Tag Archives: Dry July

Hello, Radio NZ listeners, and thank you, Ele

Welcome to people coming by In a Strange Land after listening to Radio New Zealand today. Ele very kindly mentioned my dry July star chart during her regular radio discussion with Jim Mora, as an example of interactive social media. If you’re looking for the star chart, you can click on the menu link just below my name, or you can click here for the star chart, and here for my post, On the Efficacy of Star Charts.

Thank you, Ele.

On the efficacy of star charts

Dry July was an interesting experience. The first few days were the most difficult, but then I settled in a pattern of not drinking. I found that if I could get through the witching hour each evening, then I did not miss having a drink in the evenings. I substituted sparkling mineral water for a glass of dry white, and that seemed to satisfy the something-to-sip urge. Cutting out alcohol did not result in any weight loss, perhaps because my chocolate consumption went up. As did my consumption of other heavily fatty foods, as the loss of one taste experience made me crave other tastes. Fortunately, my insomnia continued: I had been worried that I was going to have to chalk it up to wine-bibbing, but it turns out to be something that I can do with or without the assistance of the demon drink.

Being in it together with my partner, and with friends from across the country helped. But the thing that made the biggest difference was my Dry July star chart. A little reward every day! However even more than the daily reward, the fear of public humiliation provided an excellent incentive to keep at it. I had made a promise to myself, and to my friends who read this blog, that I would complete the month and the star chart, and knowing that I would fail myself, and let my friends down, albeit in respect of a one-sided promise (no one asked me to make the promise), helped me to resist the temptation to pick up a glass. That, and emptying out the wine cellar before the month started, so it was comparatively difficult to get a bottle of wine, made all the difference.

I enjoyed completing the star chart, thinking of items to go on it, and writing up each day’s post. I kept a list of possible items, and there were still some left at the end. Some people offered excellent suggestions for the star chart: thank you very much to Harvest Bird, David Slack, formerly of Public Address, Mindy of Hoyden about Town, Ele at HomePaddock, my lovely uncle, and Mr Strange Land. Thank you also to my dad, who told me the story about the satellite going plumb through the pot (see Star the twenty-fifth). I used all the suggestions given to me, bar one beautiful poem that Ele sent, which I’m hoping she will put on her own blog sometime.

And thank you to all the kind people who cheered me and Mr Strange Land and Tigtog and Mr Tog on, and congratulated us when it was over. I appreciated your support.

I have become convinced by the merits of star charts, ‘though I suspect that to be truly effective, they have to carry a tangible reward, or punishment for failure to complete. I need to start getting back into doing some exercise: perhaps I can bribe myself to get out and pound the pavements in the morning if I can complete a star chart leading towards some goal. Something just for me. A bike, maybe…

Ah… no. No, I don’t think I will do it again next year. ‘Though ask me again next June.

Star the thirty-first

I’m creating a virtual star chart, to record my progress in Dry July. The star for making it through Saturday 31 July without touching the demon drink is a fallen star.*

(Description: large rock, pockmarked)

This is about half of the Mundrabilla meteorite, which is thought to have fallen about a million years ago. It landed in Western Australia, and although bits of it were discovered in 1911, the major mass was found in 1966 (coincidentally, the year of my birth). About 17 tonnes of rock fell to earth, split into two chunks. This is half of the smaller chunk – about 2,500 kilos. It’s an iron meteorite, and the pocks in it were formed by the softer rocks and ores weathering away in the million years when it lay in the desert.

As I did on Friday, you can walk into the foyer of the South Australian museum, and touch this meteorite: run your hands over it, poke your fingers into the holes, see the shiny bits of metal in the rock. It’s a marvellous feeling – to be able to connect physically with something from beyond this world.

More details about the meteorite, and a photo of it where it was found: Meteorite Odds and Ends: Mundrabilla Meteorite

My star chart is complete now. I made it!

*This signifies nothing. I still haven’t touched the demon drink, even though July has been over for nine hours now.

Star the thirtieth

I’m creating a virtual star chart, to record my progress in Dry July. The star for making it through Friday 30 July without touching the demon drink is Stellaluna, written and illustrated by Jannell Cannon.

Stellaluna is a baby fruitbat. One night, her mother is attacked by an owl, and Stellaluna loses her grip. She falls, but lands in a nest of baby birds. The birds, and Stellaluna, are very surprised, but they all try hard to make it work out. “[Stellaluna] ate bugs without making faces. She slept in the nest at night. And she didn’t hang by her feet. Stellaluna behaved as a good bird should.” By and large, she makes her new life work.

But one night, she is found by another fruitbat, who wonders why she is sleeping the wrong way up. When Stellaluna tells her story, another bat comes forward – her mother, who survived the owl attack. Stellaluna goes off joyfully with her mother, but she still remembers her bird family too, and keeps on visiting them.

I know, it sounds like a wretchedly sappy story, and I suppose that it could be, except for some lovely touches in the illustrations. The look on Stellaluna’s face as she tries to eat scritchy scratchy insects is glorious, and very funny. In the sidelines, there are small black and white illustrations, telling another story. All the time that Stellaluna is learning to be a bird, her mother is searching for her.

And I suppose that I could deconstruct the story, and instead of focusing on the themes of people (birds!) looking after the strangers in their midst, and doing their best to help them, I could read it as a story of appropriation and assimilation. But at no stage do the bats claim that bat ways are best, and nor do the birds. Each simply has a way of life that works. Moreover, the ‘message’ is not heavy handed, in the mode of The Rainbow Fish, or Milo and the Magical Stones (I don’t think I had realised until now that Marcus Pfister is responsible for both these abominations), and the story is accompanied by some seriously good notes about fruit bats. I recommend this book.

Stellaluna, by Jannell Cannon

Star the twenty-ninth

I’m creating a virtual star chart, to record my progress in Dry July. The star for making it through Thursday 29 July without touching the demon drink is the STAR detector.

Dark centre, the strands of light going out from the centre, most straight, some in arching curves, in blues and greens and a few yellows, looking like a cross section of a 12-segmented orange.

Click on the picture to see a full size image at WikiCommons.

(Description: Dark centre with thin rings of yellow and blue, then strands of light going out from the centre, most straight, some in arching curves, in blues and greens and a few yellows and reds, looking like a cross section of a 12-segmented orange.)

The Solenoidal Tracker at RHIC is being used to study a state of matter that was thought to exist in the early moments after the big bang. Here’s how Wikipedia explains it:

The primary physics task of STAR is to study the formation and characteristics of the quark gluon plasma (QGP), a state of matter believed to exist at sufficiently high energy densities. Detecting and understanding the QGP allows us to understand better the universe in the moments after the Big Bang, where the symmetries (and lack of symmetries) of our surroundings were put into motion.

Well, good. That explains that then, doesn’t it?

For me, that’s one of those passages of physics writing that dances on the edges of my comprehension. I think I can almost understand what it might be about, but then, my understanding slips away. I feel like Lata in A Suitable Boy:

Whenever she opened a scientific book and saw whole paragraphs of incomprehensible word and symbols, she felt a sense of wonder at the great territories of learning that lay beyond here – the sum of so many noble and purposive attempts to make objective sense of the world. She enjoyed the feeling; it suited her serious moods; and this afternoon she was feeling serious. She picked up a random book and read a random paragraph: …What exactly it was that pleased her in these sentences she did not know, but they conveyed weight, comfort, inevitability.

I can understand the ideas of the beginnings of the universe, of the joys of general relativity, of the incredible structures of atoms, at a most broad brush level – about the level that Bill Bryson’s excellent book A Short History of Nearly Everything is written at, or on a good day, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, ‘though I have to admit that Hawking lost me on quantum physics until Bryson explained that I ought to find it incredibly weird and almost beyond conception. But that’s about it. I so admire the women and men who have mastered the arcana of physics, who wrestle with extraordinary ideas, who design the most enormous experiments so that we can increase our understanding of the universe in which we live. I’m thrilled that the Large Hadron Collider is running: I hope that one day, soon, someone will be able to explain to me what they are finding out. I love the sense that we are trying to find out more and more, to grapple with the farthest and smallest and largest aspects of reality. We live in an age of exploration. Isn’t it wonderful?

Also, the pictures are very pretty.

Star the twenty-eighth

I’m creating a virtual star chart, to record my progress in Dry July. The star for making it through Wednesday 28 July without touching the demon drink is Star Wars.

Not the wretched ‘sequel’ movies that came out around the turn of the century, nor the sappy The Return of the Jedi, nor even the rather more interesting The Empire Strikes Back. The movie I loved was the very first Star Wars movie, plain Star Wars, long before it got its subtitle: A New Hope. It was magnificent. The very first scene created a sense of awe and shock and wonder for me, as the huge Empire battleship rumbled over my head. Then there was the fabulously imaginative bar scene, and the subversion of the “cute lil folks” trope: those desert dwellers were frightening people. As was Darth Vader: I had nightmares about him for months. George Lucas’ first Star Wars movie was a marvel, far surpassing the gadgetry of recent 3D movies.

It doesn’t however, pass the Bechdel test. No movie in the Star Wars franchise does. Clearly, that would have taken just too much imagination.

Star the twenty-seventh

I’m creating a virtual star chart, to record my progress in Dry July. The star for making it through Tuesday 27 July without touching the demon drink is the asterisk.

I could loathe the asterisk, given the propensity of my symbolically minded colleagues to use it to indicate an alternate version of something, in language that makes my eyes glaze over and sends me racing back to the happy playground of political theory, right at the point where it becomes political science. So often it signals a dry distinction, a tedious point of logic, a use of symbols to obscure rather than enlighten. But most often when I see an asterisk in ordinary prose, my eyes race to the bottom of the page, to find the little juicy snippet of information that the author has placed there, because it didn’t quite fit into the text. Sometimes it’s just a date, but even that is interesting, allowing me to realise that particular lives crossed over, even if those who lived them didn’t meet, or that a particular event occurred just before, or just after, or at the same time, as something else I interested in. When I first read a fictional account of Richard III’s life, I was sceptical that there had been an eclipse on the day that his wife died, until at a suitable pause, the author inserted an asterisk, and at the bottom of the page, assured me that it was true, and that she would not have dared to make up such an improbable event. A kind editor let me know that “condescension” in Jane Austen’s time meant something rather closer to “graciousness” or perhaps “courteousness” in ours: otherwise I would have been rather put out by Emma reflecting that she “did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles.” Most of all, I enjoy asterisks in non-fiction books, when the extra information is not weighty enough to be included in the official footnotes, but it’s a point of interest. Perhaps it’s some quirky information about the topic, maybe an anecdote about the author, possibly a wry remark. It’s a little bit of communication from author directly to reader, a glimpse of colour, a pinch of chilli to enliven the chocolate. An asterisk is a tantalizing hint that there is more to be said.

That is why I like asterisks.