Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Independent/Bosch Technology Horizons essay... third time lucky?

As a friend of mine said, "Its all getting a bit predictable!" after having previously won and being Highly Commended. Having written my third essay for the Independent/Bosch Technology Horizons Award, answering the question "How can technology and engineering provide innovative solutions to today's global challenges?", I have been one the 14 (out of 545 entries) short-listed students for the 2009 prize. I was happily surprised to find out that I won 2nd prize, meaning I've collected all 3! A pity for me, and a boon for the younger generation, it is that I'm now too old to participate in the contest again... I think. Stand by for next year ;-)


"Waste not want not

Climate change: our direst global challenge. The media preaches manifold solutions, including the well-worn emphasis on renewable energy sources and status quo approaches like "clean coal". Technology has endowed us with god-like powers of geoengineering: we can either help nature, by infusing iron into oceans to proliferate carbon-absorbing plankton, or bypass nature by floating lenses in space to reflect the Sun - a modern-day Perseus' shield.

This is all very well. But so long as it evades the underlying problem, our entire approach remains misguided. Climate change is one symptom of our society's affliction: its vampiric lust for energy. There's no denying that climate change must be prevented, but if we don't attack its root cause our efforts remain in vain. Here's where engineering comes in handy. It's not simply the tools it provides, but the philosophy it embodies. Engineering is all about efficiency - using just enough resources to solve a problem, and doing it well to boot. In recent years, researchers have realised we waste much of the extracted energy before using it. That's why an engineer's mindset is so beneficial to scientific research. Let's see how...

Even as we liberate the energy latent in light, wind and tides, much of it is lost. At times when the supply of generated energy exceeds the moment's demand, conventional batteries cannot effectively store the excess. Often the problem is that we store energy in an inefficient form. Think, "what is cheaper and simpler, my thermos or my laptop battery?" Terry Murphy, CEO of SolarReserve has put this simple idea to use in solar thermal plants, by storing energy as heat in molten salt until it is needed to create electricity. A similar approach, useful for wind turbines, is the use of flywheels which store rotational energy by increasing their speed of rotation, then release it back as they slow down.

Photovoltaic solar plants, however, can't afford these solutions, since they produce electricity directly. By way of solution, Donald Sadoway at MIT has developed a cheap and efficient liquid battery, in which energy is stored as metal ions, then freed when the ions fuse into an electrolyte. But perhaps the most promising method is one inspired by photosynthesis: professor Daniel Nocera of MIT has happened upon a holy grail of chemistry - an efficient catalyst to split water into oxygen and hydrogen, the latter of which can be burned to run our car or used in a fuel cell. Importantly, this process does not need a large infrastructure, so every household could manufacture its own fuel.

Speaking of households, new technologies will avoid waste here too. A breakthrough by MIT researchers Byoungwoo Kang and Gerbrand Ceder, speeds the tunnelling of lithium ions inside batteries. This means much higher speeds of recharging, allowing a mobile phone to charge within 10 seconds, and an electric car in 5 minutes. This simple development could effectively eliminate the energy waste from chargers being left on overtime.

A quite different solution is necessary for the PC, an energy hog in our age of constant Internet access. Companies like CherryPal propose a shift towards "cloud computing", where the bulk of processing power is distributed and accessed by many users from individual home terminals. These terminals are simple, integrated and ecological machines that avoid energy waste. However, their connection to the cloud can provide scalable processing power depending on our needs - from web browser to supercomputer.

Yet another way to conserve energy mirrors the thermos example described above. Recent improvements in the manufacture of aerogel, a powerful insulating material, mean it could be affordable enough for use in utilities, such as fridges and ovens, and even in construction. This means we could keep the right places in our houses cold and warm using far less energy. Given that buildings cause over a third of carbon emissions, this becomes a very attractive proposal.

Another big spender is lighting, since our addiction to incandescent bulbs burns one whole fifth of the energy we produce. LED bulbs, similar in usability to incandescents, use some 30 times less energy and have a lifespan 100 times longer, but their price has made them prohibitive. Until recently, that is: a new advance by Colin Humphreys of Cambridge University allows LEDs to be manufactured en masse on silicone wafers instead of the typical sapphire, at a fraction of the usual cost.

