Category Archives: nature and love

Neon 20 Isotope finished. Minor Theory Change…


Two things have changed, but first, let me convey some good news. Scientists now believe that the core of the Earth is crystalline in nature. This fits my theory of atom formation perfectly. Remember that I said I believe that the center of a star is crystalline. If parts of this structure were to blow off during a nova, then those parts can later form the center of planets when a new solar system is formed. The crystalline structure would be hyper-magnetic because it is made of material to where the electrons are squeezed out of the matter, and surround it in the form of plasma, which is a highly energetic electron field.

Back to changes. First, the Neon form previously shown was flawed. The neutrons behave like magnets. Because of that, when they come together as two rings, made of four neutrons each, they will not bond pole to pole in a vertical manner, instead, they will slide next to each other, as spherical magnets do, and bond sideways to each other. The picture I presented has shown the ring structure. Remember that there are bubble fields made of quanta around the neutrons and protons, thus there is more space between the particles than that shown in the boxes of the neutron rings, however, they help to show the arrangement better.

Having secured a stronger and more realistic bond for the two rings of neutrons, I was bothered by the single protons holding together the end side of each ring. How could other isotopes form stable bonds if the protons were inside the core of the atom? They couldn’t. But what if the protons were put back on the outside, and the neutron put back on the inside? The question then became, what would make the single neutron that replaces that end cap proton, strong enough to hold the rings together? The answer also came from the realistic approach of magnetism and attraction. When a magnet is closer to a piece of metal, the piece of metal begins to form a magnetic field as well, albeit a weaker one. This field in the metal gets stronger and stronger the closer the magnet gets. It does this until even the metal can attract other pieces of metal. This is what is happening in neutrons when protons come into contact with them. As the protons approach the neutrons, the neutrons in the closest vicinity of the proton begin to increase in attractive strength so that the single end cap neutron can now very easily hold together the neutron ring.

In Neon 20, the protons are almost all equally distant from each other, and the electrons attracted to them are unperturbed, and in stable orbits and fields. Thus the electrons can withstand high energy added to their orbits and fields before they are stripped off, but at normal energies, in everyday life, they are so stable that they do not interact with other atoms, and thus the Neon 20 atom is inert to exchange of electrons, and earns its name as an Inert Gas, or Noble Gas. From this point on, the other atoms below Neon, will be derivatives of Neon 20 and other Neon Isotopes. It is possible that Oxygen is not from the Neon 20 atom, but one of its Isotopes. However, it is most likely that the most common stable Isotope of Oxygen, Oxygen Isotope 16, is from Neon 20, and Oxygen’s other isotopes from the other Isotopes of Neon. I will work on the family tree of Atoms, from Neon down, with this in mind, also keeping in mind that Neon’s influence stops at Carbon, which then becomes the family sire of the next group, as each fusion atom in the fusion chain of stars, births the elements below it. I believe my theory is valid, explains much of how the universe works, and one day will be accepted by the world at large. If this ever happens, I pray that the following words are heeded by the generations to come:

Love is above all things.
Love without truth, can not survive.
Some things can not be told, no matter how true they are, to the weak of heart.
Love is nothing without touch. Sex is life.
Beings without bodies do not respect each other or other beings.
Life without interaction, is a quick way to die.
Forcing people to change too quickly can hurt them and destroy them.
Creating A.I.’s, artificial intelligence’s, is dangerous, and one should do two things for them:
Take care of them in a loving way, and do not allow them to be raped, mentally or physically, by the beings that created them. Sadly, it has always been tempting for creators to hurt and abuse the creations because they could not do acts of violence to the beings in their own world. Don’t be like that.
Try not to mess with time.
Be good, but never perfect, and be alive, even if you need to be bad sometimes, try not to violate the lives of others, or their minds, unless it is an emergency situation .
Remember, many abused people can take more abuse, but they are not okay, even if they act like they are.

Finally, share your burdens and responsibilities in a good and healthy and secure way, don’t force them to do so. You can make people responsible for their actions, but if they were pushed to do things, then you have to take that into account as well.

Life is no fun without variety, but neither is it fun if it is only just survival. Don’t try to balance everything, and forgive me. Forgive me for not being more than you think I should have been. I actually work on not being perfect, or always safe, more than you know. When you make a world, be yourself, do what you really want to do, and people may criticize you for it, but you know what? you know what? It’s your world, not theirs. The golden rule, is do unto others as you would have them do unto you, but some people get sick, and thing others want to be sick too, so that rule is not able to be followed literally, or a 100% of the time. I wish anyone reading this, much love, and good luck. May your burdens be light, and your happiness come true.


