Thursday, December 13, 2018
Saturday, December 8, 2018
The Long Way Around
THE LONG WAY AROUND
 |
| foiagetbanded |
a fool can but see the key. but a scholar knows
that liberty is only for those that keep the hinge
well oiled. a tyrant can but see the room beyond.
but it takes aptitude, lighting the dark maze of
rooms and doors, to know that freedom is only
four minutes long.
when a man of knowledge mounts this 4 minutes into another 4 minutes, he's already quite certain that to do so, relinquishes all the dependencies noosed about his neck. he is no longer a victim of his own folly. -das landstuhler 2017
when a man of knowledge mounts this 4 minutes into another 4 minutes, he's already quite certain that to do so, relinquishes all the dependencies noosed about his neck. he is no longer a victim of his own folly. -das landstuhler 2017
Friday, December 7, 2018
Thursday, December 6, 2018
Caught Up in the Moment
- - - - Caught Up in the Moment - - - -
wounded hawk, in her frailties will miss,
the target so known musing but just a kiss.
she keeps her head high, but the death is too strong.
in her head she was counting every second too long.
she gasps with a sigh, "yes, soon i'll be well".
but the morning thus finds her, rudely thrust into hell.
with an eye she sheds moisture, what else could i do?
now the vultures do gather, to split up her brew.
perhaps if i sang to some god up above?
but the verdict encountered not even a shove.
it can't be too late! she flitters and frowns.
how could it be so, deep under the ground.
ha ha, ha ha ha. I laugh at their scorn.
only friend now the filth, that has ravaged and torn.
the dull pounding has sharpened, the pulse has grown nigh.
the cough will not ebb, like a desert when dry.
now thrown from heaven, just one thing to do.
she'll wish on her grave, that she could have known you.
but alas now a prisoner, she'll learn to forget.
all the pain and the sorrow, all the mortal regret.
and if on one day, in the darkness and doom.
she finds in her tart, the spenders that loom.
it will dawn such the sparkle anterior event.
and that's when thought uplifting, she'll seize whom was sent.
(C) 2017 das landstuhler
the target so known musing but just a kiss.
she keeps her head high, but the death is too strong.
in her head she was counting every second too long.
she gasps with a sigh, "yes, soon i'll be well".
but the morning thus finds her, rudely thrust into hell.
with an eye she sheds moisture, what else could i do?
now the vultures do gather, to split up her brew.
perhaps if i sang to some god up above?
but the verdict encountered not even a shove.
it can't be too late! she flitters and frowns.
how could it be so, deep under the ground.
ha ha, ha ha ha. I laugh at their scorn.
only friend now the filth, that has ravaged and torn.
the dull pounding has sharpened, the pulse has grown nigh.
the cough will not ebb, like a desert when dry.
now thrown from heaven, just one thing to do.
she'll wish on her grave, that she could have known you.
but alas now a prisoner, she'll learn to forget.
all the pain and the sorrow, all the mortal regret.
and if on one day, in the darkness and doom.
she finds in her tart, the spenders that loom.
it will dawn such the sparkle anterior event.
and that's when thought uplifting, she'll seize whom was sent.
(C) 2017 das landstuhler
- - - - dusting dead - - - foiaartstudios - - -
Fingerprints of das Landstuhler
these fingerprints show the very rare arches on all 10 fingertips. before the cut on the LEFT INDEX [seen anteriorly], this was not a radial loop, but an under-tone of arches that line closer to the fingertip. for it to be only a radial loop, none of the print should surge over the side insertion. in a very studied sense, this type of over-the-insertion manifest of the radial loop, is actually more rare than the arch, not less, which would be 1 or 2 out of 100, depending on the digit.