In the light of these advances, reducing our carbon footprint is a piece of cake: all we need is to learn how to slice our cake more thinly! When it comes to tackling the challenges ahead, the old proverb is right: "waste not, want not"."
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Friday, June 26, 2009

Taut Tangos

Standing before the bleak gate, I saw no sign nor heard noise that would betray a hint of commotion within. Without, the night held in its airs a sort of agitated yet limp festivity: behind me, in an inner court crowned by a fountain, young men and women wandered vaguely, stirred into Brownian motion by spirits and sexual tension.

The ghost of sensual grace lingered there all the while enveloping the columns that held the balconies above me suspended in the burdened air. The shadows of those pillars, hence, resembled the svelte figure of the Flamenco dancer that had infused so much presence into the then quiet plaza. The towering terrace above took me under its wing, shielded me from the unnatural light of street lamps, and muffled the sound of senseless murmurs. I extended a night-cloaked hand and hissed a call.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

The hive replied with a buzz. The door gave way to cautiously curious fingertips. Within, a stony staircase rose like smoke, ethereal rock. Step by step, the stairs breathed me upwards to the light, like a moth. Out it streamed from the threshold, solidifying not only the stairwell but also the sense of music. The warm, textured sounds slid along the walls and floor, perspiring into my shoes. Like grit it was, hot sand stinging my feet, giving me agony for each instant stood still, bound by boots of Spanish leather.

I strode through, past the oaken door, past mirrors and fedoras, past Gauchos and Catalanes. I stepped into the royal chamber, where the Tangueros moved and spoke the tongue of turning bodies, shaking to the Milonga's beat like bees. The tiled floor, whose flowery regularity scented each tread taken, extended but a handful feet in each direction. A box of sardines where a dozen couples slid like fish past one another and past an impromptu audience waiting for their turn to enter the play.

I lost little time, instead losing myself in the communal embrace, letting the pleasantly poisoned music sting deep into my ear.
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Monday, June 22, 2009

Tacit dancer

Her dark figure grew from the ground up, a shade liberated from the confines of surface. Her stance was a silent dance, motionless, yet stating intent, a stifled shout: "Flamenco!" Her face was aged, yet of timeless beauty:


Half moon eyes - the inverse smiles of samurai masks. The slender, sharp nose sliced the air she breathed, a blade hung over her fine mouth, wide and stern guarding a voice deep and sensuous, of musky tones, textured like white birch bark. Her hair, knotted into a tense bun, more than embraced her scalp, nigh permeating it even, the black ink of an epopee twisted and condensed beyond sense.


What darker threads of thought hid beneath? I imagined their ebony silk boil into sung voice as passion burnt them, leaving only the ash of memory. She did not rummage through the pale flakes of feeling, but instead tamed desire by becoming more obscure than its object, unfathomable to temptation and fate.


As dark stars absorb all light about themselves, so she had drained the light of day to herself, leaving the rest of the square in darkness to my eyes. Only later did I take notice of her escort, a man of ample chest and weathered, rocky face. His apparent prowess was tempered by his meek demeanour, such that side by side the two companions appeared disparate yet inexorably bound: like the King and Queen of a graceful chess set, like Lord and Lady Macbeth, like Mathieu and Conchita...
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Saturday, June 20, 2009

Silverback

A living image of the one who is Silverback, yet charcoal heart, burning...

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Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Amo, Ergo Sum

It lay on a mnemonic shelf, gathering the dust of pained experience, whose unwholesome radiance had already started to corrode the edges of the symbols. As I held the phrase within my hands - cautiously, lest the letters lost cohesion and fell onto the ground - I pondered if these words held power still. I swept the sooty grime off their bare scalps and regarded the fleshy meaning beneath:

"Amo, Ergo Sum," my olden, aged motto. "I love, therefore I am." Unconditional love. One that once given, is ours no longer, but something that is simply part of us. The uncanny flame that e'en boundless sea cannot quench. A love that is quietly crazy, tenderly mad, whose solemn stare slips out of straight-jackets and squeezes past the doors of perception, while the body stays bound...

