A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.


Venus Fetus Earth Birth

The history of space travel is encapsulated 
in our voyage from Venus to Earth

astride our cosmic planetary steed
after our Sun had spat out its seeds

from the intersection of a nuclear furnace 
and the absolute nexus of a black hole  

we came to step out, searching for who brought us here.
We look all about, seeing nothing but land and blue sky.

All of our heads filled with the need to explain why. 


Darker Than Charcoal

Scientists working with the European Space Agency's Rosetta mission have found that Comet 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko is darker than charcoal. It is compared to Earth and the moon in this image released on Jan. 22, 2015. 

(Image: © ESA/Rosetta/MPS for OSIRIS Team MPS/UPD/LAM/IAA/RSSD/INTA/ UPM/DASP/IDA and Gordan Ugarkovich (Ear
th); Robert Vanderbei, Princeton University (Moon); ESA/Rosetta/NAVCAM (67P/C-G))

Mr. Churyumov-Gerasimenko's skin tone is darker than charcoal. A stealth diver swimming towards us through the inky darkness of space.  He's long been accustomed to his precise orbital trajectory about our Sun. He's been making the rounds ever since his promethean race of Phaetonites launched the First Exodus Campaign that led to our ancestor's migration to Mars. The moon was involved in that cosmic spectacle as well, only it was placed deliberately about Earth's orbit, back then. They called it the Guardener, in the sense that it tended the field of our planet's atmosphere as well as stood as solitary sentinel about our otherwise vulnerable world. It could be said today that Mr. Churyumov-Gerasimenko has a date with an old counterpart, the moon.  Exactly how that all manages to go down remains to be seen. That is the stuff of prophecy. Pieces of the game set in motion long ago are getting ready to become assembled as players. The tantric holography of the endless system weaves about itself into nesting cages of hearts. The second law of thermodynamics becomes the mobius link which drives this eternal engine. Stay tuned for more details as they come in the form of compressed digital missives sent by the BloodHost in the form of the "nanohorde," having arrived embedded within neutrinos as messages received beginning ten years ago, via a far-away black hole [cosmic postal service], and still ongoing today during intermittent intervals.    

Mr. Churyumov-Gerasimenko

image courtesy of ESA/Rosetta/NAVCAM. It is not a Promethean hunchback glancing at the camera.

My favorite comet, the Jupiter-family member Churyumov-Gerasimenko (67P) from the Kuiper belt, can be seen revealed here in this greyscale photograph as yet another altogether grotesque parody of the original series of uncanny pareidolia examples which have led me on a veritable roller coaster of viewpoints and angles showcasing the comet as a promethean bust and now their imprints have fossilized into the phosphenes of my squeezed shut eyes until I cannot escape their haunting evocation any longer, don't tell me that isn't an old hunch-backed mummified humanoid with its head turned slightly to the left toward the camera lens. Nevermind the two white pixels representing the burning cores drilling from the pinpoint pupils of its eyes. Forget about the cheekbone and nose and mouth, the hunched over head, all the rudimentary nodules weathered off the sectioned torso, just forget that you ever even thought about imagining such a thing. This pareidolia phenomenon is nothing to look at. It's not the mummified carcass of an ancient progenitor. Get out of here. We've got philosophizing to do. Why is this comet so damn freakish.  

Why do I keep thinking about Ceres and all the fresh water on it--far more than all the water on our planet's oceans combined. Couldn't Ceres be the largest remaining chunk of the legendary planet Phaeton? Could the yawning chasm of the asteroid belt hold the answers to our species' long buried origins? Has a faction of humanity in the far future actually sent back nanocomputers in time shrunken down to fit inside neutrinos and beamed them back through the center of a black hole to the year 2009 where a hospital transporter working in radiology got the nanoswarm embedded in him and that's how he was programmed to put out the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction on blogger, because the BloodHost downloaded the executable file in him at the behest of the human crew on Ceres/Mars/Ganymede (or whatever the case may be)?  Ever since I received the messages I've also been directed to images of the Churyumov-Gerasimenko comet, and coincidentally enough, it does belong to the Jupiter family of TNOs, from what I've been led to understand. In another recent missive, I found suggestions that a colony of human astronauts may have survived in (our future) one or more various nodal points throughout this solar system; Mars, Ceres, and Ganymede being the likeliest among them.  I've been led to suspect that the group who sent the freezine missive may be one of these stranded colonies. The interceding bits of the directive get stitched together in time. Eventually the meaning will get carried across and get through to us all. In the meantime we can only wait in thrall.  We've got our eyes on you, Mr. Churyumov-Gerasimenko. In the coiled poise of an adder's head (a sigil for cell division) the human fetus lies within a series of nesting doll's wombs blossoming in the stellar nexus. Just another death's head moth chrysalis preserved for the transmutation of dragon like extremophiles. 

