In open fields between several small villages, the earth was thick, black, and fertile.
In open fields between several small villages, the earth was thick, black, and fertile. It was always moist with night mists and brief, frequent showers but the sun favored it as well, even in the cold months. A family had purchased their freedom from serfdom and found this patch of ground and told a few friends they could trust. They had all had saved and garnered favor from their stewards and gained freedom as well. Those friends passed the message to a couple more. A few modest huts rose at the ragged edge of the land just where the young yews, hazels, rowans, hawthorns, hollies, and birches spread their roots. Older walnut, chestnut, poplar, elm, and oaks grew denser as the forest spread in all directions, regularly interrupted with a spruce or pine, favoring the forest with dense foliage throughout the year. Flocks of redstarts, robins, and warblers fluttered in, calling each other by name and singing praise to the trees which kept them safe. Butterflies flitted about, helping the bees keep the flowers well-tended each season of every year.
At the far edges of this mysterious realm were other villages, a day or more by foot along shaded, lightly rutted roads down which carts could barely pass. Several men had lost their hats to a branch plucking them bare-headed as they rode to market. Continue reading “Young John and the Farm”
When did fire become a thing? Poor old Prometheus… Probably not his fault at all….
When did fire become a thing? No one knows the answer to that question. Fusion certainly occurred before fire—it happens in suns, along with nuclear fission (radioisotopes exist in the sun)—but this is not fire. It appears flamey. It is hot. It radiates through varying segments of the electromagnetic spectrum. But I am going to limit the definition of “fire” to “combustion,” if you don’t mind.
The simplest combustion reaction occurs when pure hydrogen (H2(g)) and oxygen (O2(g)) gasses are combined in a 2-to-1 ratio and given a little energetic push called activation energy (i.e. hydrogen and oxygen will hang out with each other unless they are provided this energy). Diagrammatically, the activation energy looks like this:
The reactants (hydrogen and oxygen in our example) start on the left side of the hump, an appropriate (or excess) amount of energy is provided, and products result on the right side of the hump. The “ΔH” thing on the right side is beyond the scope here but represents a positive, negative, or neutral amount of energy released in the reaction.
The amount of activation energy varies widely from very small (e.g. some explosives) to “no reaction will ever happen regardless of energy input.” Here is what the most basic combustion reaction looks like in chemical reaction shorthand called “stoichiometry:”
2H2(g) + O2(g) → 2H2O(g)
And now, an entertainment of limited scientific value:
Combustion is generally thought to involve hydrocarbons (e.g. octane in the “gasoline” or “petrol” you use in automobiles) or their oxygenated friends the carbohydrates (e.g. cellulose, a polymeric carbohydrate used in paper and present in wood). The simplest combustion reaction is between methane (CH4(g)) and oxygen (2(g)), again resulting water but also resulting in carbon dioxide (CO2(g)) when the reaction occurs efficiently. When it does not occur efficiently or when it occurs in the presence of other substances (e.g. most of the time) it produces by-products including carbon (elemental symbol “C” aka “soot”). Here is the stoichiometry of that simple reaction:
Methane is commonly known as natural gas, although natural gas is not pure methane when used as a fuel. What the stoichiometry tells us about this reaction is that each molecule of methane uses two molecules of oxygen and produces one molecule of carbon dioxide and two molecules of water, along with an amount of energy released in the process. The energy is used to heat various processes, including home furnaces and water heaters, and used to drive steam and gas turbines to produce electricity.
When octane is used as the hydrocarbon, the balanced equation is as follows:
2C8H18(g) + 25O2(g) → 16CO2(g) + 18H2O(g)
In common English, this means that each molecule of octane requires 25 molecules of oxygen (and that activation energy thing, typically supplied by spark plugs) and results in 16 molecules of carbon dioxide and 18 molecules of water, along with a good burst of energy that drives the pistons, drive shaft, and wheels; the wheels have tires that turn and exert a force against driveways, roads, dirt, mud, water, etc. and the automobile moves forward—or backward—at various speeds as allowed by the transmission.
Candles (if you were wondering where all this leads) are made from paraffin wax, which is a varying mixture of hydrocarbons typically with between twenty (C20) and forty (C40) carbons in their structures. A C20 hydrocarbon like eicosane can have up to 366,319 isomers (isomers all have the same chemical formula of a chemical compound but differ in physical and some chemical properties), while tetracontane (C40H82) has 62,491,178,805,831 (that’s sixty-two trillion four hundred ninety-one billion one hundred seventy-eight million eight hundred five thousand eight hundred thirty-one) isomers (somehow, it seems like more isomers if you spell the number out). The C(xy) compounds between C20 and C40 have numerous possible isomers as well and they increase logarithmically (see chart below) as the number of carbons increase. Not all of these hydrocarbons are in paraffin but these numbers should give you an idea of how chemically complicated a simple candle may be.
