Static Electricity Quotes

The night crackled ... Everything had turned to static electricity in the heat. I combed my hair to watch the sparks fly from the ends.

How did you know I was different?” “You mean besides the obvious obsidian, the alien entourage, and the branch?” He laughed. “You’re full of electricity. See?” He reached between the seats and placed his hand over mine. Static crackled, jolting us both. Daemon grabbed Blake’s hand and threw it back at him. “I do not like you.

Hugh stretched out one hand and stroked the fur. It felt cold and rich, it crackled with silky static electricity. Stroking it was like stroking a clear autumn night.

It was rainy, trees leafing out, spring deepening into summer; and the forlorn cry of horns on the street, the dank smell of the wet pavement had an electricity about it, a sense of crowds and static, lonely secretaries and fat guys with bags of carry-out, everywhere the ungainly sadness of creatures pushing and struggling to live.

The house, and all the objects in it, crackled with static electricity; undertows washed through it, the air was heavy with things that were known but not spoken. Like a hollow log, a drum, a church, it was amplified, so that conversations whispered in it sixty years ago can be half-heard today.

People think it’s harmless. They think it’s funny. That’s why they do it,” I say, trying to ignore the strange shiver where he touched my arm. Must be static electricity. “And sure. I guess it’s harmless until something bad happens. It’s harmless, and then there are security guards at your synagogue because someone called in a bomb threat. It’s harmless, and you’re terrified to get out of bed Saturday morning and go to services.

He was a baby once, she thought. New and perfect, cradled in his mother’s arms. The mysterious Sylvie. Now he was a feathery husk, ready to blow away. His eyes were half open, milky, like an old dog, and his mouth had grown beaky with the extremity of age, opening and closing, a fish out of water. Bertie could feel a continual tremor running through him, an electrical current, the faint buzz of life. Or death, perhaps. Energy was gathering around him, the air was static with it.

How strange and rare it was to see the top of a girl's ear. I reached out to touch her, but my hand flew back from a spark of static electricity.

Violence crackled around him in the dry air, like static electricity

This week in live current events: your eyes. All power can be dangerous: Direct or alternating, you, socket to me. Plugged in and the grid is humming, this electricity, molecule-deep desire: particular friction, a charge strong enough to stop a heart or start it again; volt, re-volt-- I shudder, I stutter, I start to life. I've got my ion you, copper-top, so watch how you conduct yourself. Here's today's newsflash: a battery of rolling blackouts in California, sudden, like lightning kisses: sudden, whitehot darkness and you're here, fumbling for that small switch with an urgent surge strong enough to kill lesser machines. Static makes hair raise, makes things cling, makes things rise like a gathering storm charging outside our darkened house and here I am: tempest, pouring out mouthfulls of tsunami on the ground, I've got that rain-soaked kite, that drenched key. You know what it's for, circuit-breaker, you know how to kiss until it's hertz.

...take off your sweater in the darkness and static flares as a tiny lightning storm - I am the same at the end of your fingertips ...

TESLA’S CAT [Nikola Tesla’s favorite childhood companion] was the family’s black cat, Macak. Macak followed young Nikola everywhere, and they spent many happy hours rolling on the grass. It was Macak the cat who introduced Tesla to electricity on a dry winter evening. “As I stroked Macak’s back,” he recalled, “I saw a miracle that made me speechless with amazement. Macak’s back was a sheet of light and my hand produced a shower of sparks loud enough to be heard all over the house.” Curious, he asked his father what caused the sparks. Puzzled at first, [his father] finally answered, “Well, this is nothing but electricity, the same thing you see through the trees in a storm.” His father’s answer, equating the sparks with lightning, fascinated the young boy. As Tesla continued to stroke Macak, he began to wonder, “Is nature a gigantic cat? If so, who strokes its back? It can only be God,” he concluded.

My name is Matthew Swift. I’m a sorcerer, the only one in the city who survived Robert Bakker’s purge. I was killed by my teacher’s shadow and my body dissolved into telephone static and all they had left to bury was a bit of blood. Then we came back, and I am we and we are me, and we are the blue electric angels, creatures of the phones and the wires, the gods made from the surplus life you miserable excuse for mortals pour into all things electric. I am the Midnight Mayor, the protector of the city, the guardian of the night, the keeper of the gates, the watcher on the walls. We turned back the death of cities, we were there when Lady Neon died, we drove the creature called Blackout into the shadows at the end of the alleys, we are light, we are life, we are fire and, would you believe it, the word that best describes our condition right now is cranky. Would you like to see what happens when you make us mad?

