The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

bonebrushing the edges of the res interna (upper transcend)

Category: metaphysics

Annotations of Etymology of Change

Etymology of Change
April 7, 2008

https://practicalspactical.wordpress.com/2008/04/07/etymology-of-change/

First, the etymology means to barter. From this we learn that change means This for That. Or, Now This, Next That.

Second, under the Subject, Form, Lack description, what is interesting here is the persistence of the subject across changing.

(What accounts for the persistence of the subject? Is it difference? Subject-A is delimited by all that is Not-Subject-A?)

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The Qualia

“He who tastes, knows; he who tastes not, knows not.” – Sufi Parable, superficially about coffee.

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From Wikipedia’s post on “Qualia”:

Daniel Dennett identifies four properties that are commonly ascribed to qualia. According to these, qualia are:

  1. ineffable; that is, they cannot be communicated, or apprehended by any other means than direct experience.
  2. intrinsic; that is, they are non-relational properties, which do not change depending on the experience’s relation to other things.
  3. private; that is, all interpersonal comparisons of qualia are systematically impossible.
  4. directly or immediately apprehensible in consciousness; that is, to experience a quale is to know one experiences a quale, and to know all there is to know about that quale.

If qualia of this sort exist, then a normally sighted person who sees red would be unable to describe the experience of this perception in such a way that a listener who has never experienced color will be able to know everything there is to know about that experience. Though it is possible to make an analogy, such as “red looks hot”, or to provide a description of the conditions under which the experience occurs, such as “it’s the color you see when light of 700 nm wavelength is directed at you,” supporters of this kind of qualia contend that such a description is incapable of providing a complete description of the experience.

Another way of defining qualia is as “raw feels”. A raw feel is a perception in and of itself, considered entirely in isolation from any effect it might have on behavior and behavioral disposition. In contrast, a “cooked feel” is that perception seen as existing in terms of its effects.

According to an argument put forth by Saul Kripke in his paper “Identity and Necessity” (1971), one key consequence of the claim that such things as raw feels can be meaningfully discussed — that qualia exist — is that it leads to the logical possibility of two entities exhibiting identical behavior in all ways despite one of them entirely lacking qualia. While very few ever claim that such an entity, called a philosophical zombie, actually exists, the mere possibility is claimed to be sufficient to refute physicalism. Those who dispute the existence of qualia would therefore necessarily dispute the existence of philosophical zombies.

There is an ancient Sufi parable about coffee that nicely expresses the concept: “He who tastes, knows; he who tastes not, knows not.”

John Searle has rejected the notion that the problem of qualia is different from the problem of consciousness itself, arguing that consciousness and qualia are one and the same phenomenon.

See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quale

anandatandava

The dance of bliss

Consensus Reality

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Consensus_reality

Sitting on the slope of the Mann Music Center in the Summer of 2001

It was the summer of 2001, the summer after my first year of college. Six months earlier I had driven down to Baltimore with my new friend J to see the String Cheese Incident play a gym. The music was complicated — Jay said “try to listen to each instrument.” It was all new to my ears.

Phish, leaders of the scene, was newly on hiatus. Trey Anastasio, lead singer, lead guitarist, musical genius, was playing with his new band at the Mann Music Center, in Fairmount Park in Philadelphia. It was a beautiful day. I was there with friends and aquaintances from high school — they tried to buy mushrooms beforehand and I had a gooball. Goofball. The mushrooms didn’t work but the gooball did.

I remember still sitting there on the grassly slope, surrounded by people, staring at the stage and listening to the music. This is our religious experience, I thought, this is our temple, sitting there, with friends and strangers.

So much of my life was ahead of me. Surprises — joys and tragedies. Deaths, war, and love, and journeys and new friends and old friends. I sat there, listening to Trey Anastasio play guitar for the first time ever (first time for me, first time in the historys of the universe that I had heard such a thing).

We are here to witness. We are here to participate. Times moves on, like a song, without any regard to any attempts to slow it down — but we are here. Our presence does not go unnoticed. While God may be silent, gone, or absent, there are others in this world and we can see ourselves reflected in their eyes — we give each other meaning — we give each other love — we are very small, we are, we are so fragile, so fragile, and our time together is brief, so brief. We are unique and beautiful. The songs we sing linger in the air — the lives we touch are touched and are forever changed — though our names will be forgotten, and our minds and egos and lives will blow away like the wishes of a dry dandelion, we are a part of this thing — liquid screens may fool us, and artists make up tales (shadows of shadows) but the sun burning shines on us. It is real. Our love is real. The world is real and sad and painful but joyous and every day is another day another opportunity to listen to the music and sing along to feel connected to go home to love to tell someone you love them to thank them to be thankful to journey home. I sat there watching Trey, surrounded, surrounded by strangers, happy strangers, and the drug was a mild one, smoothing the ridges easing the pains and I felt joy and I felt happy and between then and now there has been darkness and love but I can still feel joy I can still be happy and I am happy no matter what the winter comes and the winter passes and spring comes and summer and long days will return long days will return and Phish returns and Phish returns — and I return to some leaf covered road and —

etymology of change

change = that which separates physics from metaphysics.