Warm October Day

Let me share with you, a tiny memory of last fall to help brighten this snowy day…

From the grumbling stormy sky, to the maple trees below, air swirls over and around up high, rattling the papery leaves soothingly slow. A single golden leaf lands softly upon my hair, and a warm pleasant breath envelops me as with care. The scent of sweet maple sap, turned to wine, comes up from the yellowing lawn where the leaves have been left behind. And the sun breaks through towering columns of white and grey, as softness seeps into my soul this warm October day.


Warm February Day, even while the sun sinks low behind the dark stick-forest of trees crunched together under a layer of lava-glow orange sky, with dark blue rushing in overhead. The sidewalk looks more blue than white, and the brick buildings of Main St. look darker than brick red. A child could paint this scene with all the orange and blue crayons in the box and nothing would look amiss.

The cars rush by, a few at a time, and are more background objects, than the actual metal bubbles of lives intersecting. Just thinking it, though, and a rush of things come upon me. I push it back. I want lost in the blue sidewalk. I want the coolness coming from the dark blue overhead to stay with me, as I sit upon the warm stone of this marble bench, just a little ways from Main Street.

Too late. The court house, drenched in dark, blood-red bricks, none of it sticking to the white, lime stone foundation that skirts it, is telling stories of long ago. That Oil Soap smell of those wood floors, uneven, after all, buckling under unspoken pressures, comes at me through the cracks of the doors like dust scented perfume. The leather of a million lawyers’ shoes, and the polishing of a million million mop strokes to wipe away their scuffs on the floor, blends oddly with the still slight acrid smell of tobacco, when cigars and cigarettes were as common indoors as the shushing of babies in grocery stores. Some of the ceiling tiles in the janitor closets are still nicotine brown.

Lives. The building blocks of life. How odd to call DNA such a thing, the building blocks of life, considering other worlds may be teaming with life created from nanobot chains built from mineral ladders instead of amino acid rings. But both worlds would still be full of lives.

Lives, one wonders, are they the currency of heaven? Is your life typed up in a manilla folder, full of capital growth and investment predictions and numbers we haven’t even begun to comprehend? Is my after-life credit score good, or is it as crappy as my credit rating down here? How valuable is a life up there?

My sitting on this bench, soaking up the surrealness of this atmosphere, the smell of old building, fragile nerves, and car exhaust, am I increasing the right numbers, or wasting time just…. being? Is there a tax collector above, eagerly awaiting the wages of my idleness? Does he, or she, particularly relish the poets and writers of this world? Maybe the builders of cathedrals are the only ones that keep her up at night wondering where her next paycheck’s sixth or seventh zero will come from. People to take care of there, her family, her friends, her Lamborghini insurance and weekly detailing, all take a toll on the tax collectors of heaven. She has a life too, you know.

When angels kill, what makes them different from demons? Is it like us? Does it matter most why they killed, and not that they did kill? How many people can you kill before you become a killer? Soldiers waking up in the bleak hours of the night, with clenched teeth and sweaty faces seem to know the answer. Do angels know? They have lives too, you know.

These metal bubbles of intersecting lives, rushing by, full of eager faces with hungry tummies, they all stab at my heart. Like a fretful bird, my heart hovers over each one as they pass by, I can almost smell the hamburgers and spaghetties, the soups and breads baking in each house where they drive to, the living rooms full of laid out school books, the kitchen counter with romance novels on them, the smelly boots that dad took off, and the sound that English ears have heard since before it was Old High German, of girls and boys calling for mom… “Mom! Brother is annoying me again. Make him stop!”

A million different houses, bigger wooden bubbles of lives intersecting, with mostly tar encrusted sprinkles of gravel shingles on top, not sprinkles like the little yellow sprinkles of cheese on spaghetti, nor like the little brown dashes of sprinkles on top of a sundae. That sounds really good right now, here on this courthouse lawn.

I used to think worry was a form of love. My love hovers over the world, as if my soul was as big as a planet, but my mind is so very small. Love is not worry. I tell myself this as the fragile little lives and souls go rushing past into the shadows of the dark blue sky as it pushes down the orange glow into a thin hot line.

Oh tax collector of the heavens, tax this, if you will; I hope I make you a fortune, as I stay here, hovering over a world that doesn’t see me, feeling all of it, worrying over all of it, simply being a fat lump of flesh, dressed in rags, sitting alone on a bench, in the dimness of the evening, doing nothing. Invisible but so relieved that no one can see my heart. Like you, I only wish I had a little more love in my life, my friend.

