The 21st Century Green Energy Revolution


**originally published in Global Research: the Centre for Research on Globalization

Thomas Kuhn’s 1962 book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions1 elucidates four stages of the history of a science: the pre-paradigm phase (where all facts are seemingly relevant because the science starts from scratch), normal science phase (where research is conducted; puzzles are solved; knowledge of facts are highlighted and we acquire presuppositions), a period of crises phase (where human error is often cited, anomalies occur and “observed facts do not match up with what a paradigm has led us to expect”)2 and lastly, the revolution phase (where paradigms which are more adequate replace present paradigms—not because of observational data alone— but because, for one out of two different scientists, theory A might appear simpler than theory B, the two theories do not dialogue well together yet, for the two scientists will use the same terms to mean different things).

In June, 1900, Nikolo Tesla published a groundbreaking article in Century Illustrated Magazine that addressed the “energy situation.” That article, entitled “The Problem of Increasing Human Energy with Special References to the Harnessing of the Sun’s Energy,” contained Tesla’s own vision regarding the future of human technology. 114 years after the release of Tesla’s article, we no longer speak or read about the “energy situation.” We speak or read about the “energy crises.”

We hear or read stories about how we, as a planet, have two-hundred years of crude oil left, how there are more draughts, higher temperatures, wilder weather, change in rain and snow patterns, shrinking sea ice, melting glaciers, less snowpack, thawing permafrost, increased ocean acidity, warmer oceans, rising sea level, as well as what has been called “the greatest nuclear disaster in human history” in Fukashima, Japan, whose radioactive fall-out has already raised counts and radiation doses on Geiger counters on the beaches of San Francisco.

The combustible engines used in our cars (primitive to many engineers and inventors) have not been in use that long, given how long we have lived on this planet without them. Yet, already, the very commodity used for fueling the combustible engine is scarce enough that it itself is approaching depletion. What is to be done? Blame bankers who have hijacked governments through “economic terrorism”—who fund invasions of countries and continents, who have ravaged Africa, ravaged Central America, and have done the same in the Middle East?

Since the industrial revolution, Western imperialism went into hyper-mode for diamonds, gold, and oil. Industrial nations went after natural resources that could facilitate the even-flow of the liberal-democratic system. This was done, at first, with the ruse that it was for solely for national interest; now, however, it’s safe to say it’s not for national interest. It is Machivellian, for a group of elitists, with the entire world being bought up, re-traded, and re-sold.

Why is the agricultural sector of the world facilitated by inter-governmental interest groups? These groups or conglomeration of groups already know there is hard science for over-unity devices that can produce free energy to power our homes and our commercial centers, as well the hard science for the electro-magnetic propulsion of our cars and airplanes.

Inventors in Ireland, in Russia, as well as the U.S. were persecuted and silenced for knowledge of these technologies.3 Many of these inventors, who were not always academics and are on the fringes of the mainstream scientific community, attempted to show the world how an over-unity device—the Motionless Electromagnetic Generator—that they had constructed, worked. The “normal scientific community” questioned the accuracy of the “measurements.” Think-tanks and government-sponsored probes were formulated in an attempt to discover relations between these over-unity devices and the theories of Nikolo Tesla (whose experiments were acquiesced by the U.S. government upon his death). Unsurprisingly, these fringe inventors were mocked. “Normal science” seemed to have won—while theoretical physicists at universities, academic engineers and IT people, instead, continued and still continue to indoctrinate their graduate students, with outdated scientific dogma about the laws of thermodynamics by claiming the results produced by these inventors were simply “impossible.”

These academics refused to accept how free energy, also known as Zero-Point Energy, could be harnessed from a sub-atomic field.  Free energy had been harnessed without using an external power source and academics were left scratching their heads, musing on the anomalies. Then on March 26th, 2002, Patrick Stephen L; Bearden Thomas E; Hayes James C; Moor Kenneth D; Kenny James L. received a U.S. Patent of the Motionless Electromagnetic Generator.4 Many academics conceded there was, indeed, no loss of energy at the quantum level, which befuddled “normal scientists.”

