Friday, 10 March 2006

Scientist Says He Stands by Fusion Data

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A nuclear scientist at Purdue said yesterday that he would cooperate with the university's review of his fusion research. "From a technical point, we stand by our data," said the scientist, Rusi P. Taleyarkhan, a professor of nuclear engineering.

In 2002, scientists led by Dr. Taleyarkhan, who was then at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee, announced that they had achieved fusion, the melding of hydrogen atoms to produce light and energy, in a small tabletop device by blasting a jar of solvent with strong ultrasound vibrations.

Scientists who have tried to reproduce the experiment say they have not seen any signs of fusion. The journal Nature reported on its Web site yesterday that several faculty members at Purdue, including Lefteri H. Tsoukalas, the head of the School of Nuclear Engineering who hired Dr. Taleyarkhan in 2003, now doubt the finding.
According to the article, Dr. Taleyarkhan had not shared raw data from experimental runs that he said had successfully produced fusion, had argued against the publication of negative results by other professors who had conducted similar experiments and had removed equipment from a shared laboratory, impeding colleagues' work.

Dr. Taleyarkhan said that he saw the article for the first time yesterday and that his Purdue colleagues' complaints "came as a major surprise to me."

On Tuesday, in response to the impending article, Sally Mason, the Purdue provost, said in a statement that "extremely serious" concerns had been raised about Dr. Taleyarkhan's work and that the university decided last week to review it.

In a follow-up statement released yesterday, Dr. Mason said, "There is disagreement within the scientific community both here and elsewhere concerning this research."

Dr. Mason said she had requested "a thorough review of the work and any concerns expressed about it."

She added, "As in any scientific endeavor, Purdue's ultimate goals are truth and integrity."

The statement did not describe the concerns that had been raised with Dr. Mason. The review will be led by Peter E. Dunn, associate vice provost for research. University officials have not decided how the investigation will be conducted or how long it will take, said Jeanne Norberg, a spokeswoman.

"We're going to have a complete review of things and see where that takes us," Ms. Norberg said. "Dr. Taleyarkhan said he would cooperate with whatever we needed with this review."

The findings of the review will be made public, Ms. Norberg said.

Dr. Taleyarkhan dismissed an assertion made this month by a scientist at the University of California, Los Angeles, that the pattern of particles emitted in by the experiment did not match what had been expected for fusion, but instead appeared to be californium, a radioactive element present in Dr. Taleyarkhan's laboratory.

"I believe that's off base," Dr. Taleyarkhan said.

The calculations, by Brian Naranjo, a graduate student, have been submitted to Physical Review Letters, which published Dr. Taleyarkhan's most recent paper in January.

Dr. Taleyarkhan declined to explain further, saying the journals were the proper venue to discuss scientific issues.

In their 2002 report, Dr. Taleyarkhan and his colleagues said fusion had been created when the ultrasonic vibrations caused small gas bubbles in the solvent to collapse quickly, generating superhot temperatures where fusion could occur.

Colin D. West, a retired Oak Ridge scientist who set up the part of the device that generates the ultrasonic vibrations, said yesterday that he was present as data was being taken for the experiments and that he remained confident that fusion had been observed.

"All I'm telling you," Dr. West said, "is that I am confident that results that were taken when I was there were real."

University to Investigate Fusion Study (March 8, 2006)

From http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/09/science/09fusion.html?ex=1299560400&en=07d17d134f1503a8&ei=5089&partner=rssyahoo&emc=rss

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Hitching Memory

In a polished wood mansion perched above a rainforest valley, hidden brook gurgling through tree ferns and lilli pillis, the bearded hitchhiker treats me to an espresso. It’s not possible to drive him to his door, set in a cabin nestled in a mountain spur above us; there’s no road. This is the nearest he can be delivered, up a pair of muddy wheel ruts, past fallen trees recently cut from the track, to the house of a nearby neighbour. A house accessible only on foot, by four wheel drive or helicopter.

Leo works in the community radio station and plants trees to complete his fifteen hours of community service each week. For this the community pays for his basic needs - an admirable system in a country where forty percent of the population lives on social security payments. But it won’t stretch to maintain a vehicle any more - and no-one's told him he's not required to do any of this now that he's over fifty. He smiles his catlike grin.

“The best thing you can do to make the world a better place is to be happy,” he says. “You can do all sorts of things, follow that whole materialist path or be serious, working to help others. But that seriousness is part of the problem, that earnest attitude that takes you away from what’s important - being happy. And that’s the best thing you can do for yourself and those around you.”

We both grin in unison. The path to happiness can be long or instantaneous. You can attempt to be happy, to put up a simulacrum of merriment in the hope that it will induce the real thing or make others believe you’re cool and happy and well – or you can be happy, and the world is instantly a better place. Be here now.

