And if you don't know something, just say you don't know; don't let your ego get in the way! LOL — 3017amen

Please come to our church in which we don't teach any of our "maybe's" as truth, nor at all, because we just don't know and can't really preach about an invisible realm merely supposed. In lieu of all that, we offer community, fellowship, and such ideas of doing good strictly for the sake of good, not reward, with no worshipping whatsoever, and thus we are not really even a church in the old sense of the word.

We have strong reasons to believe he would have chosen differently had he been less reckless, or considered others, or any number of things. — Relativist

It is that if his will was different than it actually was, he no longer being him, so to speak, the choices may have been different.

How could people believe in such an evil entity. — T Clark

Yet they do, and are full of excuses such as 'mysterious ways', blah, blah, and even dishonestly teach their suppositions as if they are truth. This could affect all of us if they could impress the government, but this hardly ever happens. Look to cleric-run governments, such as in Iran, to fully grasp it.

Whether or not God is good has no impact on whether or not he exists. — T Clark

Now, although this thread is centered on exposing the supposed Christian God as evil, it shouldn't hurt to extend it toward the likelihood of God's existence or not, if no one minds…

I do not throw the baby out with the bath water either. — 3017amen

There isn't much left in the bathwater as support with the fundamental babies having to be thrown out.

Classical physical biology give rise to our spiritual experiences of the world, and that is a structure that has legitimate selfness too. — Gregory

Seems that at each new level, associated patterns become that operate at that level, and so on.

If the classical is not entirely reduced to the "small", if for no other reason than emergent principles, then maybe scientific explanations of our sense organs don't represent the reality at the top (our experience of the world). What we think we see is really an image created in the brain, but.. is it? Is this not reductionism? — Gregory

Probably, there are many 'smalls' that can lead to the same classical large.

Of course, the sense organs take in what's out there, but ignore a lot, because, I guess, so that we have greater contrast, plus, the brain paints a more useful face on the jumble of waves or whatnot out there.

We only ever 'see' the brain's model, which model also reflects what we already know in forms made by the brain, as proved by dreams, in which not anything comes in through the senses from outside.

Reductionism is popular, but there is something to be said for emergence, such as many connected neurons can do more than just one neuron by itself could do (more is different). We presume that what goes on in Totality is completely relative to the inside of Totality, given that there is no outside to provide any absolutes. Even that as tiny as particles would really be more like that they are hubs of relations, leaving not much to be intrinsic, although Lee Smolin thinks that energy and momentum have to be.

Nice. I don't think General Relativity will ever be reconciled with Quantum Physics. — Gregory

Loop Quantum Gravity is trying to derive quanta of space-time so that General Relativity can be gotten to from quantum principles as an approximation of a finely grained continuum that still operates well at large numbers. It's not easy, but all else has been quantized so far.

If there is a 'God', He wholly made human nature to be what it is, and so it expresses itself accordingly, over a great range stretching from angelic to devilish, to no big surprise.

"Emergent" seems to mean the composition is greater than the smaller parts and so have more meaning. — Gregory

More is different.

Aristotle's "potential infinity" seems to dovetail nicely with seeing the levels energy appears in — Gregory

"Potential Infinity" only works in math. The specific energy levels, say, as for electrons only being able to jump to certain orbits are due, we suppose, to that the waves still have to connect and can't just get chopped off to fit at any orbit.

The definition of 'infinite', largest or smallest, is not that it is an amount, but that it can never complete, and thus it cannot be.

So according to Cantor a segment has an uncountable infinity of points instead of a countable amount. So you could have always from eternity divided a segment and never in forever get to the end. — Gregory

As you may be suggesting, there has to be an end, lest there be no potency, and, for now, it would be at the Planck size.

This can make us feel large against the background of the massive universe. — Gregory

Until the massive universe makes us feel small. It turns out that the mid-point is about the size of a piece of dust.

But the world, I've been told, doesn't exist as a single extended reality, but has levels of reality. — Gregory

Yes and no, for there are fields behind the field quanta that we call particles. There would also be levels of actions/reality emergent for such as atoms, molecules, cells at their levels.

