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Origami by Wingy

Origami by Wingy


Day 14 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge:
over·lap  (v. ˌōvərˈlap n. ˈōvərˌlap)  v.  –lapped, -lapping,  n.  –v.t.   1.  to lap over (something else or each other)  2.  to cover and extend beyond (something else)  3.  to coincide in part with; have in common with: two lives that overlapped each other  –v.i.  4.  to lap over: two territories that overlap; fields of knowledge that overlap. –n.  5.  the act or instance of overlapping.  6.  the extent or amount of overlapping:  The second story of the building has an overlap of ten feet.  7.  an overlapping part.  8.  the place of overlapping.  9.  (in yacht racing) the position of two yachts side by side so that the overtaking boat, to pass the other on the opposite side, must fall back or so that neither can turn toward the other without danger of collision. [OVER + LAP]

It has six petals, like lily true
I learn how to fold
the crimping side,
mark the middle
I find the square
I avoid the refolding, tricky
Achieved overlap
Do not create a new wrinkle.
I cut the equilateral triangle
There is no need to draw it you

I fold the top layer
Cut along this edge
This work is up to you

Strive hard with the aim of completion

Do not create a new wrinkle.

I can model the collapse simply
to existing wrinkles.

* I first excepted language from these origami instructions and used the found text to create a poem. Then I put the poem into Google translator from English to Japanese and then back from Japanese to English. This post is the result.


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fabric stack

By Sarah Moon/ boltneighborhood.com

Sarah Moon, boltneighborhood.com

Michelle Sinclair/Flickr

Michelle Sinclair/Flickr


Day 13 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge, and we are talking about clothes. Which is great, because I happen to love clothes.


fab·ric  \ˈfabrik\  n.  [MF fabrique, fr. L fabrica workshop, structure]  1 :  STRUCTURE, FRAMEWORK  <the ~ of society>  2 :  CLOTH; also: a material that resembles cloth.



Teresa Duffy





Every seam sewn tells a story. It is the story of hands pulling fabric tight and moving folds slowly forward. These fingers threading needles. These fingers pricked by accident. These hands undulating like waves, pushing fabric through. Every pattern echoes with the mind who imagined it–where to tuck and pin, where to leave holes for buttons, where to allow extra room. The pattern was made by Simplicity on thin white paper or it was made out of newsprint, a mother holding the black and gray paper against her children’s backs. A tailor drew white highway lines with chalk where the seams should be. A milliner measured the circumference of someone’s head for a new fedora.


Every garment has a history. The satin baby blanket in our crib, the ruffles on cotton Easter dresses, the little seersucker shorts, the Fun Run t-shirts, the pressed linen pants, the silk necktie, the itchy wool uniform skirt, the polyester gym shorts, the pantyhose, the green velvet sweet sixteen dress, the first pair of jeans we bought with our own money. These garments tell us the stories of who we were, who we thought we were, who we are, who we think we are, who we are–constantly in the state of–becoming. Thrift stores racks teem with records of intimate moments: first kisses, first little league games, dance recitals, costume parties, first dates, too many proms to count, weddings, divorces, first steps and last ones. Moments remembered or forgotten. Moments we wish we could remember or wish we could forget.


Every wardrobe is in a state of flux. Clothing passes in and our of our closet. We exchange with friends, we shop and trade the old for the new, we donate to Goodwill. Our closets track the patterns of our lives. We stack the things we think we might fit into again at the bottom. We tuck that item that looked so great on us at the store, but not so great on us here, at the back. We shift and rearrange as we move in the things that are us and move out the things that no longer meet that criteria. During spring cleaning, we find the sweater of an old lover and sit on the bed for a moment before we, inevitably, hold it up to our nose. Then, we see the shirt our mother gave us for Christmas one year, so thoughtful, so not our color. Or we find the shirt from that time she got it right. Either way, we miss her.  Sometimes, we wait until our favorite t-shirt is completely threadbare to throw it away, and even then, the act feels like a sort of betrayal. We need more hangers and then we need less. We have the clothes we may wear, the clothes we want to wear, and then the clothes we do wear. We allow ourselves categories: comfort, casual, exercise, work, dressy. These pieces create a framework for our days.