Lighthouse keepers were once warned they shouldn’t listen to the sea for too long; likewise, you could hear voices in the static and lose your mind. It was as if there were a code in there—a code that could, as soon as your mind detected it, irrevocably conjure demons from the depths.

Then the long nights, that were also days, in the hospital. And the long blanks, that were also nights. Needles, and angled glass rods to suck water through. Needles, and curious enamel wedges slid under your middle. Needles, and - needles and needles and needles. Like swarms of persistent mosquitoes with unbreakable drills. The way a pincushion feels, if it could feel. Or the target of a porcupine. Or a case of not just momentary but permanently endured static electricity after you scuff across a woolen rug and then put your finger on a light switch. Even food was a needle - a jab into a vein... ("For The Rest Of Her Life")

I don't do well being unexpectedly touched. It startles me like a jolt of static electricity and makes me desperate for personal space.

Electricity, Werner is learning, can be static by itself. But couple it with magnetism, and suddenly you have movement—waves. Fields and circuits, conduction and induction. Space, time, mass. The air swarms with so much that is invisible! How he wishes he had eyes to see the ultraviolet, eyes to see the infrared, eyes to see radio waves crowding the darkening sky, flashing through the walls of the house.

Yeah.” He touched Kelsey’s arm and felt a shock, like static electricity. But this went deeper, beneath his skin. “I’m going to go see what Cade needs. See you later?” She licked her lips, the action sending a different kind of electricity down south. What a time for his libido to make a reappearance. “Yeah. See you later

A clatter of metal against the concrete made me look back. Liam had moved on from the car to a nearby pile of bikes that were tangled together like brambles. He picked through the frames and spokes and wheels, working carefully, trying to get down to whatever he'd seen under them.... "Do you actually know how to ride?" "Do I know how to ride?" Liam scoffed, leaning over the bike's seat so his face was inches from mine. His pale blue eyes were electric with his excitement; they sent a charge through me, sizzling the rest of the world into peaceful, quiet static. That last bit of distance must have been as unbearable to him as it was to me, because his fingers came down over where my hands rested on the busted leather seat. I felt his touch spread over my skin like late afternoon sunshine. His lips skimmed my cheek, his breath warm against my ear as he said in low, honeyed tones, "Not only can I ride, darlin', but I can give you a few pointers– "Hey, Hell's Angels!" Cole barked. "I didn't bring you in here to shop around for yourselves! Get your assess over here!" Liam expression clouded over as he pulled back, the fluttering excitement vanishing like a candle blown out. with a single breath. I must have looked as disappointed as I felt, letting out a small sound of irritation, because just like that he was smiling again as he tucked a loose strand of hair back over my ear. A softer, smaller smile than before, but one meant for me. It warmed me down to my bones.

And I like the light-up.” “The what?” “The light-up,” he’d say. “You know, that look people get when they finally realize you’re for real. It’s like electricity. It makes me tingle all over. Like a blanket full of static.” Ew. “Really? I’ve never heard that.” “Yeah, and I like it when people realize we’re out here.” I leaned in close once and asked him, “Do you want your mom to realize you’re out here? Do you want her to know?” “Nah. It took her too long to get over me.” All in all, he was a good kid.

Sometimes, in the evenings, a damp, gritty wind blew in the windows from Park Avenue, just as the rush hour traffic was thinning and the city was emptying for the night; it was rainy, trees leafing out, spring deepening into summer; and the forlorn cry of horns on the street, the dank smell of the wet pavement had an electricity about it, a sense of crowds and static, lonely secretaries and fat guys with bags of carry-out, everywhere the ungainly sadness of creatures pushing and struggling to live. For weeks, I’d been frozen, sealed-off; now, in the shower, I would turn up the water as hard as it would go and howl, silently. Everything was raw and painful and confusing and wrong and yet it was as if I’d been dragged from freezing water through a break in the ice, into sun and blazing cold.