How can we conceptualize how substance is different in the quantum realm? — Gregory

The field quanta form when there is an interaction, bound by a discrete energy spectrum. The base 'substance' would be covariant quantum fields, whatever they consist of, as themselves.

(1. 9 q1-9)

9
— The Secret Life of the Rubaiyat Poems —
زندگی راز شعر روبایایات

The secrets which my book of love has bred,
Cannot be told for fear of loss of head;
Since none is fit to learn, or cares to know,
‘Tis better all my thoughts remain unsaid.

There are fatwas against rationalists;
Shariah has become the supreme truth,
Once venerated figures are heretics;
The intellectual sciences are forbidden.

I’m forced to play the game of pretending
To be a good Muslim; even went to Mecca.

Of secrets of the world, my book defined
For fear of malice should not be outlined;
Since none here worthy are amongst the dolts,
I can’t reveal the thoughts that crowd my mind.

Even teaching is prohibited.
Libraries are no longer supported.
It’s safer for one to write on science
And mathematics than philosophy.

My poems are inwardly like snakes who bite
The Shariah and are chains and restraints.
Some I get away with because of the
Poetic mode of expression I have adopted.

‘There is no benefit in the science of medicine,
And no truth lies in the science of geometry,
Logical and natural sciences are heretical
And those practicing them are heathens.’

The promise of reward and punishment
And the quandary of bodily resurrection
Derails one’s attention, diverting it from
The here and now, where one should be focused.

The whole problem is that ‘God’ is not
Established, yet I grant the possibility,
Upgrading the notion to a ‘maybe’;
But they still preach it as a surety!

(1. 9 q10-19)

Ghazzali studied with me for some years
And came to my home in the morning,
‘Fore he could be seen—religiously torn;
So I had a drum beaten on my roof.

Ye do not grasp the truth but still ye grope;
Why waste then life and sit in doubtful hope.
Beware! And hold forever Holy Name
From torpor sane or sot in death will slope.

O Preacher, harder at work we are than you,
Though drunken, we are more sober than you;
The blood of grapes we drink, you that of men,
Be fair, who is more blood-thirsty, we or you?

Some strung the pearls of thought by searching deep,
And told some tales about Him—sold them cheap;
But none has caught a clue to secret realms,
They cast a horoscope and fall asleep.

Had I but over the heavens control
I’d remove this bullish ball beyond the goal
And forthwith furnish better worlds and times
Where love will cling to every freeman’s soul.

I wonder if ‘Lord’ could change the world
Just so that I may see his plans unfurled.
Would he remove my name from roll of call?
Or would my dish with larger sops be hurled?

Since mortal compositions are cast by Hand Divine,
Why then the flaws that throw them out of line?
If formed sublime, why must He shatter them?
If not, to whom should we the fault assign?

From Thee, beloved, those who went astray,
They fall, of course, to dreaming pride, a prey,
Drink the chalice of wine and hear this Truth:
Just empty air is every word they say.

O unenlightened race of human kind
Ye are a nothing, built on empty wind,
Ye a mere nothing, hovering in the abyss:
A void before you, and a void behind.

I saw a wise man who had no regard

For caste or creed, for faith or worldly greed,

And free from truth and quest, from path and goal,
He sat at ease, from Earth and Heaven freed.

(1. 9 q20-29)

Anon! The pious people would advise,
That as we die, we rise up fools or wise.
‘Tis for this cause we keep with lover and wine
For in the end with same we hope to rise.

In Paradise are angels, as men trow
And fountains with pure wine and honey flow.
If these be lawful in the world to come
May I not love the like down here below?

Since neither truth nor certitude is at hand
Do not waste your life in doubt for hither-land.
O let us not refuse the goblet of wine,
For, sober or drunk, in ignorance we stand.

This ruthless Wheel that makes so great a show,
Unravels no one’s knot, shares no one’s woe;
But when it sights a wounded, weary heart,

It hurries on to strike another blow.

And those who show their prayer-rugs are but mules—
Mere hypocrites who use those rugs as tools;

Behind the veil of zealotry they trade,

Trading Islam, worse than heathen are those fools.

If justice ruled the working of the heavens,
All the affairs of Men would prosper well,
If sciences guided all our worldly acts,
Who would be sorry for the men of science.