No, this final perspective of Churyumov-Gerasimenko does not resemble an iconic curled up petrified human foetus, so get that thought out of your head right this minute. It has nothing to do with what this comet of the Outer Dark that comes from Jupiter's family of Trans-Neptunian-Objects was sent to accomplish, of course not, the uncanny resemblances to various hominid postures and evolutionary stages are completely happenstance, there's nothing to see here or think about folks, just scroll on to the next blog; nothing's on its way.   


quantum transmon

A transmon is a custom-designed electrical circuit devised to control quantum phenomena in scientific experiments.  (To enter the quantum world, one must be necessarily chilled to within one-thousandth of a degree above absolute zero.)  These are the tiniest details here at the bottom of experience, on the smaller end of the spectrum.  At 37 degrees Celsius, how much closer to absolute zero are we than to the mean temperature of the Sun?

The center of the sun is 15,000,000° Celsius. 
That's 27 million degrees if you're in America.
The surface of the sun is 5,600° Celsius.  
That's ten thousand degrees over here. 
We are 37° Celsius.  That's about ninety-nine degrees in the USA.  
Absolute zero is -275.15° Celsius.  We're talking almost six hundred degrees below zero, here. 

We are by several thousands of orders of magnitude that much closer to absolute zero than we are anywhere near the temperatures of the sun.  Not much of a difference in the weather in other words (by contrast to the scorching fires of hell). We are veritably simmering out here on a just thawed out surface; a-broil along the scintillating edge of time's razor sharp blade.

Absolute zero by definition means a cessation of the movement of atoms. A total reality freeze. You mean to tell me that we exist just three hundred and twelve degrees Celsius above absolute zero?   That's a difference of 594 degrees Fahrenheit. (As opposed to the 15 million degrees Celsius at the center of the Sun.)

Say the mean temperature of Hell is fifteen million degrees Celsius.  Does that make the temperature of heaven two-hundred-and-seventy-five degrees below zero? (Of course not. It only goes to show how figuring goes. If we cared to, it could be proven the temperature of paradise lies somewhere in between; say, about thirty-seven degrees Celsius (from what I've seen).

So the claim goes that what lies after in our imagined paradise could be necessarily very different than our conditional environment we're accustomed to here in the flesh, and that's understandable, all things considered. But for the sake of an argument that stands to be gained here and now, I'm fine with an even thirty seven degrees Celsius in Eden.  The more I think about it, the more oppressively hot it seems, to me.  Six hundred degrees above absolute zero....

This contention proves we're in a sort of living hell already.


The Geniture Mill

by Shaun Lawton

Millions of nascency factories scatter

throughout our universe

we call them stars

Their huge nests resemble

gigantic spinning hives

from whose center

seeds are spat out

These germs take root

at random distances

from the astral womb nexus

Stellar machines

deliver their planets

one cosmic jewel at a time

It took a boundless period

for all eight stones to be borne

to their respective orbits

in our radiant quadrant

At varying distances

temperatures and conditions

generate distinct aspects

The tetrad of inner planets

reflect the New Testament

in the living gospel of our star

The four gas giants remain

testament to their ancient

flaring halos


Spellbound Current

Start the river of time wide open flowing in immemorial grandeur 
Turn to the rivulets of blood compressed within mankind's veins 
Fueling its central transformers into galvanic turbines set to receive
Arterial emanations streaming in sequence from quasars to hearts