Do you have any idea why you might be feeling better?” “No, not really,” I said curtly. Better wasn’t even the word for how I felt. There wasn’t a word for it. It was more that things too small to mention—laughter in the hall at school, a live gecko scurrying in a tank in the science lab—made me feel happy one moment and the next like crying. Sometimes, in the evenings, a damp, gritty wind blew in the windows from Park Avenue, just as the rush hour traffic was thinning and the city was emptying for the night; it was rainy, trees leafing out, spring deepening into summer; and the forlorn cry of horns on the street, the dank smell of the wet pavement had an electricity about it, a sense of crowds and static, lonely secretaries and fat guys with bags of carry-out, everywhere the ungainly sadness of creatures pushing and struggling to live. For weeks, I’d been frozen, sealed-off; now, in the shower, I would turn up the water as hard as it would go and howl, silently. Everything was raw and painful and confusing and wrong and yet it was as if I’d been dragged from freezing water through a break in the ice, into sun and blazing cold.

The subject of one experiment is a rat that receives mild electric shocks (roughly equivalent to the static shock you might get from scuffing your foot on a carpet). Over a series of these, the rat develops a prolonged stress-response: its heart rate and glucocorticoid secretion rate go up, for example. For convenience, we can express the long-term consequences by how likely the rat is to get an ulcer, and in this situation, the probability soars. In the next room, a different rat gets the same series of shocks—identical pattern and intensity; its allostatic balance is challenged to exactly the same extent. But this time, whenever the rat gets a shock, it can run over to a bar of wood and gnaw on it. The rat in this situation is far less likely to get an ulcer. You have given it an outlet for frustration. Other types of outlets work as well—let the stressed rat eat something, drink water, or sprint on a running wheel, and it is less likely to develop an ulcer.

Bumblebees detect the polarization of sunlight, invisible to uninstrumented humans; put vipers sense infrared radiation and detect temperature differences of 0.01C at a distance of half a meter; many insects can see ultraviolet light; some African freshwater fish generate a static electric field around themselves and sense intruders by slight perturbations induced in the field; dogs, sharks, and cicadas detect sounds wholly inaudible to humans; ordinary scorpions have micro--seismometers on their legs so they can detect in darkness the footsteps of a small insect a meter away; water scorpions sense their depth by measuring the hydrostatic pressure; a nubile female silkworm moth releases ten billionths of a gram of sex attractant per second, and draws to her every male for miles around; dolphins, whales, and bats use a kind of sonar for precision echo-location. The direction, range, and amplitude of sounds reflected by to echo-locating bats are systematically mapped onto adjacent areas of the bat brain. How does the bat perceive its echo-world? Carp and catfish have taste buds distributed over most of their bodies, as well as in their mouths; the nerves from all these sensors converge on massive sensory processing lobes in the brain, lobes unknown in other animals. how does a catfish view the world? What does it feel like to be inside its brain? There are reported cases in which a dog wags its tail and greets with joy a man it has never met before; he turns out to be the long-lost identical twin of the dog's "master", recognizable by his odor. What is the smell-world of a dog like? Magnetotactic bacteria contain within them tiny crystals of magnetite - an iron mineral known to early sailing ship navigators as lodenstone. The bacteria literally have internal compasses that align them along the Earth's magnetic field. The great churning dynamo of molten iron in the Earth's core - as far as we know, entirely unknown to uninstrumented humans - is a guiding reality for these microscopic beings. How does the Earth's magnetism feel to them? All these creatures may be automatons, or nearly so, but what astounding special powers they have, never granted to humans, or even to comic book superheroes. How different their view of the world must be, perceiving so much that we miss.

From conversations with her husband she was aware that the static came from a number of sources such as the atmosphere, other electrical equipment and even, incredibly, an amount from the noise of radiation emitted in the origin of the universe's Big Bang. To her however, it was the sounds of the souls of countless millions of people who had perished in this international disaster, brushing past her in the ether on their way to the afterlife.

