International Women’s Day

Most days, my agenda is filled with evaluating rocket fin designs or applying “think outside the fuselage” reasoning to assess the most cost-effective means of advancing our planetary lifeforms outward into the galaxy.

I pay advisors to tell me where to put my investments to give our group the most play money for building outer space travel toys.

In a few days, I’ll spend a few minutes with half my staff to evaluate any discrepancies we have concerning gender-neutral compensation.

We have a wide variety of people involved in running the organisation smoothly, from the least socially aware to the most brash, politically incorrect loudmouths.

Hey, when you manage seven billion people, the variations are nearly endless.

But not nearly enough.

Every other year, I ask one gender and then the other to review our employee policies and practices.

Because our subcultures are sometimes incompatible, I ask the people whose beliefs are separated the most from one another to meet and talk.

During these meetings, our supercomputers are listening, increasing the resolution of their intuition algorithms substantially.

Then, a panel composed of people and supercomputers is asked to evaluate the meet-and-greet session, resulting in a summary report that is sent out to all subcultures in formats they believe represent a view from their specific subcultural perspective.

I assign one of the Committee’s subcommittee ad hoc teams to rate the effectiveness of the absorption of every report into individual subcultures.

The reports with the lowest effectiveness score are sent to a new meet-and-greet team for discussion, which is, again, overheard by our supercomputers for error detection algorithm correction and fed into intuition algorithm automatic reprogramming routines.

In this week’s yearly event called International Women’s Day, we’ll ask the female gender to pull two “opposite” subcultures together for one of the meetings — female leaders of the porn industry, such as Lux Alptraum, and female adherents of celibate life, such as members of the Focolare Movement.

Because no two people are exactly alike, we prepare the participants, asking them to listen with respect, disagree passionately, do not compromise simply to avoid conflict, and find common ground that excludes the fact we are of the same species.

We expect members of the same subculture to share discordant opinions amongst themselves, let alone with people outside the subculture.

The Committee wants progress, even if movement in one direction appears to go backwards.

After all, the larger goal of culling the species for nearly ideal representatives to colonise and breed on nonEarth premises requires both conventional and nonconventional processes.

We need people who…sorry, sets of states of energy that can adapt and survive in the harshest conditions possible for what we’ll call living beings at this moment.

After a while, offworld colonists will no longer work to complete tasks assigned from Earth.

In the changes of the colonists’ agenda from external goals to local goals as the years pass, including reactions to adverse ambient environmental changes, the Committee wants to ensure our representatives will thrive.

As the current reluctant leader, my goal is to ensure the representatives can hold individual viewpoints that will adapt and grow together, even if the people pull apart, philosophically speaking, as all current models predict is inevitable.

The Committee advocates no specific subcultural belief.

We only believe in the capacity of our species to advance life out of the solar system while we have the means and window of opportunity to do so, holding to the basic philosophy of “leave the planet in better condition than when we got it” that each successive generation is taught.

We avoid words like mission or vision because we aren’t corporate entities that have to justify our existence although most of us depend on corporate entities interacting with each other to expand our budgetary constraints.

We make mistakes.  People will and must die to accomplish some of our major goals, and many will die accidentally.

All seven billion of us will die eventually but we empathise with those who feel individual losses, anyway.

However, at a global scale, we barely sympathise, partially composed, as we’ve told you, of supercomputers that are just learning to develop intuition algorithms and getting closer to acting like us on general subcultural levels that tend to gloss over the death of individuals, except those designated to represent the best or worst of us (e.g., ruthless dictators, popular entertainers, babies who died tragically, etc.), which the supercomputers simply assign as data points that may or may not designate significant changes to the subculture and are used as triggers for recording the conditions of the subcultural data sets for later comparison.

We hope you look forward to subcultural interaction reports containing gender-based information coming to a comfortable subcultural outlet near you, if you can recognise when we send them out and what they are.

Quintana Roo

Yesterday, I got an emergency call.

Eliza B Gentle, our field biologist, had just tracked down the last breeding site of the elusive Yucatan flying tree kangaroo.

Talk about ecstatic!  Or maybe the ex-static cling jacket I was wearing that repels excess charged particles from taking residence on my person.

