The Leo’s are back. That’s right, the Electric Universe held its 2017 conference, once again under the blazing Phoenix sun. Last year’s 120ºF temperature, fortunately, didn’t return. Temperatures remained in the balmy sub-110ºF range. Nevertheless, one person succumbed to dehydration. It was me, of all people – Desert Rat Leo.
In case you did not read last year’s After Dark, everyone is named Leo because I can’t remember names. That part of my brain has never worked very well. It also protects me from slander. Not that I have anything bad to say about anyone, but some people might not want to be revealed in this unauthorized review.
Since I don’t have a long history with EU, I can’t judge whether this was the best of the conferences yet to be held, but almost every long-time attendee said that it was. Certainly the quality of information and diversity of thought was exceptional. There were a few presenters who could bone-up on their presentation skills, myself included, but rebel science doesn’t need to be fancy since no one but Leo’s are listening – so far.
One consistent vibe I felt from everyone, is that it’s about to change because consensus science has pretty much run out it’s rope. String theory is all but dead, being a system that doesn’t provide a theory of everything, as promised, but a malleable mathematics that can “prove” pigs fly with lipstick, if needed.
Quantum mechanics is also at a dead end, with it’s proponents admitting they need to go back to the drawing board and rethink the whole thing. Not that it doesn’t work to describe electrodynamic processes, but because it’s producing such a clown zoo of particles it has no end in sight. They’re splashing paint on a wall and finding the blotch that fits theory, but then need to explain all the other weird blotches in a never ending game.
I think the real problem is they can’t award enough Nobel Prizes to keep all the geniuses happy. And they still can’t find quantum gravity, which makes the whole thing a sham. They never explained gravity in the first place – quantum or otherwise.
General Relativity has been unable to produce any new insight into the cosmos in the last fifty years. Of course it never did, and consensus science is still unable to predict anything verifiably real. The oft quoted NASA press conference opener continues to be, “We didn’t find what we expected”.
All the black holes, dark matter, universal expansion, time dilation, particle-wave duality and cosmic inflation they patch into their Big Bang theory to make it work are still unicorns hiding in the dark. They are things the scientists had to borrow from science fiction writers, because science fiction writers have something the consensus theorists don’t – creative minds.
Add to that the mountains of evidence being uncovered that point to electricity – in the cosmos, in the Solar system, in our climate and weather, and in the very cells of our bodies. Even our consciousness. Where we’re taking a stab at Geology, electricity is so overwhelmingly evident, Room-mate Leo said, “This is almost too easy.”
If I can sum-up the feeling of the EU conference, it’s one of optimism. People around the world are waking up to the fact that consensus theoretical science is on a road to nowhere. It’s just another political body hiding behind phony altruism, producing nothing of value to mankind, and just wants our money to keep-up the fraud.
People are becoming aware they are being led by-the-nose by elitists who couldn’t find a booger in their own nose if they tried. And it’s not because there aren’t boogers in their noses. Elitist noses are so sticky they can barely breath anymore, and we can see the snot running down their upper lips.
Well, that’s my crude take on the state of things anyway.
An EU conference is a strange and fascinating collection of folks. First there are the principals. The scholars, scientists and researchers who had the good sense to listen to Immanuel Velikovsky and carry on his work, establishing a new view on science that can only be described as, electrifying.
The theme of this year’s conference was a tribute to Velikovsky. That is appropriate, given the theories he brought us. His polymath intellect and courageous insights seem superhuman to me, given the incredible wall of dogma he faced. But Velikovsky was already a made man when he wrote “Worlds in Collision”. He didn’t really need anyone’s approval.
I’m just as impressed with our principals. Dave, Wal, and the other big-time Leo’s who have the guileless courage to seek truth in Velikovsky’s theories, when they knew from the start they would be treated badly. They didn’t do it for fame, or fortune, or even to carve a lucrative click-bait niche in the world of popular woo-woo, like so many do.
They simply sought truth, following classic physics and human history to logical conclusions, and let the cards fall as they may. They are the most sober, intellectually honest, smart and truly altruistic scholars in the world today.
Then there are the people who follow their work. People who know truth from bullshit and hang on every new development in the EU world.
I met the Engineer Leo’s, brothers who attended the same University I did, who I wanted to talk with, but never got the chance because I had too much pain in my face. More about that later. One was a Civil Leo and one a Nuclear Leo. Ancient Aliens and Flat-Earthers don’t attract intellect like that.
My own brothers were there. Moral support for me perhaps, but even more real interest in Velikovsky and EU theory. I felt their support nevertheless.
There were the Rock Hound Leo’s who brought lots of strange rocks. There was a father and son team, both with the same name – Leo Sr. and Leo Jr., of course. They brought me rocks, which now sit on the desk in front of me. I can’t thank them enough. Everyone needs a rock on their desk, especially one polished and engraved with their name.
Another Rock Hound Leo asked if I’d read a certain book. When I admitted I hadn’t, he bought it for me. And then there was Buddy Leo, who brought charms with Lichtenberg figures burned into them. I wear one around my neck.
More than these gifts, however, was the spirit and goodwill of the Leo’s who just want knowledge, and see EU as the source. When they say, “I get it, it’s beautiful, and now life is brighter”, I feel an amazing joy to see the light of understanding spark in their eyes.
There was Rain-dance Leo, who caught me in the hallway and sweetly asked, “Do you think Native rain dances might actually bring rain?” I said they probably did once, because I believe there is a connection with physics and will. Unfortunately, the voltage of our being is less than it was, and that power of will seems to be slipping away.
As Room-mate Leo and I took a break at the bar, an excited Old-time Leo came at us to talk. He was dragging a fellow with him who seemed reluctant. I’ll call him, Rain-man Leo, but not in anyway to disparage him. It was apparent he was perhaps a savant who had something to say. Being somewhere out on that limb of the spectrum – not in intelligence, but inability to relate – I recognized his painful shyness.
His hands shook uncontrollably as Old-time Leo insisted he share what he’d discovered. It had to do with neutrinos and quarks and sounded extremely important to the nature of matter, but otherwise it was over my head. Room-mate Leo took his name and number, then promptly lost it after the conference. I hope Rain-man is reading and contacts us.
Atomic Leo, Dot.com Leo, Room-mate Leo and I held a breakout session to introduce the new EUGeology.Rocks website. All of the Rock Hound Leo’s attended and gave us a big thumbs-up on this new development. This website will host data, pictures, articles, and especially, it will feature Atomic Leo’s atom model for learning and research. We even floated the idea of a Podcast feature. The EU world is expanding everyday.
As always, the conference depended on Mama Leo and Aunt Leo and a host of volunteers. The job they did was marvelous and everyone owes them a hug. They exemplify what I think every EU attendee does. An open mind and open heart. Wisdom can’t grow without both.
That characteristic was punctuated dramatically late on the second evening when I took a walk to the parking lot with like minded Leo’s to get some air and a smoke. You might think air and smoke is counter-productive, but you would be surprised. I get the best ideas when I do that. However, this time it was counter-productive, because I hadn’t slept in twenty four hours, or consumed enough water. At the bar I kept asking for it, but the late night under-staffed hotel couldn’t be bothered. There were people paying for drinks, after all, so why give out free water.
When I returned to the bar, my normally ironclad resistance to the heat failed me and I fainted. I have a vague memory of a table rising up to tap me on the head. It was kind of funny, until I woke up and realized my face was connected to the floor. Friends I’d met only minutes before dragged me to the room and doctored me. Mother Teresa Leo, Tattooed Leo and Buddy Leo were there, and of course Room-mate Leo, who I’d performed similar medical services for at the last conference. They all showed extreme concern and caring, doctoring my busted head, giving me Advil, and keeping me awake most of the night to make sure I wasn’t brain damaged. I was, of course, but I fooled them.
As a result I missed Velikovsky day. Senior Leo stopped by the room, and after getting over the shock of seeing blood everywhere, gave me colloidal silver to heal my black eye. Mother Teresa Leo gave me a homeopathic medicine, too. I made a drastic improvement almost overnight, so I was able to go on with the show Sunday.
My eye was still swollen shut and blood seeped from a split eyelid, but a pair of sunglasses covered it. I couldn’t read my notes, however, so I winged the presentation and probably said things I never meant to. I won’t know until I review the tapes – I don’t remember much. I was experiencing a strange high. There was almost no pain and I felt I was floating a foot off the ground. It was interesting, but I don’t recommend falling on your face to find out.
Curious minds and open hearts. That’s the EU experience, and I’ve never experienced anything like it outside of close family and friends before. Maybe the voltage is rising.
The conference ended with the Solar eclipse. There is something poetic in that. Seeing Dave Talbott with a crowd of people sharing a piece of welding glass to view it, hugging and laughing, while others packed their cars to go home.
Room-mate Leo and I decided to join Sacramento Leo and Psycho Leo for an impromptu trip to Grand Canyon. We couldn’t let the fun end without a Geology tour.
Film-star Leo joined, as well as a few others who met us at points along the way. It wasn’t an organized venture and there were only a few of us, so we said goodbye and drove off, leaving a pungent trail of smoke behind as we climbed the Mogollon Rim.
Psycho Leo suggested we detour through Sedona on the way to Flagstaff. Because he’s a psychologist he didn’t need to map anything out, but simply psyched us where he wanted to go. He led us to the most amazing place to see. It was the west fork of Oak Creek, where we hiked a mile, or so into the canyon.
I’d never been there, but I can’t wait to go back. My camera told me the SD card was full before I could take a single picture. I always have some problem with cameras when I need them most.
This canyon displayed the clearest example of a surface conductive arc that I’ve ever seen. It’s walls held the imprint of the giant dragon that cut it, the stream bed overhung by the imprint of a twenty foot diameter coil. The coil twisted evenly right and left on only one side of the stream, making it impossible to have been cut by water. It ended at the mouth of the canyon with the image of the arc’s flame-out, cut into solid rock. Its right there, plain as day, like the inside of a jello mold.
Above it, the canyon receded away in shelves of layered sediments that displayed the potential gradient just like the layers of plasma corona that surround a high voltage electrode. Pardon my language, but it was fucking amazing. I look for this kind of evidence all the time, and I’ve never seen anything like it. My SD card is empty now, so I’ll return at first chance and film it.
We spent the next couple of days exploring, hiking and generally talking about what we saw, but nothing quite compares to that canyon. Einstein Leo – because of his hair, Quebec Leo and quiet, pretty Iranian Leo met the reprobate Leo’s at Grand Canyon, Pueblo cliff dwellings and a volcanic cinder cone. Psycho Leo and Film-star Leo made videos. Being more professional than I, they had cameras that worked, so there should be some YouTubes to give you a taste of our journey.
Here is to open minds, open hearts, and a rising potential. I’ll see you next year.
[Note to the reader… Sorry for the long hiatus. Family matters took me away on a long trip, and then I had to prepare for my presentation at the upcoming Electric Universe Conference. I’ll excuse it as research, because the long road trip allowed me to see things that not only confirmed some hypothesis, they also brought new things to light. Preparing for the conference helped focus ideas. The benefit will come out in later chapters.]
Chapter Eight – When I was Young
My Father liked cars that had a sense of style. The chicken ranch he built, and dairy route he owned, never produced income for lots of shiny, new things, so he bought salvageable luxury models.
