|THE LYCHEE TREE
IN BUTTERFLY VALLEY (3)
Weeping crying snoring moaning and the 20 minute double click of the guard working his punch-tape all-correct-sir recorder by the door bars are the sounds of the ward at night. But no double click of crickets outside and I miss that.
There is a man with sciatica developing into muscular dystrophy or multiple sclerosis who has worsened over 3 days. He is unable to walk unaided. He sits on a chair to pee on his legs in the washroom cos the latrines are beyond him, beyond thought.
Today he is transferred in agony to a real hospital immediately before his next appearance in Court tomorrow which he is required to attend (and did so, God knows how or why). His inmates from beds either side of his lift him dress him and place him on a stretcher. They are like nurses in their care for him.
The prison staff all the while are alert and silent and standing by in case anyone makes off - a feat requiring negotiation of 7 steel doors and say 20 guards or 1 window then a waltz along a razor-wired roof, hup and over, avoiding a carbine-armed watchtower, in the alternative.
There is a large box with a Red Cross solemnly carried into the ward each morning by the CJ the criminal remands or convicts not being permitted to work cos they are sick and the CJ in this hospital ward are not. The box holds stacks of bottles and tubes and pills: panadol and steroids and so forth with some not entirely on the Food and Drug Administration list say the Americans here.
Americans are very up on drugs and their names. Their apparent knowledge is immense. I can tell that they are taught drug-use declensions and derivatives by chanting at infant school: perhaps something along these lines "amapol, amaplare, amaplavi, amaplatum" with laxatrol, cyclovol, laminax, and ulteriorvax being the exceptions say when the pluperfect tense in the subjunctive renders them in every sense as say laxalot, cyclops, lumidix and ubeautifix. Or something of that nature. You can imagine what this stuff is like. American infant school chants have been converted from dreary religion to pubescent drug-use and the Constitutional Arguments thereof are conducted by Attorneys-Surgeons-Generals assisted by two-fingers to the Almighty who has His revenge by increasing the dosage.
Actually panadol and cigarette-rations are the most important of the Red Cross box contents to our ward. It is unclear if one uses the panadol before or after the cigarettes. Who cares?
The other aid to health and hygiene is a major litter of kittens and their Mum. They live in the alley outside below and stalk Mum hiding behind slices of bread and the odd sandal or discarded accoutrement thrown down. They are agile, easily climbing 3 stories and loping and lolling with insolent luxury along the roof tops in and around the coils of razor-wire. Where is Dad? I bet he has a big chest and struts. Must do if his kittens are that butch.
I still wonder how they get inside the cells when they suddenly appear through the windows and dart across the floor or walls which ever may be the sooner then out between the door bars flashing pink feline bottoms off on exciting journeys. No rats anywhere of course. No rat worth his mettle would dream of trying this joint.
Chinese tea seems to also eliminate bad breath which without the tea would be of blowlamp standard capable of taking paint off walls at 40 paces given the staggering quantities of white sliced bread accompanying each meal. An erudite recondite commends himself by testing me with the adage: "What's the difference between a dray horse and a cavalry horse?", the solution being that "The cavalry horse darts into the fray.", Gulliver's A Voyage to the Houyhnhnms, by Jonathan Swift, also a former recalcitrant, the alleged authority for same but I doubt it, favouring Girgio de Chirico's Hebdemeros as the foremost leading and binding authority. Besides, I fancy de Chirico's paintings with horses so that's an end to it and the intellectuals can go hang. That is as far as one can go in here. Truth is etched across one's forehead.
Red ginger is also an instant cure for halitosis and sore throat since it is of volcanic strength in little one inch long strips. The alimentary canal clearly understands the need to behave itself since the effect of the red ginger is the equivalent of paint stripper without the smell. But I like it very much.
This clinical analysis is fortified (rather like an undertaking to the Court) by use of the telephone, which I do today, again. It avoids one's fainting from one's own voice box, you see. At least I can concentrate on the conversation having become used, in a very public discussion, to the Our-Lady-of-Mount-Carmel-school-yard-octophonic-arse-reamer of white noise which my poor eardrums process.
There is progress and consternation in my telephone conversation. A beastly regulator has interfered with Court proceedings 1,000s of miles away and obtains gagging Orders there to prevent the details from being referred to between consenting adults in private or even released to, horrors, The Newspapers. Damn the regulators but this means that I cannot produce a single scrap to prove myself - not yet, anyway, the beasts. But they are being dragged out of their slimy holes.
