Update 07/14/26
AP News Article Links Sugars in Space to Origins of Life and DNA
Here again, you sense a clear attempt to reach the conclusion that life is a crystal (geo-abiogenesis) by some other means than citing my research.
Anything at all but, “An independent researcher in Oregon stumbled on a theory regarding the origins of life while working on the philosophy of psychology and religion.” That would sound too credible.
First, deprive the man of his privacy and dignity for years on end until his credit is a convoluted footnote and fence the theory through global academic institutions so it looks like inevitable happenstance of discovery, not espionage, torture, and the theft of one of the most important intellectual contributions in history. (One of two they were after, I must add.)
The HALLMARK of a good idea is that it seems like an obvious solution that should have presented itself long ago. They will never get over this.
hey are convinced that since they feel like (having stolen access to my work) my solutions to agonizingly complex problems are simple and elegant, and they can not refute or unsee them, that what they really have is a sudden revelation with only the annoyance of a living body in the way—mine.
Once you come upon the notion that life is a crystal and also that I am being held in isolation, spied on, censored, and deprived of the right to study and publish my work with proper diligence and sources, these “coincidental euphamisms” of science start to take on the most greivous, sinister hue.
They are simply corroding the relevance of a monumental contribution out of spite, and no doubt hastening all imaginable patents and pop science monologues they can muster in secret in the mean time.
Heaven forbid that a watershed discovery was landed on under OPPRESSION, and in a dire environment of injustice. That might make the whole thing unbearably VIRTUOUS, and that is unacceptable when I was supposed to have earned my death sentence for my quiet religion of rationalism and love of nature alone.
Contemptible cowardice.
[Oh but we just said SUGAR, not crystals—it’s astro-chemistry, not astro-physics (like any old molecules can crystallize into DNA). As though this does not exactly state THE monumental discovery of the origins of life, but just with little fanfare, as though it’s simply been sitting there all the while and the public hadn’t taken notice. Pathetic, sniveling academic espionage is not giving them the equal balance of brutality and pain and the shame—of a jackboot on your neck with an officer reading your journals and forcing you to watch the destruction and rummaging of your home and work and memories—that these cowards deserve.]
Not to mention that access to not only my corpus of theory but the very logic of my psyche, and the apparent pleasure of tormenting me in violation of every imaginable “outrage upon dignity,” has been laundered and peddled and perpetrated by authorities under the auspice of “countermeasure,” one must presume.
All this because (to show that the growth of an elegant solution is not a simple mistake but a lifelong equation) in my day they had something called rock candy : structured and dyed sugar crystals on a stick, which were sold as a novelty.
I vaguely remember watching the process for making these once, and it involved water—a kind of natural crystalization.
In third grade, this inspired a rather dubious science experiment for my school’s science fair, titled : “Can You Grow A Crystal In Water?” or something slightly more complex and equally childish and fantastical.
I set a jar of tap water on my kitchen window sill and took notes on variables for 10 or so days: I stirred in a little carefully selected fine dust from the Mojave topsoil outside in my yard, a little salt a couple days later, and a little powdered sugar. I let the sunlight do its magic and watched and waited in vain to see if a magical crystal would form from my simple serum.
It did not. Obviously. I was trying to imagine geology into existance.
But I did find, with the subtle tint of green algea that the glass took on, that a tiny kernel did form in the center—a spot of white surrounded by branches of green growth, that was probably just a coincidence of gravity and sugar and muck. Nonetheless, it made an impression on me.
I actually secretly carried the belief that life itself formed as a type of crystal in my subconscious ever since, although I didn’t recognize the fact until I said it out loud one day while shopping for rocks to symbolize the light and dark triads in 2023 or so.
Immediately upon saying it, I realized I couldn’t refute it by any known means. So I started in on research, quickly found the Jack Hills zircon, the Varkud Satellite rhibozyme, and liquid crystal polymerization. Boom. Abiogenesis based on the simple concept that life is a crystal.
Before I could present a cohesive theory or publish research, I came under attack. My small backlog of diagrams and biochemistry research were the subject of specific hyperfixation and cyberabuse, almost as though to dissuade me from the concept altogether (but being—not a coward—I recognized this as a sign that my attackers were after its intrinsic value).
At this time I was far more interested in the origins of symbolic cognition and of civilization as outlined in Crypsis Theory, and had spent thousands of dollars on books and primary sources to construct a hypothesis and cited thesis from many diverse fields and disciplines (neuropsychology, anthropology, archeology, and comparative religion).
This work, too was destroyed and has seen clear attempts to coopt its premises as cynical mimetic pseudo-academic apologetics for nihilism and technocratic dystopia, all while censoring my own writing and depriving me of freedom and dignity at every possible turn.
The hubris is unimaginable. I would hope that in all the annals of science, tyrrany, and philosophy there would be few parallels since Galileo. And even then, they did not adopt his theories as their own, but destroyed them for heracy.
How devastating the irony that truth itself is impossible to destroy.
I should note that while preparing material for a social media post on this specific idea, I was parked at Emigrant Lake on Old Highway 99 near where I met James Elmer Mitchell (allegedly).
I was on my phone editing out profanity on another post in my drafts that I wanted to move off the shelf before getting to work on a brief video thesis, and replaced some bad language with stock bird sounds on TikTok.
I remember working on my phone, leaned up against my bus, at a deserted bend in the road, when an eerie couple in a newish mini-black-SUV (a Civic or the like) drove by on the road, stared at me blankly, and rolled down their windows while turning up their radio. They simply played the same bird sound I had been using to clean up my video just minutes before.
