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July 16 2017

Day 347/365: GameGirl…

July 14 2017

Die Regierungserklärung von Olaf Scholz ist hier wunderschön unterbildert mit der Realität, von der er versucht, zu sprechen. #noG20
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July 10 2017

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FARMBOT GENESIS: This robot is changing farming as we know it

And the best part about this technology is that it’s open source, meaning you can build one yourself from the blueprints that are available for anyone to download. 

Check out the full video to find out more about Farmbot Genesis.

This is so neat.


Does it…is it killing the weeds by STABBING THEM?




Reposted fromyayroos yayroos
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An interesting sci-fi short story from 4chan.


That is some fine writing.

The Imgur link is broken so:

[Series of posts on 09/16/11]

About twelve years ago, a man died in high orbit over Tau Ceti V.

His name was Drake McDougal, and aside from a few snapshots and vague anecdotes from his drinking buddies, that’s probably all we’ll ever know about him. Another colony-born man with little records and little documentation, working whatever asteroid field the Dracs deigned to allow them. Every now and then a Drac gunship would strut on through the system, Pax Draconia and all that. But that was it.

One fine day, one of those gunships had a misjump. A bad one. It arrived only ninety clicks above atmo, with all its impellers blown out by the gravatic feedback of Tau Ceti V’s gravity well. The Dracs scraped enough power together for a good system-wide broadbeam and were already beginning the Death Chant when they hit atmo.

People laughed at the recording of sixty Dracs going from mysterious chanting to “’what-the-fuck’ing” for years after they forgot the name Drake McDougal. The deafening “CLANG” and split second of stunned silence afterwards never failed to entertain. Drake had performed a hasty re-entry seconds after the gunship and partially slagged his heatshield diving after it. Experts later calculated he suffered 11Gs when he leaned on the retro to match velocities with the Dracs long enough to engage the mag-grapples on his little mining tug.

Even the massively overpowered drive of a tug has its limits, and Drake’s little ship hit hers about one and a half minutes later. Pushed too far, the tug’s fusion plant lost containment just as he finished slingshotting the gunship into low orbit. (It was unharmed, of course; the Drac opinion of fusion power best translated as “quaint,” kind of how we view butter churns.)

It was on the local news within hours, on newsnets across human space within days. It was discussed, memorialized, marveled upon, chewed over by daytime talk-show hosts, and I think somebody even bought a plaque or some shit like that. Then there was a freighter accident, and a mass-shooting on Orbital 5, and of course, the first Vandal attacks in the periphery.

The galaxy moved on.

Twelve years is a long time, especially during war, so twelve years later, as the Vandal’s main fleet was jumping in near Jupiter and we were strapping into the crash couches of what wee enthusiastically called “warships,” I guaran-fucking-tee you not one man in the entire Defense Force could remember who Drake McDougal was.

Well, the Dracs sure as hell did.

Dracs do not fuck around. Dozens of two-kilometer long Drac supercaps jumped in barely 90K klicks away, and then we just stood around staring at our displays like the slack-jawed apes we were as we watched what a real can of galactic whoop-ass looked like. You could actually see the atmosphere of Jupiter roil occasionally when a Vandal ship happened to cross between it and the Drac fleet. There’s still lightning storms on Jupiter now, something about residual heavy ions and massive static charges or something.

Fifty-eight hours later, with every Vandal ship reduced to slagged debris and nine wounded Drac ships spinning about as they vented atmosphere, they started with the broad-band chanting again. And then the communiqué that confused the hell out of us all.

“Do you hold out debt fulfilled?”

After the sixth or seventh comms officer told them “we don’t know what the hell you’re talking about” as politely as possible, the Drac fleet commander got on the horn and asked to speak to a human Admiral in roughly the same tone as a telemarketer telling a kid to give the phone to Daddy. When the Admiral didn’t know either, the Drac went silent for a minute, and when he came back on his translator was using much smaller words, and talking slower.

“Is our blood debt to Drake McDougal’s clan now satisfied?”