Fingerprints of das Landstuhler
|
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Story of Confinement
STORY OF CONFINEMENT ©, dec 8 1999 by das landstuhler
Once there was a war, but she knew her will was stronger. The consummate places she had to cross, had to endure, had to face, made a type of pressure increase over her heart, until a small relief came to her. The madness of her, not someone else – but her!, having nothing left, but the slow dull rhythm of day-up and sun-down, in and out, in and out, abandoning any promises she might have had, or resolutions she had decided upon, finally welled up in the back of her throat. In a silent, still, and passive anguish, she let a fraction of one single tear force its way to appear in the corner of her eye. Like turning the knob on a welcomed unlocked door, the tiny moisture released from her gland, was enough warmth to remind her that there was some kind of end which now only her body became aware of.
She wiped the tear away.
In the pitted process she was expected to accept there was now a new element which chided and challenged the very fiber of her birth, asked her to sacrifice more than she had when she was given her life. How could she live with no happiness, no progeny, no future? It didn’t make any sense. Even in shallowness there had to be a slight depth. Is this what it was coming to? That the others were reaching such tepidly surface levels of deceit to acquire no need for disguise? Not even a semblance of worry, it appeared, was extent in their demands, but their haughtiness was built up the way one might single-mindedly stack a house of playing cards, easily crumbling at the slightest breath. Could there have been some error, some kind of mistake? No. There was no turning back. God, His victory, His yearning will and passion for careful prudent love were all leading to one eventual outcome that not one could alter or stop below the mightiness of His hand. He, and no one else, had meant this wonderful little girl to be more than the others were allowing.
She lay still, resting motionless, hoping to feel something, but there was nothing. Sighing in the bitter revulsion that enveloped her, she swallowed and prepared for the worst. She examined these terrible new thoughts, but never had it been so unbearably deep, so awfully poignant, so completely and utterly unfair. Could these people really be her enemies, God’s enemies. Had it just gone too far this time, and the only emotional strength which didn’t drain her, damage her, destroy her, delude her, was now under attack in every horribly creeping insane way that she could imagine?
She raised her head on one arm, and searched her mind to remember a time when it had been different, even shadingly different, but no. During her life she had witnessed uncountable aspects of victory, and not even triumph came close to the utmost aspiration of living spirit that beat in her heart, breathed in her lungs, was there from one end, of all she knew as being, to the other. It was hard to describe in quickly defined terms, but what she had discovered drew victory alone on the road to pureness. Were God to have a name, she mused, it would be “victory”.
But the short ends of victory were the arduous and unfollowable paths of its spoils. Those ill-gotten gains that made victory for all but God, impossible. Any victor not bowing before the column of his birth, born from a woman, was scarred thru-out the entirety of his existence, and brutally dashed away from the tree of life. The greatest of ............end p1.......................start p2............................................
conquerors and the lowest of beggars were of the same lot, since both would take what was not their due, and neither would stand aside at the moment that it mattered the most. God had sole claim to victory, she had decided, but because there was only one avenue of approach towards victory, no one could, in real, actual, tangible emotions, feel joy without first, feeling love.
As she was coming upon and making these intensely important decisions of love that would effect, not only her, but the congress of nations and whole peoples, it had never occurred to her that what “it was all leading to" was as perverse as it was without plan. She smiled at the irony of their dubious hatred. She had given. She had gladly and eagerly paid again and again to all, to everyone. Had it not been her whom they turned to, each one, in their hours of deepest need? She had paid for all of them, had tasted love, knew victory perhaps to its fullest . . . and now this. Every conceivably known emotion in her mind had fallen shy, had betrayed her, or was in the long run beyond her reach. Love was all she had, all she lived for; and now with a sick, detestable, slobbering smirk of hatred on their lips (which nearly made her vomit from its obvious putrescence) their belabored insistence grew no gain.
It was a haunting type of relief, a sort of will to the very fibers of being born. She would do this because for her it was the only possible thing still there that she could do. She sat up, placed her hands on her thighs, and took a full breath of air. She would make the last stand for love on earth.
