(Roughly) Daily

Posts Tagged ‘calendar

“Time is the one thing that is given to everyone in equal measure”*…

We may all received time uniformly, but we tend to experience it wildly differently. Jonny Thaw had an issue with the way that we commonly refer to years-in-history, more specifically to the use of BC and AD (or BCE and CE) as a demarcation…

2025 AD? Wah?

I know that I live in 18 AiP (after iPhone)(as of 43 AL (after laptop)) and that makes it much easier because its talking about things that I KNOW

I don’t know an anno domini, i dont know a christ, let alone trying to comprehend what came before them??

So he did somethng about it: he created Improved Relative Time, which lets one create a categorical suffix appropriate to one’s own interests/experience.

For example, this year is 2025 AD (or CE)… but it is also 5000 AA (After Astrolabe) or 2400 AADRM (After Animal-Driven Rotary Drill) or 26 AG (After Google) or 3800 AOL (After the Origin of Language) or 585 APP (After the Printing Press) or 7500 AS (After Sailing) or 2500 ATS (After Toe Stirrup) or 123 AVC (After Vacuum Cleaner) or 2400 AW (After Wheelbarrow) or 133 AZ (After Zipper).

Dozens more examples (with links to sources), in what amounts to an amusingly formatted timeline, at Improved Relative Time.

* Seneca the Younger

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As we articulate the arc of history, we might recall that it was on ths date in 1965 that Bob Dylan entered the UK pop chart for the first time with “The Times They Are a-Changin’,” which peaked at #9 three weeks later.

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Written by (Roughly) Daily

March 25, 2025 at 1:00 am

“February is the uncertain month, neither black nor white, but all shades between by turns. Nothing is sure.”*…

Yeah, but why is it shorter than all of the other months? Timothy Taylor has the story…

I understand why the calendar adds an extra day to February every four years. The revolution of the earth around the sun is approximately 365 and one-quarter days. Every four years, that adds up to one additional day, plus some extra minutes. The modest rounding error in this calculation is offset by steps like dropping the extra day of leap year for years ending in “00.”

But my question is why February has only 28 days in other years. After all, January has 31 days and March has 31 days. If those two months each donated a day to February, then all three months could be 30 days long, three years out of four, and February could be 31 days in leap years. Every other month is either 30 or 31 days. Why does February only get 28 days?…

… The answer to such questions leads to a digression back into the history of calendars. In this case, Jonathan Hogeback writing at the Britannica website tells me, it seems to settle on the Roman king Numa Pompilius back around 700 BCE, before the start of the Roman Empire. The ancient Roman calendar of that time had a flaw: it didn’t have nearly enough days. As Hogeback writes:

The Gregorian calendar’s oldest ancestor, the first Roman calendar, had a glaring difference in structure from its later variants: it consisted of 10 months rather than 12. In order to fully sync the calendar with the lunar year, the Roman king Numa Pompilius added January and February to the original 10 months. The previous calendar had had 6 months of 30 days and 4 months of 31, for a total of 304 days. However, Numa wanted to avoid having even numbers in his calendar, as Roman superstition at the time held that even numbers were unlucky. He subtracted a day from each of the 30-day months to make them 29. The lunar year consists of 355 days (354.367 to be exact, but calling it 354 would have made the whole year unlucky!), which meant that he now had 56 days left to work with. In the end, at least 1 month out of the 12 needed to contain an even number of days. This is because of simple mathematical fact: the sum of any even amount (12 months) of odd numbers will always equal an even number—and he wanted the total to be odd. So Numa chose February, a month that would be host to Roman rituals honoring the dead, as the unlucky month to consist of 28 days.

This discussion does explain why February would be singled out, since it was the month of rituals honoring the dead. In Numa’s calendar, the 355-day year would be made up of 11 months that had the lucky odd numbers of 29 or 31 days, plus unlucky February.

The discussion also explains why months that start with the prefix “Oct-” or eight, “Nov” or nine, and “Dec-” or ten, are actually months 10, 11, and 12 in the calendar. Those names were originally part of a 10-month calendar year.