While this already seems like a brain-damaging subclause to our proceedings, the estimates for number of isomers for each number of carbon is actually more complicated than I am representing here. If you have further interest, you can take a look at this discussion. If not, let’s proceed.
There is a standard equation for calculating how much product results from combustion in oxygen of any hydrocarbon; it is:
where z = x + y/4.
This means that in cases where there are 20 carbons as for eicosane, the carbon dioxide and water molecules result in the following way:
2 C20H42(s) + 61 O2(g) → 40 CO2(g) + 42 H2O(g)
or… for each two molecules of n-eicosane (one of about 366 thousand isomers of eicosane) are consumed by combustion, sixty-one molecules of oxygen are consumed, thus producing 40 molecules of carbon dioxide and forty-two molecules of water.
The thing is that it is rare that anyone burns a candle or anything else in pure oxygen. When hydrocarbons are consumed in air, a messier equation obtains to the problem:
Note that carbon monoxide is produced, along with hydrogen gas and the more familiar carbon dioxide and water. This version of the equation is why it is critical to ensure adequate air supply when using a kerosene (or other hydrocarbon-based) space heater in a closed space; the amount of carbon monoxide goes up as the amount of oxygen available goes down. Carbon monoxide, a colorless and odorless gas, causes humans to fall asleep and die due to a special kind of asphyxiation caused by very strong binding of carbon monoxide to the iron atoms in your hemoglobin and myoglobin. Once that happens, those proteins cannot carry oxygen through your arteries and your body is “starved” of oxygen.
Okay, so hydrocarbons burn in air (n.b. there is also lots of nitrogen in air and that produces problematic by-products as well) and that means carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, water, and hydrogen are produced, along with a substantial amount of particulate matter (e.g. particulate carbon and other solid carbon by-products), which ends up in our shared atmosphere (n.b. there is no “U.S.A. atmosphere” or “China atmosphere,” there is one planetary atmosphere). The most common liquid fuel currently consumed is octane but that is not consumed as pure octane, so there are other hydrocarbons and “stuff” consumed at the same time… in air… which produces problematic by-products.
Here’s a chart of how much world liquid fuel has been consumed and is projected for consumption PER DAY over the listed time period:
Yes, the chart does indicate that we consume between 94 and 96 million barrels of liquid fuel per day. One barrel of liquid fuel is equivalent to 0.1172 metric tons and a metric ton is 2,200 pounds (for the non-metricized readers). One barrel is 257.4 pounds of liquid fuel. If we are consuming (let’s be modest) 94 million barrels of liquid fuel per day (and let’s be factual) there are 365 days in a year, we are consuming 8,846,490,400,000 pounds of fuel per year. If we were to pretend that all of this were octane (which it isn’t) and all of that octane followed the simplest hydrocarbon-to-carbon dioxide equation provided above (which it doesn’t), we say that every two units of octane produces sixteen units of carbon dioxide. These don’t have the same mass, of course.
To make this simple, a gallon of gasoline weighs about 6 pounds. Each gallon of gasoline produces about 18 pounds of carbon dioxide (idealized as stated above). If we divide the number of pounds of liquid fuel consumed annually by 6, we will have an estimate of the number of pounds of carbon dioxide produced. Well, the number is:
(8,846,490,400,000 pounds of fuel per year)/(1 gallon/6 pounds) = 1,474,415,066,666.67 pounds of carbon dioxide/year
To do our numbers-into-language thing, that is one trillion four hundred seventy-four billion four hundred fifteen million sixty-six thousand six hundred sixty-seven (let’s round up, given the decimal figure) pounds of carbon dioxide produced from the aforementioned pounds of liquid fuel. Pretty incredible, right?
The bottom lines are these:
we can’t breathe carbon dioxide (it chokes us)
actual combustion produces lots of other by-products that are also not useful for human respiration and cause various respiratory illnesses (cancer, emphysema, asthma for starters)
these numbers don’t include gaseous fuel like methane, ethane, propane, or butane (starting with pentane and going up to heptadecane (C17), the compounds are liquid at 25°C), which are also used as fuels.
these numbers don’t include non-petroleum fuels such as ethanol, which is an oxygenated hydrocarbon but also produces all the by-products listed for hydrocarbons
Our global economy is heavily dependent on consuming something that
is finite in quantity and
produces harmful by-products
is going to go up in price as the amount available nears complete consumption
We have not solved the equation for producing less carbon dioxide and less harmful by-products while maintaining our current lifestyles.
