Tuesday, December 28, 2010
IN SPACE
It's easy to forget that our home planet is actually among the stars.
Space Shuttle launches are always bittersweet events for me. Like many other science-inclined American boys, I always wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up, and like so many others, that didn't happen. Instead, I grew up, earned a science degree in college, and went into teaching and writing. I got married and had two children, and the truth is that whatever childhood fancies may be, I would not trade these good things for a single trip to orbit.
Yet the desire is still there, every time I watch a launch and keep daily track of the activities of the shuttle and the International Space Station astronauts as they carry out remarkable feats of engineering, science, and courage hundreds of miles above my head. Fortunately, my interest in amateur astronomy serves as a substitute for launching into the stars myself, and setting up my telescope on dark nights gives me a personal window to the environment the astronauts explore.
Like everyone else who has lived in the late 20th century, I heard the rhetoric about "spaceship Earth" without giving it much thought. Late one night, however, while doing some stargazing-I think I was meteor watching-the meaning of the phrase hit me. I lay back back in a lawn chair, looking up at the sky above. With the surrounding trees disappearing at the edge of my vision, and my sense of gravity suspended as I lay in the cool night air, an illusion suddenly presented itself to me: I was no longer laying back, looking up at the stars, but rather pressed flat against a vertical surface, looking forward and out into the abyss of space.
"Of all the strange things man has forgotten," wrote my favorite author, G.k. Chesterton, "the strangest and most tragic lapse of memory is that by which he has forgotten that he is living on a star." That night I remembered what Chesterton said, and realized that we had forgotten that Earth is actually itself a part of space, an exotic "star" whirling about a fantastic corner of the cosmos. When I'm observing I always try, and sometimes succeed, to capture that feeling again, and to perceive us as we really are: not bound to the ground with the heavens far above, but clung exhilaratingly to a spinning ball wheeling through space.
This is part of the romance of space travel: to "slip the surly bonds of Earth," as the poet and aviator
John Gillespie Magee, Jr., wrote, to be able to look out and see the stars go by-to be in space. Yet we often forget that the very ground we think of as solid beneath our feet is actually a chunk of rock hurtling through the galaxy. As individuals we do not need to launch ourselves into orbit aboard massive rockets in order to travel to space. All we need to do is to look out into space that surrounds
us each night. Those who risk their lives by traveling to the stars do mankind a noble service, and it's only natural to admire their privilege. Yet, in the end, there's no real need for me to go "out there" to the stars; I'm already here among them. -- from SKY & TELESCOPE Oct. 2010
Space Shuttle launches are always bittersweet events for me. Like many other science-inclined American boys, I always wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up, and like so many others, that didn't happen. Instead, I grew up, earned a science degree in college, and went into teaching and writing. I got married and had two children, and the truth is that whatever childhood fancies may be, I would not trade these good things for a single trip to orbit.
Yet the desire is still there, every time I watch a launch and keep daily track of the activities of the shuttle and the International Space Station astronauts as they carry out remarkable feats of engineering, science, and courage hundreds of miles above my head. Fortunately, my interest in amateur astronomy serves as a substitute for launching into the stars myself, and setting up my telescope on dark nights gives me a personal window to the environment the astronauts explore.
Like everyone else who has lived in the late 20th century, I heard the rhetoric about "spaceship Earth" without giving it much thought. Late one night, however, while doing some stargazing-I think I was meteor watching-the meaning of the phrase hit me. I lay back back in a lawn chair, looking up at the sky above. With the surrounding trees disappearing at the edge of my vision, and my sense of gravity suspended as I lay in the cool night air, an illusion suddenly presented itself to me: I was no longer laying back, looking up at the stars, but rather pressed flat against a vertical surface, looking forward and out into the abyss of space.
"Of all the strange things man has forgotten," wrote my favorite author, G.k. Chesterton, "the strangest and most tragic lapse of memory is that by which he has forgotten that he is living on a star." That night I remembered what Chesterton said, and realized that we had forgotten that Earth is actually itself a part of space, an exotic "star" whirling about a fantastic corner of the cosmos. When I'm observing I always try, and sometimes succeed, to capture that feeling again, and to perceive us as we really are: not bound to the ground with the heavens far above, but clung exhilaratingly to a spinning ball wheeling through space.
This is part of the romance of space travel: to "slip the surly bonds of Earth," as the poet and aviator
John Gillespie Magee, Jr., wrote, to be able to look out and see the stars go by-to be in space. Yet we often forget that the very ground we think of as solid beneath our feet is actually a chunk of rock hurtling through the galaxy. As individuals we do not need to launch ourselves into orbit aboard massive rockets in order to travel to space. All we need to do is to look out into space that surrounds
us each night. Those who risk their lives by traveling to the stars do mankind a noble service, and it's only natural to admire their privilege. Yet, in the end, there's no real need for me to go "out there" to the stars; I'm already here among them. -- from SKY & TELESCOPE Oct. 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
dark energy
Could it be that dark energy/matter is just heat that hasn't condensed into stars, planets, and galaxies?
LAST 'MISSING' NORMAL MATTER FOUND---The things in the universe that we can easily see--stars, nebulae--amount to less than 1% of all the matter and energy out there. We know that dark matter and dark energy account for 95.4% of everything, judging by many lines of evidence (June issue, page 14), but that still leaves 4.6% as "ordinary" matter: everything made of protons, neutrons, and electrons. Until recent years, astronomers could only tally up about half as much normal matter as cosmologists said there ought to be.
Now the mystery seems solved. Astronomers already had signs that the missing half indeed exists, as a thin, elusive gas between galaxies known as the warm-hot intergalactic medium" or WHIM. The evidence for WHIM just became firmer. It's spectral signature showed up in x-rays from a distant source; absorption lines were imprinted on the x-rays where they passed through the 'Fornax Wall', an enormous structure of thousands of galaxies in the vast web of galaxy strings, sheets, and clusters pervading the cosmos. The spectral signature matches the predicted amount and temperature (about 1 million K) of the elusive WHIM. ---from Sky and Telescope 8/2010.
LAST 'MISSING' NORMAL MATTER FOUND---The things in the universe that we can easily see--stars, nebulae--amount to less than 1% of all the matter and energy out there. We know that dark matter and dark energy account for 95.4% of everything, judging by many lines of evidence (June issue, page 14), but that still leaves 4.6% as "ordinary" matter: everything made of protons, neutrons, and electrons. Until recent years, astronomers could only tally up about half as much normal matter as cosmologists said there ought to be.
Now the mystery seems solved. Astronomers already had signs that the missing half indeed exists, as a thin, elusive gas between galaxies known as the warm-hot intergalactic medium" or WHIM. The evidence for WHIM just became firmer. It's spectral signature showed up in x-rays from a distant source; absorption lines were imprinted on the x-rays where they passed through the 'Fornax Wall', an enormous structure of thousands of galaxies in the vast web of galaxy strings, sheets, and clusters pervading the cosmos. The spectral signature matches the predicted amount and temperature (about 1 million K) of the elusive WHIM. ---from Sky and Telescope 8/2010.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
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