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UCHRONIC MAGAZINE OF THE SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY OF TOMORROW
¨You may feel defrauded if you fail, but you will
condemn yourself for not trying¨ RALPH WALDO EMERSON
 
OPINION:FUTURE.IS AND, NO DOUBT, WILL BE
 
 



Article: UCHRONIA: OSCAR WILDE AND THE 266 KELVIN
New: The first human being is ‘resuscitated’, cryogenized twenty-two years ago

Article: BIONIC TELEKINESIS OR THE AGE OF SILENCE
New: Bionic Telekinesis or Electrotelekinesis: A Daily Reality

Article: PLUTO'S HEXAGONS
New: Pluto, god of the dead in Roman mythology, kept an extraordinary secret



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UCHRONIA: OSCAR WILDE AND THE 266 KELVIN
Bandera España
ESPAÑOL
By Voyager. Email: thevoyager@tiemposfuturos.es (SUBJECT: CONTACT VOYAGER)
New: The first human being is ‘resuscitated’, cryogenized twenty-two years ago

 Uchronia: An 1890 London spring. The famous Dublin writer skates on an iced over lake in Hyde Park, immortalized by Monet two decades before. The white ground cracks harshly under his step when he makes sure that there won’t be any witnesses to the “genocide”. “To prove reality one must see it on a tightrope, when truths become acrobats it means that we can judge them” might have been the last thought of the ingenious author. The brutal reality of the supervened death penetrates him when the funambulists’ remote nightmare of falling off the rope turns into an incontrovertible truth. The oil of his Gallic namesake doesn’t change; it doesn’t modify itself mercy to the arcane necromancy coming from the infraworld, in painting, the affable passer-bys at the park don’t run away quickly upon hearing the shrieks for help, that make them equal, for the first time, to the rest of the mortals, given that the fourth horseman of the Apocalypses is myopic and doesn’t distinguish between intellect or tinsel when it’s his turn to raise the scythe. Dorian Gray dies in his own mind before his pen gives him life. The impressionists’ bucolic painting doesn’t mutate, neither do the mauve shadows, nor do the Victorian buildings change their background, the lead sky doesn’t discharge its anger, enraged by the loss. But something does change… history! The now inanimate body slowly descends to the bottom of the lake, because of the dead weight in his pockets or the invincible weight of his brilliance, that even neutralized, acts unconsciously in that direction. The ice on the surface stanches his wounds, Oscar Wilde has gone missing, history registers his failure, the living accuse a hole that is impossible to fill…     
 
And this resuscitated Oscar Wilde laughs at all of us, cooler than anyone and proudly puffed up, with a Luciferian spark in his eye, upon ordering to sculpt his own gravestone, 1854-1890, 2051-?, with a double date and just one epitaph: “Here gloriously lies upon dust the man who lived two lives, but who would need a thousand in order to condense the intensity of the ephemeral  of a dragonfly, from that blue thread, from a poppy, from that red sigh.”


…But an unusual glacier cold brusquely bursts in coming from the North Sea, screaming for protagonism in this uchronia, with Eolo blowing frozen charges in, with Poseidon enraging the waters that he will finally decide to freeze. After some days an abrupt block emerges on the surface in the middle of the thawing. It’s the block that Michelangelo confessed to Pope Alexander VI, “I don’t think that anybody is capable of sculpting anything in this piece of badly formed rock” and from which he later extracted his “David”. But this differs from the Florentine cinquecento that a sculpted Adonis already had in its interior, not physical, but mental, not in marble but sculpted in ice. And like the very own writer would say “in the fierce battle for existence we want to have something long lasting…” which is why without understanding why or for what the famed scientists from the end of the XIX century decided to conserve the wizard of inventiveness like that, in their coarse laboratories, but with enough technology to maintain an enormous block of ice at a constant temperature with an architect of subtleness inside. And generations visit the famous hibernated writer, and feel horrified by his only photogram with rictus indecorous, that was converted into a work of art in itself, melting in just one concept an object and a subject, making terribly literal his maxim “all art is surface and symbol at the same time.” And the vaudeville is prolonged for much more than a century, until a wise man or a crazy man’s head lights up with the flame that will melt the ice and resuscitate man, maker of semantic symphonies, convener of never thought of epigrams. And maybe, emulating the frog denominated Sylvatica, Canadian and expert in the art of cryogenizing, who gives conferences on it in the Outside Worlds, the universal author surprises all of us with biochemical architecture that her brain was given away with, maybe her sharp and sulfurous tongue in her first life, as her dialectic windiness, the sweetness in potential that resides in her neurons in order to design unrepeatable descriptions, the sublime intoxication of her mind act like dimethyl sulfoxide, modified glucose and glycerol or cryopreserving substances that made the miracle.

 And so Oscar Wilde comes back from the dead, right in the middle of the twenty-first century, to put up another fight regarding these subjects, the living genius, recently taken out of the freezer section, Juliana de Oosterhout. And man, does he puts up a fight in this time of the Fleeing of the Muses, where creativity is picked up with two fingers, like the shroud of a leprous man. And to start the party he lets out his famous “the real mystery of the universe in what’s visible, not what’s invisible”, and hundreds of thousands of astronomers stop looking for dark matter that grants gravitational coherence to the universe and take an early retirement in Benidorm. And afterwards the man who never ages writes his melodrama more than a century and a half late, but adapts it to the new times, with a Lord Henry that communicates with him by quantum and digital impulses instead of telegrams, and with a really decadent society when it comes to values, that make idyllic what in ones mind he was trying to criticize in his first existence. And this resuscitated Oscar Wilde laughs at all of us, cooler than anyone and proudly puffed up, with a Luciferian spark in his eye, upon ordering to sculpt his own gravestone, 1854-1890, 2051-?, with a double date and just one epitaph: “Here gloriously lies upon dust the man who lived two lives, but who would need a thousand in order to condense the intensity of the ephemeral  of a dragonfly, from that blue thread, from a poppy, from that red sigh.” And so the genius recently arrived from the Victorian England gets ahead of all the men and women of his new time, slowing down their pens with the dizziness of his own, devaluing their ego to mere footnotes, raffling off their vitriolic smiles full of ones and zeros on which their cyber-atrophied brains lean on like crutches. And then Jonathan Swift is also reborn, but only for the length of his quote, to be said in a bold voice and with a serene gesture: “When a true genius appears in the world, you can identify him by this sign: all the dunces conspire against him.” And then, it is precisely those dunces that kill him, of course, again, the definitive time. And his gravestone is evened out with four dates that leave the future history students open-mouthed, and those that walk through the cemetery, and humanity can’t allow him to be lost for a second time but it is allowed because its memory is like a fishes, three seconds long, and so long buddy, and because words only have importance in volatile human existence, although all the trillions of joined letters will also one day turn to dust, when that sweet asteroid decides to erase them in a sweep and then nothing will matter, not even if we were formerly loyal to ourselves, if we loved with intensity or not, or if we kept our triglycerides in line.        

Oscar Wilde said “We will be able to erase the past. It isn’t more than forgetting, regretting and retracting oneself. But what you can’t avoid is the future” This inevitable future supplies us with the possibility of cryogenizing ourselves, of suffering from glacier pockets, that prolong and/or better our lives…on paper. Before we submerge ourselves in this frozen Odyssey we must calibrate its consequence, so that, as the maestro would say, when we conclude that it will bring ill-fated consequences, we decide to do it anyway.  

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BIONIC TELEKINESIS OR THE AGE OF SILENCE
Bandera España
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By Voyager. Email: thevoyager@tiemposfuturos.es (SUBJECT: CONTACT VOYAGER)
New: Bionic Telekinesis or Electrotelekinesis: A Daily Reality

 Long before the wisest of the wise sons of Hellas could decipher the reality by unraveling their strings, even longer before Pericles had time to say “this Parthenon is mine” in the Athenian agora, I mean a long time before, there was an inexpressible ocean of time during which 800,000 generations of humans dreamt, loved, and died. In the Olduvai Gorge, Tanzania, remains of tools constructed by hominids from 2.5 million years ago were found, of almighty magnitude more characteristic of stars than of men. This gorge converts into an orographic metaphor for the abysm that separates us from those Homo Habilis, who will never contemplate a Rembrandt or read Neruda. Once finished with this fissure of eternity, we find ourselves in yesterday, in geological terms, Phidias of the Stone Age, who sculpted the titled “Venus of Willendorf”, approximately three hundred centuries before the real one undressed the ivory one in order to extract the criselefantina statue of Zeus in Olympia from it, one of the Seven Wonders of the Old World. The prehistoric artist sculpted what is considered to be the first known sculpture, although we don’t know if he fell in love with it, like Pygmalion of the Superior Paleolithic age. Only a few hours ago-we are still talking in cosmogonic times-a Cantabrian and Solutrean Buonarroti from twenty thousand years ago spruced up the Altamira caves because it seemed more edifying than the cynegetic activities that their kind had planned for them for the season. Five thousand years later, one or various magdaleniense artists and unknowingly manieristic, finished off the stone canvas without needing to be immortalized, other than their digital prints, like the “below-signed” of their piece. As much as they exhausted Carbon 14 from then on, this informed us of when, but never by whom. Trapped in the dungeons of the Age in which they had to live, at least they didn’t have to negotiate with Pope Julius II, about monetary or artistic subjects like the authentic Michelangelo had to do. Five minutes ago the Egyptians built the pyramids, Stonehenge was erected, sites that shrink all the previously mentioned and almost the following. The Bronze Age, between stormy skies and gigantic dragonflies, introduced a quantitative leap within the interaction of Man and matter. All those anonymous men and women used their hands to survive their insignificant lives and to survive time, creating… 
 
In art, the leap will probably be quantum as well as qualitative. The creator being able to unfold his virtuosity by drawing, sculpting, composing or writing directly with his feelings will open up to the world the most remote and fabulous universes that could be found in the most profound folds of our being.


We needed those five minutes, the Iron Age, the Chinese, Egyptians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Carolingians, an endless amount of Islamic tribulations and revolutions, French and Industrial, to finally arrive to the Internet Age and to this Silent Age that is presented to us, so that the leap is also qualitative. Controlling objects and/or machines with our thoughts opens before us a universe of inconceivable possibilities. In an absurd classification exercise I will say that, maybe, a dichotomy in such possibilities fits, that is also the one that characterized our ancestors: The pragmatic and creative, two concepts that are in no way exclusionary. Controlling reality with our thoughts builds before us a new and edifying world, invisible and intangible, ubiquitous and maybe interminable, with whose correct management our survival as a species depends.  In theory the new tool eliminates intermediate states in our interaction with the universe, connecting our neurons directly, and therefore we, with the action, abolishing the crudest and most abrupt language and even more course physical exercise of our beloved extremities. Will they be stunted because of lack of use? Evidently we will have to do something to exercise them when bionic telekinesis becomes widespread, and on a short term basis (an individuals life). On a long term basis, there will have to be special care taken with the endogenic communities for generations, like the settlers’ ones in the Solar System. Dynamize is a verb that doesn’t do justice in expressing the concept: In art, the leap will probably be quantum as well as qualitative. The creator being able to unfold his virtuosity by drawing, sculpting, composing or writing directly with his feelings will open up to the world the most remote and fabulous universes that could be found in the most profound folds of our being. With respect to the other aspect, the practical one, if in this case dramatically opposite, in the controlling of reality, inconsistency will not be allowed, there will be no mental funambulism, synaptic acrobatics will be banned, to the doubtful, imbalanced, the new technological possibility will be prohibited because of the danger that is involved in making your thoughts a reality in an ipso-facto way.  
    

 A Pandora’s box has been opened whose contents are unknown. The technicians assure us that the new technology is safe, they sell us their goodness, and they defend the performance for any person and under any circumstances. I have my serious reservations with respect to this. No one understands, for example, how to codify information in the cerebral hippocampus although the “geniuses” have limited themselves to imitating its’ behavior. First we should evolve and learn new mental patterns. A hard and complex work out, really. Whoever is sure that they control their thoughts one hundred percent should throw the first stone, but with their hands. I don’t have my biochip implemented yet and I already miss our ancestors, who always worked with just them.

