#amplitude mode

[carynmixx2am]

[wonallofme]

let it out, loser!

tw and tags: boxer!jungwon x fem!reader, smut, no condom, penetration, creampie, squirt, heavy dubcon, no plot just porn, the sex is nasty af, a little of blood (biting lips and fight wounds), allusion to past noncon, insanity from both of them. word count: 1.7k note: hi! i haven't written anything in a long time and just wanted to do something short. this is my first (official) enhypen piece, hope someone here likes it. if you know me from my other blog, you just know the sex i write is not the most sane one. again, this is pure fiction! Please be careful about the tags you wish to block.

credits for the divider: @bernardsbendystraws (link)

The sound of his keys being thrown to the table in your kitchen shouldn’t be that hot. The sound of his bag hitting your floor with fury shouldn’t make your panties get wet. Even more, the sound of his heart beating inside his chest so fast shouldn’t make you excited for what was about to come.

Knowing too well how he, his breath, his steps, his things, sounded when he was angry after a loss, shouldn’t turn you on.

One, two, three, four. You counted the steps he took.

Usually, if he walked around the room, he would be searching for condoms. He didn’t walk that much, so you immediately knew, he would be harder that night.

After all, he needed to let everything out to be himself the next day.

‘’I know you’re awake,’’ he said, making you open your eyes to not pretend anymore.

He didn’t try to be gentle.

His face was a mess, even in the darkness of the night, with the little to almost no light that trespassed your curtains, you could see a faint purple color on his cheek, and a bright fresh red on his lip. Both meant he would leave you hurting too.

You didn’t have to ask what he wanted from you.

You ruffled in your sheets.

You moved them so he could accommodate himself between your legs, and rubbing your eyes from the recent nap you had, you simply let him take your pajama shorts off.

It was better when you didn’t interrupt him.

You don’t hate this version of him. You know that, when the morning comes, he’ll be your nice boyfriend again. He’ll make breakfast and won’t talk at all about the night or his fight. He’ll let you clean his wounds, he’ll give you a silent soft kiss after walking you to class, and then he’ll go to the gym to keep training.

He made it hurt those nights, but he never made it hurt in your daily life.

Jungwon is the kind of boyfriend that makes sure you’re always comfortable while having sex. He leaves soft pecks on your cheek while fingering you, and he asks if you’re okay when he puts it in. He’s so tender, sometimes, you’re the one afraid of hurting him.

So, these times, when he doesn’t ask how you feel, and he just takes, you try to understand him.

A whimper came out of your mouth, totally involuntarily, when you felt his spit touching your entrance.

He was over you, between your legs, forcing them open with his own amplitude, staring at your entrance and how his saliva mixed with your wetness.

For these occasions, that little help was more than enough for you. He almost laughed. A smirk appeared on his mouth, and he let a curse out. Were you happy he was a mess? Was he really that pathetic? Why were you always so excited when he arrived from losing a match?

‘’You’re lucky I’m this kind, crazy bitch.’’

Pressing his tip on your wet clit, he exhaled loudly, looking defeated, before moving it down between your lips, smearing his spit along. He didn’t look at your eyes in this mode. He didn’t dare to look at your face. He concentrated on what he wanted from you, and you tried to find what parts of him were wounded so you could make a list of things you might need.

Ointment, bandages, cold pads, maybe you would have to cook him something nice too. Did you have apples left?

You couldn’t continue thinking when he slid in.

The burning made you leave a hurt sound out. You whimpered again, because of the pain, and hissed when he pulled out.

He didn’t ask you anything. He didn’t kiss your lips to ease it up or apologise in your ear before stopping altogether. You could see his mind thinking of something, and you wanted to suggest him, maybe he could give you more of it? As if reading your mind, he spat on his hand, a long line of drool finding his cock, and some of it spilling on your pussy on the way.

Your legs trembled with the sensation, somehow feeling a rush in your entire body. You wanted it so bad, this side of him, that when he wrapped the back of your thighs to oblige it all the way to your breast, you cried.

Not because of the sudden movement, or because of how challenging the position was, but because you knew he wanted you to feel it all.

And, when he wanted that, you would really feel it all.

‘’Fu-fuck,’’ you moaned when he bullied his way inside again.

Immediately after talking, you bit your lips.

He didn’t like it when you talked. Whether it was to complain or praise him, he didn’t care. He needed you to not talk or make him think or look at your face. He needed you to be, if possible, dead silent to only concentrate on his own thoughts.

Of course, that was almost impossible, so he would press a hand on your mouth if you didn’t behave, and in the worst cases, to mute you, he would press your face down.

Whimpers were acceptable. Broken moans, bearable. But words? No, never.

You wanted to apologize but it wasn’t the right answer, you knew it too well. You know him too well. Or so, you wanted to believe.

He pushed your legs further, slamming inside, pushing the air out of your lungs.

It continued hurting, but you couldn’t care less.

The awareness of him being there, the sound of his breathing, his hisses, the groans, you wanted it all.

A wet echo filled the room with the force he used to fuck you and your wet pussy taking him. Your walls moved to accommodate him, to welcome him with much enthusiasm, just like your hands pulling your legs closer to make it more comfortable for him.

He wasn’t wearing a condom, and just the memory of his cum all inside you made you tighten around him.

Inside your mind, you repeated give it to me, please, because your mouth wasn’t allowed to do it. It felt way too good. The first time, it made you deeply uncomfortable to feel it inside. You felt dirty, disgusting, and you couldn’t believe it had happened. Now, you couldn’t find the words to ask for it again.

You could only hope he lost.

‘’Fuck, why can’t I…? Fuck!’’

His torso raised, his hips aligned at a better angle, and he thrusted harder.

Your teeth were sinking on your lower lip, brows furrowing and eyes closing to not show him how much you were enjoying it. Probably, it was useless to even try to hide it.

Your shirt was sticking to your torso because of the sweat. Yours, his. Fuck, you heard him curse. The lower front wet spot, in no way, was from just sweat.

The spasms were arriving. You felt your abdomen get tighter, and you tried to calculate how much time had passed. It hasn’t been long enough, you concluded. You couldn’t cum, you had to hold it in, for him, because it couldn’t end so fast. For him, that short time was not enough. It couldn’t be enough.

He needed you to hold it. He needed it. He.

You cried. This time, a few tears escaped. You turned your face to the side, and a salty flavor on your tongue distracted you.

You only noticed you bit yourself so hard your lips were bleeding when you felt more of the metallic taste invading you.

Out of the ordinary, he leaned to inspect your face. His hand tactlessly gripped your chin and forced you to face him, and when he saw the drops of blood flooding your delicate lip, under your teeth, he gulped.

‘’You’re such a mess too.’’

His mouth found yours in a second, obliging you to leave your poor lip free. He, first, just grazed them, doubting to do such a soft act with you, before crashing your wound with his.

The kiss, just like the sex, was not delicate at all.

The sting in your lips was not a sensation you were familiar with. His lips were always soft with you, at least until that moment. At much, they would be lustful, making out with you for long periods of time, but never brute.

His fingers stabbed your jaw, and his tongue prodded out.

You couldn’t breathe properly, overwhelmed with his strength, so you opened your lips to inhale some air, an act he took advantage of by barging his tongue into your mouth.

You had no way of using your brain at that moment. His tongue inside your mouth stealing your little air, his entire weight sinking you to the bed, his shoulders maintaining your legs up and against your chest, his cock balls deep inside you. It was all too much. Your head was too dizzy to remember exactly at what point you had your orgasm.

You remember your legs shaking, and an embarrassing loud cry muffled with his mouth against yours.

Also, you remember the broken moan he left out, and his hips reassuming a brutal pace that makes you roll your eyes with the mere memory. His long cock had hit a spot that made you lose yourself, and your pussy, so sensitive with how he had continued using you, had the most intense orgasm you ever had.

The clean gush finished wetting the front of your shirt, splashing his abdomen and making a pod slide down onto the bedsheets. Sadly, he didn’t care that you were trembling and bawling because of it. He plunged back inside, biting your cries and mixing both bloods while trying to find his own orgasm.

He left it out all inside you.

When you felt his warm cum invading you, you passed out.

After that, all is black. You try to move your body, finding it uncomfortable and painful. Still, you turn your head, finding your boyfriend’s naked back beside you. From the way his breath is calm now that he’s sleeping, you deduce he’s back to normal after finding his release.

Your shirt is different, clean, and the bed sheets are blue instead of white, so you know it’s not the same set from the night before.

At the sensation of his cum leaking out of you, you wonder if changing your clothes and sheets was the only thing he did to you while you were unconscious.

[gudgurkan]

Got any tips in shading stuff in black and white digitally?

Hi Anon!

You're in luck! I'm currently wrapping up a book which is shaded digitally, so I've been thinking a lot about this recently.

How I do this is by no means the only way, so take from these tips as much or little as you want! When I add grays and shadows to a line art drawing, I try to think about these things:

Preparing the image

I like to work with a file that has a white background and a layer with only line art on top of it. Between these two layers I add new layers where I use the pen tool and bucket to fill areas with black, then I lower the opacity for that layer to get a value that I want.

This method works well for me, and for simpler pieces I don't need more than 3 layers with different values - light, medium and dark grays.

I work in Clip Studio. Here's a picture of the layers of a recent drawing. Each layer is actually completely black but you can see the opacity percentages by each layer. Lower percentage -> brighter value. This makes it super duper easy to change the value of a layer, no need to repaint it, just change the opacity!

Value composition

For the best result, do a couple of value sketches with a limited set of values and find something that works well for the image. Getting the values right is what will improve the image the most! Here's a quick tutorial on muddycolors. Muddy Colors is a very nice art blog to check out. Looking at grayscale storyboard drawings or value sketches are great ways to pick up on this too.

I try to group values when working with grays. Take this image for example:

The character in the foreground has mainly dark grays, which separates her from the background, which has mostly light grays. Then the windows are white and the roof black.

Value composition is a huge and complex area and I recommend anyone wanting to learn to be more conscious about their values and to do value sketches. Analysing art you think has good values is great too.

Shadows

Not every piece needs shadows, but they can add a lot to an image! I use three kinds of shadows when I work in grayscale.

Inked shadows - these shadows are added during the inking stage and usually show areas where light would have almost no way of getting there, such as under this tent.

Gradient shadows - these shadows usually represent something getting further and further away from a light source or an area that would bounce light. This tree receives a tiny bit of light from a campfire on the ground and moonlight that bounces on the ground and up, fading as we get higher up in the tree. But mainly I add these gradients in ways that look cool and will help the overall composition.

Hard shadows - these shadows appear when a strong light casts shadows and can be used on a shape or to cover something. Here's a werewolf with shadows on its back, which gives it a better sense of mass and is interesting visually!

You can also cover an area in shadow like this, where the tree casts a shadow down on the archer and the cliff.

Texture

I like to add a layer of noise as a finishing touch. In Clip Studio you can create a noise layer with Filter->Render->Perlin noise... Find a balance of scale and amplitude that works for the image, then change the layer mode to "Vivid Light" and lower the opacity of the layer to around 30%. I like how this looks, it's not super visible usually but helps make the drawing feel less artificial and digital.

I hope that helps! Here are some nice links too:

Muddy Colors

Android Arts

Gurney Journey - Read his books!

Happy drawing!

[astravis]

Urasawa MEP intro

Thanks @marshmallowgoop for all your hard work in hosting this MEP! It was so fun seeing the final video put together, everyone should be proud of their work c:

Here's a little breakdown of my part below-

The base of the gradient consists of ten circles all moving in wacky ways thanks to wiggle expressions. Putting the wiggle expressions to extreme values means the circles will occasionally disappear entirely from view or massively take over the screen, leaving the gradient with a lot of evolving variety.

To add expressions: Alt click the stop watch and type wiggle( , ) The first number is how many times per second it will move and the second is the extreme to which it will move. (Frequency, Amplitude)

To quickly view your written expressions: click the layer and double click E on your keyboard

1st gradient comp: Masked into a circle. Double click the shape for it to be centered and fill the whole comp. Animate the scale so it disappears and covers the whole comp. And because I don't want to copy paste the keyframes a million times: Alt click the stop watch, click the arrow, scroll to properties, and click the loopOut cycle expression. The animation will repeat immediately from the beginning.

Duplicate gradient comp: Scaled up to the max size of the last keyframe in the masked gradient layer

Adjustment layer: A displacement map

Okay, so what's informing the displacement map?

It's another comp layer that's the same ray pattern made out of shape layers. (Quick tip, use the mirror effect so it's less work). Displacement maps work by using areas of black and white to inform how an image is moved. Middle gray is neutral, black pushes in one direction, white pulls in the opposite.

The displacement is pushed to such an extreme that clicking 'stretch map to fit' isn't resolving the areas of black. I couldn't figure out why, so I resorted to scaling up the comp to hide it. It's also doing a fun thing were the circles fall to the center first before expanding outwards. I didn't intend for that to happen, but it's a very nice flow of motion.

Okay, but how do you keep the pattern precise when making the rays?

I played with the polystar shape to make a guide.

But this still looks pretty flat, right?

Some additional adjustments:

A white shape layer (blue) to fit the bottom triangle with a feathered mask (yellow) to form a luster across the shape. This is on an overlay blend mode and the opacity is turned down.