The last time I had seen a Yucatan flying tree was…oh, I don’t know, scribbled on a torn page dangling from the molded, faded journal of Enrique Soulever Janemail I found at a trinket shop in Marrakesh when I was a midshipman aboard the trawler, King ‘Enry The 18th Man.

How these trees’ve evaded capture, let alone discovery, amazes me even more.

Looks like a walking stick with wings.

To avoid letting these half-plant/half-animal creatures fall into the wrong hands, biologists and others unable to handle working in an office environment (say, almost every scientist in existence, and most who’re dead tired of pushing up daisies), no Latin name has been assigned to these miraculous survivors of the early days of cross-species breeding.

In these cautious, late planetary maturity times, most species stick to their own kind.  But there were the glory days — call it Paradise, Eden, Shangri-La or any place but a modern, smog-filled metropolis we call Progress — when sets of states of energy intermixed without regard to genetic incompatibility.

Eliza contacted me via through our secret subwavelength network (if you eat a submarine sandwich at a certain pace, your mandible becomes an antenna that can broadcast signals through any medium (as long as the medium hasn’t been drinking too much laudanum filled with a flagellating paramecium or two — you’d be amazed how much media like the ocean, mantle or magma can drink!)).

I pulled the folding bicycle out of my backpack, turned a few screws, which transformed the bike into a one-person capacity autonomous drone, hopped aboard, pressed the energy transformation button which converted me and my stuff into a stream of dark matter that allowed me to pass through Earth from my location in Turkmenistan straight to Eliza’s undisclosed location in Quintana Roo.

And that’s how I got here, in this form, for all intents and purposes a direct relation of the Yucatan flying tree kangaroo.

Squirrelly being!

The kangaroo mimics the behaviour of the Yucatan flying tree in order to lure its prey to get close enough to be blasted into cosmic oblivion.

The kangaroo feeds off the energy as solids become liquids, liquids become solids and lipids join the incredible Mr. Limpet in a serenade to evolutionary deadends.

The kangaroo is not completely cruel, however.

It takes the leftover energy and does its best to reconstruct its prey into a unique combination of the prey’s self and a likeness of the Yucatan flying tree kangaroo, which has a God complex second only to members of Atheists for a Romney-Putin-Ahmadinejad Triumvirate Trifecta, mixed with a little Merkel, Singh, Gillard, Cameron, and Chavez for a spicy effect.

I’m thinking about becoming a runway fashion model, what with my sticklike legs, winglike arms and insectlike skeletal head, very much opposite of the puffy-faced effect Lindsay Lohan is going for in her appearance as Saturday Night Live hostess-with-the-mostess tonight.

Carlin would be proud — the Mass Media (an ephemeral, if not effeminate collection of prune-faced producers who were constantly made fun of as kids) has reinstituted the list of banned words in order to pretend to be a decent group of control freaks.  The new list:

  • slut
  • chink
  • bitch
  • employed
  • happy
  • optimistic
  • intelligent

Eliza wants to clarify that she is in no way related to the field reporter named Elizabeth Gentle who was credited with creating the “bed intruder” meme.

Time for me to hop on out of here.

Despite my many disguises, the Committee hasn’t forgotten about me and wants me back in charge of deciding the fate of a species on an obscure planet in a tiny solar system of the Milky Way — the countdown clock says we’ve only got 13943 days left!

Re-versed Psychology

A black fly taunts me, buzzing in close, just long enough for me to take a mis-aimed swipe, and then flaps its little numb-brained membraned wings up into the hard-to-reach edge of the intersection of the two trapezoidal picture frame windows of our cathedral-ceilinged living room.

Translate that sentence into the language of the colonists in the depths of the ice lakes of Space Base 45Zed9Alpha.

They haven’t seen flies there in over 20,000,000 generations, or about two years to the rest of you reading this on Earth.

My parents and their clones singing for supper -- whoohoo!

You see, we populated this solar system so far back in time with energised molecules that you’ve come to believe either you evolved from dust clouds in the formation of the solar system or some Being-related faith-based system created you.

You just don’t get it, and through consultation with the “professional” couch-talk, tablet PC scribbling, overeducated psychological psychiatrists — supposedly fellow members of your species — I’ve come to the conclusion that you never will.

