Showing posts with label teapot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teapot. Show all posts

Thursday, January 03, 2019

Fun with Dry Ice




Over the winter holiday we received a Styrofoam  package of food which was cooled by a giant slab of dry ice!  So of course we had to break off chunks of it and put it into water.  The problem was that the dry ice was the size of a text book. 

So we had to break it up some how.  The most expedient way I could think of was to heat up an aluminium bracket in a pan of hot water, and then use it like a knife to try and cut the dry ice.  It sort of worked, but the ice cooled the bracket down fairly quickly, so it took several passes.  

When the hot bracket was placed against the ice, the bracket vibrated in my hands and made a high-pitched hum as the sublimating carbon dioxide rushed away from it.  Eventually, I was able to separate a chunk about the size of three ice-cubes from the main body.  

I forget why, but a chunk of dry ice got put onto a saucepan lid, which then became a kind of auto-playing cymbal as the chuck of ice propelled itself around its rim.  We quickly clunked it into some water.  

Eventually we got out the lavender tea pot, given to me by my Aunt Margot during my Reed College days -- the tea pot that served We Three during one of their Portland Tours, the tea pot that kept me from bolting from my Thesis Orals after The Embarrassing Statistics Mistake was discovered, the tea pot that stars in other photos of water vapor coming out of its spout -- filled it with hot water, and plunked a large chunk of dry ice into it.

The resulting blast of white, cloudy vapor was aesthetically satisfying, and provided at least ten minutes of entertainment before the hot water was cooled, and we discovered that the damp table-runner underneath the teapot had crystallized.


Friday, December 28, 2018

Thursday, June 26, 2014

Dreams, Russ, and Personal Voice

This morning I woke up with a dream.  I only remember the tail end of it -- something about Mark and me walking in Northfield/Astoria along old closed storefronts... 

In the dream, I awoke in our bedroom.  There was classical music playing from KWAX on the radio.  And on the floor of the bedroom, still glowing from last night, was the iron teapot with a tea light in it.  

I'm not sure how I was able to see light through the tea pot, which was pleasantly warm to the touch.  Good thing I didn't start I fire, I thought.  Mark was still asleep so I took it out of the room.  

And then the dream turned into a gardening dream... I was weeding early in the morning.  We had a (not existent in real life) plot in front of the house.  I was using a plastic claw or rake to uproot weeds and snag out dead leaves from around the roots of a small ?maple? and ?flowers?.  I had a brief conversation with with a dream amalgam neighbor, probably about weeding.

I woke up for real with the image of a warm glowing teapot and gardening.



I read more Joanna Russ this week, and her other works aren't speaking to me as strongly as her Kirk/Spock papers.  I was hoping to click with her Lovecraft essay, but I didn't, perhaps because the alien voice interests me more than horror induced by depression caused by the realization that chthonic forces will return the self to the void.  


The work of Russ that I have read is mostly from from 1985, and a lot of it is (surprise!) feminist theory.  The conversation about feminism has changed from thinking about a specific end goal  to thinking about a process or journey, and essentialist notions of discrete genders and orientations have become continuums.  And, although she reports about trying to get a gay male perspective on Kirk/Spock, it feels like she wasn't able to talk to many gay men.

On the plus side, Russ's papers have reminded me that stories have a latent content (heart or symbolic meaning) as well as a manifest one (rockets and dragons).

Russ's image of Kirk and Spock as divine male-male lovers spoke to me very strongly, and while Russ claims her story is written by a woman speaking to other women about egalitarian vulnerability in romantic relationships, her symbolic imagery speaks to this gay man.

Which leads me to questions about my own direction.  Do I need to write gay speculative fiction?  I think the world does not need Yet Another Coming Out Story.  Do I need to write male speculative fiction -- or, better question:  how do I write male speculative fiction as a gay man writing in (as "Women Destroy Sci-Fi" reminds me) a male-dominated speculative fiction market?   

Do I write a story about future men-without-penises, or male AIs, or a fantasy country called Tiresias, where the inhabitants may switch genders?  Oh dear, I think I'm being pulled into writing what Russ called "a dreadful Amazon Utopia" story.

I think the answer is "just write what you're interested in."  Like gardens and glowing, warm teapots.