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    Ultraviolet (Light My Way.)

    By quinn esq on Sat, 02/14/2009 - 6:43pm |

    Tetrachromatic Vision.

    Birds can see in the ultraviolet.

    Red, green, blue... and ultraviolet. "Tetrachromatic" vision.

    Whereas we can only see three.

    Our brains, our words, our beliefs are all hard-wired to the idea that what we see... is what is real. If we can't see it, it doesn't exist.


    I can see what you're saying.

    The problem is that what we see - and thus, what we think is real - is limited. Only part of the picture. There are all sorts of wavelengths out there - radio waves and microwaves and X-rays and gamma rays. But not only don't we see them, we don't even recognize our close cousin - ultraviolet.

    Light... that we can't see.

    But it's out there. Bouncing off things, headed straight back at our eyes. We might like to blink it away, refuse to take it in. But in it comes. And still, our heads, our brains, can't make sense of it.

    It's happening to you right now.

    We filter, distort, what everything "looks like." What is.

    Birds can do better. They can see large stretches of ultraviolet light. Which means every bird we see, the colors we know so well - we're seeing differently than the birds see themselves.

    Crows, are not pure Black... to other birds. They have great splashes of color. Robins with their Red breasts, Blue Jays, Snowy Owls - we've got them all wrong.

    We failed in one of the first tasks we were given. We've misnamed them. Mistaken them for what they are not.

    Birds see everything differently - plants, animals, sunshine, the sky. They're all colored differently, once you can see into the ultraviolet.

    Even the expressions on our faces look different, if you could see as birds do.

    Our minds can't grasp what it's like to see in the ultraviolet, because we're locked into seeing the limited color range we're used to. It's not like you can just add another color to the mix. Nope. All the relationships between the colors, all the shadings and patterns, all the brain cells we use for vision - they all would need to change. Each of us color blind, blind, to what is right there before us.

    Oh yeah. And all those skin colors we think we are? Black and white and red and yellow and all that?

    Wrong. We aren't any of those colors. Not really.

    None of us know what color we really are. At least, not in the eyes of God. Nor in the eyes of Science.

    Fade to black?


    Kamaitachi.

    Sometimes a person walking in the mountains will be beset by a ferocious wind, and only later discover deep but painless gashes made in their skin, as if by some very sharp instrument. 

    Toriyama Sekien (1712-1788) was the 1st scholar to identify & document this phenomenon - the work of the Kamaitachi (or Sickle Weasel.) Kamaitachi are lightning-fast weasels that ride in a whirlwind, invisible to us, but each equipped with very sharp sickle-like claws with which to attack. 

    The Kamaitachi work in teams of three, the 1st rushing upon & stunning the victim, the 2nd cutting the flesh with its claws, and the 3rd applying medicine that eliminates pain & stifles the bleeding.

           

    In late Summer 1987, I returned home after living in California. I had finished university, and had been working on a book with a friend there. It told the story of a generation, our post-war generation, and of how it would sooner or later - God, let it be the former - change American politics. We had researched for years; travelled the US & abroad; talked with the most engaged, intelligent, people we could find; ransacked the polling data. The corruption of Reagan was coming to light, and that of the TV preachers. 

    We had great hopes. And were well into writing. The history, sociology, attitudes of our generation. The seeds being planted, of new, greener, technology. Of moving beyond markets, beyond state. And of course, of the cultural change all around us. Each chapter had dozens of links - to music, speeches, history, film. We drew red lines on each page, showing the connections & interconnections of people, ideas, events. And the conclusion was all politics. A way forward.

    We worked at every job imaginable, to support the project. We spoke to anyone who might be interested. Opportunities appeared, and then... poof. Just. Like. That. Disappearing rabbits. Felt like something larger, playing tricks on us.

    And then, we got an offer. The offer. Major publisher. We were ecstatic. To tell the truth, we'd lived the entire time pretty much in a state of ecstasy. Dreams. Visions. No drugs required, the thoughts just... presented themselves. Invisible currents flowed into our heads from the cosmos. Infused the book.

    And yet, we wrestled with one truth, which we didn't wish to speak. Oh, it was there in the book - but we never spelled it out. The truth that our numbers weren't yet large enough to create the change we wanted. Not yet. And worse, not likely, for 20 years. The ideas were good, they would eventually happen - but they too were young. Seeds, but just seeds. Not yet fully grown. We looked at each other & said, "But who can maintain hope, knowing they have another 20 years to walk?" And, "'Not yet,' is a hard thing to hear."

    Then the editor, who had selected our book, died. And the publisher closed the office. We stood, empty-handed, another rabbit - gone. We ran out of money. Needed to recharge, rethink, reload. I went back to my home, the farm by the water, East Coast. Sobered. Brooding. Perhaps as only a young person can. I walked. Endless miles - hills, coast, mountains, fields. Going over & over how positive the ideas, the writing, had been. The support we had received from so many. But also troubled, by the way doors seemed to open... and then slam shut. And always, that nagging 20 years.

    After a few weeks, I received a call from my friend. Someone important had read our stuff. Loved it. Wanted us to write for him. This was it, we figured. This must be the reason all those other doors had opened, then closed. This was the one meant for us. Hope surged.

    A huge, late Summer storm came up the coast. I loved storms. Hurricanes, Nor'easters, snowstorms - I loved them all. Went walking in them, whatever the hour, or condition. Always had. I went out in this one, walking, thinking. Utterly absorbed. Thinking of all that had happened. Hoping for guidance. From the invisible current, I guess. 

