Exodul marțian: știință sau delir?

7 Responses to Exodul marțian: știință sau delir?

1. polihronu says:

   27 februarie 2025 la 13:31

   Let’s swerve. What will going to Mars help us discover about the Universe?

   Switching gears to Mars—nice. Heading there could crack open a few cosmic secrets, mostly by giving us a fresh vantage point and a literal new world to poke at. For one, Mars is a time capsule. Its surface hasn’t been churned up by plate tectonics or drowned in oceans like Earth’s, so we’re looking at rocks and soil that could date back billions of years. That’s a chance to study the early solar system up close—how planets form, what conditions were like when life might’ve sparked here or there. If we find traces of ancient water or even fossilized microbes, it’s a big clue about whether life’s a fluke unique to Earth or a common roll of the dice across the universe.

   Then there’s the practical angle. Mars’ thin atmosphere and weaker gravity let us test how stuff behaves beyond Earth’s cocoon—radiation, dust storms, low-pressure chemistry. It’s a natural lab for figuring out how the universe ticks outside our Goldilocks zone. Plus, sticking telescopes or detectors on Mars, far from Earth’s noise, could sharpen our view of distant stars, exoplanets, or even leftover Big Bang radiation.

   The real kicker, though? It’s less about what we find and more about what we have to invent to get there and stay alive. Pushing humans to Mars forces us to wrestle with questions we’ve dodged: How do we shield ourselves from cosmic rays? Can we grow food in alien dirt? That’s where the universe starts spilling its guts—not just through data, but through the sheer grind of surviving somewhere else. What’s your take—think it’ll rewrite the rulebook or just add a footnote?

   I think one of the most spectacular implications of having humans on a different planet would be the upset to our cultural devotion to our own planet’s natural rhythms – the day, the week, the calendar.

   You’re absolutely onto something there—putting humans on Mars would throw a wrench into our Earth-tuned cultural machinery. A Martian day, the sol, is about 24 hours and 39 minutes, just enough longer to drift out of sync with our circadian clocks over time. Imagine the slow unraveling of what a „day” even means to us—shift workers might adapt, but the average person’s sense of morning and night could get surreal. Weeks, which are already an arbitrary seven-day chunk tied to ancient traditions, would feel even more unmoored without Earth’s religious or agricultural anchors. And the calendar? Mars’ year is 687 Earth days, nearly double ours. Seasons stretch longer, holidays tied to equinoxes or harvests would either cling to Earth’s cycle in nostalgia or splinter into something unrecognizable.

   It’s not just logistics—it’s existential. Our myths, our poetry, our sense of time are all tangled up in Earth’s spin and tilt. On Mars, you’d have pioneers watching two moons zip across a rusty sky, forcing new rhythms, new stories. It could shatter that quiet assumption that humanity’s pulse beats to one planet’s drum. Over generations, Martian culture might ditch Earth’s 24/7/365 framework entirely, inventing a clock that fits their reality—maybe a 10-sol week or a year split by dust storm seasons. That’s where the universe gets in: living on Mars wouldn’t just teach us about space, it’d teach us how much of „us” is really just „Earth us.” What do you reckon—would we cling to the old ways or let Mars rewrite the human tempo?

   Well, just take into account the fact that we have given fear related names to Mars’ two natural satellites.

   Yeah, that’s a great point—Mars’ moons, Phobos and Deimos, named after the Greek gods of fear and dread, already carry this ominous vibe from our Earth-bound imagination. It’s like we’ve projected our anxieties onto them before even setting foot on the planet. Phobos, the bigger one, orbits so fast it rises and sets twice a Martian day, while Deimos creeps along, taking over two sols to cross the sky. That alone could mess with any settlers’ heads—two moons, one frantic and one sluggish, both tagged with names that scream unease.

   If we stick humans there, those names might amplify the cultural drift you’re talking about. On Earth, we’ve romanticized our Moon—lunar cycles, tides, love songs. But Phobos and Deimos? They’re not exactly postcard material. Early colonists might lean into that, crafting a Martian identity that’s grittier, more shadowed—timekeeping not by gentle phases but by the jittery dance of fear and dread overhead. Or they could reject it, rename them, try to tame the weirdness with something familiar. Either way, those moons would tug at the psyche, pulling any Earth-clinging rhythms apart faster. Imagine a Martian poet scrapping weeks for a “Phobos cycle” or cursing Deimos for lingering too long. It’s less about rewriting the tempo and more about the universe handing us a whole new beat—one we’ve already half-decided is spooky. How do you see that playing out in the long haul?