Since the scientists know, the governments know there is a collective interest in the research, development and manufacturing of over-unity devices, which would allow for a dramatic Energy Revolution in the next fifteen years. The influence of these technologies will re-contextualize what it means to be a citizen of the world. Countries have been invaded for energy; coups have been staged for energy. A scientific revolution—getting off of oil completely—could lead to geo-political catastrophe. Old Money will hold onto their imperialist investments before they themselves invest in the new technologies. They would need to create new wars and stay in those wars. The pretext for it is set already for the sake of “national interest.” Everything must get unbearably worse, to the point of utter hopelessness, I think—with wars, false imprisonments, refugee crises, the censoring of intellectuals, arbitrary manipulation of gas prices, spying on green militia groups, complete surveillance of the world over, further destruction of foreign lands, instilling doses of hysteria through mass media and cultural production, kidnappings, sieges upon and seizures of private property—until it is clear to people that the exploitation is real and that elite are really terrified of New Science.

Perhaps, when this generation is beaten down enough and it comes to understand it’s really that serious, and it’s not about babble, or about theories anymore, but about taking action, the external conditions will literally force us to inspire change. The world economy is the way it is now because of foreign policies and alliances that are trying to delay the advent of new science. Anyone who understands the relation between ecology and economics, understands what you consume and the way it is consumed is the collective impetus behind the ruling ideology, which allows markets to be given privilege and/or dominion of the human bio-sphere. Remember the topic of Cold Fusion in the early 90’s? It was cast aside. We did not hear about it for two decades until now. Why now? Free, open-sourced energy is our future.

© 2014 Paul Rogov

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this website, or portions thereof, in any form.


1       Kuhn, Thomas S. (1996). Third Edition. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.  Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. pp 1-110.

2       Brown, C. (2011). Some Notes on Thomas Kuhn’s Structure of Scientific Revolutions


      3     Telsa, Nikolo (1900). Century Illustrated Magazine. Vol. LX, No. 2.


4       Fischer, Douglas (2012) The Scientist: Jim Hansen Risks Handcuffs to Make His

Research Clear.

     5      Bearden, Tom. (2003). The Motionless Electromagnetic Generator, Extracting Energy

            from  a Permanent Magnet with Energy-Replenishing from the Active Vacuum. 




April 5, 2014 Quantum Energy Generator Replicated in Taiwan

  May 2, 2014  Quantum Energy Generator Replicated in Morocco

May 24, 2014 Quantum Energy Generator Replicated in Pennsylvania

ISIS SYZYGY: Reunion in Père-Lachaise


For Andreea Mocanu

I rage towards you, on moonlit field—subsumed by downy flake;

In blizzard of sinless mastery, whose flecks from you I take.

Peppered, lean and swift—O, Syzygy with gleamed-neck of dying swan!

I shred papyrus for our rebirth, before the coming Dawn.

For I have seen your porticos, your Moldovian physique,

Listened to how you tricked gods, with treading Muse’s feet.

Tuat’s champagne flows through veins; diamonds burnished; daggers’re forged.

I drowned in The River one thousand times, tho’ came through Heaven’s gorge.

See, I came to you, to learn to listen; for in my life, I boasted much:

About how brave and merciless I was, from which sacred book I sprang and such.

Yet with velvet-clad disposition, I ran away from crowds of them.

I was wan, lonely; a creature, sickly—abhorring Time, amen.

Tell me who would speak so plainly, in the First Hour of Descent.

It was Night for me, in that mossy cavern, where passion’s never spent.

The stewards of the Sunrise, these I knew—the gears, gyres, crickets, birds;

‘Twas not by morning, nor light, that I was found— to bring you holy words.

I wobbled wolfish, ‘neath a hazy moon, ‘neath shivering leaves, so free.

The moonlight was fading—it was debating, the Fate of you and me.

And this is when it began to snow—on this terrible oath, that is the Earth,

Between the gods and angels I have known, and the sanctityof birth.

I beheld you more than once! — cradling books; gliding, supple, in smoky cloak,

Your ruby lips were luscious, your medallion round you choked.

Plumes were plucked from Thoth, for heka, beside lamp aglow.

You wrote odes with my dusty bones, like you did dynasties ago.