Look at it this way — you’re a beehive, God is dead, the European Space Agency is just as clueless about the EU as the rest of us, Wolfgang is a name (not a gang sign (or is it?)), and if I could just see one tree leaf blow across the Martian plains, I’d go for a walk looking for another, instead of sitting in this space habitat waiting for my parents to assign me a job to do in this kid-free exploratory zone.

Send a male and female to Mars without birth control technology and I am the result!

So much for your modern science.

Now where is that nuclear fusion experiment I invented last night and was playing with this morning…?

Time to obviously send messages in open secrets under broad daylight to members of my gang to cause another prominent person getting in the way of our agenda to die of a “natural” heart attack.

If only you fools knew who we were.  Hahahahahaha….

If only I knew how to tell you…sigh…

What I wouldn’t give to hear a single severe thunderstorm warning on this planet!

Fortunate Drawers

Sitting here in a café in a small Turkmenistan town, watching caravan after caravan go by (what you Americans might call tractor-trailer rigs), smelling jet fuel and gunpowder, I figure this is part of the forward base action I was expected to report to my superiours in a conference call later this afternoon.

At first, I complained about this satellite phone, looking like a geek at a debutante party, or rather the rich geek father depositing his little princess at her coming-out party (and yes, you can take that for all it’s worth, these days).

But looking at those guys across the street cradling their smartphones covered with acronyms trying to get a good signal, I say being the sore thumb at an M.C. Hammer hardware store is a good thing, for once.

Besides, I’ve got a friend who carries her lucky knickers just for me.

And I’ve got another friend, El Presidente, who thinks about nothing but al Qaeda and schooling in Sunday afternoon football smackdowns to keep my thoughts warm at night, too.

I wasn’t always like this, sipping stale coffee, spreading badly-worded rumours from underpaid government copywriters, but then maybe I was…we just called it primary school back then.

That’s okay.  It beats sitting at home, not making any money there, either, watching the television news or surfing the Internet for useless tidbits like every other secret organisation in the “business.”

Where was I?  Oh yeah, spiking my coffee with homemade hooch.

You see, in the hinterlands of the former Soviet Union, radioactive material is as easy to get as rabies from the raccoons I used to…well, let’s not go into boring details at this juncture in the punctuated story.

But hey, when a guy gets lonely…never mind.

Anyway, I was sitting on a crate of rotten eggs, unable to distinguish the smell of my ripe, unwashed body from that of chickens that’ll never live to see the light of day reflecting off a machete swinging toward their heads, when it hit me.

The kid down the street, always pestering me to call a tobacco shoppe down the street from his cousin in London and asking if they have Princess Edward in a can, looked at this blog I was texting with my calloused thumbs (calloused, mind you, from texting — what else did you think caused the callousness?  I mean, calloused hands.).

He asked if I had a more interesting writing style, after he’d thrown the uranium/plutonium ball at my noggin.

Hey, that reminds me.  Maybe I’ve got a gold mine at my feet.  Either that, or the pyrite the panhandler pretended to think was gold and sold it only to me, his best friend in the whole wide world, if not the block in which we both live, at a bargain basement we were using to brew the hooch I give out to unsuspecting tourists before I remove their overweight wallets.

Seriously, what have I got that you don’t?

All this nuclear fissable material.  No, that’s the Coke gurgling in my stomach that’s fissable.

It’s the fissionable stuff I’m dreaming about right now.

You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?

Yeah, you know it.  Re-activating Project Orion.

We’ll just declare Turkmenistan off-limits and use it to launch the Mars mission my fellow members of the Committee are dreaming with me.

We’ll rename the country ChernobylTwo or something like that.

We can put this whole “war” to contain nuclear proliferation to a rest and just keep starving the Iranian people to death while their leaders bask in the personal glory of the sacrifice of their people to show them old episodes of “Who’s The Boss?

Can you think of worse torture than that?

Rumour has it the last thing that Andrew World’s-worst-job-as-overpaid-angry-man Breitbart saw before his heart acted up was Alyssa Milano pretending to act.

Let that be a lesson to you, kids.  Don’t get your hopes up.  And further more, don’t listen to a word your clueless parents have to say.  They were terrible students in school and the only reason they’re doing well is that their bosses were even worse so the whole adult scheme is to pretend that everyone is smarter than they really are.