Every morning begins with a question. Before what will I do today and before what will I accomplish, the first question we ask ourselves in the morning is “what am I going to wear?” We agonize about it or we just throw something on, but no matter how much time it takes, this act is a sort of ceremony. We guess the weather or we step outside to check or we look it up on our phone. We open the door and evaluate. We shift hangers or we remove pants from a stack. We pull out the ironing board or we don’t. We toss the discarded options on our bed or we hang them up right away. We think about what we are doing that day and what will be most practical. We assess and we choose. Then we clothe ourselves in our choices and go about our day.




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Day 12 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge:


glass·man (ˈgläs mən),  n., pl.  —men  1.  a person who makes or sells glass.  2.  a glazier.  [GLASS + MAN]


The glassman lived in a glassy house on a street near a glassy sea. His life was, by design, careful. His whole house covered in carpet. All surfaces smooth, all parts plush. It wasn’t particularly sanitary: pillowtop countertops in the kitchens, bathroom sink basins made of soft clay. But for the glassman, softness was survival. Each morning, he slowly pushed off his covers and inched his legs to the edge of the bed, then he inched his legs over the side, then inched his feet towards his slippers, lying waiting on the floor. I would tell you about how he happened to arrive at the kitchen but, as you might imagine, that would take a very long time. In the kitchen, he went to his custom-made, foam-covered refrigerator to find jello or yogurt or smoothies, nothing that could get caught in his windpipe. His bones had always been brittle. He had always been prone to breaking. The possibility of fracture was a constant reminder in the sounds his body made: his clavicle crunched, his sternum snapped, his humerus hummed. When he found a small fissure, he filled it only way he knew how, and he traced his steps to see how he might have done it. There aren’t cures for glassmen, only tinctures. You could say the glassman lived a very limited life, and you’d be right, but the glassman didn’t know any different.


If he had been a boy not made of glass, maybe he would have grown up playing kick the can and climbing on the jungle gym with the other kids. Maybe he would have fallen and found a thick scrape forming a red grid across his knee. He would have placed his leg over the toilet boil as his mother poured hydrogen peroxide over it. He would have felt the burn. Or he would have played catch, the baseball hitting his arm and forming a large bruise, purple in the center and yellow around the edges until it disappeared completely, the flesh restoring itself, the injury only a memory. He would have had popped blood vessels and sore muscles and cracked lips. He would have had use for Neosporin and lip balm and bandaids. Then, he would have grown up and learned that there are far more damaging kinds of hurt, the ones so visceral you sometimes wish you could feel them in your body, maybe that would be more honest. He would have learned there are hurts that never fully heal.


As it was, the glassman was made of glass. So he only knew what it meant to be breakable. He only knew how to imagine a worst-case scenario and try to protect against it. He could see the glassy sea outside the window but he could not go to it. The glassman knew the risks were too high. The glassman knew what he was made of. The glassman, above all, knew how he could shatter.

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Day 11 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge:


o·ver·kind  (ˈōvər’kīnd),  adj.  too kind; She means well but is overkind to the point of annoyance.  [ME overkinde. See OVER-, KIND1)  —o·ver·kind·ly, adv.  o·ver·kind·ness, n.



Sandra subscribed to Overkind.com because she needed a little more kindness in her life. She had recently gone through a breakup, she was living away from her family, and she liked to keep to herself. She didn’t want to burden the few friends she had with late night schmaltzy talks about her woes. Even thinking about her problems as woes made her recoil. She just needed some momentary support. She stumbled onto the Overkind site after reading some article on The Huffington Post’s “GPS for the Soul” section—which she couldn’t believe she was actually reading; I mean, “GPS for the Soul,” really?

The website was not as cheesy as she had expected, no rainbows or butterflies, no pink and purple polka dots. There was a cleanness to the font that she liked, a sweet formality to the pages. On the “About” page, Overkind.com promised: “We will be your best friend but without the demands and attachments of real, flawed people. Each day, you will receive a surprise in your inbox. Each week, you will get a package in the mail. Each month, you will receive a special gift tailored for you from your survey submission of likes, dislikes, allergies, etc.”

Sandra had always liked the word “over.” Over always made her think of climbing a mountain and taking in an expansive view, or crossing a bridge to the other side. It was an empowering sort of word: over. When added as a prefix, it could make words better: overjoyed, overlap, overleap, overlay, overcome. She would overcome this moment. Overkind would help.