For that necropolis was fed with graves; faces shone; priests fled, dazed.

I leapt from tomb to tomb—then vanished through a shadow-maze. . .

And so, aeons passed; die were cast. Akkenaton never found my body.

I perished far below the sun’s neat rays, the Aten-idea, rotting.

See, I swore to my whole destiny—the myriad-armed kaleidoscope—

That if Winter should come again, it’s through its cold, I’ll mope.

And so, I became the Western Wind itself—its thrashing, gnashing breeze,

Which pecks your flesh with Braille kisses, on magic nights a-seized.

And then, I sprung from mass graves in the East—to your kith’s insignia I come.

For I have seen your precious studies, the ouroborous of your charm.

You have not forgotten me so well—you are more regal than I remember.

You know the lust of Isis, Osiris’ limbs, the resurrecting member.

For you did not live for séance “spirits”; you suckled wisdom from the True Vine.

You wished to arrange letters with my bones, even my broken spine.

So now we meet in a cobbled street—not far from Père-Lachaise,

In new flesh, prior to Spring and Sunrise, as Fate thusly says:

“See, I am caffeinated—aglow, in Winter, I’m in the form of a modern man!

And you’re a goddess, gifted—translating anatomy, the Plan.”

And I breath in the Western Wind, to recall all the pieces of who I was,

Whilst you untie a scarf from your throat, and with slung bag, you pause:

“Indeed, I valued le joie de vivre,” you say, “as a pension-child, a mademoiselle—

I’ve written tomes on pharaohs, summoned specters thrashed through Hell.

And I envisioned starker realms, a stronger bond than sight, aloft.

So I give you pages of who I once was—richly curled, yet never lost.”

And you offer your poems to me—white on white—on Devil’s snow:

And I could not sense my own changed Self, from varied lives I’ve sown.

With songs, spells, hymning thefts, you destroyed pyramids of woe:

Re-shelved as stones of leathered cruelty, like promises I know.

For the poet I was, at Alexandria, burned, my Seraph!—mourned many reigns ago.

And I came back, minted, a risen god—in a Cycle upon which now we flow.

For the pyropolis was fed with slaves; faces afire; priests crisp, ablaze.

Ashen, I came here to return your ring—sift again through your heart’s maze.

So, I lean towards you, on a moonlit street—subsumed by downy flake;

In a blizzard of sinless mastery, whose flecks from you I rake.

Peppered, lean, and swift—O, Woman with gleamed-neck of dying swan!

I shred papyrus for one kiss before the coming Dawn.

*nominated for Pushcart Pushcart in  Poetry, 2013

© 2014 Paul Rogov

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this website, or portions thereof, in any form.

All My Augusts: A Letter to Anastasiya


Seraph of all my Augusts, Anastasiya, phoenix of Russian-American twilight: of the dry-eyed blues of unveiling worlds entire—I write you now with sleight of hand and perfect tenderness.

No matter how steadily I sip my cup, without true knowledge of what is in there, I still imagine our kisses, Anastasiya. I imagine those kisses, Anastsayia. I imagine them spilling upon the earth: lumbering down, bombarding the planet like silent meteorites—every shard of them, penetrating every inch of every kilometer of sky in the atmosphere, every dwarfish cloudlet, every secluded stratus cloud—hurling through every gale or blooming tempest, knowing all too well how the entire totality of oxygen in the earth, however layered, rich and good, quite simply, is not thick, nor deep enough to contain us.

On my knees I’m writing this, bleeding, kneeling on tile, writing on a toilet seat, donning an Angelica smock and County-issued treaded socks, five-minutes before  bed-check, transposing everything that I wrote earlier on grocery bags I have been saving onto real paper as I contemplate the radiance of everything you are to me and everything I have become.

Ever since ETS gave me the materials necessary to write, I realized there were truly no great love stories anymore. Romeo and Juliet are struck dead in high school drama classes. Tristan and Isolde are buried, cut out, then used as skeleton-tropes in unreadable books. You got scared, ran back to Belarus, got married, and perhaps think little of me now. But I am still here, Anastasiya. I’m still here loving you for who you once were and are—because my love for you is the only thing left in me that’s good right now. I’ve lost my mind too many times to understand this. I wiped everything else away from my life and see you there like a splinter of light in darkness.

