The Thought-Fox

Firstly, let me be so bold as to add those links, dearest KP...

R.A.W. on Quantum Physics and R.A.W. on Acceleration to 2012.

Now, on first reflection, this is a guy I thought I could get on board with. It seems entirely logical (I'm uncertain if this is the mot juste) to me that when assessing all explanations/concepts/arguments/interpretations of reality, all we're really experiencing is the instrument through which it is being explained/conceived/argued/interpreted. That said, given the many layers of space-time and the myriad instrumental platforms in-between R.A.W. saying those things and then eventually me hearing them, how can I be certain that he actually said those things in the first place? And even if he did, surely I'm only hearing and interpreting what my reality tunnel enables me to hear and interpret. He might have said something completely different. He did! He might not even be a 'he'.

Confused, disoriented and in faint hope that there's light at the end of this particular reality tunnel, I find myself reminded of the old Donny Hathaway song "Everything is Everything". I'm finding it increasingly more unsettling to realise that I really don't know bleeping anything, and yet that in turn only provokes me into reaching for some all-encompassing theory to cling to. Far be it from me to suggest that the work of the late great soul star is in any way more profound or more true than the teachings of every religious, spiritual or scientific endeavour, I will however stick my neck out and say that Donny certainly is more succinct. He cuts to the chase, makes his (what seems now) very salient point, makes it sound bloody good, and then shuts the hell up. In 3mins 29 secs, Mr. Hathaway establishes something that I really can get on board with. How else should one look to explain anything at all, other than with that phrase? How else can we really, truly, come to terms with A.A.T., Quantum Mechanics, multiple hairless cats, disappearing ones, bellicose sofas, and everything in between? By answering each and every question by repeating the title of said song, and then generally get on with everything else. All this examining of my own consciousness and reality has really got in the way of me doing anything with them.

Momentarily paralysed by this realisation, I somehow mobilise and find inspiration from another artistic source, that monolith of 20th Century poetry, Ted Hughes. Recalling secondary-school English lessons past (but uncomfortable with the supposed reality of memory), I offer "The Thought-Fox" as a low-level and approachable stepping-stone to support Donny's argument. In six beautifully efficient verses, Ted convinces us that at any one time the poem is the thought, the thought is the fox, the fox is the reality, and so on, in ever expanding and self-referencing circles. Here is is...


The Thought-Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Hughes was renowned for his appreciation for the animal kingdom. I'll suggest that one reason for this is a jealousy at their freedom from consciousness. Hughes work - the very interpretation of his consciousness, abounds with subjects most of whom are devoid of just that. He marvels at the pike (in his poem of the same name) for having "a life subdued to its instrument". Instinct, action, thoughtlessness (in its truest sense) are all qualities which Hughes prized above all, and yet spent his life lost in the conscious, relatively inactive, contemplation of these attributes.

Which brings me back to R.A.W. Ironically, "The Thought-Fox" certainly supports the argument that particles organise themselves only when we look at them. They can be all things at the same time. Hughes, cleverly, includes himself in the poem thereby factoring in his own nervous-system into his appraisal of that particular universe.

This perception is a gamble of course, but I'm going to put forward this entry as the first in a series of ultra-brief literary criticisms sprung from the deep well of Quantum Physics. Who knows, we might end up with a whole literary theory reassessing the canon and redefining literature on a quantum level. Now that's not something I thought I'd write when this began...