As air ran briskly thru her lungs and the senses of her being, she momentarily became giddy with an acutely higher consciousness, which showed her that their hatred was so pathetic, it couldn’t be used as a weapon. Their only weapon was guilt. A glee developed in those cheeks of hers, even the corners of her mouth uplifted a small degree. Was it true? She had just experienced blood warming thoughts that would follow, without struggle, all the days of her life. What appeared to this little girl were merely labels, merely the brands of what was there beneath. How far did it go? She almost laughed out loud. Did, could, had God really, actually meant, intended her – me, she thought, to be the only person He counted on thru these wretched days and months so absent of hope? In the ridiculousness of such an overly lofty exultation, she shuddered and trembled until her mind came back to the warmth which had a bit less responsibility. Truth, justice, fairness, chastity, charity, caring, grace, mercy, and all the rest were seraphim, were angels, were arch-angels which in their centers would not fall prey to hatred or guilt. As long as her heaven’s emotions were given their proper order, she could claim everlasting protection below God, thru joy, following her only untampered expression in love.
In fact, interestingly enough, “effecting the Congress of Nations and Whole People’s”, aside from this moment on, being this little fawn’s only duty and longing, was also a foreseeably bright and incredible outcome for an emotion as great and strong as love. They would threaten to torture her, maim her spirit or physical body, amputate her limbs, but in the hideousness of their malign persecution, they could never touch the absence of guilt that brought upon her final monumentally cataclysmic decision in favor of love. The utmost palpable but horrendous truth that she was here-to-fore unafraid to carry forward, found them ushering her to live without love. When that had not been enough, they had hidden their love away until it was all too easy to see that the others had ..............end p2..............start p3............................
built, had unceasingly encircled her with, ring after ring of hatred, pursuing a vicious unrelenting wall, affording one last essentially rotten cause.
They had refused to eschew evil, and were enjoying themselves no end of extremes, strictly to the little girl’s disadvantage. They anchored themselves to each of her actions, were living at her expense alone, like parasites. She faced the disharmonic aggregated nature of their locks on her future, uncovering the unfortified eventual result. They had run out of feeling and needed more. She would make no offering to them as before. In the desperate hunger prevailing under such circumstances, harbored they this new gain. Shouldn’t she just give up, were the sake of the whole, “the union”, to be put in danger? They surmised the taste of her fruit, licking their lips and drooling in wrath. Since she would not oblige their dreadful need, they had but a dire recourse. They would steal her love.
Malevolent uncontrolled fire and burning, of heedless and unbridled craving ran thru her mind {even the courses of her limbs having a fogged recollection of swimming} stampeding at first, then wandering aimlessly as if in search of replacements for insurmountable waste and losses encountered along the numbered tribulations of her past. It was them, whom caused the subconscious brow-beating, leaving her submissively subjective, even subjugated. But in light of her own responses and bravery, there appeared a poised stage of ineradicable spectrums within the matrix of her premeditations which languished and gleamed free from its obtrusive fetters and binding . . . if just for that moment, being all she could tame. Recalling the beginning precept of her freedom, conclusively became the path of least resistance. Our little melon was seeing through the impossibility of their implausible, but wicked venture. Was seeing thru different eyes. The eyes of awareness. She recognized in a flash, unfearingly, unhesitatingly, upon her honest incentives only being ascertained thru self-motivation.
Oh, little one, where is your lover? Where is your lover, and where is your courage?
Gentle as the touch of wing-tips carried thru the night of trouble. And you?
Softer than a serpent’s cry, though he may have found you.
Alone for the moment, and always just beyond the next hill.
Sleep, if you may.
It may cover the roots as ignorance could not. and she will cry . . .
for you.
Her awareness had reached its crown. That ending piece of a puzzle, deliberatingly dissolving disillusionment, the same as the sun or a star – any star – fixed in its heavenly incubus, physically knowing, that its light alone brought subconscious states to a completed conscious level.
With the security of her Creator, her crown of awareness graduated as a stepping stone to fame. Although vague, the crystal shining clearness of fame’s immovable spectrums, its glorious common colors and stunning splintered hues, had pervaded asunder to see power seeking where others fail. She had never regretted giving, never felt sublime loneliness as any other had scorned. And at this moment, although she squeezed herself and flinched involuntarily, she had done it, had gone past all of them, studyingly using her will alone, was proud. ...........end p3........start p4..............
Gateway beckoning to be touched, her fame had started with giving, because the receiver need always come back, assuredly following serial lines of entropy. And “assuredly”; it was their brittle but thick clotted patches and blots of jeering pasted malice interposed in mis-shapen reticulate designs, patterned to fit betwixt an incompassionate and capricious but heavy and stenchy scattering of screens, grown and planted and forged from blistering hatred – for the use! of hatred – that formed a peculiar recessed chill of dread, nearly sweeping her head to mindlessness. Dread however, ironically was the least of things pouting or strangling the able control of her senses and motor, as she had broken their first ring, which changes hatred – or what one might name “vehemence” – to the two-folded blind astringence of greed. Conspiracy, although of ill proportion, still loomed before her “stepping-stone’s” visage; making the others’ acrid carrionous loathing, destitute in the wake of exertion’s abortion. Because in “Gift’s” name she had failed not, traversing the pinnacle of awareness, caught meniscus-blurred glimpses containing the puissant secret of Originals.
In those distant unions surcease of time, generating gravity, graven from friction, although imprecise and campanulately tilted thru its cluster; she had melded with a bare intuition which discovered the place where concepts are born. “Being” in its original form needed no reproduction. The antecedent egg was non-existent, practically unreal except for its individual angle of time; because time isolated subsets in a union, pre-eminating a union of their own.
The scourge would soon have doubts, would soon have sneaking suspicions and inklings of hesitation when they witnessed the new light adorning her. What precipitated as beauty below the glory of her Maker, whilst conception remained unbarred, was so freely and freshly satisfying, nourishing, fulfilling, that questions of solace?, post-solace?, would she be dashed away after scaling to the epitome of understanding awareness?, became relaxed clinical questions within the laboratory scrutiny of nature’s intervention, were dashed away themselves. She would know another moment. Another sunrise. . . . or so it seemed.
Fate was emerging.
And making more than its stealthful steady contractions and blunt tips, scrape and dig her aura’s pellicle from their tertiary encapsulated chains of witness and surrendered spectation. She was close to seeing the rage of fate, and predetermining her outcomes was broadly separate from reach, but soon the faint dispositions of her involuntary avant-guard would flare, grapple and grid-snare, rolling uncontrastingly in turmoil’s bliss with every over-numbered entrance from lot’s shine. Leaving her surer . . . than the winner’s gate. ……………….end of p4
Once there was a war, but she knew her will was stronger. The consummate places she had to cross, had to endure, had to face, made a type of pressure increase over her heart, until a small relief came to her. The madness of her, not someone else – but her!, having nothing left, but the slow dull rhythm of day-up and sun-down, in and out, in and out, abandoning any promises she might have had, or resolutions she had decided upon, finally welled up in the back of her throat. In a silent, still, and passive anguish, she let a fraction of one single tear force its way to appear in the corner of her eye. Like turning the knob on a welcomed unlocked door, the tiny moisture released from her gland, was enough warmth to remind her that there was some kind of end which now only her body became aware of.
She wiped the tear away.
In the pitted process she was expected to accept there was now a new element which chided and challenged the very fiber of her birth, asked her to sacrifice more than she had when she was given her life. How could she live with no happiness, no progeny, no future? It didn’t make any sense. Even in shallowness there had to be a slight depth. Is this what it was coming to? That the others were reaching such tepidly surface levels of deceit to acquire no need for disguise? Not even a semblance of worry, it appeared, was extent in their demands, but their haughtiness was built up the way one might single-mindedly stack a house of playing cards, easily crumbling at the slightest breath. Could there have been some error, some kind of mistake? No. There was no turning back. God, His victory, His yearning will and passion for careful prudent love were all leading to one eventual outcome that not one could alter or stop below the mightiness of His hand. He, and no one else, had meant this wonderful little girl to be more than the others were allowing.