You were my first love, my Woman, my Virgin, my Magdalene, my earthly salvation in world that is cold. It was all always about human humidity with us. It was always about the adipose tissue at your hips, and the way I would grasp your pelvis. It was always about the words that tumbled from your lips when we would lie awake in the darkness, knowing that your father’s death was based on politics at the core of its premeditation, or another complication, another ingredient, another way to make tragic what had dauntingly been life-affirming and real for us.

I can almost hear the blood rushing between your sternum, up towards your plastysma, your sternocleidiomastoideus as your hand slithers along your neck—the other holding this letter—as your mind responds to my claustrophobic zealotries. Why are those who remain so fascinated with other people’s sins?  How stubborn are they who totter on a pivot, gamble with the false conviction supposedly upholding the meaning to their lives?  They have nothing else to do but envy. And therein resides our secret:  we envy no one. Could you imagine “taping” what has happened to us? In space and on the earth? Before the war and after the war? Before the Chip was implanted: before the execution of my father, wherein AmeriState did not relent for one instance and searched for your mother’s will? It would certainly make for a compelling avant-garde film. But we are not glamorous, child. We do not shine. We are not stars.  We do not burn. We create burning. If it’s sea-foam and other people’s orgasms they want, they should read about sea-foam and other people’s orgasms—better yet still, read Virginia Woolf or James Joyce or Thomas A. Kempis for all I care. For you and I must dive deeper, love, become cooler, stiller.

I will (and can) never forget what happened in Andromeda that summer.  I will keep the promises I made to Mama and Papa. I will not falter. I will never give up. I want you to know the afternoons I spend in in Triple CMS conditions reminds me of that time, when we did not speak for hours only to guess one another’s thoughts. I am Pesach ben David. The archipelagoes of my visions and dreams are outlined here before you, as they start leveling the world like a terrible child.

I must stop writing now and put on my wool cap.

I am signing yellow grid paper like this—

Pesach ben David, AKA Rogziel of the Ein Sof.

© 2014 Paul Rogov

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this website, or portions thereof, in any form.

John Milton and the Fall of Lucifer: The Birth of the Subjective I


John Milton likes ladyfingers. I was compelled to see if there was some self-imposed duty to even re-read the dead man (for he was clearly bones and ratty clothing), and I wanted the conversation to flow, but all I could think of was his death and the death of literature. I had fallen through a worm-hole, see, and ended up in another dimension. It wasn’t William Blake that I imagined I would meet; instead, I suspected I would be having tea with no one other than John Milton.

Despite British revolutions and personal losses (the death of two of his own children), Milton went blind and continued to write. I looked over at him, feeling pity for him, yet he did not say a word; he did not need to say a word. I just sipped my tea and glanced over at him from time to time. I then took a break and re-read the British author in my “Completed works of” copy in order to “check” if the words that Milton once wrote were actually “still there.” I even re-read the Italian Sonnets and Paradise Regained.

I devoured the tome. It took me a matter of four months, but I had completed the formidable task: to read the entire body of work of one author in order to gain insight to his role in the Western canon.

Milton’s conjuring of syntax and diction is nearly Hermetic, its unscrupulous authority, his almost reeking combination of Anglo-Saxon with Latinate words illuminate my claim that the 17th century as well as the beginning of the 18th century in British Literature, (Edmund Spenser included, roughly 1603 to 1714) was the peak of English Letters. After two hours of jumping from Milton’s poetry to his prose, I became convinced that Milton was a better rounded writer than Homer, Virgil, and Dante combined. He was not only a poet. He was a man of letters, a philosopher, a classicist, a theologian, an activist, a man of ideas.

I don’t read Paradise Lost as a re-telling of Genesis. I re-read it as a account of the birth of subjective individualism, that of Lucifer’s freedom from God in Christian lore, who has his own freewill independent of the Almighty Creator. Whoever instructs someone to read Paradise Lost in tandem with the Book of Genesis, should re-consider why it the most “obvious” reason to read it that way (as parallel to the Biblical account) is even necessary or productive. Recall: there is only one mention of Lucifer in the entire Bible and it’s in the book of Daniel, referring to the “light-bearer,” “the morning star,” or in historical terms, the King Nebuchadnezzar II, who ruled the Neo-Bablylonian empire from c. 605 BC – 562 BC.

