You may be one of the many who have recently joined this blog, and I heartily thank you. It’s a “community” – friends who can converse, because you can freely comment.
I don’t want to start by depressing you with the scientific (maybe) report I’ve written on the hallucinations that follow heart surgery, to which I concoct an astronomical twist. So before that something cheerful.
Can you find us the cosmic smile, an east-west line of at least four stars, the end ones tilted to the north?
(I don’t know of such an asterism myself, because I can’t yet look; but you could if you’re the sort of person who looks at charts, such as the Map of the Starry Sky.)
And here is the current evening sky scene. I may from now on blog mostly these scenes, for which I’ve developed a design more useful, I think, than those in other websites and newspapers. After all, most other information on the events in the sky is in the Astronomical Calendar. (The online version of the 2024 book is already available; the printed version will be available in a few days; this blog will tell you.)
See the end note about enlarging illustrations.
Not much is happening to the “left” (east) of the Sun. A planet on the horizon. Ceres, largest of dwarf planets, is far below naked-eye visibility. Arrows through planets and the Sun show how they move, in relation to the starry background, over five days. The Moon is below the horizon; it is shown for five dates, so that you can see how it will later emerge as a slender crescent. Most other features shown are either abstract (such as the celestial equator, and the “antapex of Earth’s motion,” away from which we are flying) or too low to see in the bright twilight. But the broad arrow showing how far the sky rotates in one hour suggests how it will darken as the Sun goes lower, and stars will prick into visibility.
Let’s see how different it is if you are “down” in Australia or New Zealand.
The lines in the sky, celestial equator and ecliptic, cut the evening horizon at a different angle, because you are around on a southerly part of the ball of Earth. They lean over to the right instead of left. And Mars, being on a part of the ecliptic south of the equator, has been swung by this change of angle to a positon 10 degrees vertically above the west point on the horizon.
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This weblog maintains its right to be about astronomy or anything under the sun.
ILLUSTRATIONS in these posts are made with precision but have to be inserted in another format. You may be able to enlarge them on your monitor. One way: right-click, and choose “View image” or “Open image in new tab”, then enlarge. Or choose “Copy image”, then put it on your desktop, then open it. On an iPad or phone, use the finger gesture that enlarges (spreading with two fingers, or tapping and dragging with three fingers). Other methods have been suggested, such as dragging the image to the desktop and opening it in other ways.
Sometimes I make improvements or corrections to a post after publishing it. If you click on the title, rather than on ‘Read more’, I think you are sure to see the latest version. Or you can click ‘Refresh’ to get the latest version.
In April of 1986 my wife, 7-year-old daughter and I spent two weeks touring Australia.
It was, to this day, the first and only time I have been south of the equator.
Being a lifelong, naked-eye astronomer, I stayed up nearly all night, every night, just drinking in the overhead scene: Scorpius way up in the sky, Orion upside down, the Southern Cross, Rigil Kent, the old Argo Navis, the Magellanic Clouds. Even the blank South Celestial Pole!
And of course Halley’s Comet. We even got to see a partial eclipse of the Sun while we were there.
But what pleased me the most in that nightscape, caught up as I was in the spirit of all things Australian, was a giant asterism I dubbed “The Boomerang” consisting of three of the brightest stars in the sky – Procyon, Sirius and Canopus.
Yes, there it was, a great boomerang, high in the sky!
I guess you could construe it as a sideways, lopsided smile but, as a boomerang, it put a smile on my face.
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And the next time my daughter sees Halley’s comet, I hope she’ll remember when she last saw it while holding her daddy’s hand.
P.S. This morning I was also looking at the close-up Vesta chart in the 2023 Astronomical Calendar. I’ve seen Vesta a few times since August 7, through 10×42 image-stabilized binoculars. As usual, cloudy weather is the limiting factor.
I remember your earlier expression of a fondness for Vesta.
Good to hear from you, Guy! I hope your recovery is going well.
I’m looking forward to the printed 2024 Astronomical Calendar. Just this morning I was looking at all the different Moon diagrams in the 2023 calendar, in anticipation of tomorrow’s new Moon and next month’s solar eclipse. The eclipse will be annular in Oregon, the far northeastern corner of California, and across Nevada. I plan to observe the partial eclipse here in San Francisco. I will travel to Texas for the April 2024 total solar eclipse, but the experience of an annular eclipse isn’t that much different from a partial solar eclipse. You could say that an annular solar eclipse is a central partial solar eclipse.
Central partial eclipse – the new term for annular eclipse, owed to Anthony L. Barreiro.
Guy, your intriguing image of the cosmic smile put me in mind of the line from Agee in “Sure on This Shining Night” —-“kindness must watch for me this side the ground,” as we all here hope it does for you! There is a nice, but rather long, explanation of astronomical backgrounds to the piece here: https://albertblackwell.blogspot.com/2020/06/agee.html?m=1
Best wishes,
Rev. Dave Ross
Ohio
Wishing you a smooth recovery from your surgery. It’s great to see you blogging again.