Some cycads attract pollinators using heat

"Plants usually attract pollinators using bright colors and scents, but some of the earliest plants use heat instead. A collaboration between professor of molecular and cellular biology Nicholas Bellono and Hessel professor of biology Naomi Pierce has shown that cycads, a division of cone-bearing plants that are ancient in evolutionary terms, warm their reproductive structures in daily cycles, releasing invisible infrared radiation that attracts beetle pollinators. 

Experiments showed that beetles are drawn to this heat even when color, scent, and touch are removed, proving that infrared radiation itself acts as a signal. The team also discovered that the cycad-feeding beetles have specialized sensory cells in their antennae that detect infrared heat, tuned precisely to the temperatures produced by their host plants. 

This heat-based signaling predates colorful flowers and likely played a key role in the earliest plant-pollinator relationships, long before bees and butterflies became dominant."

I find this fascinating.  The fact that plants can generate heat is not novel, as anyone familiar with skunk cabbage melting snow in the spring understands, and I suppose some modern plants can be warmer than their environment based on dark colored leaves absorbing solar energy, but all of this cycad science is new to me.  How do plants generate infrared radiation?  Maybe they just selectively reflect infrared radition from sunlight?  

Text and image (cropped for size) from Harvard Magazine.   I have not found the primary source publication, which is probably in Nature or Science, but I don't have time to search today.

Addendum:  Found the journal article in Science, but it's behind a paywall.

"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" - Bob Dylan

I recently realized I've never blogged my favorite Dylan song.

The problems with "eliminating the impossible"

Northern flicker

Posted for the gorgeous photo, which was featured in a New York Times article about woodpeckers.  We have a small woods behind our home; I leave standing deadwood there for the woodpeckers, so we've seen six different species from our window over the years.

"The Spanish name for woodpeckers, pájaros carpinteros or carpenter birds, honors their contribution: These are ecosystem engineers who apply their excavating skills to carve roosts for themselves and their offspring, many of which are subsequently repurposed as nests by birds as diverse as wood ducks, owls, bluebirds, tree swallows and more — and by other animals, including squirrels, martens, bats and raccoons...

Male woodpeckers typically start work on several nests in anticipation of mating season, excavating each cavity pretty far along before showing the possibilities to the female, who takes her pick. Some of the extras represent those potential nests for other animals."

There are numerous tips for attracting and maintaining woodpeckers at the link.

When people used to turn into trees

Interesting how often that theme has arisen in world folklore.  Text excerpted from The Overstory.

Christian Nationalism in the armed forces command structure? Or not...?

The embed shows allegations I've seen in several posts on Facebook.  I don't trust Facebook material to be accurate.  Have any readers seen evidence to support/refute this claim in the mainstream fact-checked media?

Here is the link for the cited reference to the Military Religious Freedom Foundation.

Addendum:  Before you get too excited, read this link from Friendly Atheist, submitted by one of the readers here.  It expresses severe skepticism regarding the validity of the claims made in the embed.

The most amazing musical instrument is the human voice

I don't really have time to blog today, but I wanted to share this video I found last night at Nag on the Lake (which I invite you to explore if you like TYWKIWDBI).  

It took a bit of searching to find the lyrics (excerpted from Psalm 84) at Light on Dark Water:

"How beloved is your dwelling place,

O lord of hosts,

My soul yearns, faints,

My heart and my flesh cry out.

The sparrow found a house,

And the swallow her nest,

Where she may raise her young.

They pass through the Valley of Bakka,

They make it a place of springs;

The autumn also covers it with pools."

You don't need the lyrics to appreciate the beauty of the harmonies.  Had I heard this music without the video, I probably would have assumed it came from a synthesizer, similar to the many programs I've recorded from Music from the Hearts of Space.  But these are human voices.  Awesome.

Foreplay by intellectuals?

It's very seldom that I give up on a book after I've read a couple hundred pages.  I used to be a "completionist" slogging on to the end, but as I've grown older I find myself bailing out more quickly on books and visual media.