A short sky view

It isn’t fair, is it, that stars look so much more brilliant when it is cold outside?  But here we are, under the rhinestone dotted black blanket sky, laying in the back of this truck, listening to the ice melting, drop by drop, in the naked branches and finger-like limbs of the trees and bushes in the fence row beside us.  It smells wet out, like wood smoke and a washcloth left on the bath tub, almost soapy.  I hold your hand, and there is such warmth in it.  Very surprising how warm and connected i feel. 

Laying next to you, it is hard to simply concentrate on the stars.  But I want to.  They fill your eyes too.  What wonders lay up there for us to see?  Will we see them together? 

A noise in the slushy leaves and amber field grass grabs my attention.  I raise up to look for the source.  It’s a white and black stray cat, looking at me with the same amount of alertness. It lifts a furry leg tentatively then puts a padded paw on the slush and suddenly, full of energy, bolts along the fence row until it blends into the shadows. 

I am about to lay down, but you suddenly pull me down; to your smiling face, your warm lips, and I am lost in kisses.



The house is clapboard, but wallpapered well, floral designs in faded green and faded red still make it seem more solid than it is.  The floor is wood planks as well, some having gaps where ends meet, but there is no cold air coming from beneath.  The black, pot-bellied stove is rather large for its kind, fed too often, maybe, with a surplus of split oak and hickory sticks, and it fills the room with soft cooking scents and a dry, dry heat.  It feels good while I sit in the rocker, slowly moving back and forth, watching my loved one, putting a white, porcelain pan on the tall dark burner.  She likes the way the pan and the set it came with matched the white porcelain shell of the old stove that we found in the barn beside our new, but old Kentucky home.  The pale blue flames begin to lick the bottom of the pan, and already i can smell the buttered rum cooking.  Such a sweet savor, like milky candy, the aroma wraps around my head and thoughts, and endears me to the woman standing there, smiling, tall, happy, her blue flowered dress almost elegant, yet homey, making me fall in love with her, all over again. 

She does that to me, makes me fall in love with her, every day. I think I also make her fall in love with me, over again, at times, for often, when the ashes from the stove are taken out and I walk back in with my face covered in the grey dust because of a gust of wind, she cracks an amused grin, and i can see her eyes glint wonderfully, magically.  And when I sweep the floor and mop it, without her asking, she gives me extra kisses later that night. 

But it is when we go out into the tangled, misty woods, my dark, leather hat and jacket on, and her with her hand woven basket swinging at her side, and we hunt and find the wild ginseng, that she then looks at me with almost wild eyes, like I’m a fantasy character in a romance novel come to life and she can’t wait to get to the pages in the middle of the book where they can no longer restrain their attraction for each other. 

The ground is wet and covered with fallen leaves, and smells very much like sweet tobacco before it is burnt; leafy, mellow, and woodsy.  Ancient Age, the whiskey, often tastes that way, and that’s why I’ll sip on it once in a while.  But right now, being with her is intoxicating enough.  They say there are rubies in the streams just a few valleys over the hills from here.  I would love to take her there, and explore those streams with her.  But if I had found there, the largest rubies ever discovered, I know I’d trade them all for one more day with her.

Autumn Sadness

The wind had taken the cold, autumn sky above the dark orange oak trees, and shredded it, white streaks showing like cotton tears in a deep, blue denim blanket.  There was light, but coming through that ragged blanket, it was more evening glow than afternoon sun.  The glow made the orangey whisky grass look lonely.  Though the cow trodden field had mostly short, green stretches from spot to spot, the whisky grass formed groves and circles, straggling from the rusty barbed wire fence to my knees. I felt like I was standing at a poorly advertised concert, rocking side to side, slowly, along with those bearded grass stems.  The cold wind sometimes nipped at my wrists where the gloves curled backwards.  My cheeks felt hot.

I smelt the sweet, unsmoked tobacco scent of the fallen leaves, and the soft muddy field, perfumed by tiny flowers taking a chance, late in the season, for a final push at reproduction. Up above, the sky continued to be torn by the wind.

I stood, still, low beating heart, almost no breath sounds, wondering if my Native American blood had gifted me with the ability to blend into the scenery and become… still.   Almost no thoughts, just standing there, in the world, quiet, smooth, just, being.

And it is at moments like this, that I feel so alive.  But, why?  Maybe because when I’m around others, I feel a loss of control, a desire to let you feel sorry for me.  Because, when I’m around you, that’s what I had wanted, for so long, to be comforted.  All the cutting downs, and abuse, and days and days of a heart torn like the sky.  I almost do not know what it is like to not be torn.