She went to the subscribe page, picked “Overkind Package #1” and entered her personal information. Then she closed her laptop and went to sleep.

Sandra was pleasantly surprised that first week with the thoughtfulness of Overkind. When she clicked on the email in her inbox each day, she felt recognized and appreciated. That first day, her email message contained links to articles about contemporary art (one of her listed interests), a word of the day (she had said “yes” to the question about loving language). There were also several high-resolution photos: a close-up of a coral hibiscus, a black-and-white photo of a blues singer, mouth open in song. There was a recipe for black bean soup and instructions on how to grow your own herb garden.

When Sandra checked her mailbox on Wednesday, she found a thick envelope with seed packages of basil and thyme and rosemary. They were wrapped up in that pretty paper that has pressed flowers in it. There was a mix CD featuring some of her favorite artists and a card with an inspirational quote by Hafiz.

At the end of the month, she received a notice via email that she would get a UPS package soon: her tailored gift! She rushed home from work on Friday to see if it had arrived and it had. The package was tucked under her front door mat. She could hardly contain her excitement as she rushed to open the door. Dropping her bag on the kitchen table, she tore through the envelope to reveal what was inside and she found: a purple pencil skirt.

Something was deeply wrong.

Maybe she had gotten someone else’s package by mistake. But she checked the address and the invoice inside. No, this was for her. But it wasn’t for her. She tried to think of anything she could have answered to make this gift make sense as “tailored for her” but it wasn’t. She hated purple. She hated tight-fitting clothing. She wasn’t a huge fan of skirts. She wondered what to do. Overkind had been spot on so far but something was amiss.

Sandra flipped open her Macbook and pulled up the site. She looked everywhere but could find no phone number to call, only a generic “Contact Us” form. In the subject line, she wrote “Urgent Matter,” and then she wrote: “Dear Overkind Employee, I am deeply disturbed at the ‘tailored gift in the mail’ I just received. There seems to be no attention to my likes or dislikes in the creation of this gift. Please get back to me as soon as possible.” She signed with her name, email, and cell number.

The weekend passed and she expected to hear back on Monday, but she didn’t. Emails kept coming: with quotes and recipes and photos and links. There was a pdf of a short story from The New Yorker. She couldn’t keep up. It was all too much. She went to the website to cancel her subscription, but the website said to use the “Contact Us” form to cancel. She wrote a second message, this one saying that she just wanted to end her subscription. She didn’t need a new gift, but she was done with the service. No response. She sent several more messages and they all went unanswered. Her virtual best friend, the one she had paid for, was ignoring her. Her messages became more irate, more defensive. She stopped using a salutation.

One evening, Sandra returned home from work to find her empty house: the slick floors, the clean kitchen, the keys hanging in place on their hook. She hung her coat and put her bag on the chair. She could hear her heels clicking against the hard wood floors and suddenly she couldn’t bear the impenetrable sound: solid hitting solid.

She collapsed in a heap on the living room floor—on top of the rug she and her ex picked out together, next to the couch they used to lie on, under the lighting fixture they installed themselves—overcome. Her attempt to buffer herself from it all was backfiring. No amount of kindness would undo what was over. And she wouldn’t be over until she moved through. The messages and packages and gifts would still arrive, or they wouldn’t, but they wouldn’t be for her, not really. This kindness was paid for and manufactured. And they hadn’t gotten it right. No matter how many questions she answered, she wasn’t really known. Not by some random people running some website.

What had been comforting the first few weeks now overwhelmed her. She hadn’t thought about the excess of “over,” the overage. But that’s what all this was: too much. Now, the words flooded her—she could hear them all in a refrain: overflow, overgrow, overlook, overrun, overwork, overwrought, overload, overblown, oversleep, overspend, overstay, overpower, overboard, overburden, overdrive, overdress, overdone. Over. Over. Over.



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helloiloveyou by ivan rodic


Day 10 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge


by·name (ˈbī-ˌnām),  n.  1.  a second name; surname.  2.  a nickname.




We humans are obsessed with what to call things. We need names for everything. And then we need new names. We gives names as a way of formalizing behaviors. We name new technology and add it to the lexicon. We name babies and then we immediately come up with nicknames for them. Once we have uniqued their existence, we need to unique them again.