Okay, end of lesson. Talk amongst yourselves. This all needs to be solved.
Burn a candle while you’re at it. Couldn’t hurt (much).
The 1,000 “like” road marker disappearing in the rear view mirror…
The WP auto-post function just told me that I have accumulated 1,000 “likes,” which are all because the imaginary “you” have been appreciating what I’ve been pouring forth since June 22nd. It hasn’t been four months yet and I have so many “likes!” Who knew?!?
I’ve logged 87 posts (one was a repeat, so doesn’t really count and one was a reblog in respect for a new WordPress-induced friend) in 111 days, meaning that I’ve hit about 78% of the days between start and present. Not bad. Could be better. Let’s see if I can pick up the slack.
The two kids, fourteen and eleven, sit on the edges of their beds, one facing the back of the other, both staring beyond the door leading out, both seeing nothing but their own separate thoughts.
The air in the room is lit with a million motes illuminated by the sun falling towards the horizon, half-blocked by palmettos and live oaks, by a wisteria vine that has sunk its predatory tendrils into the earth a hundred times, always grasping for more, more, always rising again with indisputably beautiful flowers to distract from the business it has with the earth’s nutrients, it’s vendetta against neighboring trees. The motes float as they glimmer, absorbing and diffusing light, making the silence fill with dread.
Bedclothes bunched at the bottom of each bed, kicked out of the way during restless sleep, damp with anxiety. A pillow lies off the side of one bed at an angle, its case parted like a scream stifled by the kapok stuffing and the crumpled tag. Another pillow jammed against a headboard, bent double at its center, its breath knocked out, unable to gasp, staying silent in solidarity with the worn wooden floors and chests of drawers, the bookshelves, their clothes hanging like ghosts in their shared closet, the door jamb with their names and growth marks fading away, their book bags collapsed and askew on throw rugs lying out of place too near the door, their escape and their confinement.
If a bomb had gone off the walls would be down, the floors scattered with drywall dust and framing shrapnel from the home that once had been. They would have been mangled and sore with splinters, battered with gypsum chunks, with novels impelled by that instantaneous force into their foreheads and torsos, with fractured doors and airborne door knobs, with candelabra from the dining room, with silverware clanging away from its drawer, with armrests and ladder backs from the chairs set around the table waiting for a dinner that would no longer arrive in their bombed house. They would be hidden by an explosion of clothes, their stockinged feet peering out from a shirt cuff or a pair of worn dungarees, their faces hidden by a molehill of balled up socks, the air choking with new motes swimming away from the epicenter of the catastrophe.
But that is not what happened. So they sat. Waiting for that last argument to settle into the seams of the house and join its companions among the joists and conduit, among the pipes and insulation, among the spider webs and silverfish in the damp and dusty crawl space beneath their thoughts.
Confabler nominated me for a Sunshine Blogger Award!
My distant, yet close friend Confabler has nominated me for the Shiny Shiny Sunshine Award. I love her imagination and sense of whimsy; she lets her muse du jour lead and she follows. There’s a wonderful freedom to that which is (1) difficult to allow in the rational process of “writing” and (2) enjoyable to find.
1. If you were to choose an insect that would take over the world after human extinction, who would that be?
It sort of depends on our route to extinction. If it involved an epidemic, the population of flies might see a giant uptick. This would be a good one:
If it is a slow process, then I nominate the Japanese Rhinoceros beetle because it would be awesome if creatures with such improbably fashioned protuberances were to be the alpha species (Megasoma and Titan beetles would be acceptable alternatives):
If our extinction took all other terrestrial life along for the ride, I would like to see this enormous isopod (a relative of our terrestrial roly-polies) rule the seas (note inclusion of actual human hands for sense of scale):
2. How old were you when you first read Harry Potter? And your favorite author of course?
I was pretty old when I read my only Harry Potter book (the first one). I didn’t enjoy it enough to complete the series, although I’ve seen all the films and enjoyed them well enough. In the period I read that first one, I was typically reading a lot of history and didn’t find that it was a good use of my time. When I was really young, I read the Classics Illustrated versions of novels, which were quite good at introducing a curious young mind to the wonders of literature without having to do the work (sort of illustrated CliffsNotes (I didn’t use these in school though), if you will). When I was a little older, I read Robert E. Howard, Sax Rohmer, John Carter of Mars, H. Rider Haggard, Stanley Weinbaum, George McDonald fantasies, etc.