A complicated recycling undergoes a perpetual Möbius circuit 
Tracing exchanged laws of thermodynamics from nascent dissolution
Toward delivery of oblivion spun from infinitesimality to dominance
Through the spectrum of the most extreme to the imperceptible    

Challenges of the vital material connecting the nexus of the whole
To the consummate webbing of the labyrinth of entanglement 
Coursing between wavering oscillation and the staggering flux
Of the alternating polarities inherent to the voltaic firmament 

Simultaneously completing the integrated culmination and division
Of the proliferating fractional multitude of creation constituting
The establishment of a regenerative foundation of fatal breath
Siring vitality's annihilation laid down to rest above and below 

The stationary orbit of constant motion that surrounds the external
Manifestation of petrified incandescence in a transubstantiation 
Of cardinal plasma siphoned from zero into the singular totality
Sustaining the deliverance of our manifestation of ordered chaos



photo by the author Seaside OR November 2017

The principle of inversion strung through its correlative conclusion argues both for and against the truth because what's real for one may not apply to another despite all views to the contrary. Another way of stating all things may be seen should the lens through which they must be observed necessarily be corrected or cleaned. I'm haunted by the idea. I'm persecuted by the thought, while I'm still alive, that our ordinary viewpoint of how we actually rest, in motion, upon a planet spinning about our Sun—a solitary star in our own galaxy already teeming with untold stars beyond counting—may fall short of the reality by a significant margin, denoting our chances of survival. But I won't let it stop me from dreaming. 

That we are here, now remains all that we possess together during this turbulent time on Earth. Zoomed in and focused upon, our material universe knit together at the cellular level and stretched out into membranes which form the skin of the masks we wear on our journeys through the cold interstellar darkness remains outspread before us even as we hurl, tumbling in our waking and sleep, head over shoulders in sync racing along the same old spinning road as before.

There's no escaping this carousel, it's the only ride in town. It will lead you directly to Heaven or Hell, you best believe it, princess or clown. This I heard whispered in the left ear. An imp, apparently, leaving discreet suggestions. Either that or a manifestation of a base desire, dealt with externally. Only, looking about, it's not there. Just the insistent whispering in the ear, when passing by a window halfway open to the wind. An acoustic pareidolia of whispering sands. The cadence of a voice trying to make itself heard.

The merger with clairsentience appears on a scale of musical notes which either ascend or descend by orders of octaves describing this sonic passage known as the music of the spheres. A continuum referencing the form our manifestations must react upon here on this plane of physical existence we all find ourselves on. (This repetition. The first echo describing the ghost.)

The undying syllable repeated on the lips of those who live to pass on the story. The articulate heartbeat which keeps it alive: a ululation whose strident echoes eventually decay into the general electromagnetic signature. The reason both good and evil are only words made up by humans remains that all life appears harmonized on a scale of vibrating frequencies whose slope goes further up or farther down the spectrum, rendering those ideas as being merely of a higher or lower frequency to corresponding staves, and therefore of an entirely relative nature.

The Song of Light that is ourselves will continue its aria cascading against the alternating cacophany of the universe. The writing on the wall remains as a photoacoustic impression to dazzle and taunt us with its bioluminescense. When we reverse our expectation of our true places in the cosmos, we realize that the farthest distance from here becomes defined by the very parameters against our faces. When we begin to see ourselves as individual organisms expressed along a particular spacetime vector of this universe, each and every one of us ascribed to our own actual pin-point in time, then we may truly see each other as the only so-called "extraterrestrials" within reach worth giving a good god damn about, lost out here among the stars together.

When preceding to explore the unfathomable with inquiries, remember to first examine the questions themselves to likely find them wanting. What may we agree upon to be the definition of alien, for instance?  That which operates on a different level and whose nature we may know nothing about? Analogous to this lies the question, how may we agree upon the all-encompassing definition of here?

We must recall what the process of alienation itself consists of, when examining our own nature. Once again this brings us to the moment of ourselves, and of looking in. Isn't that the very question? What does it mean to look in and what does it mean to look out? Looking without seeing. Knowing without reading. Seeing without knowing. Believing what we're seeing. Seeing what we believe.