Am not a left-footer but it's time to consider some of Saint Thomas Quinas's Seven Deadly Sins. Or Seven Daily Sins in here. We are the damned temporally and temporarily but not spiritually. Any discussion of the topic starts from Saint Thomas Quinas's view and that of Inquisitor General Tomas de Torquemada. These are capital sins meaning that all other sins are derivative - to use a modern financial markets' term - or derive from this capital.
Take Lust for instance. Now that modern science has reduced Lust in its retaliatory powers, Gluttony is the only one of the Deadly Seven that definitely inflicts physical retribution this side of the tomb. On the other hand, Lust has been making a comeback in recent years proven by the popularity of unnatural practices and the alleged life-style which accompanies same. All of which seems to have inflated the research budgets of the immensely rich drug businesses also known as health-care concerns. That has however contributed to the sum of human happiness they say. Bath house towels drop and the universe expands, explodes for your entertainment.
But Gluttony is replete with crime and punishment don't you think. Muck sweats, palpitations, grog blossoms and breath like the aforementioned blowlamp are but a small sample of Gluttony's judicial admonishment to keep your mouth shut. Lust says keep your trousers shut.
What else is there then? It's Covetousness of course. The biggy hereabouts. Actually modern portfolio theory has it that Covetousness is a judicial standard - that of the prudent man of business - to which all should aspire. And the more experience or speciality that you possess the higher the standard. Pride, another member of the Deadly Seven, intrudes here too. Pride's pagan rebuke is Tantalus reaching for the fruit on the branch which wind lifts just out of touch each time and his bending to drink from a pool which drains into the stones when he does so.
You see the Covetousness and Pride thang goes like this. If you are (and here I shall allow 2 mins for spluttering) wanting to invest ethically on another's behalf then you are at a legal disadvantage unless your instruction book or Trust Deed or fine print says that you have the power to cut back on your duties. Duty > power, but power can administer duty to be ethical.
Duty means "How much money have you made for me. For instance from drugs, planes, booze and banks?". Power means, in reply, "Well, by Clause [insert relevant Court-blessed words] I have administered the money in a prudent fashion to maximise the returns available according to the market conditions which, by a combination of political interference, deceptive advertising, insider trading, front-running on book-building, false trade practices, accounting sleights of hand and end of year bonuses reckoned on turnover, have combined to produce what can only be called in all modesty, a loss. But it is a quality loss and gained ethically." Wallets shut, too.
I dunno about them. But we in the Lychee Tree in Butterfly Valley have less to worry about.
I am adopted by a brainless drug-addict because I give him a cigarette and then a butt and then another and another. His rotten teeth are at angles. I wonder if they add to 180 degrees. Still he sits, doing nothing, saying nothing but mgoi-sai and giggling at fat boy's splendid snores and wobbling stomach and walrus-roll and all. That is nightly entertainment if one can stand the noise. The drug-addict has it bad and wants sugary things. So I give him more boiled sweets.
One can think too much here surrounded by decayed human beings and Anger takes hold. Last night was pre-occupied with that great philosophical question unique at 3 a.m. to me "What shall I do next?". The parameters range from "have a boiled sweet" to "invasion of Europe" with some pretty nifty thoughts in between I can tell you. The answer involves detonation of a thermo-nuclear armed legal device inserted in the underpants of my tormentors. Meantime a Roman retreat is called for. Anger is banned.
The youngest member of our hospital community - a boy really - was shattered to be sentenced to 3 years goal today for taking a cheque. He was so full of hope before and is devastated, crying and bowed down. He thinks his life is ended at an age when boys think they are immortal. One of the experienced hands will hold his hand tonight, probably all night, to get him through the first shock.
For most of society, the criminal justice system ends with a verdict of conviction. For the convicted it is really only the beginning of years of misery. Neither judge nor prosecutor has any experience of this part of the criminal justice system but each is responsible for it.
An oddity of Hong Kong's and the world's criminal justice systems is that the inmates - 1,000,000s of them - are not to be regarded as members of decent society but are to be put to work. In this way they are employees of the government or what-not. But that work is not pensionable.
