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Postby DragonFly on September 22nd, 2015, 10:15 pm 


As I lay on a beach in Papeete, one morning, thinking of a new ‘From Here to Eternity’ movie, starring Mother Nature and Father Time, a Klein bottle washed ashore and puffed out a djinni, right after I’d rubbed it in just the right way. She then thanked me and asked what I wished to see or know—anything at all, with no hurry.

While I pondered this new sprung fountain of potential knowledge that had arrived in the form of the fullest bloom of the ideal female, she spread out a blanket and produced two glasses of wine from the water for us to drink of, her glowing visage wavering here-there and obviously in her posture asking me what I’d like.

“Show me eternity,” I requested, even though she was immediately alluring and inviting romantically.

“I can show you, for I have it all,” she replied, raising her glass in a toast to and from the wellspring of time.

“Wait—you have all of eternity, complete in its perpetual entirety?”

“Yes, I have the whole extant shebang, as like a wondrous poem carved in stone, as fixed, pre-made, and wholly existent in its eternal block, containing all past and future, with a window through which this beauteous eternity can be viewed as it passes by, or, rather, as us passing through it, whichever way you wish to consider it, but ever through a glass, brightly, in all its splendour.“

“Where did you get it?”

“Einstein gave it to me—and somewhere he still exists.”

She leaned over and gave me a moist kiss, which I returned, thinking myself perhaps too hastily wishing to undress the philosophy of time ahead of her fine silk pajamas.

“Soon,” she promised, “I’ll unveil Eternity for you, bare, but first, my own, for I’ve just arrived in this all too captivating here and now in French Polynesia.”

My poetic self answered, getting back into form, “Let actions tell what words can never pass. Pour thy rose-cheeks into the Secret’s glass, and thy mouth onto my fare, beloved; my contrition’s to be lost in your morass.”

She rejoined, “The universe’s mantle binds us worn—tears feeding the river on which we’re borne.”

I added, “Beauty is melancholy’s other side.”

“Ah, and Hell’s but an ember of our senseless fears, and Heaven’s the rose-breath of opening morn.”

And so it went, we veering into deeper philosophy.

I offered, “My Life’s spirit to the causeless was near blind”.

Quoth she, continuing, “If the Beginning you could find—the Alif—of word, phrase, and uni-verse, thou needs not the rest of the alphabet—all’s been mined.”

With that she bid me up and onward from our reverie, leading me down the boarded pier to a hut on stilts over the turquoise ocean.

We approached the hut, the sign above the door reading, ‘SpaceTime’. Upon entering, she walked me to what served as a window in the tropics—a square hole made in the straw wall.

“Here it is. Behold. It’s the glorious emergence of all that was, is, and will be.”

“This is a view of ordinary spacetime. You promised me eternity. And where is the future and the past of it?”

She paused for an instant, then said, “You just viewed the past an instant ago, and at this time we have passed unto the now, and in another moment we’ll arrive in the future. Behold the marvelous Eternity through our window upon it! See it strong and sturdy, this solid slab set for all time, pre-designed. One of its four distances has been converted into time, via the speed of light, so that we can move through its otherwise chock full extent of total solidity.”

“Sturdy? Spacetime’s block universe consists of dynamical space and matter, each influencing the other. That’s stability?”

“Yes and no, for it thus as if we stand in a place made of Jello, but I’m indeed showing you the result of Mother Nature’s maternity with Father Time’s paternity, this block that began from their cosmic egg produced at the radial time center of this hypersphere that goes on forever outward in all directions.”

“How does a sphere that never ends even have a spherical shape?”

She took my hand. “It just does. And it is as it is; as in its frozen and unchanging state, all laid out unto its minutest detail, unto the largest and the smallest.”

“I see, but there is almost universal agreement that Relativity is not a complete theory, for it doesn’t take quantum effects into consideration.”

“Since we viewing it from the inside, the explicate collective rises and rules at our level, taking on a life of its own. We are phenomena’s projected face, well-painted from noumena’s unseen base; it’s as a lamp lights up a paper shade, we figures revolving around in space.”

“Well, you did mention emergence, meaning such as ‘more is different’ and ‘the whole is more than the sum of its parts’, but where did this block come from? From what quarry was it excavated?”

“It was built in what to us would be all at once in the 5th dimension, lest it take forever to be completed, again, just to us.”

“Well, even just building a never-ending determinate block that only has a specific past and a certain future is a tremendous accomplishment, what with the foreseeing of every eventuality on forward from the Big Bang unto forever, especially the finishing of it in time, which was done even in our shortest time.”

“I told you it was fantastic.”