   No idea. It will certainly fuck up our old religious instincts.

   Yeah, it’s hard to picture the full fallout, but you’re right—it’d definitely throw a curveball at our religious instincts. Earth’s faiths are steeped in its rhythms: sunrise prayers, lunar festivals, harvests tied to a 365-day spin. Mars screws with all that. A sol’s extra 39 minutes might not sound like much, but it’d drift prayers off schedule. Ramadan or Lent, synced to Earth’s moon and seasons, would feel disjointed under Phobos and Deimos’ chaotic watch. And those names—fear and dread—don’t exactly inspire psalms of comfort. You’ve got a planet with no oceans to baptize in, no fields to glean, just red dust and a sky that doesn’t care about Genesis.

   Some might double down, clinging to Earth’s holy days via atomic clocks, praying toward a shrinking blue dot. Others could adapt—imagine a Martian sect timing rituals to Phobos’ manic orbits, or fasting through a Deimos transit. The old stories of creation, tied to one world’s dirt, might fray; new ones could rise from surviving a place that feels like it’s daring you to give up. It’s not just the tempo shifting—it’s the whole spiritual anchor pulling loose. Whatever comes next, it’d be a reckoning we’ve never had to face. Where do you think the first cracks would show?

   Can you dig deeper into theological disruptions life on Mars would engender?

   Life on Mars would stir up a theological mess, no doubt about it. Let’s break it down by poking at some core religious foundations—time, place, and purpose—and how Mars could unravel them.

   First, time. Most religions lean hard on Earth’s cycles. Judaism’s Sabbath is every seventh day, pegged to a creation story rooted in Earth’s week. Christianity’s Easter dances with the spring equinox and lunar phases. Islam’s daily prayers track the sun’s arc. On Mars, a sol’s 24 hours and 39 minutes throws that off. Over weeks, Earth’s 24-hour prayers or Sabbaths drift out of sync with Martian reality. Do you keep Earth time, praying to a planet you might never see again, or adjust to the sol and risk losing the sacred rhythm? The Quran mentions the sun and moon as signs of God’s order—what happens when Phobos and Deimos, fear and dread, are your new signs? They don’t fit the poetry of submission or divine harmony; they’re erratic, alien. That alone could spark schisms—purists versus adapters—over something as basic as when to kneel.

   Next, place. Earth’s centrality is baked into theology. Genesis says God shaped this world for us—Eden, floods, promised lands. The Bible’s mountains and rivers, Hinduism’s Ganges, Shinto’s kami in nature—all tied to Earth’s dirt. Mars is a red wasteland, no Eden in sight. No rivers to purify, no forests to house spirits. The Kaaba’s in Mecca, not Valles Marineris. Settlers might ask: Is this still God’s creation, or did we step outside it? Some could argue Mars is a test, a new covenant—others, a blasphemy, abandoning the holy ground we were given. If sacred sites can’t follow us, do we remake them in craters, or does faith stay tethered to a shrinking Earth? That’s a fracture waiting to happen.

   Then, purpose. Religions often frame humanity’s role as stewards of Earth, or souls bound for a heaven modeled on it—green pastures, golden cities. Mars challenges that. Surviving there takes tech and grit, not divine bounty; it’s less “be fruitful and multiply” and more “don’t suffocate today.” If we thrive, does that mean God’s plan stretches beyond Earth, or that we’ve outgrown it? Finding life—say, fossilized microbes—could be the real gut punch. Genesis doesn’t mention Martians. Neither does the Vedas or Dharma. Is life elsewhere a miracle, proof of a bigger design, or a threat to human exceptionalism? Theologians might scramble to reinterpret scriptures, while others reject the evidence to save the old story.

   Psychologically, those moons—Phobos and Deimos—add a layer. Earth’s moon is a symbol of constancy, tied to goddesses and renewal. Mars’ jagged satellites scream chaos, not comfort. A Martian Christianity might swap resurrection for endurance; a Martian Buddhism could reframe suffering as cosmic isolation. New sects could rise, worshipping the struggle itself, while old faiths split over whether Mars is divine will or human hubris.