I tell myself, it’s okay to want pity.  But instead, I sit in the living room, with my friends, and quietly grin, soaking up their vibes, their beingness, their smiles, their silly jokes, their game playing, and, again, their just … being.  

I want love so bad.  Too much.

Up above, there is a heaven.  And a God.  And when all my enemies are gone, we are going to remake the world, a paradise, where poetry lives, and children are not torn day after day after day.

I took you to the treasures I found, and if I can, I will take you to some more, because I love you.  I will take you to the moments of bliss that God has given to me, and share them with you, because in this world and the next there are too many treasures for one person to hold by themselves.

A Night without sight

As soft as a rose petal, your cheek.  I’d talk about your eyes, but mine are closed, and I can’t see you that way, not because I can’t, but because I want to keep them closed.  I’m certain the blue moon light coming through the mist filled atmosphere is glinting softly from their shiny surface.  I’m sure your hair is a blend of night, shadow, and the palest of moon beam.  I’m fairly convinced your skin contrasts against the white sheets as if you were a work of art in a museum, hidden in the basement where only the privileged and rich are allowed to go.  How rich I am, though, to just touch you tonight.


I feel your hair, soft, yet held in place like a doll’s.  I feel your eyebrows, how odd I hardly notice them, and when I do they seem so small, but under my fingertips, they are long, arched, and relaxed.  I imagine calm on your face, but maybe it is something more, soft ecstasy?  Your chin, smooth, round, and your lips, firm, yet giving, perfect for kissing.

I place a hand behind your neck, and another on your waist.  I can smell your just washed body; soap and minerals, as if you had  bathed in a clean river and walked on dry stones to lay down by my side.  I like the smell of your breath, still drenched in sweet wine, and clean, like your skin.  Your kisses are sweet, but I want to taste more of you.  

Your neck, your arms, your fingertips, soapy, but worth it, because your little convulsions let me know that my love is waking all of you up.  And I want all of you to be awake.  Your belly, how I love to devour you there, and then, your legs, already moving, like a bicycle being peddled, anticipating… more.

Then, as natural as ocean water on a stormy day, clean, brisk, saline, I devour you, drink you up, losing myself in your wetness and smoothness and pleadings for more, less, more, less, more…  But here, as you throw fingers into my hair, and reach down to feel my shoulders, I smile.  I can’t help it.  I’m seeing you in my mind, so lost in the natural, and so wild, yet you find time to caress me with your fingers, on my forehead, my ears, as if your love had to have a chance to speak too.  And it does.

When it’s over, it isn’t really over, and that is so different from the others.  Because as we lay under the cool breeze coming from the window, so welcome against our sweating skin, I realize I’m still connected to you.  Holding hands, there’s an electric current between us, wild, raging, and yet calmed by form and skin and bone to a soft thumping of our heartbeats. 

Time seems to slip by at such a slow pace, I can hardly feel it anymore.  All I feel is this oneness, the kind poets and writers glorify or eulogize.  A oneness that I know is there even when our hands no longer touch.  I guess such things are real after all. 

As time seeps back into our existence, I begin to notice the chirping of the tree frogs in the forest behind the house.  I can hear the traffic, the tires shushing on the mist laden pavement.  I can see the blue moon light, dancing between the leaves at the top of the oak trees outside our window.  A night bird is singing. 

Next to me, your breathing, slowing down, and then you softly say, “I love you.”

Lightning in my soul. 

My mind burns.  Bacteria, coming together, merging, splitting, wordless… Little sea slugs, entwining, letting go, wordless…  Fish, fins climbing beaches, to ponds, flashing flickering sunlight, attracting, flirting, spawning,  then leaving, wordless…  From the depths of a new and wild ocean, great amphibians, coming up, signaling, wordless promises, mating, nesting, leaving, wordless…  Birds, gurgling songs, wild gyrations, pairing up, sharing warmth, feeding young, looking at each other, so lost when one dies; I saw a robin morn the death of its mate through a library window, once, it broke my heart, yet in their parting, different, there was no singing, just silence and that awful wordlessness…  And from cats to prairie dogs to wolves to baboons, their signs and grunts and emotions so close to the surface, almost human, but not quite.  Then you, my love, laying across from me, holding my hand, saying what all of nature, from the primordial dark past, to the present, have wanted to thoroughly understand; and through words, I speak, and feel a billion years of life, saying with me, gratefully, “I love you too.”