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The Bones of Time book

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Posted by on October 24, 2012 in Science

 

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Michelson-Morley-Miller experiment

http://s.ytimg.com/yt/img/pixel-vfl3z5WfW.gif  is a video describing the measurement of mass contraction as it moves about our sun at 18 MPS.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2012 in Science, Uncategorized

 

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Dayton C. Miller and the Michelson – Morley experiment

                   The Answer to the Michelson-Morley Experiment

                                                                   © 2112, Duane C. Ertle

The following short writing has been done to vindicate the work of Dayton C. Miller, a physicist, who was once a science professor at the Case Institute.  The work he excelled at, and was not recognized for in his life time, dealt with the measurement of the speed of light.  I am going to quote a paragraph from a writing “Michelson and The Speed of Light” by Bernard Jaffe, published in 1960 by Doubleday.  The following is found on page 105, “The following year the apparatus was removed to a shed 300 feet above Lake Erie to see whether a change in the immediate surroundings would yield any difference.  This time they recorded a difference in the shifting of the fringe pattern even greater than their previous measurement had shown.  At this point the Miller-Morley team broke up.  With the obstinacy of the popular image of the ever toiling, ivory-towered scientist working alone, Miller refused to abandon the hunt for more conclusive evidence of an ether drift.  They years rolled by.  The ether still eluded him, but in 1921 and again in 1925 he was at it again.  This time he had taken his apparatus to the top of Mount Wilson in California, 6,000 feet above sea level.  The steel frame he had used in Cleveland was replaced by a frame of concrete.  Perhaps, thought Miller, the nature of steel adversely affected the result he hoped for.  After thousands of observations were taken, Miller claimed a difference in velocity of six-miles per second when the light path was at an angle of 90 degrees to the path of earth’s orbit around the sun.  His published data, however, were difficult of interpretation, and Miller died in 1941, a disappointed man.”

He was right.  It appears the problem lay in the fact that he did not realize that the Michelson-Morley-Dayton C. Miller experiment, which he perfected, was not measuring the speed of light but the degree of mass contraction that is brought about due to mass movement.  Our planet moves about the sun at a speed of 18 miles a second.  Miller’s calculations described the difference in mass contraction at the most extreme mass readings relative to the movement of the mass of earth about our sun.  Had he determined the speed of light, which was measuring the contraction of mass, at a 45 degree path relative to our planet’s movement about the sun, the difference in the speed of light would have been three-miles per second in all four readings.  He was interested in the greatest change in difference of apparent light speed, not in the fringe pattern ratios that could be brought about by different angles relative to our sun.

 The physical reason for this odd behavior of mass contraction is that mass is composed of electromagnetic energy.  This energy forms into electrons, which in turn by reason of their multiples, forms into neutrons and protons.  It is because mass is composed of electromagnetic energy that it comes under the same description as electromagnetic energy, E=hf.  Plank’s constant times that of the frequency of electromagnetic energy describes how that as a wave of energy increases, so does its energy according to its length of compression.  As a mass moves, its length is proportionate to its overall frequency.  The faster a mass moves in a particular direction, the greater the frequency density becomes in that direction.  Dayton C. Miller measured one of the three-dimensions of moving mass, the one having no contraction to it as it moved about the sun at a speed of 18 miles a second.  Hurray for Dayton C. Miller.  

His work needs to be reopened!

 
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Posted by on August 17, 2012 in Science

 

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Eleven year sun cycles

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paqInIv9UHk&feature=plcp

 
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Posted by on August 7, 2012 in Science

 

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World-wisdom (story)

World‑wisdom

 

 

World wisdom makes no sense other than to those who live it.

 

 

 

Have you ever wondered why Satan is so cruel to people, seeking to destroy mankind by wars fueled with hatred?  It appears as though it is because Satan already knows his end and there can be no escaping it.  God has already written that Satan shall spend eternity in The Lake of Fire.  There is no way out for him.  He is like a person suffering mental anguish as he considers an eternal torture awaiting him.  As Christ endured agony in the Garden of Gethsemane while anticipating His spiritual suffering, so Satan is also experiencing mental agony, but over a much longer period of time.  God’s unrelenting judgement toward him shall be accomplished no matter what happens in history.  Therefore Satan cares not whether he opposes the works of God or not, and in fact he seems to delight in destroying what is good in the sight of God ‑ read the story of Job.  Why should others dwell in peace while he does not?  So Satan watches others, deceives them to their destruction, then smiles and looks away as they move along a path of sorrow and torment.  The following story illustrates the fatalistic, cruel wisdom of Satan as he destroys all about himself possible.