I didn't know what to expect from Foucault's Pendulum, but since the book was written by the author of The Name of the Rose, my expectations were high.  What I encountered was a 600+ page display of extensive erudition, harvesting centuries of history, culture, religion, and the fine arts in an effort by the novel's protagonist to come up with a sort of "theory of everything" - a syncretism where all items can be "connected" by various mental gymnastics.  

I'll transcribe one passage which seems to exemplify my disappointment.  At the end of chapter 30, the protagonist is in bed with a young lady.  They have spent the night discussing Galileo, Richelieu, John Dee the English court astrologer, Torricelli inventing the barometer, fireworks in the Hortus Palatinus in Heidelberg, the burning of Comenius' house and library in Prague, the Rosy Cross and Rosicrucians, the Order of the Golden Fleece, the Thirty Years' War, Ashtoreth, Descartes, the immortality of the Count of Saint Germain, and the canonical Gospels.  Then they turn toward each other as follows...

"Amparo, the sun's coming up."

"We must be crazy."

"Rosy-fingered dawn gently caresses the waves..."

"Yes, go on.  It's Yemanja.  Listen! She's coming."

"Show me your ludibria..."

"Oh, the Tintinnabulum!"

"You are my Atalanta Fugiens..."

"Oh, my Turris Babel..."

"I want the Arcana Arcanissima, the Golden Fleece, pâle et rose comme un coquillage marin..."

"Sssh... Silentium post clamores," she said.

That is literally the closing of the chapter.  The ellipses are in the text, not my modification.  I presume they represent the interrupted conversation of rising passion, and that the protagonists proceeded to have wild and crazy sex.

Maybe I'll try a re-read of The Name of the Rose instead.

You are here

The European Space Agency is compiling a 3D map of the Milky Way, showing the color and brightness of 1.8 billion stars.  In this image, we are located where the lines for 180 degrees vertically and 90 degrees horizontally cross.  

If we were able to travel at the speed of light for the rest of our lives, we would not get out of the pixel we are currently in.  

The Milky Way is one galaxy.  There are about 2,000,000,000,000 galaxies... in the observable universe (via Hubble).   Note for comparison the small circle around us in the image designating the limits of what the human eye can see when looking at the sky.  

These are data that need to be considered if/when we ponder why we exist and what our purpose is/should be.

Want more?  There are over 600 images accessible via this link.

"Spooning" - and "Prufrock" (updated)

The conventional definition involves sentimental love, but the photo source also offers this comment:

The word also had homosexual connotations, as in Stoppard’s The Invention of Love. Says old A. E. Housman to young A. E. Housman: “Centuries later in a play now lost, Aeschylus brought in Eros, which I suppose we may translate as extreme spooniness; showers of kisses, and unblemished thighs. Sophocles, too; he wrote The Loves of Achilles: more spooniness than you’d find in a cutlery drawer, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Found at Modern Foppery, via. 

Addendum: I originally posted this back in 2010.  This week I encountered the photo again while browsing the web, and decided to search for more information on the unusual imagery.  When I Googled several key words, the #1 hit was...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I have to admit that was a bit startling, especially since it was one of my favorite poems when I was an English major in college (never could quite memorize it all, but I can still call up key passages).  And the connection to the photo? - just the coincidental presence of the keywords I selected ("women," "spoons," "behind," and "back.")

So I'm going to use this serendipitous event as an excuse to post the poem.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats	5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….	10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,	15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,	20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;	25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;	30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go	35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—	40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare	45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,	50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—	55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?	60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress	65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin? .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets	70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!	75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?	80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,	85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,	90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—	95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,	100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:	105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .	110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,	115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …	120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.	125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown	130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Composed by T.S. Eliot (1888–1965), and published in Prufrock and Other Observations (1920).

Addendum:  Here's a very interesting and perhaps relevant observation by reader frenchfarmer:

"Spoon" in french is "cuillère" and is pronounced "quee-er."

Addendum #2:
Reposted once again (August 2015) because this year marks the 100-year anniversary of "Prufrock."

When T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” made its first appearance in print 100 years ago, it did not in any way disturb the universe. Having languished in a drawer for four years, the poem was finally first published in the June 1915 issue of the Chicago journal Poetry, placed toward the back because the editor didn’t much like it... The reviews were a mix of indifference, confusion, and disdain. The Times Literary Supplement remarked that Eliot’s “observations” were “of the very smallest importance to anyone—even to himself.”...