She breathed in the salt spray and repeated softly, “It’s beautiful.” “So are you,” Jake said, as softly. He was standing so close that the hairs on her arm felt the brush of static electricity, a promise held in the air between them. Her face tipped up to meet his; his arm moved to her waist. She could feel his breath on her lips, on her cheeks. She waited for the brush of his lips against hers. It didn’t come. She looked into his eyes and saw desire; longing. But she saw something else too. She saw fear. He stood there, paralyzed it seemed, the want in his eyes at war with the fear. Then, like a man who had found himself about to step on a poisonous snake, he cautiously took a step back. The relief in his eyes brought tears to Rachel’s. “I … I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I just …” He stopped, at a loss for what to say. Rachel stared at him, hoping that her eyes would pull him back toward her, that this moment of apprehension would pass. It didn’t. In a gentle, almost loving tone he said, “You’re a very beautiful girl, Rachel,” and it hurt worse than if he had called her an ugly hag.

I can't keep my thoughts still long enough to even understand them. My heart races dangerously fast. My skin burns. My chest tightens, my lungs seem to go rigid. I'm not breathing quite right, I know that much. My fingers and toes tingle. Things begin to go out of focus, then back in, and out again. Like looking through a kaleidoscope, it makes me dizzy, €”the room, the way it's spinning, €”the way the world ceases to make any sense at all. I hear this buzzing in the background, like static. Static pulsing through brain waves, electric currents floating around in this strange place, making the air feel nervous, activated somehow.

I felt as though the temple curtain had been drawn aside without warning and I, a goggle-eyed stranger somehow mistaken for an initiate, had been ushered into the sanctuary to witness the mystery of mysteries. I saw a phantasmagoria, a living tapestry of forms jeweled in minute detail. They danced together like guests at a rowdy wedding. They changed their shapes. Within themselves they juggled geometrical shards like the fragments in a kaleidoscope. They sent forth extensions of themselves like the flares of suns. Yet all their activity was obviously interrelated; each being's actions were in step with its neighbors'. They were like bees swarming: They obviously recognised each other and were communicating avidly, but it was impossible to know what they were saying. They enacted a pageant whose beauty awed me. As the lights came back on, the auditorium seemed dull and unreal.I'd been watching various kinds of ordinary cells going about their daily business, as seen through a microscope and recorded by the latest time-lapse movie techniques. The filmmaker frankly admitted that neither he nor anyone else knew just what the cells were doing, or how and why they were doing it. We biologists, especially during our formative years in school, spent most of our time dissecting dead animals and studying preparations of dead cells stained to make their structures more easily visible—"painted tombstones," as someone once called them. Of course, we all knew that life was more a process than a structure, but we tended to forget this, because a structure was so much easier to study. This film reminded me how far our static concepts still were from the actual business of living. As I thought how any one of those scintillating cells potentially could become a whole speckled frog or a person, I grew surer than ever that my work so far had disclosed only a few aspects of a process-control system as varied and widespread as life itself, of which we'd been ignorant until then.

Intuition is soul guidance, appearing naturally in man during those instants when his mind is calm. Nearly everyone has had the experience of an inexplicably correct ‘hunch’, or has transferred his thoughts effectively to another person. The human mind, free from the static of restlessness, can perform through its antenna of intuition all the functions of complicated radio mechanisms—sending and receiving thoughts and tuning out undesirable ones. As the power of a radio depends on the amount of electrical current it can utilise, so the human radio is energised according to the power of will possessed by each individual. All thoughts vibrate eternally in the cosmos. By deep concentration, a master is able to detect the thoughts of any mind, living or dead. Thoughts are universally and not individually rooted; a truth cannot be created, but only perceived. The erroneous thoughts of man result from imperfections in his discernment. The goal of yoga science is to calm the mind that without distortion it may mirror the divine vision in the universe.

Upstairs, she raked sleep knots and static electricity from her hair.

He held out his hand. As soon as we touched, an electric spark stung my fingertips. I pulled away, shaking my hand. “What was that?” Dastien looked at his hand as if it were a stranger. “I don’t know.” “I’d say static electricity, but that doesn’t quite cover it.” I’d felt it in my soul. “No. That was something else. Something more.” He

However, the most interesting property of your spacetime tube isn't its bulk shape, but its internal structure, which is remarkably complex. Whereas the particles that constitute the Moon are stuck together in a rather static arrangement, many of your particles are in constant motion relative to one another. Consider, for example, the particles that make up your red blood cells. As your blood circulates through your body to deliver the oxygen you need, each red blood cell traces out its own unique tube shape through spacetime, corresponding to a complex itinerary through your arteries, capillaries and veins with regular returns to your heart and lungs. These spacetime tubes of different red blood cells are intertwined to form a braid pattern (Figure 11.4, middle panel) which is more elaborate than anything you'll ever see in a hair salon: whereas a classic braid consists of three strands with perhaps thirty thousand hairs each, intertwined in a simple repeating pattern, this spacetime braid consists of trillions of strands (one for each red blood cell), each composed of trillions of hairlike elementary-particle trajectories, intertwined in a complex pattern that never repeats. In other words, if you imagine spending a year giving a friend a truly crazy hairdo, braiding his hair by separately intertwining not strands but all the individual hairs, the pattern you'd get would still be very simple in comparison. Yet the complexity of all this pales in comparison to the patterns of information processing in your brain. As we discussed in Chapter 8 and illustrated in Figure 8.7, your roughly hundred billion neurons are constantly generating electric signals ("firing"), which involves shuffling around billions of trillions of atoms, notably sodium, potassium and calcium ions. The trajectories of these atoms form an extremely elaborate braid through spacetime, whose complex intertwining corresponds to storing and processing information in a way that somehow gives rise to our familiar sensation of self-awareness. There's broad consensus in the scientific community that we still don't understand how this works, so it's fair to say that we humans don't yet fully understand what we are. However, in broad brushstrokes, we might say this: You're a pattern in spacetime. A mathematical pattern. Specifically, you're a braid in spacetime-indeed one of the most elaborate braids known.

When I went to rest the piece of fabric upon the kitchen table, I found a stiff thread that had not previously been there stuck to my finger. I thought nothing of it even though the new thread had sprung from the fabric’s surface—not from the edges where the other threads were. In my ignorance of the fabric’s wicked attributes, I yanked it hard away from my hand, annoyed at what I thought to be some simple form of static electricity or random stickiness; I did not expect the resilient anchor of a tiny root. The thread came free, but so did a piece of my flesh. The fabric fell lightly upon the table with a small part of my skin atop the newly sprung thread’s end. My finger began to throb and bleed relentlessly. I had been given an untypical wound considering the miniscule carnage of the incident. It was different than a cut from a knife or a harsh abrasion; the thread seemed to have burrowed in and clung to a vein, causing me to rupture it when I tore the root free. All I could do was clean and dress the wound. My only hope was that some extremity of the thread had not found a dwelling within my finger. The thought of such a tragedy sickened me.

Omens My yards littered with fallen angels; Should I take that as a sign That even the heavenly hosts will displease God When they fail to toe the line? Things are getting messier, There's an electrical fire in my attic Should I take that as a sign That my sinful porn has caused the static? Just when I though the worse was over, There's screaming coming from my kitchen, Thanks God when I checked it It was just my naggin' wife-a-bitchin'.

The lightness and darkness and static electricity, the light/dark stasis, the electricity. The grime-ification, the cleansing, the cleansing grime. Shocks. This is how the road gets you lost and found, over and over and over again: hey, I have no needs. Which affords you a fresh opportunity for decency, for empathetic listening, compassionate alertness; for observation, for disappearing into the woodwork. That kind of noisy quiet suits a songwriter. Invisibility and interest complement each other when you have a soundtrack in your head reminding you that nothing needs to be brought to life, it all just is life.

The Leyden jar was the first electrical storage device, invented independently in Pomerania and in Leyden, Holland, in 1745. It stored electrical charge generated by contact, the kind we call static electricity today. In his famous kite experiment of 1752, Franklin flew a kite in a thunderstorm to collect electrical charge, which he transferred from his wet kite string into a Leyden jar. The experiment demonstrated that the modest sparks and shocks of static electricity were identical with the great bursts of lightning that split the sky in storms. For such “discoveries in electricity,” the Royal Society of London elected Franklin to membership in 1753 and awarded him the Copley Medal, its highest honor.

Like most witches, I had a problem getting the shoulder-length strands to stay put. Sarah blamed it on pent-up magic and promised that the regular use of my power would keep the static electricity from building and make my hair more obedient.

The same indifference to content, the same obsessional and operational, performative and interminable aspects, also characterize the present-day use of computers: people no more think at a computer than they run when jogging. They have their brain function in the first activity much as they have their body run in the second. Here too the operation is virtually endless: a head-to-head confrontation with a computer has no more reason to come to an end than the physical effort that jogging demands. And the kind of hypnotic pleasure involved, the ecstatic absorption or resorption of energy - bodily energy in one case, cerebral in the other - is identical. On the one hand, the static electricity of skin and muscles - on the other, the static electricity of the screen. Jogging and working at a computer may be looked upon as drugs, as narcotics, to the extent that all drugs are directly governed by the dominant performance principle: they get us to take pleasure, get us to dream, get us to feel. Drugs are not artificial in the sense of inducing a secondary state distinct from a natural state of the body; they are artificial, however, in that they constitute a chemical prosthesis, a mental surgery of performance, a plastic surgery of perception. It is hardly surprising that the suspicion of systematic drug use hangs over sport today. Different forms of obeisance to the performance principle can easily set up house together. Not only muscles and nerves but also neurons and cells must be made to perform. (Even bacteria will soon have an operational role.) Throwing, running, swimming and jumping have had their day: the point now is to send a satellite called 'the body' into artificial orbit. The athlete's body has become both launcher and satellite; no longer governed by an individual will gauging the effort expended with a view to self-transcendence, it is controlled by an internal microcomputer working by calculation alone.

Unemployment, too, has taken on new meaning. It is no longer a strategy of capital (the reserve army of labour). It is no longer a critical factor in the play of social relationships - if it were, since the danger level was passed long ago, it would necessarily have sparked unprecedented upheavals. What is unemployment today? It too is a sort of artificial satellite, a satellite of inertia, a mass with a charge of electricity that cannot even be described as a negative charge, for it is static: I refer to that increasingly large portion of society that is deepfrozen. Beneath the accelerating pace of the circuits and systems of exchange, beneath all the frenzied activity, there is something in us - in each of us - that slows down to the point where it fades out of circulation. This is the inertia point around which the whole of society eventually begins to gravitate. It is as though the two poles of our world had been brought into contact, shortcircuiting in such a way that they simultaneously hyperstimulate and enervate potential energies. This is no longer a crisis, but a fatal development - a catastrophe in slow motion.

Don't confound static electricity with ecstatic eccentricity. One will leave your hair up, the other will live up in the air!

In Science don't confound Normal static electricity To ecstatic eccentricity. Here is what I found: Electric charges As they rise up your hair In contrast with a discharge, Rarity leaves you up in the air!

The dust was so bad that static electricity was always in the air like black magic,” I told him. “Any spark could set it off, sometimes flaming right in front of us, silver-blue flames we’d have to stomp out before they set ablaze. So the shooting must have started the fire.

the air of expectation, empty, one last static slip, as if breaking the circuit on the electric fence but her mind had traveled miles up to this point, and she could only go alone

The collision of material ejected from the volcano's craters caused a build-up of static electricity in the atmosphere, which when combined with the accumulation of charge from rising hot air and moisture from the crater's meltwater reaching many kilometers up, created a huge amount of electricity that needed to be discharged, leading to spectacular, if hellish, sights.

Conveniently, the first generators of electricity, Leyden jars, had recently been invented in the Dutch city of Leiden by Pieter van Musschenbroek. These were glass jars containing water and metal foil, capable of discharging a very high-voltage static charge. They were championed by, among others, Benjamin Franklin. So naturally, Abildgaard built his own and, in a breathtaking experiment that would pass no modern ethics committees, tried electrocuting horses by delivering electric shocks to their heads.

When we sleep, our brains go offline. We drift away from consciousness. The noise and the static quiet. Our brains shift in and out of the frontal lobe. We enter into something called slow-wave sleep, and beyond that, REM sleep—the deepest level of sleep, the state in which we dream. Ironically, our brains are nearly as active during REM sleep as they are during waking life, with remarkable bursts of electrical activity.

Given how much time modern physics spends on deep and abstract mysteries like searching for gravitational waves or the Higgs boson, it can be surprising how many basic everyday phenomena aren’t well understood. In addition to ice skates, physicists don’t really understand what causes electric charges to build up in thunderstorms, why sand in an hourglass flows at the speed it does, or why your hair gets a static charge when you rub it with a

But we’re here. And we’re never going to get this moment again, are we?” “No. We’re not.” My brain feels fuzzy, like there’s static electricity when he pulls back to look at me. It’s not a normal moment of prolonged eye contact. He’s really looking at me. Like he’s found my soul.

She noted the way little pieces of yourself fall off like trash, gum wrappers and fuzz you pick off a sweater. In the same way you accumulate memories, spots of time adhere to your surroundings like stray hairs and static electricity, so that you spot them in the corner of your eye and wilt, awash with the heady sentiments of recollection. This is the problem, Viv would realize, when you've stayed in one place for far too long.

In addition to ice skates, physicists don’t really understand what causes electric charges to build up in thunderstorms, why sand in an hourglass flows at the speed it does, or why your hair gets a static charge when you rub it with a balloon.

Antistatic devices (ASD) are commonly used in many industries and may present a health hazard to those who work with these.

So he put on the fanciest things in his closet: a stiff and itchy white shirt; a black necktie bound noose-tight; black slacks that popped with static electricity when he moved; a shiny pair of dress shoes that he shoehorned himself into, so granite-hard that they removed a layer of skin on his heel He wondered why adults felt they needed to be at their most uncomfortable for their most cherished events.

Most creative scientists, even the most prolific and versatile, produce one theory per subject. When that theory has run its course they move on to another topic, or stop inventing. Maxwell was unique in the way he could could return to a topic and imbue it with new life by taking an entirely fresh approach. To the end of his life there was not one subject in which his well of inventiveness showed signs of exhaustion. With each new insight he would strengthen the foundations of the subject and trim away any expendable superstructure. In his first paper on elctromagnetism he had used the analogy of fluid flow to describe static electric and magnetic effects. In the second he had invented a mechanical model of rotating cells and idle wheels to explain all known electromagnetic effects and to predict two new ones, displacement current and waves. Evem the most enlightened of his contemporaries thought that the next step should be to refine the model, to try to find the true mechanism. But perhaps he was already sensing that the ultimate mechanisms of nature may be beyond our powers of comprehension. He decided to put the model on one side and build the theory afresh, using only the principles of dynamics: the mathematical laws which govern matter and motion.

Here is Merton’s lament. “Lights on. Clocks ticking. Thermostats working. Stoves cooking. Electric shavers filling radios with static. ‘Wisdom,’ cries the dawn deacon, but we do not attend.

inasmuch as a dead rock wants anything—it wants you dead too. So you can go quickly. A landslide can bury you. A lava tube can collapse on you. You can plunge headlong into a crater. A meteoroid can strike your habitat at seventy thousand kilometers per hour. A micrometeorite can bust open your spacesuit. A sudden burst of static electricity can blow

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The waking brain, too, has an appetite for the generative chaos that rules in the dream state. Neurons share information by passing chemicals across the synaptic gap that connects them, but they also communicate via a more indirect channel: they synchronize their firing rates. For reasons that are not entirely understood, large clusters of neurons will regularly fire at the exact same frequency. (Imagine a discordant jazz band, each member following a different time signature and tempo, that suddenly snaps into a waltz at precisely 120 beats per minute.) This is what neuroscientists call phase-locking. There is a kind of beautiful synchrony to phase-locking—millions of neurons pulsing in perfect rhythm. But the brain also seems to require the opposite: regular periods of electrical chaos, where neurons are completely out of sync with each other. If you follow the various frequencies of brain-wave activity with an EEG, the effect is not unlike turning the dial on an AM radio: periods of structured, rhythmic patterns, interrupted by static and noise. The brain’s systems are “tuned” for noise, but only in controlled bursts.

Her heart lurched. Perhaps her own grief and sadness called out to Ebony. Rachael didn’t know, but something had happened. It was as if their spirits had touched. Carried through the air like a charge of static electricity, connecting and mingling.

He came to me and his heat was just har, nothing more. I cried out once, but not with pain. His eyes never left my own, he wanted to read everything there. When the moment came, it shocked me like electricity, switching on, opening up to a greater current. His flame hair crackled with static dust and I could see his face, so vulnerable in ecstacy. A god trapped in the anemone folds of aquatic soume. I could control him and make him writhe, and I did.

eyes spin out of control as the orgasmic static electricity rips through his body, and he spasms in ecstasy,

Takeshi put his arms by his side, still lying on top of the covers. Then slowly, like there was static electricity trickling up the side of her body closest to him, the pinky of his finger grazed hers.