Long ago three men were in the sweltering, soot‑blackened boiler room of a steam boat as it laboriously worked its way against the down coming current of a large river.  As was typical for the month of August, the weather was very hot, humid and generally oppressive.  It was still worse for the person who stoked the boiler.  There, about the boiler, the air was so hot it seemed to draw the breath and life from the one who fed it the fuel necessary to keep the flame within it alive.

 

It was late afternoon and the fireman once again swung the heavy iron door outward, then reached downward beside himself with both hands for another heavy oak log to stuff in the firebox that continually gulped down his strenuous labor.  Escaping orange‑red light, leaping outward in the form of raw heat, outlined the one standing before the open door, rivulets of sweat running down his body as he hurried through his necessary job quickly as possible.  His clothing was as wet as if he had just stepped out of the warm, muddy river passing beneath their feet.  Even the hard wood planking where he stood was a slick due to salty water that had run off his body.  But it was always miserably hot and stuffy in the boiler room during this time of year, and the firemen were always slick with sweat.

 

The open flames reflected their presence on his bronze skin by their flimsy film of light until he grabbed the handle of the large iron door and slammed it shut.  Backing away a step so he could see the pressure gauge, he watched it for a few moments to see that it would register his work on its single hand.  Satisfied that it was going to climb, he had a few minutes to himself before attending his charge again.

 

Hurrying a short distance to where two others were seated on rickety chairs, he scooped his tin drinking cup along the bottom of a large wooden bucket that sat in the middle of a small, paint less table between the men.  Normally the cool, clear spring water, gotten at the last stop a few miles downriver, would have lasted till the next stop, but the other two were drinking as much as he was.  The fireman loathed the idea of drinking the tepid, brown river water but he would have to do just that once the spring water was gone, or become sick due to dehydration.

 

Tipping the wooden bucket, he scraped his metal cup along the bottom a second time to be sure it was brimful.  He was going to get what he could while he was able.  The other two men looked at him in disapproving silence as he emptied his cup, then banged it down on the table.  The two seemed to have forgotten that they had not drawn the water and it was not intended for them.  But, because one was the Engineer and the other the River Pilot, they felt their titles warranted the service of others whenever they wished.

 

These two were but lightly perspiring.  The already hot afternoon air being sucked into the yet hotter, ill vented boiler room through the hatchway passed by them first, cooling them a little, then vanished somewhere around the hot boiler.  Were it not for the cool spring water in the bucket before them, they would not have remained where they were.  It would have been obviously improper for them to just take the water out of the boiler room and go where they wished, but the two men felt they had a perfect right to remain where the water for the fireman was, and pretend to suffer the same hardship as he, and so be privileged to drink his water.  Not a word had been spoken by either of the two as they looked at the tin cup set back on the table, then at its owner who silently returned to his task of feeding the fire.

 

Due to the hissing of the steam passing through the pipes, the pounding of the large, hot pistons, and the thumping of auxiliary machinery, all working together to create the ever present din associated with that type of work, the fireman did not hear when

the men poured the last of the contents out of the water bucket into their own tin cups, smiling slightly as they contemplated their deceptive, cruel deed.  There would be no more fresh water for the fireman.  Now he would have to drink the warm, muddy river water.  The two did not care.  They were now ready to leave the boiler room anyhow.  It would be hot and sultry outside in the brightness of the afternoon sun, but not as oppressive as this dingy room whose only light source, other than that coming in from the hatchway where the two sat, was the fire itself when the boiler demanded to be fed more fuel.

 

As the two men were beginning to rise out of their chairs, and the fireman was opening the iron door to the boiler, the boat lunged and rocked heavily to one side, then slowly righted itself.  Unexpectedly they had hit a large snag in the mud darkened waters.  But as long as whatever it was they hit did not tear the heavy planking from the floor beneath their feet they would just continue on their way, forgetting what had happened.  There were many snags and sandbars in the river and such occurrences were just part of the risk one took when operating a steam boat.  It had happened before and it would happen again.

 

But the sudden jarring motion loosened a heavy log from the top of the pile beside the fireman and it came toppling down.  At the same instant the log had begun to fall, the fireman had reached out his hand to steady himself against the pile of logs.  There was a dull sounding “thud” as his hand absorbed the shock of the falling log, then came the numbing sensation as the heavy piece of wood rolled away and fell to the floor, barely missing his bare feet.

 

By the time the two men reached the fireman his hand had already begun to swell.  He could work no more.  The Engineer would have to assume his place.  But, because he was not used to such hard work, the Engineer pressed his friend into assisting him.

 

Later the steam gauge had risen just above normal pressure when the two men finally ceased their labor of stoking the boiler.  The bell demanding more steam in order for them to make headway against the current had finally stopped its ringing.  Now they, as the fireman had been earlier, were dripping rivulets of water.  Wearily each leaned against the log pile beside them and looked across the short distance to where the wooden bucket sat on the table.  Both men were so hot and weak they were practically physically sick.  The only desire they now had was for something cool to drink.