Bynames often refer to shortened versions of someone’s name. In many cases, the name is shortened because there is someone else in the family with the same name. Many of my family members were nicknamed: my grandmother Celeste was Sally to family members, my grandfather Eugene was Gene, my maw maw Josephine was Tante Fine to her nieces and nephews. And my father and his brothers all had nicknames growing up, some of them lasting to adulthood: Tommy, Jimmy, Johnny, and Tommy. A point guard on her high school basketball team, the announcer always called my mom “tall drink of water.” My dad studied theology in Italy, where Romans referred to all the seminarians in their long dark robes as bagarozzi, or cockroaches.

The word nickname comes from the compound word ekename, meaning additional name, which dates back to 1303. Ekename comes from the Old English phrase “eaca,” an increase. The word changed from ekename to nekename and then to its current spelling: nickname.

There is a surprisingly large amount of information written about nicknames on the web. There are articles on the impetus to nickname, the origin of the word nickname, how certain nicknames for popular Western names came to be, why certain cities have their nicknames, why we should stop naming hugely destructive storms with generic names and instead  name them after climate change deniers, and why you should let people in professional contexts call you by your nickname.



Nicknames can arise from teasing or poking fun, but often even these names are bestowed with a sense of endearment. Japanese honorifics are nicknames that reveal the specific relationship between family members. Nicknames are made out of last names if multiple people share the same first name.

I was always jealous growing up as my name isn’t very nicknameable. My first name itself was originally intended as a nickname. My parents planned to name me Elizabeth and call me Lisa, but then when they realized they had no intention of calling me Elizabeth ever, it made more sense to just make Lisa my name. I tried several times over the years to nickname myself (a clear no-no) but nothing ever stuck. So I consoled myself with having a name I actually liked and moved on. I have several friends who want or wanted to go by their full name but constantly had to battle for this to be the case. There is something in us that wants to shorten and simplify—we want to create intimacy with one another and we do this by using as few letters as possible.

The President and Chief Operating Officer of Buzzfeed Jon Steinberg wrote an article called “Why You Should Let People Call You By a Nickname.” In it, he talked about how until a decade ago, he went by Jonathan. However, people always tried to call him Jon. After grad school, he began to question his insistence on being called his full name. He writes, “It was akin, in my mind, to telling people who wanted to befriend me or be close to me that they in fact could not be. I decided that I valued closeness more than I valued my formal name, and switched to Jon. Never looked back.”

Steinberg also talks about a study by The Ladders that revealed that executives with short names tend to earn more. In his own informal study, he found that of the Fortune 50, “14 CEOs or 28% go by Nicknames and 32% have Nickname-like First Names. Combined, 60% of Fortune 50 CEOs go by a Nickname or have a Nickname-like First Name.” He cites successful people who go by nicknames: Steve Jobs, Bill Clinton, Jamie Dimon, Meg Whitman, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg. He says this is less about convenience than it is about trust. When we call each other by nicknames or shorter versions of our names, there is more of a capacity for emotional connection.  He writes, “a short name or nickname is a sign of intimacy, trust, and friendship. These can often be critical attributes in the building of a successful organization. Whereas a long and formal name creates a barrier, a short one can break down walls.”

What about you all? Do you have bynames? What are they? Where did they come from? What do they mean to you? I’d love to hear from you.



I don't know why I find this so hilarious.

I don’t know why I find this so hilarious.



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Dutch oven



Day 9 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge:


Dutch oven,  1.  an iron kettle for baking, with a tight-fitting convex lid, on which live coals can be placed.  2.  a metal container for roasting meats, etc. with an open side placed so that it is toward the fire.  3.  a brick oven whose walls are preheated for cooking.



