The Case of the Missing Sandwich ... or, The Worst Time Travel Mystery Ever

Chapter 1: Saving Pastrami on Rye

It was a lousy test for such an amazing achievement. But the entire endeavor had begun as a joke and now they felt compelled to see it through. The two friends stood before the mechanism, quiet. They shared a nervous energy, uncertain. Their task was simple, but the Herculean effort was not without significant risk.

John set the dials. “You’re sure it was Tuesday, at 2:15 a.m.?”

“Six years of work and that’s what you want to verify before we make history?”

John shrugged, nodded, sighed. “This better be one amazing sandwich.”

“It will be,” Toby said. “Too bad we have to split it three ways.”

“Three?”

“I’ll still be there. Since I’m the one who dropped it.”

“True.”

“It will be worth it.”

“We build this thing to go save a sandwich.”

“Overkill?”

“No, but I’m hungry. You shouldn’t make big decisions when you’re hungry.”

“Well. Let’s go save that sandwich.”

Chapter 2: Schrodinger’s Sandwich

The sandwich hit the floor, meat-side down, with a sound not unlike a sack of eyeballs being dropped from a counter. Toby paused a moment to wonder where this comparison came from, but dismissed it with his next thought.

“We’re too late.”

“I can see that.”

The pair stepped out of the pantry and into the small kitchen. It barely fit the two of them and a small table crammed into one corner. A light over the tiny gas stove was the only illumination and between them on the floor lay the fallen sandwich.

“I don’t get it,” said John.

“Me either, I was sure we left enough time.”

“We must have been close. We heard it hit the floor. I mean, I heard it--did you?”

“Yeah, it made that weird sound.”

“Right, like a sack of …”

“... of?”

“Nevermind. But it raises the question: Where are you?”

“Right here.”

“No, I mean the Earlier You. The one who dropped the sandwich.”

They paused and looked around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did you do after you dropped the sandwich?”

“I cleaned it up. And thought about what I could have done not to drop it. That was the last of the pastrami.”

“Yeah, meat-side down. Can’t rescue that.”

“Maybe if I cleaned the floor more often.”

“Not even then.”

“So I don’t understand what happened. Or what we do now.”

“What do you mean?”

“We came back to save a sandwich, and we failed. So, was all that work for nothing?”

“You may be missing the bigger picture.”

“How this thing we built actually works?”

“No, not that, though it will probably have some uses.”

“Well, what then?”

“You’ve gone missing. You should be here, but you’re not.”

“Good point.”

“And there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s not pastrami.”

The two leaned down to examine the fallen sandwich. It was clearly roast beef, not pastrami.

“That’s clearly roast beef.”

“True. Definitely not pastrami, anyway.”

“You know what this means?”

“No idea.”

“It’s a decoy sandwich. Someone knows we’re after the pastrami.”

Chapter 3: Sandwich of Doubt

The two stared at the sandwich. They thought. Time passed.

“It’s puzzling.”

“Or worse.”

“I wouldn’t call ‘puzzling’ a bad thing.”

“True, but this doesn’t seem like a good development.”

There was a rustle from the pantry, and John and Toby looked up, startled. The door slowly opened and the pair watched as they themselves cautiously stepped out.

“We’re still too late,” said John.

“I still don’t understand it,” said Toby.

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Toby.

“Well. It’s awkward. This.”

The four stood in the small, dim kitchen, John and Toby stared at themselves, unable to look away. The room was small, and the four were shoulder to shoulder.

“This is a first.”

“Nope.”

“It is to me.”

“This is the first time for you?”

“My first time talking with my twin brother from another time? Yes. First.”

“It’s not my first time. This is the second time we’ve talked.”

“So you’ve done this multiple times?”

“Yes. After we came back the first time, we just missed saving the sandwich. So we tried to go back again, just a little bit further. And then again, this time.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. You’re here later.”

“Maybe. Something seems to have gone wrong, Again.”

Toby opened the refrigerator and pulled out a few beers. The two Johns accepted the bottles wordlessly, The second Toby took a beer and then pulled a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet.