The first I remember was a mid-fifties Cadillac Coupe DeVille. White, with blue vinyl interior, small fins and titty-bumpers. It carried an air of panache and comfort that newer models didn’t have, and a chrome superman on the hood that I couldn’t keep my grimy young hands from touching. A classic car hoarder would pay dearly for it at auction today.
The air conditioning blasted from variable azimuth, round louvered vents, precisely fitted to the little shelf behind the rear seats. I used to climb onto that shelf and lay, letting the louvered vent blow up my shorts. It felt good after skittering out of the intense heat of a summer day.
Only for a minute though, because the fucker blew ice. It was the coldest air conditioning ever made. The nylon seats wouldn’t hold heat for anything, so long trips became a battle against exposure in my Mother’s lap, snuggled into her sweater. Dad kept the air cranked full – always. Mom wore a sweater in the car on 110 degree days.
Later, he bought a baby blue ’61 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors. The seats were beautifully woven, silky fabric, bordered in blue leather. I longed to touch that delicate fabric, but never got the chance. It was covered with clear, diamond patterned, plastic sheeting, which remained until it was towed away, peeling and curling after decades of intense UV bombardment.
Sunday drives were the ultimate relaxation for Mom and Dad. After Mom took us to church, Dad would be waiting – he had no use for church except funerals and weddings. A long Sunday drive was a time for them to get away from the constant toil of caring for kids and chickens; washing, grading and crating eggs, cooking meals and pulling weeds. Invariably, because of where we lived, those drives brought us to the mountains.
I’ve always been fascinated by mountain shapes. There is a harmony in them that pushes through the jaggedness. Something that draws my attention and never let’s go. Those post-church, Sunday drives bent my mind to their cactus studded slopes and sharp cliffs. Something ghostly seemed to resonate there, the peaks and hoodoos conveyed a presence, like tombstones in a cemetery of bare, windy slopes. I’d lay my head against the window and fly in my mind across the landscape, the car’s vibration embedding the scene in my brain.
We were never poor by any means. We had those classy, slightly used cars and the biggest home on the block, but what we had was a result of my parent’s backbreaking work more than profitable business. I didn’t notice, except for the rare cuss words at the end of the month when Dad paid bills, cranking the handle on the old Burroughs adding machine. It seemed we lived a perfectly fine life. It wasn’t until I made friends from other neighborhoods at school that I realized how low we stood on the economic scale.
I can still remember Sunday dinners that began with Mom and Grandma cutting the heads off chickens and hanging them by their feet on the clothes line to bleed. The smell of scalded chicken feathers is forever en-trained in my brain.
Looking back, I know I was extremely privileged. I wish children today could experience such adventure and fun growing up. There is no way an anodized video game world compares. Besides, in today’s world, social workers would intervene.
We spent our days riding go-carts powered with lawn mower engines, or playing hide and seek among manure, rusty nails and frayed wiring in the chicken house. There were miles of deserts to explore just down our unpaved street, where we caught lizards in loops of string, shot pellet guns and raced minibikes.
Swords and blow guns came from pieces of cut bamboo, shields from the lids of old chicken feed bins. Forts were constructed from milk crates and discarded plywood, and battles were waged with dirt clods and dried chicken manure.
It was a treat to go to the library. There, my brother learned how to make gunpowder. Back then, one could buy sulfur and salt-peter at the drug store, and mixed with pulverized charcoal bricks, we made enough incendiary material to fry every anthill on the property.
It’s not that Mom and Dad didn’t care about our safety and well being. Dad kept our ears and nose clean with his handkerchief, Mom kept us fed and dressed in T-shirts and jeans that hung, fashionably, an inch above the ankle. Every time we’d play in the old junk pile of two-by-fours and rusty tin behind the chicken house, Mom warned us to watch for Black Widow spiders and snakes.
There were a few minor injuries, like the rusted ten-penny nail that stabbed through my foot and kept me out of school for two weeks, or the slingshot I nearly put my brothers eye out with, but all-in-all, we came through a wild youth mostly unscathed. What was special was, we had to exercise our imaginations. Except for the water rockets, balsa wood airplanes, and squirt guns we bought with weed-pulling money at the five-and-dime, most of our fun required some ingenuity.
When it was too hot to go outside, there were books. The American Standard Encyclopaedia answered any question, with type charts for mammals, fish and reptiles and pages of transparent overlays that showed the assembly of the human body. The Book of Knowledge had classic black and white photos of sphinxes, Buddhas, pyramids and people in far away places who wore giant ornaments that deformed their dark, naked skin. The one and only constant subscription we ever had was to National Geographic. Fascinating stuff to explore under the cool blast of the coolers when the Sun was so hot it blistered our skin.
Dad fueled a deep curiosity in me when he pondered questions like: what happened to the Maya, the Olmec and the Anasazi. He was fascinated by these enigmatic societies who vanished from their vast empires leaving pyramid cities and creepy cliff dwellings. He knew there was more mystery to our past than we were being led to believe.
Sunday school taught me of impossible events my burgeoning rationality couldn’t quite accept. Societies of good and evil, cataclysmic floods, pillars of fire and prophecies ascribed to dreams and voices from heaven. I couldn’t understand why the Bible told stories of things that can’t actually happen, but they captured my imagination.
Life in a raw environment forced a kind of situational awareness that I don’t see in kids today. Forced to look up from their smart phones, they exhibit a dull wasteland behind the eyes. They imagine they know what space-time is, but how could they? Science has yet to figure it out.
The virtual reality of video, the witless humor and vapid, phony portrayals on TV, the idiotic pursuit of celebrity endorsed tennis shoes; the self important culture we live in is so far removed from a life actually lived, I have trouble relating.
So I’ve returned to the property where I grew-up. I live in the tiny house my Grandmother lived, in the trailer park Dad built where the chicken house once stood. It’s the place I sat with her on the cool cement steps while she traced lines on my palm to foretell what a long life I’d live. It’s the house where she’d give me a piece of dough from the biscuit batter to play with. Where she’d sit with my Mom and pick ticks from the dog and crush them in napkins on top of the old gas heater, talking the afternoon away.
Now I live on little income and no bills. Instead I have time to think, read, write and explore. I keep my old Range Rover loaded with gear, ready at a whim to go camping any day I can afford gas. I prefer this to the Marin County, high salaried slavery I lived a few years ago. I couldn’t go back if I tried. I miss eating sushi three times a week, and roaring my Ducati through wine country on weekends, but that’s about all I really miss.
After shelter, food and sex, there isn’t anything I need except joy. Joy from made stuff simply isn’t sustainable. Buying a new thing brings fleeting satisfaction that requires constant feeding. I find it’s better not to trigger the appetite, and find true joy in more lasting pursuits. Fortunately, my childhood taught me how to find it.
It may sound like pure laziness, but instead of spending time chasing dollars to pay someone for something I don’t need, I prefer to spend time paying attention. It isn’t that I seek return to a simpler, less technological time when people scrubbed clothes clean on rocks, or bled chickens on the clothes-line for a Sunday meal, but I do think we have lost an appreciation for reality. We are no longer grounded to Earth. We have become a culture of dependents, depending on the scientists and politicians to figure things out, and people of no better means to dig our ditches and farm, cook and package our food. It’s a big mistake.
Technology is fabulous and has raised lives out of the mud, but without any mud between our toes, we forget we are animals of the Earth. We live the fallacy we are somehow above it, immunized against it, and on the brink of controlling it. We have no need for God, because there is an illusion we are Gods.
Attempts to recapture Nature buying overpriced organic produce at a farmer’s market fails to bring us in contact with the dirt it grew in. Actually doing something worthwhile has been replaced by virtue signalling concern, satisfied with a small percent of tax deductible, disposable income. Real adventure has been replaced by Disneyland, or, at best, a guard-railed weekend in a National Park. Watching nature at a safe distance is not truly experiencing it. It just displays how disconnected we are from it, and dependent on the those economically enslaved to bend their backs.
I believe it is a form of illness. We are removed from Nature so far we can no longer recognize what it is. Reality has drifted away and we are losing the thing that makes humanity special – the ability to comprehend. The scientific minds we depend on for our technological culture are the least comprehending of all.
Science has all but given-up on experiment, depending instead on mathematical models. The problem is that numbers can be made to do anything, whether true, or imagined. Powerful computers allow inhuman calculations that purportedly simulate Nature, yet scientists don’t have a clue why mathematics works to model Nature in the first place.
That is, consensus science doesn’t have a clue. There are a handful of people rediscovering the principles of the Universe. I say rediscovering, because it’s quite apparent mankind once did comprehend. They left markers for us to read, but science without any philosophical wisdom has led us to believe these are the relics of ignorant superstitious societies with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do. Yet we couldn’t recreate their feats if we tried.
Pyramids and megaliths encode lost knowledge and great universal principles our science is too ignorant to interpret. Seriously stupid scientists are the greatest criminals we face, because they mislead us at every turn with their critical, but not creative thinking, and profoundly naive hubris.
Rediscovered principles go by the name of Vortex Mathematics. Vortex Math describes vibration. The universal energy of the atom, of sound, of light, and life itself, is encoded in a math the ancient “stone age” people understood. It’s the math of electricity and harmonics – the unifying force of the entire cosmos. It’s the encoded ether of information that governs fractal form and function; the algorithm for the Grand Simulation.
The first modern person to perceive this was Nicola Tesla. In his words: “If you only knew the magnificence of the 3, 6 and 9, then you would have the key to the universe.”
Within his mind alone, with no calculator, or particle accelerator, he discovered alternating current and transformed all of society. Through his insight, our lives were electrified. He turned darkness to light, which we have used unerringly to plunge our souls back into darkness. How ironic is that?
Of modern science, Tesla said this: “Today’s scientists have substituted mathematics for experiments, and they wander off through equation after equation, and eventually build a structure which has no relation to reality. ”
Contemporary with Tesla, was Kristian Birkeland. He translated the findings of pioneers in real science; Faraday, Maxwell, Franklin and Tesla, to name a few, into an understanding of the Solar System itself. He discovered the electrical link between the Sun and the Earth. Though few believed him, his work was verified when mankind fired satellites into space and found his theories of magnetic fields and aurora were real after-all.
Immanuel Velikovsky came next. Though his approach and reason for discovery were motivated differently, his insight was more profound. As a psychologist who studied under Freud, he ignored the arrogant scientists to seek understanding of Social pathology through an examination of our past. Unlike most of science, he didn’t relegate ancient mythology to superstitious ignorance, he assumed credence in myth and legend.
Earth has been through many cataclysmic episodes. Anyone bright enough and brave enough not to live in the paradigm knows this. Velikovsky was perhaps the first person to take the Red Pill, and break with the paradigm enforced by the less inventive minions who followed his good friend Einstein.
He compared mythologies from all corners of the world and across millennia to observe they all said the same thing. Once this observation was made, he concluded what any dummy would: terrible things occurred that nearly wiped mankind from the face of the Earth.
Beyond that he had a brilliant grasp of Nature to the extent his predictions have far exceeded those of modern astrophysicists – who are still seeking validation for whatever the fuck Einstein was talking about.
