“Hoy, Johnny, wotcher got inna box?”
“Hit’s a particle, Jessie.”
“Ooo, lovely for you. Umm… wot’s a particle then?”
“Me Pap says hit’s sommat you calc’late about wiffout knowin’ wot ’tis.”
Pap’s right. Newton was a particle guy all the way (he was a strong supporter of the idea that light is composed of particles). One of his most important insights was that he could simplify gravitational calculations if he replaced an object with an equally massive “particle” located at the object’s center of mass. Could be a planet, or a moon, or that apple — he could treat each of them as a “particle.” That worked fine for his purposes, because the distances between his object centers were vastly larger than the object sizes.
It took Roche to work out what happens when the distances get small. Gravitational forces break the original “particles” into littler particles. And when two of the little ones approach closely enough they break up, and then those break up… You get the idea. Take the process far enough and you get Saturn’s Rings, for instance.
But the analysis can keep going. Consider one “particle” in Saturn’s A-ring. It’s probably about 3″ across, made of ice, and contains something like 1024 particles that happen to be molecules of H2O. Each molecule contains 3 nuclei (2 protons and one oxygen nucleus) and 10 electrons, all 13 of which merit “particle” status if you’re calculating molecules. They’re all held together by a blizzard of photons carrying the electromagnetic forces between them. The oxygen nucleus contains 16 nuclear particles, each of which contains 3 quarks. The quark structures would fly apart except for a host of gluons that pass back and forth transmitting the nuclear strong force. Hooboy, do we got particles.
“Particle” is a slippery word. For Newton’s purposes, if an object is small relative to its distance from other objects, that was all he needed to know to treat it as a particle.
One dictionary specifies “a small localized object which has identifiable physical or chemical properties such as volume or mass.” However, there are theoretical grounds to believe that the classic “particle of light,” the photon, has neither mass nor volume. Physicists have had long arguments trying to devise a good working definition. Nobelist (1999) Gerard ‘t Hooft ended one such discussion by saying, “A particle is fundamental when it’s useful to think of it as fundamental.”
It may seem a little strange for a physicist to argue for imprecision. In fact, ‘t Hooft was arguing for a broad, even poetic but still precise understanding of the word.
Poets use metaphor to help us understand the world. Part of their art is to pack as much meaning as they can into the minimum number of words. In the same way, scientists use mathematics to pack observed relationships into a simile called an equation — a brief bit of math may connect and illuminate many disparate phenomena.
Think of physics as metaphor, with numbers.
Newton’s Law of Gravity works for for galaxies roving through a cluster and for basketball-sized satellites orbiting Earth and for stars circling a black hole (if they don’t get too close). Maxwell’s Equations, just 30 symbols including parentheses and equal signs, give the speed of light and describe the operation of electric motors. The particle physicists’ Standard Model makes predictions that match experimental results to more than a dozen decimal places.
Good equations are so successful that Nobelist (1963) Eugene Wigner wrote an influential paper entitled The Unreasonable Effectiveness of Mathematics in the Natural Sciences.
We sometimes get into trouble by confusing metaphor with reality. Poetic metaphors can be carried too far — Hamlet’s lungs were not in fact filling with water from his “sea of troubles.”
Mathematical models can also be carried too far. Popular (and practitioner) discussion of quantum mechanics is rife with over-extended metaphors. QM calculations yield only statistical results — an average position, say, plus or minus so much. It’s an average, but of what? The “many worlds” hypothesis is an unnecessarily long jump. There are simpler, less extravagant ways to account for statistical uncertainty. 
~~ Rich Olcott
Their common experimental strategy sounds simple enough — compare two beams of light that had traveled along different paths
Of all the wave varieties we’re familiar with, gravitational waves are most similar to (NOT identical with!!) sound waves. A sound wave consists of cycles of compression and expansion like you see in this graphic. Those dots could be particles in a gas (classic “sound waves”) or in a liquid (sonar) or neighboring atoms in a solid (a xylophone or marimba).
