Education and the brain: what happens when children learn?

Education and the brain: what happens when children learn?

Education and the brain: what happens when children learn?

Education and the brain: what happens when children learn?

The brief story of algae as food

During the 1950s, a decade when science seemed to offer the possibility of a cleaner, healthier, and better organised world, there was a brief, but intense enthusiasm for Chlorella pyrenoidosa, a high-protein algae which grew rapidly and abundantly and was fed by sunlight and carbon dioxide.

The post-war baby boom gave rise to anxieties in the 1950s that the world would be unable to feed its growing population. Of course, we now know that innovations in agriculture during this period – including the wholesale mechanisation of farming, the increased use of pesticides, hormones, and antibiotics, and breeding high-yielding livestock – and the Green Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s produced the crops and farming methods which, at enormous environmental cost, still feed seven billion of us. But at the time, politicians worried that hungry nations would create a politically unstable world.

Algae looked like a sensible solution to the problem. Easy and cheap to grow, and apparently highly nutritious, this seemed to be the Brave New World of food production.

Warren Belasco wrote:
The alluring news came from pilot projects sponsored by the Carnegie Institution and conducted by the Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park and by Arthur D. Little, Inc. in Cambridge. Initial results suggested that chlorella algae was an astounding photosynthetic superstar. When grown in optimal conditions – sunny, warm, shallow ponds fed by simple carbon dioxide – chlorella converted upwards of 20 per cent of solar energy…into a plant containing 50 per cent protein when dried. Unlike most plants, chlorella’s protein was ‘complete’, for it had the ten amino acids then considered essential, and it was also packed with calories, fat, and vitamins.

In today’s terms, chlorella was a superfood. Scientists fell over themselves in excitement: Scientific American and Science reported on it in glowing terms; the Rockefeller Foundation funded research into it; and some calculated that a plantation the size of Rhode Island was would be able to supply half the world’s daily protein requirements.

In the context of a mid-century enthusiasm for all that was efficient, systematic, and man-made, algae’s appeal was immediate: it was entirely usable and produced little or no waste; its farming was not dependent on variable weather and rainfall; it was clean and could be transformed into something that was optimally nutritious.

So why didn’t I have a chlorella burrito for supper?

Unfortunately, chlorella didn’t live up to the hype. Not only did the production of grains and soybeans increase exponentially during the 1950s, meaning that farmers were loath to switch to a new and untested crop, but further research revealed that chlorella production would be more complicated and expensive than initially envisaged. Growing chlorella in the quantities needed to be financially viable required expensive equipment, and it proved to be susceptible to changes in temperature. Harvesting and drying it was even more of a headache.

On top of this, chlorella tasted terrible. There were some hopes that the American food industry might be able to transform bitter green chlorella into an enticing foodstuff – in much the same way they used additives and preservatives to manufacture the range of processed foods which bedecked the groaning supermarket shelves of 1950s America. Edible chlorella was not a world away from primula cheese.

Those who were less impressed by the food industry suggested that chlorella could be used to fortify bread and pasta – or even transformed into animal feed. But research demonstrated that heating chlorella destroyed most of its nutrients. Even one of its supporters called it ‘a nasty little green vegetable.’ By the 1960s, it was obvious that at $1,000 a ton, and inedible, chlorella was not going to be the food of the future.

All was not lost for chlorella, though. It proved to be surprisingly popular in Japan, where it is still sold as a nutritional supplement. The West’s enthusiasm for algae also hasn’t dimmed: the discovery in the 1960s of the blue-green algae spirulina in the Saharan Lake Chad and in Mexico’s Lake Texcoco gave another boost to the health food uses of algae. Spirulina has a highnutrient profile similar to chlorella’s but without the same production problems.

Ironically, the food that was supposed to feed the world is now the preserve of the wealthy, health-conscious middle classes – those who suffer most from the diseases of affluence – who can afford to buy small jars of powdered algae.

The brief story of algae as food

During the 1950s, a decade when science seemed to offer the possibility of a cleaner, healthier, and better organised world, there was a brief, but intense enthusiasm for Chlorella pyrenoidosa, a high-protein algae which grew rapidly and abundantly and was fed by sunlight and carbon dioxide.

The post-war baby boom gave rise to anxieties in the 1950s that the world would be unable to feed its growing population. Of course, we now know that innovations in agriculture during this period – including the wholesale mechanisation of farming, the increased use of pesticides, hormones, and antibiotics, and breeding high-yielding livestock – and the Green Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s produced the crops and farming methods which, at enormous environmental cost, still feed seven billion of us. But at the time, politicians worried that hungry nations would create a politically unstable world.

Algae looked like a sensible solution to the problem. Easy and cheap to grow, and apparently highly nutritious, this seemed to be the Brave New World of food production.

Warren Belasco wrote:
The alluring news came from pilot projects sponsored by the Carnegie Institution and conducted by the Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park and by Arthur D. Little, Inc. in Cambridge. Initial results suggested that chlorella algae was an astounding photosynthetic superstar. When grown in optimal conditions – sunny, warm, shallow ponds fed by simple carbon dioxide – chlorella converted upwards of 20 per cent of solar energy…into a plant containing 50 per cent protein when dried. Unlike most plants, chlorella’s protein was ‘complete’, for it had the ten amino acids then considered essential, and it was also packed with calories, fat, and vitamins.

In today’s terms, chlorella was a superfood. Scientists fell over themselves in excitement: Scientific American and Science reported on it in glowing terms; the Rockefeller Foundation funded research into it; and some calculated that a plantation the size of Rhode Island was would be able to supply half the world’s daily protein requirements.

In the context of a mid-century enthusiasm for all that was efficient, systematic, and man-made, algae’s appeal was immediate: it was entirely usable and produced little or no waste; its farming was not dependent on variable weather and rainfall; it was clean and could be transformed into something that was optimally nutritious.

So why didn’t I have a chlorella burrito for supper?

Unfortunately, chlorella didn’t live up to the hype. Not only did the production of grains and soybeans increase exponentially during the 1950s, meaning that farmers were loath to switch to a new and untested crop, but further research revealed that chlorella production would be more complicated and expensive than initially envisaged. Growing chlorella in the quantities needed to be financially viable required expensive equipment, and it proved to be susceptible to changes in temperature. Harvesting and drying it was even more of a headache.

On top of this, chlorella tasted terrible. There were some hopes that the American food industry might be able to transform bitter green chlorella into an enticing foodstuff – in much the same way they used additives and preservatives to manufacture the range of processed foods which bedecked the groaning supermarket shelves of 1950s America. Edible chlorella was not a world away from primula cheese.

Those who were less impressed by the food industry suggested that chlorella could be used to fortify bread and pasta – or even transformed into animal feed. But research demonstrated that heating chlorella destroyed most of its nutrients. Even one of its supporters called it ‘a nasty little green vegetable.’ By the 1960s, it was obvious that at $1,000 a ton, and inedible, chlorella was not going to be the food of the future.

All was not lost for chlorella, though. It proved to be surprisingly popular in Japan, where it is still sold as a nutritional supplement. The West’s enthusiasm for algae also hasn’t dimmed: the discovery in the 1960s of the blue-green algae spirulina in the Saharan Lake Chad and in Mexico’s Lake Texcoco gave another boost to the health food uses of algae. Spirulina has a highnutrient profile similar to chlorella’s but without the same production problems.

Ironically, the food that was supposed to feed the world is now the preserve of the wealthy, health-conscious middle classes – those who suffer most from the diseases of affluence – who can afford to buy small jars of powdered algae.

The brief story of algae as food

During the 1950s, a decade when science seemed to offer the possibility of a cleaner, healthier, and better organised world, there was a brief, but intense enthusiasm for Chlorella pyrenoidosa, a high-protein algae which grew rapidly and abundantly and was fed by sunlight and carbon dioxide.

The post-war baby boom gave rise to anxieties in the 1950s that the world would be unable to feed its growing population. Of course, we now know that innovations in agriculture during this period – including the wholesale mechanisation of farming, the increased use of pesticides, hormones, and antibiotics, and breeding high-yielding livestock – and the Green Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s produced the crops and farming methods which, at enormous environmental cost, still feed seven billion of us. But at the time, politicians worried that hungry nations would create a politically unstable world.

Algae looked like a sensible solution to the problem. Easy and cheap to grow, and apparently highly nutritious, this seemed to be the Brave New World of food production.

Warren Belasco wrote:
The alluring news came from pilot projects sponsored by the Carnegie Institution and conducted by the Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park and by Arthur D. Little, Inc. in Cambridge. Initial results suggested that chlorella algae was an astounding photosynthetic superstar. When grown in optimal conditions – sunny, warm, shallow ponds fed by simple carbon dioxide – chlorella converted upwards of 20 per cent of solar energy…into a plant containing 50 per cent protein when dried. Unlike most plants, chlorella’s protein was ‘complete’, for it had the ten amino acids then considered essential, and it was also packed with calories, fat, and vitamins.

In today’s terms, chlorella was a superfood. Scientists fell over themselves in excitement: Scientific American and Science reported on it in glowing terms; the Rockefeller Foundation funded research into it; and some calculated that a plantation the size of Rhode Island was would be able to supply half the world’s daily protein requirements.

In the context of a mid-century enthusiasm for all that was efficient, systematic, and man-made, algae’s appeal was immediate: it was entirely usable and produced little or no waste; its farming was not dependent on variable weather and rainfall; it was clean and could be transformed into something that was optimally nutritious.

So why didn’t I have a chlorella burrito for supper?

Unfortunately, chlorella didn’t live up to the hype. Not only did the production of grains and soybeans increase exponentially during the 1950s, meaning that farmers were loath to switch to a new and untested crop, but further research revealed that chlorella production would be more complicated and expensive than initially envisaged. Growing chlorella in the quantities needed to be financially viable required expensive equipment, and it proved to be susceptible to changes in temperature. Harvesting and drying it was even more of a headache.

On top of this, chlorella tasted terrible. There were some hopes that the American food industry might be able to transform bitter green chlorella into an enticing foodstuff – in much the same way they used additives and preservatives to manufacture the range of processed foods which bedecked the groaning supermarket shelves of 1950s America. Edible chlorella was not a world away from primula cheese.

Those who were less impressed by the food industry suggested that chlorella could be used to fortify bread and pasta – or even transformed into animal feed. But research demonstrated that heating chlorella destroyed most of its nutrients. Even one of its supporters called it ‘a nasty little green vegetable.’ By the 1960s, it was obvious that at $1,000 a ton, and inedible, chlorella was not going to be the food of the future.

All was not lost for chlorella, though. It proved to be surprisingly popular in Japan, where it is still sold as a nutritional supplement. The West’s enthusiasm for algae also hasn’t dimmed: the discovery in the 1960s of the blue-green algae spirulina in the Saharan Lake Chad and in Mexico’s Lake Texcoco gave another boost to the health food uses of algae. Spirulina has a highnutrient profile similar to chlorella’s but without the same production problems.

Ironically, the food that was supposed to feed the world is now the preserve of the wealthy, health-conscious middle classes – those who suffer most from the diseases of affluence – who can afford to buy small jars of powdered algae.

The 10-Millenia Clock

There is a huge Clock ringing deep inside a mountain. It is hundreds of feet tall, designed to tick for 10,000 years. Every once in a while the bells of this buried Clock play a melody on chimes programmed to not repeat themselves for 10,000 years. The Clock rings when a visitor has wound it, but the Clock can hoard energy from a different source and occasionally it will ring when no one is around to hear it. It’s anyone’s guess how many beautiful songs will never be heard over the Clock’s 10 millennial lifespan.