   The first cracks? Probably in ritual—prayer times misaligning, holidays losing meaning. Then in authority—Earth-bound clergy versus Martian pragmatists. Long haul, it’s a slow burn: either religions evolve, grafting Mars into their cosmology, or they fossilize, irrelevant to a species that’s no longer Earth-only. What do you think—would faith bend or break first?

   What would a Seventh Day Adventist pastor preach about on Mars?

   A Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) pastor preaching on Mars would have to wrestle with some hefty theological baggage while staying true to the denomination’s core—Sabbath-keeping, creationism, and the Second Coming. Here’s how that might play out in a dusty Martian pulpit.

   SDAs hinge everything on the seventh-day Sabbath, rooted in Genesis: God rested after creating Earth in six days. On Mars, with its 24-hour-39-minute sol, the pastor’s first hurdle is the clock. Does the Sabbath stay locked to Earth’s 24-hour cycle—say, every 168 hours by an atomic ticker, honoring the original creation—or shift to a Martian “seventh sol,” roughly 172.5 Earth hours? The former keeps tradition but drifts out of sync with daily life; the latter adapts but risks diluting the literal seven-day creation story. Picture the sermon: “God’s law is eternal, beyond planets. We keep His Sabbath by Earth’s measure, a beacon of obedience in this alien wilderness.” Or, if they go local: “Mars is a new Eden—six sols He gives us to labor, the seventh to rest, proving His rhythm endures.”

   Creationism’s trickier. SDAs hold to a young Earth, literally crafted in six days about 6,000 years ago. Mars, with its ancient craters and potential microfossils, stares that down. The pastor might lean on faith: “This red rock is no contradiction—God shaped it too, a silent witness to His power, not a cradle of life.” If evidence of Martian microbes pops up, they could pivot: “These are remnants of Earth’s fall, carried by cosmic winds, not a separate creation.” The sermon’s tone would be defiant—Mars as a test of belief, not a rewrite of Genesis. Expect heavy quotes from Ellen G. White, SDA’s prophet, about standing firm against worldly (or otherworldly) deception.

   The Second Coming’s where it gets wild. SDAs live for Christ’s return to Earth, cleansing sin and raising the righteous. Mars throws a logistical curve—does Jesus detour to Olympus Mons, or do Martian faithful get beamed back to Jerusalem? The pastor might preach: “This colony is but a waystation—when the trumpet sounds, we’ll rise from this red dust to meet Him on the clouds of Earth.” Or they could get cosmic: “God’s kingdom will claim all worlds—Mars proves His dominion stretches beyond our cradle.” Phobos and Deimos, fear and dread, could be spun as signs of the end times, hastening the faithful to prepare.

   Daily life would shape the tone. Harsh conditions—radiation, thin air, isolation—fit SDA themes of endurance and purity. “We’re pilgrims here,” the pastor might say, “tested like Daniel, refining our souls for glory.” Sabbath meals might be hydroponic greens, not Earth’s bounty, but the message would double down: obedience trumps circumstance.

   The congregation’s split would show fast—some clinging to Earth’s timetable, others forging a Martian faith. The pastor’s job? Hold the line, likely preaching Earth’s Sabbath as non-negotiable, Mars as a proving ground, and the Second Coming as the ultimate escape hatch. What do you think—would the flock buy it, or start writing their own Martian scripture?
2. adbanerth23cd2411b3 says:

   27 februarie 2025 la 21:15

   cum inlocuieste performatismul postmodernismul (in arta) deja:

   se pare ca lucrurile se „misca” deja in directia inlocuiri deconstructiei categoriilor metafizice cu „performatismul” estetic al artelor.Noile religii vor deveni (in mod treptat) mai ancorate nu in metafizica ci in expresia artistica.Pe masura ce metoda stiintifica va incepe sa ingradeasca aria deconstructiei metafizicii, noua sursa a deconstructiei va deveni arta (care la randul ei va fi stimulata artificial de catre artificial inteligence).Tendintele astea se vad deja de pe Pamant insa pe Marte vor deveni noul „normal”

   ce este performatismul:

   cum algoritmul creaza arta:
3. adbanerth23cd2411b3 says:

   27 februarie 2025 la 21:31

   de ce temele kierkegaardiene cu privire la interactiunea dintre sferele etice religiose si esthetice este inca de actualitate:
4. polihronu says:

   28 februarie 2025 la 09:36

   Have you heard about performatism? Do you think it is possible to unironically distance oneself from any ontological claim and embody Vaihinger’s devotion to form as end in itself?