Of course, it’s now clear that “Prufrock” is one of the great poems of the twentieth century. It is widely taught in schools, and its strange and subversive incantations are freely released into the unformed souls of adolescents without any regard for the consequences...

The nature of Eliot’s personal hell during his time in Paris was complicated and multifaceted, but the fact that he was still a virgin was undoubtedly part of it. Eliot suffered from a congenital double hernia, which meant he wore a truss from an early age. His cadaverous bookishness and universally remarked-on shyness didn’t help his cause with women at Harvard or anywhere else...

Continued at the link.

Reposted in 2026 because I ran across this old post while looking up stuff about Dante's Inferno, and wanted to make sure I had already blogged Prufrock.  Nothing to add now - just wanted to revisit the poem (and reader Elagie's salient comments).

An interesting art installation

Credit to Antti Laitinen for "Broken Landscape, 2021" which I found posted at the oddlyterrifying subreddit.  The discussion thread there is trivial, but I appreciate the demonstration of how trees adapt to their location.  I have a wall of tall cedar trees facing west along a driveway.  They fill every space capable of capturing sunlight with foliage, but behind that wall of green is a maze of poke-you-in-the-eye broken branches.

I'll close with this cross-section of a hedge that I posted back in 2020.  

Bob Dylan - Forever Young

I'm a "boomer," and Bob Dylan is one of the musicians who define my generation. "Forever Young" was written as a lullaby for his eldest son and released in the mid-70s; it appeals to an older crowd than those who were attracted to him earlier for his "protest"-themed songs.

There are lots of choices of venues for hearing the song. I've embedded the one from The Band's performance in The Last Waltz.

And if you don't care for the music, at least accept these lyrics as my wishes to you.

May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true,
May you always do for others
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous,
May you grow up to be true,
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you.
May you always be courageous,
Stand upright and be strong,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy,
May your feet always be swift,
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift.
May your heart always be joyful,
May your song always be sung,
May you stay forever young,
Forever young, forever young,
May you stay forever young.

Originally posted in February of '08.  Reposted now in response to today's announcement that Bob Dylan will receive the 2016 Nobel Prize for literature - in recognition of his skills as a lyricist rather than as a singer or musician.

Reddit Books discussion thread re the appropriateness (or not) of this award.

Addendum:

Dylan has sculpted iron pieces for family and friends for the past 30 years, but it wasn’t until 2013 – at London’s Halcyon Gallery in an exhibition called Mood Swings – that his metal artwork was first viewed publicly. His works feature found objects, vintage scrap metal and industrial artifacts collected from junkyards. Dylan collects everything from farm equipment, children’s toys, kitchen utensils and antique fire arms to chains, cogs, axes and wheels. He then welds these curiosities into thoughtfully juxtaposed masterpieces. Commissioned by MGM National Harbor to envision an open entrance, Dylan hand-selected unique objects and will weld a stunning composition into a soaring archway.

Text and image from MGM National Harbor, via Minnesota Brown, the definitive blog about northern Minnesota's legendary Mesabi Iron Range.

Reposted from 2016 to add a recording of my favorite Bob Dylan song -

What did you do when you were 4 months old?

This 4-month-old godwit flew 8,000 miles across the Pacific from Alaska to Tasmania.

"The journey set what the agency described as the longest documented non-stop flight by any animal... The record-setting trip wasn’t a lucky guess based on sightings... To follow B6’s route, researchers used a 5-gram, solar-powered satellite transmitter attached to the bird’s rump... what makes this story stand out is the combination of distance, duration and the bird’s age. B6 was only about four months old when it completed the crossing..."

Vector math demonstration

This is a long (20-minute) video designed to be both entertaining and instructive.  For those in a hurry (which is most of us), here's a reminder that you can find the best parts of videos by viewing the video at You Tube and hovering your mouse over the timeline at the bottom to find the peaks of viewership that typically denote the interesting parts.

Sometimes The Onion says it best