The Admiral said “Who?”

What the Drac commander said next would’ve caused a major diplomatic incident had he remembered to revert to the more complex translation protocols. He thought the Admiral must be an idiot, a coward, or both. Eventually, the diplomats were called out, and we were asked why the human race has largely forgotten the sacrifice of Drake McDougal.

Humans, we explained, sacrifice themselves all the time.

We trotted out every news clip from the space-wide Nets from the last twelve years. Some freighter cook that fell on a grenade during a pirate raid on Outreach. A ship engineer who locked himself into the reactor room and kept containment until the crew evacuated. Firefighter who died shielding a child from falling debris with his body, during an earthquake. Stuff like that.

That Dracs were utterly stunned. Their diplomats wandered out of the conference room in a daze. We’d just told them that the rarest, most selfless and honorable of acts - acts that incurred generations-long blood-debts and moved entire fleets - was so routine for our species that they were bumped off the news by the latest celebrity scandal.

Everything changed for humanity after that. And it was all thanks to a single tug pilot who taught the galaxy what truly defines Man.

This makes me cry

It had been so many cycles since the Drac incident, and even more since the Drake McDougal event, and the the galaxy had sort of come to the conclusion that humans were, well, human about things, and that they regarded their lives in completely incomprehensible ways.

Yet for all of the witnessed sacrifices, few warriors had ever been taught to recognise the most terrifying of human deeds. In a forgettable corner of the galaxy, in an unremarked planet with a previously less than recorded history, a party of six human security escorts bringing their rescued survivors to a hive ship became a party of five, 

A lone human, holding one of their handheld ‘melee’ weapons wordlessly tilted their head to their commander, and stopped, standing in plain sight in the middle of a field. 


When asked, the lower ranked humans simply said “She knows what’s she’s doing”.  The human captain’s inexplicable statement “She’s buying us some time” made it as if their companion had stepped into some form of marketplace. 

Katherine of Rescue Group’s fate was never confirmed, but no pursuit came that night. On the next dawn, when the hive ship was able to leave, the humans insisted we departed immediately, and did not go back for their companion.

We do not know for sure what became of Katherine of Rescue Group. All we know is that when pressed, the human captain explained to our own that the one who stayed had communicated an ancient human tradition, the rite of self sacrifice.  In words, the captain explained, the look and the nod would mean “Go on. I’ll hold them off.  It was not, as we thought, that this one warrior had sought victory over many enemies, but that they had calculated a trade off of the minutes or hours it could take to defeat a human, against the time needed by their companions.

Humans, as humans say, do not go gentle into that good night.  

Worse, they do not go gentle into bad nights, worse days, or terrifying sunsets. Dawn seems to fill them with potency and rage, as if to call upon the solar gods and tell the deities to come down here and say that to their human faces. We do not know how long she bought us, but we, the hive now called K’thrn, understand what it means to have someone expend their existence for the survival of others.

We find it terrifying.

Reposted fromyayroos yayroos

July 09 2017


Winter is Coming
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July 07 2017

Zitat des Posters aus Facebook: 
So ein shit überall brennende Autos ! 😐 Kollegen heute morgen auf dem Weg zum Security Job am Hafen !
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July 03 2017

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Ravens and coffee pattern for mazz!!

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June 27 2017

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This lamppost focuses the sun and scorches a line in the grass.
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June 26 2017

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June 25 2017

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June 24 2017

Living the dream
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June 14 2017


Hermann Oberth entstammte einer Familie Siebenbürger Sachsen. Schon als Jugendlicher ein begeisterter Leser der futuristischen Romane von Jules Verne, die ihm sein Vater geschenkt hatte, begann sich Oberth bereits während seiner Gymnasialzeit mit raketen- und raumfahrttheoretischen Problemen zu befassen. So konnte er durch physikalisch-mathematische Überlegungen nachweisen, dass eine „Reise zum Mond“ mit einer wie bei Jules Verne verwendeten Kanone, durch welche die Mondreisenden zum Mond geschossen würden, nicht möglich sein kann, da die Reisenden den gewaltigen Anpressdruck beim Abschuss nicht überleben würden. Stattdessen kam Oberth bald zu dem Schluss, dass eine solche Reise nur mit einer Rakete zu realisieren wäre. (Eine Rakete wird in einem anderen Roman von Jules Verne beschrieben.)