She lay still, resting motionless, hoping to feel something, but there was nothing. Sighing in the bitter revulsion that enveloped her, she swallowed and prepared for the worst. She examined these terrible new thoughts, but never had it been so unbearably deep, so awfully poignant, so completely and utterly unfair. Could these people really be her enemies, God’s enemies. Had it just gone too far this time, and the only emotional strength which didn’t drain her, damage her, destroy her, delude her, was now under attack in every horribly creeping insane way that she could imagine?
She raised her head on one arm, and searched her mind to remember a time when it had been different, even shadingly different, but no. During her life she had witnessed uncountable aspects of victory, and not even triumph came close to the utmost aspiration of living spirit that beat in her heart, breathed in her lungs, was there from one end, of all she knew as being, to the other. It was hard to describe in quickly defined terms, but what she had discovered drew victory alone on the road to pureness. Were God to have a name, she mused, it would be “victory”.
But the short ends of victory were the arduous and unfollowable paths of its spoils. Those ill-gotten gains that made victory for all but God, impossible. Any victor not bowing before the column of his birth, born from a woman, was scarred thru-out the entirety of his existence, and brutally dashed away from the tree of life. The greatest of ............end p1.......................start p2............................................
conquerors and the lowest of beggars were of the same lot, since both would take what was not their due, and neither would stand aside at the moment that it mattered the most. God had sole claim to victory, she had decided, but because there was only one avenue of approach towards victory, no one could, in real, actual, tangible emotions, feel joy without first, feeling love.
As she was coming upon and making these intensely important decisions of love that would effect, not only her, but the congress of nations and whole peoples, it had never occurred to her that what “it was all leading to" was as perverse as it was without plan. She smiled at the irony of their dubious hatred. She had given. She had gladly and eagerly paid again and again to all, to everyone. Had it not been her whom they turned to, each one, in their hours of deepest need? She had paid for all of them, had tasted love, knew victory perhaps to its fullest . . . and now this. Every conceivably known emotion in her mind had fallen shy, had betrayed her, or was in the long run beyond her reach. Love was all she had, all she lived for; and now with a sick, detestable, slobbering smirk of hatred on their lips (which nearly made her vomit from its obvious putrescence) their belabored insistence grew no gain.
It was a haunting type of relief, a sort of will to the very fibers of being born. She would do this because for her it was the only possible thing still there that she could do. She sat up, placed her hands on her thighs, and took a full breath of air. She would make the last stand for love on earth.
As air ran briskly thru her lungs and the senses of her being, she momentarily became giddy with an acutely higher consciousness, which showed her that their hatred was so pathetic, it couldn’t be used as a weapon. Their only weapon was guilt. A glee developed in those cheeks of hers, even the corners of her mouth uplifted a small degree. Was it true? She had just experienced blood warming thoughts that would follow, without struggle, all the days of her life. What appeared to this little girl were merely labels, merely the brands of what was there beneath. How far did it go? She almost laughed out loud. Did, could, had God really, actually meant, intended her – me, she thought, to be the only person He counted on thru these wretched days and months so absent of hope? In the ridiculousness of such an overly lofty exultation, she shuddered and trembled until her mind came back to the warmth which had a bit less responsibility. Truth, justice, fairness, chastity, charity, caring, grace, mercy, and all the rest were seraphim, were angels, were arch-angels which in their centers would not fall prey to hatred or guilt. As long as her heaven’s emotions were given their proper order, she could claim everlasting protection below God, thru joy, following her only untampered expression in love.
In fact, interestingly enough, “effecting the Congress of Nations and Whole People’s”, aside from this moment on, being this little fawn’s only duty and longing, was also a foreseeably bright and incredible outcome for an emotion as great and strong as love. They would threaten to torture her, maim her spirit or physical body, amputate her limbs, but in the hideousness of their malign persecution, they could never touch the absence of guilt that brought upon her final monumentally cataclysmic decision in favor of love. The utmost palpable but horrendous truth that she was here-to-fore unafraid to carry forward, found them ushering her to live without love. When that had not been enough, they had hidden their love away until it was all too easy to see that the others had ..............end p2..............start p3............................
built, had unceasingly encircled her with, ring after ring of hatred, pursuing a vicious unrelenting wall, affording one last essentially rotten cause.