    I forgot to pay attention to the storm. When I finally noticed, it was directly over me. I turned & began walking - fast -through the blackness, home. Lightning was ripping the sky. Thunder louder than I'd ever heard. I was on the road at the bottom of the last hill. Rows of apple trees stretching up, maybe 10 yards away on each side. 

    When I slowed down, then... stopped. Turned round, to look at the trees, their silhouettes flashing. Pitch black... then lit up like noon. Funny, my legs felt riveted to the ground. Then the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Locked me to the ground. Spooky. A feeling started rising in me.

    I thought I heard someone call my name. Figured it must be my brother, sent out to find me in the storm, tell me not to be such a damn fool, to come inside. I felt as though I couldn't move my feet, so I turned my head back around to answer him. But as I turned my face, it wasn't him. At all.

    When the lightning struck, I thought my heart would explode. Suddenly, it just seemed to swell, filling my chest. I could feel each pulse hammer through me. Upstroke... Bam. Downstroke... WHAM. With each pulse, every muscle in my body seemed to contract into a hard ball, then... tear wide open as the next surge came through. I remember my jaw snapping open so hard I thought it would break.

    I was struck blind. By the brightest whitest light imaginable. 

    I was struck deaf. As though my head was an enormous gong, hammered by Thor himself. 

    I fell face down, mouth open, eyes open, into the wet, red, dust. Stunned. Unconscious.

     

    When I came to, I staggered home. People had been woken by the sound, the storm had been so close. "Too close," said I, and told them the story. I ached for days, but no bleeding. Ached. Thought my jaw, the entire sides of my head, would come off. But they didn't. Most people survive these things relatively unscathed, it turns out. The force of the strike cascades off them, like a downpour sheeting off an umbrella.

    Three weeks later, my friend called again. The person who wanted us to write for them had... had some bad breaks. Events, dear boy, events. "Bad timing," they had said.

    I laughed.

    I already knew the answer. Had seen it. In the ultraviolet.

    Though... "Not yet" was a tough answer to take. 

    Not with a 20 year walk ahead.

    That's how I first met the Kamaitachi. Never saw them coming.

    Kelvin.

    It's Winter, and we all feel the cold. Once the snow starts, and the rivers & lakes freeze, it feels all-consuming. Just... cold. Our temperature charts confirm this. When it hits 32 degrees Fahrenheit, water's well on its way to ice. We're made up of water, and it seems to be all around us - falling from the sky, frozen in the lakes, piled up along roads and covering the fields. So when we see this stuff change from a clear liquid into solid white stuff we think, "Now... it's cold. In a few months, that'll change. But in the meantime, I have to get inside, and get some warmth."

    Kelvin tells the story differently. Kelvin says +32 Fahrenheit is +273 degrees. Even when it's -40 Fahrenheit, it's still about +233 degrees kelvin. 

    Kelvin tells us there's energy in the air, the water, the soil - even when Fahrenheit tells us there's nothing but cold.

    Kelvin's telling us something useful. That there's energy there - even in cold air, cold water, cold ground. And when there's energy there, you can squeeze it out... then pump it into your home, to keep you toasty. Eventually, it'll leak back out again, billions of hot & happy little dogs, radiating & romping back across the outdoors.

    Fridges do this. Heat seeps into them. The fridge squeezes the heat out, and pumps it away, into your kitchen.

    We no longer think a fridge is magic. 

    But when someone tells you that you can squeeze the heat out of the air (or water, or the earth), then use that heat for your house - they kinda think you're nuts. And it does sound bizarre. A bit magical.

    And yet, right now, there is enough heat in the ground beneath your backyard, even in deepest Winter, to heat your entire house. 

    By using a heat pump. That's what they do. As the ad says, "All the energy you could ever want, in the ground beneath your feet." You may not be able to see it... but it's there. 

    And every year, the heat gets returned, renewed. Some from the sun. Some rises up from the center of the earth. Some comes when you run the heat pump as an air conditioner in Summer, when it dumps excess heat back into the ground or the air or the water, so you can use it again next Winter.

    Oh yeah. That heat in the ground comes from one other source too. We all know about the Urban "Heat Island" Effect, that makes cities hotter. It comes from the concrete & pavement absorbing heat, and buildings blocking the wind, and heat coming off cars & factories & houses. And we've all heard how it's bad, and old people can die from it, and so on.

    But there's something else. That we didn't see.

    Y'see, the urban heat island also extends... downward. Stands to reason, when you think about it. That extra heat we produce penetrates down into the soil & sand & rock, year over year flowing deeper, held there. And if there's water down beneath your city, and there usually is, well... it gets heated too. 

    For instance, the water beneath this very cold, Northern city, is now 10 or 12 degrees Fahrenheit above the temperature it was before settlement. An entire, massive aquifer, has been heated by 3, 4, 5 generations of factories & industry & railroads & cars & buildings & pavement.

    All that warm water, wrapped in a big, rock-encased, tank. 

    All that energy, sitting down there, that we can't even see. 

    But with heat pumps.... Yeah. You got it. We can pump it up. And return the aquifer to its normal temperature, as part of the bargain.

    We measured the heat beneath our city. It's effectively a hot water tank worth... just over $1 billion.

    We found a billion dollars. 

    Invisible... unless you can see in the Infrared. And through the Earth. 

    Which not even birds can do.

    It's as though our Grandparents just... dropped it there. A gift, held in storage, for us. Maybe for when we needed it most. Maybe they dropped some beneath your city, too.

    And everyone in the city can have a share. We just have to reach down... into the invisible...

    And Pump It Up.


    Red Cross

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