“But all its paths are fixed—pre-determined.”

“What matters where, what, when, or even who? In life’s fill, any narrative will do.”

“Well, true, but we’ve only just seen the near future and the near past; can you zoom out into the next dimension and show me a larger view.”


She enlarged our view point, which was really a kind of condensing. I felt an uneasy shift.

“Ugh, Holy Cripes, I see things like tube-worms that begin with a fetus and end with a corpse. Oh, horrors!”

“Those are the world lines of you and everyone.”

“Quick, get rid of it; take me through my own world line, such as like a home movie run on fast forward.”

“OK, here we go. It will be such as just before you die when your whole life flashes before you just ahead of your merging into the timelessness of the great block externe. It’s the 5th dimensional wonder of the Universe.”

“Wait; there’s life after death in this block?”

“Everything in it exists forever. Rejoice, but your goose was cooked long ago, your future eggs laid ‘fore you were aglow.”

And so I saw myself being conceived—yuck, and then as a baby, a toddler, a young boy, an adolescent, and so forth, unto laying on a beach in Tahiti, then the djinni appearing…”

“Wait, stop it; I don’t want to know my future that is carved as dogma into this gargantuan tablet, upon which I’ve already had a glimpse of my cadaver.”

“That’s part of what has to be shown if we go on, even horrid Hell and gloried Heaven yon. Seekers never fear.”

“Who’s the scribe of my slab written upon? I ask whether I’m the stylus or the slate?”

“Even I’m not so sure, of late, but am fond that we’re both the dancer and the danced upon.”

“Well, perhaps we can’t have everything.”

“Do you want to relive a part of your life, even in the future portion, or go on further, to such as all the possible Big Bang starts to ends, in which you could jump to one, or even to the 10th dimensional wonder of the ‘IS’ of all possible realities?”

“No, I’ll take this time, for, as you say, the narrative doesn’t much matter, as any one will do.”

We returned to the beach, kissing and frolicking on the blanket while drinking more wine and enjoying the soft breezes caressing our bodies, happy to be returned to this wonderland drenched with the perfumes of flowers that begged our passions to be quenched again.

In this lovely parentheses of eternity, on this fertile shore, love’s houri drank with me, pouring her cup into my soul so thirsty. Would I then gasp for Heaven’s Paradise or Eternity, then, I daresay, dogs whine better than me.

“Oh sweet, almond-eyed fortune of love’s glow, our life-streams flow toward the great below.”

“In Fate’s clutch, back to the block we must go, so let us liquify ‘long life’s plateau.”

Afterwards, I asked, “Show me another, more fundamental, version of time, in which the past and the future don’t exist.”

“It’s difficult,” she said, “for the prospects are grim; presentism does not just amount to the assertion that only present events or entities exist, but also that the present undergoes a dynamical ‘updating’, or exhibits a quality as of a fleeting swoosh, and this additional dynamical aspect is what threatens the substance of the debate between the presentist and an eternalist opponent.”

“In other words, what is going to exist or was existent, as the presentist must refer to as to be or has been is indicated coming or going and is thus inherent in the totality of What IS, and so it has no ‘nonexistence’, for this as Nothing cannot be.”

“Yes, as you’re saying that since there is no contrast between a real future and an unreal future, for what is reals or exists can have no opposite to form a contrast class.”

“Still, what if our perceived persistence of a selfsame world is an illusion?”

“We’ll still need a respite for presentism from the Einstein’s seemingly unavoidable besieging relativity of simultaneity.”

“What if we even went past the emergence quality of space as a degree of realness nevertheless, unto the complete elimination of space, leaving only time as the implicate order, an illusion of timelessness then only referring to the emergent but now totally explicate geometric time of spacetime, but not to a microscopic fundamental time where there would be no geometry, so that fundamental time exists but space and geometry do not?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Your wish is my command,” she said, singing, “‘Ne’er can be recalled now’s bird that has flown, so love life’s flight, on the winds that must blow.’”

“And then we’ll get rid of space completely.”

“Yes, but first things first. So, then, as you say, it is then possible that one can have this fundamental time, consistent with quantum mechanics, at the microscopic level, and an emergent or geometric time, macroscopically. Quantum theory and General Relativity could be reconciled if we have a reason why they should apply at different levels, and emergence can provide that reason; yet, to have only time, with no space at all, emergent, explicate, or otherwise, we’ll have to invent a whole new ontology, which is a heck of a lot to do and substantiate; whereas, we could just chill on the beach or roam the island, savoring the favored here and now.”

“We can do both, for a good way to know ‘What is life?’ is to live it, as well as think it.”