Serve only the wise if and when you find.
Let fast and prayer blast, you need not mind,
But listen to truth from what Omar Khayyam says:
Drink wine, steal if you must, but be ever kind.

If ye would love, be sober, wise and cool
And keep your mind and senses under rule.
If ye desire your drinking be loved by All;
Injure no person, never act a fool.

Tell me, Omar, of what else you’ve accomplished.

I will, but for now…

Spring’s New Year unfolds the garden’s jewels—
The sweet rose, my Peri, and April Fools.
Yester-now expires gifting the present;
‘Twould be naught to speak outside of what rules.

Honestly though, I have read and thought a fair bit about it and I have never seen a good argument for free will, nor have I even come across a clear definition of it that I think really captures what I intuit. — petrichor

Aside from the trivial non-coercion meaning and the randomness that harms any kind of will, the "definition" eludes us since it never works out, so far, but the Holy Grail of the crux of it is to find a way above and beyond the automated brain will being true to itself that lets there be some higher agency that is somehow 'free' and 'independent' of the brain will or able to will the brain will, but, again, we not being able to well define this 'free' idea, much less to go on to show it.

Buddha, who I consider a powerful intellect relevant even now, claimed that there really is no reason to be sad, angry, jealous, and all the emotions that make us suffer. — TheMadFool

Higher Consciousness

The three lower consciousnesses that are
Obsessed with the securing of objects,
With the chasing of sensations, and with
Power/control will never ever be enough.

There are NO actions of people that can
Justify our becoming irritable
Angry, fearful, jealous or anxious if
We give them our unconditional love.

Stress is the difference between what we
Expect to happen and what does happen,
Especially when we put our needs ahead
Of other, oft resulting in needless anger.

If we don’t accept the unacceptable,
Then we lower our level of consciousness
Our response will mirror their uptightness—
Which can spread the bad moods onto others.

Conscious Awareness, which can but witness,
Is a safe haven from which to observe
The drama of our lives playing in our minds,
Granting us a sobering distance from it.

From a safe subjective place that’s free of fear,
Our soul, our conscious awareness, can witness
The strange thoughts and emotions that surface
On the mind, sent by the subconscious brain.

Putting ourselves in the place of others
When hurtful things are done to us,
Expands our consciousness, compassion, and love
Since we can come to know why they did it.

When we converse with ourselves, it is our
Higher Consciousness—our Conscious Awareness
Or I, that questions our lower consciousness
Impulses toward securing, sensation, and power.

Seeing the big picture of life and its stages
And connections lets one not get annoyed, say,
At being cut off in traffic, for s/he
May be old, learning, lost, growing, or angry.

Putting the needs of others ahead of
Our own produces the byproduct of
Happiness and reduces stress, for we
No longer have unrealistic expectations.

Some fall for their thoughts, hook, line, and sinker:
Conditioned responses, reflexes, or
Overwhelming emotions, some spurious,
Or ancient, planted by evolution, or unbalanced.

Emotions are slow to react to logic,
Like molasses or slow forming crystals,
Or not at all, like rocks, blocking them.
Unless and until they change, progress halts.

Reason and emotion are hard to coordinate,
Each having a separate pathway to the mind,
That, perhaps, is all there is to tell about the
Miseries and follies of human history.

First-level thoughts are beliefs and desires,
But second-level thoughts are beliefs
And desires about the beliefs and desires,
Becoming able spectators of the scene beneath.

This detachment allows
The ‘thinking about a thought’
Without the thought itself
Trying to steal the show.

we can continually reflect on, evaluate and alter the factors that lead to our actions — Possibility

Pending the finding and better usage of the apparatus outside of time that has us choosing freely above and beyond our brain network process, one can hone one's natural awareness, connections, and collaboration—emotionally, logically, predictively, physically, and imaginatively, perhaps, by getting high on life, somehow, which ought to stir the pot of creativity. Well, it sounds good, anyway.

Heart-flight is love that the wondrous Earth brings,
Which winds to the soul whisper unimaged things;
Senses merge, as streams, to flow beyond joy;
Imagination fires enlightened wings.