Space-time? I guess it’s a cool idea, but it doesn’t really fly. Space is just space we can measure with a stick. There is only one time and that is now. Past and future are concepts to describe what was and will be. These aren’t things that can be modified and never have been in any experiment. Velikovsky predicted, among many things, the heat on Venus and the radio emissions of Jupiter. Tangible things we have since verified with true measurements, not abstract, engineered simulations.
Many now recognize this, It’s become an industry to itself. From scientific realists like those in the Electric Universe community, to bumbling wannabe theorists like the “Ancient Alien” crowd, millions of people have come to realize we have been misled. I hate to say we are lied to because I prefer to think of modern theoretical science as simply well meaning but unwise, rather than evil. Science counts things and catalogs them, like an accountant of Nature who can sort things into columns but hasn’t a clue what they mean.
The stories of the Bible, I’ve come to realize, actually contain more truth and wisdom than any University textbook. I don’t take this upon faith, though. I am not religious, nor do I believe in God – at least not some bearded man in the clouds. The impossible stories I learned in Sunday School have a basis in physics. The ghostly remnants of that understanding are still jealously guarded by secret societies, architects and religions. Whether they know what they mean is a puzzle to me, yet they show-up in architecture and symbols everywhere.
We’ll continue this discussion, but first let’s return to the fractal exhibits of Nature. We can finish with weather by examining the most horrific expression we can witness in today’s world of calm ignorance – the Whirwind.
Chapter Nine – Cold Dusty Plasma
Previously, in Nature’s Electrode, we looked at an Electric Earth model for lightning genesis driven by a plasma corona formed from condensing and freezing water vapor in the central updraft of thunderstorms. We also looked at the thunderstorm itself, and an electrical model for the circuit that drives it, called a thermopile. Now let’s consider the most dramatic weather event of all, the tornado, and how these massively destructive whirlwinds are also formed by a plasma corona.
Discharge from a corona is predominately dark current, invisible to the eye. Cloud-to-ground lightning arcs come from high current density regions of the corona, primarily surrounding the central updraft where current from the updraft intensifies the electrical tension. Higher voltage focuses discharging electrons the way a lens focuses light, into a continuous plasma channel. When the channel connects with ground and discharges a hot current, it’s wrapped tightly in it’s own magnetic field, in what is called a “Z” pinch.
Moving away from the high electric field region of the corona, free electrons still spit at the ground, but lack the energy and focus to avalanche all the way, leaving instead ionized gas that is said to drift, yet the electric field still shapes the drifting ions into a dark current channel.
Above, the center of the coronal discharge is focused and imparts more energy to cascading electrons, creating the potential for arcs (see the current density distribution at the bottom of the diagram). Closer to the edge of the corona, or ionization region, weaker reactions manifest in transfer of momentum and heat with ions and neutrals. Downdraft and down-burst winds are the common result.
Momentum transfer manifests as downdraft winds by the process of electrokinesis, which is when neutral species follow the moving charged particles, creating an ‘electric wind’ that moves the bulk fluid along the electric field gradient.
If the ionization rate exceeds the rate of recombination, the plasma will build a streamer, a tendril of plasma from cloud to earth, pushing the ionization region ahead of it, and drawing behind it a cloud of cold plasma. When this plasma hits ground, a cathode spot is produced, and the electric field redistributes along the plasma channel.
The cathode spot on the ground draws positive charge to it, dragging neutrals, again, by electrokinesis, and creating a ground vortex. This is the moment of tornado touchdown, as charged air and dust flow in and spiral upwards around the invisible plasma tendril.
The action is analogous to the lightning bolt leader and positive ground streamer that meet to create a channel for arc discharge – two separated events, organized into one coherent structure by the electric field.
The plasma current thus created is a complete circuit to ground, only it’s partially ionized, diffused with predominately neutral species. Its energy and charge densities are too low to make an arc, so it forms a complex plasma channel called Marklund Convection.
Rotation is a natural consequence for two reasons. Neutral air is diffused away from the Marklund current creating low pressure. But positive ions near the ground drag air, dust and debris to the ground contact and create in-flowing winds and a sudden change in direction up, and around the tendril. The meeting of these opposing winds is, by definition, a vortex.
But current in plasma will itself rotate, taking a helical path as it interacts with the magnetic field around it. The appearance of a tornado is precisely what one would expect from such a current. Increasing current flow “spins up” the tornado. It forms an inner spiraling negative current to ground and an outer spiral of positive ionic wind flowing up to the source of coronal discharge.
Because the tornado is a cold, partial plasma carrying a significant mass of neutral air and dust, the corona driving it can be pushed by winds to create a slanted, or even kinked path, and travel away from it’s point of origin.
If tornadoes are caused by coronal discharge generating a Marklund convection current from cloud-to-ground, what are some tell-tale signs?
One evidence is the wall cloud. Wall clouds form before a tornado in typical super-cell evolution. It will develop rotation and sometimes its clouds can be seen to rise and fall in an agitated manner. Puffs of low level clouds are drawn to it below the main cloud base. It creates a vertical wall of cloud inconsistent to the general slant of the storm and winds in-flowing to it.
This is evidence of the vertical orientation of the electric field created by the coronal discharge. The electric field doesn’t pay attention to the wind.
The funnel cloud doesn’t always emerge from the center of the wall cloud. The funnel often appears along the edges of the wall cloud, or from the surrounding clouds.
This is because the tendrils of current are mobile on the negative electrode and can wander. They can also multiply, creating multiple tornadoes.
Characteristic of parallel currents, multiple tornadoes stand off from each other as if repulsed like two parallel wires flowing current in the same direction. Rare occasions when tornadoes seem to merge, one simply dies as the other steals it’s current.
The sudden disappearance and reappearance of tornadoes, and the skipping, or lifting they portray, is inconsistent with simple fluid momentum, but is consistent with a pulsating current from an unstable coronal discharge. Recombination steals the current, and then revives when the rate of ionization reestablishes to complete the circuit to ground.
Tornadoes and lightning…
When a tornado forms, it’s been noted that cloud-to-ground lightning frequency diminishes until the tornado dies, and then picks-up again to the baseline level. This is evidence the electric field has re-aligned along the Marklund convection in the non-ionizing plasma region, sapping energy from the ionizing plasma that manifests lightning and migrating it to the drift region of the corona.
It’s also been noted by observers that positive lightning originating from the anvil cloud is more common in tornadic thunderstorms. This implies a strong positive corona in the anvil plays a role in causing tornadoes, amplifying the electric field.
Sights, smells and sounds…
Tornadoes are formed by cold, dark current, so light emissions aren’t evident, at least below the clouds. Storms that produce tornadoes are often said to have a greenish tint in the clouds, however. The green tint is excused by many scientists as a reflection of city lights, and their search for green city lights continues. The glow of ionization internal to the cloud formation explains the green tint.
Luminosity in the clouds and the funnel are also reported. Consensus science blames this on misidentified sources of light from lightning, city lights, or flashes from downed power lines. Some of it no doubt is, but more likely it is the effect of coronal discharge. Lightning flashes don’t make a continuous glow.
Ionized oxygen can recombine to produce ozone, which has a distinctive chlorine-like smell. This is commonly noted by witnesses.
They also report hissing sounds from tendrils at the base of funnels. Funnel clouds and tornadoes are known to produce harmonic sounds of whistling, whining, humming, or buzzing bees. As ozone is liberated it produces such a hissing sound.
Energized transmission lines subject to over-voltage conditions produce all of these effects: faint luminescent glow, ozone production and it’s accompanying hiss and smell. It’s cause is coronal discharge.
Tornadoes also produce identifiable infra-sound. It’s inaudible to the human ear, but it can be felt. It can produce nausea, agitation and body heat… not that a tornado really needs infra-sound to do that.
Tornadoes have an inner and outer column. The inner column is seen if the outer dusty sheath has little dust to obscure it. This is consistent with the double wall formed in Marklund convection.
There goes Aunt Em…
A good friend who had the misfortune of being in a tornado, said he was momentarily lifted from the bathtub he was hiding in because he was weightless. He swears no wind was lifting him – he was simply weightless. Stories from other survivors also report the sensation of momentary weightlessness, floating as if no wind was pushing. This is likely because of electrokinesis.
At ground level, the accumulation of positive charge beneath the influence of the electric field from the storm may be charging items, including people and lending them an attraction to the electrode overhead.
Perhaps this explains other odd events reported. For instance a house demolished, yet a table sits with a glass of water in the middle of the carnage untouched. Maybe if you don’t want to get picked up and carried away, give yourself a negative charge. Of course, too much of that will kill you, too.
Tornadoes emit on the electromagnetic spectrum as measured by researchers. Electric fields are detected and tornadoes emit sferics, the same type of broadband radio noise a lightning discharge produces.
So what if there is no super-cell? How do all the other vortex phenomena form – landspouts, waterspouts, gustnadoes and dust devils, and how are they related.
By the same mechanism proposed here for the super-cell tornado, only in lower energy form.
Funnel clouds, which never result in touchdown are a tendril of Marklund convection current that begins to recombine faster than it generates ions, and it dies.
Landspouts, gustnadoes and waterspouts all begin with a surface disturbance – a vortex without a cloud, or at least not one showing a wall cloud, or rotation. These are instances of stronger ionic accumulation at ground level, creating a strong ground vortex first, whereas the corona above is diffuse and invisible.
This is consistent with the observations of twisters of all kinds, including dust devils and spouts which are seen to begin on the ground. Or water – in the case of a waterspout – where documented evolution begins with a mysterious “dark spot” on the water.
The tornado is a fractal form generated by an intense electric field and current looping between cloud and ground. The ground charge is as much a part of the circuit as the cloud. There is feedback in the system, oscillations of electric field and charge density that originates with the Earth’s magnetic field, which does not stop at Earth’s surface. The Earth’s internal structure harbors electric currents induced from the Solar Wind. Kristian Birkeland and Nicola Tesla tried to tell us this, but arrogant men intrigued with science fiction didn’t listen.
Sacramento Leo, Southern Comfort Leo, Smooth-in-the-Groove Leo and Geology Leo – dragon hunters armed with compasses, four-wheel drives and field books to confirm that myth is actually fact. I’m Desert Rat Leo, with my dog – Rat Dog Leo.
The purpose of the expedition was to find evidence about mountains and the physics of their creation coherent with the theory of Electric Universe. Not an easy task, but the theories are our own, which allows some flexibility – not in the science, of course, but in the methods of discovery.
We were using an entirely unconventional method called ‘Looking’. It’s a practice out of favor in academia. Most scientists now use computers to mimic reality – modelling reality to understand it. Like studying clay sculpture of people to understand life – it looks right, but doesn’t say much about the human heart. We took the approach of actually looking.
The trip began for Rat and I two days early. One day, so I could stay the night in Flagstaff and break-up the drive. Another day because I didn’t look at the calendar. I’m more attuned to phase of the moon than day of the week. It was coming up full, so I had to go.
Actually, leaving early allowed independent investigation of a fascinating land form near Kayenta, Arizona, called Comb Ridge.
Comb Ridge is a smaller version of Capitol Reef, the primary objective for the Utah expedition. A stop at Comb Ridge was like the trailer to a movie – a preview of things to come.