The casseroles started arriving on Sunday. Large glass baking dishes covered in foil. Aluminum pans. Dutch ovens in every size and color. Usually, scotchtaped to the top was a handwritten note with the same kind of words and the name of the family who left the dish. We took the casseroles off the stoop and lined them up on the countertop. Then we took post-its and labeled them: broccoli and cheese, sweet potato and marshmallow, tuna, baked ziti, lasagna, shepherd’s pie. There were round tins of quiche. There were a few kinds of pie. Someone had started a list on a legal pad with columns drawn down the page: what dish had been brought on what day and by whom, ostensibly to know how long they would keep or for future thank you notes. None of us felt much like eating. It’s funny how the impulse in times like these is to want to make food: as if the void that needs filling is in someone’s stomach. And it’s funny how at this time of others’ great generosity, it is hard to bring yourself to cut a piece of something, put it on a plate, and stick it in the microwave. These meals are gestures made to simplify but they serve as reminders of how much energy it takes just to decide to put food on a fork and stick it in your mouth, of how much time it takes to chew. We kept filling the refrigerator, stacking and organizing and reorganizing, negotiating apple pie and potato salad, until there was no longer any room. We didn’t want to be wasteful so we put a sign on the door that said, “Thank you for your thoughtfulness but there’s no more room in our fridge.” We heard the sounds of people coming by, their footsteps on the front walk, arriving and receding, but none of us could bear to go to the door. Instead, we sat in the living room with the lights off and the T.V. on a program that none of us was watching. We didn’t need to go out. We had all that food already. We knew it was there, just in case any of us ever felt hungry again.


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sheep dog




Day 7 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge:


sheep dog,  a dog trained to herd and protect sheep; specifically a)  a collie  b) a large, gentle dog with a short talk and long, rough hair covering the face and eyes: also called old English sheep dog.



O’Brien looked at the pup.  He had been the runt of his litter. When he was just born, O’Brien had to put the other dogs away, in a pen, to let him feed. Otherwise, he was always just waiting behind the others, still blinded from new birth and unable to find a way over his brothers and sisters and to the teats. O’Brien named him Bídeach, but most of the time he called him Bid or Biddy. Siobhan thought it was a waste to time to train him for the herd, “Such a bitty body, bitty brain,” but O’Brien sensed she was wrong. And the first time he let him out with the sheep when he was barely a month old, he didn’t run them ragged the way most young pups did. Without training, he began to move closer to the herd, to crouch low, and after a moment, to move close again. From that time, O’Brien took Bid out to the fields with him almost every day, even when the other dogs were working. And when the other dogs herded, Bid stayed right by his side until the color started to drain out of the sky and they headed back to the house. O’Brien had been raised to love animals but hold them at a distance, and he had been able to do that most of his life. He knew that animals came and went and that was the natural order of things. It was best not to become attached. But something about the way Bid had changed things.  So when Bid started to take breaks when he was running, to pant and lie down, O’Brien felt a knot form inside his chest. Runts are apt to live shorter lives, to have more health issues. Nature makes them work harder to survive. “You’ve done a good job here,” O’Brien said, reaching down to stroke the pup’s black and white fur. “You can leave whenever  you’re ready.” Such a small thing to have taken up such  a large space, he thought to himself. Such a very small thing.


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Day 6 in the 30 words, 30 days challenge.


I happened to be sitting around a table with Elizabeth Frankie Rollins and Elizabeth Smucker today so I asked them to join me in the challenge. Thanks for playing y’all!  The three of our compositions included below.


shelled  (sheld), a combining form meaning having a (specified kind of) shell, as in soft-shelled.


Elizabeth Frankie Rollins:


It had another meaning. Paul searched his memory while gouting dirt showered him, while the booming deafness sank into his brain, shelled, shelled—it was so obvious, why couldn’t he think of it. Next to him, Harry clutched his rifle and stared resolutely at the sky. Shelled, of course, was what it meant to be in war. He knew that. A call came down the line—they’d be going over soon—so he’d better think of it because once they went over he might not ever think again. He kept seeing the kitchen, Carmelita stirring a pot and smiling, but it wasn’t abou thtat but it was about something like that. Sh-elled. It came to him. Pecans. Nuts. Shelled. Where you peel back the hard surface to reach the meat inside. Of course, Paul laughed with relief. And so much the same, he thought. And the call came down the line, Harry standing beside him.



Elizabeth Smucker:



He shelled her out of her dress. She shelled him back inside.

The beach had been shelled by morning, the waves that had brought them now trying to uncover on their way out.



Shelled to death.

Shelled of death.

Shelled from death.

Shelled under death.

Shelled around death.

Shelled over death.

Shelled by death.

Shelled to death.

Shelled until death.

Shelled upwards of death.



Lisa O’Neill:



She sat down in front of the mirror, vials and jars and brushes spread out on the countertop. The bulbs burned as she applied herself: a sweep over the brow, a slick black line on the lid. She layered lashes. She tweezed and teased. She lacquered her hair and nails. Lips red, hair high, she slowly pulled on her sheer stockings. She slipped into her strapless dress. She stepped into her heels. Her pinky corrected a smudge at the corner of her mouth. She assessed. She nodded. She headed out the door.




