The Chemical Engineer and the Poet

The world is not made up of atoms; it’s made up of stories. — Muriel Rukeyser

And, see, that’s where we differ, you and I. You look at a red-throated sparrow as a Darwinian masterpiece of carbon and nitrogen; I pause beneath the tree and close my eyes to better listen to her song. If we were to sit beside a river, you would tell me of migration patterns and the evolution of a dorsal fin, while I would sift rainbow scales through my hands, grinning like a child who’s been given his allowance early. You play with words like Rubidium and Spectroscopic Parallax and Stoichiometry and Exocytosis as if they felt warm rolling off your tongue, but mine feels more at home on Hyacinth and Cinnamon and Thrush and Amaranthine. I find myself in wonder at Tolstoy and Mahler and Renoir, and you find nothing quite so breathtaking as the ghostly second violet line in Hydrogen’s absorption line spectrum. You dissect, I compare.

And what a sublime diffraction grating, what an honest microscope you have within those eyes—to look at something whole and one as what it truly is: a universe of pulsing, spinning, combining things, a trillion tiny instruments playing a trillion tiny tunes. My untrained ears can only hear the final harmony, the one and total symphony. And for all that I envy you, for you may enjoy a thousand more masterpieces than I ever will: a trillion molecular melodies, minuscule, and so hushed that, unlike you, I know not how or when to stop and listen.

(Wow. Haven't posted anything of substance on here in quite some time. Sorry for the switch, there. A little jarring, I'm sure. Not to worry, back to the trivial tomorrow.)

Soft as Chalk -- Joanna Newsom

DJorolen -- Bela Fleck

Furr -- Blitzen Trapper