They had refused to eschew evil, and were enjoying themselves no end of extremes, strictly to the little girl’s disadvantage. They anchored themselves to each of her actions, were living at her expense alone, like parasites. She faced the disharmonic aggregated nature of their locks on her future, uncovering the unfortified eventual result. They had run out of feeling and needed more. She would make no offering to them as before. In the desperate hunger prevailing under such circumstances, harbored they this new gain. Shouldn’t she just give up, were the sake of the whole, “the union”, to be put in danger? They surmised the taste of her fruit, licking their lips and drooling in wrath. Since she would not oblige their dreadful need, they had but a dire recourse. They would steal her love.
Malevolent uncontrolled fire and burning, of heedless and unbridled craving ran thru her mind {even the courses of her limbs having a fogged recollection of swimming} stampeding at first, then wandering aimlessly as if in search of replacements for insurmountable waste and losses encountered along the numbered tribulations of her past. It was them, whom caused the subconscious brow-beating, leaving her submissively subjective, even subjugated. But in light of her own responses and bravery, there appeared a poised stage of ineradicable spectrums within the matrix of her premeditations which languished and gleamed free from its obtrusive fetters and binding . . . if just for that moment, being all she could tame. Recalling the beginning precept of her freedom, conclusively became the path of least resistance. Our little melon was seeing through the impossibility of their implausible, but wicked venture. Was seeing thru different eyes. The eyes of awareness. She recognized in a flash, unfearingly, unhesitatingly, upon her honest incentives only being ascertained thru self-motivation.
Oh, little one, where is your lover? Where is your lover, and where is your courage?
Gentle as the touch of wing-tips carried thru the night of trouble. And you?
Softer than a serpent’s cry, though he may have found you.
Alone for the moment, and always just beyond the next hill.
Sleep, if you may.
It may cover the roots as ignorance could not. and she will cry . . .
for you.
Her awareness had reached its crown. That ending piece of a puzzle, deliberatingly dissolving disillusionment, the same as the sun or a star – any star – fixed in its heavenly incubus, physically knowing, that its light alone brought subconscious states to a completed conscious level.
With the security of her Creator, her crown of awareness graduated as a stepping stone to fame. Although vague, the crystal shining clearness of fame’s immovable spectrums, its glorious common colors and stunning splintered hues, had pervaded asunder to see power seeking where others fail. She had never regretted giving, never felt sublime loneliness as any other had scorned. And at this moment, although she squeezed herself and flinched involuntarily, she had done it, had gone past all of them, studyingly using her will alone, was proud. ...........end p3........start p4..............
Gateway beckoning to be touched, her fame had started with giving, because the receiver need always come back, assuredly following serial lines of entropy. And “assuredly”; it was their brittle but thick clotted patches and blots of jeering pasted malice interposed in mis-shapen reticulate designs, patterned to fit betwixt an incompassionate and capricious but heavy and stenchy scattering of screens, grown and planted and forged from blistering hatred – for the use! of hatred – that formed a peculiar recessed chill of dread, nearly sweeping her head to mindlessness. Dread however, ironically was the least of things pouting or strangling the able control of her senses and motor, as she had broken their first ring, which changes hatred – or what one might name “vehemence” – to the two-folded blind astringence of greed. Conspiracy, although of ill proportion, still loomed before her “stepping-stone’s” visage; making the others’ acrid carrionous loathing, destitute in the wake of exertion’s abortion. Because in “Gift’s” name she had failed not, traversing the pinnacle of awareness, caught meniscus-blurred glimpses containing the puissant secret of Originals.
In those distant unions surcease of time, generating gravity, graven from friction, although imprecise and campanulately tilted thru its cluster; she had melded with a bare intuition which discovered the place where concepts are born. “Being” in its original form needed no reproduction. The antecedent egg was non-existent, practically unreal except for its individual angle of time; because time isolated subsets in a union, pre-eminating a union of their own.