The Comb is known as a single-sided monocline. You can look-up the mainstream theory here, but it’s pretty boring. By my theory it’s a pressure ridge, made by searing supersonic winds and shock waves. The theory is called Arc Blast. It’s really hypothesis, not theory, but that word has too many syllables. Most people know what I mean – it’s a concept that still requires proof.
Arc Blast is the literal breath of the mythical dragon – one of the archetypes from mythology that describes hydra-headed serpents launching from the depths of the sea, exposing the basement of Earth, arcing across the land, and dragging a tsunami of ocean behind that flooded to the height of mountain tops.
Arc Blast is caused by electrical discharge – arcs of current – lightning bolts in other words. Only this is lightning from inside Earth. When Earth amps-up from an external cause, like a big comet, or Solar flare, current internal to Earth blast out. The havoc that follows makes weather like Jupiter’s, with winds and lightning of enormous proportion.
Comb Ridge is a perfect example of an arc blast feature, because it exhibits triangular buttresses. These I contend can only be explained by supersonic winds and sonic shock waves. Mainstream theorizes these triangular forms are made by water erosion, which is entirely inadequate, and I can show that.
The reason is coherency in the forms. Their explanations lack it. Mine don’t. Examining Comb Ridge gave confidence to my claim.
It’s also easily accessible. A graded road runs behind the ridge and cuts through a canyon between buttresses. Rat Dog and I parked the Rover in the sandy wash, and simply climbed up. They lay at a shallow angle of about 20 degrees.
Structurally, everything we examined fit our theory. The buttresses are layered sandstone, no evidence water erosion created the shape of the triangles, and every indication they were deposited by winds.
But we also found things I hadn’t expected.
U.S. Route 163 passes through Comb Ridge, north into Monument Valley. As the road falls away from the Ridge, there is a stark, ugly blister on the land. It’s called Agathla Peak, and pokes 1,500 feet out of the desert floor. It’s dark brown, to black, like it’s made of burnt mud.
It’s where a huge lightning bolt struck, and left this raised blister. Using the preferred scientific instrument, our eyes, Rat and I detected lots of them in the area.
These pinnacles are considered by convention to be diatreme of ancient volcanoes. A plug of magma that stuck in the volcano’s throat, now exposed by time and erosion. The mainstream theory requires all of the surrounding land to have eroded away, leaving these ‘volcanic plugs’ behind.
But how severe erosive forces, capable of scouring away thousands of feet of land, could leave behind these crumbling chunks of sandstone is a bit perplexing to me.
Another feature of these pinnacles are dikes – walls of crumbling, darkened material called minette, also believed to be formed by volcanic process. But minette is like sandstone that has been altered electrically. It’s not like what spews from volcanoes at all.
Rat Dog and I found the same kind of dikes embedded in the buttresses, and radiating across the desert plains. They are too unconsolidated and crumbly to withstand forces that washed everything around them away. It seems more likely they are the remains of electrically charged shock waves from the same lightning that created the pinnacles.
Having collected this key intelligence, Rat was hot and needed a nap. Of course, she took my lap, which meant I wore a hot dog in my lap. The temperature on the Comb was around 100ºF.
We drove on through Monument Valley. The place is is astonishing. Many trips back are in order, but on this day we rushed through on our way to Moab. We needed to set camp before dark.
Moab is a pretty patch of green in Canyon Country, where tributary creeks feed the Colorado. We gassed the Rover, ate and restocked the coolers with ice. Then ventured along the river to the campsite where the other Leo’s intended to meet us. That campsite was full. So was the next. And the next. And the next.
Down river we drove, surveying each campsite along the way. Here, the river cuts through a deep walled chasm favored by rock climbers. So the camps were full of these spider people; a strange, underfed and insular cult, festooned with colorful webbing.
Rat Dog felt it was best to keep our distance from the strange beings. Finally, we came to the last campsite available. It was empty.
We took the finest, shady spot at the bank of the river. While I unloaded gear, pitched the tent and collected firewood, Rat Dog sniffed flowers.
She didn’t sniff flowers for long – she wandered away instead. I hated to leash her since there was no-one else around, but couldn’t keep my eyes on her either. She seemed reluctant to stay in camp. The reason became apparent when I pulled branches from a pile of driftwood by the river-bank. Clouds of mosquitoes billowed out.
And so began a relentless night of misery. The Rat found mosquitoes in the flowers. Her hair sprouted clumps where bites raised her skin. She looked pitiful in a funny way, but I was alarmed at how many bites she had. She’s not a big dog and can’t take much poison. So, I zipped her inside the tent.
Meanwhile, the mosquitoes began to consume me. Constant movement was the only relief. I found if I moved fast enough to generate wind, I could outrun them. So I ran around, grabbing sticks and branches for the fire. Every piece of wood I picked-up swarmed more mosquitoes.
I frantically lit the fire to get smoke in the air. It was the only form of repellent available. I’m not used to dealing with mosquitoes because I live in a dry region. I don’t use bug repellent on my skin either. I had to resort to the only other form of relief at my disposal. A bottle of vodka.
I watched the sun angle below canyon walls, wondering how long until it cooled inside the tent to be bearable. I paced back and forth in smoke to foil the mosquitoes, my skin cooking from fire, my insides cooking in vodka, and fever in my brain from both.
When I bent over to tend the fire, mosquitoes attacked my backside. They bit through the seat of my pants. I ate naked crackers for dinner with vodka. It was too hot for cheese. As soon as the temperature dipped I joined Rat in the tent.
When morning sun steamed me awake, a dozen of the insolent bugs lounged on the tent walls. Fat with our blood, they were too sluggish to escape my wrath. I turned them into bloody blotches, and then regretted the stains.
I left Rat sleeping while packing everything, none of which I used. Then collected her and the tent, let her pee, and left for Moab to find coffee.
Once mental cognizance was reestablished with a large, dark roast, the Rat and I took stock. There was no way we were camping along the river again. I had to break down and buy a map.
This was a smart move. We’d been going solely on instinct, as dragon hunters are wont to do, eschewing navigational aides. I noted several campsites high on Dead Horse Mesa, between the Green and Colorado Rivers.
The Mesa had no mosquitoes, and was also out of the oppressive, brooding canyon. Here, there was big sky, clouds and a breeze. It’s called Dead Horse, because some dumb-ass rustlers thought the narrow tip of the Mesa would make a good corral to capture a stolen herd. I’ll let you figure out the rest.
W chose a campsite with trees and pitched the tent and a surplus parachute for extra shade. I strung it between Junipers, and when the wind blew right, it billowed and made an awesome clam shell awning.
The Leo’s arrived early afternoon. Finally, someone to talk with besides Rat. Tents went up, beers came out, along with chairs, ice chests and gadgets. There was also one luxurious, padded cot. I noticed the Rat eyeing it jealously. So did I. “Don’t you dare!” I said, and I gave her a look that meant business.
It belonged to Geology Leo. He laid on it immediately and began snoring, and that’s where he stayed for the rest of the trip.
The rest of us sat at the fire, talking and drinking beer. It was fun and we soon succumbed to disorientation, unbalance and expansive creativity. It wasn’t long before, one by one, they all drifted away to nap. Envy towards Geology Leo, snoring away on that damn cot began to burn inside, so I sat and grumbled to myself.
A couple things of note occurred then. We had our first wildlife encounter as a group. Rat and I met the mosquitoes, of course – my butt still itched from that. But this ‘National Geographic’ moment was more engaging. A fox approached Smooth-in-the-Groove while he napped on the ground, and sniffed his face. It was cute, in spite of the risk of fleas and rabies.
Then the camp host paid a visit and berated us for pitching tents, leaving dogs off-leash, and parking vehicles in the wrong places. Once we made adjustment according to orders, however, he relaxed and talked about the fox. Apparently it was a little rascal who stole campers clothes and food on a regular basis.
The other thing of note were two Italian girls camped across the road. The Rat made first contact. She trotted away to meet them first chance she got. She’s not overly fond of people in general, but she trusts other women.
The young ladies were from Italy, on a cross country trip through National Parks. I had no intention of bothering them, but Rat didn’t give me a choice. The girls immediately began cooing and fawning over her, so she jumped in their car and sat on the comfy seat. I had to get her back.
Smoothy immediately joined us. He wanted to flirt with the girls. So, while I mentally stumbled trying to communicate, he went-off speaking fluent Italian. This left me standing with my thumb up my butt while they conversed.
I extracted Rat from their car and threw her in the tent. She looked at me with daggers the rest of the night. I know she’d have abandoned me for those girls if I let her.
The next day the wind changed, causing the parachute awning to flap mercilessly, knocking off hats and slapping the unwary. The breeze also brought scent of the toilet to us.
I hadn’t noticed any odor when I picked the campsite. But something was different today. Not just wind direction, either. The chemical balance was off in the toilets. It smelled like shit.
We moved in slow modality all morning, shuffling about sipping instant coffee in the smelly miasma. The Italian ladies came and shared granola bars. They brought one for each of us (two for Rat) and shared their travel stories while we munched. They were very charming with their accents and animated story-telling. They spoke better English than we could at that moment, so we just listened.
Around Noon, we finally got into the Rover and Southern Comfort’s jeep for some geology field work. What follows is actual field work in action:
This was to be my first EU conference. As I left Tucson on I-10, the temperature was hot. Arizona in June is like Venus. Temperatures always hover above 100ºF, but when it exceeds 110ºF, it’s life threatening.
First, you seem to stop sweating. You still release sweat, but it evaporates immediately and you remain dry as a bone. There is no moisture in the air. No matter how much water is consumed, lips chap, pee turns orange and scratchy salt crusts form in armpits.
It got hotter and dustier as I traveled north into the Phoenix basin. When I arrived in Mesa at noon, it was 120ºF in the shade.
Since I was a speaker and a last minute addition to the roster, I went straight to the auditorium to get checked out on the A/V system. I needed to know how it worked right away, because I didn’t have my presentation committed to memory. I needed to know if I could read my notes on the screen at the podium, or if I’d need to carry a sheaf of papers, or simply stand up there and look foolish. The last time I gave a presentation, flip charts were the state of the art.
Before I could do that, I found Susan Schirott. She took me under wing, stray cat that I was, and gave me the low-down on the conference.
Susan introduced me to the EU. I found Thunderbolts while surfing the web, became convinced for reasons too numerous to get into now and contacted Susan to pitch a guest blog. Susan gave me that opportunity and made everything else happen. I simply had to write what I learned and she handled the rest. Susan is the engine of Thunderbolts, but made time to make sure I was taken care of.
We’d had a bit of drama over adding my presentation at the last minute, including my own moments of high anxiety. Susan let me know the current status and that things were okay. She got me settled in and at ease.
The A/V system turned out to be a piece of cake and gave me all the capability to present that I could hope for, if I could just remember which buttons to push. So, unable to stand there forever pushing buttons to get used to the mechanism, I retired to the bar to relax and trust to fate.
Conference bars are where the action is, in my humble opinion. You have to see the presentations, of course. At least most of them. And you have to socialize in the halls and workshops, but the bar is where people let down their shields. I was to be here for three days, followed by the geology tour for another two days. I hardly knew anyone in the EU community. This seemed the best place to be.
