Vol. 52, June 13th, 2023 (Published online a day early.)
Don’t Step on the Stars
On Supernovae and Barefoot Summers
“Going to be a grumpy old man?” my brother smirked, needling my three year seniority. “You already are!” Might as well lean into it.
TIME ran an article: Experts say going barefoot may be hazardous to your health. “I had splinters several times, said professor Pontious.”
WHAT? Have the schoolmarms secured their coup d'état over what we think, enshrining the golden calf of Safety in the highest altar of our minds? Will we let them? (Imagine me when I’m ninety, folks. There won’t be a retirement home that will take me. “Pipe down, Mr. Urban!”)
Whew, where was I? Oh yes, the good news. I’ve been driving back roads, seeing the June hay triumphant in round bales, been peering through telescopes, glimpsing a supernova “only” 21 million light years away as a thousand fireflies blink on earth. I’ve been talking with people ravenous to be human again, to think our own thoughts. Aren’t you? So go ahead, put on the ol’ thinking cap, and savor a breath of June air.
And kick off your shoes. It’s still real here.
Supernova Rockstar
This “star” is not like the others. Think of the rest as bugs on our windshield, and the pictured supernova a thousand times as distant, living in an arm of the galaxy in the photo, 21 million light years away. BOOM!
(Space.com)
Down the Rabbit Hole
What is a supernova, anyway? For this week’s research project, look up “Type II supernovae.” In newspaper terms: “Massive Star’s Attempt at Iron Fusion Goes Boom!”
Happy Birthday, William Butler Yeats
“What they undertook to do, They brought to pass; All things hang like a drop of dew, Upon a blade of grass.”
(b. 1865, Ireland.)
Song of the Week
Chopin Nocturne No. 20 in C sharp minor. A gem of a piece, perfect for late night musings, or anytime Beauty is needed.
Quote of the Week
“You just can’t beat the person who never gives up”
- Babe Ruth
Write to Us!
The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or email Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #138)
Howdy, folks! We’re back to Dr. Electro this week. We left our imaginary heroes rummaging through boxes in the vast subterranean warehouse. Each one contained something sentimental. “Grandmother’s knitting. Grandfather’s pipes. Roller skates. Certificates.”
“Stop!” Electro halted, the company skidding up. “Who’s got a knife? Let’s open this one.”
“Let’s not.” A familiar voice eased through the darkness with a chill. A clank. Lights suddenly flooded down. “You just can’t leave the Good Old Days alone, can you, Dr. Electro?” Ordinary Man stepped out from behind a stack of boxes. This is...
The Return of Dr. Electro #30: Down the Drain
“Tisk tisk, Doctor. You won’t take crushing defeat as an answer, will you? High above you, not as deep underground as this, your father languishes in a prison with Aristotle and Plato. This band of ragamuffins comes barging in...” Ordinary Man paused, a bemused smile flickering on his thin lips.
Electro put his arm around Lady Wilkes’ shoulder to restrain her. “Relax” he whispered. “We’ll figure something out.”
“As I was saying.” A refined nudge of his glasses, and Ordinary resumed. “Our work is tedious, meticulous, precise to the highest degree. Madmen throw as many sparks as their engines of conquest, and both invariably fail. I am not mad. I won’t. Failure is flashy. Ruin is for children.” A sudden slam of his fist on a box betrayed his calm, but he quickly recovered. “We cannot tolerate interruption.” Another refined brush of hand left his forehead dry again.
Beside him, Lady Wilkes shifted again. Electro thought he felt a rumble in the floor.
Charlotte snorted. “Engines. Ruin. Just what are you up to, Nerdface?”
Ordinary Man wheeled, furious. Charlotte patted her hip holster. Ordinary glowered, swallowed, recovering a second time. For a second time, that bemused smile flickered, mocked, danced without joy on his gray lips. “The long game, my dear” he condescended.
With a swift chop of his hand, he broke the lid of the crate next to him. Reaching in, he extracted a bottle. “Ah, how convenient. An 1895 port.” Holding the bottle of wine up, he paused, breathing deeply. “Bottled when the linden trees bloomed along dark lanes in Lisbon. I can almost see lovers walking along them, talking in the moonlight. Just think, their drivel preserved here, along with useless birdsong and whistles of rusted trains.” He shot a pointed look at Lady Wilkes.
She started. Electro squeezed her shoulder again. Ordinary popped the cork.
“Ah, the scent of confusion. Sentimentality. Bosh.” He hurled the bottle down with a crash. “And I meant to rid the world of it!” He kicked the shards viciously, laughing like broken glass. “ I’ve been stockpiling the Cherished for years. Memories in boxes, love in art, sanity in literature, refuge in music. It’s nearly time to destroy it all. And then I’ll reinvent Modern. The era of the Sensible, the Reasonable, the Bland is at hand.”
“Excuse me, sir” Electro interrupted. “Why is the floor shaking?”
...To be continued...