my dear friend,
you said Ero is always on your mind. May i inquire in what form it manifest? besides dancing, that i know, any other hidden forms?
i love this painting next to Baudelaire ' The Snake that dances'. Will you recite the poem to me in French? That is my eroticism of tonight.
i read this little book 'an erotic beyond Sade' by Octavio Paz. 'Eroticism and sexualities are independent kingdoms belonging to the same vital universe. Kingdoms without boders, or with hazy borders, always changing, in constant communication and interpenetration, never entirely fixed... society subjects sexual instinct to regulations, and thus confiscates and exploits its energy. Water and sexuality are nothing more than manifestations of natural energy that must be captured and used to advantage. Eroticism is a form of the social domination of instinct, and in this sense it can equip a technology'
''And in this sense it can equip a technology' What a revelation of what's beyond RMS! Eroticism equip the 'internet' is going to be OUR calling, my country badvogatoers.
But first, we must differentiate eroticism with sexuality. 'There is no essential difference between eroticism and sexuality: eroticism is socialized sexuality, subject to the necessities of the group, a vital force expropriated by society. Even in its destructive manifestations - orgies, human sacrifices, ritual mutilation, obligatory chastity - eroticism inserts itself in society and affirms its principles and goals. Its complexity - rituals, ceremonies - begins to have a social function; what distinguishes a sexual act from an erotic one is that, in the former, nature serves the species, while in the latter, human society is served by nature. One one side it presents a set of prohibitions - magical, moral, legal, economic, and more - intended to prevent the sexual tide from submerging the social edifice, leveling hierarchies and divisions, washing away society. Tolerance fulfills an analogous mission: a society of libertines is a safety valve. In this sense, eroticism keeps the group from falling into undifferentiated nature; it stands against the fascination of chaos, the return to a formless sexuality. On the other side, within certain limits, it encourages and excites sexual activity. The spur and reins of sexuality, its finality is double: to irrigate the social body without exposing it to the risks of flooding. Eroticism is a social function...
Eroticism makes us live the sexual act more profoundly, that is, it allows us to truly live it, not as a public rite but as an underground ceremony. Humans imitate the complexity of animal sexuality and copy its graceful, terrible, and ferocious gestures because they want to return to the state of nature. At the same time, this imitation is a game, a representation. A person sees his or her own self in sexuality. Eroticism is a reflection of the human gaze in the mirror of nature. Thus, what distinguishes eroticism from sexuality is not its complexity but rather its distance. A person is reflected in sexuality, bathes in it, becomes one, and separates. But sexuality never watches the erotic game; it illuminates without seeing; it is a blind light. the couple is alone, in the midst of the nature it imitates. The erotic act is a ceremony that is performed behind the back of society and in front of a nature that never contemplates representation. Eroticism is both a fusion with the animal world and a rupture, a separation from that world, an irremediable solitude. Catacomb, hotel room, chateau, fort, cabin in the mountains or an embrace under the cluds, it is all the same: eroticism is a world closed to society as well as to nature. The erotic act erases the world: nothing more real surrounds us except our ghosts.
... Distance creates erotic imagination. Eroticism is imaginary: it is a shot of imagination fired at the exterior world, and that shot is people themselves. Creation, invention: there is nothing more real than this body that I imagine; there is nothing less real than this body i touch that turns into a heap of salt or vanishes into a column of smoke. With that smoke my desire will invent another body. Eroticism is the experience of a full life that appears to us as a palpable whole and through which we enter a totality. At the same time, it is an empty life that looks at itself, that represents itself. It imitates, and invents itself; it invents, and imitates itself. A total experience that never realizes totality because its essence is something that is always beyond. Someone else's body is an obstacle or a bridge; either way, one must cross it. Desire, the erotic imagination, the erotic life, all cross through bodies and make them transparent. Or they destroy them. Beyond you, beyond me, through the body, in the body, beyond the body, we want to see something. That something is erotic fascination, that which takes me from myself and brins me to you: that which makes me go beyond you. We do not know precisely what it is, except that it is something more. More than history, more than sex, more than life, more than death. IT IS THE DIVINE PJ! Amen.
Darling, brother PJ,
Think how sweet 'twould be
To go live together there !
To love at our ease,
To live, love and die
In that land so like yourself !
the suns blurred by rain
In those cloudy skies
For my spirit have the charms
so mysterious
Of our traitress eyes,
Through their tears shining brightly.