The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of The People's Republic of China has devised a compulsory pension-contribution scheme, called MPF. Neither prisoners nor house-maids need apply, in the slightest. In the manner usual hereabouts, its introduction to decent society is done by threat and force. Hong Kong people have a lot of common sense and half the place has refused to sign up. 3,000,000,000 dollars - by Law - or 3 times the Lychee Tree's alleged capitalisation or say half a super-prison's worth - in private capital is persuaded to set up a filtration plant to launder money from your account into that of The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of The People's Republic of China but although you are allowed to think it, you are not allowed to say so.
More threats will follow and Visits too by a new form of police: pension police with massive powers of destruction of businesses. The basic message from the media reports available to us in the Lychee Tree is this. You must hand over the money nominally to a private trustee owned by a bank or insurer but controlled by and eventually for investment directed by The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of The People's Republic of China. Unless you want your business destroyed, sort of nowish. "Fund managers" who have wet their pants excitedly waiting for 1,000,000,000s to come their way will have been tricked.
Interestingly, The Government of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region of The People's Republic of China, like all governments toying with pensions for the first time, has publicly encouraged the pension business to give the money to it, but as a loan to develop their "Exchange Fund bond" market. Governments never repay any loans. One only need review the reports ad nauseam of the London-based Council for Foreign Bondholders founded in the 19th century to negotiate with governments who were stupid enough to default rather than trick. They were still busy negotiating 120 years later. For instance, the Central Chinese Government negotiated a deal at first in 1986 and finally in 1990 to access 62,000,000 pounds worth of gold held by Barings in London forever, against paltering payments on 60 and 80 year old debt and obligations in 1990 values of 16,000,000,000 American dollars to allow them back to the London and New York capital markets to buy military equipment after being routed by the Vietnamese and after watching the Gulf War. But that is non-PC and hush-hush these days. An old friend was paid a few 100 by this system for family interests in Manchuria; and he was old..
Rule 1 therefore is inflate your way out of stook. Any drunken fool knows that. Rule 2 is that the State is a bad employer and rum investor. Rule 3 is that pensions have nothing to do with governments' needs for money and everything to do with pensioners' needs for same.
Money transferred to any government is tax. Tax is an unrequited payment extracted by duress. MPF is tax. Tax it is and tax it remains. It will all lead to tears.
"What are you doing?" "Where are you going?" "Why are you doing that?" are the 3 essentials to grasp when roosting in the Lychee Tree in Butterfly Valley. Oddly enough these are the same 3 essentials to grasp when living as a solitary man in a female household. The other key features of conversation with teenagers I believe to be the phrases delivered by them with confidence, viz.: "What?' "I know!" and "No, it isn't!". But make no mistake, we - my family - are all firm friends who row a lot which is just as it should be.
Summer is here. My family is not. Cicadas pleasingly have installed themselves around the block in the trees outside the walls. They all stop their summer-song on one side of the gaol when one of the enormously-overpowered roaring gaol buses leaves. The cicadas wait then start up their happy orchestra, all around sound.
This morning a butterfly in iridescent blue flew through my little tall window that looks out at lovely yellow-white full-flowered tree tops and distant dun and orange buildings. My window reminds me of a long-forgotten scene from that wonderful film A Man For All Seasons where Paul Scofield, playing Sir Thomas More gaoled by his treacherous King Henry VIII in the Tower of London, can see a single tree from his own gaol window. Blossom in spring, green leaves, flowers and lovers below it in summer, auburn-grey in autumn and snowed and silent in winter. His friend and sounding board. Mine too.
I remember too embarrassing my older brothers with whom I had seen that film that day as a boy by asking at the end in too loud a voice what caused that fat horrible old king's death; innocently thinking that the voice-over cause given at the end of the film - syphilis - meant that maybe he had eaten too much, rather as I had done that day at the pictures.
The iridescent butterfly was the first of God's dumb creatures that I had seen for a month and more. It stayed by my bed, on the wall in my corner, flexing its wings and showing off its beauty for about 10 minutes of delight - a long long time. No one spoke much. We just looked a bit. Then it visited each prisoner's bed in our section of the cell - 8 beds - just to nod hullo I felt, before dancing its goodbye out the window. So the Lychee Tree grows, lives and breathes in Butterfly Valley.
More telephone. More progress. More glaring at me. More Court papers. More bunkum. My gaolers do not want me here on the telephone or at all. And say so: please please sort it and go from us, from here. But I have to do this. And keep my powder dry. Suspicion and envy and hatred are out.