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Day 4 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge.


chalk  (CHôk)  n.  1.  a soft, white powdery limestone consisting chiefly of fossil shells of foraminifers.  2.  a prepared piece of chalk or chalklike substance for marking: a blackboard crayon.  3.  a mark made with chalk.  4.  a score, tally, or record of credit  v.t.  5.  to mark or white with chalk.  6.  to rub over or whiten with chalk.  7.  To treat or mix with chalk: to chalk a billiard cue.  8.  To make pale; blanch; Terror chalked her face   v .i.  9.  (of paint) to powder from weathering  10.  chalk up, a. to  b. to charge or ascribe to: It was a poor performance, but may be chalked up to lack of practice  —adj.  11. of, made of, or drawn with chalk.  {ME chalke, OE cealc  <  L  calc- (s. of calx) lime]  —chalk`like, adj.

























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Day 1 of the 30 days, 30 words challenge and the word is:


Tun·gus·ka (toon goosˈka)  n.  any of three rivers (the Upper, Stony, and lower Tunguska rivers) in central Siberia, flowing westward to the Yenisei River.




A Second Sun*



The forest was a forest and the river was a river. That is until the day the forest flattened.  I was sleeping in the hut with my brother. Somebody shoved me and I awoke. My brother had been shoved too. But no one else was there. We heard the whistling and felt a strong wind. Brother said, “Can you hear all those birds flying overhead?” And I heard the sound he meant: the echo of thousands of wings flapping against the air. We stepped out of the hut but the sound was not birds.


I saw the sky split in halves, high and wide over the forest. The entire northern side of the forest covered with fire. The forest flattened, as far as I could see, trees red with ember leaves. The split in the sky grew larger. Suddenly, I became so hot I could not bear it, as if my shirt was on fire. I wanted to tear off my shirt and throw it down, but then the sky shut closed, a strong thump sounded, and I was thrown.


After that, such noise came. As if rocks were falling or cannons were firing. A thunder like I’d never heard.


The earth shook.


I was shoved again and fell into the fire. We got scared. We cried out, for our father, our mother, our sisters, our brothers. But they didn’t seem to hear. The earth below us began to move and rock, wind hit our hut and knocked it down.


My body was pushed down by sticks, but my head was clear. Then I saw a wonder: the sky became bright—how can I say it?—as if there were a second sun. My eyes burned from the way it blazed. Brother said, “Look up” and pointed with his hand. We watched the treetops get snapped off. Another flash, another thunder. We were knocked off our feet, struck against fallen trees.


In the air where the flashes had been, a blue cylinder, a billow of smoke. We thought sure it was the end of us. Then, suddenly the sky began to clear. There had been five of them. The thumps. No, six.  Now I remember well there was also one more, but it was small, and somewhere far away, where the Sun goes to sleep.





* Words and images from this piece taken from multiple eyewitness accounts of the a powerful explosion called the Tunguska Event, which took place in 1908 near the Tunguska River in what is now Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia. While the cause is debated, the most popular explanation is that the explosion was caused by an air burst of a small asteroid or comet five to ten kilometers above the Earth’s surface.


Lake Cheko: In June 2007, scientists from the University of Bologna led by professor Giuseppe Longo identified a lake in the Tunguska region as a possible impact crater from the event. They do not dispute that the Tunguska body exploded in midair but believe that a one-meter fragment survived the explosion and struck the ground. Pollen analysis reveals that remains of aquatic plants are abundant in the top post-1908 sequence but are absent in the lower pre-1908 portion of the core. These results, including organic C, N and δ13C data, suggest that Lake Cheko formed at the time of the Tunguska Event.

Lake Cheko: In June 2007, scientists from the University of Bologna led by professor Giuseppe Longo identified a lake in the Tunguska region as a possible impact crater from the event. They do not dispute that the Tunguska body exploded in midair but believe that a one-meter fragment survived the explosion and struck the ground. Pollen analysis reveals that remains of aquatic plants are abundant in the top post-1908 sequence but are absent in the lower pre-1908 portion of the core. These results, including organic data, suggest that Lake Cheko formed at the time of the Tunguska Event.






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