My favorite author is Gabriel Garcia Marquez for One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera. His writing is so rich, amusing, full of simple wisdom and abundant humanity it is hard to believe he was just a human being writing about the lives he saw playing out around him. I literally would read some passages and have to put the book down as if I had just sipped the richest chocolate elixir in the world and needed to savor it until I sipped again. His Spanish-to-English translators did a good job in getting it right; Gregory Rabassa (OHYoS translator) was even praised by Garcia Marques himself!
3. If you were invisible what is the craziest thing that you would do?
Here’s an odd one: Go and hang around bigots, transcribe their conversations, and publish them for the world to see how terrible people speak when they think no one is listening (but, oh yeah, we have the internet so this already happens). If I could walk through things, which seems fair since I’m invisible, I would go around seeing what it felt like to do that—see if there were different textures to different things on the inside than on their surface.
4.what food makes you feel like a hungry hyena?
This has changed so much over time! These days, I don’t get this kind of urge anymore. In my early adult (late teen?) years… ICE CREAM!!!!
5. A song that makes you dream?
Gymnopedie #1 by Erik Satie
6. Have you ever planted a tree?
Yes. Unasked but answered: quite a few!
7. Choose your man: superman/ Spiderman/ iron man and if he was your best friend one thing that you would make him do?
Can I choose Supergirl? If I can, I would have her take me around to various places in the world, build shelters so I could stay there and visit free, then whisk me off to the next place on “our” list (she would be enjoying the sight-seeing with me, of course! What kind of boor do you think I am?!?!).
8.How much time do you spend in front of the mirror everyday?
As little as possible, which involves shaving and brushing my teeth. I find that shaving my teeth first helps with the brushing.
9.why you started blogging and tell us about the post enjoyed the most making.
I was having a bunch of conversations with people who did not seem to understand the wonderful humility of learning and doing science and wanted to see how well I could write about how science is a discipline that can assist us all in not leaning out too far over our skis (getting ahead of ourselves and pretending we know stuff we don’t). Blogging has become so much more than that since my first post on June 22, 2016, and I have had so much fun writing fiction and revisiting some poetry I wrote several decades ago (and finding them easier to “fix” than I remembered).
I’m not sure which of my posts I enjoyed the most. They’re all my children so I like them all? I probably like the odd bits of fiction that I had no idea were inside me when I woke up and then found them on the page looking up at me. I like The Big Day of these. Of the science posts, I like The Mess: Parts 1 & 2 and the Appendix 1 items best (maybe). Of the historical pieces, I like Risk Management. Of the life pieces, I like Building Blocks the best. Anyone who reads this is encouraged to make up their own mind; I am hopelessly biased.
10. Which social media platform are you addicted to (including WordPress)?
I don’t do much social media except WordPress. I don’t like Facebook at all and deleted my account. WordPress is addicting but in a very healthy way! You get to create something and share it with new friends from all over the world. That’s a great addiction have.
Now the rules:
1.thank the person that nominated you.
Thank you, Confabler. You are a true virtual friend, and I don’t mean that in any Pokemon way either!
2. Answer the questions from your nominator.
3. Nominate fellow bloggers you follow.
Hereinafter lie the following nominees in no particular order (order, of course, being an illusion):
Confabler – it would be completely wrong not to boomerang this thing back at her; how could I like what she writes and like that she nominated me but ignore why we share interests at all?
November_child – in her poetry, every word is judiciously considered for its various meanings and the images they stir and she makes great short stories that are deep and playful and serious all at the same time
anonymouslyautistic – for doing an AMAZING job of writing about this misunderstood spectrum of living – and for inviting others who share her interest to contribute
English Lit Geek – because she searches the web and her library for poems that communicate her inner soul to us all out here in the ‘sphere and I appreciate this!
Wiser Daily – because this guy writes REALLY well about every single subject he wraps his mind around, because he is not a scientist but writes extremely clearly about science, because he is just a damned good writer!
Breathmath – because they are doing an astonishingly serious job of trying to get the world to see the beauty in mathematics
Sheryl – because she’s written a book, is working on others, has great tips for doing the same, and kindly visits my offerings fairly often
The Nexus – because he writes REALLY well about physics and does a great job of doing what I set out to do, whether I’m doing it on any given day or not
The Biology Yak – because she is passionate about biology and shares her passion in every word on every topic she chooses
afternoonifiedlady – even though I have no idea what it is to be an afternoonifiedlady, I love her rants about living with and without her ex and trying to wrestle with notions of romance – she is very witty and amusingly pissed off!