They wanted to be free of their wills,
Since wills seem to be full of old-time ills,
So, they cut them off, now of wills bereft—
The problem is that there was no ‘they’ left.

There has to be some logically sustainable rendition of “free” in order for the will to do its job. — Mww

The general job of the will might be to insure the person's future in combination with reflecting the person as s/he has become as of that moment.

The fuss is about the consistency of the will, which, although appreciated as nature's useful means toward one's survival and keeping one to basically remain as true to one's self, leaves the person to necessarily be an automated process, which is not well received emotionally, since, well, then it seems one is not in control, whatever 'control' means, really, and who knows what benefit it could confer over the quick and deep process of two hundred trillion neuron connections figuring things out quite well.

Free: occurring without coercion within circumstantial and situational constraints imposed by normal conditions. — Pathogen

This is good, and it defines 'free' to be that the will is free to operate, the function of the will being to collapse scenarios of selections and their consequences into the best choice to be real-ized.

Hardly anyone would contest this, so there should be no big fuss so far.

Had the balance not been tipped in favour of matter over antimatter at the beginning of the universe, each would have cancelled each other out and there would be no universe. — StreetlightX

There are now a billion photons for every proton, indicating 10**9 annihilations early on. Somehow the rest of the pairs rapidly moved apart from their partners, going to who knows where. Perhaps this supports the inflation theory.

zEarly Afternoon at the OK Club — Part 2 — Priceless Treasures

Amorata Sultana informs me, after having just looked through the ‘Great Omar’, in thanks, that we have to celebrate together once a week until the end of time, so we head out to enjoy a day of Indian Summer:


(Click.)

Fall’s blossoms float, showers of fragrant beauty,
As leaves fade while the bulbs store up energy;
Faeries’ floral dreams grant this destiny,
For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

For Ima Beloved, I have two more interpretations:

All’s thanks to Death’s prolonged sifting of ‘dies’,
Of the rest from the best, silly from wise,
The pointless from the pointed—selection.
Oh, through ink-black rivers we had to rise!

Life’s birthright, long signed by time, dust, and death,
Doth also suffice for Earth’s living quests
As their epitaph: RIP; time wears,
The DNA strands’ tips rip; dust is left.

So, what other rooms do we have in the OK Club? There are too many to mention now, plus I make some of them up as I go along; however, we shall get though them all eventually. Readers may request that we tour some of them.

There’s a room for Quatrain Poetry Slams, in which verses get traded back and forth, a room showing The Graveyard of the Gods, A Flower Lore greenhouse, an Elfin Forest, a Spring Fever Meadow, The Library of Babel, containing all the possible books that could ever be written, The End of Hell room, with Charon’s Tale, the Transmogrification of Omar And More story room, a holographic room with a Omar and friends discussing the human condition in an old tavern, the Room of the Future, and a time chamber that thrusts one back into Persian life of 800 years ago.

Another great exhibit is the ‘Collection of Priceless Treasures’, but indeed its content pales in comparison to living a full life.

I fear not death, Heaven, or even Hell,
For death is only life’s natural knell,
And Heaven and Hell are within myself;
The one thing I fear is not living well!

Among the priceless/worthless items:

Aristotle’s ‘lost’ book,
‘Beyond Metaphysics’, and, too,

Some nuggets of gold found
In the original Garden of Eden that was located
In the heart of the Amazon Jungle,
Wherein lie massive fields of Lady’s Slippers
And all of the flowers of Paradise.

There, I reached up—
And put the apple back on the tree.

And the Celtic Chronicles, we have, that were found
In an iron box beneath Glastonbury Abbey,
Revealing all of the tales from the Dark Ages,

And, from the tomb of the Holy Sepulcher—
The Holy Grail itself.