An hour later eye intercept the school bus as it winds from the cool school set like a jewel in the emerald valley above the mightiest river in the region. Wonder Boy leaps into my arms and holds me close before we go on to meet his mother. He plays a game of cards with her and two of his friends on an ornate picnic blanket while twin baby sisters sleep within the three room cabin. In this community, no-one owns the land and everyone pitches together just enough to make happy lives happier.

The boys need an adult to oversee their swim today, as the swollen and turbulent river sweeps across the rapids in unfamiliar eddies and twists. Eye recline on the comfortable rocks and watch to ensure they don’t attempt the impossible while they learn to surf in a safer temporary billabong. A week from seven, Wonder Boy furtively glances in my direction every now and then as he balances athwart the board. He needs to know his triumphs are observed by his father. He’s been through the wars recently, vivid scar wrapped halfway around his ribcage after riding his bike off a cliff, foot sprained after being run over by a car. Indomitable, he balances well, leaning into the current and going with the flow, muscles straining.

A voice is droning in my head, repeating “Remember this remember this remember this…” and eye imprint the precious scene and accompanying soundtrack into fluid memory - bush boys playing together, barely competing, learning their arts - these moments of wonder and joy that will soon be gone. Instantly transformed.

In a trance eye struggle to Be Here Now while another scene plays itself out in memory, overlaid on reality.

Wonder’s brother Beamish is seven. He’s just woken and doesn’t want to wait for breakfast before running out into the bush. Eye am impelled to say, “Every day, when you wake up, you know how you can’t wait to get up and be out there, how the world is calling to you and you just have to go out straight away?” He nods, quizzical. “And you know how the world is a fascinating new place every day and there’s always something amazing about to happen?”

“Yes?” he asks the father who’s stating the obvious.

“Well – most of the big people out there – the adulterated ones – have lost that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Many of them don’t know that the world is a magical place any more. They once did, when they were kids, but they don’t any more.”

“Why not? How could they not know?”

“They’ve forgotten.”

“Oh – so that’s why they’re like that.”

“Yes.”

The voice repeats, “Remember this, remember this, remember this…” and eye emerge into the present again, watching Wonder Boy and his friends. My eyes were open but might just as well be closed, reality completely replaced by the memoried vision for an instant.

“Be here now, be here now,” the voice repeats.

Later eye am here, in a screen in virtuality, absent from the world again, writing this sentence. Fourteen years ago a faerie godmother sitting in a field by the same river had only one piece of advice for me.

“Ah, she said as me met, how rare! A reformed Sirian!” That got my attention, so eye sat beside her on the grass. She was festooned with velvet and beads. “All I can tell you,” Gaia said through her mouth, “is to maintain a sense of immanence.”

Rhymes with inner sense, innocence. Easy to recall. If you really want to imprint a thing, say “Remember this,” not “don’t forget.”

- R.A.M.

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Thursday, 9 March 2006

Flux: Non-Terrestrial Heritage

Flux – Non-Terrestrial Heritage

This week Russia announced its intention to mine Helium-3 on the moon and Richard Branson announced the inception of Virgin Galactic - sub-orbital tourist flights within two years. Humanity is feeling the outward urge once again.

The essence is forever in flux, while remaining itself. The modern form of the word ‘Mars’ is a good example of this changeless change. The planet was denoted by the consonants M*R before Babylon and has borne this signifier in many tongues, including the Sanskrit of the Vedas. Many modern languages still have these same consonants in its name and in related terms for concepts such as the month of March, (Mardi) when Aries the spring ram is aligned with the Solar radiance – the time of year when armies historically march in the northern hemisphere.

The vowels in a word are its flowing spirit and naturally more variable through cultures and time than the consonants. In many old written languages the vowels aren’t recorded at all, but inferred.

The word ‘Mars’ is not just a name for the planet, even though it has remained the same since the time when the solar system was organised differently from today. The word also carries a ‘hologrammatic’ memory - as do all words in all tongues - that defines its meaning and nature. It carries a memory of its original nature, before humanity came to regard it as a planet of war ane woe, a time when that fluid-sheathed planet shared the solar system with two other orbs which carried the menstruum of biological life – water.

In human superconscious memory it is also a signifier of the flux of life and consciousness that transcends and intertwines the planets, including the one that was once where the best-known asteroid belt is now. Human ancestors saw that originally fluid glowing pearl of a planet destroy and transform the nature and life of Ares/Mars and decimate the life-forms of Earth. The waters of life change form perpetually while remaining unchanged in essence.

