Tag: writing

LOG_003_DISHWORM

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Illustration from Irma Beumer’s field notes of the dishworm’s life cycle.

 

Text transcribed from the notes of xenobiologist Irma Beumer:

The dishworm, so named for its dish-like carapace, is a small organism native to planet Khepri-1b. It lives in the dirt of temperate forests in the twilight zone. In addition to energy obtained from the photosynthetic cells on its “dish,” the mobile forms burrow and forage in detritus for food.

Its lifecycle is a complex one: the dishworm appears to be gynodioecious, consisting of female and hermaphrodites. Current research suggests that all members of the species start as females and later become hermaphroditic. Adult females are mobile and their eggs develop parthenogenetically into female offspring, while adult hermaphrodites are sessile and self-fertilize eggs, not unlike the life stages of Earth organisms of ferns or cnidarians. Early xenobiology research mistook the two adult stages as entirely unrelated organisms.

 

#1 spore/egg — small, scattered by winds — can be fertilized (egg) or self-fertilized pseudo-spore

#2 young dishworm stage (sessile) — undergoes embryonic development, suggested main nutrient sources are from the soil and photosynthesis

#3 juvenile dishworm stage — similar to stage 4a, but with a much shorter tail that grows additional segments with age

#4a adult stage — wormlike, the first recorded observations of this organism. Its anterior has four appendages for shoveling and combing dirt, while the heavy tail and the tail’s claws serve to anchor the organism in high wind conditions

#4b adult stage (sessile) — hermaphroditic, self-fertilizes eggs that are dispersed via wind forces. The soft “body” of 4a is not visible.

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 3: Temptation

Alias Leave a comment

Tungsten clouds flattened as they scraped along the dome of the stadium, the residual howl of their wind battling the sonic boom of the multitude for dominance.  Within the confines of the band section, instruments bellowed and slammed into the rattled air, stunning anyone unfortunate enough not to have earplugs, and shot their notes toward the field.  Cymbals smashed a vicious beat over the intricate, layered rhythms of the drums.  Fierce, dark waves from the trombones blasted forth in ominous fronts that seized the hollow wind and regurgitated it as menacing music.

 

And the TV station, as per usual, completely ignored them.

 

Hal chopped his arm back and forth to the explosive cymbal crashes, throwing his shoulder forth and thrusting his upper body toward the football players as though they would acknowledge him.  They were too far from the band, crouched as they were at the 45 yard line, and their backs were to the north end zone where the band gathered.  Of course, the chant wasn’t directed at the Michigan football players; rather, it was meant for the opposing team, who had just fumbled the ball in the most spectacular fashion.

 

Hal and the other drumline reserves were not allowed to chant along with the student section for a very specific reason, but nothing prevented him from singing along in his head.  The mantra was an adrenaline rush, a ferocious vocal tacked over an exhilarating spew of domineering energy and sound.

 

He unleashed his fury in the form of a scream that flooded his ears but was easily trounced by the band.  Primal, feral, in perfect time, it blended with the shout of the rest of the cymbal line, his one sheer thrill forgotten in the chaos.

 

He wished he was able to play along with the rest of the band, but the cheer was the closest approximation he could get this season.  A freshman in the cymbal line, he’d never really stood a chance to make the performance block this year, and he had only a small chance to make it next year.  He’d practiced incessantly, but he was inexperienced and not as strong as the upperclassmen, who performed advanced visuals with seemingly little effort.

 

Hal loved marching band immensely, loved the cymbal section (it was objectively the best instrument), the people in it.  Loved screaming and dancing in the stands every Saturday with his band friends.  But there was a tickle in his mind, a gnawing, nagging sensation at the back of his throat, the tiny demon that numbed his arms and chipped away his resolve.

 

At the moment, with his arm gouging the wind and his intense glare fixated on the football players pooling around the 45 yard line, he was a machine.  A maize and blue warrior launching an offensive against the wind and against silence, smushed between two of his fellow reserves who pummeled the air with similar malevolence.  All thoughts silenced except the two-word mantra and the swell of the trombones.  Tension building, building until it climaxed in a minor duo of notes, a final crash, and then–

 

Uproar.

LOG_002_PHAROS

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Points of Interest

The Pharos

An excerpt from The Pharos Stands Tall: A Testament to Survival, by Johann Brahe:

The tallest and one of the oldest structures of Station 1, the Pharos’ light can be seen from hundreds of miles away, guiding the way for colonists. The name itself came from the eponymous Pharos, the Lighthouse of Alexandria (of Earth’s Ancient Greek fame), which was the first such beacon and a symbol of a city at the crossroads of the ancient Greco-Roman world. 