But questions remains unanswered: Why did the Romans of that time view odd numbers as lucky, compared with unlucky even numbers? I suppose that explaining any superstition is hard, but I’ve never seen a great explanation. A Dartmouth course on “Geometry in Art and Architecture” describes Pythagorean feelings about odd and even numbers. For those of you keeping score at home, Pythagoras lived about two centuries after Numa Pompilius. The Dartmouth course material summarizes aspects of “Pythagorean Number Symbolism”:

Odd numbers were considered masculine; even numbers feminine because they are weaker than the odd. When divided they have, unlike the odd, nothing in the center. Further, the odds are the master, because odd + even always give odd. And two evens can never produce an odd, while two odds produce an even. Since the birth of a son was considered more fortunate than birth of a daughter, odd numbers became associated with good luck…

[Taylor recounts the recurrence of this theme, from Virgil to Shakespeare…]

… While I acknowledge this history of a belief in odd numbers, as a person born on an even day of an even month in an even year, I’m not predisposed to accept it. But it’s interesting that modern photographers have a guideline for composing photographs called the “rule of odds.” Rick Ohnsman at the Digital Photography School, for example, describes it this way:

This is where the rule of odds comes into play, a deceptively simple yet powerful tool in your photographic arsenal. It’s all about arranging your subjects in odd numbers to craft compositions that are naturally more pleasing to the eye. Unlike more static guidelines, the rule of odds offers a blend of structure and organic flow, making your images both aesthetically pleasing and impressively compelling.

The revised calendar of Numa Pompilius couldn’t last. With only 355 days, it didn’t reflect the actual period of the earth revolving around the sun, and thus led to further revisions which are a story in themselves.

But when you think about it, the question of February having 28 days all goes back to Numa Pompilius and the superstitions about odd numbers. The modern calendar has 365 days in a typical year. You might think that the obvious way to divide this up would be to start off with 12 months of 30 days, and then add five days. Indeed, the ancient Egyptians had a calendar of this type, with five “epagomenal” or “outside the calendar days added each year.

The preference over the last two millennia, at least since the time of Julius Caesar, is to have 12 months, with a few of them being a day longer. But even so, why not in a typical year have five months of 31 days, and the rest with 30? The “problem,” I think, is that most months would then have unlucky totals of an even number of days. By holding February to 28 days rather than 30, you can redistribute two days from February and have 31 days in January and March. Thus, you can have only four months with an even total of 30 days every year (“Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November …”), and seven months always with the luckier odd total of 31 days. In leap years, when February has 29 days, then eight months have an odd number of days. I think this makes February 29 a lucky day?…

Why Does February (Usually) Have 28 Days?” from @TimothyTTaylor.

Gladys Hasty Carroll

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As we muse on the marking of months, we might recall that it was on this date in 1692 that a doctor in Salem, Massachusetts (generally believed to have been William Griggs), was unable to find a physical explanation for the ailments (fits, pins-and-needles) of three young girls.  As other young women in Salem began to evince the same symptoms, the local preacher declared them “bewitched”… and the stage was set for The Salem Witch Trials.

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“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven”*…

… and now, as Cengiz Yar demonstrates in the always-illuminating newsletter Rest of World, technology is here to help…

Technology has transformed how we spend, study, live, eat — even how we sleep. And for the 6.75 billion people around the world who consider themselves religious, technology is also changing their faith. How people worship, pray, and commune with the divine is transforming from Seoul to Lagos.

Earlier this year, Rest of World set out to document the myriad of ways that religious believers are using new technologies in their daily practices. This illustrated storybook represents a broad spectrum of themes and trends playing out across a number of religions and countries that include Hindu temples made by 3D printers to priests that dance on TikTok. They speak to the unraveling tensions of our time as people turn to technology to simplify their lives, search for answers, or find platform-born fame.

These short stories offer insight into trends that range from the unique and unexpected to the artificial and financial. Just as influence, power, and need are shaping the world, they are also moving ancient faiths. This push and pull between old and new, between the ancient and modern, is now happening at lightning speed.

22 arresting examples of ancient traditions meeting modern technology: “Digital Divinity,” from @CengizYar in @restofworld. (Work supported by @HLuceFdn.)

