wave gallery

Meghann Riepenhoff, “Littoral Drift #473, 2016. 

Three dynamic cyanotypes, from the series “Littoral Drift,”

Triptych, Point White Beach, Bainbridge Island, WA 05.17.16, Five Waves at Apex of Low Tide ,  

Approx. 36 x 72 36 x 24 Each

Photo © Meghann Riepenhoff, courtesy of Yossi Milo Gallery.

9

This seemed like a good day to post some rainbow laser modes!

Light in a circular cavity makes a variety of standing wave patterns, some of which look like flowers, wagon wheels, or even tie-fighter spaceships. These images are from my simulations of the light in the cavities of nanolasers - each pattern is called a mode, and the smaller the laser, the simpler the mode tends to be.

In our lasers, the modes that tend to do the best are the whispering gallery modes - for example, the mode at the upper center.  Whispering gallery modes get their name from the whispering gallery phenomenon first noticed with sound waves in cathedral domes. People noticed that if they stood along the perimeter of some cathedral domes, the sound waves from a whisper would bounce along the walls of the dome, and could be clearly heard at certain other places along the dome’s perimeter.  In the case of our lasers, it’s light that bounces around the laser cavity - wavelengths that make an integer number of oscillations in one round trip end up forming a sort of circular standing wave.  Whispering gallery modes appear not just for light and sound, but for other kinds of waves as well, like matter waves and gravitational waves.

Rattled - Part 2

A/N: Merry Christmas and happy holidays :)  I finally got some inspiration for part 2 (there will be a part 3!) for my Feysand train AU and got everything written down!  So here it is.  I hope you enjoy some Feysand banter and fluff @rhysndtrash & @vanilla28

[Part 3]


Feyre offers a perfunctory wave to her early bird neighbor as the greying man stooped with some difficulty to retrieve his morning paper.  Turning her attention back to the task at hand, she shifts her soft leather bag higher on her shoulder and carefully holds her steaming travel mug aloft while her other hand ensures the double locks on her front door slides into place.  I’ll see you again in around fourteen hours my lovely bed.

Tossing her keys into their customary pocket in her purse, Feyre blindly walks the path that would bring her to the just sun kissed streets still empty of the early morning rush.

Thursdays are often early mornings, as one of her duties is to arrive in time to accept all new shipments and oversee loans to other galleries and the occasional art museum, plus the odd sale to dealers and collectors.  Despite her distaste for waking with the sun, there’s something beautiful about being one of the first to see Velaris as the calling birds shoot across the sky, eager squirrels skittering over the cobblestones, and the first blush of fresh baked bread filling the new day.

Pulled from her musings by a bright chirp, Feyre shuffles around the center of her admittedly disorganized purse to find her phone and a waiting message from Mor.

are u sure u dont want it?

im going on record saying this is the most stubborn u have ever been

Rolling her eyes Feyre shoots off a quick answer – yes, busybody.  I’m sure

This had become Mor’s new way to greet Feyre when they texted, or called, or one time sent actual paper letters that she had paid for postage to harass her poor hard working friend into accepting Rhysand’s phone number.

And it’s not that she doesn’t want it.  Because at least some small – or perhaps very large and enamored – part of her really wants it and wants to rip open the buttons on that carefully tailored black dress shirt that hugged his –

It’s not like things hadn’t been heading in that direction; but they got separated at the train snack bar and then she’d been ushered from the train by a conductor determined to keep on schedule, barely giving her a chance to grab her bags from her depressingly empty compartment.

She’d managed to tamp down her disappointment, figuring if it was meant to be they wouldn’t have been so strangely separated.  In fact, the strangeness was a tick in favor of not being meant to be.  But Meddling Morrigan quickly told Feyre where she could shove her ‘meant to be nonsense.’