My first encounter was with a young couple from the Phoenix area. Since I wore a speaker ribbon on my name tag, but few people had heard of me, I had a brief advantage. It rose people’s interest, which I need since I’m an introvert. But they didn’t know what to ask since they didn’t know what I was there to talk about. It allowed me attention and still a comfortable anonymity.
I was vague about my presentation, simply saying it had to do with geology and some electrical features. This raised the mystery. They assured me they would watch me speak. So far things were working well – two attentive listeners would be at my talk and I hardly had to do anything. They even bought my beer.
Then a bloke bounded up to our table and began hugging everyone around. I’ll call him Leo. In fact, I’m going to call everyone in this story Leo. I have to protect the innocent. More importantly, I have to protect myself.
Every Leo was different. Every Leo was interesting. Every Leo is my brother and sister, now, but that is getting ahead of the story. Leo came from British Columbia, Montreal, New Brunswick, Colorado, California, UK, Australia, Belarus, Germany, Tibet and at least one from another planet. Leo wore tattoos and buzz cuts; tie-dyeds and chinos; safari hats and bandanas; piercings and goatees; or in one case, a beaded, braided fu-manchu. All points on the globe, all types of people, representing a common interest in our Electric Universe.
This Leo was from the UK. UK Leo sat down and immediately ordered a beer, and I ordered a second. Little did I know at the time, UK Leo would be at the bar every time I went there. UK Leo, I recognized eventually, was a professional beer drinker.
As we got acquainted, a certain cadence set into our discussion. His thick accent was impossible to understand. So I would say, “uh huh”, when I thought he’d made a point. He would reply, “eehah, mate?” because he couldn’t understand me either. In other words, we were perfect drinking partners – the burden of making sense wasn’t on us.
The young couple left. I don’t think they understood UK Leo either. He and I talked nonsense through our beers and then I left to circulate. At the bar I spotted Southern Comfort Leo. Southern Comfort Leo was someone I wanted to get to know, because I’d seen him present in a video of the previous year’s EU conference. His topic had direct bearing on mine. He held court at the corner of the bar, a place only a talkative person would take.
I sidled up beside him to see if I could start a conversation (it’s not something I’m very good at). I call him Southern Comfort Leo, because when I asked where he was from, he listed every southern State he’d ever lived – which was all of them. He said he’d “been around.” Much to my surprise, starting this conversation was easy, and he bought my beer.
I still had the advantage of anonymity, so the talk centered around him and his work. I simply listened to the fascinating work he did and the kind of information he got from it. Others joined us. We held court like Norm Petersen and Cliff Claven at the corner of the bar. But as the evening wore on, the crowd dwindled until there were just four of us left. Room Mate Leo, Boorish Leo, Southern Comfort Leo and me.
As I found with all EU conference participants, they are fiercely independent thinkers who fear no topic. In this case, our conversation turned to God and the relative merits of belief in HIS existence. Dangerous ground for a late night at the bar.
Leo held a belief in God’s existence, while the other Leo disagreed. As it became heated, Southern Comfort Leo wisely took his leave, begging the need to rest for his morning presentation. I was to speak in the afternoon, so I stayed.
Having been raised by a devout Christian mother, I have a respect for most beliefs provided it doesn’t involve hacking heads off. So I attempted to mediate the rougher edges in the conversation, but to no avail. Boorish Leo launched into a devastating destruction of Room Mate Leo’s character flaws, which the younger Leo had guilelessly laid bare for our examination.
We finally agreed to disagree around four AM. Leo and I, being room mates dragged ourselves, shirttails hanging, to the room. The emotions scraped bare at the bar were still bleeding however. Leo and I continued to talk in the room, he giving me intimate glimpses into his troubled yet valuable life. Valuable because he’s brilliant, curious and courageous – the earmarks of an EU scholar. Troubled because he carries baggage – we all do.
I noticed the sun was shining through a gap in the curtain. I sealed the gap before we finally gave up talking and went to sleep. I woke in time to catch Southern Leo’s talk mid-morning.
The conference room was a comfortable place. Dark, with a casual and attentive audience and the most interesting subjects to hear about, delivered by some of the most knowledgeable people in the world. What could be better. I lost myself in the ambience, surprisingly relaxed, without any building apprehension for my own talk that afternoon.
In fact, my talk went well. I think. Except the lights were blinding my sensitive eyes, which were only closed for an hour and a half that morning. Remember that when you watch the replays on Thunderbolts.
I did almost electrocute myself trying to drink some water with the microphone at my lips. It could have been a great display of Arc Blast – the subject of my talk, had I thought of it. I didn’t trip at the podium, or say anything stupid as far as I can remember.
Following the talks, I and my brother Richard, who was attending the conference to graciously provide moral support, and even more gratifying to me – learn more about our Electric Universe, met-up with Susan. Our timing was perfect, because she and David were heading to dinner with another speaker and an attendee who seemed to have a long association with the EU.
It was a delightful dinner. My brother, a former PR and public affairs professional, enjoyed trading anecdotes about conference organization with Dave and Susan while I stuffed my face with baked grouper. Dave Talbott is a sincere and gentle-hearted man who kept the conversation light and engaging. He suffered a dozen questions about Velikovsky and EU that he must have answered a zillion times before, but he spoke with absolute enthusiasm about the things he champions.
After dinner, of course, Rich and I retired to the bar, while the sensible people went about other business, like sleep. After one drink, my brother left to meet his son in Scottsdale, leaving me with the Leo’s again. It was pretty much the same crew, UK Leo, Southern Comfort Leo, Roommate Leo and me. Many other Leos were there, too.
This night was less talk and more drinking. Those of us who were speakers had finished our talks and were ready to unwind. Everyone else was just ready. Michael Claridge-Leo strode in with an electric bicycle to show off. The evening was a hoot, everyone in cheery little clusters around the bar and outside at the pool..
The day had been hot and it began to take its toll. People drifted away to bed, leaving only dead-enders. You know us by now. Leo and I had both shifted from beer to vodka at this point, so my recollection may be out of sequence. What I recall is that Leo began speaking gibberish.
We were having a perfectly rational conversation when he suddenly became agitated, and in perfectly articulated English said something that made absolutely no sense. It was as if Neil DeGrasse Tyson had entered his body. I hadn’t the foggiest notion what he was talking about, but it seemed urgent. Then he simply walked away.
The remainder of us carried the night to a quiet conclusion after the waiters stacking chairs refused us any more post closing drinks. We retired to our rooms, confident that, except for the hotel staff, we were the last people standing and our duty had been satisfied – to be the last people standing – somewhat stooped, but standing.
When I arrived in the room, I found Leo. Leo was passed out in the bathroom, undressed, pants around his ankles. This was not the behavior I expected from Leo. I immediately became suspicious. There was a pool of fluid on the floor. I shook him by the shoulder and called his name. He slid to the floor like a greasy snake, taking the toilet seat with him.
I won’t go into any more detail. It took a good two hours to get him to bed. There was a period of time he simply stood, incapable of moving. Dehydration, heat stroke and vodka don’t mix. I gave him water.
Leo was only the first of the heat casualties. The sun was peaking through the blinds again when I finally laid down. The damn thing wouldn’t stay down. It was already up and blazing people into an ultraviolet-brain cooked stupor and I hadn’t had a wink of sleep yet.
Eight AM came , literally, in the blink of an eye. I met my brother and we enjoyed the talks, seeing almost every one. Incredibly, I never felt tired even though that auditorium could lure a meth addict to sleep. All of the talks were good.
After the banquet there was a gathering at the bar. I happened to join in. Imagine that… Leo was there, too. All of the Leos, in fact. This was the big finale. It wound down as the sun rose and it was too late, or perhaps too early…whatever, to buy beer at the Circle K. I spent my time engrossed in conversation with a charming Leo from UK, this one a female, about documentary film making.
There wasn’t much point in sleep now, since the Geology tour was leaving in less than two hours. UK Leo said he’d just wait-up. I slept until the vans were running downstairs. I had time to simply bundle my kit in a wad and run downstairs and throw it in the StRange Rover. The vans were just loading, so I ran back inside to Starbucks. I wanted to kill the person in front of me ordering a triple mocha hoopla-drip machiacappucinoamericano hand-blended smoothy with sprinkles. After what seemed like a month, I ordered my BIG coffee (I refuse to say Grande) and shuffled out to the StRange Rover and fired her up. I pulled into last place in the caravan and waited.
There is a mathematical rule that relates the number of people in a party to the time it takes that party to actually do anything. It is called the ‘milling factor’. The more people there are, the larger the milling factor becomes by logarithmic scale. If there are enough people, the milling factor will prevent anything from happening and the situation devolves to chaos. With well over twenty people the milling factor was enormous.
As I watched light refract through heat blistering off the hood, the StRange Rover’s vinyl dashboard disintegrated before my very eyes in the UV, X-ray and gamma radiation from the Sun. The organizer and leader of our caravan, Herr Leo, was circling the vans attempting to get people inside and strapped in.
Some folks refer to this as ‘herding cats’. I disagree. Cats tend to scatter and move. High milling factor creates a kind of paralysis where people just stand and stare at each other, waiting for someone else to make a move. Milling has a more bovine nature to it. My BIG coffee was almost finished when the vans actually started rolling. Now I had to pee. I held on because I wasn’t about to run inside when everyone else was finally ready, so we took off on the Geology tour.
Southern Comfort Leo joined me in the StRange Rover at the first stop. It was my first chance to pee and survey the group I was with – in that order. I noticed all of the essential Leo’s, meaning the drinking ones, were on the geology tour. We must run in crowds, I thought, mutually attracted by intense heat, miles of driving, lack of sleep and an excuse to party every night.
As I focused my bleary eyes (I don’t think Leo would have climbed in with me if he knew how much sleep I’d had in the past three days) I saw geologic features I’d written about. I was going to point them out to Southern Comfort Leo, when Leo pointed out to me what he’d been noticing. Leo in the car ahead was swerving off the road occasionally.
Why would Leo do that, I wondered. We found out a few miles later, when on a steeply diving switchback road with no shoulder, Leo in-the-car-ahead, swerved off road and punctured his tire. As it happened, he was passing-out from dehydration and heat. Apparently he came from a place where air conditioning is not a life support system.
He was bundled in the back of a van to re-hydrate and sleep, while someone else took over command of his car, now driving on a spare. We spent a couple of hours getting a new tire for Leo in-the-car-ahead and ended up split into two groups somewhere in Verde Valley because of lunch preferences. We regrouped in Oak Creek Canyon, just past Sedona. Here, everyone cooled their feet in the water under the shade of cottonwoods at Oak Creek’s shore.
The heat, the fact we hadn’t made it to Meteor Crater that day, Leo in-the-car-ahead’s travails, all melted away as the group laughed and splashed in the creek. It was a fine moment. All of the Leo’s felt better. We were all Leo now. Regrouped and refreshed, the caravan drove on to Flagstaff.
As the group checked-in to the motel and got settled, Southern Comfort Leo and I walked to the bar/restaurant across the parking lot to have a cold one. UK Leo joined us next, then others drifted in. I hadn’t paid much attention, but did notice an older gentleman sitting alone drinking beer at a table in the back.
The Leos and I stood at the bar, while all the other Leo’s congregated at a table behind us. I heard a commotion and turned around to see the distinguished looking gentleman sprawled on his back. Several of our Leo’s were attending to him.
