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Carrion Luggage  Native to the Americas, the turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) travels widely in search of sustenance. While usually foraging alone, it relies on other individuals of its species for companionship and mutual protection. Sometimes misunderstood, sometimes feared, sometimes shunned, it nevertheless performs an important role in the ecosystem. This scavenger bird is a marvel of efficiency. Rather than expend energy flapping its wings, it instead locates uplifting columns of air, and spirals within them in order to glide to greater heights. This behavior has been mistaken for opportunism, interpreted as if it is circling doomed terrestrial animals destined to be its next meal. In truth, the vulture takes advantage of these thermals to gain the altitude needed glide longer distances, flying not out of necessity, but for the joy of it. It also avoids the exertion necessary to capture live prey, preferring instead to feast upon that which is already dead. In this behavior, it resembles many humans. It is not what most of us would consider to be a pretty bird. While its habits are often off-putting, or even disgusting, to members of more fastidious species, the turkey vulture helps to keep the environment from being clogged with detritus. Hence its Latin binomial, which translates to English as "golden purifier." I rarely know where the winds will take me next, or what I might find there. The journey is the destination. |
Another one for "Journalistic Intentions"  [18+]:Brutalism The French language has, for Anglophones, a few words and phrases that are called "false friends:" words that are the same or similar in both languages, but can have very different meanings or connotations. It should come as no surprise that the French term for them is "faux amis," which is pronounced something like foes-ah-MI, which itself is amusing to this Anglophone because "foes" in English is the opposite of "friends." As far as I know, though, the pronunciation is coincidental; "foe" comes from our Germanic roots. For an example of a faux ami, "demander" is a standard French infinitive verb ("standard" in that it follows one of the usual patterns to make present, past, future, etc. tenses) that translates to "to ask" or "to request." This can easily trip up an English speaker, for whom "demand" is way more intensive than "ask." As in "Karen asked to see the manager" is milder than "Karen demanded to see the manager." But in French, one might say, "Cette chienne-là a demandé de voir le gérant," and that would imply that she asked politely. Okay, so that's not the actual translation of Karen. But it amused me to type it, and that's what matters. It is possible to demand something in French, but the word for that is apparently "exiger" (I'm not 100% sure because I try not to make demands, myself). Anyway, I was talking about les faux amis. There are others, of course, but I'll focus on the actual subject here: brut. When I was a teen and had just discovered that people liked me more if I actually wore deodorant, my scent of choice was the then-common brand Brut. It had the bonus of coming in both stick and spray forms, and the spray form was, I discovered, excellent for making improvised flamethrowers. Just not while pointed at my pits. I was a reckless kid, sure, but not that stupid. I don't know if they make it anymore; I switched to the nice safe Old Spice long ago. I also don't think they make spray deodorants anymore. Closest I can think of is Axe, which is more a joke than anything else. I don't even know if that's still around, and I can't be arsed to look it up. Nor have I seen roll-ons. It's all gel sticks, now. I suppose they're easier to deal with if you're getting on an airplane; I don't think they're considered "liquids" the way an aerosol or roll-on would be. But yes, I recommend that you use some form of deodorant when flying; we're all stuck in this tin can with recycled air. Again, I digress. My point is that "brut," in French, has nothing to do with brutes (like the kind of people who don't wear deodorant on airplanes). You've probably seen the word in other contexts: it's used to describe champagne, sometimes, in which case it means "dry." Of course, champagne is a liquid and therefore not actually dry; it's just that we use "dry" to describe an alcoholic beverage with a low sugar content. But the most common translation, and the one that matters today, is something like "raw" or "rough." This is the one that gave us Brutalism, because that particular architectural style is notably uncladded, not burdened by an excess of things like paint, trim, or siding. And it generally involves concrete. I'm no expert on architecture. Sure, my cousin is in that profession, and I've absorbed some knowledge from working with other architects, but the field is entirely too artsy for this engineer. But, as an engineer, I've learned a thing or two about concrete over the years, and then forgotten most of it. At one point, I worked as a dispatcher and yard manager at a ready-mix plant, and I knew how to mix the ingredients in just the right proportions for most common use cases: foundations, basement slabs, sidewalks, curbs, etc. Specifically, though, we're talking about hydraulic cement concrete. "Hydraulic" in this case means that water is involved. "Cement" is the key ingredient for concrete; while people colloquially use the two interchangeably, talking about things like "his feet slapped against the cement," this is objectively wrong. And "concrete" in this context refers to the material, and it isn't the opposite of "abstract." And yet, Brutalism, for all its concrete rawness and roughness, very often incorporates elements of abstract art. Because language is weird. The other thing you need to know about concrete, in an architectural and/or structural application, is that it can be very, very strong in compression. That is, a concrete pillar can support a good bit of weight without failing. Introduce tension, however—either by putting it in a place where it'll be pulled on or, more likely, applying lateral shear forces—and that shit'll crack right up (to use the technical term). Which is why we have "reinforced concrete," with steel bars inside the slab or beam or whatever handling the tension. Why not just make the whole thing out of steel, then, which is about as good in tension as in compression? Money, of course. Concrete is basically chunky mud: crushed limestone cement, big rocks, small rocks, little tiny rocks (aka sand), all mixed with water and left to cure. Not "dry." "Cure." It's a chemical reaction that makes concrete a solid, and it technically never stops; the water doesn't all evaporate away (in fact, in the summer, you often have to keep it from evaporating out), but gets incorporated into the chemical matrix, kind of like the liquid in waffle batter. The waffle is (kind of) solid, but the batter was liquid. Different chemicals, of course. Trust me on this one: waffles taste better. All of which is to say that I don't need to have an opinion on the aesthetic qualities of a Brutalist structure. Which is good, because I'm not trained in the abstract; I'm trained in the concrete, and I can therefore appreciate it just for the material. |
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