This video has apparently been around for awhile on YouTube, but I just learned of it. It's very well done; I don't know how this woman positioned her face so precisely each day, but it's a cool effect.
Did you ever wake up suddenly because while you were having a dream because your body actually moved a bit? This poor dog was apparently having a running dream when his body kicked in . . . such a rude awakening! What protects us from physically acting out our dreams and hurting ourselves? The body functions to paralyze itself during REM sleep to protect us from self-damage that would occur if we acted out scenes from our dreams. [Via hahahaimontheinternet]
If the title didn't give you a Clue, then I just have to tell you that I like metals. I like melting metals. And I finally did a video of metal melting. Why? People are always asking me about how light titanium metal is. I was inspired by Theodore Gray and his Periodic Table Table to collect a set of samples of representative metal bars so as to show people. To let them feel for themselves. I started with Tungsten, because it is as heavy as gold and the hardest one to shape. I then collected and shaped matching bars of aluminum, titanium, bronze (95% copper), steel (97% iron), and magnesium (lighter than carbon). But absent the lead, I can't illustrate how much heavier tungsten (gold and platinum) are than lead. Pity I don't dare use silver, gold, or platinum bars. They would be funexemplars, but I fear short lived. But lead (Pb from the Latin Plumbum, as in plumbing, plumb-bob, etc) is now harder to get. This useful material has been in household use for almost 6,000 years. Children who likely drank from lead vessels gave us every advance in our civilization. But about a generation ago, it was declared toxic. So now it is getting hard to find outside of radiation labs, and expensive there. So, I decided to cast my own piece of fresh lead plate from some crusty and oxidized 19th century lead pipe. To feel the pipe is to understand its utility as a weapon; heavy and rigid, yet soft. Unfortunately, I didn't set up my camera to show me chopping up the lead pipe. I used a hammer and chisel to get through the crustiest parts (hundred year old drain pipe, eww). But tin snips work well on 1/4" thick lead. It cuts like cold butter. But shiny. And the piece I ended up with evoked a geological feature I'd visited: Shiprock in New Mexico. Magma oozed up through a crack in the Earth's crust forming a vane much like you see on my cast plate. An accidental demonstration in practical geology.
Normally, a nosebleed seat is not the pick of the prince, but since tonight's performance is an audio-visual one, it's prime! I can see the tendons in each dancer's calves; the sweat flying off their faces (visceral, if nothing else); but best of all, I can observe pre- and post-entrance dancer behavior in my sliver of a view into the wings. The verdict? Gasping for breath, these dancers still stand erect even after they've slid offstage. One of Mozart's last symphonies is Symphony No. 40 in G minor - and tonight, the Hubbard Street Dance Chicago company performs Marguerite Donlon's Strokes Through the Tail to Symphony No. 40's rippling anticipation. There goes Robertson with his knees again. Bouncing with the beat, crouching low to pull the oboe in like a thick, heavy rope, his hair isn't flouncing as much as usual. It's been cut. In a brief pause, we see that the orchestra is as cool as a cat, though it's sounding jittery with the suspense of unresolved harmony. Suddenly, the lights dim, and you guessed it! Physicality as the instrument arrives with the second movement. In deference to Mozart's wired lyricism, Principal Female plays a wind-up doll, fleety-flighting in unpredictable directions with each musical shove. Then, hooray! Guys without shirts on! These young 'uns are wearing tailcoats, but their breasts are bright white in the stage light. Synchronous scampering ensues. These could be members of a boy band. Individuals all - the super-young innocent, the mustachioed Borat character, and a slavic-looking baldy with a long scar next to his left eye - nevertheless chained in imitation, they showboat their long legs and make nearly identical half-turns, one after the other, like fancy dominoes. Principal Female and her boy wonders prod each other with the crown of their heads or chest-bump like blind zygotes to transfer electricity. Tailcoats vibrate with each dancer's buzzy shudder and periodically, a head-nudge causes one to crinkle her fingers as if she's received a shock. No wonder David Robertson wasn't wearing a tailcoat tonight. These Tailcoats conduct kinetic energy among themselves and direct each other's movements like a bevy of conductors. The leader-follower imitation mime-time carries over into garb. Briefly, Principal Female solos in white chiffon and tulle. Then the boys are back - but without their jackets! Donning delicate white skirts, they perform the lotus gait behind Principal Female in a long line like ducklings ... until we notice that the (mustachioed) little swan hasn't arrived yet. Swinging torsos - elephants turning their heads: where is mustache? Ah, here he is! Men's legs in white light - I quite enjoy them in transparent chiffon! Principal Female returns to the stage wearing blinding-bright pride, black boxer briefs and a tailcoat of her own. (The lacy chiffon top remains.) Tightly-bound, consequential, sequential movements conduct kinetic speed betwixt each person as they pass it on - pass it on - with a biological yearning to bond and release with and from one another. Time and again, Innocent Boy falls behind, missing a wardrobe adjustment or curling into comfy nap time in the background as the show carries on without him. Then, to reward his audacity, Innocent Boy gets a mini solo as he runs after the others in slow motion or fancies himself autonomous. Mustachioed Joe is even gladder than Principal Gal to return to the stage himself - the first to be back this time, in black boxer briefs and his original tailcoat. No more downy feather-skirt for him. The audience has been chuckling and giggling for some time now. We've bonded with the dancers. Maybe it was the yearning-bonding-slacking-off-then-falling-in-again that drew in our empathy; that and the shocking virtuosity of these athletes who skate across our vision as if on ice.
I spent the afternoon at Dallas-Fort-Worth Airport, unsuccessfully trying to get on a standby flight, then waiting for my originally scheduled flight. While I waited, I walked about, amazed at the size of the airport. The airport stretches as far as the eye can see.
Gazing out of the terminal, you can see several control towers in the distance. A woman at the information booth told me that DFW covers more ground than Manhattan. I had a difficult time believing it, but it turns out that it's true. I learned here that DFW covers more than 29.8 square miles (18,076 acres), whereas Manhattan covers only 22.96 square miles. The airport is so big, that it is necessary to travel between terminals on an elaborate tram system ("Skylink" covers a 5-mile route at speeds of up to 35 mph).
The vast grounds of DFW are 
overwhelming, but so is the interior. It's an entire city, staffed with 60,000 employees. There must be hundreds of restaurants and stores. Including this one, called "Lone Star Attitude." I noticed this store because I sat across from it waiting for my standby flight. It was a bit creepy, looking at the cows dressed up in human clothes. I think I'll get over it, but I did wonder whether this was an effective form of marketing. Perhaps only in Texas.
[Photos by Erich Vieth]