâla (MHG. schâle, mod.G. schale):OTeut. *skl, ablaut-var. of *skal, whence OE. scealu shell, hust, drinking cup, weighing scale (see SHALE n.¹), OHG. scala shell, husk (MHG., mod.G. schale); the quantity of the vowel is doubtful in OS. skala cup, and in the ODu. antecedent of MDu. schaleschaal), though it is probable that in Du. as in Ger. two original forms, skâla cup, scales, and sklascealu the inflexion appears to attest the short vowel in all the senses. The WGer. *skla (:OTeut. *skl, skal) passed into OF. as eschale, escale cup (med.L. scala ‘patera’), also husk (mod.F. écale). For the Teut. root *skel-: skal-: skl- to separate, divide, cf. SHALE, SHELL, SKILL. See also SKELE.
Between the first quarter of the 13th c. and the 16th c. the forms (containing the vowel a) represent the northern pronunciation, the forms being midland and southern. In the 16th c., however, the northern scalescale is the prevailing literary form, though scole (with other equivalent spellings) occasionally appears down to the middle of the century.] (Du. husk, shell, have become phonetically coincident. For the OE. seems to have found its way into the London dialect, being used by Palsgrave and later by Spenser and Shakes. In the 17th c.

–> from this the meanings of scale as the apparatus of measure, metaphorical for justice, etc.

[aphetic a. OF. escale (12th c.), mod.F. écale husk, pod, chip of stone:

OTeut. *skal (see SCALE n.¹, SHALE n.). OF. had also escaille (13th c.), mod.F. écaille scale of fish, shell of oyster, etc. = It. scaglia:Romanic (also med.L.) scalia, a. OTeut. *skalj (see SHELL n.) from the same root; this is perh. the source of some of the ME. spellings.]

–> from this the meanings clustering around the scales of fish and other reptiles. entirely different origin and related to nutshell in a nice way

[ad. It. scala or its source L. scla:

prehist. *scansl (scand- + -tl), f. scandre to climb (see SCAND v.). Cf. Pr., Sp., Pg. escala, OF. eschieleéchelle).] (mod.F.

–> a ladder (obsolete), musical scales, and scales as in mathematics, psychology, etc.

[ad. OF. scal(l)e, escal(l)e (mod.F. escale, esp. in phr. faire escale to go ashore) or its source It. scala = Sp., Pg. escala seaport, harbour:

L. scla ladder (see SCALE n.³).]

–> this one is also obsolete but i like it.

a. A landing-place; occas. a custom-house. rare. b. A seaport town; a trading port; a centre of trade or traffic; an emporium.

and it occurred to me that we like stars and find them beautiful because they make us think about scale (besides all the modern romantic connotations we tend to put on them). it is an existential problem, and of being human in a world that is huge.

why do you find stars beautiful?

The Infinite Small Hours of Awakening.

 

Consider the challenge to linear temporality:

How is it that we have spent so little time around each other and yet you make me feel like I have known you for all my being?

Remember the connective properties of fields, lodestones, electricity:

How is it that I miss you as you have not even walked out of sight?

Reckon with a tug of open-ended poetry of the everyday:

How is it that we can never spend enough time while your features arise with mine, strangely, marvellously?

Think about lightness unbound abounding:

How is it that with you being is easy and right and true and beautiful?

 

Ponder the uncanny presence of ghosts:

Propelled-interrupted by incisions of real-life withdrawn and stifling.

Compelled by deductive logic:

The bubble’s promise shimmers, glistens in the light of dawn and silently bursts.

 

 

Today’s front-page headline:

 

‘Nutshell exposed as entirely unrational/irrational being. Boas smiling from grave.’

Le retour.

Le perroquet était assis au bout du couloir sur une balançoire improvisée de bambou. Tu ne travaillais plus lorsque je suis arrivée là, sans issue autre que d’arriver. Tu me souriais et je ne remarquais presque pas. J’étais fatiguée de cette semaine de cauchemar qui m’avait fait vomir, non grandir. Il me fallait du temps pour retourner entièrement. J’étais la femme brisée, les vagues, le vent me rapportèrent à la terre ferme en débris. La mer me cracha.

 

Je n’imaginais pas une série entière de scénarios d’Amour alors. Le désir ? Je l’avais vomi lui aussi, avec la Patience, le CriDePassion, le ClinD’œil si efficaces dans leur capacité de me refaire une femme meilleure–autrement. Tu m’auras reproché que je mentais. Jamais je n’aurais voulu. Jamais je n’aurais pu. Prisonnière de l’immensité, je ne voulais que rentrer. Maljouer ne me faisait pas peur, mes espérances se résumaient, après tout, à une soupe d’oignons et un espace pour m’éteindre.

 

Tout le monde se fait des idées. Il faut nombre de fragments pour faire une vérité. La Vérité, elle ressemble aussi à la belle queue de plumes que ce perroquet traînait. Tel un oiseau typique, il ne cogitait que peu sur l’Amour et l’Eternité. Il avait autre chose à faire. Je te demandais pardon à ma façon, en te dessinant des poèmes.

 

Evidemment tu auras imposé ton interprétation propre des faits, des fiats, comme tu les sentais. Tu n’étais jamais indifférent, c’est le seul reproche que je ne pourrais jamais te faire. Les limites des Hommes les perdent souvent dans leur propre cœur. Je suis restée muette à écouter les mouettes chauves qui hantent ces espaces de bâbord et de silhouettes fines d’horizons perdus au bleu. Je me suis retrouvée bouche bée face à ces limites extérieures et intérieures qui nous hantent même vieilles et consommées. 

 

Je voudrais bien, après toutes ces années, t’expliquer ce qui m’a touché alors. Un peu de Beauté, un grain de sable qui était si brillant, qui révélait tout et effaçait les limites pour une seconde au moins.

 

Nous parlions alors des vendeurs de mots. Où s’en allèrent-ils? Qu’est devenue leur petite cabane de soleil ? Les nuages couvrent leurs traces tels des complices sincères et convaincus du jeu. Ces sacrés vendeurs de mots, nos complices, à nous, à notre histoire qui commençait. Germinations et gémissements se perdaient dans les étoiles. Tu considérais que mes larmes étaient l’unique musique que je savais encore interpréter. Tu oscillais entre secousses, encouragements, supplis, cris. Tu faisais des allers. Des allers-retours. Jamais je n’aurais voulu.

 

Tout aura été si simple, je retrouverai les mots comme le sable qui touche et forme et crée ces formes magnifiques éternelles sans soucis que nous avons tant aimées. Je te retrouverai en moi. Pourras-tu me récupérer ces vendeurs de mots ? Pourras-tu me toucher de nouveau, tel le sable ?