There, as well, a sliver of the true cross,
A small vial containing a drop of the Virgin’s milk,

A pebble, from a moon rock, given to me
By a polymath who works for the President,

A smart thinking and talking cricket named ‘Crick’,

The spear tip that pierced the side of the Saviour,

A few molecules of immortal air
From a sealed pyramid chamber in Egypt,

Some secret papers retrieved from the shaft
Of the bottomless CIA trash pit
Of “things that never happened”,

A thriving rose bush, just outside the window,
That was begun from Omar Khayyàm’s rose garden,

‘Flamberge’—
Prince Valiant’s ‘Singing sword’
(Twin to ‘Excalibur’),

Thomas Jefferson’s briefcase,

An original and intact Ming dynasty vase,

The third [missing] tablet of the 15 Commandments,

And the solution to gravity,
As it is a means and a result
Of quantum collapse from superposition,

As well as a tennis ball with my initials
Marked on it in a yin-yang style.

We also have the ‘treasure’ of a preliminary,
But solid indication of why the Cosmos exists,
Which Lisa Randall was nice enough to give me
From the LHC’s latest analysis.

I’m holding part of a brick that came from
Nero’s very recently discovered revolving banquet hall
That kept pace with the turn of the Earth.

I hold in my other hand a bone from
Early sapiens or of proto-man.

He is not gone, though,
But lives on in your heart and mine,
As in him lived all those before
Through which the universe itself came to life.
Amen.

Yet, all of these treasures pale in comparison…
To nature, living, friends, adventure, romance, and more,
Using Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat as a guide.

God offered Adam a perfect version of woman,
One who would even paint ceilings, cut grass…
But this would have cost Adam an arm and a leg.
So, Adam said, ‘What can I get for just a rib?’

God said to Adam and Eve in Eden:
‘Do what you like, but don’t eat the apple’.
Now we know that when you tell children
Not to touch something, they certainly will!

chirality — StreetlightX

Hail to the right-handed neutrino! It tipped all the balances.

Think it over — Shamshir

OK, let the tortoise cheat and win by taking the drug called 'speed'.

I don't even think it's a problem. — T Clark

After four or more levels of neurons (Damasio?), consciousness forms.

A brain process perceives its qualia, a brain-invented language of self-referencing symbols, along with it going into memory as qualia, with other brain area alerted but the global qualia result, which can attend to it further. Simple. No big problem.

Doses at the end, though stark. — Shamshir

How about this ending, with two fixes?

Dozes at the end, although stark.

to see things in dualities in spite of the fact that the universe does not. — T Clark

Perhaps our holistic all at once view versus our close-up linear detailed view gives a clue as to how the universe is organized.

I don't know what that means — T Clark

The message remains the same no matter the implementation/messenger, such as music is still music, whether live or via some other implementation, like an MP3 player.

But the fundamental point remains. — Wayfarer

The brain perceives its objects/results via the consciousness brain process as a kind of sixth sense?

But the mind is not an object of perception, rather 'that which perceives'. — Wayfarer

Consciousness is ever a subject and never an object, yet still a process?

Our awareness of our self is an illusion as described in eastern religions. In a sense, we are one with existence, the Tao. In another sense, we have separated the world into pieces - things, concepts, words, our selves. All of those are illusions. — T Clark

So seemingly real as an illusion such that a difference that makes no difference is no difference?

(The message remains, regardless of the implementation/messenger.)

Give employees stock shares in the company?

Omar Jr.’s Little Known Rubaiyat, Written Long Ago, Comes to Light

Omar Khayyam’s son, Jr., had to flee to Borneo after a fanatical sect of Sufi women, taking advantage of the increasing respectability of the once jovial city of Naishapur, it having become a temperance town, had risen in a body against the house of Omar and literally razed it to the ground.

Not until the original Omaric madness had passed away was the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Jr., lifted into the light after an infinity of sudoret labor spent in excavating under the 9,000 irregular verbs, 80 declensions, and 41 exceptions to every rule which go to make the ancient Mango-Bornese dialect in which Omar Jr.’s poem was originally written, foremost among the dead languages!

Who knew? Scholars had missed it. The media had overlooked it. Now rediscovered!

Samples:

See, heavenly Zamperina, damselish,
The Day has broken Night’s unwholesome Dish,
The Lark is up betimes to hail the Dawn,
The Early Worm is up to catch the Fish.

O foozled Poetasters, fogged with Wine,
Who to your Orgies bid the Muses Nine,
Go bid them, then, but leave to me the Tenth,
Whose name is Nicotine, for she is mine!

