NASA Releases Stunning Images of Return to the Moon 2.5 Years From Now

“During the Artemis program, NASA will land the first woman and first person of color on the Moon, using innovative technologies to explore more of the lunar surface than ever before. We will collaborate with our commercial and international partners and establish sustainable exploration for the first time. Then, we will use what we learn on and around the Moon to take the next giant leap – sending astronauts to Mars.”

That’s an old picture of Ham.

Saw the flat earth vid a couple days back. That ice escarpment down Antarctica way reminded me of The Wall, in Game of Thrones, & how long I’ve stood Night’s Watch. Once upon a time crampons, an ice axe in each hand, & the call of the wild/ings – that redhead bowess (I like that better than archeress), Ygritte, & her Scottishness – and the necessary bankroll, woulda’ been enough to up & over. “John Galt, I presume?”

A Walk on the Moon…Diane Lane (who I’ve always liked), with Viggo Mortensen (ditto), sampling some missed life before returning to the one that was hit, Woodstock, the mooning of America (& the world).

October Sky…Jake Gyllenhall (as Homer Hickam), born to be a WV coal miner, but likes rockets, despite coal miner daddy disapproval, & has a tragic teacher lady, & nerdy buddies, to help with motivation & winning the science contest & meeting his hero Werner von Braun & eventually going to clip his econ rent coupons at nasa.

Fun, heartstrings, horatio alger, hollywoodeverafter flicks.

Operation Paperclip, Annie Jacobsen’s book, is on my shelf. Has been, for a few years. Scribbled quote, years ago, from Victor Hugo, “It is those books which a man possesses but does not read which constitute the most suspicious evidence against him.”

Pretty sure I can parry that one. Said it before, these people are liars. And worse. If time & inclination intersect, & unsnarling a particular pack of rabid dogs fills the bill on a given day, so be it. But afterward you’ll not know any more than you ever needed to know: these people are liars.

The Name of the Rose smells just as sweet, or sickly sweet, or foul, as any other name. Language of Lies (the original & still the beast LoL…), has been polished, handed down to polishers, for 1000’s of years, as has been polishee ability to swallow.

Squares dreaming of cubic Genies:

Speaking of Jack London…read a teardown of Into the Wild once. The fulcrum was that the doomed idealist, who died in that abandoned school bus up in AK, was largely motivated by London’s unlived scribbling. Is that so? Or just dismiss&indict the dead kid, the dead London, with the broadest brush?

“The Road” (before Cormac McCarthy).

And part of what London saw when he was “Pinched” (couldn’t find it online, went back to when I did, ’19, & this trove – a teensy portion – was stuck to it):

Saw this, about Jack London, in a recent LRC piece:

“Jailed, London the future socialist stood by as his gang disciplined a naïf, “I remember a handsome young mulatto of about twenty who got the insane idea into his head that he should stand for his rights. And he did have the right of it, too; but that didn’t help him any. He lived on the topmost gallery. Eight hall-men took the conceit out of him in just about a minute and a half—for that was the length of time required to travel along his gallery to the end and down five flights of steel stairs. He travelled the whole distance on every portion of his anatomy except his feet, and the eight hall-men were not idle. The mulatto struck the pavement where I was standing watching it all. He regained his feet and stood upright for a moment. In that moment he threw his arms wide apart and emitted an awful scream of terror and pain and heartbreak. At the same instant, as in a transformation scene, the shreds of his stout prison clothes fell from him, leaving him wholly naked and streaming blood from every portion of the surface of his body. Then he collapsed in a heap, unconscious. He had learned his lesson, and every convict within those walls who heard him scream had learned a lesson. So had I learned mine. It is not a nice thing to see a man’s heart broken in a minute and a half.”

But the writer then goes on to justify “reframing” (denying) the denial that roots the cause of all the downstream symptomology:

“London insisted a worldwide class revolution was the answer. A century and several gory nightmares later, there are those who still cling to this faith, but only in the West. In the East, even the most ignorant know the survival of his identity and dignity is conterminous with his nation’s. Orwell understood this well. It is the biggest crime to wreck anyone’s heritage in a flash.”

But before all that writer characterizes, either contra all the heritage blather, or inadvertently spills beans on true humanimal “heritage” (albeit whilst incorrectly broadstroking ego):

“London quickly worked his way up the clink’s hierarchy, to become one of 13 enforcers for the guards. This experience alone should have taught him that in all situations, not just dire ones, each man will prioritize his own interest and survival, and that there’s no solidarity among the “downtrodden” or whatever. Orwell’s Animal Farm is a parable about this. Since man is an egoist, power lust lurks everywhere.”

Yeah, writer’s asian contagion may be showing. But it ain’t just Asians got the infection. Nair takes the hair off, narrative – incl “heritage” – glues it back on. Stay thirstily & hairily beastly, my most interesting friends in the whirl’d…that bier commercial.

And then writer concludes with this:

“In the US, at least, this shouldn’t be too complicated, for their crimes are mostly out in the open, and their enforcers appear nightly in your living room, not unlike 1984. As you watch, they cheerfully lie, silence witnesses, mass murder, squander your last cent and dismantle, brick by brick, the house your forefathers built and died defending. Even if all they saw was its basement, it was still their everything.”

More of the ancestor hairy narrative hari-kari (seppuku) . But what caught my eye connects to a snip of dialog from the Peaky Blinders Irish gangster series (Helen McCrory’s in scene, just gone by cancer…but we got helicopters on mars):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZZQVVQUg08

Every enabling\codependent cogdis accommodation, adaption to & embracing of pharaoh – including those renamed\reframed phounding phathers, as well as all their lesser wannabe emulators who build, or join, “their own” gangs – is exactly “like taking bricks out of the wall of your fucking house.” The song is Just Another Brick In The Wall. But the dismantling of individual boundaries – barrier walls – is really a much clearer pic of the process, &\or of humanimal design.

Other people are not, can never be bricks in your house. But, all too many, have never yet stopped pretending to be just such bricks & pretending others were just such bricks. That’s the illusion that sells & humanimal herds will buy all you got. Even this London writer says it without seeming to notice he did. Or maybe he just goes with the rad egal effluent that all unique individuals are merely carbon copies to be writ up & in at pharoah’s discretion.

Gonzo (was a freaking optimist…at least when he wrote part of this): “We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”

― Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

Caveat always: manymanymany are already @conception preconfig’d boundaryless, or mostly so…& then the long pavlovian gauntlet, of “hall-men,” to drive it all home(less…no bricks for you! barks the masonry nazi) starts. Cuz ever’body knows the big bad wolves can’t huff&puff down brick…(oh, I gotta’ story ‘bout a pig I chased into a brickyard once upon a time…)

Finally, at the very start of the London piece: “Trapped in intensely mediated lives, we all think we know more as we experience less and less.”

Just so. And the most intense “mediation” of all is, & always has been, “we.” It is dissociation…via association. And the ocean’s just a desert with the perfect disguise above. Hedged Oxbow Incidents forever. ∞

You know how we can tell the moon landings weren’t faked?
They believed in evolution and they believed the moon was 4 billion years old (need those “magic” lengths of time for the impossible to become possible). Now they believe it’s 3 times that old. The “magic wand” has to keep getting bigger.
Anyway, at 4 billion years old they calculated the moon would have 28 FEET of dust on its surface. There’s no water or weather on the moon. Hence the oversized landing pads even though the moon has 1/6 the gravitational attraction. They expected the lander to “sink majestically into the surface”.

There was only about 1 INCH of dust. If the landing was fake, the 28 feet of dust lie would still be believed.