The scourge would soon have doubts, would soon have sneaking suspicions and inklings of hesitation when they witnessed the new light adorning her. What precipitated as beauty below the glory of her Maker, whilst conception remained unbarred, was so freely and freshly satisfying, nourishing, fulfilling, that questions of solace?, post-solace?, would she be dashed away after scaling to the epitome of understanding awareness?, became relaxed clinical questions within the laboratory scrutiny of nature’s intervention, were dashed away themselves. She would know another moment. Another sunrise. . . . or so it seemed.
Fate was emerging.
And making more than its stealthful steady contractions and blunt tips, scrape and dig her aura’s pellicle from their tertiary encapsulated chains of witness and surrendered spectation. She was close to seeing the rage of fate, and predetermining her outcomes was broadly separate from reach, but soon the faint dispositions of her involuntary avant-guard would flare, grapple and grid-snare, rolling uncontrastingly in turmoil’s bliss with every over-numbered entrance from lot’s shine. Leaving her surer . . . than the winner’s gate. ……………….end of p4
Origin of the Universe
Origin of the Universe
(c) copyright 2018, by das Landstuhler
>
so what's really going on here. in a word? DETRITUS. de·tri·tus, /dəˈtrīdəs/, noun, noun: detritus, waste or debris of any kind.
>
so what does that mean? it means that hydrogen is the most abundant element [around 75%], and then helium is the next most abundant element [around 25%]. here's how this works. go past the strong nuclear, then the weak nuclear, then the gravity, and you're left with the 4th force of electro-magnetism. within electromagnetic dynamics, there are also 4 forces. energy, current, resistance, and power. as the 4 forces follow the core of a pole [from south to north], three of them, by their very nature, become locked into the north pole. it is the power, then, that continues the circuit, outside the mass, to complete the cycle of the 4, which then releases the other 3 to follow. check your conductivity conduits on this one. no watts [the measure for power], and then no completed circuit. but once the power finds its search, back to the south pole, the other 3 are free to do their work within the field.
>
so simple, but darn focused, you see? this then means that hydrogen is clearly the residue [an afterburn, like the carbon in a smoke-stack left over], and evolves from harmonic poles. when 2 poles reach a harmonically distinct positioning, the combination forms a plus one [+1] field. so now we see why i mentioned/specified the power facet of electro-dynamics. once the plus one field is established, the returning watts from south pole regions, carry/collect the minute convection [weak nuclear], like a bee gathers pollen, and upon completing the cycle, induces the energy to release. the hydrogen is the residue of this release. :) have a nice day. ^^ ;,; cutulu sees all -msi
(c) copyright 2018, by das Landstuhler
>
so what's really going on here. in a word? DETRITUS. de·tri·tus, /dəˈtrīdəs/, noun, noun: detritus, waste or debris of any kind.
>
so what does that mean? it means that hydrogen is the most abundant element [around 75%], and then helium is the next most abundant element [around 25%]. here's how this works. go past the strong nuclear, then the weak nuclear, then the gravity, and you're left with the 4th force of electro-magnetism. within electromagnetic dynamics, there are also 4 forces. energy, current, resistance, and power. as the 4 forces follow the core of a pole [from south to north], three of them, by their very nature, become locked into the north pole. it is the power, then, that continues the circuit, outside the mass, to complete the cycle of the 4, which then releases the other 3 to follow. check your conductivity conduits on this one. no watts [the measure for power], and then no completed circuit. but once the power finds its search, back to the south pole, the other 3 are free to do their work within the field.
>
so simple, but darn focused, you see? this then means that hydrogen is clearly the residue [an afterburn, like the carbon in a smoke-stack left over], and evolves from harmonic poles. when 2 poles reach a harmonically distinct positioning, the combination forms a plus one [+1] field. so now we see why i mentioned/specified the power facet of electro-dynamics. once the plus one field is established, the returning watts from south pole regions, carry/collect the minute convection [weak nuclear], like a bee gathers pollen, and upon completing the cycle, induces the energy to release. the hydrogen is the residue of this release. :) have a nice day. ^^ ;,; cutulu sees all -msi
Monday, December 3, 2018
Saturday, December 1, 2018
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