Into some secret, migrant Realm without,
By the dun Cloak of Darkness wrapped about,
Or by ringed Saturn’s Swirl thou may’st be hid
In vain: be sure the Bore will find you out.

Mark how Havana’s sensuous-philtred Mead
Dispels the cackling Hag of Night at Need,
And, foggy-aureoled, the Smoke reveals
The Poppy Flowers that blossom from the Weed.

Come, fill the Pipe, and in the Fire of Spring
The Cuban Leaves upon the Embers fling,
That in its Incense I may sermonize
On Woman’s Ways and all that sort of Thing.

A Grand Piano underneath the Bough,
A Gramophone, a Chinese Gong, and Thou
Trying to sing an Anthem off the Key —
Oh, Paradise were Wilderness enow?

The Fair of Vanity has many a Booth
To sell its spangled Wares of Age and Youth;
And there have I beheld the Wordlings buy
Their Paris Gowns to clothe the Naked Truth.

Look to the Rose who, as I pass her by,
Breathes the fond Attar-musk up to the Sky,
Spreading her silken Blushes — does she know
That I have come to smell and not to Buy?

”Well,” murmured One, ”when in my ashen Shroud
My Stump descends to meet the shrieking Crowd,
I yet may know that in the Fire of Hell
There stands no Placard, ‘Smoking Not Allowed.’”

And while this corvine Clatter still endured
A lambent Flame, by fragrant Promise lured,
Crept in, as all the Inmates cried amain,
“The Shop’s afire and we are Uninsured!”

Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore, but
Was I Smoking when I swore?
And ever and anon I made Resolve
And sealed the holy Pledge — with One Puff More.

O Thou who sought our Fathers to enslave
And ev’n the Pipe to Walter Raleigh gave,
I love you still for your Redeeming Vice
And shower Tobacco Leaves upon your Grave!

Then let the balmed Tobacco be my Sheath,
The ardent Weed above me and beneath,
And let me like a Living Incense rise,
A Fifty-Cent Cigar between my Teeth.

some method of exploitation — rlclauer

McDonald's raised wages, but lessened the workers; I went to one of the newer ones, where they had no cashiers, but did have one person to help people figure out the kiosks and then bring them their food, via a number taken and put on their table. Now the cooks in the back have to be somehow gotten rid of. I could never cook there, with all those beepers going off all the time.

The balance exists because it is relevant to our existence in relation to it. — Possibility

Maybe most the humongous amount of stuff in the universe being so massively produced is made possible by a zero-sum-balance from some tiny base primary stuff/potential, as thought to be with 'inflation', using #1, this bringing other balances into play, too. Seems to be no problem having a zillion tons of stuff around.

One foot in front of the other, so the world goes round and round. — Shamshir

Walking gives more energy than it takes;
It’s as easy as falling forward makes.
Thoughts ‘come clear, cares fade, alertness tingles;
Life’s spirit whispers one along, wide awake.

Reflections of illegitimate power structures which rely on exploitation — rlclauer

Sometimes, as with Rockefeller, Carnegie, and J.P. Morgan in the latter half of the 1800s.

Science has tried in vain for a hundred years to figure this out. — SteveKlinko

True, but probably because the private realm is near impossible to get at from the public realm.

I'm not sure it helps to move the mysterious explanatory gap to another processor with special power, as there is still the gap.

Some have it that the dispositions underlying reality are occasions of experience, yet, our instruments seem to detect waves, as ubiquitous in nature even.

Here's an easy one for you: every event must have a cause. — 3017amen

What about the Fundamental event?

if you can point me towards the research you’re particularly referring to. — Possibility

I don't know, for all I have are some scratchy notes. …

Our rememberings try to describe reality as it really was experienced, but, that sheer essence may elude, although some general outline remains. Then, too, we add to it, subtract from it And reconnect by association to the new. Lo, the subjective metes out our reality; while the objective lies furthest removed.

Perhaps, we may have a memory that returns from a taste of butterscotch from which grandma’s home then arises, and then of connections further becoming. How do some crumbs, here, and of the past waft back as vapours unto our present? Do the senses of smell and taste, yet more fragile and more insubstantial, bear a unique burden of memory, as more enduring and faithful, rising up past the ruins of the rest? Just noting the butterscotch, back then, without its tasting, would not have made the mark.