And a radial gradient ramp that is also on an overlay blend mode with the opacity turned down.

What about the reflections?

They're the same comps but duplicated, flipped vertically, with some added blurs (including vertical only) and the opacity turned down.

You may notice that the car's reflection doesn't move in a way a flipped layer should.

That's because I have it following a null where I animated the position to match how I think a reflection going down a road works. (Additionally I exported this whole comp with a transparent background because I wanted to make some time adjustments without screwing up the mask animation)

About the text:

The title is using a bevel and emboss layer style, that's why the text appears to melt together when I squish the tracking inward. (Side note about tracking, add a line anchor and type 50% if it stubbornly refuses to be centered by default) Text animators also have a wiggly setting! A little bit hidden, but fun. I only added this for the main title.

I also added posterize time to change the fps to 12, which gives it a little bit of a choppy animated look.

The "TV opening" look consists of an animated white shape layer with some blurs, grain and noise across the whole comp. And since it's already black and white I can use it as a track matte for the final, whole comp of the title opening. I use the offset effect to create the 'rolling footage' of the title with scale wipe to create that bit of warping.

I like making sure there's always an easy to follow direction of motion, so after a lot of downward fast movement, everything is timed to burst outward, from the title to the gradient.

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

3 things:

What's a song, band, album, or playlist you want to shout out?

What are your opinions on pets (dog, cat, neither, other)?

Finally, what's a boring fact about you?

Cheers, have a good one.

Oh yes!

Shoutout a band? SEEMING, SEEMING, SEEMING BABY! They're even on tumblr: @seemingmusic

Their music is great and the lyrics are freaking phenomenal poems and I have no idea why they're not among tumblr's favorites like? "The future will be borderless, and red and queer and bold, for I was born to make my kind extinct" (End Studies) "Dreamt of gutting billionaires... But when I woke, blood was gone" (Go Small) you've got the eat the rich be queer do crime philosophy all over it! "Like a tall tree, I am pining to be taken up by the lightning! Strike me! I dare you! I dare you! Heaven, hear me! Like a mantis, I am praying, out of habit, without saying anything, for the bloody sting of a kestrel come to snatch me" (Remember to Breathe) it's got puns it's got self destructive thoughts it's got vague religious implications which I'm not a fan of personally but you guys seem to love it when it's Hozier. And who can ignore "To the gunmen who guard against all of the starving: God will bury you, nature will bury you [...] To the terrified rich man: God will bury you. To the killers of animals: nature will bury you." (The Burial) like don't tell me that doesn't go hard. (Personally I like to think of The Burial as not a threat but a loving promise. It continues "To the worshipper of justice, the reliance on reason, and the fire in your eyes: God will bury you, nature will bury you, time will bury your bones unseen. Total and absolute. Infinite amplitude. Till all the black is ripe and green." and because honoring the dead and burying them is an important act of kindness, I like to think of this as a promise that no matter who you are, no matter who you leave behind to mourn you, you will be buried. You will die and you will return to the Earth and you will be lovingly welcomed, it is inevitable and inescapable, I promise. I know I already rambled about this when I reblogged that worm poem post but I will keep talking about it because I love it and I don't know how many people actually read it.) There's so much more I want to say but I'm on mobile in bed hours past bedtime and this paragraph is probably already way too long and disorganized so like maybe tomorrow but! Regardless of whether you can listen to the music I highly recommend reading some of the lyrics here: https://seemingmusic.tumblr.com/text

Anyway moving on from minor infodump, I'm not entirely sure what you mean by your second question like are you asking my opinion on pets as a concept or my preferences for having pets or? I think humans love to pack bond with things that are not humans and as long as the human is able to meet the needs of an animal to create a mutually beneficial relationship that's a good thing, but ideally you should opt for domesticated animals (animals that have been our companions for so long they are genetically distinct from their wild counterparts) since they are best adapted to living with humans. I was practically raised by cats living with my workaholic single mom and our cats so personally I love cats and probably have a better time connecting with them than I would other common pets like dogs. Currently mom and I are sharing two cats, brothers, but one rarely visits me while the other is obsessed with me but I suspect this is because a) I always have his favorite snack available (potato chips. yeah I don't think he knows he's a cat) and b) I pet him the way he likes best (which is a lot of rubbing and scratching his spine by the tail intermittent with chin scritches, but he wants you to be firm with it as though he were a dog... again this man is not aware he's a cat).

A boring fact about me... Well easy mode is just "I have two feet" or "I ate a sandwich for breakfast today" but let me try to think of something a bit more personal yet still uninteresting... I have watched less than one episode of Supernatural. Yeah that's boring yet specific.

Thank you so much for the ask sorry my reply is a little messy I was already in bed when I got this!

[pukanavis]

"Mystery on a Moonlit Cruise" Track 7

Location: Party Hall

Nanaki: I wanted to talk about what happened just before we arrived at the door to the party hall—

ーFlashback

Nanaki: …How strange.

Ryui: What? Who’re you calling strange?

Nanaki: Sorry, I wasn’t referring to you, Ryui-san.

I was just thinking about how quiet it’s become on board. What happened to the background music they were playing earlier…? Did they forget to put it on loop? 

Yukikaze: Oh, yes, I remember that.

Nanaki: There’s meant to be service robots in charge of shuffling through songs to play on board. If the music has turned off, that means the humans aren’t the only ones affected here, but robots too.

Kinari: …

Muneuji: (It’s true…I’m struggling to make sense of how an android such as Azekawa-san could have fallen asleep too.)

Nanaki: Again, it might not mean anything but I think it’s worth looking further into.

Muneuji: I see your point. Very well then, why don’t we begin by investigating the service robots in this room?

Yukikaze: Good idea. I’ll help however I can.

Nanaki: What do you think, Yowa-san?

Netaro: I thiiink this paella is out of this world!

Nanaki: I-I see. We’ll let you know if we make any discoveries then.

Netaro: Aye, aye!

Muneuji: Let’s see, I believe they should be stationed—

Yukikaze: There—Hmph!

Muneuji: An impeccably executed crouch start…!

Nanaki: He’s running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid all the sleeping people…!

Yukikaze: Phew.

Muneuji: You've collected the four service robots stationed in the corners of the room and brought them all the way back here. Trained athletes truly are a league beyond us.

Yukikaze: Nanaki, will this do?

Nanaki: Yes, thank you. I just need to connect to this robot with Andy’s offline mode…there we go.

Muneuji: …This looks like the screen that shows up when you’re composing.

Nanaki: Yeah, it’s the same one. I’ll be able to find out the exact moment the robots shut down by checking when the background music cut off—

…Huh?

Yukikaze: What’s the matter?

Nanaki: It says this robot was playing some popular therapeutic music tracks, but there’s just one issue…

Something looks off with the sound waves in the 5 minute period before it entered sleep mode…?

Netaro: Mm? Ers homhing hwong wih he hounwaes?

Muneuji: Yowa-san. It’s difficult to understand you while your mouth is full of paella. Please take a moment to properly chew and swallow before you begin speaking again.

Netaro: Nom nom…

Muneuji: Chewing at least 30 times per bite would be ideal.

Netaro: Nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom…gulp.

There’s something wrong with the sound waves? How can you tell!?

Nanaki: The amplitude just seems a little strange for a song that’s meant to be relaxing.

Netaro: Which bits look weird to you?

Nanaki: Take this V shape for example—

Yukikaze: I’m afraid I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.

Muneuji: Let’s have some paella while we wait for those two to finish their analysis.

Netaro: You were able to deduce all that information that quickly~? I'm blown away!

Nanaki: I’m still not sure if this relates to the sleeping situation that’s going on though…

Netaro: Doesn’t matter if it does or doesn’t! I still think that brain of yours is amazing, Nana!

I dunno why you didn’t tell us sooner?

Nanaki: Uh…

Ryui: YOWA!!!!!

Netaro: Uoh!?

Ryui: You little shit, I know you’re hiding something.

Muneuji: Have you uncovered a clue, Ryui-san?

Ryui: (There’s no shot that I can tell them a spirit warned me that something’s up with Yowa…but it’s not like I have to go easy on this guy so I’ll just force the confession right outta him!)

I know what the fuck you did so you better just admit it and end this shitstorm! 

Netaro: Yep, I did it!

Ryui: Even if you try lying your way out of this I won’t—wait, what?

Netaro: Ryui’s spot on! I’m the crook who turned this room into a forest of dreams!

Nanaki: Huh…!?

Netaro: Oh, would you look at that, it's finally time.

Muneuji: Time for what?

Toi: Nngh…yawn…

Ryui: Toi!?

Back | ★ | Next

[klimkovsky]

Radian One — Space Jet

The reusability trend in space exploration is gaining momentum. In fact, it concerns not only space exploration. Humanity has successfully survived the period when everything around us was disposable — a plastic cup, an antibacterial mask, a pen, a disposable partner for disposable romantic dates... (but it seems that the pendulum has swung back). If someone still thinks that the path of our civilization is an exponential upward trend, he is partly right. But this strange curve has always been well modulated by a sinusoid. And in the early stages of our development, the sinusoid overthrew ancient states from their lush heyday to decline and even disappearance. However, something new always grew out of the ashes. Now the amplitude of the sinusoidal component is noticeably weaker than the regular increment in development. We are no longer falling to the bottom, although the risk of such an outcome still exists. Be that as it may, but ups and downs, the cultivation of ideas with their subsequent crossing out and return to them, but at a new level of implementation — all this is in our path. Especially where the path is most difficult. And cosmonautics is a very difficult path.

In the era of Tsiolkovsky (among a small number of pioneers of rocket science and ideologists of cosmism who were initiated into the topic), there was a conviction that space transport vehicles would at least be similar to airships — they would be able to travel along interplanetary routes, accelerate, brake without losing integrity, refuel and leave for the next flight without significant repairs and downtime.

In the era of Korolev and Wernher von Braun, there was no trace left of faith in reusable rockets. The maximum that was still allowed was the reusability of the ship — the very tip of the transport iceberg, 95% of which was destroyed and created anew.

The era of the Shuttles partially attempted to return the idea of ​​reusing some part of the systems that put into orbit. True, in the Shuttles this part was limited to only the ship's cruise engines and solid-fuel boosters. The Challenger and Columbia disasters once again turned the technological trends of cosmonautics towards disposable solutions.

The new wave of reusability was initiated by Elon Musk, and he succeeded in it quite well — so much so that dozens of people wishing to contribute their ideas to the development of the "Holy Grail" followed suit. An important indicator of the process was the fact that China, which has always been extremely pragmatic and never tried to copy something that does not make sense, joined the "race for space reusability". But Chinese engineers do not generate their own ideas yet. Ideas are still generated by American and maybe European development teams.

Radian Aerospace is an American company. It was founded in 2016. For 8 years, it has been developing its own system for launching small cargo into orbit, including in manned mode. Unlike competitors and like-minded people, their project — Radian One — is more like an airplane than a rocket. It takes off like an airplane and lands like an airplane. The system does not have any booster blocks — in the usual sense for us. It is defined as single-stage (although this is not entirely true) and looks accordingly.

In some ways, the Radian One is a reincarnation of the Space Shuttle system, only without a huge fuel tank. But it couldn't do without boosters. At the very first stage of launch, the spaceplane is accelerated using a rail platform that has jet thrust. This tandem glides along the rails almost horizontally for three kilometers, gaining the necessary speed (and the spaceplane's engines - already launched at this stage — are powered by the platform's tanks — "Hello, Space Shuttle!"), after which it separates, and the spaceplane goes up, using aerodynamic lift. This may seem strange, because all rockets want to quickly pierce the dense layers of the atmosphere with their nose, but the Radian One uses them for lift, gaining altitude like an airplane, and only at the border of the stratosphere does it rely entirely on the rocket principle. This makes it related to air launch systems, of which many have already been created, but all of them were very light systems capable of launching into orbit in the range of hundreds of kilograms. But Radian One claims to have a greater payload capacity.

Now the developers claim the ability to deliver more than 2 tons of cargo to low Earth orbit. They want to return more from orbit — up to 4.5 tons. The system is initially designed as a manned one, and assumes up to 5 crew members (although, most likely, there will first be an unmanned version, and later 3-4 astronauts — everyone always claims more).

The delta-winged space plane is supposed to be quite large. The developer's website only states the dimensions of the payload bay — approximately 5x5x4 meters (with a total volume of up to 93 m3), which in itself is already quite a lot. But it is clear to everyone that most of the structure will be occupied by fuel tanks and a delta-wing. Based on the most approximate comparison of the fuselage cross-section and the length of the spaceplane, one can conclude that the size of the Radian One will be larger than that of the Shuttles, and closer to the second stage of the Starship.

Radian Aerospace is not developing its reusable brainchild as openly as SpaceX prefers to do. Little is known about the progress. And all this is happening in the vicinity of Abu Dhabi (UAE), perhaps due to strict regulation of such activities in the United States... although this is changing now, and only on the example of a greatly reduced flight prototype. But even a small prototype can provide important insights into the aerodynamic effects that will befall a larger spaceplane. In the second half of 2024, the company reported a series of successful tests — a scaled-down model showed that the spaceplane can, in principle, withstand typical loads and be stable and controllable.

