Sure, back when I went storm chasing earlier this year, I saw perhaps a dozen funnels briefly touch down left and right in a multi-vortex tornado. As surreal and scary as the actual funnel clouds were, I maintain that they oddly weren't the most threatening sight I witnessed. Rather, it was the violent motion of the clouds associated with the updraft that composed the larger mesocyclone (that's some fancy wordsies, ain't it?), in which the clouds seemed to be moving in all directions simultaneously: up and down, swirling counter-clockwise in a haphazard yet strangely organized fashion.
As you can tell by my feeble attempt to describe this phenomenon, it's difficult to convey exactly what this looked like until now, thanks to the magic of YouTube (and the good folks at TornadoVideos.net).
The following video is a time-lapse of a rotating supercell in Argentina. (Yes, they have tornadoes in the southern hemisphere, too.) Just after the 1:00 mark, when you can begin to see the wall cloud form, is when you begin to see what I'm talking about:
Eerie, ain't it? True, this is a time-lapse video sped up somewhat, but these clouds can move close to the same speed in real-time. So while there is no doubt the sight of a tornado is terrifying, the movement of clouds beneath the greater mesocyclone is a quietly foreboding image.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Delusions of Ungrandeur
WARNING: this entry's Mindless Rambling Index is dangerously high. Proceed with caution.
Ever had an idea, a thought, a philosophy that you wish you could follow and remember each and every day, but that inevitably loses your mind's grip on a regular basis? As hard as we try to keep apathy and a sense of "coasting" through life from creeping into our streams of consciousness, these tend to return on a somewhat regular basis, and it takes something significant to wake us from that stupor.
I had one of those wake-up calls recently.
On Thanksgiving morning, I was busy at a gas station, filling up my car, withstanding the newfound chill in the air. A woman that may or may not have been homeless passed me on a nearby sidewalk, and sunnily said, "Now THAT is one cute car!" As an owner of a Mini Cooper, I'm accustomed to hearing this -- and to the hint of emasculation that comes with it...the word "cute" often does that to a man when referring to one of his possessions. I smiled and thanked her, and she continued, "You have a wonderful Thanksgiving; I know I will!"
I'm not sure what it was. Maybe it was the genuine excitement with which she said it. Her attitude was somewhat unexpected, given her ragged appearance. But her words set off alarms in my head: I'm coasting through life.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I wasn't looking forward to Thanksgiving with the folks. I really was, but I also was preoccupied with how difficult this, that, or the other will be to overcome tomorrow, next week, next year. Or other times, I was consumed with disappointments past. It wasn't intentional, but the attention I was giving to yesterday AND tomorrow sort of represented a de facto lack of value I was placing on today. The awareness that something really significant was about to happen RIGHT NOW -- Thanksgiving with the folks -- was missing. This lack of focus also implies an illusion that life is just so ordinary: delusions of ungrandeur.
Not to go all self-indulgent on you, but I've been guilty of this a handful of times recently, I think. I'm reminded of a phrase "struggled to see past my nose", from Tom Petty's song, "Square One". If you retreat into this self-imposed shell, it's easy to get so wrapped up in life's challenges that the truly great things in life pass you by, like cars going the other way on the interstate.
I recently watched a movie called "The Dish" -- an adaptation of a true story about the Australian radio telescope that received radio and TV signals from the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969. One of those uber-charming movies that your outer self will say is cheesy, but that your soul appreciates. The telescope's crew overcomes a series of challenges (accompanied by dry Aussie wit) and ultimately accomplishes its mission. But one character caught my attention.
Cliff Buxton (played by Sam Neill) is the head of the telescope's crew. You get the feeling he used to be a real hard-ass, running the operation with an iron grip, but has obviously loosened up in recent days. As it turns out, his wife had died a year before. It's not clear how, but she had been instrumental in the dish's missions, with more enthusiasm and less gravity than her husband. In one scene, this all comes to light, as Cliff confides to another member of the team:
"She was so excited by all this. It made me realize that I should be excited, too. And I am."
