WASHINGTON (Reuters) - A giant hole in the Universe is devoid of galaxies, stars and even lacks dark matter, astronomers said on Thursday.
The team at the University of Minnesota said the void is nearly a billion light-years across and they have no idea why it is there.
"Not only has no one ever found a void this big, but we never even expected to find one this size," said astronomy professor Lawrence Rudnick.
Writing in the Astrophysical Journal, Rudnick and colleagues Shea Brown and Liliya Williams said they were examining a cold spot using the Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe satellite, and found the giant hole.
"We already knew there was something different about this spot in the sky," Rudnick said. The region stood out as being colder in a survey of the Cosmic Microwave Background -- the faint radio buzz left over from the Big Bang that gave birth to the Universe.
"What we've found is not normal, based on either observational studies or on computer simulations of the large-scale evolution of the Universe," Williams said in a statement.
The astronomers said the region even appeared to lack dark matter, which cannot be seen directly but is usually detected by measuring gravitational forces.
The void is in a region of sky in the constellation Eridanus, southwest of Orion.
The researchers posted some images and information about their findings. I find these images deceiving, since scientists are probably seeing this void head-on, and not from another angle, as they should be.
8:44pm: Kids have it so well.
Arranging one's bedroom covers into some odd structural shape to ward off monsters is nothing compared to actually having a fort-castle for a bed. I would never go to sleep:
It'll be only a short while before some middle aged couple perverts this product by using it for role-playing.
2:05am: An Incident Concerning a Spider
My bedroom is downstairs in the cool (literally and figuratively) part of our home. Come to think of it, the place used to be a a lot cooler with a drum set down there. Too bad I sucked. But even without the drums, it's still pretty cool.
When I first "moved" into the downstairs area, I, like most teenagers, demanded that my room come equipped with a telephone. My logic for this was simple: the more things I had inside of my room, the fewer things for which I'd have to leave my room. In hindsight, though, that was probably a mistake. Not only because I could hide out in my room for days on end, but also because the introduction of cell phone technology negated the need for my land line telephone and left in my wall a small hole through which a phone cord once entered.
Last night, as I threw back my sheets and comforters and all that other junk that keeps me comfy in bed, I noticed a spider scurrying from my pillow, across the flat plain of my bed sheet, down toward the now bundled mess of covers near the foot of the bed. I stood still and thoughtless for a few seconds, my right arm still frozen in the position of having thrown back the sheets, as if I were a strip of photographic paper: absorbing the scene to which I'd been exposed, but forming no conscious estimate of it. Noticing not only that my arm was still frozen in mid-air, but also that I'd had a mild neck ache all day, I slowly eased my head backward and forward to ensure that a collection of spinal fluid, indicating meningitis, wasn't impairing my neck's mobility. Satisfied with that, I relaxed my arm and tried to discern where exactly this spider was hiding.
Knowing that he'd run to the bundle of covers near the foot of my bed, I knew that I'd have to ease those back just a bit further in order to see, and ultimately kill or otherwise neutralize, the nimble little fellow. Of course, I'm not about to stick my hand anywhere near this thing, not because I'm afraid, but because I think, "Hey, it would be a lot cooler to re-tell this story, as I'm sure I will, by somehow throwing a sword into the action."
I reached into my closet and pulled out the old sword an uncle of mine found on his property. The now dull rapier blade, speckled with rust, would surely put enough distance between me and this spider. I stood, in jousting posture, sword extended toward the bed, eying the places under which he could be. I moved the tip of the blade over to the bundle of covers concealing the spider and quickly flipped them all away, exposing him.
I wonder what goes through a spider's mind in this situation. I'm pretty sure this spider thought, "DAMN! He just found me! Again! I'd better just sit here and keep still--my brown form atop this sky-blue sheet--because I was elusively in the room while he was watching Jurassic Park: he's probably like that effing T-Rex."
So he sat still. Just chilling there, as if he wanted to calmly start negotiations for how the two of us could live in harmony. That wasn't going to happen. I picked up one of my sandals and hovered it over him, anticipating that he'd run at any moment. I quickly smashed it down.
