It was not the most spectacular presentation, I was told by those who have seen such, but it was spectacular for me.
Through the mosquitoes I could see this luminous white fluid, rather like milk, flowing through transparent pipe-like things. It was the oddest sight. The sky was filled with these pipes, coiling up, down, and around, with this milk flowing through it. It went on for hours.
And even stranger, was a crackling sound, almost like the sound of electricity. This gave the final surreal touch to the whole experience.
This was over thirty years ago, but it is a vision I can't forget.
Above the arctic circle, Aurora Borealis is not too uncommon thing to see. I lived in Muonio (in Finnish Lapland), and the northern lights in Lapland are something I will never forget.
Finnish name for this phenomenon is "Revontuli" (fox's fire). A children's comics series Minttu had an illustration for this that I will remember forever: A fox sitting on top of fjeld next to a fire, with the flames coloring the sky.
A cosmic wind scattered the light-seeds.
They fell into the lake and we lost them.
Except for a few that I saw in your palm.
You lit cigarettes and told me you needed something unholy to keep you down here on this rock next to me.
But I'd given up the habit of standing on the ground
so I took from you instead stalks of white light to chew.
They were juicy and fat from the holding and we sat in the cold while I sucked them to nothing.
"It won't be long," you told me "before the streetlights eat them all."
Total silence reigns in the endless icy polar regions. Nature is silenced by the cold. On the southern horizon however, there is a faint light visible--an arc of Northern light. Slowly the arc gets brighter as it gradually climbs higher and higher in the sky. The form of the Northern light is stable and its colour is uniformly green. The arc stays quiet and calm as it rises further toward the zenith. Suddenly another, just as regular an arc, appears on the southern horizon and soon after this, several new arcs. In a moment there are seven arcs in the sky, all moving toward the north. Suddenly a band forms, showing much brighter light than the arcs. Its movements are rapid. As in ever-changing play, the band varies both in form and in colour. Small light waves travel uninterruptedly from west to east. All this happens simultaneously, as the band itself undulates and winds itself into a spiral as if it is a mysterious magic curtain in the sky. The light intensifies and the movements become more and more rapid. The upper and lower edges of the band show colours of the rainbow, especially different hues of red. As the band once more approaches the zenith, it suddenly breaks into a vast bunch of long rays. These all originate from one point. We are offered a magnificent display, straight from the focus. The light waves dance as if coupled around this one single point. This fantastic corona of Northern light disappears for a short while—just in order to reappear once more in different colours. The rays now dance up and dance down, faster and faster. The whole sky is just one wavy and stormy sea of violent flames. The entire icy view is lit and strong illumination creates fantastic shadows on the ground. Then, unexpectedly, this all vanishes unbelievably fast. The Northern lights are an imposing fireworks display—incomprehensible in their scale, even for the most vivid imagination. No paint, no brush and no word can truly describe their glory.
Suddenly a band forms, showing much brighter light than the arcs. Its movements are rapid. As in ever-changing play, the band varies both in form and in colour. Small light waves travel uninterruptedly from west to east. All this happens simultaneously, as the band itself undulates and winds itself into a spiral as if it is a mysterious magic curtain in the sky.
The light intensifies and the movements become more and more rapid. The upper and lower edges of the band show colours of the rainbow, especially different hues of red. As the band once more approaches the zenith, it suddenly breaks into a vast bunch of long rays. These all originate from one point. We are offered a magnificent display, straight from the focus. The light waves dance as if coupled around this one single point. This fantastic corona of Northern light disappears for a short while—just in order to reappear once more in different colours. The rays now dance up and dance down, faster and faster. The whole sky is just one wavy and stormy sea of violent flames. The entire icy view is lit and strong illumination creates fantastic shadows on the ground. Then, unexpectedly, this all vanishes unbelievably fast. The Northern lights are an imposing fireworks display—incomprehensible in their scale, even for the most vivid imagination. No paint, no brush and no word can truly describe their glory.
There's a serious scientific write-up of the aurora—both terrestrial and extra-terrestrial—on the aurora node.
*Weyprecht died on 29 March 1881. This text is thus in the public domain. See http://members.chello.at/friedrich.morawetz/Seite_36x.html for more information (auf deutsch)
Astroly, god of the night, was unhappy. Not because of any mundane thing that gods become unhappy about, but rather a very large, very special thing. Thrope, the god of the earth and people, therefore the most important god, had decided to have a party on Earth. He was going to invite all of the gods, and so this would be a very large, and a very, very special party. Astroly had fallen into Thrope's bad graces, because Thrope thought the night should be warmer and brighter, like the day, placing the world in two stages: day and dusk. Thrope is a good, kind god, thought Astroly, but he can be very stubborn. Anyway, he just HAD to get into Thrope's good graces, and perhaps even save the calm and beauty of night. How could he impress Thrope that much?