There, all is order, beauty,
Luxury, pleasure and calm.
Gleaming chests and chairs,
Burnished by the years
Would decorate our chamber;
Rarest flowers in bloom
Blending their perfume
With the faint scent of amber,
Ceilings rich, deep-banked
Mirrors to reflect
Oriental pomp and splendor,
All things there would speak
To the secret soul
In their soft native language.
There, all is order, beauty,
Luxury, pleasure and calm.
See on yon canals,
Sleeping now, those ships
Whose mood is vagabounding.
'Tis to gratify
Your slightest desire
That they've come from distant climes.
-- Now the setting sun
Is clothing the fields
The canals, the town entire,
In jacinth and gold;
The world's being lulled
To sleep in a warming light.
There, all is order, beauty,
Luxury, pleasure and calm.
with a dictionary in hand'... damn, A FORTH DRAFT, can you believe that! i've come a long way from there to here by the grace of father raph's supreme playground as we know it
i love going postal with mrG. yet i must confess of not finding much profit in looking up words in dictionary. i do consult words in places such as what follows here:
EROICALL EPISTLESapho to Philaenis
Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said To have? is that inchanting force decai'd? Verse that drawes Natures workes, from Natures law, Thee, her best worke, to her worke cannot draw. Have my tears quench'd my old Poetique fire; Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire? Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee, But I, their maker, want their libertie. Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit, But that is waxe, and fires environ it. My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence; And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense. Dwells with me still mine irksome Memory, Which, both to keepe, and lose, grieves equally. That tells me'how faire thou art: Thou art so faire, As, gods, when gods to thee I doe compare. Are grac'd thereby; And to make blinde men see, What things gods are, I say they'are like to thee. For, if we justly call each silly man A litle world, What shall we call thee than? Thou art not soft, and cleare, and strait, and faire, As Down, as Stars, Cedars, and Lillies are, But thy right hand, cand cheek, and eye, only Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye. Such was my Phao awhile, but shall be never, As thou, wast, art, and, oh, maist be ever. Here lovers sweare in their Idolatrie, That I am such; but Griefe discolors me. And yet I grieve the lesse, least Griefe remove My beauty, and make me'unworthy of thy love. Plaies some soft boy with thee, oh there wants yet A mutuall feeling which should sweeten it. His chinne, a thorny hairy unevennesse Doth threaten, and some daily change possesse. Thy body is a naturally Paradise, In whose selfe, unmanur'd, all pleasure lies, Nor needs perfection; why shouldst thou than Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man? Men leave behinde them that which their sin showes, And are as theeves trac'd, whose rob when it snows. But of our dallyance no more signes there are, Then fishes leave in streames, or Birds in aire. And betweene us all sweetnesse may be had; All, all that Nature yields, or Art can adde. My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two, But so, as thine from one another doe; And, oh, no more; the likenesse being such, Why should they not alike in all parts touch? Hand to strange hand, lippe to lippe none denies; Why should they brest to brest, or thighs to thighs? Likenesse begets such strange selfe for this. Me, in my glasse, I call thee; But, alas, When I would kisse, tears dimme mine eyes, and glasse O cure this loving madnesse, and restore Me to mee; thee, my halfe, my all, my more. So may thy cheekes red outweare scarlet dye, And their white, whitenesse of the Galaxy, So may they mighty, amazing beauty move Envy'in all women, and in all men, love, And so be change, and sicknesse, farre from thee, As thou by comming neere, keep'st them from me.
Are you sure advogato is the right place for this sort of thing?
Until our Father designate an Eden for my arse alone, it is ABSOLUTEMENT a divine decree that i share my excessive Eros right here and NOW! Pardon me for my French.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Scientists at the University of Rome, according to the New York Times, may have finally detected dark matter, the stuff t hat roughly eighty percent of the universe may be made of
Like certain superheroes, particles of dark matter pass through other matter unimpeded. But anti-gravity, scientists explain, "still cannot be expectedto reverse the course of a falling apple, or drive an inflating wedge of nothingness between lovers." Which may be why the hero works best alone.
Pals and sidekicks can be helpful, but women are too curious, too quick to believe the men they're with must be, at heart, different men.
Of course they're right. And the hero is in trouble if he doesn't keep his other self a secret. He wants to be in love, to offer
all the confidences a lover should. But he has to save the world, again and again. Thus it seems true that a wedge of nothingness
divides the man and the woman, but also that the falling of an apple is irreversible. The hero must expect evil
to continue. He cannot afford to be surprised by strangeness. Or ever expect a life in which he could only be himself.