Named ‘Marduk’ by some of those ancestors, the rogue planet’s orbit is now stabilised after being seen to ‘battle’ in the heavens with Mars. But who among you today could believe the planet Venus has been in its current orbit for less than 3,000 years? It requires a revolution in thought and perception to see what has been swept under the carpet by the collectively willed amnesia of humanity.

Tales of Lemuria – Mu – and the pyramidal Mount Meru are memories of a time when there were colonies on the Earth. The Aramaic (Rama) culture which swept down the Indus Valley from the highlands - that survived the great trauma and floods of those memorable but forgotten eras - spread out and established themselves during and after one of these nearer passages of Marduk/Venus past Earth. The same is true of dominant cultures to all sides of the Himalayan redoubt, the great bulwark against the waters of forgetfulness.

These surviving civilizations carried and transmitted direct strains of memory of the truth that are with us today, hiding in plain site as facets of these civilizations – all recovering remnants of the great antediluvian global order that our ancestors created and lost.

Memories are interwoven with the standing, stranding waves of genetic information which we encode and modify in our existence here.

We are all the grandchildren of the Maruts, those beings of renown recalled and acclaimed by some as the Sons of God. While you cannot really know something when it is gone, all things are recoverable in one form or another. The potential of humanity is breathtaking. Rise to it with compassion and this paradise can be renewed.

See Shattered Planet Reborn and

http://www.virgingalactic.com/en/

http://www.nasaspaceflight.com/content/?id=4158

http://www.sevenrays.com/catalog/describe.htm?item=0932813771

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- R. Ayana

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Sunday, 5 March 2006

SMI2LE and Uplift Humanity

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The paradigm of perpetual economic increase is as inevitable an outgrowth of our biological existence as population increase. We’ve been on the roller-coaster ride of the rise and fall of ‘civilization’ for millennia and each rise has taken us a little closer to maturity, closer to some of our species leaving the womb of the planet to explore other possibilities. Space travel can increase not only the time allotted to us on this inherently unstable planet in an inherently unstable section of the universe – it can allow us to ride the living pulse of growth and diversify our kind into utterly new lives we cannot easily imagine. Most mining can be removed from the Earth as extraterrestrial habitats are created from materials that don’t have to be lifted from our punishing gravity well. The technology has existed for decades for mining the moon and asteroids and delivering materials around the solar system in an economically and environmentally viable way. Similarly, energy can be beamed to Earth from solar powered orbiting stations at little cost. There are at least two likely scenarios for this Uplift; 1 – Sporing. In this scenario humanity increases its technological growth at the expense of the environment and society, continuing as bands of tribes united under national warlords, perpetuating fossilised industrial and mythic ideas. All or most extraterrestrial colonies would be militarised and global civilization would decline in the face of new technological threats faced and caused by these competing regimes. New colonies are formed at the expense of the planet, which swiftly declines. 2 – Fractal Flowering. In this scenario humans achieve unity in diversity, forming an effective one world consensus. Freedom and growth go hand in hand and humanity flowers into a diversity of forms as wealth, health and happiness are increased for all. As Timothy Leary said, SMI2LE is a good formula for the future – space migration + intelligence increase + life extension = infinity. These three ways of increasing humanity’s potential go hand in hand and allow any who dare to achieve anything they can imagine. In the late 1970s a band of visionary dreamers drew together to announce a plan to enact these Scenario 2 ideals and save the planet from being immersed into barbarism once again. “…Back in the 1970s when space had the American imagination enthralled, figures like Gerard K. O'Neill and Buckminster Fuller began to imagine the next wave of Utopian experiments. Their remarks appear in an amazing book released by And/Or Press and the New Dimensions Foundation in 1978[11]. These experiments would be attempted with the realization that, if heaven could not be realized on earth, perhaps it should be put where it belongs: in the heavens. O'Neill talks about space colonies in precisely these ways, as places where new Utopian experiments in self-governance and economic life can be attempted; and in an interview, when asked what type of men would settle in these colonies, he makes analogies to the people who sailed with Colombus or came with the Pilgrims to the New World. If America created one world, for O'Neill settling in space will be a new way to create a thousand more, and discover others: our next confrontation with alterity will be with other races that, unlike the native peoples of America, may not even resemble us at all. O'Neill sees it as axiomatic that America will lead this march into space, recognizing that the Utopian imagination that created it never found the complete fulfillment within its shores, and thus turns to the next unconquered frontier…” - Go to source: UTOPIAN AMERICAN COMMUNITIES http://www.fiu.edu/~mizrachs/utopo-amer.html Life in space is not everyone's ideal, but those few that wanted to explore unknown frontiers would actually help the multitudes who stay at home. The idea went around the world, eagerly promulgated by the global media of the day. It had its fifteen minutes of fame before being roundly quashed by disinformationist scare campaigns created by lobbyists for the fossil fuel industries – oil, coal, gas, uranium; the technology was ‘too expensive’, ‘too dangerous’ and ‘bad for the environment’. After months of global exposure, the ideas of these visionaries were still ahead of their time – then. As we all know less than two generations later, we are all on a roller-coaster ride and we’re all in the same boat. Welcome to the Third Millennium. Do we dare to dream of paradise yet? - R. Ayana K. Gerard O'Neill Further Reading – Exo-Psychology, By Timothy Leary, Peace Press, Los Angeles, 134 pp The Eighth Tower, By John A. Keel, Signet, New York, 1977, 250 pp Prolongevity, By Albert Rosenfeld, Knopf, New York, 1976; 250 pp. The Immortalist, By Alan Harrington, Celestial Arts, Millbrae, 1977, 313 pp http://hippy-stuff.com/resource/timothyleary/timothyleary.html http://www.rawilsonfans.com/articles/SFR23.htm images - http://www.donaldedavis.com/BIGPUB/STORUS1.jpg http://storage.canalblog.com/77/29/344666/59540156.jpg

