Monday, February 8, 2016
Friday, February 5, 2016
À BORD D'UN VAISSEAU MONDE is one in a series of books on space exploration and settlement distributed by noblishing/ATCM media, Geneva.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
"I picked my way through canyons and towers of ice and gravel, my supply sled scratching or screeching as its skis crossed pumice or ice. My feeble headlamp bobbed along. Most of the light was in the sky, the moon illuminating tilted terrains that extended into darkness, their geometries not always making sense in my half-seen world. A thousand other celestial lights burned in the sky--planets, stars, galactic clusters, meteorites... The brightest were reflected by the black ice, the photons from those stars bouncing up at my eyes after--well, who-knew how many millions or billions of years in transit? On such cold, clear nights I was stripped down by the terrain and such thoughts, stripped right down to being a life form trying to get from one point to another. It was a pleasant simplification."
Thursday, December 24, 2015
From the book, and related to the drawing below:
"It is known that each Icelandic valley ('dalur') is attended by some ghoul; from trolls to witches, giantesses, ghost-sorcerers....elves and goblins...As I scurried along a frozen river that ribboned down the bottom of the Hofelsdalur--my headlamp just a spark in the night-- hurricane-force wild winds whipped snow from the peaks and then avalanched down on me in bizarre vertical downdrafts. I imagined a great ghoul up in the crags, thrilled to have discovered a plaything in his lonely valley. The steep black basalt valley walls were snaked with frozen waterfalls that terminated half way down, acres of ice crust spattered below on near-vertical rock."
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
"I slowly gained elevation up the low grade of the glacier. Strange ice and snow features, sculpted by wind, rain, and summer sun, occasionally caught my eye. The ice I walked on was frequently transparent. My crampons bit into what appeared to be a thick pane of irregular glass, beneath it clouds and galactic tendrils of black ash and white bubbles swirled, trapped in the ice...Some bubbles were a spray of soda fizz, others were large, lonely balloons...There were contorted blue and green swaths, painters’ brushstrokes, some long and lazy, others mere jabs. All appeared to writhe if I was moving, but when I stopped and sat like a child to examine them, they were motionless in the ice. Even here, the glacier was hundreds of feet thick, and I couldn’t tell how far down I was seeing. Irregular drapes of aqua-colored ice seemed to be sandwiched between masses of something that was nearly transparent, but still caught some of the starlight and redistributed it in random waves and flourishes. When melt water flowed half an inch thick across the ice, the strange spectacle rippled and squirmed. It was a surreal painting, drunk at having discovered motion.
The effects were hypnotic. Already the ice was enchanting me, molding my actions. It had already brought me to my knees in wonder. And now, if I tilted my head a little, or scanned slowly from left to right, the leaps and oozes of the deep ice-light swirls were a spell indeed. I swayed gently, like a snake before the flute, to keep the lights in motion. It was easy to imagine that some Icelandic sorcerer of old had set a cold fire into the ice to trap lonely wanderers. It took an effort to get up and keep moving."