Magnitude 6.4

People down on the ground report being able to see my lost tool bag through 10 x 50 binoculars at a magnitude of 6.4.

It's too far away to see with the naked eye. This raises perplexing questions. Why are eyes naked? How do they see through their nakedness? Does being naked affect their ability to interact with other naked eyes? Do they avert their gaze when meeting another naked eye? How does their nakedness affect social interaction, mutual nakedness and so forth?

Cool.

Like everything in the universe, it is floating.

I am now allowed, by international space law procedural nemesis, to reveal the contents. My bag holds two grease guns, a scraper tool, a large trash bag and a small debris bag. My bag is valued at $100,000. Ok, so this means that the contents are very expensive. Do a financial analysis. 

Grease gun (2) =______

Scraper tool= ______

Large trash bag= _____

Small debris bag= _____

Big bag (30 pounds, 20" by 12")

Total= $100,000

May I file a lost luggage claim?

Grounded humans predict my wandering bag will eventually burn up depending on solar activity. Poof!

Metta.

A $154 million dollar toilet

The space saga continues. As I reported in my last greasy message, I lost my tool kit while trying to fix a bad joint. Ze bag is (was) worth $100,000. I am offering a reward for it's return. No questions asked. It was last reported to be floating approximately 212 miles above Earth.

Meanwhile I have been installing a new urine convertor machine on the ISS

It cost a cool $154 million bucks. Now I know in these turbulent economic times when the average planetary inhabitant is living in a shack with an outhouse, riding a bike, using candles for light, eating baloney and afraid to get sick because they have absolutely ZERO heath care insurance the cost of my toilet may seem slightly extreme.

I can justify it. Watch and listen closely. It is a miracle of technology. 

It converts urine into drinking water!

Yes, that's correct. It turns urine into H2O (when it's working)...Astonishing! Amazing! Delicious! Urine on the rocks, straight up.

Why is this necessary? The ISS currently can support three living creatures. Brains on the ground would like to increase the population by three to six, requiring, according to their math genius, the necessity of having a $154 million dollar bathroom to expedite the conversion of urine into drinking water. Kinda like reverse osmosis.  

Their rationale is that, with six homo sapiens on board, it will be too expensive in the long haul to transport drinking water to the ISS, so they concocted this elaborate urine-water machine. Wow!

To support their never ending research and development NASAL will be offering, for a limited time only, just in time for the holiday season, a heavily discounted stripped down modified version of their urine-water convertor to JQ public. Initial design mockups with corresponding price categories will be available by Thanksgiving.

Metta.

 

Grease Monkey

On my space walk to fix a joint while smoking a joint having a look at the joint my grease gun exploded.

It went off in my backpack. Whoosh! 

When you are connected to your module by a thin thread of hose fed air and electronic gizmos wearing a pack and floating in deep dark infinite space, an exploding grease gun sounds like a watermelon being flattened by a truck traveling at the speed of light.

Whoosh!

So the grease gun exploded spraying grease all over my goggles. I was blinded by grease. Am I a grease monkey?

Oh on, not another ancient simian tale. Spare me the details. Just get to the verb. 

My goggles covered in grease, I attempted to wipe off the gunk. Loose space grease acts weird. It congeals in millions of small miracles, losing it's viscosity. I began wiping and swiping with my handy-dandy gloves. I cried for my mother. She'd know what do but she wasn't here with me floating outside the capsule.

Then, the grease played a trick on me. My greasy gloves couldn't hold my tool bag and it slipped out of my greasy grip. Whoops! Off it went, curling slowly, doing a space ballet. Bye-bye tool bag. 

The dudes down in Houston are not going to be happy about this. Believe you me.

Have bag will travel.

What's a poor space walking scientist to do?

Metta.

The Three Baboons

Speaking of 40,000 year old primates, then, one day he saw three baboons. They were part of a Russian tribe living in his Ankara neighborhood. This is how it happened around dawn. 

A blond corn-plaited hairy one stuck her head out of a 5th story window and spit. She watched the spittle fly past trees and SPLAT! on the pavement. 

She looked around and they saw each other. She smiled. Her upper teeth were small and sharp. She started jabbering in her strange language. Her sounds, her words were questions. She wanted to know something.

Here is a rough translation.
“Where do you come from?”
“Are you alone?”

"Do you have money?"
“Do you want sex?”
She made many sounds but that’s the essence. Baboon language is simple and direct.

He just stared at her and smiled. She smiled. They smiled at each other.

She disappeared. A moment later she returned with two friends. One had dark hair, very hard eyes and big floppy breasts. She shook them side to side while speaking to him. 

“Look at these watermelons,” she said.
They were heavy fruit.

Another baboon joined them. She was blond with sapphire eyes and straight hair with short spiked bangs. Her oval face smiled and she stuck out her tongue. A shiny silver post glistened from the middle. Laughing like a child, she rolled her tongue around, up and out like a little snake. Every now and then a snake needs to find a cave.  

She appeared to be the most playful one in the group. 

All three stared at him and jabbered again, making suggestions and questions with their inarticulate yet clearly understood sounds.

“Where are you from?”
Blah, blah, blah.
“How old are you?”
"Do you have money?"
“Do you want sex?”

The plaited hair one got halfway out on the narrow balcony and crouched down, opening her legs. She started riding an imaginary wild mustang. Her eyes and face assumed a state of ecstasy. 

The one with hard eyes started gesturing with her hand, massaging empty space. He stared at this spectacle and smiled.

They laughed. The power of suggestion. 

The silver posted one kept smiling and flicking her tongue in and out, like breathing.

They were full of energy and wanted some action. Such amazing, funny and strange wild baboons!

Metta.

  

Looking Back

People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.

Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through. 

They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero. 

They've arrived from distant galaxies. Java man was discovered here 40,000 years ago.

So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today. 

I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. 

They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering. 

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark warung neighborhood food joint. The warung faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.

One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests. Chattering oral story tellers play the gamelan, pounding out 40,000 year old tunes.

Healing the people with music.

Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. Some visit the warung to chat up the girls or eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, green chillies and deep fried snacks.

Here's one man building a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.

Metta.