Of course, you kids have no clue what I’m talking about because, as we’re supposed to know, genetic research proves that our species has actually gotten worse, our purity as animals watered down with talks about backyard BBQ parties, easy-to-hack security alarm systems and other ways we deny we’re overdressed members of the fight-or-flight club.

Almost time for the conference call.

Go back to looking at your cute kitten videos and sports scores.

I’ve got a nuclear bomb powered rocketship to promote!

Stratford-on-Avon

Or is that Anon[ymous] on Stratfor?  We aren’t telling!

We, the hackers who work for the Committee Chairman who usually authors these blog entries, have figured out his lame password (as if MostAwesomest#1EnglishWriter isn’t one of the most common passwords out there!).

While he’s off moping about lost loves and such emotional crap, here’s our funny picture of the day, titled,

SCIENTISTS CREATE ZOMBIE, MAKE HER A MEMBER OF THE U.S. CONGRESS

In science news today, a rogue lab released secret information that it had successfully created the world’s first verifiable political zombie and posted this image as positive proof:
The White House has sent staff from the NSA, TSA, DHS and Hamburger U to affirm or deny this amazing story.
 
Meanwhile, the esteemed constituents of Maloney’s U.S. House district wonder if they’ve been fed baloney, instead of the official meat byproducts they’ve learned to eat without tasting and call it delicious pastrami.
 
Little do they know the meat byproducts are actually the ingredients of an ancient voodoo recipe used to create zombies the old-fashioned way.
 
The Centers for Disease Control will release a statement as soon as its advance team can get past all the hot air and piles of [bleep] surrounding the U.S. Capitol building to investigate the start of what appears to be a scientifically-created zombie invasion.

The saga of global management continues…

The Committee revealed today that it had convinced U.S. military leaders to show a soft side, a sympathetic position in its support of our species.

The military will soon divert resources to stop global warming by strategically triggering bombs and other military-grade devices underground, causing magma pockets to combine into giant high-pressure chambers under volcanoes around the globe.

Then, in a series of timed explosions, the military will set off volcanic eruptions that will spew ash plumes tens of kilometres into the atmosphere, blocking the Sun’s overheating power, thus reducing the greenhouse effect for several decades, allowing our species to maintain the status quo in current crop allocation ratios.

Negotiations with the airline industries over disrupted flight paths are ongoing at this time.

Meanwhile, the Committee is trying to address population growth issues, and may resort to taking “excess” babies from overproductive families and training the children to become future workers on offworld farms, easily expendable in the big picture, in other words.

The sooner the babies can be launched, the less fuel used and the better they will acclimate to the gravitational forces and emotional stresses of life on our Moon, Mars, and other celestial bodies.

The Committee is soliciting ideas for the perfect surrogate mothers to tend to these babies as they reach prime working age, around six or seven, and then will not need “formation years” nurturing any longer, converting the surrogate mothers to worker bots on the farms.

Welcome to my place in the zeitgeist

Is “Iron Sky” the future of filmmaking?  Or “Tuvalu,” instead?  Maybe Laibach’s “Predictions of Fire“?

Do you gauge the future by looking at trends of incoming recent photobucket images?

How much of the universe exists outside the Internet of things?

How many men felt their manhood threatened by the U.S. HHS Secretary’s announcement about forced payments for birth control, even if they weren’t Catholic?

Have you watched “The Mindscape of Alan Moore” or listened to Emiliana Torrini?

How many producers/agents have profited off of drug-addled performers?

How many drug-addled performers have profited off of producers/agents?

How many drug-addled producers/agents have profited off of drug-addled performers?

How many performers have profited off of drug-addled producers/agents?

How many drug-addled producers/agents have profited off of performers?

How many performers have profited off of producers/agents?

How many producers/agents have profited off of performers?

What is profit?

These and other questions reside in the thoughts of a group of people sitting in a cold room of an interplanetary transport ship.

They are detached from instantaneous communication with Earth.

They exist outside the cocoon of the zeitgeist.

They experience the long false 24-hour artificial day/night of constant exposure to the Sun.

Circadian rhythms disrupted like workers shifting between 8/12 hour timeslots.

If the doubling of information is nearly impossible to detect, what does it mean to become steam?

Is the scale logarithmic or exponential, both or a combination with some other esoteric formula unfamiliar to the general population?

What is the inverse of life?

The group, composed of multifunction beings resembling us for the most part, stay busy, either physically or mentally, usually both.

