Some of you will know that I'm currently installed at the Parkes, NSW radio telescope, affectionately known as The Dish (yes, the one from the movie, and it's exactly like that). Tim, beloved flatmate and astroboy extraordinaire, was given a week's observing time out here, with the first 80 hours being continuous. Amazing though he is, even he could not manage that by himself, and when no other astronomers were available he asked if I'd be willing to pitch in. So here I am, running the telescope on the first of three overnight shifts: entirely alone, utterly unqualified and having very little concept of what I'm actually doing. Tim has promised to explain it to me better in the near future, but for now, all I'm doing is entering the same set of commands into a GUI over and over and keeping an eye on several computer screens to make sure nothing 'weird' happens. Which, you know, assumes that I'd recognise weird if I saw it.
The bigger part of my job, which hopefully I won't be called upon to do, involves making sure that the telescope doesn't crash into the ground or burst into flames. Those of you familiar with my track record with household appliances might be surprised that I'd be trusted with such a task, but what The Powers That Be don't know won't hurt them. An interesting aspect of this, though, is that my complete ignorance has nothing to do with my lack of astronomical qualifications or experience: Parkes is the only radio telescope still in operation that has to be operated on-site. All the rest of them can be done by computer from wherever you are in the world, but Parkes is old-schoolin' it and demands your constant physical presence in the Control Room (whence I write this entry). Everyone arrives here having no idea how to do it no matter how much other observing experience they've had, which is kind of heartening for me.
On the flip side, this degree of back-to-basics-ness means that it is not unlikely that I will be called upon to drive the telescope manually. Which is terrifying, frankly. I mean, I don't doubt that I could do it, but... look, right now I'm getting a minor case of the shakes (I've been up for 24 hours, less a three-hour nap that concluded 14 hours ago), and I really wouldn't trust my hands or my brain to do anything more complicated than make tea - and that includes carrying the tea up the steps to the Control Room without losing most of it.
I've also got a bit of that weird, addled euphoria that kicks in at a certain stage of exhaustion, so I'm bouncing around in my chair and singing loudly and giggling at nothing. What kills me is that Tim only went to bed a few hours ago and he had been working - and doing serious work, not just pushing buttons in sequence like I am - for 19 hours straight at that point, without even a meal break, and it barely showed. How the hell do you do this sort of work on those hours? I am only managing to be upright at this point thanks to his incredibly vast musical collection, which is bringing me back into contact with bands from my misspent yoof whom I saw dozens of times and fully adored and have since forgotten completely. Most of this happened in the move from tapes to CDs; a lot of my cassette collection never got replicated, and I am just now realising to what extent my life is the poorer for it. (Hi, Velvet Crush! Whatever happened to you guys?)
I hope to do a couple more entries because I have heaps more to say. The sky alone... I wouldn't even know where to start. It's just bigger here, in defiance of all logic and natural law. And The Dish itself is spectacular. It's mesmerising. In the middle of some truly spectacular scenery, it still manages to be the most beautiful sight in view. I'll try to put up some photos soon, not that they could ever do it justice.
In other, more Lit-Girls-y news, I have finally gotten around to _To the Lighthouse_, and in the words of Dorothy Parker, 'This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.' So after about 35 pages I'm giving it zero strings and chucking it at the nearest wall, with firm instructions for the stream-of-consciousness types to bite me. If you want my attention, earn it with a good story; don't try to trick me into feeling impressed because you talk in circles and struggle to stay on top of your own fancy foofaraw. I'm not that easily fooled, Woolf. Not by a long shot.
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