Still, she didn’t force the phone number on Feyre, which she is grateful for.  Despite her flirtation and momentary infatuation, she’s still gun shy, and Mor is good enough to understand.  But that doesn’t mean she’s going to let the issue go.  Which is why another text sounds from the phone clenched in her free hand.

u r perfect for each other

which I told u

and then I was proven right

by ur unmitigated chemistry

so you can spell unmitigated out but not ‘you’

says the girl who uses quotes in casual texts

Feyre rolld her eyes but smiles nonetheless as she responds,

why are you even awake

gym with Az

is this thumb day

nah.  im on the treadmill.  multitasking my child

Before she has a chance to respond, Feyre finds her face smashed against a tightly muscled form covered in a light sheen of sweat that would’ve been gross if not for the violet eyes that glint down at her, “I was hoping we’d run into each other,” he drawls, meticulously drinking in her form before continuing with a smirk, “though I didn’t consider whether we would do so literally.”

Keep reading

When the man first broke in through my downstairs window
I knew that I was in love. Crushed glass across my rug.
I did not write home about it -
I nodded, let him into my bed, said that this
was the end of a long list
of lonely nights.

And he was warm, and I was almost right. And he held my hand.
We made breakfast in my rotting kitchen, turned frying pans
filled with eggs
into mountains and valleys. He made a copy of my keys,
told me about a childhood
lived between prison and the streets.

And Dyer, I loved you. Dyer,
I thought that you loved me.
You needed me.
You woke me up crying, sweating between my sheets.
I was old; you were just a baby.

In the morning, we would wake up hungover, and I
would mix us drinks. In my bed you would mourn your dead mother,
tell me how your father used to beat her
in front of you. I tried to live like your glue,
tried to fix your shattered windows,
your glistening lips and limp wrists and unanswered letters. I tried to become her,
to fill the empty spaces in your stomach, to expand
like a liquid. Take the shape of my container.

And Dyer, I tried my best to save you. I painted you,
immortalized what I knew to be true. Dyer, could you not hear me calling you?

Every night was your mothers grave again,
and you, pale and unshaven, swaying from too many drinks.
Leaning on the sink
to vomit. Every night, my skin scared with paint, the imprint of a canvas,
and your name
warming my tongue. Some nights I thought we were done

but in the morning, you rose again. You wore thin on my friends.
Dyer, I bought you everything you needed. At my galleries,
you spat drunken and defeated. Told me that my work
was meaningless. Dyer, these were my gifts to you. You were my muse.
I painted every angle, every shade of blue. I thought it was saving you.

But you never liked art, never liked my friends, and they told me,
“you’re too good for him” and you ripped up my canvases,
and you tore at my limbs. I thought that I could save you. I sold my work
to buy you bottles
of liquor. I kept you upright, kept you safe.
You stayed drunk for six months straight

and if I came home late,
you threatened suicide. You said, “If I die,
my blood is on your hands.” And my friends said,
“leave him.” But you were a shattered window
and I was glue. I wanted to fix you.

That October, I was an art star. My name on every critic’s lips,
and in galleries,
and I spent my nights at exclusive parties
you could not attended without puking
onto ball gowns. Dyer, I watched you drown. Watched you desperately
beg for my pity.

I knew that you knew I was leaving.

When they found your body
inside my hotel room in Paris,
I did not cry. I knew that you had wanted to die.
Knew that you had taken the pills that you had asked me to buy
and washed them down with my whiskey.

I imagined them blossoming inside your stomach
like a rose-garden in the spring. You had needed me,

and I had been laughing in galleries. Waving,
autographing newspapers and wrinkled receipts
pulled from the purses of women
desperate to meet me.

You had crashed into my life through a window
and out through a last shaky breath
in an empty Paris hotel room.

At your funeral
I was silent. At home
I screamed into my pillowcase.

Dyer, I have been drunk for thirty days. And god,
I am sorry. It was all a mistake. Dyer I tried,
but I got home too late. There is tape
on the window of my apartment now. The whole world
was your grave.

Dyer, my canvas is waiting.

—  To George Dyer, From Francis Bacon; Hannah Beth Ragland