Self Creative
Hierarchical Systems Loops
L. Edgar Otto 02 February, 2013
In the tribal
mentality, the desire for unification as an advance over a chaotic polytheistic
view, up from the flat plane of the ideal desert or what locally we imagine the
surface of a body of water, the conception of what happens abruptly where the
beginning of a hierarchy returns again at the end, this advancement on the
search for unity and the division in the world of what then is unnameable thus
real in the sense of an over mystery, this with an analogy to our idea of
consciousness and intelligence, the endless analysis in depth as to the laws of
earthy sand as a condensate, boson, one of views of what is the mind that even
in the analysis, the proof by the complexity of the theory in detail, these
speak of the dust as evidence in its abstraction from the abstract reduces to
things that have the dimensions on all relative levels, of mystery coloring the
stance toward what is substance.
But there can be
other stances and foundations of mind, and there can be a general stance of
unification, and there can be some unity of a few things yet one suggested by
our experience of the natural dimensions of space to where these arise from
some place, some dimensionless structure of information that was the
possibilities in the universe of and if not the unity of the analysis in the
first place.
Inside a castle or a
keep, even a cathedral with windows, in the structural arts of the skyscrapers
and bridges of the honeycomb hive of cities and its cycle of its denizens, or
its veins of highways where the dwelling is mobile, on the road the driver
invariant between translations, private stances that the surface of the tent,
abstract as a symbol, far from the wealth in isolation found beneath the bowl
of the stars,
The Hertz mountains
with faults and cracks against the assault of barbarians and gravity be it the
match to a perfect sphere to measure, or as Gauss equivalently did, the
velocity of light, this then the metaphor in which central to the warmth and
light inside the tent we find the single candle and so imagine it to arise to
meet higher creation. The sleeping
volcano erupts its pillar of fire as life is cleansed yet clings and comes bask
to the island all directions its pole to the zenith of some land, mountaintop
or mythical place, the top of the world.
That such a place may
not exist enhances our sense of reality that darkly shadows our dreams and
dust. But one soul in flight knows not
if it is full of gods or idols. Or with
our wings of wax to escape the morals set in a maze also a labyrinth, and the
heart of singularity as if evil that may dwell as a light within- you know the
rest of that story, even if in our forging of alloys and metals, electrum that
dilutes but attracts us, we may like the gods travel the levels of heaven and
its anti-pole, build from them our ships of stars, try to contain that light
within. Its ever more accelerating
chariots, its rhythm half predicted of the breaking rings of fire.
There is no necessary
end to these wars, each in a way part of the totality and in some ways essential,
or of ideas of self creation and survival, for self interest or altruism in a
paradox of sacrifice, heroes chosen or unknown, closed loops of blind hopes and
promises that we must necessarily choose or be chosen whom our master, who
cannot remain if not part of some closed minded system, those beyond reason who
would even destroy the branches of wisdom, the hard fought for libraries of
science, and harm their own people.
But what is lost may
not be that different from a better place in our myths if our place in the
universe is more wisely known seen truly and hedged against what we should not
find as surprise, as if this in itself as our edifices of theory build only to
crumble, our home to which even the homeless long for escape beyond our own
imagination for novelty as release, chains of our satiated addictions. Far from equilibrium our cabin fever thankful
for a lonely light against the vertigo, snow blind or sand filled skies, as
dust falls in the spontaneity of quiet, the stillness, the asylum, the prison,
the ice bridge ladders to what in this world we try to make like heaven until
the herring spawn again in the Baltic frozen over as we learn to read our tally marks and better fill up the world after a plague with stained glass
windows.
A little girl says to
her mother in Market Square in Cambridge the booth selling bowls and goldfish
that she would like one either very large, or very small, not one in
between. Of that before the symmetries
and asymmetries of this world, its breaking or coming together again,
recurrence and too much redundancy in time, the information meeting complexity
is not finished so is .closed its human sense of meaning.
For all things in its
own images and greater grand speculations to conjure or conjecture self perplexed,
self creative, self righteous, deluded and inauthentic, the first poems and
first psalms of the chaff and wheat and wish for justified judgement, or of
forgiveness that takes time to become real yet wounds us with scars and
baggage, our awakening in the shock wave of doubled being begins these deeper
models that in the main like that of vibrant space the dust remains, most often
comes too late. But the scope of this is still outside the theme of creative
science and philosophy save nothing is lost as all arises or is the same in
totality, from a single spark of dusty light.
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