Tonight before bed, I crouched uncertainly over the latrines and realised that I was falling forwards, hurting my head against the tile half-wall, then slipping on the floor tiles. I bled. My left arm and my chest hurt. I could neither speak nor hear. But it was not me. It happened a little later to another just when I was falling asleep at the other end of the double-ward. He was taken up grey-faced on a stretcher, to A & E Outside. The staff - 8 or so - shouted a lot and woke me up. They were nervous.
I was shocked at the man's misfortune and then at my innocent foresight. Seeing a near future has happened before. Not much, but enough times to recognise the signs soon after. The effect lasts only seconds but is precise and true and hardly realised until after. It is different to dreams and daydreams or strong wishes. Just a shoving aside of the now for the near future.
Much later on the second of my Court visits organised to oppress me and my family and failing, I see this man shuffling 10 minutes to go 30 yards from Court in the Court prison. He has had a Court hearing which he could not hear. He has had a stroke and is deaf and mute, but his eyes light when I greet him. I mouth the vine of St. John 15 to myself and to his goodself.
Am thinking about problems of electromagnetics and chthno-magnetics and urano-magnetics today and not the telephone for once. [From the Greek: chthno - the earthly; urano - the heavenly; in their astronomic sense.]. The problems concern speed of wireless transmission of electric current or any electromagnetic wave but perhaps not particle form for one which I dislike; and PD for another.
Those brilliant, manic builders of CPU chips have it wrong with their worries about heat sinks and so on. Transputer and virtual capacious memory transfer not CPU is the format, surely. Ezekiel has something to say on the topic though at a tangent. So do Nicola Tesla and Max Planck. No one spells it out for poor me so I wrestle with the problems. Now, here is a theory:
if E equals hf where h is Max Planck's constant and
f is the unit of the relevant natural frequency of vibration
then assuming a constant gravitational magnetic induction field emanating from the sun (in fact altering according to the sun's density) and
where T (named for Nicola Tesla) is the unit of local magnetic flux density then:
hf is inversely proportional to the cube root of T being the local
earthly gravitational (chthno-magnetic) flux density stated in T being the only available measure.
But it can also be assumed for this purpose that hf does not quite equal mc2 which does not quite equal E. That is, hf is not quite right cos Planck's constant is not quite constant depending on where you are. But it will do, within observable limits. And so will hf on that basis.
But again but, that time-honoured fudge factor - Planck's constant - itself must be fudged and not judged by a beta which is that the speed of light, including the speed of light in America,
[American trial lawyers' note: the aforementioned said "speed of light in America" shall be deemed herein encompassed and included in the speed of light immediately theretofore and hereinbefore referred to in relation to said Planck's constant and therefore is inherent therein and herein and hereinafter and in the hereafter, so help us God. I am not your lawyer, I am your amigo]
is not constant but is variable according to the relevant chthno-magnetic or urano-magnetic flux density. That is stated in T cos there is no other symbol available. That conundrum of constance shall be dealt with summarily by my stating that I flatly reject the concept of an absolute speed of light which is central to Albert Einstein's ideas. That absolute, that constant has bothered me always. I read it first in Bertrand Russell's otherwise lucid explanation of Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity. Lord Russell, whom I admire greatly, glossed over it in his account of the Special Theory. That stuck and sticks.
The speed is a only a relative measure of spiracular apparent motion. That apparent motion itself is merely a shift in the local space-time (through which we shall force ourselves to say a photon passes). In turn, the local space-time itself is a function of flux density and not of mass. Mass is a separate function of flux density. Mass is not an absolute in itself; although we tend to think so unless on the bathroom scales before and after a big dinner.
And so the alleged absolute of the speed of light can never be absolute because the wave effect, if you look at light as a 4D wave (meaning in 4 dimensions) rather than say particle transfer, will inevitably reinforce itself. All wave forms do so. But by how much depends on the density of the magnetic flux density of the locale - local space-time - through which the wave form is passing. So the wave is going to progress faster and slower and stronger and weaker in its progress through space-time. Got it? Strangeness - a maths concept of the behaviour of numbers under extreme physical conditions - is no stranger in this regard, of which more later.
