July 19, 2014

This Amazing Robot For The Home Is Being Sold By An MIT Professor Starting Today Dylan Love, businessinsider.com
Explore the future of media as it inter­sects with tech­nol­o­gy and changes every­thing from how we con­sume infor­ma­tion to how we mar­ket, invest, social­ize, work, live, and play at IGNI­TION: Future Of Dig­i­tal. Reserve your seat now…

This Amazing Robot For The Home Is Being Sold By An MIT Professor Starting Today
Dylan Love, businessinsider.com

Explore the future of media as it inter­sects with tech­nol­o­gy and changes every­thing from how we con­sume infor­ma­tion to how we mar­ket, invest, social­ize, work, live, and play at IGNI­TION: Future Of Dig­i­tal. Reserve your seat now…

(Source: smarterplanet)

July 19, 2014
kqedscience:

To Make A Spacecraft That Folds And Unfolds, Try Origami
“Scientists and engineers at NASA are using origami techniques to help solve a fundamental dilemma facing spacecraft designers: How do you take a big object, pack it into a small container for rocket launch, and then unpack it again once it arrives in space — making sure nothing breaks in the process.”
Learn more from NPR. 

kqedscience:

To Make A Spacecraft That Folds And Unfolds, Try Origami

Scientists and engineers at NASA are using origami techniques to help solve a fundamental dilemma facing spacecraft designers: How do you take a big object, pack it into a small container for rocket launch, and then unpack it again once it arrives in space — making sure nothing breaks in the process.”

Learn more from NPR. 

(via sagansense)

July 19, 2014
s-c-i-guy:

Perihelion and Aphelion
The closest point to the Sun in a planet’s orbit is called perihelion. The furthest point is called aphelion. Notice how the planet moves fastest at perihelion and slowest at aphelion.
The time during the year that aphelion and perihelion (when we are closet to the sun) changes over a roughly 100,000 year cycle, known as the Milankovitch Cycle.  Our orbit around the sun is not a circle, it is an ellipse with an eccentricity of about 0.0167.  This orbit both changes shape and rotates around the sun much like a spirogram tracing out a flower-like shape.It is summer in the northern hemisphere, a time when people often say things like, “We are closer to the sun than we are in winter.”  This is not really true.  Summer is a product of the angle at which Earth is tilted, right now Earth is tilted so that the northern regions lean toward the sun.  In terms of orbit we are actually at the furthest point Earth gets from the sun.This has interesting implications in terms of the global climate.  This means that right now winters tend to be warm (the planet is closer to the sun) and summers cool (the planet further from the sun).  In the big picture this places us in the midst of a global cool cycle, the type of situation that tends to lead to ice ages, like the one we are emerging from.
source

s-c-i-guy:

Perihelion and Aphelion

The closest point to the Sun in a planet’s orbit is called perihelion. The furthest point is called aphelion. Notice how the planet moves fastest at perihelion and slowest at aphelion.

The time during the year that aphelion and perihelion (when we are closet to the sun) changes over a roughly 100,000 year cycle, known as the Milankovitch Cycle.  Our orbit around the sun is not a circle, it is an ellipse with an eccentricity of about 0.0167.  This orbit both changes shape and rotates around the sun much like a spirogram tracing out a flower-like shape.

It is summer in the northern hemisphere, a time when people often say things like, “We are closer to the sun than we are in winter.”  This is not really true.  Summer is a product of the angle at which Earth is tilted, right now Earth is tilted so that the northern regions lean toward the sun.  In terms of orbit we are actually at the furthest point Earth gets from the sun.