What other requests does the Radian One project meet?

It is also an alternative to supersonic aviation. There is a renaissance of supersonic passenger aviation now, and several companies are developing new airliners. But the pain of this idea is that the plane fights with the atmosphere for its entire flight. What if we make supersonic flights outside the atmosphere? It seems that this is exactly what Elon Musk has already proposed in terms of an alternative use of the Starship system — to fly not into space, but through space to other continents — quickly and relatively cheaply. Here the idea is similar, only without 33 furiously roaring and crushing concrete Raptors. But not for a hundred passengers, but only for five. But this is also interesting if these five people are of such high importance. The same applies to urgent delivery of goods (these could be some special medicines or something valuable and rare... or maybe even military). Yes — the system is initially positioned as a dual-use vehicle. And of course, it received the corresponding attention from certain structures — military and political.

It is stated that, upon first request, Radian One will deliver a group of people or valuable cargo to any point on the planet in 90 minutes (where there is a suitable runway). At a minimum, the spaceplane can land on a standard runway. But in order to take off again, it will need inter-flight maintenance and a booster rail platform.

According to the developers, it will be possible to reuse a ship that has returned from a space or intercontinental mission after 48 hours. This is not as fast as Elon Musk is trying to achieve with the Starship system, but not in a month, as is currently possible for the re-flying first stages of Falcon 9.

The spaceplane's resource is stated to be at least 100 flights. However, when the first one might take place is still unknown. The start of testing a full-size prototype is expected only in 2028 (and this is not even about flights into orbit). And as we know, the path from a prototype to the first full-fledged product usually takes about 10 years. Will the development team have enough enthusiasm? This is currently unknown. Another thing is known — that the Skylon project, similar in principle and objectives, failed, and is currently stopped, and its developer is going through bankruptcy proceedings. Well, the managers and engineers of Radian Aerospace know this well, but for now they continue (and successfully) to attract funding for their developments.

Source: https://astroreview.blogspot.com/2025/01/RadianOne.html

Author: Andrey Klimkovsky

[tseneipgam]

"Raised from babydom into doubt, I'm as feminine as Rousseau. I, Hazel Brown, eldest daughter of a disappearing class, penniless neophyte stunned by the glamour of literature, tradeless, clueless, yet with considerable moral stamina and luck, left my family at seventeen to seek a way to live. It was the month of June in 1979. I was looking for Beauty. I didn't exactly care about art, I simply wanted not to be bored and to experience grace. So I thought I would write. No other future seemed preferable. Let me be clear: I did not want to admire life, I did not want to skim it; I wanted to swim in it. I judged that to do this, I had to leave, and to write. I wanted to speak the beautiful language of my time, but without paying. I myself was not beautiful. Moody, angular, both dark and pale, of bad posture, for I was perpetually thrust forward as if rushing into time, awkward whilst being observed, a half-broken tooth in my reluctant smile, uncertain in manners, premature frown lines between my grey-green eyes, all of this magnified by an urgency with no recognizable context: comedic in short, in the mode of a physical comedy. Prodigal, undisciplined, with an aptitude for melancholy, I left houses, cities, lovers, schools, hotels, and countries. I left with haste, or I left languidly. Also I was asked to leave. I left languages and jobs. Leaving made a velocity. I left garments, books, notebooks, and several good companions. Sometimes I left ideas. After the leaving, then what? I suppose I would drift. I had no money and no particular plan. Cities exist; hotels exist; painting exists. Tailoring also, it exists, as anger exists, mascara exists, and melancholy, and coffee. I liked sentences and I liked thread. Reading surely and excessively exists; also, convivially, perfume and punctuation. I had a fantasy and my diary. I had my desire, with its audacity, its elasticity, and its amplitude. I carried a powder-blue manual Smith Corona typewriter in a homemade tapestry bag. I was eager, sloppy, vague. I wore odd garments. I carried no letter of introduction, and I knew no one. I was only a girl bookworm. I wasn't to stay. None of this troubled me much. The nervous fluid of a city is similar to a grammar or an electric current. Loving and loathing, we circulate. I myself did not exist before bathing in this medium. The nervous fluid of a city is similar to a grammar or an electric current. Loving and loathing, we circulate. I myself did not exist before bathing in this medium. Here I become a style of enunciation, a strategic misunderstanding, a linguistic funnel, a wedge in language. Here I thought I'd destroy my origin, or I did destroy it, by becoming the she-dandy I found in the margins of used paperbacks. What do I love? I love the elsewhere of moving clouds. Reading unfolds like a game called I,' in public gardens in good weather, in a series of worn-down hotel rooms, in museums in winter, where 'I' is the composite figure who is going to write but hasn't yet. If I am not alone in these rooms, if I could be known, it would be by the skinny red-haired street singer, the secretary of Cologne in her ironical cast-off dress, the hard-shod horsegirls neighing in the dark apartment, by similarly hybrid she-strangers and foreigners, any girl with the combined rage of lassitude and complicity. They are blazons. Cool threads of anger bind me to them. We cease to be human. Were neutral, desituated clouds. There is nothing left to fear. This realization is a vocation. My name is Hazel Brown."

"

I awake in a hotel room. I hear gulls, the clinking and rocking of boats. I turn in the wide bed. The tightness and stiffness of the sheets feels pleasantly confining. In the first stirrings of thinking I discover within myself a strangeness - not a dislocation or a dissociation, but a freshening shimmer of sensual clarity shot through with strands of unmoored refusal and scorn. Beneath that, a slowly vibrating warp of erotic sadness. I abandon myself to this novel sensation. I open my eyes. Reader, I become him. Was that what I felt? No, I did not become him; I became what he wrote. Do you sometimes at earliest waking observe yourself struggling towards a pronoun? Do you fleetingly, as if from a great distance, strain to recall who it is that breathes and turns? Do you ever wish to quit the daily comedy of transforming into the I-speaker without abandoning the wilderness of sensing? The sensation isn't morbid; it is ultimately disinterested. For me it's a familiar moment, boring and persistent and disappointing. Again one arrives at the threshold of this particular, straitening I. With a tiny wincing flourish one enters the wearisome contract, sets foot to planks. Daily the humiliation is almost forgotten, until it blooms again with the next waking. It is an embarrassing perception best stoically flicked aside, left unreported. With an obscure hesitation one steps into the day and its frame and its costume. Between the puzzlement and its summary abandonment, between the folds of waking consciousness and their subsequent limitation, is a possible city. Solitude hotels, aging, love, hormones, alcohol, illness - these drifting experiences open it a little. Sometimes prolonged reading holds it ajar. Another's style of consciousness inflects one's own; an odd syntactic manner, a texture of embellishment, pause. A new mode of rest. I can feel physiologically haunted by a style. It's why I read ideally, for the structured liberation from the personal, yet the impersonal inflection can persist outside the text, beyond the passion of readerly empathy, a most satisfying transgression that arrives only inadvertently, never by force of intention. As if seized by a fateful kinship, against all the odds of sociology, the reader psychically assumes the cadence of the text. She sheds herself. This description tends towards a psychological interpretation of linguistics, but the experience is also spatial. I used to drive home from my lover's apartment at 2 a.m., 3 a.m. This was Vancouver in 1995. A zone of light-industrial neglect separated our two neighbourhoods. Between them the stretched-out city felt abandoned. My residual excitement and relaxation would extend outwards from my body and the speeding car, towards the dilapidated warehouses, the shut storefronts, the distant container yards, the dark exercise studios, the pools of sulphur light, towards a low-key dereliction. I would feel pretty much free. I was a driver, not a pronoun, not a being with breasts and anguish. I was neither with the lover nor alone. I was suspended in a nonchalance. My cells were at ease. I doted on nothing."

"The following morning, alone in the hotel, I awoke to the bodily recognition that I had become the author of the complete works of Baudelaire. Even the unwritten texts, the notes and sketches contemplated and set aside, and also all of the correspondence, the fizzles and false starts and abandoned verses, the diaristic notes: I wrote them. Perhaps it is more precise to say that all at once, unbidden, I received the Baudelairean authorship, or that I found it within myself. This is obviously very different from being Baudelaire, which was not the case, nor my experience. I had only written his works. It was a very quiet, neutral sensation. I associate it now with the observation of the immaterial precision of light. Such an admission will seem frivolous, overdeter- mined, baroque. But I will venture this: it is no more singular for me to discover that I have written the complete works of Baudelaire than it was for me to have become a poet, me, a girl, in 1984. I was as if concussed. Believe me if you wish. I understand servitude. My task now is to fully serve this delusion. Delusion needs an architecture; this hotel room became for a crucial instant the portal for a transmission seeking a conduit."

"I'm intimate with the clumsy humour of buttons, the way a new kind of fit in a tailored jacket lifts my kidneys a little, coaxing open a readerly concave chest. At night the girls in galleries suddenly wear bright fringed shawls that move when they laugh, with hair slashed straight and high across their brows. There's a new textile, it seems, something from sports or a futuristic movie. It's lightweight and silvery, and the kids have plucked it off the internet to wear on the bus. It's being held to their skinny bodies by their heavy backpacks and the home- tattooed arms they slide across one another's waists."

"'The emotional synchrony of garments transmits discontinuously and by energetic means, thus the metaphysical appeal of fashion. I had studied this question of fashions intellectual spirit in some of its great theorists - Lilly Reich, for example, and Rei Kawakubo but also in my relationships to garments of every provenance. 'They need not have value in the commercial sense. There are the cast-offs and rejects, on eBay, in charity shops, draped over fences in modest residential alleys, swagging the rims of dumpsters by the apartment blocks, and certainly I have been a passionate amateur of their study and occasional acquisition. But here I'm not talking about the material research, as all-absorbing as it can become in its gradual, irregular advancement, but the mood of a garment, the way an emotional tone is brought forward in the wearing, in the suggestive affinities of the toilette. The unfamiliar set of a shoulder or the tugging sensation of a row of tight wrist buttons can hint at the gestural vocabulary of a previous epoch and so substitute for eroded or disappeared sentimental mores. Time in the garment is what I repeatedly sought, because sartorial time isn't singular but carries the living desires of bodies otherwise disappeared. This has been part of my perverse history of garment-love; I've wanted to inhabit the stances, gestures, and caresses of vanished passions and disciplines. And the various garments each person gathers to wear together, the way she groups fibres, colours, eras, social codes, and cuts, this mysterious grammar speaks beyond the tangible and often-cited economies and their various political constraints."

"It was Poe who said that the soul of an apartment is its carpet, and by this measure, I have rarely occupied a hotel room that could be said to have a soul. But I am not sure that I want a hotel room to have a soul, since the task of that innocuous limbo is to shelter mine, and unimagined others', with as few contradictions as possible. I go to the hotel to evade determination. What I thought of, what I imagined in this blandly contrived place as I woke, were those marvellously glowing baroque harbours by Claude Lorrain, the ones hanging in the Louvre."

"I still keep an old postcard of this image, now bleached of its warm tones after being propped for several years on a sunny window ledge, so that my imagination of Claude has transmuted to cool-grey-green-blue, like the veiled marine sun of the Pacific port I now woke to. The more the Claude postcard fades, the more it resembles what I know."

"that morning seemed in my state of half-wakefulness to contain all the hotel rooms and temporary rooms I had ever stayed in, not in a simultaneous continuum, nor in chronological sequence, but in flickering, overlapping, and partial surges, much in the way that a dream will dissolve into a new dream yet retain some colour or fragment of the previous dream, which across the pulsing transition both remains the same and plays a new role in an altered story, like a psychic rhyme, or a printed fabric whose complex pattern is built up across successive layers of impression, each autonomously perceptible but also leading the perceiver to cognitively connect the component parts in an inner act of fictive embellishment, so strong is the desire to recognize a narrative among scattered fragments of perception. My own youth seems to move in my present life in such a way - present and absent, at times incoherent, sometimes frightening, scarcely recognizable, rhyming and drifting."

"For a long time I have been more or less content with arcane researches that lead me into lush but impersonal lyric. Now I feel I must account for this anachronistic event; I'll follow it back to unspoken things. I want to make a story about the total implausibility of girlhood. This morning I'm at the round table under the linden tree, in a sweet green helmet of buzzing."

"There are turns and figures of iteration and relationship. But also times and bodies overlap. This work must annotate those parts of experience that evade determination. Here my fidelity is for the antithetical nature of the feminine concept. I was a girl. I could not escape desire, but now I can turn to contemplate it, and so convert my own complicity into writing. In this landscape time is pliable; it's a place of nightingales and poorness and wild cherry trees. Spring comes, slow and sudden. I'll work with that. I'll make this account using my nerves and my sentiment. I'm writing this story backwards, from a shack in middle age. I sit and wait for as long as it takes until I intuit the shape of a sentence. Sometimes I feel that it is the room that writes. But it needs the hot nib of my pronoun."

