Lisa, 23, feminist, jewish (and badly agnostic). To the best of my ability to determine, my sexual orientation is "sprung rhythm" and my gender expression is "fabulous badger". (She/her/hers pronouns are fine.)EMT, aspiring PA. Poetry, intersectional feminism, Pacific Rim, Night Vale, Circle of Magic, language, biology, and eclectic nerdery. Whovian blogging will resume when Moffat stops fucking everything up.If it involves dragons or iambic pentameter, you'll probably find it here.
“Scientists were today able to dispel the age-old belief that no two snowflakes are the same, using state of the art microscopy and by catching flakes as they fell in specially designed equipment while sitting at a table outside a pub in Norwich. The team of researchers, backed by a £20m grant, were able to make an identical match to the famous Bentley flake, photographed 47 years ago by amateur snowflakeologist Wilson Bentley.”
When you’re a kid you’re born a scientist. What does a scientist do? We look up and say “I wonder what that is? Let me go find out”. Let me poke it… let me break it, let me turn it around. This is what kids do. You can’t leave a kid alone for a minute without them laying waste to your house! Because they’re grabbing stuff off the shelves, so what do we do? We prevent that. We prevent these depths of curiosity from revealing themselves.
Submitted by: mollyiam
I’d like to widen people’s awareness of the tremendous timespan lying ahead — for our planet, and for life itself. Most educated people are aware that we’re the outcome of nearly 4bn years of Darwinian selection, but many tend to think that humans are somehow the culmination. Our sun, however, is less than halfway through its lifespan. Six billion years from now, it will not be humans who watch the sun’s demise. Any creatures that then exist will be as different from us as we are from bacteria or amoebae.
Poets say science takes away from the beauty of the stars — mere globs of gas atoms. Nothing is “mere”. I too can see the stars on a desert night, and feel them. But do I see less or more? The vastness of the heavens stretches my imagination — stuck on this carousel my little eye can catch one-million-year-old light. A vast pattern — of which I am a part… What is the pattern or the meaning or the why? It does not do harm to the mystery to know a little more about it. For far more marvellous is the truth than any artists of the past imagined it. Why do the poets of the present not speak of it? What men are poets who can speak of Jupiter if he were a man, but if he is an immense spinning sphere of methane and ammonia must be silent?