It seemed that we’d been chin-deep in thick mud for weeks…
It seemed that we’d been chin-deep in thick mud for weeks. Each step pushed against a wall of turgid dirt, wet with wherever all the rain came from every day, every minute. Each step we took pulled against the torpid slurp of brown gruel restraining us like clutching claws, dragging us backwards as we marched along. Slow didn’t even begin to describe our progress. It was tough to know when we would arrive at our station but it wasn’t going to be soon. Just the creep of each step, standing on whatever crackling bottom lay beneath, brittle and sharp, broken and solid, making a sound, somehow, through this muck like knuckles cracking against skulls, teeth grinding against a rat-tail file, clothes (were they even there anymore?) hanging like shackles, limb-long and confining around each bit of our bodies.
And then there was the heat. Not like beach heat, not heat baking us from the warmth of a distant sun. Heat from a soaked and filthy sheet dipped in oil, steam, whipped around our heads when we weren’t looking. A choke-close, strangling heat that didn’t let up and wasn’t relieved by the constant mist and steady downpour of new water, filthy before it fell, going who knew where, adding to the mud as the mud remained swirling around us, not sucking us down.
If our march was creeping along through this cruel soup and stinking stew, like a bouillabaisse of the bits no one every ate, it was nothing until the insects came in swarms and stung our bald heads and knitted brows, infecting our eyelids already red, exploding from lack of sleep, blistering up boils like volcanos on every inch of our faces, inflaming our nostrils and lips with bilious injections, their eggs, their poisonous goo.
In a way, it was okay that our noses swelled shut. We could no longer smell the air, wet though it was, that bubbled with the stench of ripened fruit and curdled milk, the air turbulent with a stink that if we ever left, we would never forget for the rest of time.
And then we saw a faint light ahead. A glimmer that looked like a candle in a frame, flickering through the torrents that fell and deepened our swamp of half-taken strides and lost hopes. Once. Twice. It blinked. Was gone. Then back but closer to us all as we walked, toes to heels, bellies to backs, arms twisting to get free of each other and take a step without impediment. It blinked above us and was gone. A wisp of light that was not of this world. A bit of gas lit by whatever remained of our dream that this should end soon. Now. End the despair that soaked us through to our bones and waterlogged what remained of our hearts.
And the steps went on, endless, in a dark that never saw a star, in a rain that never saw a pause, in the mud that cradled our necks and chins in its chilling clutch and never let us drown.
Every time she turned a corner, slipped under a bridge, turned into an alley,…
Every time she turned a corner, slipped under a bridge, turned into an alley, he was behind her. There! Blocking her escape and casting his enormous, soundless spectre over and through her, creating an airless space in which she could not breathe or move or think…
Until she found her heart again and made her legs move forward, lunging now, flats scuffing the macadam, twisting brief tornados of dust around their soles, onto her stocking feet, then filtering between her toes, which were bleeding from the hot friction of her desperation.
And he was there, light behind him, always the light, always behind him, always closing in on her, always stealing her sense of victory as it rose in her throat, just as she had to choke it down again, gulp a lungful of fresh air, then lunge into the night, looking for an option that would mean relief from the hideous strength that towered above, around, under her frailty, clasped in its party frock and dark leather jacket.
Her clutch was long ago thrown in a bin as she hoped to prevent the insult of thieving from multiplying her troubles. The plastic beads, pastels, off-whites strung on a bit of thread, she had picked up at a local street fair clacked against each other and her collarbone, sounding out their cheapness, their hollow, muted cry for attention with every leaping stride she took. Down another alley, behind another bin, out into the open street, empty except for a descending fog diffusing the light, creating a strangeness she could do without.
And the light! Always behind him, always casting its sepulchral grasp her way, wrapping her in cold fingers, grasping, then releasing whenever she bolted again, away from the trap of stillness and away from his grim menace, blocking the light, which was a presence like a cloak thrown around his shoulders and back, never showing him for who he was, shutting down his speech, strangling it in his throat before the words emerged.
One more place to hide, beyond where he could go, where she knew he could not reach her. Down the ramp to the sea, to the dark, wet sand where the furtive wriggling of late-night couples had gone to hide from the light and the shadows that marched over them, engulfing them in the threat of insinuation and gossip, the promise to tell everyone what they had done, with whom.
She scuttled along the wall, past the gyrations of foreplay, past the groping for zippers and bras, past the half-nude bodies slipping around on undone clothes and rasping sand, lubricated by salt air and sweat and musk. She was in her own shadow now, her shape blending with the darkness that was part of this time, this night.