Da sein Vater, Dr. Julius Oberth, Arzt war, wurde auch in Hermann Oberth schon früh das Interesse an medizinischen Problemen geweckt. In seinen Erinnerungen beschreibt Oberth, wie er als Gymnasiast im öffentlichen Bad von Schäßburg, wo er seit seinem zweiten Lebensjahr mit den Eltern lebte, Sprünge vom Sprungbrett unternahm, um dem Gefühl der Schwerelosigkeit nahezukommen.

Seine bekanntesten Werke wurden Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen (1923) und Wege zur Raumschiffahrt (1929). Darin stellte er auch das von ihm erfundene Ionentriebwerk vor. In Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen stellte er folgende Thesen auf:

  • Prämisse 1: Beim heutigen Stand der Wissenschaft und der Technik ist der Bau von Maschinen, die höher steigen können, als die Erdatmosphäre reicht, wahrscheinlich.
  • Prämisse 2: Bei weiterer Vervollkommnung können diese Maschinen derartige Geschwindigkeiten erreichen, dass sie nicht auf die Erdoberfläche zurückfallen müssen und sogar imstande sind, den Anziehungsbereich der Erde zu verlassen.
  • Prämisse 3: Derartige Maschinen können so gebaut werden, dass Menschen (wahrscheinlich ohne gesundheitlichen Nachteil) mit emporfahren können.
  • Prämisse 4: Unter gewissen wirtschaftlichen Bedingungen kann sich der Bau solcher Maschinen lohnen. Solche Bedingungen können in einigen Jahrzehnten eintreten.

Mit dem Start des Sputnik (1957) und dem Flug von Juri Gagarin (1961) ins Weltall wurden diese, am Anfang der 1920er Jahre noch vollkommen utopischen Gedanken, weniger als vier Jahrzehnte später in die Realität umgesetzt.

Reposted frompseikow pseikow viapulegon pulegon

June 13 2017







the thing about lotr that the movies don’t convey so fully is how the story is set in an age heavily overshadowed by all the ages before. they’re constantly traveling through ruins, discussing the glory of days gone by, the empires of men are much diminished, the elves (especially galadriel) are described as seeming incongruent, frozen in time….some of the imagery is even near-apocalyptic, like the ruins of moria and of course the landscape surrounding mordor

this is a strange thought to me, somehow: that the archetypal “high fantasy” story is set at the point where the…fantasy…used to be much higher? this is not the golden age; this is a remnant

LotR is Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome of the elves.

i want to emphasize that people have added excerpts of their theses in reply to this post but this is still my favorite reblog

Honestly I’d take it further than that: it’s Fury Road. And that’s part of what makes Galadriel’s choice so fucking central, and so amazing, and so heartbreaking. 

Because she was there. She was there from the BEGINNING. She grew up in the Undying Lands in the light of the Two Trees. She even LEFT the Undying Lands because she could pretty plainly see there was no chance to build great kingdoms or new things there. 

She helped lead her people across the grinding ice after Fëanor and his sons abandoned them. She lived in Doriath at its height, her brother created Nargothrond at its height, the peak of cooperation between Khazâd and Quendi, her cousin built Gondolin. 

And she watched all of it die. 

She lost her brothers, two to war and one to torture and then being half-eaten by a demon-wolf in the depths of Sauron’s first stronghold. She saw Thingol murdered and Melian wrecked. She saw her brother’s shining Nargothrond fall to Glaurung and become a desecrated pit of hell. She saw her cousins die, one by one; then she saw her cousins turn on her own people (again) and murder over half of them. 