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PLUTO'S HEXÁGONS
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By Voyager. Email: thevoyager@tiemposfuturos.es (SUBJECT: CONTACT VOYAGER)
New: Pluto, god of the dead in Roman mythology, kept an extraordinary secret

  It happened. Finally, some would say. All of humanity contemplates the foggy image. Meanwhile, their eyes sparkle and their imagination flies light years with the objective of finding answers to the galaxy of questions. Who? When? How? Why? Yes, basic ones, archetypical but crucial. It happened. That easily? I, standing tall, with a starwarsian laser sword ask one more question: Was the discovery random? I mean, was it like, there I was walking along and wow! Total proof of the existence of an intelligent alien civilization! (or at least one that’s crazy about hexagons) Or, on the contrary, was it predicted by THEM? What do you think? That I have the answer? Ha ha. We can speculate nevertheless, which is what’s cool. I think a not-so civilized civilization, on the lower part of the galactic ranking, forgot to dismantle their hut for the “guykends” in the confines of our Solar System. Nobody get offended now by the frivolity, because on my ID card it says recalcitrant journalist and not rectilinear scientist, so I can afford to do it. But no one will be fooled: This article is about putting in your two cents, its trying to be a brainstorm in full form, but with a layer of “Acme brand Frivolous-ness” that varnishes it. Without integrals or differential equations, really.
 
Did little Alexander Magno scamper away to get out of one of Aristotles’ classes, under the intense look of the “Pluto’s Scouts” instruments?   

Let’s continue: These people…live there or set up camp an eon ago? Well, I opt for the second option since I didn’t see any washing hanging up anywhere. Whatever they are…Are the “bodies” of the supposedly dead ET’s inside the colossal structure, of the “base”? Maybe everything started because of a lack of ventilation due to the cold exterior when one of them took off their socks (cosmogonic irreverence) Did they detect us just like we detected them? Is the one who constructed the structure the representative of their civilization? Did biological beings do it, or machines? Did they pay their property taxes, that is, did they solicit a building license? Have we activated, upon discovering them, an activation sequence that will end up destroying us? Cut the red cable, not the green one. Anyway, questions (grotesque) 13 – Answers (absurd) 3.

 A little-but only a little bit- of seriousness to continue. What was discovered on Pluto was so grand that it will take centuries to assimilate. Its consequences, even if everything stays the way it is, in that fateful instant, are unpredictable. And I mean on a social level. Being sure that we aren’t all alone in the icy celestial night could make our entire socio-cultural structure stagger. Or not. How would it affect a Parisian old lady when buying her Yorkshire’s food, an extraterrestrial civilizations’ -God knows when, and maybe He doesn’t even- base on Pluto? Of course, on a daily scale, it seems like not much. But its mere existence can make us reflect with three layer profundity more than some of the stupidities from before. For example: We aren’t alone in the universe. Life is making its way. A civilization superior to ours isn’t necessarily condemned to self-destruction. If they haven’t made contact with us, taking a walk around the block, as they say, it’s because we aren’t ready to enter into a supposed Galactic Confederacy. Will we be soon? It’s possible that it was an observation station. If so, since when? Did little Alexander Magno scamper away to get out of one of Aristotles’ classes, under the intense look of the “Pluto’s Scouts” instruments?      

 Anyway. One photograph seems to have changed everything. When you throw away your used batteries, apparently, everything will be the same. But no. Maybe someone way up there, maybe a guest of Carl Sagan, is waiting to see if I recycle them or not. I, under the most severe urban rules and even having to wait forever, seven hundred thousand years, will wait for them to disintegrate, the alkalines, I mean. Maybe I’ll be an example for some, who leave everything thrown all over the place. Ladies and Gentlemen, Pluto is not a dump. For a biodegradable universe.    

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