When I listen to (and I mean listen to Milton’s words echoing back in the grottoes of my own skull) the triumphant universe of Paradise Lost’s setting, the vastness of its song, the mellifluous tangents filled with music, pauses, beats, all the images combined, like a juggernaut, smash through a maze of mirrors so that we can face the limit of the expanding universe, approach the Dragon of the Sublime.

Casting William Shakespeare (the dandy actor and R-rated playwright) and Geoffrey Chaucer (the allegorical pervert known for his sex and fart jokes) aside, led me to the conclusion that pound for pound, it is, in fact, John Milton that is the greatest poet of the English language.

I do not make the claim for no reason. I will tell you why he is the greatest.

Because he was the right writer, with the right ambitions at the right time, in the right place, historically situated precisely when England needed such a writer.

Remember Descartes’ famous “I think; therefore I am” (cogito ergo sum)? This famous statement is a statement about subjectivity and it correlates to the historical backdrop by which English and Continental literature gained traction for mobilizing the subjective “I.”  In Paradise Lost, Satan has a subjective “I” domain. He performs “speech acts.”  Yet who is the “I” in Shakespearean sonnets? Surely, in Don Quixote we have a subject that is comparable to the Cartesian cogito, and yet the subjective “I”, it appears, did not come forth until after the Protestant Reformation and after the Counter-Reformation, where Protestants and Catholics alike warred over proper doctrine.

The Church of English, of course, was no exception. The relation between the Church of England and the British monarchy is the historical background to the writing of Paradise Lost—it is not simply a clever poetic version of the fall of humankind from it pre-lapsarian state in the Garden of Eden. In Christian lore there are two falls; one from celestial history (theological claims) wherein Satan and a third of heaven plummeted down to Hell, and then a second fall, that of humankind, which was based on ill-fated decision for humankind to, like Satan himself, acquire freewill, that is, a will different than God’s will.

As much as I like William Blake, Edmund Spenser, Dylan Thomas, W.B. Yeats, Milton already sets the bar in the 17th century by sitting quietly, observing all Creation, with salvation and celestial history as the context.  Who does this today? Even Shelley’s verse compared to Milton seems like a drunken game of Battleship and Lord Byron’s verse comparable to a game of Connect Four. Milton transforms the pathos and ethos of Keats—the poet who wrote “beauty is truth and truth is beauty.” Milton focuses on Lucifer, the most beautiful being that God had ever created, who would go on to betray Him, wage war on Him, set siege to the Monarchy of Heaven with a third of  host of rebel angles having fallen with him. In that metaphysical context, Milton makes Keats’ feelings and lyric poetry look like a fat Robert Smith from the band, The Cure, moaning for an abstract love that only exists when one is a teenager.

Now, I realize there are other beloved poets in other languages than English that equal if not surpass Milton in aesthetic beauty, but as far as the English language goes: Milton is the poet of the English sublime par excellence.  I’m not talking about his epic poem alone here. I’m talking about the vastness of space and time that Milton thought in.

Deeper into the Introduction of Paradise Lost (which uses diogesis and mimesis):

 he it was, whose guile
Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv’d
The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride
Had cast him out from Heav’n, with all his Host
Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring
To set himself in Glory above his Peers,
He trusted to have equal’d the most High,
If he oppos’d; and with ambitious aim
Against the Throne and Monarchy of God
Rais’d impious War in Heav’n and Battel proud
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
Hurld headlong flaming from th’ Ethereal Skie
With hideous ruine and combustion down
To bottomless perdition

Milton mystifies me. Sometimes I hate him and judge him to be wholly irrelevant by associating him with a Christian story. Nevertheless, when the tea was all gone from the kettle,  and Milton and I shook hands, he disappeared and left a blank book where he once sat. He never said a word, I guess he didn’t have to.

He had said enough by creating the first anti-hero in epic poetry and that is fine by me.

© 2014 Paul Rogov

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