Everything is connected within the mind, each germ of recollection ballooning into a revelation. Time mutates some ancient pastimes, and so they are not wholly recaptured, and sometimes rather fallible, even altered more by the call to mind, yet they are there. A memory begins as a changing connection between two neurons; the strength of the synapse changes so that the neurons can communicate. Thus, the taste of memory also activates the neurons downstream to do with one’s childhood days. The neurons have been inextricably entwined, yet, too, reconsolidate upon recall.

The memory making process need proteins for the cellular construction of remembrance, yet the life of a protein is but 14 days. And some hippocampal neurons die, and some are born anew, yet some memory seems immutable. Does the mind constantly reincarnate?

Aye, our memories must be made of a material stronger than cells, and must be quite specific as well. While each neuron has but a single nucleus, it has a teeming mass of dendritic branches, connecting to other neurons at dendritic synapses, such as the branches of two trees touching in a forest. So, it is at these tiny crossings that memories are made. Not in the trunk of the neuronal tree, but in its sprawling canopy. What marks a specific branch as a memory? what molecule awaits the taste of butterscotch?

It has to turn on mrna to help make the proteins.

I think this is still consistent with fifth dimensional interaction: the way we access memory demonstrates significance irrespective of time; it isn’t structured chronologically, but rather in relation to hierarchies of value. — Possibility

Hey, yeah, it is; good collaboration!

withering the acids of time’s reflux? — PoeticUniverse

I think the spellchecker changed 'weathering' or 'withstanding' to 'withering' here.

CPEB-3 — Possibility

In the brain, cpeb proteins are sturdy enough to resist time, they being virtually indestructible. Yet, they have plasticity, being free of the genetic substrate, to change their shapes, creating or erasing a memory. When we think, the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine are released by neurons, which switch the cpeb protein into its active state by changing their very structure. The activated cpeb marks a specific dendritic branch as a memory, recruiting the requisite mrna needed to maintain long-term remembrance.

Memory obeys nothing outside of itself; however, prions have an element of randomness built into their structure due to the inscrutable laws of protein folding and stoichiometry, even becoming active for no reason, so, due to unpredictable and unstable prions, we have some essential randomness. Such contingency is just like Proust predicted: the remembrance of things past may not be the exact remembrance of things as they were.

Early Afternoon at the OK Club — Part 1 — The ‘Great Omar’

The lone jewel encrusted ‘Great Omar’,
Now worth over 20 zillion dollars,
Sunk, with the mighty Titanic—
I plucked it up from the North Atlantic.


(Click.)

Amorata Sultana rushes over, and says, “I hear you have the original 'Great Omar Rubaiyat', created by Sangorski and Sutcliff, in 1911, after more than two years of their working on it, with the cost being of no concern.”

“I have it, intact and in perfect condition.”

“That’s impossible; it’s at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“It’s not down there any more; it’s in my cellar somewhere.”

“It would have been soggy and ruined.”

“No, it was fairly dry, but for a hint of dampness, which I cured by by putting it in my microwave oven.”

“You are known for telling tale tales.”

“Yes, but those I make clear as hopes and dreams to be realized in the future. I’ve had the book somewhere, buried in my old book piles, for thirty years.”

“Could you retrieve it for us to put on display?”

“Sure, along with a reproduction that can be freely paged through; I don’t want the original to be touched any more, beyond that which I had to do to take photos of the pages, from which I later also made a video.”

“Today is not April Fool’s Day, Austin.”

“Which is why I relate this on a non obvious day.”

“Aha, you don’t really have it!”

“Oh, I do; I’m just building up the suspense.”

“OK, then tell me about it.”

“Here is a sort of poetic description of it.”

 The Find of the ‘Great Omar’ Rubáiyát

(It’s presently lost again, in my basement lair,
But I know it’s down there, somewhere,
For I scanned some images from it there.)

The book has 1,051 semiprecious stones,
Set in 18-carat gold, many in the cover alone,
5,000 separate pieces of collared leathers,
And 100 square feet of 22-carat feathered
Gold leaf in the tooling and the edges weathered.