The Pharos was constructed out of recycled parts of the first colony ship, the ISS Qilin, intended as a navigation tool in the early days of settlement. Nowadays, the light of the Pharos is mostly symbolic, an enduring testament to the perseverance of early settlers and an icon of the early colonial era. Even as beacons have become obsolete, many travelers still bring toy replicas as good luck charms on their journey.

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 2: The Last Band Geek on Earth

Alias Leave a comment

Amidst the spongy grass and gray pebbles dotted with flecks of quartz

Along paved trails that sluice through the leaf-frosted earth

Beside the brick structures segmented by imposing windows

Stands the last band geek on earth.

 

She stretches a bruised arm up into the sky

Bats at the wisps of cotton-like fog

Her hand fades into the silver and becomes the clouds

But her feet never leave the ground.

 

Tucked away behind the band hall and the slabs of pavement erupting from the dirt

Strewn across the coarse, fractured pavement and triangles of glass

Her wrecked

Resolve skitters along the slate aggregate and collides with dislodged rock.

 

And who is she,

Stretched betwixt the heavens and purgatory, lost in her own dust and her swirls of mist,

The engraving of her failure pressed into her flesh with nature’s stylus,

To dissolve in the muffled fall dawn and let her hair assail the wind?

 

Who is she,

Alone on the cement steps of the band hall with her uniform of sweatpants,

A phantom that is and yet never was

Destined for nebulae and neutron stars?

 

Who was she to believe

That when the band ascended into the constellations for their weekend away from Earth,

She’d journey with them?

Art Biz with Liz: Thank you, arts, ink.

Elizabeth S 2 Comments

At the start of my freshman year, I picked up a pamphlet at Festifall that called for new arts, ink. and [art] seen bloggers. I didn’t really know what Arts at Michigan was at the time, but based on the pamphlet, writing for arts, ink. sounded like a cool thing to do. I was in search of ways to maintain my connection with the arts while simultaneously looking for opportunities to write for fun. I went ahead and submitted my application along with a few writing samples. Not long after, I received the email that I had been selected to become an arts, ink. columnist. In October, I met Joe—the Arts at Michigan Program Director—for an orientation meeting and have been writing for arts, ink. ever since.

A lot has changed since then. If I ever need a reminder, I simply take a walk around campus, as there’s always some new building under construction in Ann Arbor. During my first week of school in 2018, I opened a bank account and got a debit card at the PNC bank on the corner of South U and East U. The branch has relocated, its old building torn down to make room for yet another skyrise. As another example, I previously wrote an arts, ink. post about a boba place that has since been replaced by another one. In fact, the majority of bubble tea shops in Ann Arbor—Unitea, Quickly, Tea Ninja—didn’t exist then. The opening of Chatime and Coco’s was a big deal my freshmen year, whereas now it seems like there’s a new boba place every few months (that’s a big of an exaggeration, but you get the point).

My friends and I went to the grand reopenings of the U-M Museum of Natural History, the Union, and more. I stood in line for a slice of Joe’s Pizza a few weeks after it opened, watched Espresso Royale switch to a different coffee place, and mourned the close of China Gate after its thirty-two-year run in Ann Arbor. Last year, while on a walk around a quiet campus due to a year of online learning, I found the sidewalk in front of the School of Kinesiology Building free from the fencing that had closed it off throughout my undergraduate career up until that point.

A lot of things have changed about me, too. The clubs I participate in, the types of classes I’ve taken, and the people I’m friends with have all changed over time. My part-time job has changed each year as a result of what new opportunities arose. Even what my average weekend looks like has undergone changes. All these things were undeniably affected by an unprecedented pandemic, but what I want to do and who I want to be have been influenced by what I’ve learned and experienced throughout college.

As I think about how quickly graduation is approaching, arts, ink. has been a unique way to document little moments in time. I look at my writing—most of which makes me cringe—and it makes me think about everything I’ve experienced over the past few years. I can look back on the time I braved the polar vortex or the semester I took an acting class. I can reflect on my experiences in RC Singers, Women’s Glee Club, and RC Players. The arts have given me a way to reflect upon my identity as well as topics such as race and class, and arts, ink. enables me to put such reflections into words. This year, I’ll enjoy documenting more artsy activities and memories, like my adventures with novella writing or learning how to play the carillon.

In the meantime, I’d like to say thank you to those who have been with me on this arts, ink. journey, and thank you, arts, ink.