The Clock’s designer is Danny Hillis, a polymath inventor and computer engineer. He and Stewart Brand, a cultural pioneer and trained biologist, launched a non-profit foundation to build at least the first Clock. Fellow traveler and rock musician Brian Eno named the organization The Long Now Foundation to indicate the expanded sense of time the Clock provokes – not the short now of next quarter, next week, or the next five minutes, but the “long now” of centuries.

So how does the Clock keep going if no one visits it for months, or years, or perhaps decades? If there is no attention for long periods of time, the Clock uses the energy captured by changes in the temperature between day and night on the mountain top above to power its time-keeping apparatus. The differential power is transmitted to the interior of the Clock by long metal rods. As long as the sun shines and night comes, the Clock can keep time itself, without human help. But it can’t ring its chimes for long by itself, or show the time it knows, so it needs human visitors.

If the sun shines through the clouds more often than expected, and if the nights are colder than usual, the extra power generated by this difference will bleed over into the Clock weights. That means that over time, in ideal conditions, the sun will actually wind up the chimes, sufficiently for them to ring when no one is there.

The rotating dials, gears, spinning governor, and internal slips of pins and slots within the Clock will be visible only if you bring your own light. Shining your light around the rest of the chamber you’ll see the pendulum and escapement encased in a shield of quartz glass – to keep out dust, air movements, and critters. The pendulum, which governs the timing of the Clock, is a 6-feet (1.83m) long titanium assembly terminating with football-sized titanium weights. It swings at a satisfyingly slow 10-second period. The slight clicks of its escapement echo loudly in the silence of the mountain.

Behind the main chamber’s dials the stairs continue up to the outside summit of the mountain. The shaft above the Clock continues to the surface, where its opening to the daylight is capped with a cupola of sapphire glass. This is the only part of the clock visible from the mountain peak. In this outdoor cupola sits the thermal-difference device to power the timekeeping, and a solar synchronizer. Every sunny noon, a prism directs sunlight down the shaft, where the imperceptible variations in the length of the day as the earth wobbles on its axis are compensated so that the Clock can keep its noon on true solar noon. In that way the Clock is self-adjusting, and keeps good time over the centuries.

Building something to last 10,000 years requires both a large dose of optimism and a lot of knowledge. What do you build with that won’t corrode in 100 centuries? How do you keep it accurate when no one is around? The Clock’s technical solutions are often ingenious.

Almost any kind of artifact can last 10 millennia if stored and cared for properly. We have examples of 5,000-year-old wood staffs, papyrus, or leather sandals. On the other hand, even metal can corrode in a few years of rain. For longevity, environment is more important than material. The mountain top in Texas (and Nevada) is a high dry desert, and below, in the interior tunnel, the temperature is very even over seasons and by the day, another huge plus for longevity since freeze-thaw cycles are as corrosive as water. It’s an ideal world for a ceaseless Clock.

Still, the Clock is a machine with moving parts, and parts wear down and lubricants evaporate or corrode. The main worry of the Clockmakers is that elements of a 10K-year Clock — by definition — will move slowly. The millennial dial creeps so slowly it can be said to not move at all during your lifetime. Metals in contact with each other over those time scales can fuse – defeating the whole purpose of an ongoing timepiece. To counteract these tendencies some of the key moving parts of the Clock are non-metal — they are stone and hi-tech ceramics.

Ceramics will outlast most metals- we have found shards of clay pots 17,000 years old-and modern ceramics can be as hard as diamonds. All the bearings in the Clock will be engineered ceramic. Because these bearings are so hard, and rotate at very low speed, they require no lubrication – which normally attracts grit and will eventually cause wear. And so, a 10,000-year timepiece is born.

The 10-Millenia Clock

There is a huge Clock ringing deep inside a mountain. It is hundreds of feet tall, designed to tick for 10,000 years. Every once in a while the bells of this buried Clock play a melody on chimes programmed to not repeat themselves for 10,000 years. The Clock rings when a visitor has wound it, but the Clock can hoard energy from a different source and occasionally it will ring when no one is around to hear it. It’s anyone’s guess how many beautiful songs will never be heard over the Clock’s 10 millennial lifespan.

The Clock’s designer is Danny Hillis, a polymath inventor and computer engineer. He and Stewart Brand, a cultural pioneer and trained biologist, launched a non-profit foundation to build at least the first Clock. Fellow traveler and rock musician Brian Eno named the organization The Long Now Foundation to indicate the expanded sense of time the Clock provokes – not the short now of next quarter, next week, or the next five minutes, but the “long now” of centuries.

So how does the Clock keep going if no one visits it for months, or years, or perhaps decades? If there is no attention for long periods of time, the Clock uses the energy captured by changes in the temperature between day and night on the mountain top above to power its time-keeping apparatus. The differential power is transmitted to the interior of the Clock by long metal rods. As long as the sun shines and night comes, the Clock can keep time itself, without human help. But it can’t ring its chimes for long by itself, or show the time it knows, so it needs human visitors.

If the sun shines through the clouds more often than expected, and if the nights are colder than usual, the extra power generated by this difference will bleed over into the Clock weights. That means that over time, in ideal conditions, the sun will actually wind up the chimes, sufficiently for them to ring when no one is there.

The rotating dials, gears, spinning governor, and internal slips of pins and slots within the Clock will be visible only if you bring your own light. Shining your light around the rest of the chamber you’ll see the pendulum and escapement encased in a shield of quartz glass – to keep out dust, air movements, and critters. The pendulum, which governs the timing of the Clock, is a 6-feet (1.83m) long titanium assembly terminating with football-sized titanium weights. It swings at a satisfyingly slow 10-second period. The slight clicks of its escapement echo loudly in the silence of the mountain.

Behind the main chamber’s dials the stairs continue up to the outside summit of the mountain. The shaft above the Clock continues to the surface, where its opening to the daylight is capped with a cupola of sapphire glass. This is the only part of the clock visible from the mountain peak. In this outdoor cupola sits the thermal-difference device to power the timekeeping, and a solar synchronizer. Every sunny noon, a prism directs sunlight down the shaft, where the imperceptible variations in the length of the day as the earth wobbles on its axis are compensated so that the Clock can keep its noon on true solar noon. In that way the Clock is self-adjusting, and keeps good time over the centuries.

Building something to last 10,000 years requires both a large dose of optimism and a lot of knowledge. What do you build with that won’t corrode in 100 centuries? How do you keep it accurate when no one is around? The Clock’s technical solutions are often ingenious.

Almost any kind of artifact can last 10 millennia if stored and cared for properly. We have examples of 5,000-year-old wood staffs, papyrus, or leather sandals. On the other hand, even metal can corrode in a few years of rain. For longevity, environment is more important than material. The mountain top in Texas (and Nevada) is a high dry desert, and below, in the interior tunnel, the temperature is very even over seasons and by the day, another huge plus for longevity since freeze-thaw cycles are as corrosive as water. It’s an ideal world for a ceaseless Clock.

Still, the Clock is a machine with moving parts, and parts wear down and lubricants evaporate or corrode. The main worry of the Clockmakers is that elements of a 10K-year Clock — by definition — will move slowly. The millennial dial creeps so slowly it can be said to not move at all during your lifetime. Metals in contact with each other over those time scales can fuse – defeating the whole purpose of an ongoing timepiece. To counteract these tendencies some of the key moving parts of the Clock are non-metal — they are stone and hi-tech ceramics.

Ceramics will outlast most metals- we have found shards of clay pots 17,000 years old-and modern ceramics can be as hard as diamonds. All the bearings in the Clock will be engineered ceramic. Because these bearings are so hard, and rotate at very low speed, they require no lubrication – which normally attracts grit and will eventually cause wear. And so, a 10,000-year timepiece is born.

The 10-Millenia Clock

There is a huge Clock ringing deep inside a mountain. It is hundreds of feet tall, designed to tick for 10,000 years. Every once in a while the bells of this buried Clock play a melody on chimes programmed to not repeat themselves for 10,000 years. The Clock rings when a visitor has wound it, but the Clock can hoard energy from a different source and occasionally it will ring when no one is around to hear it. It’s anyone’s guess how many beautiful songs will never be heard over the Clock’s 10 millennial lifespan.