It had been purchased by a Jewish investor
In New York City, over a century ago, and more.

It went down, down, the sounds whirling around,
When the ice broke through the Titanic’s crown.

Vivid illustrations by Elihu Vedder’s artistry
Adorn the passages of metaphysical poetry,
But the most compelling aspect of the book
Is its ornate binding—two years it took.

It is bound in morocco leather fine
And inlaid with a peacock design,
Beneath elaborate arches, exotically
Engulfed by a flowing grape vine tree.

Its cover is implanted with precious stones,
Including rubies, garnets, topaz, and amethysts,
And emeralds, each stone set in 18-carat gold.

It is a magnificent masterpiece of its kind,
With three peacocks in the heart of its bind,
Surrounded by vine sprays, a snake in an apple tree,
Roses and poppies, with the whole worked within
In leather and jewels, amid the verse pearls’ wisdom.

250 amethysts form the bunches of grapes,
And the decorative ground is pure gold scape.

Down it went, into the black, watery abysm,
Resting in the oak casket of its prison.

The specters of death and life’s impermanence
Permeate Omar’s quatrains, which themes thence
Are reflected in the tooling of the jeweled Rubaiyat,
Carried out by the firm of Sangorski and Sutcliffe.

The front cover features a resplendent peacock motif,
While the inside back cover centralizes the bony skull.

Unlike the vaunted dead aboard the Titanic,
The name of the great book lives on and on.

Phoenix-like, the glorious peacock spreads
His lustrous plumage through the years,
In further irony and emulation of Khayyam.

The ‘Great Omar’ jewel-encrusted edition
Of the Rubaiyat needed three renditions:
The first one went deep in the Atlantic,
And the second was destroyed in the Blitz.

Stanley Bray salvaged the precious jewels
From the WW II bombed out bank vault,
And by 1985 had made a third one,
Which remains safe in the British Library.

That the first ‘Great Omar’ Rubaiyat
Had gone down with the Titanic
And the second one burned is all to do with
The transience of human existence.

Down, down, its spell was treasured for us alone.

My uncle was finishing up on a Titanic Deep Sea
Documentary, in 1987, and so had invited me
To the site, after principal photography
And filming had been wrapped completely.

We sent the robot probe down for one last peep,
On a special mission, into the depths of the deep,
Where the veiled lightning slept, in its lonely keep.

We viewed the wreck remotely, on a monitor;
We saw death and decay sleeping everywhere.

The probe entered a gaping hole in the hull,
And we directed it toward the specie room,
The place reserved for the more expensive,
Secret, or official parcels crossing the Atlantic.

Down, down,
We are the bright forms beside thee.
We illuminate thy quest.

The probe’s beam lit the way as we guided it
By referring to a map of the mighty ship.

Down, down, as the moth flies into the flame.

In time, we found the secure metal box, #14,
And grabbed it with the probe’s robot arm,
Then carefully backed out the hearty probe
Though the ship and on up to the surface.

The box was water tight, rust sealing it the more.
We cut through the lid, and there it brightly shone;
We had the original of the ‘Great Omar’.

Perhaps there was some extended discussion
Of literary treasures at dinner on the Titanic
On the fateful Sunday night of April 14, 1912,
Which sumptuous feast was hosted by the Widners,

For Captain Smith was there, and a few more,
Alongside the bibliophile, Harry Wilkins Widner,
Who was bringing home many a festive jewel
To festoon his already impressive collection.

The ocean liner had sunk like a stone in the dark,
After the iceberg had sliced all of its compartments,
Rousing the world to the nature of this fragile life.

Down, down, as the bottom draws the stone,
Where death reigns over all that is known.
…

Khayyam was born of humble origins;
His surname means ‘tentmaker’,
But he rose to a life of study,
Under the benevolence of the Sultan
In what is present-day Iran.

Omar Khayyam went down in 1123,
And with him went a gifted philosopher,
Mathematician, celestial observer, and poet.

The ‘Great Omar’ Rubáiyát Publisher’s Gem

These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
Each softly lucent as a rounded moon;
The diver Omar picked them from their bed,
Fitzgerald strung them on an English thread.

The 'Great Omar Rubaiyat' book: