Saturday, February 2, 2013
Self Creative Hierarchical Systems Loops
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.
* * * * * * *