The Clock’s designer is Danny Hillis, a polymath inventor and computer engineer. He and Stewart Brand, a cultural pioneer and trained biologist, launched a non-profit foundation to build at least the first Clock. Fellow traveler and rock musician Brian Eno named the organization The Long Now Foundation to indicate the expanded sense of time the Clock provokes – not the short now of next quarter, next week, or the next five minutes, but the “long now” of centuries.

So how does the Clock keep going if no one visits it for months, or years, or perhaps decades? If there is no attention for long periods of time, the Clock uses the energy captured by changes in the temperature between day and night on the mountain top above to power its time-keeping apparatus. The differential power is transmitted to the interior of the Clock by long metal rods. As long as the sun shines and night comes, the Clock can keep time itself, without human help. But it can’t ring its chimes for long by itself, or show the time it knows, so it needs human visitors.

If the sun shines through the clouds more often than expected, and if the nights are colder than usual, the extra power generated by this difference will bleed over into the Clock weights. That means that over time, in ideal conditions, the sun will actually wind up the chimes, sufficiently for them to ring when no one is there.

The rotating dials, gears, spinning governor, and internal slips of pins and slots within the Clock will be visible only if you bring your own light. Shining your light around the rest of the chamber you’ll see the pendulum and escapement encased in a shield of quartz glass – to keep out dust, air movements, and critters. The pendulum, which governs the timing of the Clock, is a 6-feet (1.83m) long titanium assembly terminating with football-sized titanium weights. It swings at a satisfyingly slow 10-second period. The slight clicks of its escapement echo loudly in the silence of the mountain.

Behind the main chamber’s dials the stairs continue up to the outside summit of the mountain. The shaft above the Clock continues to the surface, where its opening to the daylight is capped with a cupola of sapphire glass. This is the only part of the clock visible from the mountain peak. In this outdoor cupola sits the thermal-difference device to power the timekeeping, and a solar synchronizer. Every sunny noon, a prism directs sunlight down the shaft, where the imperceptible variations in the length of the day as the earth wobbles on its axis are compensated so that the Clock can keep its noon on true solar noon. In that way the Clock is self-adjusting, and keeps good time over the centuries.

Building something to last 10,000 years requires both a large dose of optimism and a lot of knowledge. What do you build with that won’t corrode in 100 centuries? How do you keep it accurate when no one is around? The Clock’s technical solutions are often ingenious.

Almost any kind of artifact can last 10 millennia if stored and cared for properly. We have examples of 5,000-year-old wood staffs, papyrus, or leather sandals. On the other hand, even metal can corrode in a few years of rain. For longevity, environment is more important than material. The mountain top in Texas (and Nevada) is a high dry desert, and below, in the interior tunnel, the temperature is very even over seasons and by the day, another huge plus for longevity since freeze-thaw cycles are as corrosive as water. It’s an ideal world for a ceaseless Clock.

Still, the Clock is a machine with moving parts, and parts wear down and lubricants evaporate or corrode. The main worry of the Clockmakers is that elements of a 10K-year Clock — by definition — will move slowly. The millennial dial creeps so slowly it can be said to not move at all during your lifetime. Metals in contact with each other over those time scales can fuse – defeating the whole purpose of an ongoing timepiece. To counteract these tendencies some of the key moving parts of the Clock are non-metal — they are stone and hi-tech ceramics.

Ceramics will outlast most metals- we have found shards of clay pots 17,000 years old-and modern ceramics can be as hard as diamonds. All the bearings in the Clock will be engineered ceramic. Because these bearings are so hard, and rotate at very low speed, they require no lubrication – which normally attracts grit and will eventually cause wear. And so, a 10,000-year timepiece is born.

The 10-Millenia Clock

There is a huge Clock ringing deep inside a mountain. It is hundreds of feet tall, designed to tick for 10,000 years. Every once in a while the bells of this buried Clock play a melody on chimes programmed to not repeat themselves for 10,000 years. The Clock rings when a visitor has wound it, but the Clock can hoard energy from a different source and occasionally it will ring when no one is around to hear it. It’s anyone’s guess how many beautiful songs will never be heard over the Clock’s 10 millennial lifespan.

The Clock’s designer is Danny Hillis, a polymath inventor and computer engineer. He and Stewart Brand, a cultural pioneer and trained biologist, launched a non-profit foundation to build at least the first Clock. Fellow traveler and rock musician Brian Eno named the organization The Long Now Foundation to indicate the expanded sense of time the Clock provokes – not the short now of next quarter, next week, or the next five minutes, but the “long now” of centuries.

So how does the Clock keep going if no one visits it for months, or years, or perhaps decades? If there is no attention for long periods of time, the Clock uses the energy captured by changes in the temperature between day and night on the mountain top above to power its time-keeping apparatus. The differential power is transmitted to the interior of the Clock by long metal rods. As long as the sun shines and night comes, the Clock can keep time itself, without human help. But it can’t ring its chimes for long by itself, or show the time it knows, so it needs human visitors.

If the sun shines through the clouds more often than expected, and if the nights are colder than usual, the extra power generated by this difference will bleed over into the Clock weights. That means that over time, in ideal conditions, the sun will actually wind up the chimes, sufficiently for them to ring when no one is there.

The rotating dials, gears, spinning governor, and internal slips of pins and slots within the Clock will be visible only if you bring your own light. Shining your light around the rest of the chamber you’ll see the pendulum and escapement encased in a shield of quartz glass – to keep out dust, air movements, and critters. The pendulum, which governs the timing of the Clock, is a 6-feet (1.83m) long titanium assembly terminating with football-sized titanium weights. It swings at a satisfyingly slow 10-second period. The slight clicks of its escapement echo loudly in the silence of the mountain.

Behind the main chamber’s dials the stairs continue up to the outside summit of the mountain. The shaft above the Clock continues to the surface, where its opening to the daylight is capped with a cupola of sapphire glass. This is the only part of the clock visible from the mountain peak. In this outdoor cupola sits the thermal-difference device to power the timekeeping, and a solar synchronizer. Every sunny noon, a prism directs sunlight down the shaft, where the imperceptible variations in the length of the day as the earth wobbles on its axis are compensated so that the Clock can keep its noon on true solar noon. In that way the Clock is self-adjusting, and keeps good time over the centuries.

Building something to last 10,000 years requires both a large dose of optimism and a lot of knowledge. What do you build with that won’t corrode in 100 centuries? How do you keep it accurate when no one is around? The Clock’s technical solutions are often ingenious.

Almost any kind of artifact can last 10 millennia if stored and cared for properly. We have examples of 5,000-year-old wood staffs, papyrus, or leather sandals. On the other hand, even metal can corrode in a few years of rain. For longevity, environment is more important than material. The mountain top in Texas (and Nevada) is a high dry desert, and below, in the interior tunnel, the temperature is very even over seasons and by the day, another huge plus for longevity since freeze-thaw cycles are as corrosive as water. It’s an ideal world for a ceaseless Clock.

Still, the Clock is a machine with moving parts, and parts wear down and lubricants evaporate or corrode. The main worry of the Clockmakers is that elements of a 10K-year Clock — by definition — will move slowly. The millennial dial creeps so slowly it can be said to not move at all during your lifetime. Metals in contact with each other over those time scales can fuse – defeating the whole purpose of an ongoing timepiece. To counteract these tendencies some of the key moving parts of the Clock are non-metal — they are stone and hi-tech ceramics.

Ceramics will outlast most metals- we have found shards of clay pots 17,000 years old-and modern ceramics can be as hard as diamonds. All the bearings in the Clock will be engineered ceramic. Because these bearings are so hard, and rotate at very low speed, they require no lubrication – which normally attracts grit and will eventually cause wear. And so, a 10,000-year timepiece is born.