"...the contents of that tray in my diary: a tall glass of orange juice, a mug of very hot coffee, a demitasse of milk, a bowl of sugar, two eggs perfectly boiled, two slices of ham, a glass of marmalade, a plate with four slices of buttered brown bread and half a baguette, a tinfoil-wrapped candy, four chocolate lady's fingers, and a piece of cream-filled cake. So I would put three pieces of brown bread and all the sweets aside for my supper, returning from my day's wanderings with some cheese and lettuce to make sandwiches. He would place the tray each morning on a small table covered with a yellow plasticized cabbage-rose-patterned cloth, which oddly matched the room's small hooked carpet, yellow also, dingy, and incongruously ornamented with a brown cartoon bear. The wooden stand beside the narrow blue metal bed held a crucifix, a King James Bible, a spool of blue thread with a needle ready in it, and a 22p stamp. There also I kept the few books I travelled with - used paperback copies of Ezra Pound's ABC of Reading, Martin Heidegger's Poetry, Language, Thought, Sylvia Plath's Winter

Trees, and a beautifully bound volume of Beat translations of classical Chinese poetry called Old Friend from Far Away. Why these books? Chance, I suppose. I was ardent and inexperienced in my reading, earnestly drawing up lists of necessary future studies at the back of my diary, and as I read I seemed to float above the difficult and clever pages, in a haze of worshipful incomprehension. I imagined that simple persistence would slowly transform this vagueness to the hoped-for intelligent acuity, and in a way I was not wrong, although it was not true acuity that I later entered into, but the gradual ability, similar to the learning of a new handcraft, to perceive the threads linking book to book and so to enter, through reading, a network of relationship. I might call this my education; save my gambits in parks and museums, I had had no other. Later this network would become an irritant, like a too-tight jacket, a binding collat. To counter this sad diminishment in my credulity, and to enter again the pleasurable drift, the sensual plenum of my youth, where even incomprehension was mildly erotic, in my middle age here in the cottage I have started to read French"

"I would seek cheap city rooms in order to look out from their windows at unfamiliar surface effects and the shade the angles made. Having a soul, I thought, is about looking out. I would look out, and then write again in my diary. I exoticized Old World neglect. I was looking for a neutral place where my ambition might ripen, unhampered by scorn. Such a room could be found in the Hotel Avenir for seventy francs a night, or twelve dollars Canadian, in the currency of the time, which had the satisfying merit of being payable entirely in thick, brassy ten-franc coins. Steve Lacy's horn cuts lingeringly across a tannic landscape. I'm listening to Monk's Dream. The cold sweet plums carry the smallest possible hint of musky leather. The toughened skin gives a little beneath the teeth before it bursts to a boozy exuberance. I've reopened the old journals. Baudelaire said art must be stupid. I know what he means. Art must be as stupid as a plum. As stupid as an ankle."

"Through this window, across the humid court, I saw a boy sitting also at his own table, a dark-haired boy in a white shirt turned turquoise by the dim light, bent a little at his typewriter. Of all stupid art the poem is the most stupid, a nearly imperceptible flick of the mop just beneath the surface of the water, an idle flutter of the hand. Very stupid; outside all good sense and discretion, because the poem must be indiscreet or not at all. It should just trail aimlessly in the hospitable water. Floating on the sea or swimming. It must be the sea, no other water. Waves, but not stormy waves, the slight rocking movement. This floating is like a hotel. Nothing interrupts sensation; the body is supported and welcomed by a gentle neutrality. Especially the sea...Such is a girl's destiny, this scant enclosure of fumy potential that later will reveal itself as the elemental core of her life. She will sit at tables eating overripe plums and burning incense, frowning a little, her sleeves rolled, no, her jacket unbuttoned at the top to show the saffron-coloured neckscarf. The narrow grey inner court of the future hotel will have become her sealike matrix."

"I learned there that when I stood in front of paintings, I could feel an inner vibration. It entered flatly through the entire surface of my body if I let myself go blank. In my adolescent movements from my grandmother's guest room to provincial art museums, I came to think of the mute mineral affinity that accompanied my blankness as a psychic life of pigment. In front of paintings, my body had autonomous gifts, useful only to my own inner experience. This pigment-sense didn't have anything to do with representation or style, yet it was dependent on the proportions and specificities of mixture. I think my feeling for painting is a deferred material telepathy, an elemental magnetism. I was noticing a mineral sympathy of my body's iron and copper and calcium towards paint. I learned to still myself to make room for this strange reception. In the spare room, I first came to the recognition that I could be changed by these little documents of admixture, through the simple attention"

"I was a girl, and my body was time. I believed in description. I would build new, ornate knowledge on the basis of this lived proposition. I mean that my shy, gawky, lusting body was constrained to undertake the ancient representation, to groom and flirt and refract as every contemporary girl seemed so constrained, to signify bounty and frailty, passivity and fate, but also at this time there was the fact that I loosely accepted the constraint. It taught me something about discipline and a lot about a history of form. Form meant my mutable body. Form could even weep. "

"

girlhood would rakishly embellish a margin of moody nonchalance, much as a pianist, whilst perched on a diminutive stool, hums a little during their slowed- down interpretation of Bach. To visit those fountains, I preferred to wear outmoded garments that fit poorly, garments mended or taken in with large stitches or barely hidden safety pins, or lacking a sewing kit, perchance paperclips, and I liked lugubrious coats with ample hems and the wrong cut of shoulder, the fastidiously dated lapel, the cheaply glittering brooch, the long string of chipped green glass beads. I would be the girl of my notion of literature, or rather my invention of literature, since, still lacking any concept, I could only invent. My outfits and their compositions were experiments in syntax and diction. So, much as later, in a different life, I would submit my poems to collective tables and risk embarrassed exposure, with defiant awkwardness I would take my sartorial representations to the parks and boulevards, and I would kiss, then back in my room I would write little essays"

"

as I was discovering in my rooms, a synthesis or recomposition of time as well as of all kinds of sensation, resurging suddenly to stay awhile like a brown spider, if part of comedy is cruelty, what of the parts of the image that were to be forgotten? Where do the forgotten parts stay? Fragments of my sensation sequestered themselves within books, or in cheap rooms. Here I uncover them again. Was this room in Avignon or was it in Marseilles? I am no longer certain. Any room near any fountain was paradise, so it hardly matters. The experience of time at the edges of rooms, at the edges of books, time disappearing or bending as I entered, this is my borderless image, the experience of the disappearance of the word at the appearance of the flower. I recall. for instance, an odd recent period when I forgot the word asphodel. The forgetting persisted for more than a week, the week in April, as it happened, when at the borders of the woods near my cottage the asphodel bloomed. I could both see and imagine the ranks of tall ghostly stalks, but the name was absent. And so I thought frequently about asphodels systematically approaching the absence of the flowers name from each vantage possible, thinking of the opening

lines of the beautiful late poem by William Carlos Williams, yet subtracted of the name, remembering the asphodel meadows that would emerge before blackberry vines, where the woods had been cut down for heating wood. 'A field made up of women / all silver-white.' At the margin of each room I enter are asphodels, womanly, at the instant they lose their name. This is a form of self-knowledge, a philosophy. The long period of my life between learning the word asphodel when first reading the Williams poem in the London hotel room. or had it been in a bookshop, just before closing - a ghost of a pressed flower had slipped out of the second-hand book, it was 1984 - and seeing the living flower for the first time only recently, walking in April with my elderly dog, recognizing the flower in the midst of the flicker of linguistic forgetting, this space so active and evacuating at its limits, so welcoming at its empty core, the entanglement of the name's absence with the striving and failing, the entanglement of gold chain and pearl, the fibs and embellishments and delusions and obfuscations: in the expanding work of forgetting the word asphodel, this flower so flagrantly inhabited the edge of every perception, every memory, that I thought perhaps I could know the name only when I did not know the flower, or only outside the brief season of its bloom, even outside the season of its black budding. I happened upon an emancipation from vocables into the substance of mortality. Slowly, obstinately, the room will be stripped of every conceptual dimension. Every word will be lost. Others will continue the kissing."

"Maybe I was studying the present in the way that I knew how, like someone not quite of the present. It seemed easy, until it wasn't. I would visit rooms like this yellow one. Others strolled on boulevards. Not all of the present was accessible. Some threads would always be bunched up, tangled, hidden on the reverse side of the garment. There, unseen, they would chafe the wearer."

"Bizarre carries within it noisy outbursts, livid flushes, concubinage, and extravagant mixture. In old Spanish and Portuguese it meant brave, handsome. Did he think of Jeanne in these ways? It seems clear that Jeanne Duval was bizarre to Baudelaire in every sense of the word's movements and histories. He exoticized her hair, and skin, and scent so intensely that Les Fleurs du mal seems to be composed of her hair, and skin, and scent. Also her gait, and her origins, or a myth of her origins, in a picturesque framing of the mixture and distance she was constrained to express. It's not difficult for me to imagine that Baudelaire, with a grossly inevitable racism, was incapable of acknowledging to the bourgeois art-viewing public of Paris, by means of his portrait together with Jeanne, his relationship to the beauty he enjoyed privately in her second-floor room on the Montage Sainte-Geneviève, and later at many other addresses. Such an erasure could then pass as tact. It is a very ugly possibility for the poet of beauty."

"Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal and Flaubert's Madame Bovary were tried under the new anti-obscenity laws for damaging public morals. Public morals are so vulnerable. A poem or a novel will endanger them, a young girl's desire will offend them, the skin colour of one's lover will diminish them. I long for moral abundance, an obscene flourishing of the category of morality. We can admit more, rather than less, embellish the capaciousness of the idea of the public. If I was a monstrous slut, if I close to disappeared, if I confused aesthetics with the feeling of bodily risk, if I mistook ideology for sensation, anger for bravery, if I belatedly evaded an ambivalent erasure, I was in very good company."

"Further to the stupidity of poetry, here I will tell about the most beautiful poem I ever wrote: I once bled out a stain on a restaurant chair, which revealed to my backwards glance a map of the arrondissements of Paris - a crooked reddish-pink spiral bisected by the serpentine slash that was the Seine. This stain was the augury that brought me to my borrowed city. What I wanted of this city, this stain, was a site for the kind of freedom I sought. Supernatural, sexual, artificial, blooming on one side. Part loss, part object, the stain, with its irregular, permeable border, its ingressions and turbulences, its fragmentary, metonymic nature, its abundance of nested contours, limitless saturation, elisions of propriety, its regime of discontinuity and contamination, was an operating force at once fractal, mystic, and obscene. My analysis of its irregularities is shameless, followed nonetheless by a small retroactive flicker of shame, which is mildly stimulating. Like a convex mirror or a cosmology, the stain revealed a macrocosm: it was a dream city, a city within a city, a mirror within a tableau. It brought me to painting and it brought me to verse. It brought me to the impure repetition of the Baudelairean authorship within myself, its formerness and presentness"

"the market of the literati didn't bother me: I was trained into the contract by my habitual reading. But then it did bother me; it saddened me considerably. I felt the sadness thoroughly. I believed it then. I wrote the sadness in my diary, I drank the sadness in my room or in cafés, I fucked the sadness. I almost believed I was the sadness. But I could not go all the way. Sadness did not utterly disappear; transformations aren't clean. Finally I preferred to have been interpolated by a stain. I discovered that it was not a loss: the stain was a thinking. Because I preferred to survive, I entered the aesthetics of doubt. With the interruption of my identification with beauty by the stain, a philosophy arrived. It was a little tool towards freedom. My youthful commitment to the identity of beauty with freedom had been experimental, in the sense that usefully recognizing oneself as a girl was an experiment."

"The man-poets scorned what they desired; their sadistic money was such that the object scorned was endowed with the shimmer of sex. How radiant we were in our gorgeous outfits and our bad moods! Oh, and this ignited poetry. Baudelaire scorned Jeanne Duval and every female he dallied with, or at least did so on paper, Ted Hughes scorned Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound scorned Djuna Barnes, George Barker

scorned Elizabeth Smart, everybody scorned Jean Rhys. Proust did not scorn Albertine because Albertine was a man. The she-poets perished beneath the burden of beauty and scorn. This is what I observed. This was the formal sexuality of lyric. Who was I then, what was I, when I, a girl, was their reader, the reader of the beautiful representations? Who was I if I became the describer, and how could I become this thing before perishing? Would I then even recognize myself? Because I saw the perishing everywhere. Daily I read it. The freedom of desiring and its potent transformations seemed not to belong to beauty, just to beauty's describer. Anyone without a language for desire perishes. Any girl-thing. My questions emerged then as a mute, troubled resistance to the ancient operation that I also craved."

"There was a communal, rust-marked sink with cold-water faucet at the end of the corridor, beside the shared toilet. I bought a plastic basin to fill at that sink and bring back to my room, and I washed in cold water that afterwards I poured out into the mansard roof gutters beneath my window. Out on the windowsill I stored my food. I had everything I needed, in a slightly diminished, awkward scale, as if I lived my life reduced by one sixth of the dimensions usually considered necessary. This awkward contraction of domestic necessity was for me utopian. The minor discomfort, unimportant in itself, was a subtle threshold to a different sensing. I poured my nightpiss also into that gutter."

"Red-haired prostitutes were highly valued then; the Goncourt brothers, in their diaries, delighted in describing the skin tone of red-haired women's sexes. Oh men. Our red haired twats and our torn skirts, you must claim them. We sing anyways."

"She sticks her lip out and doesn't budge. The short life of Baudelaire, in its dizzying, troubled decline, was defined by the poet's self-recognition in the grotesque mirror of the social abjection of women. Whatever the red- haired singer thought of this, the men's aesthetic use of her person as a masque, will now be expressed by her resistant, unnamed glance."

