Friday, July 13, 2012

Entropy and Communication

Entropy and Communication

(Failing Infrastructure of Bridges across the River of Time and the Flat Force of Creation, Clarity and Maintence of Quasifinite Identity)

L. Edgar Otto 12 July, 2012 23:25:34

Before the foggy cloud of the post alphanumeric age descended on the earth as it is wont to do near the river the trees at first minimized to pages were organized into books. So too our lifetimes of stories and of scripts, of exploration or being lost down some path or trail known or unknown until halted by an avalanche that holds, as did the alabaster over the carved rocks of the pyramids, mountain tops together.

The creative writer early one can question where his story is to end, where it is to begin, between what parentheses to offer as a timeless and transcendent perfection. Later on this issue becomes a prime concern as light fades, as with titles and the idea of a page an artifact all too often we jettison the preface, and we grow impatient with or crave the abstract notes, for the sake of time and the amount of information, as a trail of random walks or encounters as we heed or disobey the signposts, doubt the one way arrows, cut through the bob wire out from or into those who mark the world a grid of them and so define a prison of their own.

I feel the way some read a novel, unless in the enjoyment along the way the ending does not spoil the sense of mystery or these can be any general plot that thrills only as long as their memories, as of the moments of their life, remain short range where what is much beyond that can be pushed awhile into forgetfulness. I do not get along it seems with those who would read the last page to see if they will like the book before hand. I carefully narrow my all perceiving eyes or cover the last few paragraphs that the ending will remain for me a surprise. Yet, this too speaks of what is accomplished as a one time experience only while it is obvious that some art, as in love, can be enjoyed over and over again.

There are some works of art that speak out even when the familiar world grows old in its intensity or is lost to the elements so crumbles, or is stolen only to suspect some deep regret of our own greedy thoughts or sense of luckiness for those who are worthy of our own wealth or we who do not want to auction what is treasure for some they made in long work and building our casual waste, our garbage. These are rare works, as rare as our sensitivity to the deeper and the new, to the soul and higher dreams, that we do not need to communicate that lost in the saying or unheard in the churning echos of space, sand from our spiral one life of our shells certain bonds between us- certainly not those bonds that exist beyond time and in our dreams.

There are more dreams than there are all the clever ways we use words to describe them, and to confuse them- path, trace, perhaps to use in the simple truth a trail and the myth or actuality at some beginning or rebirth a trail blazing... Her still picture made of light and not ink that stains my fingers as I imagine for her a sonnet- the blank page and book full of her freckles like stars- God, I love freckles- as if beyond a motion picture, or a still sun that cannot move to sunrise or sunset yet moves, a seagull in a storm in flight, what is it that her picture communicates that I notice it and can be surprised and startled a thousand times as if I know I could never grow tired of her beauty.

What beyond ourselves in this shared bond, and what more than the substance and drive of life- the S, the entropy defeated by love- and both these earthly concepts more than we have seen before or thought we did in bygone eras- such life and love solid yet awakening anew and it does so in an instant that cannot return to the nothingness again?

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As in Walden to appear to wax transcendental, all other paths are fates but we live timeless on our own.  No word for such a future other than as the native Americans of old point forward for the future, backward for the past, and up for the present.  The ancient pagan gods are not dead in their naming the days- only we have grown a bit beyond that concept yet still keep a relation in the hidden and overt depths of weights and balances.  We cannot just hear the sounds in the cycle of the seasons and the night as one prolonged presence- but the entire symphony is our span of consciousness.

Now each node of the present, each choice, we can change, past and present- for that in the changing as if micro time travel is what may keep the motion of this world distinguished and alive while the living.  But in the changing and in that we sentient things share a sense of color if not the exact colors or experiences if not the same imperceptible uniform point of experience in the multiple similarity- well, what would we change to the greatest depth if we have a choice to change our general fates?  I mean, the greater ones that trump some that seem profound but are comic really to the indifferent universe or half caring gods or parents, could that purpose at least in the direction while alive not bring us all to the same new prospects of beginnings as well as back to some end?  If this were not a small infinitesimal division of physics as the soul of the universe hardly to be likely found by some universal mind, would it not be the great sea of singularity and paradox to which we with some breath imagine the minimum of the great scope of God?

There are more analogies in the geometric truth than my postings here have yet dared dream and there are many directions, formal or symbolic, worthy to follow if we can take the time away from life- if that can be subtracted in any real sense, and from our fellows without a loss of our shallow roots come storm- for those who toil in the forests to lay the wire contain the cattle so remove a tree- would you make love to me in such weightless space?  And you who command the chain saw so well could it go into the desert of Arizona and cut dead and petrified wood?   The hyper-entropy of this world as we live is everlasting and we are the ones who use and limit the clockwork of time, set deadlines and holidays, acknowledge shifting events as the oxbows and sandbars shift by the river of time.  Entropy is quasifinite and nonnecessary as ultimately in some description hard to express and more foundational than sound, so is the idea of our struggle with decay and death.  But this, to a scientist must seem so unexpected to our intuitions.

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