RF

Shoulders of Giants

Friday evening was fascinating but I remain perturbed about ventures with two slits and cats in boxes. How is it possible for a particle to be in several places at once and at the same time nowhere? Who put the cat in the box and how did he get it in there in the first place? My cats won’t entertain quantum physics. When I first suggested some experimentation they informed me that they were already in the box, at a garden party and representing the county in an aquatic sit-in at the local lido, all the while being nowhere at all. When I raised the issue again they assured me that they absolutely were in the box and perhaps I wasn’t looking at it properly. The next time they asked me to consider how difficult it is for a cat, in this current political climate, to really commit to three places at once whilst being nowhere at all. They requested details of my voting intentions before they would even consider getting in the box again and suggested that I wait a couple of weeks as they are heavily involved in a campaign for my sofa, and, as everyone knows - a sofa doesn’t win an election; another sofa loses an election. Recently a drove of posters has mysteriously appeared on my walls and I cannot help but suspect that the image has been airbrushed, although my sofa repeatedly exclaims that this is not the case and he just happens to have good fabric. The smaller cat informs me that this is a big fat waste of his time as, in quantum terms, he IS the box and he will only participate further if the ‘box’ idea is substituted with a ‘tin of tuna’. Both are adamant that this will prove more successful. Failing that they suggest that I leave the tin of tuna open, get in the box and they will watch me.

The larger one seems angry. I don’t think he appreciated the shaving for your AAT exploration. I now constantly find him in my cashmere playing all sullen and fake sneezing. It didn’t really help the cause that you failed to make any appearance in the semi-aquatic environment at all, and whilst he was fleeced of both coat and dignity to validate a ridiculous notion about fish origin, your eyebrows remain untouched. ‘Hostile’ would be an understatement. He was already furious at the suggestion of subcutaneous fat and rather shrilly referred to bone structure and muscle matter. He now claims that he’s full all the time and barely touches his dried food. The whole business is rather upsetting.

The two slit experiment was futile and somewhat exhausting. I was invested but the cats interpreted ‘interference pattern’ as encouragement to rhythmically thwack my face with their paws. No sooner had I moved to stage three, involving the throwing of bluetack balls through the second split, when the smaller cat embarked on a two-pronged attack of aiming chicken shaped treats at my head whilst the larger attempted to shave my jumper.

I am convinced my sofa is up to something. Behind me the waves of possibility are causing such a draft that I have had to resort to my red hooded cardigan again and yet, whenever I turn round, he is exactly where I last saw him and he gets really defensive if he thinks I’m watching him. Yesterday he accused me of having warped ‘reality tunnels’ and suggested that he was nothing more than a manifestation of my perception of him and, indeed, of my perception of the universe. I’m not overly concerned- it’s just sometimes I wake up feeling slightly like I’ve been sleeping for days and he looks tanned and somehow wealthier.

Are you aware that yesterday was the anniversary of Newton’s death? I coincidentally found myself standing in front of a portrait of him only a few minutes after I had been informed of this. He once said, “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants.” Obviously what he really meant was, “If I have perceived the universe via the signal detectors of my reality tunnels it is by vibrating on the tendencies of bigger tendencies.” If I am to see further I can only start by standing on the arm of my power hungry, galaxy tripping sofa, with, hopefully, some guidance from you.

Check out on youtube: Robert Anton Wilson explains Quantum Physics and also his contemplation on the acceleration to 2012. I would offer both in blue letters for you to click on but I am clearly not ready for such bold strokes, and, besides, Newton would have preferred the use of a prism to refract the light into a whole spectrum of colours.

KP

STOP PRESS

Here's a link to a great online documentary library. An amazing resource, though I'm not entirely sure of its legality. Still, tons of good (and not so good) documentaries free to watch and, importantly, tucked among the 'Science' list is our old favourite. Looks like we might have a LOT of material in here.

Ironically, I can also recommend a few in the 'Religion' category. 'A Brief History of Disbelief' and it's companion 'The Atheism Tapes' feature the extraordinarily insightful Jonathan Miller. 'Jesus Camp', 'Louis Theroux: Fundamentalist Christianity' and 'Religulous' are all thought-provoking, entertaining and deeply unsettling in equal measure. For something a little more sedate and cerebral try 'Cracking the Mayan Code' ('Mystery'). Standards such as "ENRON: The Smartest Guys in the Room' ('Economics'), 'An Inconvenient Truth' ('Environment'), 'Sicko' ('Health'), 'Capturing the Friedmans' ('Biography') and 'Man on Wire' ('Music and Performing Arts') are all worth a watch - to see what all the fuss is about as well as for the content itself.