Astroly was a tad slower getting home because he had a bit extra to hold him down, though his thoughts were bouyant, and he got to his abode in time to make a special surprise for all the guests. At the party, everything was going smoothly. Gods were getting a bit woozy, Thrope had given the humans fire, and some of the shows were spectacular. Amazing, really, thought Astroly. I hope they'll be as amazed with my performance as I am with theirs. Time flew, as it does when you are enjoying any activity, and the air was starting to get smoky. "Hah! Maybe I gave humans too much fire!" shouted Thrope. Everyone laughed, for if anything, Thrope had only given one tribe one burning stick. Besides, they, and Thrope, were a bit drunk, and everybody knows that you just DON'T insult a god, especially a drunk one! And the alcohol was helpfully firing off nerve cells in their collective brains, envisioning horribly mutilating, cruel, and unusual things that Thrope could do in a drunken rage. Astroly noticed the smoke, and decided to see if the smoke helped or hindered his project. He flew up, set up his materials, and flew down. As he gazed up, he decided it actually helped his project. He flew up, took his stuff down, and then just as he got back, he heard his name being called by Thrope : "Astroly! C'mere down here and show us whacha got!" Obviously, drunk gods sometimes forget their grammar.
Astroly compliantly trudged back up, but before he set up his grand presentation, he called down to the gods to please not look up until he asked them to. There was a murmur of astonishment in the crowd, for it was not common for a god to ask anything of another god. They were usually very self-reliant. When the gods had resumed their chatter, Astroly started to paint the sky with the paints he had made. He was rather proud of these paints, for he had made them by taking the same paint that Prismus used to make rainbows, then crushing the ice that never melted into the paint, thereby getting a paint that would shine in the night. When he was finished, he called down : "Done!" All the gods looked up at once, including Thrope, for they were all eager to see what Astroly had done, for to keep the night, the show would certainly have to be impressive.
There was a collective gasp from everyone in the crowd, and then many started to grin, for what they saw was one of the most beautiful they had ever seen. It was like a rainbow of the night, and what was more, it was not just a simple, misty, tenuous arch that was hard to see, it was many curtains of shimmering, glowing, effervescent light that was very, very easy to see. When Astroly touched down, all the gods started to clap, and then suddenly they were silent. Thrope was pushing up to the front of the crowd, and when he got there, he stood over Astroly, his face was emotionless stone. Suddenly, he burst out in a grin, and everyone started applauding. Thrope bear hugged Astroly, and said "Mah boy..." slurring his words, "Ahm very impressed." He staggered slightly. "This night fire you've made is quite beautiful." He paused for a moment, and everyone held their breath. "My boy...you may keep the night!" The gods all cheered, for they liked Astroly and were fond of the night. That is how auroras are formed
Aurora Borealis. A trillion tiny ionized particles blasting into the planet's magnetic field at terminal velocity. Gusts of ions exploding into streams, rivers, torrents of colour, carving channels across this semi-dark, urban sky.
And I, nestled at the foot of a hydroelectric tower, my eternal company in this landscape of constructed aloneness, look up, transfixed, into a cascading sky. A rumbling, clanging, squealing freight lumbers by to the north, speaking of endless labours in ever-changing yet blankly equal worldscapes of trees and buildings, mountains and rubble. Above me hangs a billowing, wave-strewn canopy, blue-green like a tropical sea, a silk parachute rising on a warm, June breeze with children running underneath and balls bouncing overhead.
A wall of flames rises to the north-east, crackling as it consumes the swathes of low-density box industry and faceless, identical houses and endless asphalt cemeteries. It leaves the moraine untouched. I hold out my hands, warming my palms in the red glow of this atmospheric conflagration. I see Wonderland slowly consumed; twisted, flame-wracked steel frames collapsing in on themselves and a mountain of blackened concrete oozing, melting, gushing through vendor-lined promenades to lap at the shores of adjacent subdivisions. I see an inferno rushing down the road to Barrie and beyond, consuming the needle that delivered thousands of cancer cells into the wilderness. A fireball gushes through this hundred mile long Swiss tunnel, petrol trucks and camper vans exploding while others, thrown hell-bound into reverse, tumble off the roadway to be swallowed by the remaining forests.
The lines are buzzing, and quarter-loaded passenger carriers glide silently overhead, their navigation lights blinking like a message struggling through an ocean fog. Another train rumbles by, passing rusted rumours and complaining about the cold. Cars and trucks and glowing buses power back and forth while I sit here waiting for them to all keel over. And I'm tired of waiting. The aurora fades, withdrawing back into the safe comfort of icy space as ruffled, doilly clouds sweep in to slow dance over the waning moon. The towers, still standing forever motionless, unflinching, reminding me that I still don't know what I'm waiting for.
Sometimes we're only skin deep, And trying to be infinite.
While using satellites They think they found Noah's ark, Which means there was one. Then history happened as if without, When all this time There's been an ark in the world.
If I lost my memory, If I drowned in a Zen tsunami, If nothing was or would be, Would I know you by heart? Would I fall in love again? Would you recognize me?
Last night in the northern Thule you said you can hear the aurora. Last night the night sky burned green before the stars and Tremulous glaciers paused to permit the sound. Last night a choir of lost children sang beyond the northern ice: The echoes off the sun of our voices unborn.