...until passion seizes this coil and tears the ties, splinters the gates in a blind frenzy. The blunt fire that burns all or burns out, its very own funeral pyre. The love that's never released from Pandora's box, lest it destroy us, lest we lose hold of its wild reins, lest it be ours no longer. The erotic love of the "Odi et Amo, Ergo Sum," the Taoist half-brother of the Buddhist "Amo, Ergo Sum," son of hatred as well as love. The bittersweet Eros of Anne Carson.
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Sunday, June 07, 2009

Broken glass

Years ere, I had a Nightmare, a most unpleasant affair. Indeed, a nightmare with capital letter, for the usual nightmare is rather interesting. The latter turns the misty matter of dream more solid, more living, and sharper than sentient existence. But Nightmare is something else, it is the sweat soaking your face in the morning, the tremor of tendons as fingers sweep sand out of dilated eyes. Nightmare is a dream too frighteningly real, one that threatens to overthrow stable reality to let reign the pandemonium of reverie. Fear comes from feeling that your existence is perhaps confined to the realm of the looking glass, and the smirking face behind the mirror gloats over your stolen freedom...


That morning I had been thus caged in Nightmare, not by iron bars, but by the vast, barren landscape that stretched before me and across infinity as a tired god on a cloudy bed. The whiteness of the endless plane bred madness in my mind as my eyes turned drunk with bare absence. I floated, shapeless and incorporeal, an eyeless observer to the scenes that would unfold in that timeless limbo. Both my being and senses were ensnared, unable to deviate but for one instant, locked into place by dread and anticipation.

Suddenly, an image manifested, as though it had always been there: a young woman, bare and beautiful, sprinted towards the glass screen separating her and me. She leaped through the wall and, as though Time blinked during the impact, appeared on the other side. She crouched on the floor unharmed, almost foetal in her mien, her head bowed not low enough to masquerade the fairness of her face. But then another blink, this time in the eyes of Chance, and where she had been, a bloody pool extended on the plane. Horror shook my sleeping body as I felt, more than saw, her body entire torn by the sharp shards of crystal. Both images stood waiting, languishing in my eyes as consciousness attempted vainly to refuse them passage. Both seen at once, yet separate, as though Fate held its trumps in hand, a sadistic player who out of spite refuses to play a card. Death and life clasped in one cruel fist...
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Saturday, May 30, 2009

the kind Dragon, the alabaster Tower and the lone Raven

It is a little know fact that Dragons are not malefic. Their breath, licked by flurrying tongues of flame, serves not only the combustion of the flesh, but gives theirs life. Dragon's blood is made of rubies, molten and pushed by their mighty hearts, each beat sending the blaze of life to their very fingertips where it dances round and about, almost leaving their hands as a halo of healing force. If a Dragon surrounds you in his colossal hand, fear nothing, his sweat may burn but not harm, drink up and your sadness shall shatter and, as tiny droplets of mist do, give rise to rainbow.

We've cheated much these gentle creatures, in search of the treasures they keep within and not without, for, contrary to legend, they search no riches for themselves. It is us greedy ghouls who, craving their blood, take up arms against these noble behemoths and leech their sap, plunder their passion, let it run and crystallize into empty, listless stones. So you see, the Basilisk has human form, our so called heroes make up the Medusa, each a serpent grown on the head of covetousness, while our fond villains, unlike Perseus, possess no polished shields, no mirrors. But perhaps one can't deflect this gaze no more, so much amassed urge that it has condensed to two black holes that swallow worlds entire.

You will ask, how can these leviathans fall prey to our puny assails? The reasons are rather simple: Dragons cannot but be kind. The irrational heat within them never turns to inferno, but always tender, rises up to their eyes, making their vision ruddy, wholesome. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Indeed, each flame that leaves their mouth is a piece from the mosaic of their soul that they pledge, pawn even, to invigorate our fading Earth. And though we are to them but mosquitoes, our swords but harmless trunks, it is our poisonous hatred and greed which disease and ravage their bodies for the sake of a few drops of their crystal life.

Sometimes the malady infused fails to harm the heart, even as the collapsing corpse unzips scale by scale, disintegrating into fine dust. Instead the plump, pulsating clot falls and buries itself. In the stead of precious blood, brute earth fills its throbbing core and flows through its atria, as a beggar pilgrimaging through a palace. And with each beat, the soil acquires the redder, crystal aspect of true blood. From the makeshift grave sand, grit and crushed rocks spread as a living desert, devouring our lush envy.