Would love some more recommendations if you have some. Certainly not 'Ross Kemp on Gangs', but beyond that it's hard to know where to start...

RF

Sink or Swim

I ticked at least three of the boxes in Elaine’s conclusive table and from this I surmised that I am a rhinoceros. Which is a great relief. For a while I feared that I might be a naked, subterranean, Somalian mole rat. And there’s no fun in that. I’ve done my research and, aside from the obvious lack of clothing and inevitable teasing from fashionable lion cubs, one must also consider the cramped conditions, enforced procreation from the age of one (which seems a tad irresponsible) and infant blindness. Blind baby mole rats. Naked, blind baby mole rats. They must be cold. They haven’t got any clothes. I wonder how they feel about other baby mole rats of the ‘non-naked’ variety who must be currently cavorting about in cashmere whilst indulging in a quick, above ground round of ‘poke the wildebeest’. No wonder they stay in their tunnels. Who would want to be a naked baby mole rat? The elders of the colony feed them excrement. It’s true. It says so in Wikipedia. I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight. Somewhere out there a small, humiliated, blind baby mole rat is being forcibly fed bodily waste by the senile members of his naked family, whilst Elton John relentlessly chants choruses from Disney films and an apathetic gazelle films the whole nasty business on his iphone. Is this the circle of life? Is this democracy I ask you? Sometimes I wonder what the point of my vote is.

And this is your source of inspiration. I have discussed the matter with my cats and neither was particularly impressed. The bigger one promptly left the room in disgust, with a paw motion that I don’t quite understand but I suspect that it might have been rude and the smaller was preoccupied with a pink catnipped mouse that I purchased for him in a very pretty little shop in Leeds and said he wasn’t in the mood. Both seemed to agree with Elaine on the ‘humans being the fattest primate’ area. The smaller of the two used this citation as part of an impressively strong case aimed at getting me to open a tin of tuna and generally feel bad about myself. The irony when he discovered that he was quoting from a source that placed me and the tuna in the same bucket of fish, was palpable. He retired to my room and refused to talk to any of us for the rest of the day. This morning he slipped an unravelled tin-foil ball into my cereal on which was clawed exactly what he thought Elaine could do with her fish ape theory.

It’s my belief that you have only chosen to contemplate this line of exploration as it contains the word ‘omega’ and you know that I cannot pronounce it properly.

This is not my post. I set myself a challenge last week but I was foiled by my housemate’s efficiency in the ‘Love Film’ stakes. Before I could cry ‘What the Bleep...’ she’d posted the wretched DVD back. Within 24 hours the next DVD arrived – ‘Even Cowgirls Get the Blues’. Its main similarities to ‘What the BLEEP...’ were that I didn’t have a clue as to what was going on, my housemate tells me I became visibly angered at several moments and I slept through the final twenty minutes. No one wrote on themselves, although I did try to attack my wrists with a biro around fifteen minutes in. All is not lost. A pal tells me she has the ‘What the BLEEP’ box set. Yes – there is a box set. I thought one day we could sit down and watch the whole thing (aside from the final twenty minutes during which I intend to nap). Afterwards I could make you watch ‘Fame’ and then I should give my sofa a rub down. Please report back on the lido experiment. Maybe consider covering yourself in lard for protection against the inclement weather. It would be best to write on yourself prior to the lard application for ease. I still intend to write on myself. I might do so on Monday but I haven’t decided what yet. It is hard to give it serious thought when all around me baby mole rats are naked and suffering.


KP

Under the Sea

I take a surprisingly small amount of personal pride in persuading you to put pen to paper, dearest Karen. Or presumably more accurately, fingertip to keyboard. Or presumably even more accurately, given that we’ve learned the true nature of both fingertip and keyboard, let me almost entirely rephrase my opening gambit and write “I take a surprisingly small amount of personal pride in persuading you to put tendency to tendency.” In fact, this syntactical redress momentarily shipwrecks me on the shore of an even more remote island. Where does all this Quantum Confusion leave the hard-working members of the academic linguistic community (and their Man Fridays, such as myself)? Should every noun now be replaced with the word “tendency”? How far down this this linguistic rabbit hole should we go? Perhaps we won’t get a choice and will simply fall like Alice*.

Returning to the matter in hand (pun intended; and remember neither matter nor hand is actually touching the other), the reason for my pride’s lack of mass is due to my concern and sense of overwhelming guilt at aggravating this fear of your sofa (and inciting it in myself as a consequence). The prospect of couch-led Universe Lebensraum is unsettling in the extreme, but adds weight to the old adage that it’s always the quiet ones. I thought mine was supremely benevolent; I had no idea of the cosmic bellicosity which lurked beneath its worn leathery exterior. Should I find myself in the unenviable situation of being menaced by an orca whale, I shall offer my traitorous settee as some sort of fabric makepeace. I doubt it would be accepted. Settees, not being mammalian, lack the cheesy aftertaste of vernix caseosa** which I suspect (though have no way of proving) orcas slavishly and secretly crave. Had I a seal to use in this oceanic stand-off, instead of a settee, the orca might somehow be convinced to let me go.

All this talk of vernix caseosa is really just a prelude to me introducing into the forum another much maligned theoretical argument, alongside the theories of our beloved "What the Bleep...?" This is the Aquatic Ape Theory, First posited by Elaine Morgan in 1942, A.A.T. postulates that our ancestors, at some point in ancient history, spent time evolving in a aquatic (or semi-aquatic) environment, and uses evidence apparently suggesting that humans are biologically closer to marine mammals than the great apes to support the claim.

Your suggestion that I write on myself in response to "What the Bleep...?" was met with some circumspection amongst the constantly moving and disappearing particles nominally referred to as my brain. Their doubts arose not at the origin of the suggestion, rather because they were planning to coerce the rest of the constantly moving and disappearing particles that (again, nominally) constitute my body into a vigorous test of the A.A.T. They're worried it'll wash off once submerged. I'm sure the rest of me would at least understand their logic, if it wasn't so elusive.

Sadly devoid now of vernix caseosa (and so eliminating the chance to use myself and a baby seal as a taste test for any local orcas), I'm choosing instead to take myself off to the nearst lido and to set up camp in the shallow end to see if I really am more suited to life there, by thoroughly examine the following tasiest morsels of evidence from the A.A.T. lobby:

1) Lack of hair, similar to aquatic mammals and in contrast to the ape (speak for yourself, Elaine. Have you seen my beard? Have you seen my eyebrows? "Aquadynamic" would not be your first response).

2) Increased subcutaneous fat; again like our slippery friends (I think, in my case, this arose more with the discovery of Cool Ranch Doritos at University, rather than any hangover from my protohuman forefathers).

3) The human brain requires certain nutrients found most easily and absorbed most efficiently from seafood (our ancestors must have had exceptional hand-eye coordination too then, given the presumable lack of nets and fishing rods back in the day. Either that or protofish must have been as gullible as the Red Rail).

So, dear KP, you must sally forth into the world of particle-influnce single-handed. Or single-tendencied. Unless you can write with both tendencies, that would probably be the case anyway.

I'll get back to you with news of the A.A.T. test. If you and the cats fancy joining me, make sure you bring a permanent marker for you, and some clippers for them. Can't have them slowing us down below the surface.

RF

* Tim Burton’s Wonderland/Underland and its inhabitants seem to suffer from a very unpredictable (though extremely visible) condition of the laws of Quantum Physics. It may yet emerge that Burton’s “Alice…” is simply a sequel to ‘What the Bleep…?”, cleverly concealed and marketed beneath Lewis Carroll’s original tendency.