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Friday, 3 March 2006

Still Rising

Made it back home across the river just before it became an impossible, treacherous swathe of swirling brown, a sinuous horizontal vortex sweeping the bedrock channel clean. Water winds its way from the sky to the sea, taking with it thousands upon thousands of tons of ancient soil released by the unprotected riverbanks.

Archetypically the flood rises after years of parching drought. Already reaching near-record rain levels, predictions of more days of rain followed by thunderstorms are made. The usual.

Goorah and eye wait for a short break in the downpour to traverse the slushy track to the muddy dirt road in the Jackaroo Deva. We have a narrow window betwixt one flooding bridge and the next. The river approaches the road as we reach the place where we know the first causeway to be. It’s a narrow concrete strip above a swirling deep hole on a river bend, somewhere in the middle of a turbid torrent that covers it – and thirty metres of road – completely. Not quite yet impassable if you know the flow and can keep the engine revving. Not too fast, not too slow, not quite nudged into the hole by the swift current.

“Thirty-six black cockatoos on the tree at the mission yesterday,” Goorah observes as the rain begins thundering down again.

“Thirty-six? Yellow tails?”

“Ni. Screaming and singing away. One of the young fellas there on the veranda counted them.”

Past paddocks become lakes and floating cattle we make the last two bridges with less than a foot of freeboard. Goorah has made it back to the Mission, and the rainforest home is now unapproachable. Town is almost cut off, but there’s just enough time to purchase a roving internet connexion and some supplies before phoning ahead. Time to reach the kids – but the phones don’t answer and the river is rising.

It’s moments like these that a local community radio station is invaluable. My plans firm up when the announcer tells me there’s no way to reach the valley where one of the boys lives. The two most direct roads out of town are already under many feet of water, leaving one roundabout route open and there’s nobody home at either of my destinations. Grey clouds mass in a new approaching front.

Then eye’m offered a place to stay for the night in a large concrete oval dome. Reminiscent of a giant empty tortoise shell, delicately scalloped and inlaid with mosaics, it’s populated by knee-high winged fairy beings made of neo-porcelain, decked in gold and velvet. Paintings dot the walls of the hand-built artist’s studio whose curvaceous walls and circular windows spiral this dreamer through the night.

Today the clouds disguise the dawn and there’s still one road open – when the tide is right. It’s possible to reach one of the kids past wide rivers lapping at the roads and shouldering the highway. The only real obstacle is nothing to do with the weather; Beamish and his mother have just moved house, leaving me with no address but the coastal town’s name and the fact that they live near a big water tank.

The Jackaroo deva aquaplanes along the highway. Most vehicles have their lights on at midday and many have pulled over, parked on the side of the road. An hour later Beamish and eye are leaving the beach to attempt to reach his brother.

The boiling sea is a uniform brown out to a few hundred yards from the shore, where a line as clean as the horizon itself separates the muddy water from the aquamarine Pacific. A gale is rising as the tide falls; at the propitious moment we make our way toward the still pooling lake which covers the highway to Wonder Boy’s valley. It’s only a couple of feet deep and hardly moving, but the emergency workers won’t allow us to make the attempt. We head for the mouth of the river where eye sit writing this in yet another town in a house on the headland, listening to the massive surf pounding at the breakwater and the roar of the river pouring into the ocean. Nothing is visible in the dark of night but a single light in the distance. The houselights are out but the power and phone lines work. The usual occupant is trapped in another town and has graciously opened her door to these happy wayfarers.

It’s good that things are normal again. The drought may even be over.