I said, “who’s that guy?” to our little group at the bar, but they paid me no attention, struggling as they were to understand each other – Southern drawl vs. UK soccer slang. I sipped my beer and surveyed the situation. The man was still prostate, being given wet towels and water. Someone was calling 911. What else could I do. I sipped my beer. “Do you guys see what’s happening behind us?” I asked. This time I broke through and they turned to look. “Why that’s Seattle Leo,” said Southern Comfort Leo.
I vaguely knew we were to meet Seattle Leo in Flagstaff. I didn’t know details though, so hadn’t connected the distinguished man at the back table with being a Leo. As the paramedics wheeled him away, I said something lame like “take care” and laid my hands over his. They were cold as ice. Our third victim of heat stroke.
One part of our group driven by Colorado Leo, or as I thought of him: the spitting image of Jeff Bridges, were eclectic Leo’s from around the world. They decided to camp-out in the National Forest instead of staying at the motel. They were a lively and entertaining bunch, so some of the motel Leo’s and I decided we’d visit their camp for a few beers.
They were camped somewhere in Coconino National Forest. Since Coconino National Forest covers approximately 1.8 million acres, I thought our prospects of finding them dubious. Nevertheless, we took two cars, bought some beer and departed Flag for the ‘campground’ they were supposedly at. They weren’t. The location was the Forest Service headquarters. No campground in sight.
This called for an unmanly admission that we didn’t know where we were going and needed directions. A cell phone was produced. I’m not sure if it was a bad connection, or if UK Leo was doing the talking. In any case the directions seemed uncertain.
We tried, but eventually gave up and parked in a dense, dark forest of Ponderosa and Spruce. I kept my eye out for bears and Sasquatch. At least we had beer and other essentials among us, and we stood in the dark and talked about magnetism, mountains and made a toast to Michael Steinbacher. A freight train roared past within a hundred yards of where we stood. It must have been a mile long and it left us feeling pumped from the noise and vibration.
I was driving, so only sipped on my beer. Still, lack of sleep had me seeing pinpoints of light in the corners of my eyes as we drove back to the motel. I followed Room mate Leo as he missed the exit and drove around the longest way conceivable to get back on track. I was almost beside myself thinking we’d entered a never ending road somewhere in the twilight zone. The Leo’s in my car had turned into bobble-heads and didn’t seem to notice we were being sucked back to Sedona, no doubt by the vortex.
I got a solid night’s sleep, rooming with Sacramento Leo. It’s usually a little strange to sleep in a room with a stranger, but in this case my head hit the pillow and didn’t lift until Leo belatedly advised me the vans were ready to roll in five minutes.
No time to shower – day three. I was beginning to stink. Well, not really. I stunk. You either stink or you don’t, there’s really no ‘beginning to’. I felt some pity for my StRange Rover-mate, Southern Comfort Leo.
After that first devastating day of heat, others began to notice – in addition to how bad I smelled – how I always parked in shade if I could find it, or aim the car away from the sun so the seats didn’t blister my ass when I got back in. At 120ºF, a car’s interior surfaces exposed to sun can reach 195ºF. By comparison, pork is considered safe to eat at 145ºF. I don’t comb my hair either, otherwise I’ll get a sunburned part. Tricks of the desert rat.
Our intrepid leader, Herr Leo, stepped up to a major feat of organization at meteor crater, advising us of the time to regroup. Things went smoothly until I had the sudden urge to (once again) use the bathroom at the last minute, hence I was the one who held up the group. It’s no fun walking out of a restroom, zipping up your fly, while thirty people sit in a parking lot staring at you.
I learned a lot about Michael Steinbacher on the trip. What a vagabond life he led, and how many loyal friends he had who gave him a couch, or bed, and traveled with him to rocky, windswept corners of the southwest, looking at evidence of the vast catastrophic forces that shaped our planet.
It gave me a tremendous morale boost. I recognized in the stories about Michael something I’ve found to be true for me. To truly clear the eyes of mud… to see things clearly for what they are, demands a rejection of convention.
I gave up income, home and stability to find the Electric Universe. Hanging on to what people expect of you will keep you locked into their paradigm forever. All notion that theoretical science explains anything at all had to be discarded and understood as a gross misinterpretation of the physics that govern our universe. I had to disconnect to see that.
Michael understood and looked at landscape in a way no one else had really captured. His inspirations inspired many more. We came to spread his ashes at the Southern Rim of the Grand Canyon. Herr Leo had selected Geology Point as an appropriate place. It was.
Being a generally agnostic group to begin with, and knowing Michael was too, there was not much in the way of spiritual context. Herr Leo and a couple of the female Leo’s took a moment to reflect on Michael’s influence in their lives and his appreciation for truth.
Truth does exist. We could see it with our own eyes in the canyon. The obvious carving of scalloped edges in the ninety degree, boxed side canyon we stood above spoke more to the validity of Michael’s interpretation of geology than anything anyone could have said.
I spoke with Michael’s friends about the formation of the Grand Canyon. I agree with Michael’s assessment, in general. The canyon was carved by an explosive current locked to the river’s channel. I’d looked into, and written about breccia pipes; karst-like formations of broken rock that fill vertical tunnels emanating from a limestone formation above the inner gorge. These breccia pipes emerge from the ground all over the south rim, concentrated along the rim and even split open in places along the canyon wall.
My belief is these were the result of current flows from the inner gorge that blasted out the stubby, 90 degree angled side canyons by coursing through the limestone aquifer and up through the crust, forming the breccia pipes. Everything I saw standing over Geology Point confirmed my intuition, and Michael’s hypothesis, which I think conforms with mine. It made me feel good we laid his ashes there.
The canyon left me uplifted, but feeling small, knowing how few are the people who even fathom what we could see.
Herr Leo took the caravan speeding down an empty two lane road to Utah, past miles of open country I wanted to walk through. Shallow canyon fingers dipped right away from the roadside, to disappear into dark cavernous gorges that led a mile deep to the Colorado. How were they formed – not by water erosion. There is no evidence of water erosion on the walls of the Grand Canyon – anywhere, except the very lowest reaches of the inner gorge – the only place the river has ever flowed.
The only evidence given for water erosion creating the canyon is that there is a canyon there. Ergo, typical mainstream circular logic says it must have been carved by water. It ain’t evident in the rocks though. A fact neatly and blithely ignored by geologists.
We crossed the Little Colorado and skirted the Navajo Nation, heading north. At Cameron, Arizona we stopped for lunch. It made sense, since one of our Leo’s was named Cameran-Leo; wrong spelling, but close enough to earn a sandwich. This was also where I departed, leaving to drive home to Tucson through the best part of Arizona, Highway 191. I’ll tell about that in a moment.
I hate goodbyes. This one didn’t hurt though. I knew I would be seeing these Leo’s again.
Every Leo hugged me. There wasn’t a single hand shake, or fist bump. Just hugs. It was a striking moment for me, when Sacramento Leo gave me a memento from Michael. Something Michael raised on his own, infused with his love of life and our world. I fired it up as I drove alone to Kayenta.
As the StRange Rover hummed along, the sun began to set on a landscape I could only imagine had been etched. Magnificent undulating, layered and cap-rocked dunes scalloped and gouged around the edges. A different electrical scarring than I’d been studying. Something to look into in the future.
Near Kayenta is where Dave Talbott’s photo of a petroglyph was taken. The one Tony Perratt identified as a plasma instability – rock hard evidence of an aurora in the ancient sky that our ancestors witnessed. I marveled to myself that his paper had been published over a decade ago and so few people had even noticed. Yet it gave up so much truth. It was the very thing that had brought me to look into EU.
As I drove through Tsegi, I looked into the canyon. Tsegi Canyon holds deep mystery for me. This is where the Kayenta Anasazi – the Pueblo people of Northern Arizona spent their final days in cliff dwellings, before, in sudden diaspora they fled to Mexico. Something like the Exodus.
What happened? Why did they live in the cliffs? Mainstream theories of drought and infertile crops is simply a weak and unintelligent answer to the true plight of the Pueblo people of the Four Corners area. Scientists blame everything on climate change now – that’s the paradigm. Something else happened to the Pueblo in 1100 to 1300 AD, when after living in the open for centuries, they turned to living under rocks before simply leaving the area, en masse.
They were either hiding from something from above, or below – lightning perhaps, or a swarm of hungry bigfoot (cannibal demons in the native Hopi) come down from the San Juan’s. I don’t know which yet, but I’m going to Tsegi some day to figure it out and write a novel about it.
As I looked into the deep reaches of the canyon, the setting sun shone through, framed by the vertical, black canyon walls and sheets of illuminated virga hanging from the clouds above.
It was damned ominous looking, but spectacular. A few miles beyond Kayenta, there is a mountain feature visible from the road I had used an image of in my presentation. I knew it was there and hoped to see it under the full moon. I couldn’t see it though, because storm clouds blocked the light. Too bad.
I continued non-stop through Navajo lands because I had to. There are no Motel 6’s on the Res. Nor is there any alcohol. Two reasons to keep driving. As I drove South from Four Corners past Canyon De Chelly, the StRange Rover rolled over giant fingers of the Chuska mountains that stretched across the desert. In the sky, the clouds made giant feathered strokes of lichtenberg figures. I knew the land under my feet looked the same, and it was no coincidence.
After a night in a cheap motel along I-40, where I closed thick drapes and slept late, I departed on my final day. This I knew would be an epic drive. Highway 191 (renamed because Highway 666 seemed to disturb some people) runs down the eastern edge of the State. It is an age-old corridor for migration and trade. The Anasazi traded with the Aztecs along this route. It led to the region’s giant center of trade, Chaco Canyon. The Puebloans retreated on this route during the diaspora.
It was used by Coronado and the conquistadors, when they came as the first tourists to the Grand Canyon. Renegades and outlaws used this trail in the days of Apache wars and stage coach robberies.
It climbs into the White Mountains through lava fields and hills that appear like huge, low windblown dunes. Near St. John there is a lake right off of the highway, named Lyman Lake. I turned in to look at the State Park campsites and take a break. As I drove in a sign pointed to a road that said “Petroglyph Trail.” I made the turn and parked at the trail head.
It led into some small hills on a peninsula in the lake. The hills have a cap rock that is black with patina on the top surface. Broken blocks of it are scattered down the hillsides. On these I found a perfect ‘squatter man’ pecked into a flat, patina covered block.
I also noticed the patina appeared to be burnt onto the rock’s surface. There were marks of hot ablation, as if a sheet of flame had seared the cap rock from above. I wondered if it was a thing people had witnessed. Perhaps that is why they chose this place to commemorate the auroras that surely would have preceded such a flash.
A few miles further up the road, I passed volcanic cinder cones and rode over vast lava flows. On the lava flows, lightning began to strike. It flashed with an almost constant frequency, close enough to hear the peel of thunder, but far enough to enjoy the show. I pulled to the side on a hill and lowered my tailgate to watch – the reason I drive the StRange Rover is it has a classic drop-down tailgate – essential for such moments. I also celebrated Michael’s green thumb again as I watched the lightning strike and listened to the thunder. It was a fitting spectacle to end the journey and my formal introduction to the Electric Universe.
