Tesla Coil constructed by Herby Fulmer and Namgyal Chonyi.
submitted by Mr. Fowler A Tesla Coil is a device used to create extreme electric fields capable of ripping the air apart (lightning). This Tesla Coil can arc around 15 to 20 inches. Dielectric breakdown of air occurs at 10,000 Volts/inch. So this Tesla Coil produces electric fields in the range of 150,000 to 200,000 Volts. The Tesla Coil is driven by an alternating current. This causes the electric field produced to alternate as well. The alternations vibrate the air around the arc creating sound. We can then vary the frequency of the alternations to change the pitch of the sound (our coil operates between 1 and 1,000 Hz). We're working now to interface the Tesla Coil with a keyboard via midi to play music.
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A beach girl doesn’t care about bad weather to go swimming.
A beach girl doesn’t care about waiting for a ride, if that means that she can get to the sea. A beach girl doesn’t care about tons of sand in her hair. A beach girl misses the beach right after she left it. Because what a beach girl cares about is the sand, the sea and the sunset. She loves to surf. She loves to swim. She loves the sound of seagulls. She loves the taste of salt, that covers her lips like a second skin to make them feel sandy like the beach, that is not the prettiest dream beach, but still her favorite. She loves to sit there and watch the sunset. And when the sun is gone, she still will be sitting there. AUTHOR: LINA BOSSE I hate reading... I hate reading, or what it has become. The physical pages of a book are ancient now. That soothing noise when a page is turned, prehistoric. Reading with a flashlight under the blankets, outdated. The machines that they have become, in all different forms. The robotic click when a page is changed. The automatic voice speaking into your ear. Slowly taking over the irreplaceable classic book. Ainsley Holmes (2014 freshman year) I hate reading... I hate reading I hate reading Reading’s a bore I hate reading Why’s it such a chore? I hate reading Reading makes me snore I hate reading Throw it on the floor I love reading I love reading Reading I adore I love reading Reading’s in my core I love reading Reading comes before I love reading Reading stops war Ben Cottam (2014 freshman year) I hate reading. I hate reading. Let me clarify, I hate reading books. I hate reading, for the same reason I hate smartphones, television, and headphones. The reason I hate reading, is that I hate not living in my now. My now, is far more interesting than words on a page, no matter how “dull” the particular now is. There is something beautiful about every single now, and something tragic also, because every now, must become a then. And that’s the beauty of a now. that it’s only a now as you are experiencing it. I hate reading. let me clarify, I do not hate all reading. As I said before I enjoy the now, and to fully enjoy the now, you must do a lot of reading. you read the people. you read the flavors. You read the smells. You read the colors. You read the movements. You read the emotions. You read the feeling. You read what the now is. And then you sit back and take in all that reading you just did. But not for too long, because that will take you out of the next now. Juni Wolf (2014 freshman year) My heart skipped a little every time I saw you. My breath, it shivered. I felt stars in my eyes. The same stars that I would see when I walked the streets with my head held high. My shoulders connected by my tightrope collarbones, and my helium filled head floating above my body. My feet took me where I wanted to go when I wanted to go. Their brain was a little bit more grounded. You were tall. I saw the color grey in your green eyes. Your breath lacked the smell of butterflies that supposedly lived in your stomach. When you spoke my ears would perk up, and my breathing would shallow. I was brought into a trance and repeated every syllable that escaped your lips in my head. For hours I listened to you talk. For hours I would stare into your secretly green eyes. I smiled when you said that I wasn’t your type. I smiled after you told me how many flaws I had. I smiled when you said that I could be better. Oh, how I admired your honesty.
author: Ainsley Holmes The name’s London—no need for any other names. I’ve lived and toiled a stretch of earth all my days, as my pa and grandpa and theirs before them; the land has always been close to me. When I was a youngster, I would run out through the fields and into the forests, twigs snapping under bare feet, as I ran after rabbits. I would spend hours listening to an old indian tell me stories about how things were before man walked these grounds. As I said, nature and I have always had certain comradery, which is why I felt betrayed when ol’ mother nature decided to put her foot down and crush my farm. It was a Saturday evening. Most folk kick up and relax on their Saturdays, but I am afraid I am not the sort to sit idle and drink too many cans of cheap beer. No, I was working alright—tryin’ to get all of the day’s harvest covered before a storm blew in. While I was pulling a tarp over some hay, Oak, my hound started to act disturbed as though there were a stranger about, and he is not normally the kind of mut to hallar at a mere thunderstorm. Well, I thought it was odd, but dismissed it as all dogs are prone to misbehave at some point. I finished up covering the crops and headed inside to have a small supper and read a letter my friend had sent me. I quickly set some water boiling and threw in some corn I had shucked earlier. Grabbed some venison jerky and I threw Oak a slice to quit his whining. I sat down in my Grandfather's armchair and opened the letter. It was more of the usual: talkin’ about his children and his ranch down in the states— or that is what it was when I read it later. At the time, perhaps a little overtired, I kept reading such words as “get out” in the middle of sentences. Now, I do not drink, nor am I a superstitious man, but with the storm announcing its approach with a load crack, well... I think that is enough to make a fella skittish. Shoved the letter into my coat pocket, grabbed my hatchet, and went to take a peek outside. Nothing—there was nothing, well nothing but an old owl staring at me in from the branches of the maple by my front porch, and something in eyes of that wizened bird spoke of to me of past and future, like starin’ into the eyes of God. There was a warning to be seen in those wells of knowledge; alas, I did not see it. I walked from porch to tree. Gazing so deeply into the eyes of that fowl, it took me an entire