In the midst of one such roseate desert stands a Tower carven from Alabaster. It is said a dying God sculpted it for his bride, tracing its shape with his bare fingers, moulding the stone a caress at a time, scratching skylights and portholes into the translucent stone. As he laboured, tender each touch, he eroded his hands past existence, salving their demise with the sweat and tears he rubbed into the rock.

His stumpy fingers still so dexterous that they fashioned within the spire round rooms amidst an arabesque of corridors, each styled with mural upon mural of myths and legends sculptured in sleep by the mistress living within, each story crowned by 3 words writ in charcoal. At the very pinnacle, within an oval chamber he placed not only the dame's bed but, to her delight, also a replica precise of the very steeple it was housed in. The same chambers and galleries, frescoes and syllables, that very sanctum sheltering the spire, and the same love etched within it as without. A Matryoshka of ivory towers...

By day, 'twas a lighthouse concentrating the light pouring out of the shining hole in the sky, beckoning the nomadic winds whose motions stirred even the sedentary sands. When dark fell, the light trapped in its labyrinth web of stony threads, caged as in diamond, would search out its pores and perspire without.

Some say a Raven, an Icarus of its own kind, would fly too close to the tower on such nights, and clothe itself not merely in the onyx yarns, but taint its darkness in the light lingering within. Or perhaps not tarnish but sharpen the edges of his ebony, reminding him that e'en his eve carries the seed of morn. Ash-Winged Rokh, some call him, or Night's Mirror, or Charred Cherub, or Lone Silverback... Lone because he is the last and first. Lone because he feels not loneliness. Lone because he sees no frontier 'tween self, sand or sky. Lone because his beak spoke too sharply of love. Lone because his true name is Raven, and evermore will be.
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Friday, May 15, 2009

Münchhausen: Byronic or Baronic

Karl Friedrich Hieronymus, Freiherr von Münchhausen, hitherto known as the Baron, is Byron's lost progeny. Historical inaccuracy and the relative non-linearity of time come to my rescue afore critics even unhinge their mouths and unfasten their minds. As the Baron never once said, "It's much more than a fact. That's how it really happened!"1

Though the Baron's blood may not belong to Byron, they do share one ink-pot. The Baron is a Byronic hero disguised by humour, but familial features manifest clearly in the traces of Raspe's plume: his rebellion against the crude rules of reality, fuelled by intellectual and creative passions that bear oft-destructive aftermaths.

But the distant nephew becomes a bastard son when Grigori Gorin (Григорий Горин) Olivetti's claws scraped out the paper a darker, melancholy, and vitally, more human Baron. From the ashes of Gorin's nigh-forgotten play "The most truthful" (Самый правдивый) rose the tragi-comic film "That very Münchhausen" (Тот самый Мюнхгаузен), which profited from Oleg Yankovsky (Олег Янковский), whose brilliant acting gave this Baron the compelling charisma, magnetic charm and keenness of a true Byronic hero.

This forgotten classic turns the concept of Münchhausen on its very head, since here "Baron Münchhausen is famous not because he flew [to the moon] or not, but because he never lies"2, therein lies his greatest strength and fatal flaw. He lives isolated from a society that regards him first as a deceiver and later as a madman, estranged from people who eagerly shift from living one lie to the next, collectively as a herd of cattle. Our Baron simply knows that one cannot hide from truth by closing one's eyes, as children do, he "can't do anything secretly, [...] only openly"3; his maturity is even more evident in his courage, since he does not "fear appearing funny. It's not something anyone can afford."4

But he exists not merely in exile from the rest of the human race, but also in disdain of all hierarchies and ranks. He acts not merely like a king, when he threatens war against England lest it declare the Americas independent, but as a God, dispelling inclement weather, defying time and brandishing the power of death and life (over a duck). He openly rejects and ridicules the relationship of master and servant, whose orders and mandates he regards as arbitrary. As a guard is about to arrest the Baron under the Duke's orders of "using force in case of resistance", he replies "who is to use force - you or I? [...] Let us both carry out the orders. Logical?"5 and goes on to theatrically caricature their execution. When he finally arrives to the plaza where the Duke has assembled his entourage, he does so unbound and followed by a band of music. For Münchhausen, society's ways and laws are incomprehensible, as someone remarks: "First we were planning the festivities, then the arrests. Finally we decided to combine them"6