Trying to smash an arachnid between the stiff sole of a sandal and the plush, relaxing surface of a mattress is not the most effective killing tactic. Now, he ran, but he was wounded. The poor guy couldn't seem to get anywhere now that half of his legs were useless, and he just kinda spun around in circles. I picked up my other sandal.
I flipped one sandal over and attempted to scoop the spinning spider ("I'm SPININNNNNNN'!!!!) onto its surface. Succeeding in this, I fully extended my arms, trying to keep him as far from my torso as possible, and, balancing the spider on the sole of an inverted sandal, proceeded to smash him between the two in some sort of odd, horizontal clapping maneuver.
I scooped his remains into the trash can, placed the old sword back into its closet resting place and and suddenly realized there was spider goop on my bed sheet from that first smash. No way I could sleep with that. Off came the sheet, on went another in its stead. Eventually, after ensuring no more spiders were in the covers, I wondered where this little guy had come from.
The old phone cord hole. I taped it up. I can only hope that's the place he came from, or else I'm in for this again. Today, I washed and dried the sheet with the spider goop, brought it back into my room and tossed it, along with the other sheets, covers and comforters into a big pile on the floor. It was then that I realized I didn't really know how to make a bed.
So here I sit, typing away and staring at that one, odd sheet with the elastic corners among the mess of other covers atop my bed. I'll just lay them out, like last night, and roll up in one of them like a burrito.
Perhaps I will try sleeping rollie-pollie style inside this burrito.
5:10am: Yesterday, my dad was still up when I left the house around midnight. We have a few--no, too many--leftovers from the day's family extravaganza, so I figured he'd occupy himself with that.
This evening, I saw lightning far off in some massive clouds. Around middle school age, certain friends and I came to believe that such a display of lightning was a distant, cloud-confined star fighter battle in which Luke was definitely kicking ass.
Christa: occasionally I sashay. Leo McGarry D: doesn't that require a robe? Christa: um Christa: what? Leo McGarry D: a ROBE. Christa: what does that have to do with anything? Leo McGarry D: the long garment that drapes over you like a giant curtain with an ineffective belt. Leo McGarry D: sashaying. Leo McGarry D: it has everything to do with it. Christa: sashying has nothing to do with robes. Christa: REGARDLESS Christa: good-night
I never expected to be truly thoughtless; I always thought the promise of thoughtlessness was a scare tactic told by the elders. But, it's not.
They really are. If you need a friend, find a person. If you need someone to confide in, find a person. If you need advice, find a person. If you need some comfort, find a [certain type of] person. I can think of no other thing that fills these tasks as beautifully as people; however, despite this general majesty, people are still not good for one thing: peeing.
During a recent visit to a prestigious St. Louis establishment, I found myself under the sudden, steadfast direction of my bladder. This led me to find an immaculate restroom, one shined to the ceiling and decorated by a shiny array of urinals that even the women's restroom would be proud to display. These urinals were mostly occupied, save for two unoccupied spaces: one near me, the other much further down the line. Shoes were also apparent within each stall, one occupied by either a pirate or a relaxing, cross-legged man as I determined from the presence of only one shoe. To avoid looking like a total jackass, I walked confidently to the nearest urinal and stood between two gentleman who appeared to be nearly relieved.
Standing in the middle of three occupied urinals is an awkward situation under any circumstances, surpassed only by the scenario involving a urinal trough, or, even better, the center-of-the-room urinal, one which for a short time graced the men's restrooms at Wrigley. The latter choice is horrible; I think peeing would become increasingly less fun if staring deeply into another man's eyes became an option. Despite the awkward feeling of being crammed closely between these two other men, I was determined to pee, my only comforts being the partitions, two thin strips of vertically oriented steel. I unzipped.
A small team of beavers might as well have built their dam in my pee hole. Things just weren't working. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Two other gentleman entered and made their way to the empty urinals.
By now, I realized that there remained an extremely short amount of time that I could stand there doing nothing before I started looking like a flower. I quickly thumbed through the "How to Pee" files within my mind: Count? No. Hum? Never. Imagine a stream? "Oh! A stream!" I thought to myself, "I just visited one of those a few days ago!" At this point I began comparing the stream I'd just visited, the Gasconade river here in Missouri, to the stream in Alfred Tennyson's "The Brook." I recited the opening lines . . . I come from haunts of coot and hern / I make a sudden sally . . . "What the hell is coot?" I thought, as I soon realized it might have been the instant gratification that came as the flood gates finally opened! It was positively incredible. I really wished those two gentleman who I'd originally stood between hadn't already finished, washed and exited. Had they been there, I might have started a celebratory conversation.