half a minute to realize what happened behind me in less than a second. Lightning had struck. My house was sproutin’ flames. Flames engulfing the old logs quicker than the tricklin’ rain turned into a downpour. Forgetting the owl, I ran to the door of my burning house. Rummaging through drawers I quickly grabbed those heirlooms which I could easily carry out, but as I searched i could not seem to find oak as if spirits had taken him in my absence and as the smoke tore at my eyes and strangled my breath, tearing at my heart I had to leave hope of finding my dog behind me. In the harsh wind and heavy rain outside, I watched as the roof of the cabin my Great Grandfather had made over a century ago collapse, and I was still watching when there were only a few embers on its skeleton still burning. The lightning continued. The Tarp blew off the crops, and the fields were oversaturated and ruined with rain. My face was scratched by many a twig carried by the storm. Like all things, good and bad, the rain and thunder came to an end but that was long after I had given into the painful destruction of the day. I woke wallowing in the mud like a pig the next morning. I walked over to what had been my family home, dug my hands into the ashes, feeling what was left of my history, and I wept. Even the small maple by my porch had been ruined by fire, but in looking at its twisted corpse I noticed something at the base of the tree. By some miracle a singular owl feather had been left behind, untouched by the flames. I picked it up and kept it in my hat ever since. I survived the fire accompanied by some seeds in my Grandfather’s seed pouch, my grandmother's old art supplies, My hatchet, the knife on my belt, and the feather from that strange old owl. Well, and also the ruined mud-soaked clothes on my back. After such an event many a fellow might just give up in depression and take a new profession if go back to working at all. Yes some would’ve given up, but not I; I am too close to the land to give up on her after an argument. She and I made another farm together, and now here I am. Author: Clarence Hecker Sometimes thinking is pointless
When I let my mind go I can breathe There is no torment no torture The mind is a trap It’s a maze where one left can draw blood And the next creates ground breaking science Where ideas clash like ferocious warriors from opposite sides of a war Where happiness begins and ends with all the loss and pain one could imagine It sings the song of death disguised as life Like sirens luring men I tend to think the worst is beautiful You chase yourself thinking the beauty in it will save you Fears and tears, painful memories, anxiety attacks I’ll never be perfect Sometimes thinking hurts When all the words said aren’t the ones you hear And the ones we allow to enter our thoughts play like a broken record My mind silently screams “mommy” at the top of it’s shriveled pink lungs Because yes, your brain had lungs despite the odd shape and color Your thoughts become your future The crippling pain that is in your head That not one other soul will understand The type of uniqueness the you will never want It feels like the world’s end all condensed into one fragile body Your skull protects things from getting in just as much as you mind prevents things from getting out I am Silent Through the torment and the whirlwind I won't say a word If I say the wrong ones someone will get hurt So it’s better to say none at all Trapped in a cell of twisted pink I recount the times my mind destroyed me I don’t know what comes after a trillion Even a googol may not be enough When hope shines through the shadows are darker I walk the same sidewalk covered with shade Here I have control Because I can let it all happen to me If I walked a new road and left my pink cell I wouldn't know how long I’d be blinded by the light I wouldn’t know if there there would be light at all I dig deeper into the depths of my mind Into the pits of cynical philosophies What ifs and whys are my anthem of fear They’re my lifeblood of science When will I just let the galaxies of passion flow through me When will the despair seem a little bit less than before Now, I guess, or maybe tomorrow Author: Nikki Flowers Dear Vans, You have been a great ally throughout these years. Headstrong, bright, and you have endured much. You have been with me through thick and thin, pain and suffering, happiness and pleasure. Everything you have done was for my benefit. Even though I admit I have not been the most loyal to you, I will eternally be grateful to you. All the things I have done to you, crippled you mountain biking, frozen you in the snow, shoved you in all kinds of s**t (literally and metaphorically). I love everything about you, the wearing leather on your heel, the unglued sides, even the fact that your laces are too short for me to tie in a bow. I know you are self conscious of all of these things. Including the scar on the left side of your face, torn all the way down, like an open wound. But the truth is, your time is almost up, and I hate to do this but I am in need of a replacement. That sounds heartless but you have done everything you could for me. Now it's my turn to thank you, your soul will be passed on to the next set and another after that. You are and always will be, the best pair of shoes I’ve ever had. Ever. Sincerely, Oliver T. Wood THEME: SHOE TREE
It’s inevitable that we get lost. We have oceans 30 thousand feet deep and mountains 30 thousand feet high. It’d take you 100 million steps just to go around the earth once. 100 million!
It’s understandable for us. Very lost, and very tired. To want to take of our feet and put them away for a while. Yet we can’t. We have nerves and stitches and bones and muscles keeping our feet stuck to us and only in desperate situations do we ever take them off. But we can take our shoes off. And shoes have souls of their own. I think we gave them souls on purpose. Not accidentally. Like how corn has ears and potatoes have eyes and tables have legs and shoes again have tongues. We wear our shoes, for a short time, for a long time. For the one time for that fancy dinner you’re still saving them for and they still look shiny as the day you bought them with the exception of the slight dust. For every single day that summer. And they’re worn and ripped and have holes that your toes poke out of. But they are your shoes. And they support you. And you love them. And they hold pieces of your soul. So when we get lost, which is inevitable. We have the shoe tree to put up our shoes and our souls to rest for a while. Gabi Wackford THEME: SHOE TREE |
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