“Natural things are some or all of them subject to change” – Aristotle’s Physics  (I.2, 185a12-13).

From Old French, changier, from Late Latin, Cambiare, from Latin cambire, to exchange or barter or trade — from Proto Indo European kamb, to bend or crook —

change is genesis, genesis impossible, since what is cannot come to be since it already is, and what is not cannot become what is says Parmenides. But Aristotle changes and says not — from where does he say it — who is thinker and who is the thought? —

Change = subject, form, and lack. Subject gains the form and loses the lack. Subject gains the lack and loses the form.


but look, there is substantial failures of Ari Tottle’s Meteph Isiks, since there is no such thing as categories or forms — not in a real sense, not in an actual sense, these are illusory constructs, virtual, effects of lower-level processing — the world is information, atoms carrying information, and information is a message and messages change, that is their purpose, and What looks like A Static Universe is actually a Dynamic Universe, the stillness of the rock obscures the vibrations of tetrillion little strings, playing in higher harmonies perceivable only by a Constructive God —

Change is the rule, and Stasis, Being, Form, merely Contingent Illusions soon to pass away.

See Annotations, Dec 28, 2009,
https://practicalspactical.wordpress.com/2009/12/28/annotations-of-etymology-of-change/

well …

now that that’s over with, I can clear my throat and wipe my eyes, maybe take a shower and scrub the dead leaves off of me. Hope springs eternal, with yellow feathers and bird-songs, and while every day I’m one day older, I don’t really mind, since every day I climb a little bit higher up that spiritual Kilimanjaro and look back down on the primordial landscape from whence I came. It is easy to be joyful in spring, and the trick to getting through winter is to remember that spring is coming. Spring is coming. Spring is coming. And then it’s here.

dreams of elsewhere

sometimes I dream of Elsewhere, and the dreams are always strange, like dreams are, but doubly strange because of the utter strangeness of the place – the rooms and layouts of rooms change and shift — last night I climbed stairs and the building was on the wrong side of the street, and the stairs led to an upstairs apartment which sort of exists but does not exist —

when I wake from such dreams, I wake smiling, happy for the visit, and the beautiful strangeness of memory.

seems like dreams, dreams must have been the beginning of magic and gods and all of that back in the ancient past of our race, when everything was new and yet to be learned. Sometimes, in the gray shady area suspended between waking and dreaming, I am back there, to my own ancient past, when I was young and learning things for the first time. It is a strangely alienating experience, and it makes me think back to F.N.’s Birth of Tragedy, and the suspicion that all our knowledge and turning towards the world becomes, like the yellow pages of an old book left to the elements,  an ossified apollonian construct of foreknowledge and anticipation that blocks our view of the absolute dionysian reality underneath.

In the place between dreaming, the pages of my life fall away, and my soul is fresh and naked and exposed, and I feel the world pressing up against my self, and I experience it again, as if for the first time.

Eternal Recurrence

And so we return to the chair and the page, and the words are the words we use to build our monuments, our sand castles, our fossils, our bones; that’s the purpose of writing isn’t it? And I’m not sure how you’re supposed to write if the line length is this long; I guess just think, and try to extrude it out.

 Just lost something, but I’ll write it again.

Let’s start with an excercise, some jumping jacks, up and down, in and out. That should do it.

The Washington DC Metro, 3:30 in the afternoon, between GWU-Foggy Bottom and Rosslyn. We stop at Rosslyn and (how many) people get on the train. There is a man in a black t-shirt, with a redhair buzzcut and a redhaired wife. She is fatter than he his, uglier, dumber maybe, mistrusting, confused. There is a black boy next to me, maybe my age, dressed well, in nice pants and a button-down shirt, standing too close to me. A tall man, older, maybe 55, with white hair, but still well preserved, in a suit. Three buddhist monks in yellow robes, not knowing what they were in for.

These are the people in the subway. Each one has his story.