“Hey, it’s my place, you know. I bought the beer and the bourbon.”

“No one said anything.”

Toby paused. “I guess that’s true.”

“Strange cocktail party.”

“Very.”

They drank in silence. Toby poured more whiskey, first for John and then for John and then for his twin, and finally for himself.

“Now what?”

“Good question. Ordinarily, I’d say this sandwich just isn’t worth it.”

“But this isn’t just about the sandwich, anymore.”

“Right, Toby has gone missing.”

“And the sandwich isn’t the right sandwich.”

“Maybe we should head back and rethink this.”

“Head back to when?”

“Well, when did you come from?”

“We came the day after the day after you left.”

“And we’re from the day before.”

“So if we just go back, all this should be fine.”

“Maybe. No sandwich.”

“And maybe Toby vanishes.”

Both Toby and Toby looked up. “What?”

“I don’t know., Just seems like … if you’re not here, then where are you?”

“When.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m still troubled by the sandwich. The second, roast beef sandwich.”

“I really wanted pastrami.”

“Of course. We all did. That’s why we’re here.”

“I don’t remember buying roast beef that week.”

“It was years ago. I couldn’t tell you what I bought for dinner last week.”

“Yeah, but this was a special sandwich.”

The four downed their shots, finished the beers and discussed plans for getting back to their respective times. But a noise in the pantry caught their attention, and moments later the party had expanded to six.

“Well.”

“Shit.”

“Is this going to keep happening?”

“I’m not sure.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I always thought time would stop or the world would explode if something like this happened.”

“That’s just in movies.”

“So maybe the fabric of space and time is more sturdy than Hollywood would have us believe.”

“Or maybe it’s a massive campaign by government-backed films to dissuade serious research into this technology.”

“Reagan funded Back to the Future?”

“He was a movie buff.”

The six nodded, silent for a moment.

“I assume this is not your first time running into us?”

The newest pair shook their heads.

“Third time,” said the newest John.

“I’m still missing?” asked Toby.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Four in the kitchen and two in the pantry.”

“No more room.”

“Everyone back to their respective times.”

“We should meet back up somewhere.”

“When?”

Chapter 4: A Brief History of Sandwiches

John and Toby stepped out of the pantry and into the same dimly-lit kitchen. They both checked the floor for sandwiches, pastrami or otherwise, but there were none.

“Looks like we’re in the right spot.”

“You know, I don’t usually have sandwiches lying on the floor.”

“Sorry?”

“If you’re saying you can tell we’re back in the right time and place because there’s no sandwich on the floor, I’m just saying most of the time there isn’t one.”

“Noted. You keep your floors sandwich-free. But all that aside, we’re still no closer to finding it.”

“Or me. Which I’d argue is the more pressing concern. There is a 24-hour deli down the street, you know.”

“I’m glad that you seem to have made the trip back safely.”

“Do you really think there’s danger?”

“Going back, you could argue that your absence was explained by your presence. But then those other guys showed up, so I really have no idea.”

“Right,. Are we not going to even talk about that?”

“I think I’m still processing it. Also, I didn’t look so good. I need to eat better.”

“Too many sandwiches.”

The two sat at the table, still crammed into the corner. John got two more beers and Toby retrieved the whiskey, though a different bottle from six minutes and years before.

“Let’s work backwards.”

“Forward might be more helpful.”

“Same thing, right?”

“Maybe.”

“You said you made the sandwich. Were making it. It was almost done.”

“And you were on your way over to eat.”

“But then you dropped it.”

“So there was no sandwich when you arrived, we started talking about this crazy idea to save it, and now we’re here.”

“To sum up.”

“Maybe that was a little tight.”

“What caused you to drop the sandwich?”

“Dunno. Clumsy?”

“You just dropped it?”

“I guess so. It’s been a while.”

“It’s a mystery. Seems obvious something strange is going on.”

“You’re talking about the second sandwich.”

“It makes no sense.”

“It’s late. Let’s work on this tomorrow.”

“You going by the deli?”

“Probably.”

Chapter 5: Back to the Sandwich

“It’s safe,” said Toby.

Toby stepped out from the pantry. In his hand he cradled a monstrous pastrami on rye. He sat down across from himself and sliced the sandwich in half.

“It really is a great sandwich.”

“I know. I don’t even feel guilty.”

“You can’t split a sandwich three ways.”

“Exactly. Doesn’t work at all.”

“Still, I’d understand if someone said all this work and planning seemed ridiculous.”

“Whatever. I’m sure we’ll find some other use for the machine.”

“Think John will get the pastrami or roast beef at the deli?”

“No idea.”

The two ate in silence.

Down the street, John ordered both sandwiches. “One for breakfast, and I’ll save the other for lunch,” he told himself.

Back home, he dropped the bag of sandwiches on the table, noticing the odd sound it made. The sun was just beginning to come up and John thought back to the strange events of the night.

As he began to take a first bite, a noise in the next room startled him and the pastrami slipped out of his hands and landed on the floor.

John cursed, and then shouted in surprise as his twin stepped into the room.

“Sorry about that,” John said, nodding to the fallen sandwich. “Bad luck with pastrami, lately.”

John recovered, composed himself, and nodded.

“Seems like it’s been happening a lot, lately.”

“I’m here to help you save the sandwich.”

“What happened to your eye?”

The twin’s left eye was covered by a bandage and John instinctively rubbed the corner of his own eye, as though wiping away a tear.

“You’ll find out. Patience.”

John nodded. “Well, let’s go save that sandwich.”

“Good. But first, wanna go halves on the roast beef?”

Posted on August 11, 2019 .

America

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I am not a patriotic American. Which I have long believed makes me a good citizen.

At some point in the last decade or two, patriotism became something unseemly. It got tied in, distinctly, with nationalism and culture. That shift came from a place of fear: America was something fragile, something which must be preserved.

This is horseshit. Utterly. It is wrong-headed thinking, backwards, and misunderstands the basic ideals of America's formation.

America is an idea, a theory, that once given form gave rise to a flawed-but-great society. America is not a culture or identity or flag or history book or show of force or even benevolence. America is a belief and concept: that all men are created equal and free, and that together we can create a society and system of government that respects that fundamental idea.

Ok, so it's a work in progress--and there is a long, long way to go. But despite all the shit flying around in the news, the awfulness in the world, and our own failures towards our fellow humans, it is undeniable that we have made progress.

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So what the hell happened? How did we end up back in the muck, deeply splintered and covered in one another's excrement?

America demands responsibility from its citizenry. It is a work in progress that DEMANDS the work be done. To view America as something complete and distinct, as  derivative or representative of something else, is a mistake that will result in a complacency which can and will be hijacked.

The idea of America requires an informed and thinking populace. And this is one place we have failed. Why? Because we believed it was done, fixed, complete; that we'd built something which needed to be maintained, rather than actively regenerated.

America requires responsibility.

If you believe the guardrails are in place, that out choices can't take us too far astray from the center line, then you aren't looking.

America requires understanding.

You are not important. Neither am I. America requires understanding, accepting, embracing this simple and wonderful fact. It requires some sacrifice, and a willingness, an eagerness, to put a greater cause ahead of personal security.

I am not a patriotic American, but I believe deeply in America the idea.  And watching the events of the past two years unfold has helped renew that belief in an exuberant way. As the current government exhibits every UN-American ideal I can think of (they are small-minded, petty, greedy, vindictive, fearful, selfish and dishonest), it also highlights the goodness which has been misunderstood.

America is an idea.

You're not standing on it. It's got nothing to do with your passport. The flag is just a flag, a symbol not a sign. 

The United States of America is deep in the shit right now, and I'm not willing to offer a prognosis. But the ideals behind it aren't the sort of thing which can be tarnished. They remain fundamental, inviolable, true, and central to the human condition.

Vote the bastards out. We can be so much better than this.

 
Posted on August 25, 2018 .

& Ranch #3: Donald Trump & the Inevitability of Now

Donald Trump & the Inevitability of Now … the Fiction of Border Policy & the Truth of Our Humanitarian Failures

This isn't your fault. But you are responsible for it.

And the worst thing is: it works in reverse, too.

In 1996 the Olympics came to Atlanta. I was a freshman in college, in South Carolina, and rounded up a few friends to make the road trip. We got baseball tickets to see Cuba play Australia, but what stands out most from that day is the insane heat and the crowds and the suffocating, damp thickness of the air.

Cuba beat Australia 18-9 in one of the highest scoring Olympic baseball games ever. But we didn't see more than the first couple of innings. Instead, we wandered the streets of downtown Atlanta, soaking in the freakshow-carnival atmosphere of a glorious and revolting homage to greed. A McDonald's franchise near Olympic stadium raised its “Golden Nutbags” an extra 75 feet so they would dominate the background of photos and videos. Bottles of water sold at buck-suckingly evil prices, and the streets were littered with plastic cups and trinkets, all branded with the Olympic rings or the city's name.

Posted on August 17, 2018 .

Blogging Walden #3: Solitude; immeasurable in miles; points in space & exertion of the legs

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The cabin where I live sits seven miles from town, and from the porch in summer there are no neighbors visible. In winter, when the trees between us have lost their foliage, across a large pasture a distant farm can be seen. And in mornings, when the air is still, I can here the cries of an infant coming from the farmhouse, which is a new sound and was not there the year before.

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My neighbor is a farmer and we have met just twice, both times at the hedge between our properties. Once, discussing his fence, and a second time shooing away a pair of trespassing hunters.

In the years I've lived here, many people have expressed concern about my isolation and solitude. There is something about being alone which frightens many people—though I suspect at heart some of those are truly frightened of themselves.

But I am never lonely here--at least, no moreso than when I am in town--because I never consider myself alone.

Henry David Thoreau's Walden is in some ways a treatise on solitude—and so it makes a certain kind of sense that the chapter actually titled “Solitude” would be among the book's shortest. And in it, Thoreau essentially argues that the solitude so many seem to fear is in fact merely misperception.

To say Walden is a naturalist book is some kind of an understatement. But woven into it are ideas that one might broadly call “eastern” – musings on duality and existence and the thin lines between who we are and who we are, and if we are.

Thoreau essentially makes two points in this chapter. The first is that in many ways solitude does not exist--particularly in nature. And second, the society we use to subvert our solitude is in many ways a cheap salve that is only surface deep.

"There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of nature and has his senses still."

Sometimes I wonder if Thoreau didn't eat a lot of mushrooms.

"In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts prevailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unaccountable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since."

Thoureau argues that most people see solitude as a function of distance, when it is actually about sharing the same mental space.

"This whole earth we inhabit is but a point in space ... no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another."

But the next section really jumps out to me because Thourea starts to get into some interesting ideas. Check this out:

"By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. ...

"I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it, and that is no more I than it is you."

That's Thoreau in the mid 1800s. Here's a more recent Alan Watts in the 50s: 

"The individual is separate from his universal environment only in name. When this is not recognized, you have been fooled by your name. Confusing names with nature, you come to believe that having a separate name makes you a separate being.”

And then Walpola Rahula, from his book What the Buddha Taught:

"According to the teaching of the Buddha, the idea of a self is an imaginary, false belief which has no corresponding reality, and it produces harmful thoughts of 'me' and 'mine', selfish desire, craving, attachment, hatred, ill-will, conceit, pride, egoism,and other defilements, impurities and problems."

It's all the same energy. We are. Any separateness or distinctness is misperception. No Me, no You, Us or Them. No distance. No past or self.  And if that's true, there's no solitude. 

Was Thoreau the first eastern philosopher in America? Eh. Probably not. But he starts to get at it, in parts. Most of the book is very much rooted in the here and now and nature, but in Solitude he touches on some questions are central to other ways of considering the world.

Posted on June 2, 2018 .

Blogging Walden #2: Sounds -- 'a vibration of the universal lyre'

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Nature is not quiet.

It's easy to forget that, since it is quieter than many things. City life is loud: The sounds of many modern lives lived on top of one another. When you live in a city, you think of nature as quiet.

And in winter, it can be. The cold twists the humidity out of the air and forces all the birds to warmer climes. It creates a silence  that hollows out space.

But once spring arrives, the woods become a cacophony. My desk sits next to a window, and though it is a cool morning I have it open to listen to the sounds. I can hear at least a half dozen different songbirds, the wind in the trees, and some cows in the distance.

In "Walden," Thoreau devotes an entire section to the sounds he hears in the woods. Though it's just 15 pages (in my copy*, anyway), it is a dense section of the book with sentences that have a winding life of their own. There is a lot of excellent writing here that I am often tempted to--and do--skip past. It's just a bit much sometimes. Take for instance how Thoreau describes the "dismal scream" of a screech owl:

" It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves. "

It's not the sort of snappy description that moves the plot along. And there is a lot of writing like it: from the baying of dogs to the screams of a whistle, Thoreau takes his time. He is unrushed. ... it's not the type of writing I am accustomed to reading these days and it can be difficult to slow myself down. I often feel my eyes skipping past these lengthy paintings of sound. ...

Which is fine. Not every line or page or chapter of each great book will enthrall all readers.

Still, there is much in the "Sounds" section to linger over. Take this line early in the chapter, where Thoreau is setting the scene for us. He is describing how he worked outside, but how the worked flowed naturally with the days and seasons rather than taking effort:

"The day advanced as if to light some work of mine; it was morning, and lo, now it is evening, and nothing memorable is accomplished."

Here, his words echo the classic Chinese text, Tao Te Ching:

"Less and less is done
Until non-action is achieved.
When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.

The world is ruled by letting things take their course.
It cannot be ruled by interfering."

Is Thoreau a Taoist? I'm not sure his staunch individualism meshes well with Taoism, but both writings focus on the idea of co-existing with a natural way. When things unfold as they should, it's not work. 

Really, I should not be so critical of Thoreau's "Sounds" chapter. But the ideas and thoughts I enjoy most are not about the sounds he heard but his ideas of individualism and life. He advocates living a simple life, unfettered by unnecessary wants, with a focus on the daily and common.

"... my life itself was become my amusement and never ceased to be novel. It was a drama of many scenes and without an end. ... Every track but your own is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then."

Thoreau didn't eschew other people, but he also didn't think much of society's excesses and the idea of working long hours to afford unnecessary luxuries. Which makes a lot of sense to me. Wanting less is one way to have more, so long as you're ok with with "more" meaning time, independence, security and self-determination , as opposed to more stuff.

"All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre ..."

Maybe Thoreau was being cryptic or metaphorical with this last comment here, but I tend to think not. A flock of geese -- just about the noisiest form of nature around here -- flew over my head earlier this month. Their bleating squawks had announced their arrival, but just as they flew over they were silent and I could hear the beating of their wings, but just barely, which created a buzzing effect that hit me like a physical vibration.

He may take a while getting to it, but Thoreau knew what he was talking about. 

 

* I'm reading from a Signet Classic edition that also includes Thoreau's epic "Civil Disobedience" essay and a forward by the great poet W.S. Merwin. Read his beautiful poem "For the Anniversary of My Death."

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Posted on May 22, 2018 .

Blogging Walden, #1: 'What's the news?' ... We need Thoreau now, more than ever

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It may come as no surprise that a writer living in a small cabin in the woods likes Henry David Thoreau. Despite a lot of recent criticism heaped on the man and his work, I continue to think he was a genius who penned amazing treatises on solitude, nature, justice and self determination.

That's not to say the guy was perfect. But I feel a certain kinship to the naturalist writer who once accidentally burned 300 acres of woods when a campfire got out of control.  He also had a tendency to annoy people, didn't mind contradicting himself, and could be kind of an ass.

Much of the criticism surrounding Thoreau centers on his seminal work "Walden," where he writes about living a life of simplicity near the shores of Walden pond outside Concord, Mass. He describes building his own cabin, growing beans and aiming to live so simply that he avoided the need for basket-selling or most other forms of work. ... What drives people nuts is that Thoreau did not actually live so simply as he describes in his book. He was located a short distance outside of town, frequently went in to socialize, lived on borrowed land and in general was not so separate as a reader might think.