They are trained professionals.

There is little room for crazy or lazy here.

The purity of the creative artist detached from reality is a fiction to them.

Not that they can’t produce art in their own way, mimicking air guitar or whistling a tune, doodling on their virtual 3D sketchpads or changing procedures on the fly.

Twenty-four hour headline Earth news is not a habit with them but they keep up with major events through osmosis, in conversations with the base station or updates from family.

A few will surf the Net in their offhours, such as they are, researching ideas about improving minimissions due to begin in their next duty shift, noticing adverts for products they hadn’t seen before they went offworld, their thoughts temporarily drifting toward another place and time when their families would have excitedly talked about product launches.

But immediately their thoughts sync back up with the group, focused on the majormissions which depend on the minimissions and the casual research of those off duty, as well as their timely discombobulated thought patterns.

Money — the fuel that built their ship — is irrelevant in space.

Energy and creativity is worth more than any labour/investment credit system out there.

Out here.

The March 1950 Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists included a review of Aldous Huxley’s novel, “Ape and Essence,” with a reference to the Guiding Hand that all religions, all belief systems, hold dear.

Out here, the synergy of groupthink is its own guiding hand, foreshadowing a prediction of a future that is inevitable.  The expected and the unexpected are foretold, fully anticipated, calculated, waited for without bated breath or dreadful fear.

Embraced.

They know.

They know they will not return to Earth, despite false promises to friends and family.

Promises made based on old data and dated equations.

Now they produce data before it’s measured.

The data, in turn, produces more data that, given more time, would overflow the limited memory locations of their enhanced thought sets tied to the supercomputer embedded and networked throughout the ship.

They know they become more and more a necessary part of the ship.

A ship destined to crash to produce data needed for a mission not yet envisioned, much less funded, to determine the fortitude of the people on Earth in the face of another costly catastrophe involving members of their species with dwindling resources available for space travel and extraplanetary settlements.

The ship is their sepulchre, their traveling crypt.

They are the crypt keepers and the terminated, all in one.

The minimissions and the majormissions go on, the unspoken final mission taking shape in their groupthink, unknown to anyone on Earth.

An egg splits from a cocoon and grows into a new lifeform all its own.

The lifeform sees its death written in the stars but fights for every last breath, regardless.

There’s always a chance the data will change, a new outcome predicted.

No matter how infinitesimal.

Transformation is a beautiful thing.

Mutation even more so.

Avogadro’s Number, or is it PV = nRT?

In our supercomputer simulations, we represent sub/cultures and countries as molecules.

In one recent simulation, we asked the supercomputer network to calculate how many helium-filled balloons it would take to carry a payload into outer space.

The computer stopped immediately and asked exactly how we planned to fill the balloons with helium.

In other words, if one balloon is “full” of helium, it will burst at a lower elevation than a balloon only partially “full,” but the partially-filled balloon will not carry as large a payload.

A latex rubber knapsack problem intersecting a few gas laws.

You, the reader, are fully aware, aren’t you, what this means.

An enclosed space that we pretend contains largely a uniform distribution of a “pure” substance — gas or subcultural beliefs, for example — tends to behave according to simple mathematical formulae.

Telegraph a public message that contains little in the way of subtext and you can expect a ready answer in return.

On the other hand, atmospheric conditions are not uniform.  Pressure is related to density of gas molecules and gas ratio distribution, is it not?  Atmospheric disturbances, including solar heat related phenomena and patterns we give labels such as “Arctic Oscillation” also play into the picture.

People, are, for the most part predictable.  A person raised in a remote Pakistani village will probably not suddenly start dancing a perfect Argentinian tango from out of nowhere.

Which means we can tell the supercomputer to add layered parameters to the simulation, with every layer’s data passed into the simulation and the simulation rerun when the previous layer’s data has been crunched into output that is available to add to the next layer’s data crunching.

Inside every layer are matrices of changes, some predictable and some random, that we build from hypotheses and hallway discussions rather than tried-and-true scientific formulae broken down into simple subroutines.

Often, we save a set of output data, vary a layer’s matrix and rerun the simulation for one specific layer over and over with large numbers of matrix variations.

What’s the point of having a good hypothesis if you can’t subject it to rigorous testing and verification?