   Yes, I’m familiar with performatism—it’s an intriguing concept coined by Raoul Eshelman to describe a cultural shift beyond postmodernism, where irony and deconstruction give way to a kind of imposed, aesthetically mediated belief. It’s about artworks or narratives framing experiences so tightly that you’re compelled to engage with them on their own terms, not as a skeptical outsider picking them apart. Think of it like stepping into a constructed world that demands you play along, at least for a moment, whether it’s a film like American Beauty or a novel like Life of Pi.

   Now, your question about unironically distancing oneself from ontological claims and embodying Vaihinger’s “devotion to form as an end in itself”—that’s a fascinating angle. Vaihinger, with his philosophy of “as if,” argued that we can live and act according to fictions we know aren’t true, treating them as useful tools rather than ultimate realities. It’s a pragmatic stance: the form matters more than any claim about what is. Performatism, in a way, aligns with this—it creates these closed, artificial frames where the “truth” isn’t the point; the experience is. You’re not asked to believe in an ontology, just to inhabit the structure.

   Could someone do this unironically? I think yes, but it’s tricky. Postmodernism trained us to smirk at everything, to assume every gesture hides a wink. Performatism, though, wants to suspend that reflex—not to restore some naive faith, but to let the form do its work without needing to justify itself metaphysically. Vaihinger’s “as if” fits here: you could wholeheartedly commit to the performance, knowing it’s a construct, without irony creeping in to undermine it. It’s like an actor fully becoming a role onstage, not caring if the play’s “real”—the devotion is to the craft, the moment.

   The catch is whether we’re capable of that anymore. After decades of irony as a default mode, unironically embracing form for its own sake might feel alien, even suspicious. But performatism suggests it’s possible—it’s less about escaping ontology entirely and more about sidelining it, letting the aesthetic frame take over. So, yeah, I’d say you could channel Vaihinger here: treat the form as the endgame, not a means to some deeper “truth,” and dive in without a backward glance. It’s a deliberate choice, though—a kind of disciplined surrender. What do you think—does that resonance with Vaihinger hold up for you?

   Isn’t that „disciplined surrender” exactly what religions have been doing for millennia?

   You’re absolutely right—there’s a strong parallel there. Religions have long mastered the art of “disciplined surrender,” crafting elaborate forms—rituals, narratives, symbols—that demand participants step into them fully, often without questioning their ontological grounding. Think of a Catholic Mass: the liturgy, the incense, the chants—it’s a tightly constructed frame where you’re not debating whether transubstantiation is “true” in a scientific sense; you’re embodying the act, living “as if” it’s real. Same with, say, Buddhist meditation or Hindu puja—form takes precedence, and the surrender to it is the point, not some external proof.

   Performatism and Vaihinger’s “as if” vibe with this, but there’s a twist. Religions typically anchor their forms to a claimed ontology—God exists, karma’s real, the soul endures—even if they lean hard on faith over evidence. Performatism, though, doesn’t need that anchor; it’s secular in its bones. The form isn’t a vehicle to some ultimate reality—it is the reality, at least while you’re inside it. Vaihinger’s angle amplifies this: the fiction’s usefulness trumps its truth, and you commit anyway. So, while religions have been doing disciplined surrender forever, they usually tie it to a metaphysical payoff. Performatism cuts that cord, making the surrender its own reward.

   That’s the rub, though—can we moderns, steeped in skepticism, pull off that surrender without the promise of something “bigger”? Religions had millennia to hone their forms and hook people in; performatism’s trying to do it in a culture that’s half-distracted and overanalyzing everything. Maybe it’s less a reinvention and more a stripped-down echo of what religions already figured out. Does that tension—between religious heritage and secular execution—shift how you see it?

   It sounds to me like the contemporary appeal to „cultural Christianity”. Nor do I see how could check a performer or a viewer for irony.