As a self-described part-time hermit, however, Thoreau's approach makes perfect sense to me.

The primary problem with Walden, is that it was written 1846 and in the proceeding 172 years language has evolved quite a bit. Which is to say, Walden can be difficult for modern day readers--and to boot, huge chunks of it are boring. Nobody cares what your beans cost, dude.

Recently, I've been re-reading the book. Slowly. Forcing myself to linger on pages that give me trouble, making notes to look up out-of-date phrases or words, and underlining any passage which speaks to me.  Making a study of it.

Walden has become a morning ritual. I wake up, put the kettle on, make the bed and straighten the cabin, make coffee and sit down to read. Sometimes I make it a dozen pages before the demands of the day come knocking. Other times it's just a single page, or two.

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I don't understand why Thoreau has drawn such ire. The process to make a thing, and the thing itself, often are different. And the man never claimed to be a hermit. He kept three seats:  "I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society."

We need Thoreau--perhaps more than ever. 

His work is a reminder that simplicity and solitude are important. That our internal lives are vital to our ability to live in a community. He does talk about withdrawing, but he also specifies it must be done in a way that is fair and just.

"Hardly a man takes a half-hour's nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his head and asks, 'What's the news?' as if the rest of mankind has stood his sentinels."

That sounds remarkably relevant to today's 24-7 news cycle. It's easy to feel you must be invested in the outrageous news du jour, that you are obligated as a member of society to be constantly outraged.  But Thoreau reminds us that this isn't true, particularly in this passage from his essay "Civil Disobedience:".

"It is not a man's duty, as a matter of course, to devote himself to the eradication of any, even the most enormous wrong; he may still properly have other concerns to engage him; but it is his duty, at least, to wash his hands of it, and, if he gives it thought no longer, not to give it practically his support."

And bear in mind, that's the opinion of a staunch abolitionist. For all Thoreau's critics, few will deny he was consistently and emphatically on the side of justice when the topic of slavery was discussed.

So if Thoreau wasn't a hermit living solely off the land, what was he? He explains it all in the early (and decidedly non-boring) pages. In particular, these two passages:

“To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts, nor even to found a school, but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity and trust. It is to solve some of the problems of life, not only theoretically, but practically.

and then ...

"My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles."

In Walden, I do not find either excessive claims or admonitions. What I see is an experiment. A struggle to balance the realities of a more advanced, modern, fast-paced society, against an internal pull towards solitude when the values of the individual and society do not align. That makes a lot of sense to me.

Posted on May 19, 2018 and filed under Books, Writing, Essay.

Review of two 12v light bulbs -- Sunthin v. Chichinlighting

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7 watt Sunthin bulb draws about 450 milliamps.

7 watt Sunthin bulb draws about 450 milliamps.

I've been spending more time thinking about the cabin's energy use: how to reduce it and how to supply it. The new solar panels are working great, despite not really having a sunny day since I put them up. And the second battery means I have enough energy stored, if the sun doesn't shine for a day or few.

Lighting is one of my major power needs, and so I've installed two 12 volt lighting fixtures wired directly to the battery. Going directly to the battery means no inverter is needed just for light, which is more efficient. 

Initially I purchased a pair of Chichin 3 watt bulbs (three!?!). As you can see in the photo, these drew a paltry 250 milliamps. I've got a pair of batteries totaling about 210 amh, so if the bulbs worked they would have run until about spring.

However.

The Chichin bulbs turned out to be a big waste of time, as they began flickering within two weeks. Despite their efficiency, not a good buy.

I'm now using a pair of 7 watt Sunthin bulbs. These are much brighter and still only draw 450 milliamps. They definitely appear more than twice as bright as the 3w bulbs, only need 80% more energy, and have continued. 

The Sunthin bulbs have a soft, warm color to them so it doesn't feel like you're hanging out in the emergency room or a police interrogation cell. Would recommend. 

Posted on March 13, 2018 .