 

Striding over to examine the bucket, they saw it had been

filled with warm, brown river water.  The fireman had gotten it by the use of his one good hand ‑ he had done them an apparent, kind service.  The two had no choice.  They would become sick if they did not drink it.  Filling their tin cups half full, each took a sip, grimaced at the unpleasant muddy taste and warm temperature, then angrily banged their cups down on the table.  It was more than they wanted to bear.  Turning back to the boiler, they flung the door open and began methodically stuffing more wood into it, while the flimsy orange‑red flames danced over them.

 

 

The fireman, one hand throbbing with pain, watched the men at work.  He knew that before long they would be drinking the warm, muddy water, ignoring the taste of it.  He smiled slightly as he dipped his cup into the wooden bucket, brought it out brimful, and set it on the table before him.  He could go topside where it was cooler, admire the passing scenery and enjoy the trip, but he decided to stay where he was with an undrunk cup of warm, muddy river water before him.  He would appear to be enduring the same discomfort as the other two while the cooler air flowed about him, making his world more tolerable.

 

One of the men turned and looked at him with a scowl on his face, his features etched in the light of the flames.  The fireman quickly averted his gaze and covered his smile with the tin cup he brought to his lips. but which contents he did not drink.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2012 in Stories by Duane

 

Work (story)

Work

 

 

“What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose    his own soul?”

 

 

 

Ned never was lazy,

Always working like crazy;

 

Placing boxes neatly in a row,

Putting on a bustling, active show.

 

Trucks would always come and go,

And yet Ned would keep up with the flow.

 

From dawn to dark

It was all work ‑ never a lark.

 

People watching him at work,

Running, shipping, receiving, and being clerk

 

 

 

Would shake their heads and say,

“How can Ned work so hard day after day?”

 

While on the other side of town,

Where the mill stream wanders on down,

 

Lazy Jake read beneath a tree,

Learning about things he’d never see.

 

Of miniature frogs and hunting dogs,

Of birds that talk and fish that go for a walk.

 

It was impossible to see the use of his work,

So it was thought he was worthless and had a strange quirk.

 

But it was his labor to understand

The order of beauty and of common things like sand,

 

And the working of the human hand,

and how freedom remains within a land.

 

The end of the two is hard to say,

That shall be known only on Judgement Day.

 

 

For profit is not in bustle,

Nor lazy in the absence of muscle.

 

For tis not the work of work

That pays in the end, due to lift, push, and jerk.

 

Profit, really, is what has been left behind;

After the dust has settled, what then does one find?

 

Moldy books placed all in a row,

Or boxes piled high with no place to go?

 

The key for the two, you see,

Is how they used their ability for eternity.

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2012 in Stories by Duane

 

Words (story)

Words

 

 

Truthful words, showing another where their own hurt is.

Deceptive words, soaked in rags of flammable poison.

 

Kind words, building a protective moat about another.

Cruel words, aggrandizing pride of destruction.

 

Informative words, digging irrigation ditches in the field of understanding.

Lying words, grabbing at another’s dream.

 

Helping words, opening a stuck door so another may enter first.

Hindering words, untying a runners shoe during a race.

 

Healing words, recovering from another’s hurt.

Wounding words, performing unnecessary surgery without anesthesia.

 

Loving words, carefully building beauty in the mirror image of another.

Angry words, storing acid in another’s heart.

 

Humble words, by act teaching truth and goodness.

Proud words, proclaiming popular ignorance of self.

 

Wholesome words, baking bread for future families.

wicked words, dressed in the attire of a Jester while destroying another.

 

 

 

A woman asked the Lord what she could do to comfort a mother whose child had just been killed in an accident.  It seemed as though there was nothing that could be done, but if there were, she was willing to do it.

 

“And Lord,” she said as she continued in prayer for the other, “what can I say to a mother who has lost her child?  What words can be spoken so her joy ceases to crumble apart as does sand passing through an hour glass.  What are words to one whose joy in this life has been crushed and turned to powder, where minute by minute it falls upon the growing heap of despair?  Lord, what are words?”

 

Then she waited.  She waited for the still, small voice of God.  Though often seemingly slow, He was never late.

 

“Go,” came the reply.  “Go visit this one dear to us both.”

 

“But, Lord,” she began, “I don’t know what to say!”

 

“Go,” was the only reply.

 

So she, by faith, left to do as the Lord had commanded.  To the house of sorrow she went, where a section of the roof, unseen by mortal eye, had fallen in, and heavy, unhampered rains were pouring in through it.  The gale beat about the windows, pounding the once carefully tended shutters back and forth, smashing them against the side of the house.  But no one cared and they were left to be destroyed.  Streaks of lightning accompanied by immediate claps of rolling thunder roared overhead as the front door with great difficulty was being forced slowly open by her friend, allowing her admittance.