This has interesting implications in terms of the global climate.  This means that right now winters tend to be warm (the planet is closer to the sun) and summers cool (the planet further from the sun).  In the big picture this places us in the midst of a global cool cycle, the type of situation that tends to lead to ice ages, like the one we are emerging from.

source

(via physicistsneedlovetoo)

July 19, 2014

(Source: bakingwaffles, via freshphotons)

July 8, 2014
scienceyoucanlove:

phobs-heh:

glukauf:

An employe of Russian Space Training Center hangs out to dry space suits (Photo by Alexander Zemlianichenko/AP Photo)

That’s my grandpa 8) He is almost 80,he is ex-pilot and a trainer in RSTC 8) 

give your grandpa a kiss for me bcs he is just toooooo cute

scienceyoucanlove:

phobs-heh:

glukauf:

An employe of Russian Space Training Center hangs out to dry space suits (Photo by Alexander Zemlianichenko/AP Photo)

That’s my grandpa 8) He is almost 80,he is ex-pilot and a trainer in RSTC 8) 

give your grandpa a kiss for me bcs he is just toooooo cute

July 7, 2014

ohbabyv:

Mine - A short film from Fordham University for Campus Movie Fest 2014. Out of over 100 films, it won Best Actress and got nominated for Best Drama. Mine has since been promoted by organizations like End Violence Against Women International, and it is a finalist in the Campus MovieFest national wild card competition.

The story follows Lucy as she performs a spoken word poem about the sometimes subtle way abusive relationships can develop. 

The poem:

People make a big deal about eyes
but it was really the wrinkle in his forehead that caught me
as he fumbled to write down his number.

We fell in love like children running downhill:
wind whipping past, parading each other to our friends, 
to the sky, to the old couples we imagined as our future selves.  

When he moved in, I swore he fused with the house.
I could hear his sigh in the hum of my ceiling fan
I could taste him in my coffee
And anyone could see him in my poetry.

The grooves in his palm spoke of tragedies.
A frayed lifeline spread to the pinky-tip
I traced along those calloused patches
and kissed the scars on his knuckles

When you love hard enough, you can embrace those scars
And when you love long enough you excuse or even ignore
almost imperceptible changes in the terrain:
when he gripped me a bit tighter a bit more often
when “how are you?” became “where were you?”

In college I learned that in World War I,
soldiers rarely wrote about their misery.
They were living a new kind of nightmare,
so what good were the same old words and metaphors?

Poets died in those trenches.
I thought of them as I tiptoed 
around the landmines that littered our home.
When you live in a battlefield, 
where do you find energy to pick up a pen?

Like a numbed soldier I lived from moment to moment,
and when the moments were sweet 
(and many were) I savored them
Because nothing tastes as good as hope

Because even on the bad days
when it seemed an eyelash could set him off
when he threatened to leave the apartment or this world
still each night he would murmur into my ear
that these were the natural ups and downs of love.

But there is nothing natural about war.
He was my comrade, sinking into the trenches,
grasping at my face, my arm, my collar bone
I wanted to rescue him
If that meant bearing his blows 
and his slurred insults, I would do it
If I could’ve swallowed his sadness, I would have.

My friends considered me M.I.A., but I reported for duty every day
and would’ve marched unto death if she hadn’t made me listen.
In that moment I realized I wasn’t his comrade but a prisoner of his war
And after two years and seven months, I finally made a break for it.

Some nights I find myself clicking through old memories.
I marvel at the smiles and the closeness
and realize that these are the images
which remain with me most vividly.
When time has had its way with me,
has softened the edges of my memory,
I’m afraid I’ll only remember his charms:
the crook of his arm, the way he said “hey baby.”
I’m afraid I’ll miss these ideas of him.

But then I remember those poets
and how long they lived in those trenches
and the mornings I spent crying into my breakfast
And now when I pick up my pen
it is heavy, but it is firm.
I lean into it like a staff as I tread the ground
that hardened beneath me the moment I let you go.
The ink smudges my hands like war paint
I am bruised from battle, but I am not a casualty of his war
I am free. I am free. I am mine.

(via hughdiancie)

July 7, 2014
teded:

“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.” -Ray Bradbury
From the TED-Ed Lesson How fiction can change reality - Jessica Wise
Animation by Augenblick Studios

teded:

“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.” -Ray Bradbury

From the TED-Ed Lesson How fiction can change reality - Jessica Wise

Animation by Augenblick Studios

July 7, 2014
katiegeewhiz:

I REALLY LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS

katiegeewhiz:

I REALLY LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS

(Source: neilaglet, via grimdarktome)

July 7, 2014

nympheline:
This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

(via grimdarktome)

June 28, 2014

(Source: moseisleywelcomingcommittee, via science-in-a-jar)