Thanks to Leo’s gift of Michael’s homegrown, I missed my turn in Springerville, and drove fifteen miles into New Mexico on Highway 60 before I realized I was going downhill when I should be going up. Things were going too well, I suppose. Where I turned around was a dirt road to Luna, New Mexico. I was in a curious feature of land I had spotted on Google Earth before. The dramatic sweep of land before me was a shallow valley, closed in by windswept dunes of sandstone. The name Luna was appropriate. This trip just kept giving surprises. I didn’t take the road, but committed to coming back, to Luna, to the Leo’s and to uncovering the simple majesty of our Electric Universe.
StRange Rover Leo.
Update: Leo is now engaged to Leo. I have confirmation, so feel free to announce it. And I thought I was having fun…apparently not as much as those two.
“If I can model them, they exist…” quote from a theoretical physicist, asked about unicorns.
“I never met a proxy for climate I didn’t like. It’s the real climate that won’t cooperate…” quote from a climate scientist.
“Astronomical alignment…strange coincidence,” quote from an archeologists.
“Whatever they say…” quote from a man on the street.
Views from an EU Skeptic…
I am new to the Electric Universe. Since declaring myself a science writer, of course I’m skeptical. Let me tell you why.
According to the EU theory, the ancients left messages that awhile back, Saturn bussed Earth and Mars into this crappy neighborhood to diversify with gas giants.
This does sound like archaic thinking on integration – today, if we needed to diversify with gas giants, we’d change local zoning laws and make them come to us.
Given this air of plausibility, I had to check the theory out. So, I started with the highest authority I could find. Unfortunately, Jon Stewart had just quit the job.
I called Oprah, because her guest was the world’s leading celebrity expert on being an expert. She put the super-smart astrophysics populist on the line. He said, “Electri-what – never heard of it.”
I said, it’s the thing that makes your phone work.
He said, “My phone works because time dilation in a black hole gravity-well provides a direct link via wormhole to a parallel universe where I’m speaking to an alternative version of you that split away at a past quantum decision node.” He said we were communicating “via entanglement,” but the conversation hadn’t actually happened yet.
“Your universe may be full of this electro-whatchamacallit”, he said. “There are always new universes bubbling up and trying new things.” He then insisted I look around my universe because he was missing one of his socks.
Apparently the wormhole collapsed because I heard a click, then silence.
Having failed to get information from either the celebrity expert, or the smartest man in the world*, I turned to the truest authority of all. Reality TV.
Kim and Kanye took my call with polite patience.
“Can I Rap it?” said Kanye, after I explained. Kim broke into song,
“Oo-oo-oh, electric universe
I love that name ‘cause it’s so perverse
Tickle my booty with an electric thang
Shoot your plasma in my pootey-tang!”
Kanye put his hand over the phone, I think, because I heard thumps. Then the wormhole must have collapsed.
I realized asking popular celebrities about technical matters might be the wrong tactic, since – as I now learned – celebrities live in a parallel universe. I’d always heard that, but never took it literally. So, I turned to the intellectual elite.
I could not reach Al Gore, but the Science Guy answered and gave me a lesson in real science I’ll never forget.
At that moment he and ‘The Man’ were rounding up a few dozen 747’s to fly staff, the press, any interested parties with good cameras, and a cargo of 15 million gerbils for emergency relief to the State of California.
I learned the Governor, also an elite, had declared a state of emergency after earth scientists at UC Berkeley revealed in a recent peer-voted paper (‘Blue Ribbon – Most settled new science discovery of 2015’) that California’s climate change induced drought was causing accelerated sea level rise.
Simple deductive reasoning told them if it wasn’t raining, the water had to be somewhere. The heroic earth scientists immediately formed an expedition that pedaled to the distant shores of Marin County to take measurements.
When the peloton of PhD’s arrived, they were shocked to find the Pacific Ocean actually lapping upon the beach in wave upon wave of excess water.
They immediately deduced their deduction was proof of an abruptly accelerated sea level rise, since proxy analysis of salt encrustations above water line indicative of past wave action solidly confirmed the current state could only be generated by an influx of excess water.
This finding was confirmed by scientists at JPL, who empirically demonstrated the volume of excess water in the ocean precisely correlated with their estimates of lost rainfall, which made the science double settled.
Since the Governor had already deployed the National Guard to confiscate gluten and arrest purveyors of GMO’s, he could not deploy them to bail the ocean.
He declared a state of emergency to access federal relief funds for the construction of a ten-billion dollar, ratepayer funded, loan guaranteed, tax incentivized, DOE over-funded, biomass power plant to generate 0.5 Watts of renewable energy to offset the drought causing CO2.
Algae that grow extremely fast on gerbil excrement fuels the plant, specifically designed by the UC Davis Free-Range Organic Engineering Department to offset enough CO2 to calm the waters and halt the impending floods.
California gerbils could not be used, however, because that confused the CO2 models. Al Gore generously offered to use some of the Governor’s emergency funds to bring gerbils from Tennessee, where wind power and GHG offsets had already been purchased to negate regional gerbil emissions.
The Governor needed gerbils right away. I could not interrupt this important work.
I’m left wondering. Shouldn’t these smart, powerful and admired people also be curious about a theory that explains so much with such specific evidence – a testable theory so elegant that it is actually comprehensible?
Nah! If there was anything to this Electric Universe thing, these would be the first people to say so. I have got to go now…Ancient Aliens is on.
* As of this writing there is still no ‘smartest woman’, but there is an international diversity task force studying how to revise the IQ test by replacing multiple-choice questions with multiple-choice emoticons. Actual questions were determined to be unjust micro-aggressions that skew results and often leave subjects with PTSD.
You live in a new Age of Enlightenment…you just don’t know it yet.
Let me tell you why, and what it means to you.
For over a century, scientists have dumped billions of your tax dollars and tied-up countless intellectual resources researching the structure and origin of the cosmos. The result has not shed light on anything.
To the contrary, they have shrouded the truth in dark matter, dark energy, black holes, and big bangs. They invent theories of parallel universes, multiverses, many worlds, quantum foams, and rolled-up dimensions that no one can detect – and tsk-tsk that only they are damn smart enough to comprehend it.
Do their theories sound like reality? Do they resemble anything we actually see, or experience?
They say miracles don’t happen. They say the universe exploded from nothing without any reason. They say the more matter you have, the smaller it gets, until it disappears in a ‘black hole.’ These sound like miracles to me.
It’s also depressing. They tell us everything we see is only 4% of what is there, because the rest is made of stuff we can’t touch, see, measure or even imagine. They say only they have the intellectual authority to comprehend, so just shut-up and give them more money to study it.
Doesn’t this picture of the universe leave you cold, bleak and disconnected – understanding less – not more about it?
If their theories were used cars, we’d have solved the energy problem because we’d be driving mathematical constructs – things without wheels or engines.
Today there are scientists with a new theory – and this one works – it has wheels!
They describe a universe full of light, life and promise. A universe that is comprehensible, based on theories we can test, see, and that time and again, produce astonishingly accurate predictions. It is known as the Electric Universe.
In 2004, the Thunderbolts Project launched to explore the Electric Universe. The Thunderbolts Project is a group of scientists and scholars who are making sense of our universe and the role humans play in it. They are also making sense of our ancient history. That means your place in history and the cosmos, too.
They have taken science out of the dogmatic paradigms of invisible mathematical concepts to look at the universe as it really is – and discovered its beauty – coursing with real energy and real purpose.
Led by plasma physicists and a growing number of scholars, Thunderbolts has taken a fresh look at space and realized – hey, it’s full of electricity. Everywhere astronomers look, they see evidence of electro-magnetic forces at work.
The standard model of physics ignores the forces of electro-magnetism, relying instead on the idea that gravity is the only architect of the cosmos. But electro-magnetism is trillions of times stronger than gravity and we can see it at work. Why does mainstream science ignore it?
Mainstream science doesn’t understand plasma.
Plasma is everywhere we look in space – stellar nebula, stars, solar winds and galaxies. Plasma rains down in the beautiful displays of polar auroras and lightning, right here on earth.
It is a fundamental state of matter – along with solids, fluids and gasses, there is plasma. It is a charged soup of electrons, protons and ions. And plasma conducts electricity.
Why don’t mainstream physicists account for this in the universe? Because if they started finding real answers we’d stop paying them to make-up imaginary stuff.
The Electric Universe does not throw the applied science we know and depend upon under the bus. Gravity still keeps us stuck to the earth. We still have E= mc2.
It simply discards the unworkable and unreasonable theories of magic in cosmology and seeks to understand what is really out there. And boy is it working.
Their predictions so far are astounding.
They explain the surface features of Pluto, Mars, Mercury, Venus, our Moon and the rocky moons of Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus and Pluto, as well as features found here on earth which still baffle and cannot be adequately explained by mainstream science.
They explain the nature and behavior of comets, and made predictions that have been verified.
They explain how stars and galaxies form in a Universe coursing with electricity.
The theory is solidly supported by the evidence we observe without needing to imagine invisible dark matter, dark energy, dark elves, or any other phony flavor of the day.
Not only do their theories predict the behavior of our universe, they explain the greatest mystery of mankind – our ancient history.
Dating from the end of the last ice age, cataclysmic events in the sky and on earth were recorded by our ancestors around the world in petroglyphs, hieroglyphs, megaliths, pyramids, obelisks, legends and archaic texts we have struggled to understand ever since. Science says they are just stories, made up by our ancestors to scare the kids into bed.
Mainstream science says the alignment of megalithic structures, like Stonehenge and the Great Pyramid were just so the builders would know when to plant crops. Why would they need huge boulders to do that?
They didn’t. They were recording events that rocked their world – literally. And these were electro-magnetic plasma discharges and a rain of planetary debris.
That is why mythology is full of fire and brimstone raining from the sky. And global flooding, fiery dragons and the heroes that battled them, which live on as ancient legends around the world. It was a cataclysm that nearly wiped out mankind, and we’ve been suffering the trauma ever since.
The Electric Universe brings into focus what is really happening in our universe with elegance, clarity and simplicity.
It is no more mysterious that the computer screen in front of you. Okay, so that’s a mystery to me, too. But any electrical engineer can understand it, and so can we. Its stuff anyone can comprehend.
You don’t need to be an Einstein, or Hawking, with an IQ big enough to dream-up things that don’t exist. And you don’t need to keep sending those guys our tax dollars. Go to Thunderbolts.info to find the real story for yourself. You will be amazed.
Is it possible? Biker Entourage is motorcycles, psychedelics and the people who ride them? I feel more interconnected than a DMT flash. I feel more resonance than a 998 Desmocedici at 8500 rpm. I feel both!
Psi-rider…mount your café racer for a ride in my brain!
Take the on-ramp to my Cerebrum. Ignore the Temporal Lobe…it is closed for repair.
Beware off-camber twisties in the folds of the Frontal Lobe. There are potholes there.
Add power…add speed for the sweeper ahead,
Drag your knee in Basal Ganglia and up-shift with throttle-wide in the Corpus Collosum,
Do a wheelie in Medulla Oblongata, if you like, and burn rubber in the Occipital Lobe,
But, red-line the Hypocampus and downshift drift the Amygdala, echoing a thrum upon the Pons.
Then park in level C of the Cerebellum. I’ll meet you there.