The simple way of showing this troublous stuff is the child's swing: say a 2D wave (meaning in 2 dimensions), which if pushed by external influence, viz., Dad, will enhance the wave beyond its original predicted limits in 2D. See? Then add the 3D and the 4D and substitute the urano-magnetic flux density of the subject galaxy for the child's swing and warpee!: apparent red-shift when in truth the galaxies are not buzzing off in quite the directions nor at quite the fantastic speeds that we are tricked into thinking that they are doing. It is ridiculous to suggest that quasars are somehow actually going faster the further away that they apparently are. It is a trick of the naughty light and nothing more. Please stop it Mr. Quasar, you are confusing us dreadfully with blue movies.
Now that, I consider, is exactly what happens with light - or any elctromagnetic wave form - under physical conditions not observed or indeed pertaining within the solar system. That is, we ain't got a big enough planet to show this well and the sun is too active in the light and gravity (aka magnetic flux density) production department to help illustrate this. So we have to devise a tiny version of the Milky Way within an airframe to replicate that about which I am driveling. Heat sinks for the CPU might this way have some application. Sheer arrogance this, don't you know?
To continue: and so a capacitor can contain a magnetically confined plasma bottle which in turn can be increased in T or reduced in T and according to the above formulation will repel the local gravitational magnetic field to produce momentum.
And if the capacitor were fitted and confined within an airframe by ceramicware insulation, the momentum may produce propulsion by expelling of the potential difference thus created when the plasma bottle T strength is increased or reduced. Or it may not! But I am right, so there.
And so I devise a stratagem for design of an airframe - 7 sided - heptagonal on the planar section capable of rotation in reverse or anti-clockwise to counteract the torque developed from the interior-developed thrust later described; and 5 sided - pentagonal on the vertical. The material must be of carbon-fibre for insulation with super-elliptical struts therein, counterpoised with the same fibre (to avoid resonance) laid spirally-counter-coiled around the core of each super-ellipse strut for strengthening same and counter-acting torque; rather as one should do for well-preserved marine hull stringers to avoid rupture from reinforcing shock waves delivered in the regular from any source to the hull (or for that matter, delivered to masts or superstructure or rudder or, in yachts, the keel or a match-racer's strut-and-bulb).
[By super-ellipse, I mean that according to the formula of Piet Hein the pixie poet-engineer of Scandinavia]
This airframe shall contain an insulated capacitor and the ceramicware-lined expulsion tube for release of the PD for propulsion on a controllable scale according to the PD strength; and also, I note, a plasma bottle or bottles which will inevitably each of them themselves rupture on release and expulsion to obtain an expansion of the formerly confined contents (intense heat) on a vast scale inversely proportionate to the T unit-strength of the magnetic flux density formerly within.
This is latter effect is troubling because it is of military application and supplants thermo-nuclear dynamics by its destructive force and the pulse obtained. Therefore this description is truncated.
However, if Nicola Tesla is correct (and I have more confidence in his articulate thinking, his formulae and writings than the views articulated by Albert Einstein), then it must follow that the ramjet influence caused by any disruption of the chthno-magnetic gravitational field in miniature directed and confined within the plasma bottle is a function of the ruling PD of the capacitor. That is inarticulate, I am afraid, but the best that I can do in my straits. I shall try again later and avoid a military device being the result, too.
All of which brings us back to the capacitor described in Exodus and illustrated in Ezekiel. How strong should it be, can it be? Can we build a gravity ramjet with a capacitor which can confine a plasma bottle? I shall wrestle a bit more with that. My bed is hard enough to keep me awake.
The likely available test of this theory is where the transmission time of the Voyager space craft photos of Jupiter at aphelion is compared with predicted transmission time from the time when Voyager was at perhelion, in both cases when in a single maintained orbit round Jupiter. There should be a difference of more than the distance effect and not because of m but because of c.
Saturday brings this to mind. It is always well to have some knowledge of the author of any article one is studying. So a bit about my own early career might be "useful". Anyhow, those who object to autobiographies can easily skip this section if not the entire book.
Well then: I was born to my parents, one my mother and the other my father, in the traditionally accepted fashion. I am creditably informed that I was born at a place called "Epsom" once occupied by Chinese market gardeners: but there are so many Epsoms and so many Chinese market gardeners in the world and I would like some independent verification of the documents and market gardeners and so forth. Perhaps the internet would help. It has so much claimed for it by Silicon Valley.