"The movement of perception or description, which are so closely intertwined as to be indiscernible, is not between nominal categories or aesthetic concepts. The girl is not a concept. Her idea has no core or centre, it takes place on the sills, in the non-enunciation of her name. This feminine namelessness seeps outwards with undisciplined grandeur. The girl's identity is not pointlike, so it can't be erased. It's a proliferating tissue of refusals. Unoriginal, it trails behind me, it darts before me, like my own shadow, or a torn garment. I say unoriginal because once she was named. The removal of her name is an historical choice, so ubiquitous that it seems natural. There is no nameless girl. There is no girl outside language. The girl is not an animal who goes aesthetically into the ground, as many of the philosophers would have it. The girl is an alarm. Her lust is always articulate. If her song goes unrecognized it's because its frames been suppressed; her song is enunciation's ruin. It is a discontinuous distribution, without institution. Always the tumult of her face is saying something to her world."

"

Your body can sometimes deter its own represertain: this breach indicates an interiorized covenant or constraint. It's called the feminine. Its a historica condition. The movement of perception or descripion. which are so closely intertwined as to be indiscernible is not between nominal categories or aesthetic concepts. The girl is not a concept. Her idea has no core or centre- it takes place on the sills, in the non-enunciation of her name. This feminine namelessness seeps outwards with undisciplined grandeur. The girl's identity is not pointlike so it can't be erased. It's a proliferating tissue of refusals. Unoriginal, it trails behind me, it darts before me, like my own shadow, or a torn garment. I say unoriginal because once she was named. The removal of her name is an historical choice, so ubiquitous that it seems natural. There is no nameless girl. There is no girl outside language. The girl is not an animal who goes aesthetically into the ground, as many of the philosophers would have it. The girl is an alarm. Her lust is always articulate. If her song goes unrecognized it's because its frames been suppressed; her song is enunciation's ruin. It is a discontinuous distribution, without institution. Always the tumult of her face is saying something to her world."

"

Prodigal, undisciplined, with an aptitude for melancholy and autonomous fidelity: nameless girl with your torn skirt, there's nothing left for you but to destroy art. That is what Baudelaire wrote of young girls in his intimate journals: The girl, frightful, monstrous, assassin of art. The girl, what she is in reality. A little lush and a little slut; the greatest imbecility joined with the greatest depravation. I read this and then I reread it: I recoiled. predictably disgusted. Already this sort of cruelty had become familiar in my reading. Very often a text contains its own police; the she-reader is simply shut out, among various others, none of us the men of the declared inside. I read this excision everywhere. I read it in philosophy especially but also in poetry, in criticism, in history. The female is identified, then transformed to her predestined use, which is nameless. Any reader pertaining to the feminized category receives a gut punch. Would you care to be prostituted? Since I first began to read, the punch had been one part of reading. I felt it personally, that is to say, physically. Sometimes I braced myself and continued, bristling with cautious defensiveness. Sometimes I weakened and cried. ashamed even of my weakness. I believed it was my task to harden myself and persist. But gradually now the Baudelairean rant against the girl began to work differently in me. This slut insinuated attractive possibilities. What if this was not a punch but a perverse invitation? The lush imbecile beckoned me in. She begged me to become something. I paused, then I became that monster. I even expanded her grotesque domain, following the useful suggestion of Michèle Bernstein that it has become time to 'unleash inflation"

"

Though I liked his philosophy of tailoring very much, I did not set out to compose the work of Baudelaire. In truth I'd barely read him. I entertained no particular literary nostalgia towards his canonical image, and I knew very little about his life. Between me and the Baudelaire concept there was no articulated relationship of influence, imitation, worship, or even rebuttal. When I think about the conditions of this involuntary transmission, although I don't believe that conditions are necessarily causes, I now see that I'd been nudged a little by the presence in my life of the worn yellow volume, and by the mostly passive absorption of a received mythology, as well as by the slightly more principled reading of a Predictable cluster of critical texts, the ones more or less mandatory in my intellectual generation. Everyone reads an excerpt of The Painter of Modern Life alongside their Walter Benjamin and then moves on. Everyone reads three poems from Le Spleen de Paris."

"the Baudelaire material exerted subtle pressures whose import I didn't at first recognize, involved as I was with what seemed like more contemporary problems, such as the performativity of gender, or the politics of complicity. But I believe that there was no active sequence of cause and effect, no organic arc of development that could explain the transmission. I simply discovered within myself late one morning in middle age the authorship of all of Baudelaire's work. I can scarcely communicate the shock of the realization. What then of this authorship, this boisterous covenant? I either received it entire, as one slips into a jacket and assumes its differently accented gestural life, or I uncovered it within myself, which is to say inwardly I fell upon it."

"What happened was this: I smashed up against a violent and completely formed recognition that entered through my sleepy hands. The poems were my poems. The words as I read them were words I knew deeply because they were my own, the way my skin was physiologically my own. I'd muttered these words as I walked. I'd crossed them out after several years to replace them with other words and then changed them back. I was completely inside the poem I was reading, and also within its gradual, discontinuous making"

I’ll explain again. Waking early one morning in a Vancouver hotel room in the spring of 2016, I picked up the copy of Baudelaire that I’d been up late reading the night before. It was a wide bed; I’d simply left the book splayed open on the other pillow and fallen asleep beside it as some might sleep with a cat curled close. I’d slept only lightly. I was preparing to teach a seminar on the prose poem, connecting Baudelaire’s Paris Spleen to Rousseau’s Reveries of a Solitary Walker and the Essays of Montaigne. I felt nervous about these intermittent teaching tasks and so I defensively overprepared; now those hurried studies haunted my sleep. Still in bed, barely awake, I clicked on the lamp, reached for the outdated dark blue Modern Library edition that had replaced the old paperback I’d lost. The translations were mawkish. The worn cloth cover felt comfortable and familiar. I read at random one sentence, a cry posing as a query:

Shall we ever live?

What happened was this: I smashed up against a violent and completely formed recognition that entered through my sleepy hands. The poems were my poems. The words as I read them were words I knew deeply because they were my own, the way my skin was physiologically my own. I’d muttered these words as I walked. I’d crossed them out after several years to replace them with other words and then changed them back. I was completely inside the poem I was reading, and also within its gradual, discontinuous making, which was both skin and breath"

"Here I'll call it writing. But I wish to exorcise from this domain any assumption of authority. It is perhaps a false provenance, but I recall reading somewhere that the medieval Latin root of the word author was auctore to augment. Not caring much for the scholarship of origins, I've since held fast to this etymology as a truth, and not least as a method, without ever verifying it. To augment would be my work - to add the life of a girl without subtracting anything else from the composition, and then to watch the centre dissolve."

"

To have been thus doubly kissed, to have been drawn by a kiss, was a form of becoming. This kiss transcribed me. And yet for a very long time the double kiss had had to ripen upon me in its cool way, until in the morning hotel bed it awoke a second time within me, or indeed upon my skin, meaning also the skin of my tongue, as the artifice of my authorship of the works of Baudelaire. Between the wide bed of the hotel and the narrow bed of the maid's room on rue du Cherche-Midi, beds like two poles of a battery, the one with a book, the other with a boy, all of my life crowded, every part of the language that figured the pause that permitted me to enter poetry. Reader, I am sad to think of all the years that passed during which that kiss was forgotten. The truth is, I only recalled the kiss because I had transcribed it. Even - or, I suppose, especially - the most delicately human truths can disappear. I had made a place for it then in the diary I have often mentioned in these pages, the heavy hard-bound diary with the brown leather spine, which weighed as much as a sturdy pair of leather boots. In black ink on blank cream-coloured laid paper, I had found a few phrases for the boy's kiss, for his silver necklace, for the soft light that afternoon, which was caught glinting in the necklace, in the midst of pages of lists and awkward drawings of coffee cups, park benches, and sculptures at the Louvre. This diary was a character in the drama I was constructing, the drama of my life, or at least my imagination of a possible

and necessary life. It was my dirty and smudged receiver. Obediently it harboured the augmented kiss of the green afternoon. I had begun the diary shortly before my first exodus to Paris, under the influence of my grandmother's death. While she was dying in a Toronto hospital I stayed in her apartment, a sparse place, since she had sold many possessions in order to get by. I took the bus to visit her every day, bringing her little puddings and treats to tempt her to eat, and a tape deck, so she could listen to music. I brought late Beethoven quartets on cassette. I applied lotion to her dry face and hands. I combed her hair. I helped her change her nightie. But what she wanted most from me, what she was hungry for, was description. She wanted me to describe everything to her and so I did: the route the bus had taken, the interiors of the various shops I visited, what trees were flowering and where, what late and where I bought it, how I had rinsed my blouses in the bathroom sink and hung them to drip dry over the tub. The vintage stay-up grid-patterned stockings I'd found in a vintage shop in Kensington Market. Nothing was too trivial. For my grandmother, in the last days of her living, description was a second life, a way of being in the world. It was what I could offer her, and it was what she could receive. Description soothed her. It was mortality's cosmetic. It enlarged the possible...

So I described for her. In this way writing became a magical procedure: describing the world in its smallest details was a work of love for the dead."

"my inevitable failure to get it all down - the patterns of concrete floor tiles in 5 p.m. winter train stations lit by yellow incandescent light, the pink feather counterpane on the hotel bed in my room in Rheims when I went to see the twelve tapestries of the life of Mary in the cathedral and left with the image of bombed-out stained- glass windows incongruously pouring morning light into Gothic space, the riveting astonishment of the Cassavetes film Love Streams that I'd seen at a matinée on the boulevard Saint-Michel and left indelibly altered: Gena Rowlands as the questing and numinous medieval philosopher of the expansion of love, her face like a bright planet across jittering chiaroscuro. Distant love, divorced love, mother-daughter love, rejected love, father-daughter love, sister-brother love, father-son love, human-animal love, polyamorous love, earth love, holy love, ludic love, experimental love, all splintered, imploded, swirled, marbled, leaked, knit in limitless kaleidoscope; the tenderness of the boy's gaze before he kissed me."

"

life. I wanted to be as stupid as kissing, as dirty as a servant, as ripe as a blown-open diary, and I was. Everything will fall short of the lucidity of this stain and its proliferation of vanishing points. Also I reread to live doubly. I do now enjoy receiving the shock of audacity at the stain that I was. It is not possible that I was that girl, splintered, imploded, swirled, leaking, yet I hold here in my unmanicured hands her junky documents. Under their influence, I learn afresh the nobility of infidelity and artifice."

" I feel a faintly obscene devotion to my own ridiculousness, as if I were a perverted naturalist describing a curious form of invasive vegetation. To everything I read in the diaries I now give the name novel, I give the name knock-off. Yet I am completely disgusted by literature. That's why this is erotic comedy. A brief afternoon tempest; one petal slides under the door. The time of this cottage is kept in flowers. As a dandy fingers his lapels, I finger my book."

"

I recall that the room was very narrow, as was the bed, and that the wallpaper was covered in lugubrious yellow roses. Things left in hotel rooms: Swinburne, the moth-ridden morning jacket, a polished black teardrop-shaped pebble I had carried since childhood for luck, my Vivitar camera, my Canadian passport, my best brassiere, of magenta silk brocade trimmed in orange piping. Each of these items is now framed in my memory by the room where I left it behind, as if forgetting the object conceptually fixed the place and its decoration, in a perverse inversion of the often-mentioned technique of ancient memory. Here the object, the Swinburne Faber paperback, purple, absent, recalls the room, street sound and river light coming through the tall open window. and the heavy rosy Goth pulse of the amber scent in its odd flat transparent bottle."

"

Carved from solid walnut, it was one of those furnishings of genius, which we find in the eighteenth century, but which modern cabinet makers are powerless to imitate or reproduce. Indeed, its oval shape was endlessly transformed by inflections, apparently capricious and every-which-way, but to the contrary, the result of profound calculations. Not only did this ceaseless, undulating line seduce by way of its elegant caprice, but the table was contrived so that no matter how one sat at it, the body found itself supported, held softly, with no rigidity! Banville said that he believed the table itself was an element in the composition of Les Fleurs du mal."

"In considering the publication of Les Fleurs du mal and its subsequent trial, I believe it was the century that was obscene, not the poems. Baudelaire had composed a darkly fulgent antidote to capital's moral voraciousness, a homeopathic potion with a complex temporal structure, as the great noses compose noble perfumes based upon a necessary rot. Had the censors recognized the mortal danger to signification exuded by the infinitely proliferating folds and vortices of these flowers? They ravage all groomed certainty."

"

consider the narrative components of the scent; this middle trajectory pretends to a functional, developmental sincerity, which it meanwhile viciously parodies. The final temporality is the lingering, superstructural one, a rigorous and beckoning decay deeply impregnating the senses, insinuating its undesignated difference beneath and among the sanitized affects of the grid, the assassin of the very sweetness it had borne darkly forward."

"

"Here I want to return to the physiognomy of inflection, the figure of the table becoming the body becoming the book of flowers. I have said that I've felt that it is the room that writes, that I simply lend it my pronoun. For Banville, Baudelaire's table was a linguistic force that collaborated with the poet's desire. The edges that separate things are conventional rather than inherent or inevitable. While it may make use of these edges in passing, the work of desire is borderless. Once set in motion by a site or an image, swervelike, the line of recollection simply continues, and in multiple directions, intensities, and temporalities, becoming surface, becoming ornament. I feel it in my body as I write this. The scent of a stairway, the glance of a painting and the eyes and the lips and the loneliness nonetheless. Here's a city that calls - be glorious fully in this poor minute. There is no unidirectional lust. We lean in and it careens to an elsewhere. It's both ahead of the body and behind the body, as well as all around it, like a voluminous shawl or scarf. Curves, counter-curves, folds entangle. To be held for an instant, to bring the furling velocity back towards the more limited scale of the speaker, desire seeks a language. The work of memory also enjoys the helpful artifice of a frame, a rhyme, a room, a table, a cartouche, a grammar. Desire and memory: their vertiginous animality is the condition of all predicates. Where would the dear bare body be without these ornate garments and phrases and ointments that bind us to time"

"When I wrote sentences in my diary, willing myself to describe rooms, paintings, dreams, garments, encounters, and so to fix them against oblivion - crossing out and starting over, repeating, replacing and slightly altering, fibbing - I discovered that I wanted their edges to shimmer. I wanted the gorgeousness in the tawdry and girlish, but I also wanted the anger. Sentences had surfaces; I wanted them to begin to undo themselves, to careen into the impossible. A sentence could be a blade. My task was to free the sentence from literature. To free it from culture even, since both are owned. At the beginning of my research I tested the potentials of duration in my diary, used the leaves of the bound volume as a laboratory. Never had a girl written anything long enough. If I could open the temporality in sentences, perhaps a transformation could take hold. It was the simplest idea, but had some inadvertent merit, in that it forced me to recognize

time as linguistic material. Therefore time did become my linguistic material. Patience and impatience intertwined in a lacework. Pattern emerged. I was no avant-gardist; I had no interest in abolishing grammar. Rather, I studied it, in a casual way. I wanted to understand subordination. I thought it could be useful. I dallied with additive phrases, internal digressions, parallel constructions, and deferred predicates; I saw that the shape of the sentence could be dangerous. Instead of accommodating and representing the already- known, so limiting identity and collectivity, this shape could instead become a force of inflection. Like the baroque table, like a spiralling scene in a movie by Cassevetes, at the core of a storm a dog becomes a blonde person who speaks soundlessly into the heart."

"The sentence: subjectivity followed by a pause. Subjectivity: whatever desires or hates. Now the pronoun could be limitlessly potent instead of retrospectively descriptive; the sentence, rather than receiving the dumb imprint of my always too-limited experience, could hold grammar open to future becoming, or shut it capriciously to evade determination. Now all at once I could recognize my own anger - it wasn't hot and explosive, but an ice- edged retraction. Often this recognition had evaded me in my life. I had felt that I had no anger until I took hold of that cold blade. I came to feel grammar as an elemental matrix. All possible co-mixture and variability came into being in tandem with the technology of those prismatic constraints."

" What future strangers would recognize themselves in this charged. citational, T? What would a girl's anger be? How would each speaking girl transform her pronoun? Its a fractured citation. Everything that's ever passed through it has left behind traces of fragrance: coconut, musk, and fear. We speak the words others have spoken, in new settings, and so transform them a little, while the trace of the old speakers also remains active, moving into the potent future. The pronoun is just the most intense point of this timely reinvention. The feeling of having an inner life, animated by a cold-hot point of identification called I, is a linguistic collaboration. We speak only through others' mouths."

"Yet what I hd already, coming to this table, was something easy and useful and fresh, and was given to me by sentences: the cool sensation that my body was already in the middle of thinking and that this condition, in both its lust and its anger, was average, unremarkable, so free.I would have liked my sentences to devour time. They'd be fat with it. In what sense is anger ornamental? When it permits a girl to pleasurably appear to herself. There was never a room that could hold my anger and so I went to the infinity of the phrase. Obviously it wasn't simple like that. Anger was my complicated grace. The sexuality of sentences: Reader, I weep in it."

"I began to see the poems in their typographical arrangement on paper as kinds of portraits. They were portraits of poems, much in the way that, between exhibitions, in the temporarily emptied room of a nineteenth-century museum, the indigo or crimson fabric-covered walls will be unevenly faded, revealing the brighter shapes of pictures that had long hung there, as ghosts of previous syntaxes of display and relationship. These absent shapes were now spaces for thinking something new. Whatever newness might be - for now, like a geometer, I think there is very little that is ever new on this earth. What we name invention is mostly recombination. But then the idea of the new burned like a faith within me. After many years of such ruminations and countless moves between cheap rooms, I lost track of the book, whose covers had come loose, leaving the onion-skin paper vulnerable to damage. Still by the time it disappeared I had not actually read it, though I had absorbed it through my hands."

"The granddaughter had also given me a paperback Littré dictionary, which I continue to keep on my writing table. It is the 1971 10/18 edition from Christian Bourgois and Dominique de Roux, with a glossy purple cover showing a slash of sulphur yellow and a disk of cyan, within which nested the stern photographic portrait of Emile Littré the theosophist lexicographer. Several children's names were written shakily and boldly on the first pages of the dictionary, in various colours of ink, accompanied by geometric doodles: Emmanuel, Jean, Caron. Inside, apparently random words were highlighted with yellow bars: exacerber, pondereuse, protectorat, regressive, affecter. It was the code to my future and I could not yet read it, or it was nothing, a chance scattering of various kinds of idiosyncratic marginalia - stars, underlinings, groupings of successive entries linked by soft vertical slashes in pencil. Next to gambade is a small black ink drawing of a crystal. A gambade is a caper, a frisk, a prancing. It is also the successful evasion of the payment of a debt, especially by a poet."

"From a slightly accented waist its longish skirt fared a bit behind, encouraging a brisk, decorative enunciation of my step; this jacket added a grain of wit to its wearer's walk, like a mild sartorial drug. It buttoned to the middle of the breastbone, and the largish buttons were covered in velvet, which had frayed at the edges, as had the softly turned, broad and high lapels. I recalled the theory of lapels I had once read without retaining the name of its author: the lapel is a gentleman's expression of vulva-envy. The old jacket fit me perfectly. Wearing this garment transmitted to my own body a metamorphosis in corporal gesture; though my physique and posture were more accented than altered, my bodily vocabulary opened to movements and stances generally only intuited now with the help of old photographs, such as those by Nadar or Carjat. The tailoring of the jacket moulded a new gait, a new stance, a gestural etiquette. I say new because it was unique in my proprioceptive grammar, though in reality what I had slipped into was an all-but-vanished ethics of sensation. I felt a lightened precision in my movements, coupled with a pleasurable cast of subtle constraint. I felt the flare of my high lapels. I bought the jacket."

"All of those jackets I wore over anything at all during the long era of intensive feminist theoretical study; they accompanied my ardent forays into Donna Haraway's Cyborg Manifesto - for indeed I was no goddess - and the world-changing texts of Judith Butler, the shockingly liberating Gender Trouble, for"

"There had been so many Baudelairean jackets, each part of the infinite cycle of clothing, pawning, borrowing, owing, which, continuously recombinant, functioned in his life as the cardinal directions or the cosmic elements did in ancient geometries. Surely some of the purloined jackets were still circulating in the rag cosmos. The poet was not alone in upholding this sartorial cosmology. Marx, too, while writing Capital in London, rhythmically pawned his coat and then borrowed to retrieve it; so determining was this mobile garment and its liquid value that he used its image to begin the great study of the production of value in modernity. 'A coat is a use-value, Marx wrote, 'that is determined by need' It was said that he could only go to the library to research his lifework on those days when his coat was out of hock. At such times Baudelaire, or so he wrote to his mother, seeking yet another small advance on his capital to again renew the cycle, would wear all of his shirts at once and not go out. So the coat was also a fungible money - at the pawnshop it represented to its temporary owner not its usefulness, but a mobile unit of value in itself. A coat became heating wood, coffee, a room, time."

"The systems and infrastructures were continuing to erode, as they had been doing since the arrival of Thatcher in 1979, and the defunct industrial beauty of nineteenth- century train stations was no exception. Everything had been privatized or was about to be privatized except for poetry, which was worthless. These things, and others, about the depressed local economy, the fall of the social state, and the increasing precariousness of survival, were explained to me as I walked with my hosts to the pub where the reading would be held. Emboldened by our shared contempt for capital and our appreciation for difficult syntax, we drank a great deal."

"From a slightly accented waist its longish skirt flared a bit behind, encouraging a brisk, decorative enunciation of my step; this jacket added a grain of wit to its wearer's walk, like a mild sartorial drug. It buttoned to the middle of the breastbone, and the largish buttons were covered in velvet, which had frayed at the edges, as had the softly turned, broad and high lapels. I recalled the theory of lapels I had once read without retaining the name of its author: the lapel is a gentleman's expression of vulva-envy. The old jacket fit me perfectly. Wearing this garment transmitted to my own body a metamorphosis in corporal gesture; though my physique and posture were more accented than altered, my bodily vocabulary opened to movements and stances generally only intuited now with the help of old photographs, such as those by Nadar or Carjat. The tailoring of the jacket moulded a new gait, a new stance, a gestural etiquette. I say new because it was unique in my proprioceptive grammar"

" This cottage is now my archive. I am not sure that this is what I imagined for my life in poetry as I strove away on my blue typewriter in chambres de bonnes in 1985, yet having achieved such an archive I am not dissatisfied. In melancholic moments I refer to it as my hut, as it is very cheap, sparsely furnished, uninsulated, and heated by one wood stove. Many would consider it unsuitable for habitation. I can say that it does not leak. But if it is a hut, it is a dandiacal hut; all of my early urban fantasies, sartorial, perambulatory, philosophical, are now concentrated in its rough rafters and stone walls. My walks with my dog through the fields are theoretical experiments in the association of arcane concepts with a material history of margins. The landscape itself rhythmically conceals and reveals a tracing of the seizure and scarring of the earth by capital. Here I am not so much a recluse as an archivist of the ephemeral. This is one possible fate for the female thinker; this is one of the calmants of my heart."

"Folded rectangle was stitched to folded rectangle. All edges were woven selvedges. I kept sleeping. I kept stitching. She said that before armour the beautiful power of garments was the rhythm of folds. I felt the folded beauty in my sleep. She said that the folds were inconveniently uncomfortable beneath the snugly fitted armour. They clumped up and chafed and bruised the wearer. Therefore the tailoring or cuts, drawing the garment close to the living skin. One part of the technique of tailoring was layering many mitred woollen pieces to mould a form. The woollen layers constituted a padding fitted to the body. She said that in so contriving the woollen padding, she transformed the suit of armour to a kind of furnace or chrysalis. From it the dandy inevitably emerged. I was waking, still a little moist, coyly fluttering the tails of my morning jacket."

"There only one thing to do, and I did it with a kind of quick instinct, as would an artist who all at once, in her studio, perceives the only solution to a long-standing, worried- over metaphysical problem. I removed my jacket and hung it there, respectfully and tenderly buttoning its buttons and adjusting the fall of the shoulders on the wooden hanger. I closed the armoire, then ran for my train. This is how I lost both the poems and the jacket of Baudelaire, and in doing so made my only installation work. Perhaps the armoire has never since been opened, and inside it, the jacket is now livid dust."

"Cholerous yellow bile is exuded by the gall bladder, in the bitternes of anger. 'The phlegmatic humour seems to move with the sleepy coolness of water or lymph. It is stored in the lungs Only black bile, the fluid of melancholy, whose source is the spleen, has no observable correlative among the various internal fluids of the human body. It is not like chyle or wax or semen or tears; black bile is purely imagined. It is a spurious fluid necessary to supplement and correct the asymmetry of the other three, and thence to connect the cosmical human body to the four worldly elements. The element of melancholy is earth. It is dry and cold. Each of our bodies comprises a unique combination of these four humours in always-shifting proportions; our complexions, dispositions, and health express our humoral balance or imbalance at any time. In my own humoral admixture, what is the exact proportion of melancholy to choler? It may have been a preponderousness of the darkest humour that brought me to this cold house, together with my dog, most melancholic of beasts, as Benjamin reminds in his work on the baroque."

"Rhythm, an expression of form, is time, but it is time as the improvisation that moves each limited body in play with a world. Not necessarily metrical or regular, it's the passing shapeliness that we inhabit. It both has a history and is the history that our thinking has made:. As l achieved the apex of excitement in the rereading of this beautiful document, attempting to grasp anew how a concept becomes quite: literally a landscape (for only much later in the history of this word had rhythm come to articulate and even make perceivable the repeating or cycling patterns we attribute now to nature"

"Or had the insect succeeded in slightly breaking my nape skin with its barbed, needle-like hypostome? Had it transferred to my bloodstream, mixed with a small quantity of its arachnid saliva, the virus-like paternity of the body of work that I had discovered within myself? It is likewise the contagion of a virus, I have heard, that causes the brindled beauty of the parrot tulip, the peculiar variegation so valuable and sought-after during the Dutch baroque, when tulip bulbs were first brought from Turkey to the Netherlands. In Europe a virus of the common potato itself only recently introduced. from South America - caused a mutation in the Turkish flowers, expressed in the bizarre striated colouring and feathered form of the petals, now referred to as broken. Now I must wonder whether I did not so much assume the paternity, nor receive it in the mystic transmission whose architecture I have sought so rangingly to comprehend in these pages, so much as I had been infected by it, so that at this very moment the Baudelairean authorship moves"

"Her mouth is firmly set and her jaw strong. She withdraws from the gaze; she doesn't offer herself to an interpretation. Her autonomy is the very core of beauty. The concentrated intensity of her distant and withdrawn face is a rhetorical counterpoint to the skirt's expansive, forward-tumbling froth. I recognize the future girl in her refusal, her gravitas. She is irreducible to the visible, and she is irreducible to the invisible. She is relaxed in her displeasure. She is totally modern. I'll never know her and she doesn't care. This is Jeanne Duval. She's a philosopher. She was painted by Manet in 1862, a year after Baudelaire had dedicated to her a copy of the second edition of Les Fleurs du mal: 'Homage à ma très chère Féline.' Now I meet her image in Paris, on June 13, 2019. The linden trees are in flower. I'm fifty-seven years old. I'm thinking about the immense, silent legend of any girl's life. She's leaning back, observing."

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Vibration testing is a crucial process in engineering that evaluates how products, components, and structures respond to vibrational forces. It plays a vital role in product development, quality assurance, and safety verification across a wide range of industries—from automotive and aerospace to electronics and manufacturing.

What Is Vibration testing?

Vibration testing involves subjecting an object or system to controlled vibration stimuli to simulate real-world conditions it will face during operation or transportation. This testing helps engineers identify potential weaknesses, structural flaws, or performance issues caused by mechanical vibrations, shocks, or resonances.

The tests can replicate various vibration types, including sinusoidal (steady-state), random (non-periodic), and shock vibrations. Testing equipment typically uses electrodynamic or hydraulic shakers to generate these vibrations in controlled environments.

Why Is Vibration Testing Important?

Many products encounter vibrations during their lifecycle—whether from vehicle engines, machinery, road bumps, or even airborne turbulence. These vibrations can cause material fatigue, component loosening, electronic failures, or noise problems.

Vibration testing ensures:

Durability and Longevity: By exposing products to accelerated vibration cycles, manufacturers can predict and improve product lifespan.

Safety: Identifying failure points helps prevent catastrophic malfunctions that could endanger users.

Performance Validation: Ensures the product operates reliably under expected vibration environments.

Compliance: Many industries must meet regulatory standards (like MIL-STD-810 for military equipment) requiring vibration testing.

Types of Vibration Testing

Sinusoidal Vibration Testing This involves applying single-frequency vibrations in a controlled sweep. It is useful for identifying resonance frequencies where the product may experience excessive movement or stress.

Random Vibration Testing This simulates real-life vibration environments with non-repetitive frequencies and amplitudes. It’s commonly used to mimic road or aircraft vibrations.

Shock Testing Shock tests subject products to sudden, high-impact forces, such as drops or bangs, to assess their resilience against extreme events.

How Is Vibration Testing Performed?

The typical setup includes mounting the test specimen on a shaker table connected to a vibration controller. Sensors such as accelerometers measure the response during testing. Engineers can adjust vibration frequency, amplitude, and duration according to test plans derived from real-world scenarios or standards.

Advanced software collects data to analyze product behavior, detect potential failure modes, and guide design improvements.

Applications of Vibration Testing

Automotive Industry: Ensuring components like engines, suspension, and electronics withstand road vibrations.

Aerospace: Testing aircraft parts against in-flight turbulence and ground handling shocks.

Consumer Electronics: Verifying that devices can survive drops and everyday vibrations without damage.

Industrial Machinery: Assessing durability of heavy equipment and reducing maintenance costs.

Conclusion

Vibration testing is an indispensable part of modern engineering, providing valuable insights into how products will perform and endure in their real operating environments. By identifying vulnerabilities early, manufacturers can enhance product design, improve reliability, and comply with stringent industry standards. Whether you’re designing the next-generation smartphone or an aircraft component, vibration testing helps ensure your product stands strong against the forces of motion.

[stepper1128]

Main structure and design features of CNC spindle motor

1.Definition of CNC spindle motor CNC spindle motor is the core component of CNC machine tools, responsible for driving the spindle to rotate and perform cutting processing. The spindle motor generates rotational torque through electromagnetic induction, driving the spindle to rotate at high speed, thereby achieving high-precision processing operations. The electric spindle directly integrates the motor into the spindle, realizing efficient operation of mechatronics, significantly reducing the driving process, making the structure more compact and the noise lower, while also achieving higher mechanical efficiency, better precision and smaller vibration amplitude.

2.Operation mode of CNC spindle motor

1.Operation mode with variable speed gear: multi-stage mechanical speed change is achieved through the gearbox, which is suitable for occasions requiring large torque and speed change requirements. The advantages of this method are compact structure and high transmission efficiency, but the disadvantages are that it increases the complexity of the hydraulic system and the vibration and noise caused by the transmission are large.

2.Belt drive operation mode: Synchronous toothed belt drive is used, which is suitable for small CNC machine tools. The advantages are simple structure and ability to suppress vibration and noise, but the transmission ratio is inaccurate, which is suitable for small and medium power situations. ‌3. Direct drive of speed-regulating motor (electric spindle): The motor is directly connected to the spindle, which belongs to the direct drive structure. The advantage of this method is that it simplifies the structure of the spindle box and the spindle and improves the rigidity of the spindle components, but the heating of the motor has a greater impact on the spindle. It is suitable for small parts processing but not suitable for heavy cutting.

3.The main structure of CNC spindle motor ‌1. Spindle box: The spindle box is an important component of the spindle of CNC machine tools. Its main function is to support the spindle and withstand cutting force, radial force and axial force. The spindle box is generally made of high-strength materials and has sufficient rigidity and stability. ‌2. Spindle motor: The spindle motor is a key component that drives the spindle to rotate. It usually uses an AC servo motor or an ordinary AC motor, which has the advantages of high precision, high speed and high torque. ‌3. Bearing: The bearing is used to support the spindle and withstand radial force and axial force. The spindle of CNC machine tools generally uses rolling bearings, which have the advantages of low friction, high speed and high precision. ‌4. Seals���: Seals are used to prevent cutting fluid and dust from entering the spindle box, maintaining the cleanliness and lubrication performance of the spindle box. Seals are generally made of rubber materials, which have the advantages of high temperature resistance, wear resistance and corrosion resistance. ‌5. Cooling device‌: Since the electric spindle generates a lot of heat when running at high speed, the cooling device ensures that the temperature of the spindle unit is maintained within an appropriate range. The cooling device usually includes two methods: water cooling and air cooling. The water-cooled spindle uses water circulation cooling, while the air-cooled spindle relies on fans to cool down. ‌6. Drive module‌: The drive module is used to control the speed change function of the spindle to ensure that the rotation speed and torque of the spindle meet the processing requirements. The drive module is usually integrated with the spindle unit housing to achieve precise control. ‌7. Speed ​​and angular displacement sensors‌: These sensors are used to measure the rotation speed and angular position of the spindle, and timely feedback information to the CNC system to ensure the accuracy and stability of processing. ‌8. Inner tapered hole and end face design‌: The front end of the spindle is designed with an inner tapered hole and end face, which is convenient for the installation and use of the tool. The design of the inner tapered hole and end face directly affects the clamping force and stability of the tool‌.

4.Design features of CNC spindle motors

1.High speed and power density‌: CNC spindle motors usually have high speed and power density. For example, the rated speed of the 4.5KW manual high-gloss ultra-precision electric spindle can reach 24000rpm, ensuring stable operation at high speed‌. ‌2. Low noise and vibration‌: In order to reduce noise and vibration, the cooling system and dynamic balancing characteristics are taken into consideration during the design. For example, the JGD-125-2 model electric spindle controls the maximum speed noise within 70dB through the water cooling system, and the dynamic balancing accuracy reaches 3mg, ensuring stability at high speed‌. ‌3. High precision and stability‌: The design of CNC spindle motors focuses on precision and stability. For example, some models of electric spindles are equipped with high-precision bearings and cooling systems, and the axial/radial runout accuracy can reach within 0.002mm. The cooling system controls thermal deformation to ensure processing accuracy. ‌4. Bearing type: Common bearing types for electric spindles include ceramic ball bearings, hydrostatic bearings and magnetic bearings. Ceramic ball bearings are lightweight and high hardness, suitable for machining centers and milling machines; hydrostatic bearings are known for their high rotation accuracy and low wear; magnetic bearings work in a non-contact manner, with high-speed performance and accuracy, but at a higher cost. ‌5. Cooling system: In order to cope with the heat generated by high-speed operation, the design of the cooling system is crucial. For example, the JGD-125-2 model uses a water cooling system to ensure constant temperature processing of the spindle and improve processing stability.

[easyi3c]

【step by step】Easyi3C Host I3C adapter (1)

Easyi3C is a leading supplier of embedded system tools that simplify the development and debugging of various communication protocols. The company offers a range of products designed to help engineers and developers use I3C/I2C , USB and MIPI, JEDEC, MCTP and other protocols more efficiently.

1. Basic Introduction

Easyi3C Host I3C adapter is a powerful and easy-to-use I3C and I2C host adapter produced by Easyi3C. It connects the computer to the downstream embedded system environment through the USB interface and adopts the advanced I3C and I2C protocol.

Based on the application programming interface (API) function and the Easyi3C Tower console graphical user interface (GUI) tool, combined with the Python development environment, the Easyi3C Host adapter greatly simplifies the development process of I3C/I2C chip testing and data transmission environment. It provides great convenience for AE engineers, FAE engineers, etc. to verify I3C/I2C chips. Simple verification can be done through the graphical console interface, which is easy to use and easy to learn. If you want to test more complex functions or perform automated testing, you can use the rich API functions provided by the manufacturer to quickly implement automated scripts in the Python development environment.

We know that I2C was invented by Philips Semiconductors in 1981, and its history is a bit old and mature. The I3C protocol I3C specification was originally released by in 2017. I3C is the abbreviation of improved internal integrated circuit, which is a 2-wire digital interface similar to I2C. It improves and optimizes the previously released I2C and SPI interfaces, solves the problem of slow I2C communication speed, and optimizes the shortcomings of SPI through four-wire connection. The I3C specification is managed by MIPI Alliance Inc. I3C also solves the problem of high power consumption of I2C. I3C becomes a low-power, low-cost and fast digital interface. It supports multi-point connection between host MCU and peripheral devices such as sensors and multi-master devices. Because the protocol is still very new, there are not many good tools on the market. The series of products launched by Easyi3C will fill this gap. The same interface supports I3C/I2C protocols at the same time, which is convenient for engineers to write automated scripts for chip protocol testing, shorten the product launch cycle, and help the company’s products win the competition.

2. Key features:

 Supports MIPI I3C BASIC v1.1  JEDEC JESD403–1 Specifications (JEDEC DDR5 Sideband Bus Spec)  I3C Master in SDR mode  Variable Working Frequencies (Open-Drain Mode: 1 kHz to 4 MHz (Default: 1MHz); Push-Pull Mode: 100KHz to 12.5 MHz (Default: 4MHz))  Adjustable SCL Duty Cycle  Amplitude Variation: 0.8V to 3.3V in steps of 10mV  5ns resolution  Supports 7-Bit Slave Addressing  Supports Common Command Code (CCC) transactions  Supports flexible payload length’s IBI  Supports Hot Plug  Supports all Dynamic Address Assignments  Supports legacy I2C Master, Software configurable I2C pull-up  Error Injection such as parity errors  USB Type-C port, Max. Current & Voltage: 500 mA @ 5 V  Supports online upgrade  API support for automation test in Python  Physical Size: 114mm x 81mm x 27mm  Operating Temperature From –20°C to +85°C

3. Hardware

Accessories:

4. Interface Introduction 4.1 Front Panel

5. Test chip connection method

5.1 Connect the Easyi3C adapter to the I2C/I3C device using a 10-pin cable.

5.2 Connect the Easyi3C adapter to the computer with a USB Type-C cable. The adapter is powered by USB Type-C communication, so no separate external power supply is required, which simplifies device connection.

Next, we will continue to introduce the use of the product in depth.

[willyfoureyes]

So, uh...Whatcha Doin'? (Week of April 20-26, 2025) - Tripping (over) the Rift

I didn't have the time or energy to prepare a "Whatcha Doin'?" post last week because I was burned out after helping my dad build a newer, sturdier gazebo that we shouldn't have to take down and place in the garage every year. It got its first real test today when a rainstorm swept through my town this afternoon. It must have worked, because I didn't see any water leaking onto the table after it was all over.

Anyway, I've been playing Rift of the Necrodancer, a purely rhythm-based spinoff/sequel to the hybrid music/dungeon crawler Crypt of the Necrodancer (which recently celebrated its 10th anniversary). As someone who got into music and rhythm games through FreQuency and Amplitude on PlayStation 2 (and developing a weird love for many forms of electronic music), Rift is my kind of jam.