She took me to another hut, the signage reading, ‘Ongoing Construction of Now’.

We looked out the window hole in the wall at Now, or at least as close as we could get to ‘now’, it slightly having gone past by the time we got the news of it.

‘Reality is created anew at every now?”

“Well, updated really, from the previous now that is wholly consumed by the process, so, yes, it amounts to a becoming as new.”

“OK. I didn’t think every now was created from scratch as some kind of creationist miracle; so, it’s the constituents that do all the work, whites how Occam would have it, but what does ‘doing the work’ mean?”

“It means a process.”

“What are the basic, no longer divisible, constituents, at heart?”

“Quantum monads—bits with various states of what we might call energy or just levels. The ‘it’ of reality comes from ‘bit’, via an information process.”

“Mass/energy reduces to information as its final subdivision?”

“Equivalence of mass/energy to information has been shown.”

“Where’s the hardware, of what must be a kind of quantum computer? There’s nothing here.”

“If there was hardware, then there would no longer be just a ‘now’, for the hardware would remain across time.”

“So, the bits do it all themselves?”


“So, Yogi, the future’s not what it used to be anymore?”

“No matter how one tries to shake from boughs the fruits of time’s truth from the Tree of Knows, computation makes not yet the morrows; there’s naught else but lone, resultant Nows.

We looked out the hut’s window, into what was not a distance, but a past that was just past, except for the sun, which was a whole eight minutes behind.

“Space has been eliminated. We ‘see’ only the inside of the mind.”

“We ride the crest of a continuously emerging wave of time that is carrying us into the future at the speed of light. We observe only its wake, and it is this wake which spacetime physics is modeling. What we observe is as a holographic representation of events which no longer exist.”


“Nature is frugal. We are not objects, but are a process, and its nexus is the now. It is nothing more than an eternal sequence of events following one upon the other in an orderly, causal, and generative fashion. Process philosophy is all about relationships, of which we see the hint in the quantum realm, everything connected to everything, as if all right on top of each other, in no space.”

“Our anticipation’s imagination suggests the future, while we’re in the now of our present sensation, our memory holding a bit of the past, this ‘smoothly rolling now’ blended by the mind.”

“The delight is such that none of the three could produce alone.”

“This arrangement is still determinate, although not pre-determinate.”

“Well, we can’t eat our cake and still have, too, for consistency is a good thing, and the impossible ‘random’ would be a horror.”

We headed back.

“Ah, spring’s new year unfolds the garden’s jewels—the sweet rose, my Peri, and us fools. Yester-now expires gifting the present; ‘twould be naught to speak outside of what rules.”

“We clutch the skirt of Heaven, on it borne, while the day-stars dimmed are at night reborn. If time lives, and grants us a fresh morn, we’ll still the universe’s dress adorn.”

The waves roll in, as do those of time, whose wake the physicists model, and there a surfer rides on one, as do we just past the crest of the now, but, really, not apart from it, but of it, while, on shore, the birds flutter down to eat the crumbs from our loaf of bread. (Oh, my djinni, you’ve got me using the present tense in my narration now.)

I sweep my eyes across the scene, in a manner of speaking, in this purest part of the isle, spotting no rubbish, but there is a skeleton sculpture, the title on the pedestal reading, ‘Bora Bora Bored’. Beyond that are only the waving palms.

“I get it now, my fair creature twixt human and angel, about the informational monads: The only possible Fundamental is what has no parts, as a simple, continuous function, which necessitates a monad, for there isn’t anything simpler; thus its assemblies of the ‘it’ can only be of the more and more composite and complex, in the higher and higher informational patterns that the bits make as the nows ever go on.”

“And the monads have to be, we should jot, because Nothing cannot, which is the truth we’ve found that thus no longer needs any proof, which demonstrates the power of philosophy.”

“So, my jasmine-bloomed and fairy-born, upon whose glowing breasts I rest my head this morn, we cast not to the wind but flow as time’s bourn; thus there are two times about which we needn’t ask, the one that hasn’t come and the one that’s past, for we are of the now, and, at that, ever only ‘seeing’ the inside of the ‘brain’ from the inside.”

“Yes, traveler through time. While life flows like water and blows like wind, our idyllic ‘now’ prevails, unsurpassed.”

“So then, in the great silence amid the great absence of the so-called true vacuum is the now-here of time as the no-where of space—and to think it was said that our being blocks the view of the Ultimate, nor to gaze at it could we our selves acquit, that even the wise couldn’t step beyond their nature, leaving all mothers’ sons standing helpless before it.”

