It's been a while since I've been able to observe the comet - put that down to cloudy skies, work schedules, and I'm afraid on one night a total inability to withstand the cold.
I thought it would be a rather more difficult object to find, having seen reports on twitter that it was now fading, but it was easily observable in my 10x50s despite the presence of a waxing crescent moon not too far away. It has now moved away from the Pleiades in a North Western path, and is now in the vicinity of Aries and Triangulum.
In fact the two stars that for the base of the narrow Triangulum triangle are almost pointing to it.
It has faded somewhat, but is still an easy object in binoculars and looks rather similar to the Andromeda galaxy at the moment. The condensation of the nucleus seems less apparent, but the teardrop shape is still present, although I can't get any hints of a tail. The magnitude is probably around 4.5 or so now, having dropped from the peak of 3.7-3.9 it seemed to reach at perigee.
If you wish to observe it, it is now an early evening object, culminating due south at 6-7pm.
Good luck spotting it!
Si
Showing posts with label The Sky at Night. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Sky at Night. Show all posts
Saturday, 24 January 2015
Friday, 1 February 2013
The Virgin and the Scorpion
Further signs that winter is not going to last forever! Before christmas, the sight of Arcturus rising over the rooftops gave me some sort of hope that eventually sping would come and my numb, agonised, bicycle riding purple hands wouldn't have to suffer forever.
Since then, there's barely been a star to be seen as white stuff fell out of the sky, and grey clouds blanketed us in misery. But the last few days, there's been a few clear night skies to be seen, and in the mornings, as I rolled my bicycle out to work, the winter skies have given over to summer ones, even if the temperatures still firmly belong to January.
In the South West, the huge constellation of Virgo takes over not far off a quarter of the sky, it's galaxy filled libation bowl star pattern seeming to await and offering from Leo the Lion. Saturn shines creamily, a little further from Spica than it was in December, when Venus was adding to the show too.
Something to say about Spica. I don't know whether my eyes are going funny, but whereas once Vega was the only star that appeared to have a definitely blue colour, Spica now also seems to have a distincy blue cast to it, although not as beautifully intense as the steely glow of Vega. Come springtime, if you're not an early morning cyclist like me, take a look at a more civil hour than 6am!
Meanwhile, athwart the very south of the sky, sits Scorpius. It's claws are grabbing the sky away towards London, a malevolent celestial threat to the capital, and it's heart, bloody red Antares, beats its evil on the vault. It's a pity you can't see the whole beast from the UK, for it rivals Orion as the most spectacular constellation in the sky. Hopefully I will see the whole thing again soon.
Since then, there's barely been a star to be seen as white stuff fell out of the sky, and grey clouds blanketed us in misery. But the last few days, there's been a few clear night skies to be seen, and in the mornings, as I rolled my bicycle out to work, the winter skies have given over to summer ones, even if the temperatures still firmly belong to January.
In the South West, the huge constellation of Virgo takes over not far off a quarter of the sky, it's galaxy filled libation bowl star pattern seeming to await and offering from Leo the Lion. Saturn shines creamily, a little further from Spica than it was in December, when Venus was adding to the show too.
Something to say about Spica. I don't know whether my eyes are going funny, but whereas once Vega was the only star that appeared to have a definitely blue colour, Spica now also seems to have a distincy blue cast to it, although not as beautifully intense as the steely glow of Vega. Come springtime, if you're not an early morning cyclist like me, take a look at a more civil hour than 6am!
Meanwhile, athwart the very south of the sky, sits Scorpius. It's claws are grabbing the sky away towards London, a malevolent celestial threat to the capital, and it's heart, bloody red Antares, beats its evil on the vault. It's a pity you can't see the whole beast from the UK, for it rivals Orion as the most spectacular constellation in the sky. Hopefully I will see the whole thing again soon.
Sunday, 25 November 2012
The Creeping Terror of Mars...
It's not there to be seen at the moment, it's crimson brilliance hidden
away until it next approaches opposition in a year or so's time. Jupiter
entertains all night, Venus glitters in the frozen mornings and soon
Saturn will be shaking off his duvet just before the dawn.
But not planet Mars, not for now.
And in some ways, this suits me fine.
To see Mars, late at night, in silence, on your own, is to be reminded of the tentacled terrors that we know DON'T, but REALLY DO, wait for their chance to cross the gulf of space between us and devour our living blood. I go inside after observing Mars, and every hanging coat, every shadow, every shadow cast by a streetlight, becomes an animate creature of terrifying, horrifying, scareifying Martian origin waiting to put a clawed finger on your shoulder the moment your eyes close.
You wake in Sleep Paralysis, and just beyond your frozen visual periphary, an upright bipedal grey martian prepares his probes and samplers for journeys into unmentionable parts. They control the horizontal, they control the vertical. They control the speed with which they open up your stomach and eat your intestines while you watch.
Observing with a telescope at 2am, as I have done, is worse. The green flash of launching cylinders is an imagined nightmare only a heartbeat away, the collapse of civilization under piles of mouldering, mutating red weed.
I shiver with fear every time I look at it. I bet many of you do too, as you stand alone surrounded my menacing whispering trees. But we all come back for more to see the God of War gaze contemptuously down at us, seeding our mind with fears...
But not planet Mars, not for now.
And in some ways, this suits me fine.
To see Mars, late at night, in silence, on your own, is to be reminded of the tentacled terrors that we know DON'T, but REALLY DO, wait for their chance to cross the gulf of space between us and devour our living blood. I go inside after observing Mars, and every hanging coat, every shadow, every shadow cast by a streetlight, becomes an animate creature of terrifying, horrifying, scareifying Martian origin waiting to put a clawed finger on your shoulder the moment your eyes close.
You wake in Sleep Paralysis, and just beyond your frozen visual periphary, an upright bipedal grey martian prepares his probes and samplers for journeys into unmentionable parts. They control the horizontal, they control the vertical. They control the speed with which they open up your stomach and eat your intestines while you watch.
Observing with a telescope at 2am, as I have done, is worse. The green flash of launching cylinders is an imagined nightmare only a heartbeat away, the collapse of civilization under piles of mouldering, mutating red weed.
I shiver with fear every time I look at it. I bet many of you do too, as you stand alone surrounded my menacing whispering trees. But we all come back for more to see the God of War gaze contemptuously down at us, seeding our mind with fears...
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