When our illusory blood and flesh Wear shards of infinity, Won't forever make everydream real? Electric echos undampened as luminous clouds Etched voices on stars Ending never, always, eternal.
Most New Jerseyians don't think of Alaska. Some have never heard of it. The names of Alaskan cities conjure no mental notion beyond a vague high school remembrance of Jack London trying in vain to start a fire and dying for want of a flint.
We were born in a bubble that extended from Manhattan to Philly. Everything inside had a reference position on the Turnpike or the Parkway. Exit numbers were the GPS coordinates of everything we needed to locate. Beyond was terra incognita. Dragons and waterfalls. The bottomless pit from which emerged our grandparents and chicken chow mein.
Though I loved everyone, I could not stay there. It was not my home.
As women are lunar, bears are solar. When the bears awaken for spring, they go hunting And the radio says when you encounter a bear You shouldn't run because bears chase and kill running things. They can't help themselves. So when you encounter one, stand your ground. Though the black bear is the most human-amenable of the ursine family, In hand-to-claw combat, no human is a match for a bear. So when you encounter a bear and are standing your ground Your continued existence is at the pleasure of the animal. This can be unsettling to the human, As truth frequently is.
As the lives of men follow curved open arcs, so women are perfect circles. And all unanswered wishes go somewhere to wait. While travelling in Greenland an Inuit elder told the tourist she could hear the Aurora Borealis. There was a time to go and a place to stand, and even within sight of civilization she could hear the lights.
So at the appointed time the tourist woman went to the ice. She saw night sky fill with rippling green clouds that blotted then revealed the stars. At first she heard only the frigid Arctic breeze fluttering past her ears. Then she there was a tone, impure and wavering like that of a child learning to sing. Then the sound grew stronger and she could just hear it over the wind. It was joined by other notes like other tiny voices in the distance over the horizon.
And she wanted to believe she was imagining it. That it was a mental fabrication.
That there are no voices of children yet to be.
But a woman exists at the pleasure of the heavenly gyre.
And men are just distant children Who wish themselves into the wilderness Never again to be seen.
It was morning. She asked him, "How do you like your oatmeal?" "Uh oh." "What?" "Why are you asking me this?" "I want you to be happy. How do you like it?" "It's oatmeal. There isn't a way to it. I never learned any oatmeal styles." "There are as many as there are people." "Ok, then. Lumpy." "I try very hard to make it smooth." "Don't try so hard. I'll be happier." "Oatmeal is not supposed to be lumpy." "How do you know? Is it on the label? Is there an edict from the god of oatmeal - 'thou shalt eradicate all lumpage?'" "Don't get smart-mouthed with me." "I'm trying to be funny." "Well, you're not." "I think I'll make myself some eggs." "But I have all this oatmeal going. You're going to make me throw it all away." "Ok. I'll have oatmeal. Did you see the garbage on the street this morning? I picked it up on the way back from my run. I think a bear got into someone's can." "Did you hear the aurora last night?" "Did I -- what? Auroras don't make noise. They're light. High energy particles swimming around in the earth's magnetic field. Quantum radiation, sort of electronic thingy, up there, kind of..." "I want a child." "They should put a bungee cord on their garbage can. Keep the bears out." "I want to have a baby." "Ok. We can do that." "No, you don't understand me. I want a child." "Ok." "You're not listening." "Honey, the oatmeal is done, I think. And I hear you. But what would we do with one?" "You don't do anything with a baby. It's a baby." "We could feed it to the bears. Maybe they'd stay out of the garbage." "That's not funny." "I'm not trying to be funny." "Well, you're not." "Sweetie, I have an idea. Let's have a baby." "..." "Seeing as how you're looking forward to the agony of labor." "..." "I mean, I have the fun part. You have to go through all the -- you know." "..." "Honey?" "..." "Look. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, now. I come down here expecting we're going to have a nice breakfast and then auroras and the babies -- how about this. I'll go back upstairs and come down again. We can start over." "You really don't understand anything, do you." "I'm just a guy. I don't know who you think you married. I'm just some guy." "It sounded like children singing." "Like children." "Like a choir. Like a church in the distance." "What were they singing?" "..." "I love you, honey." "I want us to be a family." "I do, too. I love you. Can we have breakfast now?"
My dearest, in summer I was led to my dad's grave And there placed a picture Of us, when we were young. And I asked the cold earth, "Father, are all sons haunted by dreams? Dad, what advice have you for me? What have become of the roof and the stairs you built? Where are the songs you sung?" And touched the name on the stone, my own. As if that was the warmth and curve of him. No. I am what is left of him. I have been a dream's captive And inconsiderate of reality's truth. To intrude upon the southern void And to the north and the bears and the sky full of voices. Flowing inevitably toward the invisible inevitable Wishing well to those drowning in the wake. Dearest, when I am gone missing, I will have returned my voice. And this is how you will find me: Where the sky rings, wait for them. A phalanx of thickly clothed children will lead you to my grave, And stand upon it cheerfully emiting stacatto breath clouds, Legs twiching, hands darting, fingers pointing, all saying, "This is where we put him. This is where we last saw our father. Here beside the ice. May we go now? Can we have our cookie?"
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