To call that moment terrifying is beyond simplifying things. It was just another horrific escalation in an ongoing saga. And that was years ago.
My local post office, I should note, when I was refouled to the States in 2025, just so happened to have a calendar on the wall featuring the exact photo of a yellow moth that I had saved for that same project as a visual example of the crystalline nature biology back in 2023-2024.
On top of abuse from the patent office and all other imaginable authorities, it’s impossible to not feel the deepest irony and injustice in this attempted theft of valor, devotion to philosophy, and intellectual merit.
The whole of human history, collected knowledge, and symbolic consciousness culminates in elegant solutions of some of the cosmos’ deepest mysteries.
The solutions come at a time of crisis for all life on earth.
The person who devoted their life to the search for understanding on behalf of all other life is then treated in every way to make them as indistinguishable from common physical matter as possible—in an attempt to erase and destroy every vestige of cumulative goodwill and collective inheritance that might come from a long awaited rainfall of academic insight right in the midst of a drought. As though human knowledge itself were under attack.
This is why I am so bitter about the legacy of Nazi gold and the plunder of art and the burning of books. I’m one of its offspring’s primary subjects of disappearance in its new, greusome, seething incarnation.
Evidence of Attempts of Misappropriate Geobiology and Other Elements of My Work in Zurich
As a reminder, every single publication of my theories following the invasion of Ukraine (which overlaps with the genocide in Isreal/Palestine) is a forced emergency preservational measure, as that was when I sensed a definite escalation (although attacks were already underway) that seemed to place me legally in a roving war zone.
I assume that the authorization to make direct attempts on my life, surveil and coopt my research, and destroy my every contribution and sacred sense of belonging in the world—is related directly to these distant military affronts that I would never dream of participating in.
Forcing the publication of work due to the immanent threat of destruction and loss of life and liberty is a crime that I’m not certain even has a name at this crossroads of history.
As though looting during a riot were the emblematic sin of civic socioeconomic life. To plunder the journals of a quiet scholar trying to shelter their interests and bide their time in the face of climate change, while attempting to actively preserve the material culture of American history through banjo repair—is simply another tier of theft entirely.
And that is just how this nightmare began. It has refused to end at any plateau.
I am supposed to be reduced to a raw state of matter where my voice is indistinguishable from cosmic static and the chaos of wind, and the rustling of underbrush, and the deft stillness of dirt.
I refuse. I have resisted the vehemence of silence. And daily depravity from obsessive forces of intrusion and incoherence is how I find myself greeted from the time I wake to when I go to sleep. Even then, my nightmares will wake me again.
There is no language yet for this. All the better for them for now. That is why I must survive.
Attacks on me are clearly attacks on the Enlightenment, under the philosophical direction of NRx (the so-called Dark Enlightenment, that I like to think of as the No Return movement—as in no return from the brink of collapse and nihilistic apocalypticism).
I would encourage the state to formalize this as a policy mechanism to justify continued attacks on me, or undeclared surveillance and deprivation of my rights and recourse to due process.
It’s worth noting, to me, that I grew up between the rainforest of the Pacific Northwest and the parched lands of the Great Basin and Mojave Desert—between extremes of lush, grand, and fertile and barren, parched, and unforgiving.
The former is home to giants of the ecosystem—the firs and ferns and orcas of unending fucundity and grey, morose immersion. The latter is home to the tenacity of some of the oldest lifeforms on earth : the Rain Tree (a revered, gnarled old piñon pine in the Mt. Charleston range) and the ring of creosote of Joshua Tree (or thereabouts) that seems to be in a cycle of regrowth outside of time—some 10,000 years old if I remember correctly. These were my sacred medicines and companions on long wanderings through the margins of the world for many years
The constant reminders of bare essentialism in the Mojave include its pinch-wide layer of biotic topsoil, and the lichen-like spurts of biotic growth on unmoved desert rocks that look in themselves like something between geology and the essence of organized life. It can be impossible to tell the difference.
Your feet kick at fossils from the bed of an ancient sea floor in one of the most parched landscapes imaginable, where you can bodily see the remnants of ice ages and plate tectonics in the alpine “sky islands” that adorn mountains and you can trace their bands of geologic inertia with your bare eyes for miles and miles of vista.
These forgotten, nameless mountaintop glades and prehistoric sinks are home to some of the rarest species of life on earth—fish and butterflies stranded by epochs of time in their nurseries of remnant habitat like ancient voyagers clinging to the sanctuary of a small cleft of land when lost in a belaboured sea—beaten by storms and tides but never lost to the silence of infinity in all their years of striving and happenstance.
We learn so much from what is minimal, from the very least common denominator possible to carry on a function. Years of wandering through creosote brush to find crumbling sandstone canyons on forsaken afternoons, and scouring the forests off trail in saddles and necks and spur-canyons of mountains without knowing quite what I was looking for, were not wasted time but a matter of education by direct exposure to reality itself.
Human words and landworks and impressions are not always the common denominator for truth. Sometimes there is more than enough of eternity to glean from the creaking awe and tenative silence of trees in the cleft of a distant mountainside—and then to return, unknowing yet what voice was laden in the very rock and air of that place—it takes years to give their crucible of unfettered maturity a way into human language.
I am grateful for all the time I have spent in the world as I view it, as a church. Nothing is outside of the sky.
