Pictures have finally arrived! Two photosets: one from moving and getting settled; the other from a picnic to Gas Works Park. They are taken with my lovely new Nikon d90. After a long time drooling over DSLR cameras, now I finally have one. So I may post more pictures than usual.
I enjoy sifting through old papers. Every year or so I go through my papers and every time I keep about half of the stack. I start with the papers collected since the last winnowing, from which I save maybe one sheet from every twenty. Unwanted papers are recycled or digitized. By the time I reach the papers that are a few years old, I only get rid of one out of twenty.
At the core of the pile the memories are dense. Fond, embarrassing snippets of poetry. Touching letters from friends. Notes from my favorite college classes, and drawings derived from boredom. Plans for world domination, plans for programming projects. Everything has a practical purpose, or else a significant core of meaning.
By the time I'm forty I'll descend through the strata of my life with easy familiarity. I'm looking forward to it, looking back on a trail of papers like memories. The old ones drop away until only the striking, the harrowing, the golden remain.
I just escaped a geological wiki-hole. I read about the Cascade Arc (home of the only historical eruptions in the United States), Mount Rainier (a surprisingly prominent mountain), plutons (subterranean crystallized igneous rock intrusions), the Volcanic Explosivity Index (Yellowstone tops the scale), Puget Sound (a flooded glacial fjord system), the most prominent peaks in the United States (fun to play with the table sorting), the Yellowstone Caldera (every 600k to 900k years; last one was 640k years ago), topographic prominence and isolation. Among many other things.
Isolation is probably the coolest thing I learned tonight, because of how a list of isolated peaks gives you a nice cover of an area, a division of peaks that doesn't favor one or another region too much (especially Alaska or Colorado). Topographic isolation is the distance before you reach a point of higher elevation. So for the United States you start at Mt. McKinley (Alaska). Then you fly far off to Mauna Kea (Hawaii), to Mount Whitney (California), to Mount Mitchell (North Carolina), to Mount Washington (New Hampshire) and to Mount Rainer (Washington). It's basically like demarcating a watershed.
I am also enamored of prominence. You find prominence by going down in contour lines until you reach a ring that contains a point of higher elevation. The easiest explanation is via rising sea level. To find a peak's prominence you raise sea level until it is the highest point on its island. The prominence will be the height of the peak above that imaginary sea level. It has to be specially defined for Mt. Everest, since nothing is higher. Every other peak is recursive. The most prominent peaks in the United States are Mount McKinley, Mauna Kea and Mt. Rainier.
Science and the internet… a dangerous combination.
Last night at 9:50 we arrived in Seattle at our new apartment. Since it had been a long day of packing and cleaning Sarah's old apartment, we went to sleep after we got all of the boxes inside. Today has been full of unpacking, but we aren't even halfway done. It will be a week of that: wake up, do work, unpack.
It is a very good thing my parents were able to come help us move. As it was, we just barely fit everything into my parents' truck and Sarah's car. We made do by piling everything carefully into the bed, and then tying a futon mattress on top to keep everything pinned down at 70 miles per hour. The load was just taller than the cab. I have never before slept on a bed that looked like it had been driving down the highway (bug splats all over one end). That is on the to-do list: clean the mattress.
I'm looking forward to exploring the Fremont neighborhood. We got breakfast today at the Fremont Sunday market, but that's just dipping our toes in the water. Good times ahead.
It cooled down today. This morning gusts of chilly morning air blew through the room, sticking the half-curtain thing out horizontally (apparently it's called a valance, but I could never use that word seriously). Now there is no wind. The cold air sinks down from the window above the bed. Cold feet. It's coming time for fleece blankets and comforters at night, and fires in the fireplace. Perhaps there will be occasion to sleep by the hearth.
Arwen welcomed me down to the farm sometime in October. She said I could sleep beneath the aluminum roof of the top floor of the silo, which just begs for a night of torrential rain followed by a bright morning walking around in the scent of rich, rain-soaked dirt.
I think weather affects me in the broadest sense. Although I delight in the extremes of a perfect thunderstorm or a day where the clouds have gone crazy, it is the larger trends that deeply affect me. The first rain, the first cool day after summer, they are robin-of-spring harbingers. I like the time between solstices, when the changing of seasons brings out patchwork weather. When it is neither too hot nor too cold, or at least never for very long.
I am looking forward to Seattle for just this reason. In Spokane, Spring and Fall are fleeting. Before long it settles to one unfaltering extreme or the other, goes on for an eternity. I am looking forward to fog, drizzle and overcast. Back to the West side.