** Vernix caseosa is the birth-slime to which you referred in your last post, KP.

Mein Sofa

My housemate has just exited my room with what can only be described as an expression of triumphant glee etched upon her face. You see she has spent the past two months attempting to induce me, surreptitiously and somewhat against my will, into a realm where words like ‘consciousness’ and ‘abundance’ are bandied about with as much insouciance as ‘salt and vinegar crisps please. An orange pack you say? Well I never’, and suchlike. I have resisted, as any small and cynical gal might do, with gusto, terror and rational yelps along the lines of, ‘What do you mean this sofa is not real? How on earth, then, are you able to explain my ability to slam my head against it?’ I discovered swiftly that utilising aggressive questioning as my main form of defence was not only futile but encouraged further debate as to whether, indeed, my head was making contact with the sofa at all. Apparently the sofa is only particles. And these particles are constantly moving and disappearing. Which is terrifying. What happens if they move on an occasion when I have fallen asleep upon them? We do not even know where these particles in fact go. Possibly into another universe! And where do the particles from that universe go when they disappear? But of course. Into my sofa. Or something like that. And the universe is constantly expanding. And it’s comprised of particles. Does that mean my sofa is constantly expanding? and if it is, when I wake up, might I discover that my sofa has taken over a parallel universe? How will I explain this to my mother? I reject labels but I know that I am against aggressors, autocracy, dictatorship and randomly expanding sofas with authoritarian tendencies. My housemate believes that I am partly to blame for investing ‘meaning’ in my sofa. She whimsically cited ‘Lesson 1’ in ‘A Course in Miracles’ which, she informs me, states that my sofa actually has no meaning.

Exactly how far down the rabbit hole do I have to go? ‘Should I eat first’, ‘will I need a change of clothes’ and ‘won’t the rabbits see it as a bit of an imposition - it is their house after all. Shouldn’t we leave those rabbits alone? Don’t they have enough to deal with in the current economic climate?’ - are just a few of my questions – along with trying to understand how they manage to eat their carrots at all if the carrots are just particles and they keep disappearing into another realm. They must have to eat them really quickly. And they don’t even have opposable thumbs. If, in actuality, the carrots aren’t even particles, but ‘tendencies’ as you and that Heisenberg chap say, what’s the point of eating them at all? Wouldn’t you rather have a stir fry?

I have never held much stock with the ‘certainty’ trade. I laugh in the face of absolutes. But only when they are not looking and rarely in front of any third party as I find it difficult enough to locate my corner, let alone fight it. Thus I think the reason my housemate finds this whole situation so ticklingly amusing is that you have started a blog in which I am going to be forced to explore a topic which makes me feel about as seductively articulate as I did at twelve years old the week I had braces installed, on both my upper and lower jaws, to correct my overbite. A topic on which the only absolute certainty that I know, is that I know nothing. Which I think is the point. Where to begin?

Recently I watched that ‘What the BLEEP’ film. Whilst I found some of the documentary side fascinating, my housemate tells me that the more interested I became, the more I pounded my small fist upon the sofa, (hers that is. Not mine. Mine was busy transporting itself into another realm at the time with dubious political intention), with cries of, ‘But how can that beeeee?’ I suspect I was not the ideal viewing partner. Some of the thoughts are radical. And I have not used the word 'radical' since school when exploring the section of the history syllabus entitled, ‘Radicalism and Reform in 19th Century Britain.’ Having now been introduced to concepts such as ‘superposition’ and some of the things that Heisenberg chap said about atoms, whether or not John Wilkes was a political opportunist or a sincere campaigner for the rights of the individual seems a little bit irrelevant. I enjoyed the film. It can’t have been the same one you saw as if it was soft porn why did I sleep through the last twenty minutes and why, in that case, was Marlee Matlin’s character so darn miserable?

Whilst I am furious with you for starting this twisted game despite my clearly articulated veto on all things that involve me having to form sentences, I think this exploration will be good for me. My housemate says that within my movements of spiritual awakening I am responsible for all slightly cynical, small gals’ movements of spiritual awakening. It’s fine though because I wasn’t really listening to that bit and whilst she was talking I didn’t look at her which I think means that she wasn’t actually there other than in the form of waves of possibility. I am going to start small. This week I intend to watch the film again. Even the last twenty minutes.

Afterwards I might write on myself.

I think you should too. If you’re against that you could write on your water bottle. I can’t do that as my housemate has already written on all the water bottles. I am my only canvas now. And the cats. I could write on the cats the next time I visit my parents. But how best to monitor the results?