I feel how I imagine a ride to the shooting range with Hunter S. Thompson – or pubbing with Peter Egan and Terence McKenna. Those things aren’t possible for Terence and Hunter, bless their souls – they will never know the experience of reading me, or having a beer with me.
But we can! Yes, you and me – reader and writer – as I still live and write. This can change at anytime, as you well know how it is with writers and motorcycles. But once written, it lives forever…and thereby my heart feeds you, as I feed on you like a parasite, too.
I digress. You are probably wondering who in hell I am. I am A. D. Hall, a writer and a traveler. May favorite rides are a Ducati S4RS and Mescaline – so visceral and erotic.
Psilocybin and scooters are a close second. The elves like scooters. I’d love to own an Indian and take Ayahausca some day – it seems a marriage of the gods, no?
I live in Arizona, which is psychedelic in itself, especially this time of year. I think the temp is 111, as I write, which means I can go outside for fifteen minutes and experience hallucinations. I do this on the scooter – the Duc would fry my legs. It produces total, irrevocable madness within twenty minutes, so I am careful.
As the swamp cooler blows a moist chill on my sweaty neck, and the cheap Canadian whiskey I bought last night yields it’s last precious ounce into my cup, I almost weep with joy. The emotion is real, if exaggerated – that’s what whiskey does to me – but let this be known; I wish to join this community.
I wish to pledge my considerable writing talent as a voice – to you, to us, and to those out there who have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s my humble opinion they need to understand. The whole world needs to understand.
Who can engage one’s mind with spiritual botanicals, or race two-wheeled on a smooth, curved mountain road, and still be bothered to commit jihad, or send thousands of troops to their deaths in foreign lands? It’s inconceivable. So like Jesus, we have a message. It is as important as his – the “do unto others…” one.
No ma’am, no sir! I’m not comparing myself to Him. I am but a disciple, no matter how arrogant my tone. That is a consequence of the cheap Canadian stuff…like I said. But the mission – the mission – let’s not lose our thread.
It is to Trip Others – a term I now coin – unawares, into a forced psychedelic experience for the betterment of mankind. My idea is to create and weaponize a psychedelic toenail fungus that pumps psycho-actives into the bloodstream, like a tic delivers Lyme disease, but with altruistic intent. Then disperse it in Moscow, Tehran, Beijing, Washington and other strategic places.
I am thinking of a Dr. Scholl’s type delivery system of our own patent, or perhaps Korean nail salons. There are many details to fix, and talks with the Koreans are not going well. Are there podiatrists among you?
San Francisco, Paris and London won’t need it. Those places are already enlightened – unless they want to volunteer. I figure, once we know how to make it we can grow enough for everybody.
That includes your city, Gotham – New York, New York! Grimy Atlantis of the Millennium. I have spent good times there. High times. If only I lived closer, my first instinct is to join you on a ride, side by side, somewhere Upstate to look for Bigfoot. We’re teaching him to ride out here. But let’s speak of that another day. Today, our topic is the Purple Armageddon.
Bikes are the instruments of distribution, of course. We can go any place on earth with the right, dual-sport bikes, and escape, too. You know traffic in these big cities. A rush hour attack and we own the split-lane! Get it? Is the picture coming to focus? Rebels with a cause – that’s us!
I implore you. I don’t have the mycological knowledge to do it myself. Nor could I be a lone superhero like Ewan McGregor, riding the globe dispersing the stuff and still get the coordinated mind-meld that’s most effective.
It will require a common temporal battleground, a Megiddo of the conscience. If we can get all of the world leaders into the same “room with the elves” – problem solved – that’s the plan.
That’s why a community like this needs me, for this kind of brilliant idea. So, now that we’re together – tell me how I can help you, so you can help me – let’s work together. Who is the Shaman of this new family of mine? Call me.
Before I close and let this sink in to your minds – I’ll assume it is momentarily stressed at the audacious criminality of our venture – let me say, fear not. The utter logic of it will eventually take hold and you will gleefully go forward, a battalion of ghost riders; Knights Templar of the Psychedelic Apocalypse – keepers of the Grail of Enlightenment – Onward Psychedelic Soldiers…Marching as to war!
Even if your ultimate fate is crucifixion in a stuck-up, unenlightened world, rest assured, I will carry the torch. I am shielded from crucifixion by fixion. A linguistic inoculation that protects me as a writer.
So relax, and let me offer a diversion while your mind assimilates. I published a book of complete and utter nonsense about a character that is struck by lightning in a thunderstorm while on an Amanita Muscaria trip, and the consequences that flow from this profoundly dark and damaging experience.
Why don’t you take it to the beach this summer, as the Psychedelic Apocalypse gathers headwind. Enjoy its hallucinogenic, raunchy humor where the characters happen to – have you guessed, yet – Ride Fucking Motorcycles! Yes, that’s right. I wrote a novel specifically for you! Ain’t that the fuckin’ tits?
It is my modest gift, for the listed price at your e-book retailer. Just follow my links below and see my website, other writings of mine, and the book: “Lapse of Reason.” It’s my debut novel.
Such synchronicity – meeting on the very brink of my book’s release – the world in crisis and needing us – social media to bind us – are the result of long-term psychedelic brain modification, on my part, yours, and the elves, without a doubt.
Trip safely my friends, and feel free to share your favorite psychedelic with me (in a plain brown envelop with no return address). Adios for now. Our plot shall thicken!
I blog. I never set out to do this. It’s a requirement though, a machine sub-set routine I must initiate to flow attention to the novel I wrote. That is my job, writing novels, I thought.
It turns out that writing novels is only half the writing. The rest is all about traffic to your book in the age of Social Media and that’s business.
Fine. I can write creative posts. Apply my craft and try new voices in short form with direct feedback from the reader. It sounds like a good idea for a writer hungry to learn.
So I’ve been researching. It seems the way to do this is guest blog, which this is, and I thank the host for this opportunity. The host is me. I’m posting to myself. I just wanted to show how polite I am.
I’ve been reading blogs of other writers, looking for places to join or contribute, thinking that is where I can meet others of my ilk.
I have had trouble, and that is what I want to talk about. I see some great writing, but it’s dry, business-like. Everyone speaks as themselves.
Why shouldn’t writers of fiction, write fiction? Even when they’re not!
Isn’t it the task of the fiction writer to weave a reality? No one said that reality can’t be real. Go ahead. Fill the reader with facts and lists of Ten Best Things. Tell them what they need to know.
But do it with style. Use your voice. Create a drama, points of view. Don’t just lay your bloody thoughts out like the thing you left in the commode this morning. Write the thing!
I just thought I’d see more of that among the literary crowd. Where do thoughts fly like angels, with emotion and prose? Damn it! Will somebody please point me in the right direction?
Friends, it is my passion to cook. I am not a particularly subtle cook. I like to spice it up.
I also don’t go in for fancy dishware and the like. I like to cook. So I’m posting something informative with a recipe of mine. You must try my Green Chile Werewolves. I will get to the recipe in a moment.
I warn you, this dish is clean, simple, but hot. Mighty hot. I think of it as a manly dish. That’s what brings to mind my topic: Manly cooking.
I know, cooking channels everywhere have male cooks, chefs and eaters. Probably more than female, I don’t know. The cooks are all mixed, the eaters are all male. There is no shortage of gluttonous women, but they don’t do it. It’s a manly thing.
Females never eat pickled bat guano in Thailand, or shove one hundred fried habanero-stuffed turkey balls in their pie-hole in under thirty-minutes. I never see “No Flicking the Jalapeno” plaques or trophies in the bitch-cave commemorating nacho-eating contests.
In fact, I’ll just get to the point. Eating is the only manly thing I see men doing. Their cooking sucks. Its too feminine.
I have no issue with the babes. They do feminine cooking and they should. A dish should be proud of its gender, and so the cook should be proud of the gender they give it. But it should be their-own gender.
I am not getting into the matter of that Jenner fellow…gal I mean. He’s another issue entirely – one that confuses me. No, I wish to speak about good-old, manly cooking.
Now here’s the thing. You’ll say, don’t men barbeque? Of course, and grill too. These we may set aside as particular male obsessions, in fact. But it is a narrow specialty.
I ask, who among men is out in the world doing the hard work of true, honest peasant cuisine in the very heart of darkness?
Out there, where there is no foam food. Out there, with a big knife and spoon, a bowl and iron pot, and the flames of Dante’s furnace the only tools.
There was a man of great talent once, who forged meals in such a way. Let me tell you of him.
He was a gentleman, his talent as a cook well known. But that is not the key here. This man had something else; an indefatigable curiosity and manly joy for life. Yes life!
For he recognized that food is the very essence of that joy. It is communion, and delicacy, and drinking, and pleasure, and drinking, and fun and glorious! And it’s even better with a drink.
That man is Keith Floyd. Did you know him?
Keith Floyd was the original manly cook. No one before or since has honored food in such a way. Articulate-smart-funny-tasteful. But he didn’t suffer fools. He made one of himself with regularity, and never tried to hide it. Such honesty in a man transcends mere cooking!
The BBC program, ‘Floyd on Fish’ was his first. I believe it to be his best and the only place to start, if you are so inclined. It was he I watched in my youth, and from him I learned the essentials.
If you’re a man and can’t cook anything except meats, learn from Floyd. Find him on You-Tube.
Now grab a beer, let’s cook Green Chile Werewolves.
Green Chile: One pound of pig meat.
One 32-ounce can of whole Green Chilies.
One 14-ounce can of chopped tomatoes.
One, big as you dare, can of chopped jalapenos.
A big onion.
A handful of garlic.
Stock – you should already have stock from scratch. I don’t have time to get into that now, go buy chicken stock.
Werewolves: Cheese – you call it, pick your mold. I like a blend of Mexican stuff, fresh made. You may not have it where you live. Longhorn Colby mixed with Jack always works.
Big flour tortillas. Be a man and spring for the kind sold raw. Cook them yourself. If you’re a pussy, go ahead and get them made and packaged.
Have some good olive oil on hand. Now let’s cook.
Chop that pig meat into chunks. Use a cleaver, or machete – make fast work of it.
Turn your blade on the onion and garlic. Chop it rough. Throw the pig in a cast iron oven with some oil. Fire it up. Season it. Brown it. Throw in the onion.
Wait – no garlic yet. Let the onion get soft. Now garlic, throw it in and turn the fire down so it doesn’t burn.
Give it salt and pepper. If you like chile, add your favorite.
Let it simmer while you open all those goddamned cans. Dump them in the pot when you’re done. Chop those chiles first and sop up the mess. Add enough stock to make it swim.
Now stir the thing and put a lid on it. Let it cook for a good long while on a low burn, just watch the thing doesn’t char. Grab another beer.
Your going to cook again when the wolves are ready, but let that damn pot cook while you have a smoke, or something. Smoke the right thing and the timing will work out perfect.
Shred your cheese. Cook the tortillas under-crisp in oil. You want them bendable. Roll that cheese up in tortillas and put the damn things in a greasy pan. Those are the werewolves.
Now pour that stew on the wolves when it’s ready. Throw the pan in a hot oven for a while, until it gets bubbly. If you put some extra cheese on top – see it gets browned.
That’s it. Take them out and let them cool. Then feed your people.
I did this recipe for you men. Now, go get my book. Women won’t read it.