* John Milton, Paradise Lost

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As we ponder piety, we might recall that this was the date in 1582 that a new “technology” obliterated 10 days from the lives of Catholics in the Holy Roman Empire: Italy, Spain, Portugal, Poland (and the miscellaneous states in the HRE) introduced the Gregorian calendar. While this was “October 5” in the rest of the world, those countries, adopting Pope Gregory XIII’s innovation, skipped ten days– so that there, the date shifted from October 4 to October 15.   With the shift, the calendar was aligned with the equinoxes (and the lunar cycles used to establish the celebration of Easter).   Britain and its colonies resisted this Popish change and used the Julian calendar for another century and a half, until September 2, 1752.

From a work published in 1582, the year of the calendar reform; days 5 to 14 October are omitted.

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Written by (Roughly) Daily

October 15, 2024 at 1:00 am

“The intelligence of the universe is social”*…

From the series Neural Zoo by Sofia Crespo

Recently, (Roughly) Daily looked at AI and our (that’s to say, humans’) possible relationships to it. In a consideration of Jame Bridle‘s new book, Ways of Being, Doug Bierend widens the iris, considering our relationship not only to intelligences we might create but also to those with which we already co-habit…

It’s lonely at the top, but it doesn’t have to be. We humans tend to see ourselves as the anointed objects of evolution, our intelligence representing the leading edge of unlikely order cultivated amid an entropic universe. While there is no way to determine any purpose or intention behind the processes that produced us, let alone where they will or should lead, that hasn’t stopped some from making assertions. 

For example, consider the school of thought called longtermism, explored by Phil Torres in this essay for Aeon. Longtermism — a worldview held, as Torres notes, by some highly influential people including Elon Musk, Peter Thiel, tech entrepreneur Jaan Tallinn, and Jason Matheny, President Biden’s deputy assistant for technology and national security — essentially sees the prime directive of Homo sapiens as one of maximizing the “potential” of our species. That potential — often defined along such utilitarian lines as maximizing the population, distribution, longevity, and comfort that future humans could achieve over the coming millennia — is what longtermers say should drive the decisions we make today. Its most extreme version represents a kind of interstellar manifest destiny, human exceptionalism on the vastest possible scale. The stars are mere substrate for the extension and preservation of our species’ putatively unique gifts. Some fondly imagine our distant descendants cast throughout the universe in womb-like symbiosis with machines, ensconced in virtual environments enjoying perpetual states of bliss —The Matrix as utopia. 

Longtermist philosophy also overlaps with the “transhumanist” line of thought, articulated by figures such as philosopher Nick Bostrom, who describes human nature as incomplete, “a half-baked beginning that we can learn to remold in desirable ways.” Here, humanity as currently or historically constituted isn’t an end so much as a means of realizing some far greater fate. Transhumanism espouses the possibility of slipping the surly bonds of our limited brains and bodies to become “more than human,” in a sense reminiscent of fictional android builder Eldon Tyrell in Blade Runner: “Commerce is our goal,” Tyrell boasts. “‘More human than human’ is our motto.” Rather than celebrating and deepening our role within the world that produced us, these outlooks seek to exaggerate and consummate a centuries-long process of separation historically enabled by the paired forces of technology and capital. 

But this is not the only possible conception of the more than human. In their excellent new book Ways of Being, James Bridle also invokes the “more than human,” not as an effort to exceed our own limitations through various forms of enhancement but as a mega-category that collects within it essentially everything, from microbes and plants to water and stone, even machines. It is a grouping so vast and diverse as to be indefinable, which is part of Bridle’s point: The category disappears, and the interactions within it are what matters. More-than-human, in this usage, dismisses human exceptionalism in favor of recognizing the ecological nature of our existence, the co-construction of our lives, futures, and minds with the world itself. 

From this point of view, human intelligence is just one form of a more universal phenomenon, an emergent “flowering” found all throughout the evolutionary tree. It is among the tangled bramble of all life that our intelligence becomes intelligible, a gestalt rather than a particular trait. As Bridle writes, “intelligence is not something which exists, but something one does. It is active, interpersonal and generative, and it manifests when we think and act.” In Bridle’s telling, mind and meaning alike exist by way of relationship with everything else in the world, living or not. Accepting this, it makes little sense to elevate human agency and priorities above all others. If our minds are exceptional, it is still only in terms of their relationship to everything else that acts within the world. That is, our minds, like our bodies, aren’t just ours; they are contingent on everything else, which would suggest that the path forward should involve moving with the wider world rather than attempting to escape or surpass it.