I learned alot last night Roberto and I thank you for it but if anyone asks I will deny it. The universe is a many splendid, particled, tendencied thing. Also some women have to dance with hospital equipment at weddings and play basketball with hyper-intelligent five year olds in order to take good photos. And, most importantly, we and seals are the only babies to be born covered in slime, which, I think means that we are all subject to being hunted for our blubber and, that, ultimately, we might have to face the possibility of being casually flipped by orca whales.

KP

What the bleep do YOU know?

Ok, so here's the deal. This blog, Bentham's Ford, has been created in an attempt to hassle my friend Karen (one of the brightest of London's sparks) into some sort of literary action. Let's see if it works. It'll probably just be an occasional mind-dump for me and her to use from time to time, and if that's the case, then so be it.

I'll kick off by tackling a rather grand, universal subject so she has a large and potential limitless palette from which to respond. Last night we sat chatting and drinking in The Island Queen (one of Angel's best kept secrets, it would seem) and the course of our conversation took in a great many subjects. From mysteriously sleepy French horses to the suitability of orange as the colour for a packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps, right the way through to our main topic of discussion, "What the Bleep Do We Know?" Released in 2004, "What the Bleep..." is film that defies any attempt at compartmentalisation. Part documentary, part dramatic narrative, part animation, the film is generally acknowledged as a layman's guide to some of the more mind-boggling aspects of Quantum Physics. Claiming to explore some tricky connections between Spirituality and Quantum Mechanics, God and Molecular Biology, taking in consciousness, neurology and addiction along the way, "What the Bleep..." has provoked some seriously disparate responses from those who've seen it. A brisk flick through the Wikipedia entry for the film is enough to arm yourself with the names of various big guns of the modern scientific community (Dawkins, Simon Singh, etc) who regard it, at best as "ridiculous balderdash" and, at worse as a "rampant example of abuse by charlatans and cults."

Very much a layman in terms of Quantum Physics and not wanting to wade too far into discussing the rights and wrongs of the science on offer, I do however want to make one point that eluded me after one too many Sierra Nevadas last night. The reason to get any film made is, by and large, one of entertainment. How best to appeal to those laymen willing to sit through a documentary on Quantum Physics? Make it entertaining. Skirting round the subject of the frankly terrible dramatisation featuring Marlee Matlin (an attempt by the filmakers to entertain, one could easily surmise), it strikes me that the science on offer really is the science of entertainment. It's science porn. It's science porn shot through the soft-focus lens of spirituality. Does it work? You betcha. I love it. In the words of the great Eddie Izzard, "it blows [your] mind into a different hairdo." But like most exploitative material, look a little closer or take a while to think about it, and you get left with that empty feeling of having used and having been used. Not having time here to discuss the entirety of the film, I'll bypass the "I've come to fix your boiler" set-up and head for the money shot (or one of them at any rate). "The material world around us is nothing but possible movements of consciousness. I am choosing moment by moment my experience. Heisenberg said atoms are not things, only tendencies." So says Amit Goswami (a leading light of the Quantum Consciousness movement) at one point in the film and frankly on hearing those words that's me spent and ready for a cigarette. Logically, I can understand what his point is, but it's so far removed from the reality of my life experience, so untouchable a concept that I feel like an adolescent boy again wondering in awe at what a naked woman actually looks like. Certainly the possibility of ever touching one seemed very remote around the age of fifteen, and so it is with the possibility of ever truly experiencing and comprehending Goswami's point today. Instead of endlessly searching for proof of these "movements of consciousness", we're happy to dip into a bit of top-shelf science, enjoy ourselves for a evening and shove it under some other DVDs in the back of the cupboard once we're done.

I am reluctant to dismiss outright, like Dawkins et al, the viewpoints of the interviewees in the film knowing that the healthiest mind admits to knowing nothing. We really don't know very much at all, and a connection between science and spirituality (for want of a better term) may well be proven years down the line. In the meantime, hand me the kleenex...

RF