A simple line, but it tells a lot. In months leading up to the mission, Cliff apparently was preoccupied, obsessed with running a tight ship, letting the "amazingness" of the mission (i.e., man about to walk on the friggin' moon) pass him by. Delusions of ungrandeur.
But when his wife passed away, her enthusiasm went with her. Maybe that set off the alarm in Cliff's head. While he continued to lead his underlings strongly, he did so with a more laid-back, appreciative attitude, fully embracing the excitement of his circumstances. And doing so, you could perhaps argue, empowered him to deal with the mission's challenges more capably.
Back to that woman at the gas station, though: it was definitely a wake-up call that I needed to hear. If I could just bottle the lesson she taught me, because I'm sure I'll slip into cruise control again, probably next week.
Ever had an idea, a thought, a philosophy that you wish you could follow and remember each and every day, but that inevitably loses your mind's grip on a regular basis? As hard as we try to keep apathy and a sense of "coasting" through life from creeping into our streams of consciousness, these tend to return on a somewhat regular basis, and it takes something significant to wake us from that stupor.
I had one of those wake-up calls recently.
On Thanksgiving morning, I was busy at a gas station, filling up my car, withstanding the newfound chill in the air. A woman that may or may not have been homeless passed me on a nearby sidewalk, and sunnily said, "Now THAT is one cute car!" As an owner of a Mini Cooper, I'm accustomed to hearing this -- and to the hint of emasculation that comes with it...the word "cute" often does that to a man when referring to one of his possessions. I smiled and thanked her, and she continued, "You have a wonderful Thanksgiving; I know I will!"
I'm not sure what it was. Maybe it was the genuine excitement with which she said it. Her attitude was somewhat unexpected, given her ragged appearance. But her words set off alarms in my head: I'm coasting through life.
Don't get me wrong, it's not like I wasn't looking forward to Thanksgiving with the folks. I really was, but I also was preoccupied with how difficult this, that, or the other will be to overcome tomorrow, next week, next year. Or other times, I was consumed with disappointments past. It wasn't intentional, but the attention I was giving to yesterday AND tomorrow sort of represented a de facto lack of value I was placing on today. The awareness that something really significant was about to happen RIGHT NOW -- Thanksgiving with the folks -- was missing. This lack of focus also implies an illusion that life is just so ordinary: delusions of ungrandeur.
Not to go all self-indulgent on you, but I've been guilty of this a handful of times recently, I think. I'm reminded of a phrase "struggled to see past my nose", from Tom Petty's song, "Square One". If you retreat into this self-imposed shell, it's easy to get so wrapped up in life's challenges that the truly great things in life pass you by, like cars going the other way on the interstate.
I recently watched a movie called "The Dish" -- an adaptation of a true story about the Australian radio telescope that received radio and TV signals from the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969. One of those uber-charming movies that your outer self will say is cheesy, but that your soul appreciates. The telescope's crew overcomes a series of challenges (accompanied by dry Aussie wit) and ultimately accomplishes its mission. But one character caught my attention.Cliff Buxton (played by Sam Neill) is the head of the telescope's crew. You get the feeling he used to be a real hard-ass, running the operation with an iron grip, but has obviously loosened up in recent days. As it turns out, his wife had died a year before. It's not clear how, but she had been instrumental in the dish's missions, with more enthusiasm and less gravity than her husband. In one scene, this all comes to light, as Cliff confides to another member of the team:
"She was so excited by all this. It made me realize that I should be excited, too. And I am."
A simple line, but it tells a lot. In months leading up to the mission, Cliff apparently was preoccupied, obsessed with running a tight ship, letting the "amazingness" of the mission (i.e., man about to walk on the friggin' moon) pass him by. Delusions of ungrandeur.
But when his wife passed away, her enthusiasm went with her. Maybe that set off the alarm in Cliff's head. While he continued to lead his underlings strongly, he did so with a more laid-back, appreciative attitude, fully embracing the excitement of his circumstances. And doing so, you could perhaps argue, empowered him to deal with the mission's challenges more capably.
Back to that woman at the gas station, though: it was definitely a wake-up call that I needed to hear. If I could just bottle the lesson she taught me, because I'm sure I'll slip into cruise control again, probably next week.
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