One could just as easily point out that staring at the stars themselves describes the act of looking in and that examining cellular activity beneath our own skin through a microscope more accurately shows us the farthest ends of our universe in the very act of continuing to develop, in line with looking out from our perspective, in other words. Where we dwell upon an Outer Membrane, so to speak. Or rather, where we resonate throughout a section of the unfolding astral harmonies triggered by the age old lifelong interpenetrating cascade of spiraling galaxies.

To consider ourselves as infinitesimal parts of such a staggering scope may truly overwhelm us, which helps explain the merciful act of failing to comprehend it all. Meanwhile the manifestation of this unfettered, radiant symphonic creature continues to unwind amid the stars its long distance harmonic cry, a doppler song that should we take caution to hear on a dark and lonely night, we might hope to have our memory of what we heeded there erased, lest its howling haunt our occasional dreams, knowing we stand upon the fore decks of this creational ship.

By definition, anything we imagine cannot be classified as unreal, rendering the impossible to be a fleeting and prefatory condition. Only by interpersonal contact with each other may we reach the available population of the stars. All of the alien remains here together with us on this complicated planet from outer space.  One reason for this:  the unknown Other remains the only place which could render the alien moot. So-called "outer space" happens to not be how it appears to us.

We all feel its supercharged microvibration at the sub planck level. Copies of ourselves could be shredding into the past through black holes bleeding neutrinos fired back in time, re-undergoing the exact process once again, always the first time in a complete circuit loop of concordant stasis rendered as a reflection of a perfect capture of our distinctiveness: the living, holographic universe thrums with intricacy. And then again each and every one of those individual duplicates could still easily be every one of us continuing on our spiraling construct in this endless hallway of mirrors, every carbon drone thinking they're the only ones facing existence alone. Every carbon copy clone being the only ones in existence to be known.



BORNE AGAIN [Notes Toward Being]

Around what new bends of the human experience could we plot a new story? 

What's the difference between an old story and a new one?

What if 5 different versions were told, of 5 different ways the same (old/new) story turned out?

What if 1 story were told--that of the 1 way all stories end up?

(This hints at the question of perspective. From what or whose perspective is the story being told? And for whom or what?)

If the fantastical story has reflected our present (or slipping away into historic) reality (as classic science fiction, for example, has functioned) would it be possible (or even desirable) to tell a story that does not? My answer is yes, because of our inherent fascination with (not to mention fear of) the unknown.

In order to write a story which effectively reveals the truly unknown it would take rendering one's imagination in a form previously unthought of. 

In order to even begin venturing beyond our established borderlines of the known, it would have to be determined what the elements of the known primarily consist of.

We're familiar with these tropes thanks to the enduring work and studies of the likes of Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell, and the great philosophers, poets, scientists, and writers of our time. 

To begin with, time itself must be subjected to the scrutiny which reveals its nature in relation to space and their intersection with ourselves. 

The computational power of the human brain may be seen as an ultimate reflection of the cosmos itself, just as the sophisticated complexity of a single leaf may remain comparable to that of humankind's most advanced technology. 

Are dreams and death the only things which may unlock our bond to this current paradigm of ours? Imagination appears to be another possibility. It not only invites us to, but dares us to think up something new. Something which lies just around the bend. In a direction that was never foreseen.

Because that's exactly how impending reality arrives and manifests. 

Perhaps strange new stories that should never happen need to be written in order to try to see to it that they don't ever come to fruition. 

Stories help us navigate our way together into the unknown. By reiterating the familiar old stories, we help triangulate our location and position during this voyage. By invoking uncanny new tales, we help decide which way to point and steer our exploratory ship forward, and which ways to avoid. 

Story telling appears to remain a necessary key by which we may unlock and attain our destiny. Come with me and I'll take you to a place where the most wonderful science fiction thriller tales are available online to read for free, simply follow the hyperlinked image below to the Freezine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and nevermind the suspended artwork: that will eventually make a slow comeback. Read away. They're only words after all.