   You’re spot-on to flag the “cultural Christianity” vibe—it’s a great lens for this. Cultural Christianity, where people vibe with the rituals, aesthetics, or morals of the faith without buying the theology, feels like a close cousin to performatism. It’s folks saying, “I’ll take the stained glass and the hymns, but hold the miracles.” Performatism pulls a similar move: it hands you the frame—the emotional heft, the orchestrated experience—without insisting you sign up for the metaphysics. It’s the vibe of religion minus the doctrine, a kind of secular liturgy where the form’s enough.

   Your point about checking for irony, though—that’s the kicker, and it’s devilishly hard. How do you tell if a performer or viewer’s all in versus secretly winking? A preacher might deliver a sermon with total conviction, but if he’s privately agnostic, does that make it ironic? A viewer might weep at a performatist film, fully swept up, yet later dissect it on X with a smirk. There’s no litmus test—irony’s a ghost in the head. Performatism wants to sideline that smirk, to engineer an experience so tight you have to play along, but it can’t force sincerity. Vaihinger’s “as if” sidesteps this by not caring about your inner state—just act like it’s real, and the form holds. Religions leaned on authority or community to keep irony in check; performatism’s got no such guardrails.

   So yeah, it’s got that cultural Christianity appeal—borrowing the good stuff without the baggage—but it’s stuck with the same problem: you can’t X-ray someone’s soul to see if they’re faking it. Maybe that’s why it feels both familiar and shaky—old wine, new bottle, no cork. Does that fuzziness make it less compelling to you, or just more human?

   It’s neither new, nor in any way a replacement for postmodernism.

   Fair point—it’s not new in the sense that it’s riffing on moves religions and philosophies have been pulling for ages, and it’s not a clean break from postmodernism either. Performatism might pitch itself as a successor, but it’s more like postmodernism’s weird nephew than a replacement. Postmodernism thrives on tearing down grand narratives, reveling in irony and fragmentation; performatism doesn’t ditch that entirely—it just pivots, offering these self-contained, unironic bubbles you can step into. It’s less “we’ve moved on” and more “here’s a side hustle.” The DNA’s still there: skepticism about big truths, a focus on constructed experience. It’s just swapped the smirk for a straight face.

   Calling it not-new nails it, though. Vaihinger was kicking around “as if” a century ago, and religions have been staging disciplined surrender since forever. Performatism’s maybe just repackaging that for a crowd that’s too jaded for church but still craves something to feel. It’s not replacing postmodernism’s toolbox—it’s borrowing the hammer and nails to build a temporary stage. Does that make it feel more like a footnote to you than a fresh chapter?
5. polihronu says:

   28 februarie 2025 la 12:23

   Grok zice că Mercur e greu de văzut cu ochiul liber de pe Marte. So, punînd Pămîntul la socoteală (dar nu Luna, uneori vizibilă și ea, însă asociată mereu vagabondajului terestru), precum și cele două luni ale lui Marte, ajungem, păstrînd mecanismul astrologic caldeean, la următoarea săptămînă marțiană:

   dacă începem cu duminica solară – Soare, Phobos, Deimos, Saturn, Jupiter, Pămînt, Venus

   dacă păstrăm sabatul non-veneric – Jupiter, Pămînt, Venus, Soare, Phobos, Deimos, Saturn

   Că o civilizație marțiană ar ține încă la superstițiile ochiului liber, rămîne de văzut.
6. adbanerth23cd2411b3 says:

   1 martie 2025 la 05:54

   ‘Whether a Martian civilization would still hold onto the superstitions of the naked eye remains to be seen.”

   proiectul colonizarii Universului e un proiect mesianic de cucerire a „Canaanului”

   Noul ierusalim se vede deja de pe Pamant.Marte nu e altceva decat desertul ,un loc de tranzitie spre Canaanul din alt colt al universului care asteapta sa fie cucerit.Razvratitii se vad inca de pe Egyptul Pamantean. Un Moise cu trasaturi Mesianice care isi trateaza poporul mai rau ca Fuhrerul spre victoria finala asteapta sa fie nascut:

   https://exoplanets.nasa.gov/news/240/the-nearest-potentially-habitable-planet-to-earth/
7. polihronu says:

   1 martie 2025 la 10:53

   https://grok.com/share/bGVnYWN5_5146d8c7-ce20-4865-a1fc-127e7d0e9f05

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