 

The raging storm was just as intense within as without.  Clothing, pictures and loose papers were being whirled about from room to room in chaotic manner, while furniture and dishes smashed against the walls ‑ pieces scattering over the floor.  The din was very hard to stand against, but the Lord had said for her to “Go,” and here she was.

 

There was really nothing that could be said during such a tempest.  Words could not be very well heard because the howling gale kept the two separated by all but presence.  So there the two waited and watched as the world about them was torn apart.

 

Later, when the visiting person had to leave, the storm besetting the house yet remained.  Had she made a mistake?  Had the Lord really said for her to “Go?”  What good had been accomplished by her visiting her friend?  Her steps increased in speed as she directed her way toward home.  She thought about the terrible plight of the sorrowing mother, and hoped the answer might be more clearly understood than had the command.

 

That night, after the things of the day had quieted down, God spoke with her again.  As often happened, it was not the time expected.  Still, she listened closely to the quiet voice.

 

“You did as I bid and you did well.  You stood in the way representing me.  Though you see not, your presence meant a lot.  For as I speak to mankind by creation, so the language of your staying as you did speaks of your care and compassion.  The message was heard.”

 

“But, Lord, nothing happened.  The storm was still there, blowing as fiercely when I left as when I arrived.  Is there something you can do to help?

 

“By my Word I stilled the winds and waves of Galilee.  I raise the dead.  I am the Lord.  The grieving you have for your friend also grieves me.  I, too, shall go.”  And that was all.  The voice and presence of God passed on.  But in passing, the Lord had left peace.

 

The next day, with much trepidation as to what would be found, she returned to visit the storm buffeted house once again.  But now, even a block away, she could see a radiant glow covering that part of the sky where low lying storm clouds had been the day before.  Drawing closer she saw a large, shimmering rainbow of promise arched silently above, displaying the protective presence of God.

 

It was evident that Lord had once again stilled the waves and wind of the Sea of Galilee.  The large repaired rend in the roof looked normal again, other than the new roofing was gilded with silver and edged with gold.  Even the shutters, and side of the house where they had been banging against, were repaired in like perfect manner ‑ having the silver and gold trademark of the passing of the Lord.  The house of sorrow was now a house transformed into one of beauty and light.

 

On either side of the front door climbing roses were in full bloom, their full springtime fragrance evoking thoughts of peace and rest.  On the door itself this message had been artfully engraved, “Blessed are all who enter here.  The blessing of the Lord be upon you.”

 

Just as surprising as was the outside appearance, was the manner in which the door opened by itself at one’s approach, bidding them welcome.  Heavenly, clear notes of joy mixing with beams of light coming from within flooded over the yard, lighting up the street beyond, the luminous grace vying for excellence with the protective rainbow abiding above.

 

Inside everything was in order as should be.  It was evident the train of the Lord had passed through the house, each seeking some good to perform.  Was it not possible that the fading, glowing fingerprints on the papers and books, so neatly placed where they belonged, were those of the Lord?  And the furniture that was repaired so perfectly, could it not have been done by the Carpenter from Galilee?  How much it was like Him to take care of all things.

 

It was such a sweet place to be, she would have loved to stay longer, but another visitor was already enjoying the presence of this home blessed by God.  The dear one, whose heart yesterday had been broken apart with sorrow for all time, was now happy, rejoicing and encouraging another mother who had experienced the same sorrow, and who could not get free of her storm.

 

The clouds hanging about the head of the visitor, obscuring her vision, were evaporating away.  It was strange how her face was beginning to show a life warming glow and becoming youthful in appearance as she listened to earnest spoken words.  In spite of herself, a new risen smile of happiness touched the corner of her lips while hope revealed its presence in her eyes, and her soul was once again awakening to the dawning presence of faith rising within.  How could it be that there were no words which could be spoken amidst the storm yesterday but today the same one was able to not only speak to another burdened with the same problem, but even seemed to have the ability to still the waves of sorrow and hush the winds of adversity.  What kind of magic was it?”

 

Leaving the two alone, reluctantly, she departed and began walking toward her own house, wondering at what she had seen.  “So you see,” began the still, small voice of God while she was musing about the mystery, “I have a reason for the storm.  Because our loved one has been through the wind and waves of Galilee, she shall speak often of Me and I shall comfort many others.  Because her affection is set on things above, she shall have eternal riches.  I am the Way.  The lame and the blind are Mine.  The rich and the poor belong to Me.  I am the Lord.”  Then the voice was gone.  The Lord in speaking had gilded understanding with silver and edged it with the gold of wisdom.  Such was the trademark of the passing presence of the Lord.

 

 

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2012 in Stories by Duane