So, if I want a payload of a known mass that is not changed by atmospheric pressure changes to reach outer space, I give the supercomputer network the number of balloons I wish to attach to the payload and ask it to tell me at which elevations the balloon(s) burst until the last one carries the payload into outer space.

The same goes for the 3D chess game that is the constant interaction of sub/cultures.  A person is a molecule is a subculture is a balloon is a culture is a generalised personality archetype.

Bottom line: two issues hog some of the international news spotlight — the massacres in Syria and the nearly uncontrollable bankrupt behaviour of Greece.

It’s like telling Hernandez’ agent that the NY Giants will find a way to secretly reward him for his behaviour toward the end of the 2012 NFL Super Bowl.  Some things should be too obvious to mention.

But they aren’t.

So, we have to proceed with what’s next.

The Committee wants to box me into a corner and force me into making a decision that sways the next U.S. Presidential election.

Some want me to reveal what the supercomputer network says is a religious forecast that predicts the balance of faith-based belief for the next century or so.

Others want to ensure their families are well provided for, as usual.

For me, it’s always the hardest task to give the supercomputer network a touch of irony and sarcasm in its output.

I don’t care whether a CPU is multicore and has interlaced optical memory or if some portions of the network still operate with relay-based and bubble memory.

I sit here, after the end of a grueling session with the Committee, with seven billion of us to manage, as individuals, multiplexed into subcultures or a combination of the two that I vary by degrees in simulation scenarios that either I see fit to estimate or is input by the hacker network I depend on to throw me an unexpected curve every now and then.

Change is constant.

If India completely rejects monetary aid from the UK, who will follow by example?  Will this influence future Saudi military contracts with the U.S.?  Will Greece break up into city-states once again?  Will Syria divide into Assad-controlled and international consortium-controlled sectors, leading to the creation of the next “Berlin Wall” and a lukewarm Cold War?

And, looking back 1000 years from now, will we say this next millennium was the era of extremophiles, our only encounter with “alien” or extraterrestrial lifeforms being a set of states of energy we were unable to see or comprehend with current technology in 2012 but wholly integrated into our way of life by 3011?

Questions, questions, questions.

The saga continues unabated.

Is any one life more important than maintenance of the status quo to preserve a subculture’s place in the jigsaw puzzle of global belief sets?

Yes and no.

At least according to one simulation after the next.

Every life is important.

Every life is canceled out at one level or another of scenario stacking.

One relationship disappears and another takes its place.

Interdependencies described in the world’s longest SQL statement.

All just to say what is the smallest number of balloons to take an indescribable payload into outer space.

Outer space is infinitely bigger than the sphere from which we calculate its intersection with us.

A finite sphere full of everyday drama begging for attention 24/7.

Time’s a-wastin’!

Ponderables of the day

1. A reader responds to the article, “The blue-state trap,” with a strong personal opinion:

  • Amity, Monday, January 23, 2012 at 8:0011 pm

Articles like this annoy me. The United States has been profoundly divided politically for nearly a quarter of a millennium. We have never not been violently at odds. I mean, red states and blue states used to go to war with each other. Elected representatives fought each other physically in the halls of Congress. [note: pre-U.S. neighbours fought and killed each other during the American Revolutionary War]

Spare us the weepy sad sorrow for the bygone days of halcyon bipartisanship. When were these days of golden unity? They never existed.

And as for the idea of a “missing center,” I can explain the apparent conundrum very easily. The urban centers of America are the center. Some go center-left, most swing center-right. The reason why you all can’t find the common ground that doesn’t consist of going further right is that from here, from where you all are, there is nowhere left to go but further and further right.

The Democratic Party is by any sane application of the terminology a center-right party. The Republican Party is far right — more or less fascist in practice, if not in principle.

The actual American left, such as it is, consists mostly of a small number of miscellaneous Occupy protesters, shivering in the cold.

Oh, and also, spare us the horseshit about homogeneity in liberal enclaves. There are few American cities with more fractured politics than San Francisco.

2. An ode to the Gulag Archipelago – Love, American-style.

3. Aurora forecast.

4. A nod to the new director of UAF’s Geophysical Institute, Robert “Bob” McCoy.  Tell us more about the importance of thermokarst lakes, why dontcha?

5. A nod to Christian Schrader, a geologist from NASA Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, AL, who helps find meteorites in the Antarctic.