Another Light At The End Of The Test Tube

PORTLAND, Ore. — U.S. Navy researchers claimed to have experimentally confirmed cold fusion in a presentation at the American Chemical Society's annual meeting.

"We have compelling evidence that fusion reactions are occurring" at room temperature, said Pamela Mosier-Boss, a scientist with the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Center (San Diego). The results are "the first scientific report of highly energetic neutrons from low-energy nuclear reactions," she added.

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Reminds Me Of Someone

"For more than a year McCoy had kept the secret of the still. Only a Scot could have done it, one gifted with all the caution and canny reserve of his race. Little by little he had exhausted the principal supplies of ti, and for many months now he had been able to obtain no more than enough to operate his still twice or, rarely, three times each week. A small stock of bottles, accumulated one by one, were hidden where he concealed the still when not in use; by stinting himself resolutely, he managed to keep a few quarts of his liquor set aside to age. In this manner, which had required for some time a truly heroic abstinence, McCoy was enabled to enjoy daily a seaman’s ration of half a pint of grog.

"His temperament was an unusual one, even among alcoholics. When deprived of spirits, he became gloomy, morose, and irritable, but a glass or two of rum was sufficient to make him the most genial of men. Mary had been astonished and delighted at the change in him. He conversed with her for an hour or more each evening, laughing and joking in the manner the Polynesians love. He romped with the two-year-old Sarah and took delight in holding on his knees the baby, Dan. With his grog ration assured, there was no better father and husband on the island than McCoy."



-Pitcairns's Island,
Part Three of The Bounty Trilogy,
Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall

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The overwhelming pain is less than I can bear.

The smallest fears threaten only my larger parts.

I’m too late to care if the appointment was missed.

She’ll never love who I am not.

The future creaks like a well-oiled doorway in a horror movie.

Tonight I will load my pistol and unload it.

The thoughtless harsh words I spoke to him never left my mouth.

My regrets of a lifetime have yet to be defined by my death.

Blindness seeks me, but I save vision insurance.

Murderers find me well prepared to defend.

Cataclysmic tremors of the earth belie not my adaptive foundation.

I will not, not.

I am what I am not, when resting in hell.

Salvation is a daily medicine
for what follows life as what traces the sound of a bell.

Noble Fear

Nub Of The Mountain

Writing so much seems a choice:

Advice or Confession.

Outside Inside

Outside Inside

The cat cries and I
Leave the room.

Tonight is all.
As ever any moment we see,
Is all there ever Is.

Again, as always,
I hate to sound fatalistic.
But for the mere fact,
I am mortal.

Pain is Beauty.

It is an unfortunate factor
(and probably some mathematical integer,
widely used in the metaphysical disciplines of the future);
That we conscious,
Find the simplest path to a Beauty Focus
Only when surviving the Pain of the moment.

Perhaps it is a burden of too much seeing,
Too much scope.

This burden denies us true panoramic vision
As it seeks to prevent our minds from madness.

To see all is to not have an eye.

Most of our moment of memories must
Rely upon individual givens.

The eye is truly I.

So darkness begets light begets darkness,
In a Camphoric code of unintelligible morse,
As we blink the days by.

There is no plateau.

We exist as simple beings,
Blind to our eyes,
To our inherent complexity.

Rate Of Change

Increasing, are border principles of faith and forgiveness.
Time, in relative degrees, dictates
Actions of speed and speed of action.
Can we speak in clear terms?

We are in a period of retraction,
The teardown before reconstruction.
This is the sound when paradigms die.
It is a moment where we see for seemingly the first time
The height of Bullyshyt gripping our knees.

Turn off the Telecasted mono-mind Vision.

Who are you;
What are you prepared to do
If the system that sustains civilization
Hiccups, slows, or stops?

How do you fight the emerging combination
Of Industry and Government?
(i.e., the base definition of Fascism)

I can’t resist letting the poetry slide into diatribe.
The measure of our hours is growing ever more critical.

Estimate your truth, now.

Aside, this damned mixing of the right brain, left brain!
It’s as if half of our heads was invaded
In the deep past by some parasite seeking symbiosis.
It lives in your head as:
I have a gun, I have a flower;
I see a flower, I see a gun;
I am a gun, I am a flower.

No body is building anything any more.
Only money is being created.

It affects prices.
But not in the neighbor/neighbor barter situation.

God speaks to us in whispers between
The top of the hour and the first minute.

Poetry of life; Prose of life.
Meter your reality to the taste
Of beauty and continuance.
And to the stripes, the layers acknowledged
Betwixt personal definitions between.

Dude I need to see the rest of the movie!

Life in youtube-esque clips.

Rate of truth.
Measure of you.

Keep your debt free,
Your heart clean,
And your powder dry.

Orwell on Kipling:
“He sees clearly that men can only be highly civilized while other men, inevitably less civilized, are there to guard and feed them.”

I am fearing the overly civilized men, the elite.
I fear that their abuse of civilization shall affect my hours,
Shall affect my view of men, as they become a mass,
Shall affect how less civilized I may have to become to protect
What remains of our better nature.

The details are in the devil
And I adhere to the principle,
I am not the devil.

Fear is responsibility.
Locality is becoming the first Rule.

Civil War?
Is this 1862?
Where is Lincoln?
Do we need to be these united states?
Do we begin to question the reach and claim
Of the District of Columbia?

What sense in Paine?

Last Friday Of February

Broken kindling for the year
With grease in hand
We stare at darken gear
With momentarily fixed findings
We spot the planet’s motion
And tomorrow begins today

The life we dream locked behind lids of eyes
Lids of Yes closed in crowd dynamic functions
Dreamy motions and light crossing intersections
Of conscious evolution created, rejected, yet surviving

And we try to plan
And we try to forecast the early light of dawn
On this new, delicate and different day

And so no And

Nothingness is becoming recognized sight
The Invisible left invisible
Unlucky retrograde blinding those in fright
In fear

You see
Without pass
Others will lie where I lay

New Names through the twenty-first century
New weight and meaning to satisfy reality

Goodnight Nurse, Hello?

Serious Answers For Serious Times

Looks Like A Game Of Pick-Up-Sticks

R.I.P., You Superman

>Ricardo Montalban, the Mexican-born actor who became a star in splashy MGM musicals and later as the wish-fulfilling Mr. Roarke in TV's "Fantasy Island," died Wednesday morning at his home, a city councilman said. He was 88.

(also a small role in StarTrek II)

...the silver screen just got less teh awesome...

Roll

A Breath Of Fresh Air