But it is the very creative and destructive passion that fuels Münchhausen that also leads to his demise when he is forced to compromise for the sake of love. Like Samson, he is rendered powerless, chained by love between two pillars when on the one hand his beloved mistress Martha, bent on marriage, threatens to leave him, and on the other hand his divorce with Jacobine won't be approved lest he declare in writing that he is a liar and his stories fabrications. Reluctantly, he concedes to the request, but the weight of the columns tears his soul in twain, and though even Galileo abjured, Münchhausen "always preferred Giordano Bruno."7 His persona humiliated and destroyed, Münchhausen finally turns unstable and, revolted by his own actions, mutinies against himself and Life, murdering the Baron and turning into a common gardener - Müller...

Yet later it is that same energy leads his rebellion against Death, his resurrection three years (not days) later, when he realises that denying his nature is futile as Martha is unable to love his empty carcass: "To return her, I'll have to return myself"8. More tragic still, is that his absence sires a cult of personality whose profiteers are those who wrought his downfall. These very leeches try to thwart his return by imprisoning him, labelling him an insane impersonator and setting up a fraudulent court hearing and a sham test of his identity. The Baron easily sees through the ploy, realising that the cannon that is meant to loft him to the Moon is filled with damp gunpowder meant to result in his public ridicule, and recharges it with dry black powder. Ironically the Duke, afraid of killing the Baron, declares his identity restored and his trip to the Moon "accomplished", launching the general merriment and urging: "Join us, Baron. Join us."9 But the Baron is "too tired of dying"10 to forfeit again, a promise is a promise, he will fly to the Moon... His last, exhausted words burst out thus: "A smart face is not a sign of intellect, gentlemen! All foolishness on earth is made with precisely this expression. Smile, gentlemen. Smile..."11

I'll leave you with a mind- and tongue-twister: Is the Baron a Byronic hero, or is Byron a Baronic villain?

Footnotes (the original Russian citations):
1) Это гораздо больше, чем факт. Так оно и было на самом деле.
2) Барон Мюнхгаузен славен не тем что он летал или не летал, а тем, что никогда не врёт.
3) Я не могу в тайне. Я могу только открыто.
4) Я не боялся казаться смешным. Это не каждый может себе позволить.
5) Кому применять силу — мне или вам? [...] Тогда оба будем выполнять приказ. Логично?
6) Сначала намечались торжества, потом аресты. Потом решили совместить.
7) Я всегда больше любил Джордано Бруно…
8) Чтобы вернуть её, придётся вернуть себя
9) Присоединяйтесь, барон. Присоединяйтесь.
10) Господи, как умирать надоело!
11) Умное лицо — ещё не признак ума, господа! Все глупости на земле совершались именно с этим выражением лица. Улыбайтесь, господа. Улыбайтесь…
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Friday, May 08, 2009

No carapace

I more than once heard people say, often proudly, that their experiences in love had led them to grow a thick skin. I've never understood why others regard insensitivity as strength and, even more often, emotionality as weakness. My belief is that there is far more courage in growing keener with each joy and pain we experience, and to open our heart all the more when we know we may suffer. Here's the expression of this belief:


No...

Carapace.
Spartan shield shed into chasm.
Pachyderm.
Arduous tusks, scab scratched off.
Ivory.
Charcoal rooks flew pawning coins.
Adamant.
Trumped by hearts, piked, clubbed to ash.

I've naught to hide beneath my pelt,
all walls forswear and ribs unsheathe,
cerise hood lift: this heart must breathe,
admit caress and wild whip's welt,

my sweetest seed shall don no husk.
Though lids may moor, put out the lights,
I shall not fall to mourning nights,
this Spanish Don won't turn to dusk.
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Monday, May 04, 2009

Lily in the mist

"¿Quién me ha robado el mes de Abril?
Lo guardaba en el cajón
donde guardo el corazón."
Joaquin Sabina


Draped in dew, befogged yet shrill,
night regards two strangers stride,
arms entwined, with cadenced glide,
dampened steps in mist hushed still.

Inside hearts, caged fireflies steer
sinews strong revealed finespun.
Lips unfastened, masks undone,
petals rustle in the clear.

Nightingales their tongues do twist,
mock the creole of the kiss,
while their twilit pupils miss
Lily melt into the mist.
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