Einstein noticed that implication of his Theory of General Relativity and in 1916 predicted that the path of starlight would be bent when it passed close to a heavy object like the Sun. The graphic shows a wave front passing through a static gravitational structure. Two points on the front each progress at one graph-paper increment per step. But the increments don’t match so the front as a whole changes direction. Sure enough, three years after Einstein’s prediction, Eddington observed just that effect while watching a total solar eclipse in the South Atlantic.
We’re being dynamic here, so the simulation has to include the fact that changes in the mass configuration aren’t felt everywhere instantaneously. Einstein showed that space transmits gravitational waves at the speed of light, so I used a scaled “speed of light” in the calculation. You can see how each of the new features expands outward at a steady rate.
The second question is harder. The best the aLIGO team could do was point to a “banana-shaped region” (their words, not mine) that covers about 1% of the sky. The team marshaled a world-wide collaboration of observatories to scan that area (a huge search field by astronomical standards), looking for electromagnetic activities concurrent with the event they’d seen. Nobody saw any. That was part of the evidence that this collision involved two black holes. (If one or both of the objects had been something other than a black hole, the collision would have given off all kinds of photons.)
In contrast, a LIGO facility is (roughly speaking) omni-directional. When a LIGO installation senses a gravitational pulse, it could be coming down from the visible sky or up through the Earth from the other hemisphere — one signal doesn’t carry the “which way?” information. The diagram above shows that situation. (The “chevron” is an image of the LIGO in Hanford WA.) Models based on the signal from that pair of 4-km arms can narrow the source field to a “banana-shaped region,” but there’s still that 180o ambiguity.
The great “if only” is that the VIRGO installation in Italy was not recording data when the Hanford WA and Livingston LA saw that September signal. With three recordings to reconcile, the aLIGO+VIRGO combination would have had enough information to slice that banana and localize the event precisely.
Nonetheless, mathematicians and cryptographers have forged ahead, calculating π to more than a trillion digits. Here for your enjoyment are the 99 digits that come after digit million….
Back to π. The Greeks knew that the circumference of a circle (c) divided by its diameter (d) is π. Furthermore they knew that a circle’s area divided by the square of its radius (r) is also π. Euclid was too smart to try calculating the area of the visible sky in his astronomical work. He had two reasons — he didn’t know the radius of the horizon, and he didn’t know the height of the sky. Later geometers worked out the area of such a spherical cap. I was pleased to learn that π is the ratio of the cap’s area to the square of its chord, s2=r2+h2.
Astrophysicists and cosmologists look at much bigger figures, ones so large that curvature has to be figured in. There are three possibilities
We can investigate things that take longer than an instrument’s characteristic time by making repeated measurements, but we can’t use the instrument to resolve successive events that happen more quickly than that. We also can’t resolve events that take place much closer together than the instrument’s characteristic length.
A wave happens in a system when a driving force and a restoring force take turns overshooting an equilibrium point AND the away-from-equilibrium-ness gets communicated around the system. The system could be a bunch of springs tied together in a squeaky old bedframe, or labor and capital in an economic system, or the network of water molecules forming the ocean surface, or the fibers in the fabric of space (whatever those turn out to be).
An isolated black hole is surrounded by an intense gravitational field and a corresponding compression of spacetime. A pair of black holes orbiting each other sends out an alternating series of tensions, first high, then extremely high, then high…
Almost a century later, James Clerk Maxwell (the bearded fellow at left) wrote down his electromagnetism equations that explain how light works. Half a century later, Einstein did the same for gravity.
Gravitodynamics is completely unlike electrodynamics. Gravity’s transverse “force” doesn’t act to move a whole mass up and down like Maxwell’s picture at left. Instead, as shown by Einstein’s picture, gravitational waves stretch and compress while leaving the center of mass in place. I put “force” in quotes because what’s being stretched and compressed is space itself. See 
Hard Science Ain't Hard 