This way of thinking borrows heavily from Indigenous concepts and cosmologies. It decenters human perspective and priorities, instead setting them within an infinite concatenation of agents engaged in the collective project of existence. No one viewpoint is more favored than another, not even of the biological over the mineral or mechanical. It is an invitation to engage with the “more-than-human” world not as though it consisted of objects but rather fellow subjects. This would cut against the impulse to enclose and conquer nature, which has been reified by our very study of it….

Technology often presupposes human domination, but it could instead reflect our ecological dependence: “Entangled Intelligence,” from @DougBierend in @_reallifemag (via @inevernu and @sentiers). Eminently worth reading in full.

* Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations

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As we welcome fellow travelers, we might recall that this date in 1752 was the final day of use of the Julian calendar in Great Britain, Ireland, and the British colonies, including those on the East coast of America. Eleven days were skipped to sync to the Gregorian calendar, which was designed to realign the calendar with equinoxes. Hence the following day was September 14. (Most of Europe had shifted, by Papal decree, to the Gregorian calendar in the 16th century; Russia and China made the move in the 20th century.)

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Written by (Roughly) Daily

September 2, 2022 at 1:00 am

“Time and tide wait for no man”*…

The week both arranges and imposes on our time…

Among many collective discoveries during the pandemic confinement of 2020, Americans learned just how attached we are to our seven weekdays. As complaints about temporal disorientation mounted that April, we focused not on the clock – the classic metonym for the power and experience of time – but rather on the calendar, and specifically the weekly one. A Cleveland news station affiliated with the Fox Media network entertained viewers with a daily feature, much circulated on the internet, entitled ‘What Day Is It? With Todd Meany’ – the answer to which was always a weekday, not a Gregorian calendar date…

Weeks serve as powerful mnemonic anchors because they are fundamentally artificial. Unlike days, months and years, all of which track, approximate, mimic or at least allude to some natural process (with hours, minutes and seconds representing neat fractions of those larger units), the week finds its foundation entirely in history. To say ‘today is Tuesday’ is to make a claim about the past rather than about the stars or the tides or the weather. We are asserting that a certain number of days, reckoned by uninterrupted counts of seven, separate today from some earlier moment. And because those counts have no prospect of astronomical confirmation or alignment, weeks depend in some sense on meticulous historical recordkeeping. But practically speaking, weekly counts are reinforced by the habits and rituals of other people. When those habits and rituals were radically obscured or altered in 2020, the week itself seemed to unravel…

The history of weekly timekeeping, which is only about 2,000 years old. Although taboos and cosmologies in several different cultures attached significance to seven-day cycles much earlier, there is no clear evidence of any society using such cycles to track time in the form of a common calendar before the end of the 1st century CE. As the scholars Ilaria Bultrighini and Sacha Stern have recently documented, it was in the context of the Roman Empire that a standardised weekly calendar emerged out of a combination and conflation of Jewish Sabbath counts and Roman planetary cycles. The weekly calendar, from the moment of its effective invention, reflected a union of very different ways of counting days…

The crucial formation of our modern experience of weekly time took place around the first half of the 1800s, with the rising prominence of… the differentiated weekly schedule…

The week is the most artificial and most recent of the ways we account for time, but it’s effectively impossible to imagine our shared lives without it: “How we became weekly,” by David Henkin in @aeonmag.

See also Jill Lepore‘s characteristically informative review of Henkin’s book on the week: “How the Week Organizes and Tyrannizes Our Lives” (source of the image above)

* Geoffrey Chaucer

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As we mark time, we might recall that it was on this date in 1839 that John William Draper took a daguerreotype of the moon (the “governor” of months, while the sun determines days, seasons, and years); it was the first celestial photograph (or astrophotograph) made in the U.S.  (He exposed the plate for 20 minutes using a 5-inch telescope and produced an image one inch in diameter.)   Draper’s picture of his sister, taken the following year, is the oldest surviving photographic portrait.

An 1840 shot of the moon by Draper– the oldest surviving “astrophotograph,” as his first is lost

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