However, I think I'm going to lay off any of the Impossible-level charts, as my hands already get cramped up from playing and restarting the Hard Mode songs. Even when I was in "peak physical gamer form" in my 20s, high-level songs in Guitar Hero and Rock Band were a bit too demanding for me to finish. Guess I'll never find out what reward I would have received for finishing "Free Bird" on Expert in GH2...

This led me back to the original Crypt, when I'd put off for years because I still can't get past the third floor (but I do like the gimmick of the stage music shifting between techno and hard rock versions depending on whether you're on hot or cold terrain). One of these days, I'll get lucky and find the right weapon to finish it and reach the ending, but tonight is not that night.

I should also put some serious work into playing Cadence of Hyrule, the Nintendo-approved crossover with Crypt and The Legend of Zelda.

[i-fuck-with-rubrene]

Forgetting logins, finding new ones, and why I hate the THz community

Well goddamn. I forgot I had this tumblr. I was trying to log into my main account, and was going through all the emails I have and eventually landed on my official unofficial account.

I thought, surely, I'd use my best burner with my main shitposting echo chamber. But alas and alack, I'm as dumb as a sack.

Anyway, grad school sucked shit ass dicks and I left early.

I learned I hate THz spectroscopy. Not the science behind it, but the scientists. THz radiation is exceptionally difficult to produce because it's too high energy for microwave generating methods to work and too low energy for IR generating methods, ie low-energy gap crystals, to work either. So you basically have to indirectly generate it via an electric field. It's incredibly cool. Plus, the THz dynamics in solids, notably semiconductors, explain fascinating phenomena like breakups of charge transport, thermal expansion, and exotic phase changes.

Likewise, getting THz spectra right is almost an art form. You know what likes THz radiation? Water. You know what's literally always in the air? Fucking water. Be prepared to purge, and seal, and take a blank, and purge, and seal, and break the optical cables because you're clumsy and frustrated, and repeat this till you get something passable. If you don't get the moisture out of the air, that laser table that took tens of thousands of dollars to acquire and then set up will just take the spectra of water. Yeah and it's so niche that unless the paper is reviewed by a THz guy they just let these spectra get published so good luck.

But when THz spectra are good, they're good good. Like distinguishing between crystalline polymorphs that look identical to IR, UV-vis, and X-Rays. Or being able to distinguish the orientation of a single water molecule adsorbed into the structure. Yeah, they're that powerful.

But THz spectroscopists man. Remember how I said it's exceptionally difficult to generate and get good looking spectra? They get an ego even when they make mid-grade spectra. Let's face it, you probably couldn't do it, you filthy amateur.

Despite the power of THz, it's still pretty niche as far as spectroscopy goes since it's so hard to set up and there's relatively few honest to God experts. So they talk to each other primarily. Want to piss them off? Call it low-frequency IR and watch them implode and scream about the harmonic oscillator. Handwave it and say by the time you need THz to explain why something is bad, the materials community, the people who would benefit the most from the crazy shit unveiled by THz, has already moved past it because it just doesn't work.

"No anon, we don't need to know there's a low-frequency high-amplitude mode that explains why this semiconductor that sucks. We just use ones that don't suck." -OSC device physicists

Furthermore, career spectroscopists who call themselves chemists are really physicists and they don't want to admit it. And to be fair, many of them are the smartest bastards you'll ever meet, and they know it. Fundamentally, spectroscopy is about the most fundamental interactions between matter and electromagnetic radiation. To talk about it is to talk about quantum mechanics.

Keeping up with them is exhausting. They're literally just on another level. They're just built different bro. Honestly I wish I could care as much as they did. Perhaps if many of them cared about being a human person who lives outside of laser tables and computer simulations that take months to complete and even longer to validate I'd enjoy their company.

With so many of them, talking to them felt like they talked down to me. Maybe I just talked to the shittiest of the bunch. Those folks were the experts of the experts though. The guys that said this is how you shoot a THz laser, you peasant. To some degree, their ego is justified. Doesn't mean I have to like them or work with them though.

I chose happiness.

For the lovers of the fundamentals, the most basic behavior of matter that makes it do what it does, lovers of precision and meticulous analysis, and the people who want to be unequivocally correct, THz is for you. The laser tables and Italian-made prohibitively expensive software is for you. Feel the cold embrace of the dark room laser lab, it will take you with open arms.

Or just do practical science. I realized through my miserable tryst among these brilliant but insufferable bastards that I'm more similar to a chemical engineer than a spectroscopist. I wanna see the things that work, and make those work better. Do stuff.

And yeah, by the way, uh, vibrations couple and sometimes looking at singular modes in a simulation and finding them at a super low temperature via THz doesn't even begin to tell the whole story since at room temperature, where real science happens, lots of stuff goes on simultaneously. Yeah and getting that via simulation would take years by napkin math alone and months to look at coupling between just a handful of them so good luck. No you're not getting the compute time for that unless you by your own cluster. K thanks bye.

[geotechharper]

Proton Magnetometer | Precision Geomagnetic Survey Technology

Abstract

The GEO-MG Proton Magnetometer redefines ground-based magnetic surveying with military-grade durability and cutting-edge measurement technology. Designed for geophysical professionals, this field-ready instrument delivers ​0.05nT sensitivity​ across a ​20,000-120,000nT dynamic range, making it ideal for detecting subtle anomalies in mineral exploration, archaeological surveys, and tectonic studies.

As an upgraded variant of the GEO-M series, the GEO-MG features ​dual-sensor configuration​ for enhanced data accuracy and workflow efficiency. Its OCXO-stabilized system ensures ​**±0.1nT absolute accuracy**, even in extreme environments (-40°C to +55°C).

Why Choose GEO-MG Magnetometer?

 Military-Grade Precision

0.01nT resolution with temperature-compensated OCXO oscillator

30μs GNSS time sync across GPS/BeiDou/GLONASS systems

Multi-Scenario Adaptability

3 operational modes: Mobile/Walking/Base for dynamic field conditions

**>5,000nT/m gradient tolerance** for rugged terrain

Enhanced Field Efficiency

Dual sensors enable simultaneous data capture (vs. single-sensor GEO-M)

32MB internal storage with USB/RS-232 dual transfer

Advanced Features of Proton Magnetometer

Real-Time Magnetic Field Visualization​

Dynamic gradient measurement with live curve displays

​Smart Workflow Optimization​

Continuous walking-mode acquisition (3-60s sampling intervals)

​Professional Data Integration​

Generate ​contour maps​ and ​3D magnetic profiles​ via dedicated software

​Ruggedized Design​

IP67-rated connectors and shock-resistant casing

Key Applications of GEO-MG Magnetometer

Mineral Exploration​

Iron/copper/zinc ore detection with 5000nT/m gradient tolerance

​Energy Sector​

Oil & gas reservoir mapping through structural analysis

​Environmental Monitoring​

Earthquake/volcanic precursor observation networks

​Engineering Survey​

Pipeline detection & underground infrastructure mapping

​Archaeological Research​

Non-invasive relic localization technology

Specifications

SpecificationsSensitivity :   0.05nT Dynamic range :20,000-120,000nT  Absolute accuracy :± 0.1nTResolution : 0.01nT Sample :3~ 60s @Mobile Mode; 3~3600s @Base Mode.    Gradient Tolerance: >5000nT/mRemote Control :  optional remote control via RS-232 interface  Input/Output :  RS-232 via 10 pin weatherproof connector with USB adaptorInternal Memory :32MB(209715 readings in Manual Mode, 699050 readings in Base Mode)Dimension & weight:Console: 220mm(L)×70mm(H)×175mm(W)；1.57kg Sensors: 140mm(L)×70mm(D); 1kg Operating Temperature:– 40°C to + 55°CStandard ConfigurationGPM-10 Console       1xHarness / Charger1xSensor with Cable     2xAluminum rod 50cm    4xStandard GPS   1xRS-232 Cable with USB adapter    1xInstruction Manual    1xShipping Case                1x

Why GEO-MG Outperforms GEO-M?

FeatureGEO-MGGEO-MSensors2x probes1x probeField Efficiency150-200 pts/day100-150 pts/dayData RedundancyDual-channel verificationSingle-channel

Compare GEO-M & GEO-MGStandard Configuration GEO-MGEO-MGGPM-10 Console       1x1xHarness / Charger1x1xSensor with Cable     1x2xAluminum rod 50cm    4x4xStandard GPS   1x1xRS-232 Cable with USB adapter    1x1xInstruction Manual    1x1xShipping Case               1x1x

Case study

The relatively obvious magnetic anomaly section in the survey line is basically consistent with the abnormal range of apparent resistivity and apparent amplitude frequency in the induced polarization. The two verify each other. Combined with the results of the measurement of the physical properties of the main rocks (ores) in the study area, it is speculated that the anomaly is a mineral-induced anomaly caused by magnetite-bearing skarn or iron (zinc) ore body.

The results of high-precision magnetic profile measurements show that there is a relatively obvious magnetic anomaly area near the entire profile. Although the overall magnetic anomaly value is small and the magnetic anomaly range is narrow, the anomaly morphology is regular and the curve is approximately equiaxial. Therefore, it is preliminarily speculated that there is a certain degree of magnetite mineralization in this area.

[hopelin]

How to use hybrid stepper motors reasonably

1.Structure of hybrid stepper motors Hybrid stepper motors are mainly composed of two parts: the stator and the rotor. The stator usually has 8 poles or 4 poles, with a certain number of small teeth evenly distributed on the pole surface, and the coil on the pole can be energized in two directions. The rotor consists of two tooth plates, which are staggered by half a tooth pitch, and an axially magnetized annular permanent magnet is sandwiched in the middle. This structure makes all teeth on the same section of the rotor plate have the same polarity, while the polarity of the rotor plates in different sections is opposite.

2.Control principle of hybrid stepper motors

1.Microstep control: Control the movement of the motor to multiple positions within a step interval by subdividing the step pulse. Microstep control can make the motor move in multiple small steps in each step cycle, making the rotation smoother. This control method adjusts the phase and amplitude of the current so that the motor can stay in a finer position within each step interval, thereby improving the positioning accuracy. ‌2. Speed ​​control: Control the speed of the motor by adjusting the frequency of the input pulse. The higher the pulse frequency, the faster the motor speed; conversely, the speed decreases. This control method is suitable for application scenarios that require adjusting the motor speed. ‌3. Torque control: Adjust the torque output of the motor according to the load demand. By adjusting the input current, the torque of the motor can be controlled to adapt to different load conditions. This control method can ensure that the motor can operate stably under different loads.

3.Design advantages of hybrid stepper motors

1.High output torque: The rotor of the hybrid stepper motor is made of permanent magnetic material, which gives it a high output torque and can drive a large load, which is suitable for application scenarios that require a large torque. ‌2. High step accuracy: The step accuracy of the hybrid stepper motor is high, which can reach 0.9° or even less. This makes it perform well in applications that require high-precision positioning, such as CNC machine tools and robots. ‌3. Low noise and low vibration: Because the rotor is made of permanent magnetic material, the hybrid stepper motor generates low noise and vibration during operation, which is suitable for application scenarios with high requirements for noise and vibration, such as medical equipment and precision instruments. ‌4. High efficiency‌: The efficiency of hybrid stepper motors is relatively high, reaching more than 70%, which makes them advantageous in energy conversion and utilization‌. ‌5. Multiple drive modes‌: Hybrid stepper motors can adopt multiple drive modes such as unipolar drive, bipolar drive, subdivision drive and microstep drive. These drive modes can be selected and adjusted according to specific application requirements to achieve the best performance and control effect‌.

4.Protection measures for hybrid stepper motors ‌1. Heat dissipation management‌: Hybrid stepper motors usually have left and right heat dissipation slots. Through the design of these heat dissipation slots, the heat inside the housing can be effectively dissipated to the outside of the housing to avoid heat accumulation and burnout of motor components‌. In addition, it is also necessary to regularly remove dust from the surface of the motor, because dust will affect the heat dissipation effect of the motor‌. ‌2. Voltage and current monitoring‌: During operation, ensure that the load current does not exceed the rated value to avoid overheating or insulation aging of the motor due to overload. The power supply voltage fluctuation range should be controlled between -5% and +10% of the rated voltage to avoid overload or difficulty in starting the motor due to low voltage. ‌3. Temperature protection: Check the bearing and winding temperature regularly to ensure that it does not exceed the allowable upper limit (such as the bearing temperature generally does not exceed 95°C). Abnormal temperature rise may be a sign of insufficient lubrication, overload or poor ventilation, and the machine needs to be shut down for inspection. ‌4. Mechanical maintenance: Regularly replace grease (every 1000 hours for sliding bearings and every 500 hours for rolling bearings), monitor abnormal noise or vibration of bearings, and deal with jamming or wear problems in a timely manner. Manually turn the shaft to check whether it is smooth and ensure that there is no mechanical jamming or friction. ‌5. Environmental management: Prevent water droplets, oil stains, and dust from entering the motor. Protective or closed structures are preferred in harsh environments. Explosion-proof motors should be used in flammable and explosive places. ‌6. Regular inspection and maintenance‌: including regular inspection of bearing wear and timely replacement of severely worn bearings; ensuring that the motor operates in a suitable application environment to avoid the impact of high temperature environment on the motor; reasonably controlling the power supply voltage and current to avoid overload operation causing damage to the motor‌.