I wasn't sure why poetry recitation worked, but it did. I was nearly done and noticed that one of the two gentleman who'd entered during my foray, one down near the end of the line, was still standing there and trying to get things to work. I washed my hands. He was still there.
As I motioned the laser-operated paper towel dispenser, I thought about going over to ask him if he knew any poetry. Instead, I thought "Ha! What a wuss," and shuffled out.
9:39pm:
At any party, there exist three distinct 'types' of partier:
Type 1) Early blooming teenagers who've not yet had many--or any--encounters with excessive alcohol. Type 1's are usually young teen girls out flaunting their developing bodies for attention and free drinks, or young teen boys out to prove to themselves and random older strangers--older strangers with whom developing a social network would be advantageous--that they're hardcore. Rarely can Type 1's conduct themselves if they've consumed too much; moreover, they don't usually yet know when they've consumed too much.
Type 2) The late-high-school and college partiers who generally know how to handle themselves and the parties which they operate: keep it in the basement, keep the lights off upstairs, park everyone waaaay the hell away, etc. Type 2's are most common and compose the majority of partiers, and, unlike Type 1's, are partiers who can best handle inebriation.
Type 3) Modestly successful, near-and-including-middle-aged men, and occasionally women, who have vast experience on the party scene. Type 3's usually go out with a reliable wingman rather than alone, go out well dressed, groomed and usually work the room solo while all night nursing only one to three drinks. Type 3's don't usually get drunk or pass out. They drive themselves home and still party because usually, by that age, they're veteran socialites.
In addition to those three types, there exists the partier who could fall into any category save for one difference: they don't drink. Nor, usually, do they dob in substances. A person such as this shall be classified as an Non-Typical Type X', X meaning 1, 2, or 3.
And there's your party. Now you don't have to go out ever again.
12:28am:
Sarah, I love you. And that is all you need to know.
Oh, free verse. The downfall of poetry.
There are certain metaphors and similes in poetry whose brevity and strength make me wonder why the object of any (worthwhile) poet's affection did not fall hopelessly in love over such verse.
Why must the lives of poets have been so very depressing? Why couldn't they get out and LIVE? Oh, but they must have had some real-life experience! From where else but living and socializing would come the knowledge and wisdom of such horrible emotion which, as we all know, is completely universal AND (now) forever captured in some famous poetry?
12:14am:
One year older never feels different; save for girls competing to tell you the most 'happy birthdays' and gifts and friends paying for lunches and coffees and more coffees and escorts. Nevertheless, one year of maturity feels dull.
If, on birthdays, we turned, say . . . three years older, then the special day would carry much more weight. That is what I aim to someday accomplish: to mature three years within only one. You just watch me, you. Just watch. O_O
3:36pm:
Time's passing much too quickly to warrant another birthday already.
Lately, I've not been up to much. New Years was exciting:
After showing up late--armed with two machine guns, apparently, although that shouldn't be so surprising--things were already in full swing.
This is a tactic I've learned. For studs like me, Mr. Lucid, showing up late is handy for two reasons: 1) Nobody really cares until the next day; to the party I'm just another wandering guest, and 2) There's no waiting period during the party's come-up, I arrive when everyone's peaking from their choice of liquid CNS depressant which makes it that much more fun to not do such things.
Back to the ice. There have been a few minor accidents around the roadways . . .
"Sexual satisfaction is now possible through surgery. A device modeled on a stimulator commonly used to stop pain is implanted near the base of a woman's spine. Activated wirelessly with a handheld device, it uses electric current to directly excite the nerves that cause orgasm."
- Joshua Davis. Wired Magazine, January 2007. p 129.
Note the allusion to a wireless 'handheld device'. Feel liberated?
11:30pm:
Everything is finished. No more tests. No more papers of obscene length. Nothing. Until like mid-January, which will mark the beginning of yet another ridiculous semester of nerditude for which I must now begin reading ahead.