She saw all of the lands she’d known wrecked and destroyed: some polluted and destroyed by Morgoth, some destroyed in the War of Wrath. She saw Khazad-dûm polluted and destroyed by the Balrog. She saw Númenor - whose royal line were also her kin, via Turgon and Idril - polluted, turned into a brutal hideous empire and tyranny, and then sunk. 

She saw Celebrimbor, her young cousin, try to make the rings as tools to make the world better - and saw Sauron use and betray him, and then come back and utterly destroy his kingdom, slaughtering his people, who fled to her, to Thranduil, and to Elrond. She saw Gil-galad’s last kingdom and the very Pyrrhic victory in Mordor, followed by the slow but unstoppable decay of what she in Lorien, Thranduil in Greenwood or Elrond in Imladris could actually protect. 

Then she saw her only child captured by orcs and held captive and tortured and gods know what else until Celebrien was incapable of staying in Middle Earth - not for her children, or her husband, or her parents. She saw the rise of the Necromancer and his unmasking. 

She has bled and lost and grieved for thousands of years. Not a single person she came to Middle-Earth with still survives. Celeborn is the only person she loved she has ever got to keep with her, and she met him there. She couldn’t even keep her own child safe. 

And now she’s being offered the One Ring, the source of more power than even Melian had (and Melian was strong enough for the Girdle to protect Doriath from Melkor). She’s being offered the one thing that exists that could even possibly let her change that, make that not so. The only thing that exists that could keep the final end of all of that being the death of Lorien, the loss of Imladris, the loss of everything she ever wanted or worked for. 

Without the Ring, she was strong enough to hold Sauron off. With the Ring she could have erased him. She would have been stronger than Lúthien, who enchanted even Melkor. She could make the whole world like Lothlorien. And Frodo is offering it to her. 

More than that, he’s asking her to take it. He’s saying “I’m too weak, I’m too small, I’m tired, I’m scared, it hurts, I don’t want it. Please say you want it and I will give it to you.” 

And she says no. She doesn’t take it. She doesn’t ask for it. 

She accepts that everything she has ever done is going to die. That she will be forgotten, that her people’s home will decay and disintegrate, that nothing she made or anyone she ever loved made will endure. 

She fights the war that comes afterwards (and the movies ALSO mislead like fuck on that: Lothlorien and Rivendell were both under MAJOR siege during the war and a LOT of people died, and that should be even scarier: that Sauron fully felt he had the power to attack not JUST Gondor, but at the same time the Golden Wood, Imladris, the Lonely Mountain … and in all of them come so close to winning that it’s only the Ring’s destruction that saves the world; that’s how strong he was) in order to make sure that this will happen. That exactly the thing that will be the final nail in the coffin - the destruction of the Ring - will come to pass. 

And then goes back to the Undying Lands as an exile returning on sufferance, alone, because Celeborn can’t bring himself to leave yet. 

Elrond’s story is just about as tragic, and the thing is, this is the context of their last acts: throwing themselves at the war, at death, at the destruction of everything they love, because it’s the only chance that the people who come after them will get anything better than brutal slavery to the Enemy. They don’t get to keep shit. Elrond even loses his daughter - permanently, because her soul goes wherever human souls go. He’s already lost his twin brother like that. 

And despite what everyone draws as parallels, Aman isn’t “Heaven”. There’s no guarantee of healing or happiness there. It’s more likely than in Middle-Earth, but Fëanor’s mother effectively died of exhaustion, and even Nienna, one of the Valier herself, lives in permanent shattered mourning for the desecration and suffering of the world. Even as Frodo’s offered the right to go there the wording is always may. 

His wounds and weariness may be healed. Not will be. But may be. 

There’s no guarantee that Celebrien is there waiting for her mother or her husband when they get there: she may still be the wreck she was when she left Middle Earth. There’s no guarantee of anything. 

So it has a lot more in common with Fury Road, and the end of Fury Road - Max having given his all to help someone else win their victory and freedom, and then walking away because he can’t stay - than anything. And that’s pretty heartbreaking. 

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