The Pirate Solution

Gaining Internet popularity for the last few years, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is a religion presided over by a ridiculous bolognesey deity and followed by those who call themselves "Pastafarians". Perhaps you have heard of it. For the last few days, I have found myself thinking of one of the church's tenets, and its implications in the real world. The principle states that climate change is caused by a decline in pirate numbers, and is best illustrated with their official graph:



I'm sure most of you are aware of the story about the hijacked Saudi oil tanker that has been in the news recently. Could this "unprecedented" attack have more consequences and implications than one might initially think? The attack was said to be unusual, and the pirates operated out of an area far south to the known danger area. Given these facts, is it too much to assume this suggests an increase in piracy? If it does, His Noodliness be praised, I think we've got this global warming thing sorted out.*


BBC report on the incident


Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster


* - If only because $100,000,000 of oil is currently out of commission.

Imperfection

It's taken a while for me to face up to my blog and start writing again. Often people are afraid that since they cannot achieve perfection, it is better to achieve nothing than to achieve imperfection.

I have returned now and though my words may sometimes be laden heavily with blemishes, I am happy to wade towards perfect shores. In the style of that flamboyant, melodramatic artist-type, I felt nothing would allow me to begin better than to purge myself of the old, and so I have deleted fourteen of what I felt have been my weakest blog posts. Never has impoverishment felt so enriching.

There's still some chaff cluttering a corner here and there, to be sure, but I was happy to find that reviewing what I thought would be solely childish and badly-phrased works has actually been more like remembering old friends. Bizarrely, in my search I have found a nesting comment from a stranger, quite recent, complimenting my writing. My first, and it has made me smile a great deal. Thank you, Vevay.

Imperfect words are waiting to be written.

Whispered Words

They must have suggested themselves to me in passing, like a stranger's perfume curling over my shoulder from down the street. I did not notice them at the time, for I did not know that I knew them, but one day they rose like a fish from the deep and spoke to me.

Those words. Clinging like smoke to my attention. Growing stronger. As the days passed I found that they wouldn't leave me alone, and I pondered for what special purpose they might be following me.

Curiosity and consciousness welling up in me, I gave in and Googled it.

Lembit Opik. What the hell?

The Theremin Project

And now that the first coat of varnish is drying I will begin the tale of my theremin project.

A theremin is a completely unique musical instrument. It was the world's first fully electronic instrument (invented in 1919), and it's the only instrument contolled through empty space - played without being touched.* Its sound produces a rich, round tone (originally intended to imitate the violin), with inherent glissando (and sometimes tremalo)which has made it the champion instrument of "eerie sci-fi" soundtracks ever since the 1950s.

It is controlled via capacitive coupling between the body of the player and the aerial on the instrument. Most theremins have two aerials - one each to control pitch and volume - while some have only a pitch aerial. Capacitive coupling to the layman means that there's a difference in voltage between the instrument (connected to a mains electricity supply) and the player, who is grounded (0v). This means electrical charge is stored between the two, and how much of this can be stored (capacitance) is dependent on distance. So waving arms and other extremeties around the theremin creates changes in capacitance. Electronic wzardry detects the change in capacitance and creates the corresponding noises. The circuitry of the theremin is in fact nearly identical to that of a radio receiver. Under special circumstances I'm too lazy to look up, radios can act as theremins, emitting capacitance-dependent wails over the usual radio broadcasts.

These instruments can be bought and enjoyed by all, in preassembled and kit form. It just so happens I have recently been gifted the Moog** Etherwave theremin kit, and I have decided I shall be chronicling the progress of my work here.


* - I might make a note here about the thorn in the side of this grand proclamation that is the laser harp. The laser harp works via the interruption of laser beams to light sensors which approximates the plucking of a harp string. While it's true this doesn't require any physical contact with the instrument, I'm not sure it can be argued it's actually "space controlled" since playing the instrument involves blocking a discrete number of sensors rather than actually making use of the region around the instrument.

** - I've decided to save you all imminent ridicule by pointing out that the pronunciation of the word "Moog" is somewhat of an invitation to be sneered at by the elitists if you get it wrong. It rhymes with "vogue".

Buckingham Pi

My university career, it seems, has come like the tail-biting snake to finish exactly on the topic it began.

It began with Physics Foundations, and an overview of dimensional analysis, and the Buckingham Pi theorem. The first lecture I ever went to. I could say I've learned a lot since then, and I have in some ways, although not as academically based as the idealist might think. I could also jest that I've learned nothing except loathing for my subject, but that would also not be entirely true.

The close of the course on Chaos and Complexity, on my last day of lectures, was on dimensional analysis and the Buckingham Pi theorem. Perhaps this provides a unique poetic closure. Perhaps this means it is time to go. Goodbye university.

Scylla and Charybdis

I'm busy writing up the report on that final project of mine.

On reading the introduction to "Specific Heats at Low Temperatures" by E.S. Raja Gopal, I discovered the following claim:

"It has been a difficult task to steer between the Scylla of encyclopedic completeness and the Charybdis of shallow banality."

This is a fancy way of saying "I recognise that this book is not at all interesting. I'm trying to squeeze blood from a stone by injecting grandiloquent references to Greek mythology."

God. Even the professional physicists know their subject is boring.

The Soul in My Room

Every so often I'm in the middle of doing something in my room when suddenly I stop and leave the room, and I come back in like a ghost. I pretend I'm a stranger and I'm not allowed to touch anything, but I'm afforded a rare glimpse of somebody else's life - I see a whole soul encoded in its material arrangement - the clothes on the floor, the books on the shelf, the posters on the wall, the clutter on the desk.

And I love it. I'm so happy for all the dust and the patterns and the possessions and the thoughtfulness and the thoughtlessness that is still me even beyond my flesh and bones.

There's lots of red and black and white. That's my favourite colour scheme. That's the colour of the poster and the DVDs and the bed, and three delightful new juggling clubs in the corner. They are still in their wrappers - to preserve their newborn status - but they have already been used, and already the red one has a scratch on it. I am sure it is the sign of much fruitful use to come. On the shelf above my desk is the Frederic Chopin boxset and book an grammar that form my attempt at intellectualism, and my Shaun of the Dead DVD and Guitar Hero games that don't.

The whole place is littered with important looking books that try to make me seem a brainbox on subjects from quantum mechanics to meteorology. Even so, here on my desk is an old report I did where I've said something misleading, if not just wrong, about the Brillouin function. There are quite a lot of chocolate wrappers here and there. I should probably tidy up. There's a guitar in the corner that excuses have forbidden me from touching. There are some old grapes in here too, that I've been trying not to admit to for a while.

Amongst the failures are also the successes. In a corner of the room sits another report I wrote, with the most stunningly amazing mark on it I have ever received. My juggling balls are looking pretty tattered. I can do some amazing tricks now I couldn't do a year ago. Shoes, worn and comfortable, are resting on the floor in wait until the next time they have to take me out. A big, heavy book on life, the universe and everything has had an impressive two thirds of it safely partitioned from the unseen part by a beautiful shiny bookmark.

The best part of being a ghost in my own room is the fresh perspective it brings. As I regard the things around me I realise I understand more about them than any stranger could. I realise I've extended my soul into the space around me. I like my room. It's pretty cool.