“Indeed, ‘now-here’ is ‘no-where’, a slight rearrangement that’s still of the same letter sequence, representing a truth so simple that even a child could understand it, though we must relinquish all future and past—which may induce melancholy.”

“If I indulge the yearning and reflect it back, then from birth we can look forward to being host to woe, and then to giving up the ghost.”

“Ah yes, sad, but ‘happy’ are they who quickly burn to toast, and blessed are they who ne’er came to the roast! Ha-ha.”

“Live; life’s doom is to e’er sleep in the tomb, without wine, friends, or love—an empty whom.”

“Come close, I will lift the dark secret’s veil… Never again can withered flowers bloom.”

‘E’en the smoke from an ember’s ash fades away, the warp with the woof and weave burned to clay. How many beautiful hearts have melted here? Where in heaven’s cosmic vault wefts their sway?”

“There are no “where’s”, my island man. The believers believe, from fear of Hell’s misery, lured onward by Heaven’s reward to be, yet he who lives real, and thus knows what ‘IS’, never fires his heart from chaff’s smoke tree.”

“Oh, meddling thoughts that harp on faith’s plea, my cheeks glow red from djinni’s grape tree, so to your face I throw my other hand, and drop you into sleep, oh fantasy.”

“Lay waste to the rites of prayer and fasting; shatter faith’s pious claims never lasting; slam fast the gate on myth-spells and myth-takes arriving. Live, and be kind to all of life’s casting.”

“Hear, hear, and there’s more cheer in a single ‘now’ full than in the Vault of Heaven hollow as a skull.”

“Yes, tropic man, why fret o’er spilling drops of sin from life’s temptation glass filled to the brim? Play with the imaginary friend: Him; what is mercy for but to save thy skin!”

“Why would the All Knowing, Loving Expert compose with Power His designed concert, then decompose His grand Magnificat?”

“Because there’s none Such beyond the turret.”

“The best of all that is below the moon and above the fish is beauty’s commune, in this life poured and sipped, all else forgone, from your Persian Mah to Mahi, raptured noon to noon!”

“Rent, the mask of sorrows shrouding doom’s face; sheared, the cloth of grief’s idling chase. Feast on my lips, body, and verse; drain life’s bank, ere Earth enfold thee in a last embrace.”

“Thin as the air, the ‘now’ is time’s gift rare, an ethereal sprite whose flow is swift.”

“Morning springs us over the wasteland’s brink, and on time’s sand we the oasis drink. Life’s strange caravan through the desert winds back toward Nothing; drink—afore the stars sink.”

“We have solved the Mystery, and have found that Beginnings and spaces cannot be, so what goes round is near all things generating, for there’s no point to impart a design; so drink—to naught more we’re bound!”

“Nought is left. We butterflies, on the edge of forever’s flight, spread fast our wings on the ocean of light—that is the wake of the time-grav wave, of no breadth, mass, or space that is seemingly made.”

“All is of a holographic light dream, as products time and time again by time’s means, as bubbled baubles blown and burst, through the frames of time that quench our thirst.”

“Time future, time present, and time past are not all at once, but only as ‘nows’, with not any of them to last.”

“The glorious light flashes us into being shone, as the dilated broadcast of time’s nows becoming known.”

“Here the friends, lovers, and flowers that be—parentheses within eternity!”

‘What the meaning to this play we’re befit, from dirt to dust within the script as it’s being writ?”

“The wise in search have thrown themselves to waste; experience alone is the benefit. Don’t worry; be happy.”

“Worries seldom come true, but, if they do, thus they had to, so in them one must stew.”

“Past imperfect points to a future tense, yet ever only nows does the Wheel brew.”

“Ere Fate fells us dried up like an old leaf, let the wine course through our veins of life so brief.”

“Ne’er for treasured gold will you be dug up, nor even sought by an impoverished thief.”

“Drain thy goblet’s nectar of the moon’s shine, while the light sparkles in this ‘now’ of thine.”

“Reign with Night’s Queen and drink deep the King’s wine, for the morrow may not find you in time.”

“Now, to our friends and successors: When you with such lively tread make your way through the garden of the dead and reach the flowered bed where we made one and now lie, turn down an empty glass and break some bread.”

“Then, unto love’s moonlight tryst, arm in arm, aft taking delight in each others charm, raise thy glasses once more in blessing, and cheer the ones who lived and died without alarm.”

(Some of my re-transmogrifications of Omar Khayyam’s Bodleian manuscript have been employed to make the poetic prose above.)

So, readers, RIP Space?
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Re: Here-Now?

Postby DragonFly on October 8th, 2015, 5:22 pm 

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