It's too grand for the worst that happens to most ofus. We suffer heartaches, die in disasters. Think of the truck out of control on the thruway, or the bridge about to collapse. Think of the terrorist planting his bomb.Not one of us is spared such imaginings. Touching down, the plane explodes. A few survive; hundreds are scattered across a cornfield. Then disaster sounds insufficient, even cruel.
Then it seems right to forget the old definitions: how tragedy required stature and knowledge, how it depended on a hidden weakness, an inevitable fall, how it made death look noble and necessary.
In a sudden rage a man kills his wife. Then he drives back to his house. There's no getting away from this, he thinks. He hadn't tried to hide anything. The police will show up soon. He has a gun, so he tells himself he should do it now, outside on the lawn. Or he could get back in the car, drive around for a while. It's hard to decide. His dog is out there, certain something is wrong. No, he's not going to shoot the dog. His heart's already broken, knowing he's killed his wife whom he still believes he loved, knowing now he's man who could do that kind of thing. The dog comes over to him. He thinks the dog wants to help and it breaks his heart again to feel he'd been kinder to his dog than to his wife, or at least kind enough to deserve this trust, this affection. Love? he thinks. Would that be going too far? He walks inside, sits down, puts the gun in his mouth. But the dog scratching at the door, keeps on scratching until he gets up, lets her in, half-aware he's made a choice. How can he kill himself in front of his dog? He strokes her head. Good girl, he says, and then other things no one says to a dog. If only she would go to another room. But she won't leave, and no matter what he tells her, she refuses to be comforted.
There was a young man from Dundee,
Who got stung on the knee by a wasp,
A man asked if it hurt,
He said, "No, not a bit,
It can do it again if it likes."
(c) Graham Tatnell, year unknown.
Or...
There was a Bohemian monk,
Who went to sleep on his bunk,
He dreamt that Venus,
Was stroking his ...
And woke up all covered ...
Can't think how to finish those two lines. Yeargh, I'm *so* working class. Merry Christmas folks, and take care!!!
i find the original French verse of Charles Baudelaire's 'Le Serpent qui dance' . But aren't those English translations different from PJ's of brother badvogato's verse?
one in Heaven and one touch down the Earth. both from the same source. be content what you have or what reveals to you is the most important aspect of life.
EMI Studio Janet Baker's voice is the best rendition for Berlioz 'Les Nuits d'ete, La Mort de Cleopat, Les Troyens: Mort de Didon'.
You took me, still bedewed, with silvery tears from being watered, and among the glittering festivities you carried me with you all the evening.
O you, cause of my death, you will not be able to banish me, the roseate spectre coming to dance each night by your pillow; but do not be afraid, I demand no mass or De Profundis. this delicate perfume is my soul, and I come from paradise.
My destiny was enviable, and for such a beautiful fate many would have given their lives; for my tomb is on your breast, and on the alabaster where I lie a poet, with a kiss wrote: "Here lies a rose which every king will envy."
A tune of morbid sweetness both charming and deathly, which hurts you and which you would wish to hear forever; a tune which may be sighed in heaven by a lovesick angel.
You would think that the awakened soul was weeping beneath the earth together with the song. was cooing in gentle complaint at being forgotten.
On the wings of music you feel a memory coming back slowly. A shadow, an angelic form, passes in a shimmering beam, veiled in white. The night-flowers, half open, exude their delicate, sweet perfume around you, and the ghost with its languid gestures murmurs, reaching out to you: You will return!
On! Never again will I go near the tomb, when the evening is spreading its black cloak, to listen to the pale dove at the top of the yew sing its plaintive song.
once i did kiss her wetly on the mouth and her lips loosened, her tongue rising like a fish to swim in my waters because she learns the world by tasting it, by taking it inside.I desire it -- her learning my tongue that way.
Yes, I wanted to soul-kiss my daughter. to lather, slaver the toothless gums and the cat-arched back of her palate, to sniff the bonquet of babay's breath all the way to the vase of her throat
Look at her, in her highchair wearing her yam goatee
I like to take her whole foot in my mouth
Look at her, in her bib slung backward, like a superhero's cape -- beware, small villains everywhere
Oh, that first day when the nurses returned her to my cot so newly minted, her soles were black from ink they laid her, naked, on my naked chest so she could swell my breasts with milksong, so I could warm her skin with my skin, and so, next to my more regular heart, her skittish beat would steady -- though I swear when she latched on all meter, music changed.