2:09am:
I now have a kid. Actually, a lady and I have kids. Not those sort of kids, though.
The lady and I are mentoring said children, mine nine years of age and hers nearing twelve, because, well, I don’t know why. But I do know one thing: I’m not that different, in spirit, from my kid; and I’m also not that different, in spirit, from several folks of the older variety who I know. Maturity is a costume, one which veils the kid underneath; the kid as whom, despite years, we’ll forever live.
Growing older is an act. It’s a role. And, just as in any worthwhile play, the actor of a role needs proper training in order to fill his duty.
2:21pm: ATTN: Plato
A few weeks ago, for like the fourth time in nearly as many years, I finished reading Plato’s Symposium. In it, he attempts to define love through the words and philosophy of Socrates and Diotima. It’s a rather long winded approach to defining love, but the argument he makes is logically irrefutable and (sort of) well founded, and I will, to the best of my ability, attempt to reconstruct it here in several sentences: 1) Love is of something, much like a woman is the mother of a son, and like her little boy is a son of a mother. 2) Since we are ‘drawn’ to things which we love, love must be of desire; that is to say that to love is to desire. 3) We desire to be happy (the question does not need to be addressed, “Why does one desire happiness?”). 4) Possessing what we desire makes us happy. 5) Since it would be illogical for us to desire that which we already possess, we desire things and traits which we do not already possess. 6) We do not inherently desire bad and ugly things (both are subjective, of course, and there is a grey area between what is 'good' and what is 'bad'). Therefore, 7) We desire only good and beautiful things. 8) Possessing good and beautiful things makes us happy.
His conclusion: Love is one’s desire of good, beautiful things and traits which he does not already possess, in whose possession he will be happy.
Below is an argument drawn from the previous:
1) Love is possessing what we desire, 2) Possessing what we desire makes us happy, 3) Happiness is brought about by good and beautiful things, therefore 4) Possessing good and beautiful things constitutes love.
1. L ---> PD 2. PD ---> H 3. H ---> GB ----------------- 4. GB ---> L
The argument, in and of itself, is thorough. And, obviously, Plato’s argument of love doesn’t end in humans. The “desire for good and beautiful things whose possession makes us happy” as a definition of love includes all things: people, animals, art, music, food, sports, etc. It’s a very elastic thing. From an elementary standpoint, a girl desires a beautiful boy because such a thing would make her happy for numerous reasons. In this boy, the girl desires certain good and beautiful traits (traits subjective of culture, nonetheless) because they’d make her happy, again for numerous reasons. The idea, as Plato suggested, that loving is our desire for certain things, certain traits—good and desirable traits—made perfect sense when I first read the Symposium. Love, in this desire for certain traits, does indeed seem to misfortune the least advantaged and reward the most advantaged, especially at our age. But I began thinking of Plato’s argument outside of itself, so to speak, because I couldn’t stand the thought that this was the epitome of existence--this nearly superficial desire about which authors and poets had written for millennia--but, I thought, perhaps these authors and poets were the least advantaged among society! I didn’t like it. Moreover, if I couldn’t live with Plato’s nagging notion of love in the back of my mind, I’d have to not only invent another, the easy part, something for a separate entry here, but also completely refute Plato’s argument against the notion of love. Expanding on my past example . . . If a girl desires certain traits, she must love of these traits; however, if it is of only these traits which comprise her love, as Plato suggests, that is to say that she loves the characteristics that compose a boy and not the boy himself. This goes naturally against the notion of love, namely that people want to be loved “for themselves”. If we love someone for certain desirable or valuable characteristics, as Plato suggests, then if another comes along who has those characteristics to a greater extent, or other even more desirable traits, it seems we should love this new person more. And in that case, why sit idle and wait for that new person to turn up? Why not actively pursue to ‘trade up’ for someone with a ‘higher score’ along desirable measurements? Perhaps every person serves merely as a carrier of characteristics that ‘stimulate’ a lover, and any person can be easily replaced by a better ‘stimulator’. Does a readiness to trade up, a constant search for someone with ‘better’ characteristics, fit with the notion of love?
I cannot remember, cannot fathom, ever romantically liking or loving someone for who they are without first and primarily, within a fleeting instant, considering certain traits about them.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