I must have been personally present at my advent but I can't remember a thing about it. A close relative is said to have remarked when he first beheld me "What an ugly little beggar" and I hope he was careful about the pronunciation of the last word. Though I have good reason to believe it correct (the relative not being given to use of the Australian dialect) my mother was convinced I was a piercing beauty even though supposed to be a girl after too many boys.
To my credit and to redeem my misdirected sex, I did grow curls, beautiful long brown curls but not bangs as is the Chinese fashion of haircut. Bangs would have spoilt the view in my mother's eye. Curls I had by galore they said. Now if I said that on a Saturday night in a booze-barn, I would be ribbed and roared at. But curls they were and they stood me in good stead. I was completely unaware of my curliness when young but did later notice that my hair was always partying morning, noon and night. Old school photos prove this too. Look for the buffoon with the disgraceful hair and that's me. Combs and water and savaging made no difference to the photographer's bile. My prisoner's photo too is a picture of an idiot from any angle. Truly I am unphotogenic unlike my daughters who are models and head-turners. They have not inherited my Neanderthal sloping forehead or my slack-jawed bleariness, for instance.
One Saturday morning when 2 years old at the beginning of a happy childhood, the household being asleep, I decided that a brisk constitutional was in order. I dressed in best just-out-of-bed clothes that 2 years can think of: viz. any old thing from my mother's side. It was brisk and I went some distance, so much so that the local constabulary apprehended me so giving me a first taste of things yet to come. He addressed my personage in the usual fashion by demanding my address. My name was incidental it seemed. However, I did know my address by homing instinct if not cerebral content; and was sermoniously lead, hand-held by the constabulary - another foresight - all the long way to my front gate and garden so up the 6 high steps to the huge front porch of my enormous house with the gigantic mustard-yellow front door with knocker with teeth which was loudly knocked but not by me. "I have brought your little girl home, madam." Happiness. He did not enter into the usual business of explanation about proceeding in a northerly direction along such-and-such a street when he noticed and so on.
Then I grew up. Curls gone and lamented by a balding, yellow-toothed running to fat. My CV.
"The Sun is God." So said J. M. W. Turner the famous English painter on his deathbed, his arm towards the window for his valediction. I too turn to my cell window seeing the un-English glare of morning sun. I remember that I once thought that Turner's colours of the sky and sea were too romantic to be true until I visited England for the first time. I went sailing off the Suffolk coast and then off the South coast and then off the Dutch and Belgian coasts. His colours were true and so I went back to Turner's home: the Tate Gallery, to compare what I had seen with his magnificent efforts. Those paintings must have been shocking in their washed out style when first revealed to a public then reared on Constable and Reynolds photo-realism. Sickert seems to have been influenced by Turner. I wonder if most of the French Impressionists were too. I sketch the drug-dealers and present them with the result to post to their families, which they do.
Sometimes I think too that the Sun is God. The Sun is omnipresent and one cannot look on its face. It is the life-giver and life-taker and has its presence everywhere here on earth by fire and light. Fire will give life and death. To an alien little green man fire must be a living inanimate capable of a little command but impossible to control or punish unless put out. Then it cannot be controlled or punished. The Zoroastrian ancients worshipped fire. They thought it was a living local symbol of God. Fire cannot have come from anywhere but the Sun. We are surrounded by fire and light it for celebration and for desecration. We cannot exist without fire.
We are told in dreadful tones that the Earth will be consumed by fire when the Sun expands to a red-giant in its own death throes. That theory must mean that every body the solar system - comets and asteroids and all - will itself condense with increased magnetic flux density and incandesce. Then each explodes at the time that its density becomes sufficient. Physics has it that an heavenly body will ignite its core to become a star from sheer gravitational pressure once a certain mass is achieved: one that Jupiter does not yet quite have. You may guess that I translate that as increased magnetic flux density which causes internal thermal currents which will vibrantly reinforce themselves in sympathetic frequency over and over until the anaerobic flash-fire takes hold..
Perhaps we could look more closely at photographs of nova and supernova before the explosion to see if there are any signs of planetary systems exploding in advance from their own massive density increases. If hf is inversely proportional to the cube root of T then the planets and comets and asteroids near a nascent nova will pop off like a string of Chinese Double Happy fire-crackers tied together, just before the red-giant stage of the nascent nova: but not as a part of its expansion by engulfing them which is what we are conventionally taught.
I submerge the unworthy thought that perhaps the Law Courts could be isolated next to a nascent nova to give us all some perverse peace. Instead I say prayers for the misguided.