I whispered in her see-through ear I'd keep her safe forever -- I, her first lover.
There's a peculiar mechanism in writers' minds. They don't really want to accept that the things that they find meaningful and build into their works are going to become outdated, arcane and finally obscure. -- Professor Robert L. Oakman, creator of medialink, a computer program for attaching multimedia material to a printed text.
Time change, and we forget. A writer puts his hero in a Packard. Kids today can't see it. So you hit a key and there's the car, then the building he'd have parked in front of, then the bar in that building where the next scene taks place.So many meaningful things get lost. Isn't it natural to resist? Here in New Hampshire, thinking about what to write, I'm only certain I can't make fun of Professor Oakman, who's obviously trying to help And I'm wondering
if Lance at Valley Automotive will have my Honda fixed by four. The brakes just feel a little loose, I told him. And there's some sort of puffing sound when you press the pedal. I could see Lance was used to this kind of imprecision. I'll take a look at the calipers, he said.
Great writers find their annotators, serious readers turn to the notes. The rest of us make the necessary leap: he drives his black Packard from her house to the bar on Central Avenue. He's thinking she's the kind of blonde who's so languid and shadowy she speaks out of nowhere. You can't lay a finger on her, he tells himself. You shouldn't even try.
82 Dr. Yang ( first Chinese American received Nobel Prize in Physics) is now engaged to 28 Mrs china lady on Nov. 15, 2004 in Beijing China. The wedding is planned sometime in Jan., 2005, according to wenxuecity.com
Fair night, faint light, Smooth breath by my side. Rapt gaze upon you, No fatigue, but felicity.Sweet night, soft light, No regret, but delight. I can evade all, But the hearts entwined.
Pure fondness, true love Had as a gift, or is earned?
Deep into the night, Labyrinth turns into heaven, And fantasy into reality, Eternity of loyalty.
I touch your forelock, Gentle breath over my hand, Silence more intense.
Sweet night Soft light Smooth breathing by my side, Fair night faint light Tranguility after surging tide.sincerely wish that BG is wiser than 28, not just wider...Dreams deep pleasures keep Gently I touch your forelock, Love deep smiles keep Lingering scent of soulful delight.
Do you believe that once sparked, love will last till the end of time? I DO. That's why I AM getting quite envy of Dr. Yang's newly found love.
Sweet angel, truthfully you are God's benevolent last gift To give my old soul A joyous rejuvenating lift.
Known then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, A Being darkly wise, and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast; In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little, or too much: Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd: The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul; Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. Man, but for that, no action could attend, And, but for this, were active to no end: Fix'd like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, Destroying others, by himself destroy'd.
Most strength the moving principle requires; Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. Sedate and quiet and comparing lies, Form'd but to check, delib'rate, and advise. Self-love still stronger, as its objects nigh; Reason's at distance, and in prospect lie: That sees immediate good by present sense; Reason, the future and the consequence. Thicker than arguments, temptations throng, At best more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend Reason still use, to reason still attend. Attention, habit and experience gains; Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains.
Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. But where th'extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed: Ask where's the north? at York, 'tis on the Tweed; In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there, At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where. No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; Ev'n those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own; What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right.
Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. 'What differ more,' you cry, 'than crown and cowl?' I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunella. From Essay on Man
cheers, Anna Benson , we take your threat for real! trust.ye is my trademark
my dear friend,thanks for coming and knocked on my door. thanks for telling me the tale about beauty quarks and anti-beauty quarks and the long winding beauty of their asymmetry alas we have no time to catch in detail
but the good news is finding Higgs Boson at CERN in Geneva by your prediction before 2008 shall make the standard theory and quarks family complete
until then, shall we keep knocking our heads over incompleteness of our separate life over 'The Door'?
And here's 'The Door'
It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild flowers in a wood.
what I understood, I understand. My mind is sometime torment, sometims good and filled with livelihood, and feels the ground.
but I see the door, and knew the wall, and wanted the wood, and would get there if I could with my feet and hands and mind.
Lady, do not banish me for digression. My nature is a quagmire of unresolved confessions. Lady, I follow.
I walked away from myself, I left the room, I found the garden, I knew the woman in it, together we lay donw.
Dead night remembers. In December we change, not multiplied but dispersed, sneaked out of childhood, the ritual of dismemberment.
Mighty magic is a mother, in her there is another issue of fixture, repeated form, the race renewal, the charge of the command.
The garden echoes across the room. It is fixed in the wall like a mirror that faces a window behind you and reflects the shadows.
May I go now? Am I allowed to bow myself down in the ridiculous posture of renewal, of the insistence of which I am the virtue?
Nothing of You is untoward Inside You would also be tall, more tall, more beautiful. Come toward me from the wall, I want to be with You.
So I screamed to You, who hears as the wind, and changes multiply, invaraibly changes in the mind.
Running to the door, I ran down as a clock runs down. Walked backwards, stumbled, sat down hard on the floor near the wall.
Where were You. How absurd, how vicious. There is nothing to do but get up. My knees were iron, I rusted in worship, of You.
For that one sings, onewrites the spring poem, one goes on walking. The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her.
The door in the wall leads to the garden where in the sunlight sit the Graces in long victorian dresses, of which my grandmother had spoken.
History sings in their faces, she will be the door in the wall to the garden in sunlight. I will go on talking forever.
I will never get there. Oh, Lady remember me who in Your service grows older not wiser, no more than before.
How can I die alone. Where will I be then who am now alone, what groans so pathetically in this room where I am alone?
I will go to the garden. I will be a romantic. I will sell myself in hell, in heaven also I will be.
In my mind I see the door, I see the sunlight before me across the floor beckon to me, as the Lady's skirt moves small beyond it.
wanted to try her a pure and innocent beauty or not, i made up this riddle: guess what is my thing With your presence, it always hardens itself when it really shouldn't
She pretends to be angry with me and scolding me for being an obnoxious libel i am rather disappointed that she wouldn't know the answer to the riddle is my heart. And here's the original Chinese verse
Please. We have a low enough S/N ratio here as it is. Just take a look at the project list and try to weed out the dead projects.
C'mon, there must be a poetry Wiki out there somewhere you can pollute with this kaka.
mon cherie, i'm dying of heartaches and a fever under your scarlet cover when i die my future shall greet the past and this body of my existence shall dwell in the eternity of that encircling time frame.but before i die, grant me my last breath to tell you about my name, the literalness of my chinese name.
when i am alive, you must not call me by my name, i am simply your lover, your brother, your father yourself and your otherness.
but after i die, if you call me by my name i WILL come to you like nobody has come to you before me.
mon cherie remember me by my proper name after i die. And after you die we shall become one just like before you were born.
you, black holy hole you know thoughts count but give it a finger is far better... according to steven hawking's 'latest confession' blackhole is not THE END but a superstring of all fscking and wandering to be started, only if some godhead dare to give it a finger
[OH, DEARIE ME, DON'T YOU DARE!]
oh dearie me, but don't you know it feels good with finger tips the only available substitution of wild angelic intervention to scratch the urge of getting to know Ye and thus discover there is no end of wanting and desiring to enter the other forever searching the divine G-spring and to plunge ONE's whole being into ONE rapture and ONE moment of a whole new world
[current music...]
* come back, miss moffo, we love you (edward field) I don't blame you for only singing in Europe the way the Times' critic slam you every time you sing here. Far better over there where they love you for your mature voice, the deep-breasted tones of woman, who never minded baring her tits and ass -- in fact, who did it proudly.Queen of Operetta, if not Grand Opera anymore, you are still to most sopranos what the vaginal orgasm is to the clitoral. Whether others sound as if they are having their clits tickled as they thrill through tricky arias, your voice burbles up thrillingly from deep inside your vagina, moist, rich, and odorous.
Your childhood near Scranton couldn't have been much fun, as the dark little hairy girl in the class with overdeveloped breasts for her age and the curse of an operatic voice. How well I know. In my town I was the puny dark boy who carried to school a cello big as me. I can see you standing up in the assembly to sing "Ciribiribin," while the tough kids jacked off in the back row, grinning.
Where I grew up, Italians were only slighly less despised than Jews. But to be anything ethnic was humiliating. And the kids would have crucified you, as they did anyone who wasn't the standard product, especially girls with big boobs. They had to be sluts.
When you sing those full-breasted tones with such deep vaginal richness, it's hard to believe you came from a town like mine, but by a miracle escaped to be transformed gloriously into yourself.
ANNA MOFFO, WE LOVE YOU!
[COME BACK LUCIFER, I ADORE YOU]
* getting to know Ye Like a hard-on the asshole is another level of being. It's me, but a me even I must negotiate with, especially when washing after shitting, as civilized life demands. for it does not allow the soapy finger in, presenting an impenetrable surface.do not be misled. It is offering the coy resistance it would to a lover. Therefore, with a lover's singlemindedness, remain stalwart in seeking entrance, probe for a crevice until the fingertip, with a delicate wiggle, pries open the curl of muscle and slips in,
and miraculously, you will find that the whole organ relents, goes soft for the soaping, with a sappy grin.
{ and how these correspondences get started in the first place?...}
----- Forwarded message from a Godhead -----
Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2005 11:15:58 +0000 Subject: Re: Scientists watch matter fall into black hole [The Register]
stephen hawking had to apologise recently because he believed that black holes were "the end".
he realised recently that in fact they have a memory.
the collapsing of matter into a black hole simply means that the energy of the particles going into it have the same x,y and z coordinates.
in fact, what i believe is that the number of dimensions is infinite, that most of them are loops of near-infinitely small size, and that if energy goes in or near them, they can be "expanded" on demand to accommodate it.
so the energy of a black hole goes in, and starts expanding out an infinite number of dimensions, and the energy ripples up the dimension tree and is stored in a different format...
... as "rings" on a dimensional ladder: energy becomes "encoded" in a linear fashion.
... now _where_ have we heard _that_ before... mmm... something to do with DNA, perhaps?
DNA is also a length of encodings...
... so a black hole becomes the location where DNA for an entire universe is stored!!!!
... and _that_ means that it's also possible for the energy to "collapse" back out again, in sequence.
due to the way the energy went in, it stores the "phase" of the energy waves going in it, and we know that harmonics recombine to produce spikes etc. at different times.
so now you know how a universe can be created.
due to the way the energy went in, it stores the "phase" of the energy waves going in it, and we know that harmonics recombine to produce spikes etc. at different times.
so now you know how a universe can be created.
due to the way the energy went in, it stores the "phase" of the energy waves going in it, and we know that harmonics recombine to produce spikes etc. at different times.
so now you know how a universe can be created.
now, also, with a little leap of imagination, do you know how thoughts can also have an effect on the world.
> > Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2005 11:48:19 -1000 (HST) > Subject: Re: Scientists watch matter fall into black hole [The Register] > > I think it means that the matter falling is heated up to very high > temperatures and emits x-rays before falling in and passing the > Schwarzschild radius. After that point, it is all black. > > > > I saw this on The Register and thought of you. but what does it > > mean? 'scientists watch matter fall into black hole'? And what is > > really 'watching' , btw. > > > > Scientists watch matter fall into black hole > > > > Like flushing a cosmic toilet > > > > By Lucy Sherriff > > > > Monday 10th January 2005 19:10 GMT > > > > An international team of astronomers has made direct observations of > > clumps of gas, orbiting a black hole at ten per cent of the speed of > > light. This is the first time scientists have been able to see > > individual X-ray- emitting lumps of matter go all the way round a > > black hole. ... > > > > Keep yourself fully informed by signing up to receive The Register's > > daily or weekly newsletters http://go.theregister.com/k/newslettermf > > > > To read the rest of this story, find the original at > > http://www.theregister.co.uk/2005/01/10/seen_black_hole_matter/.
(c) yuka@bluejetsfly Dec 21 2004 <Weather>:Beautiful->Cloudy/windy cold <Place></a>: On a road near my room</a> <Feeling>:Weird i need the warm hug without asking anything now. it's all i need now...David R.Munson :
Sharp gravel cuts my feet dully Seems I lost my shoes a while ago Where does this road lead, anyway? To what end does it take me?A discarded flower with a broken stem A torn manuscript, wet with rain They pass there, at the edge of my vision Somewhere over in that gutter
Just out of reach of the streetlamp now I walk this stretch on faith That the asphalt will not disappear beneath me To let me plummet through nothing
In the light again, there's a new sound A second set of feet, cold as mine Soft scratching across the ground An occasional stumble
But those feet are part of another Who has chosen to join me here Though where this path leads us now Neither of us seem to know
Still we follow it, if blindly With each step forward, the path resolves A little further, a little more clearly And we push it further still
We hurt and bleed as we walk this path Though we grow stronger, too The night will end eventually Morning will see me and you
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