Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Sinister Morning
At 4am, just before bed, I entered a morning perhaps sinister, though not gloomy, perhaps menacing, though not sad. After a day of relative ease, I decided to end with a cigarette and mug of Brazilian evening tea. Unexpected, however, was the fog laden morning I soon found before me. The streetlights glowed yellow and the trees, though expectant of Spring, knew leaves not yet; instead their branches jutted bare like broken swords, unfriendly and austere. But the morning was undecided, and knew not whether to emerge evil or amicable. In partnership with the darker elements it did proffer, were the morning birds and their sweet chirp. At first sparse, their sounds left me only wanting more; and as my desire fulfilled, the morning and I grew more in accord. At last its visage showed nothing worse than mystery, not any hidden threat; and as I dragged the cigarette I rolled, then expelled my contribution to the early fog, a sense of wonder grew within me. My thoughts roamed to ancient man in my position, amid the fog but less knowing. Would it be fearful to him? Without modern images, what is a densely fogged night? Is it the mantle of some goddess, or the oily smoke of war? I knew not. My cigarette was done now, ready for tea was I; and happy to find its temperature somewhat slaked by chilling mist, which now surrounded on all sides, my first warming gulp took I. Before me I spotted wet accumulations, water gathered just to fall, too weak to bear its weight; and across the way, objects earlier plain to see had been pulled with greed into the mist. This revealed something new. Perhaps the fog was not so friendly; it would not maul or bite at once, but one should not recline in ease amidst it. And the birds -- their chirping was now everywhere -- but was it calling in the sun? or were the creatures not themselves? Things trembled in the grass unseen. The birds, it's possible, were diseased. Their hearts had blackened, and together they conspired. This morning, after all, was cruel and hungry, and the birds its siren call.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Some Thoughts on a Potentially Immaterial Piece of Mind
As a consequence of the apparant mechanical nature of the human mind, consciousness and its adjunct mental processes must work by the manipulation and storage of patterns. The use and effects of patterns in this manner are not unfamiliar to scientists and engineers; they've been building pattern manipulators for many years (e.g. computers). And during this time, it has always been plain that the nature of the machine's operation resides in the patterns themselves, rather than in the material used to represent them. Indeed, there were certainly theories of pattern manipulators before a material to build them with was selected; and the choice of materials has changed over the years to meet our requirements for efficiency, and it continues to change.
This suggests that a scheme for replicating our minds in different materials is possible -- and there has been much writing related to this idea during the past two decades (perhaps especially due to Ray Kurzweil). We know that our minds function as they do because of their ability to store and modify patterns; how could this ability be altered by changing the underlying mechanism from neurons to transistors? Well, it seems that it might be made more efficient and durable; aside from that, it shouldn't make one bit of difference.
Subsequent to my learning of them, and prior to my thinking which produced this essay, I had yet to doubt the possibility of a transfer of this sort; its plausibility seemed necessary. I still do believe them to be possible even, but with a certain important limitation now. I believe minds can be transferred, but I also believe something could be lost.
Imagine a variation on the substrate transfer theme: imagine sitting isolated within a small cube with plain blue walls and even lighting, awaiting your complete duplication: bones, blood, viscera, memories, habits, fears, moods, moles, scars, chromosomes, bacteria -- everything -- copied from yourself to an identical form, with consummate fidelity, two meters left in a cerulean womb a lot like your cube.
Would the creation of this duplicate have any effect on you? Would that part of you that's consistent throughout your life, which is often termed 'self' or 'soul' indiscriminately, be multiplied? If you were killed off at this point, would 'you' persist in the next blue cube over? You may not, though this is essentially what is suggested as possible in mind transfers. Something could be lost. Maybe we can make new, even enhanced, consciousnesses -- but we can't transfer ourselves without risk of losing something.
This seems to suggest that some part of our being may be non-material. Consciousness, i.e. self-awareness, emotion, creativity -- none of these are difficult to conceive of as having a material basis; perception at the final level, however, that's difficult. Perception at this level is useless in our materiel existence, it serves no purpose. Every last detail of human, or animal, functioning makes sense without it; and if it were taken away, no one would ever know the difference. Even now, we don't know whether it's there or not; but it feels like it is, and the chance of losing it is a very high stake.
The conundrum of the final observer arises from the following: our minds are pattern manipulators whose state at any given time is the product of internal self-modifying processes and external sensory input. It's likely that a self-monitoring system, which we call consciousness, sits atop the remaining unconscious mental hardware for the purpose of monitoring an enormous array of variables representing select aspects of the unconscious mind. The values of these variables are interpreted by consciousness and responses are fed back into the unconscious. The unconscious mind is tied into the nervous system which exerts influence on the 'physical' body (it is, of course, all physical); and through the interaction of the physical body with the environment, data is sent back to the nervous system, back to the unconscious mental components, and back to consciousness. It's an endless interactive cycle resembling: environment, body, mind, consciousness, mind, body, environment. At the level of consciousness, the pinnacle of the cycle, all of the data for the rich experiences we have do exist; the problem is, there's nothing to interpret the data at this level; indeed, you face the problem of an infinite regress and must introduce the non-material in order to have meaning.
Data is meaningless without something to interpret it. This is made clear in computing systems: meaningless binary sequences are stored in memory and are given meaning when an interpretation for them is provided. An example: 0101 is stored in memory. A piece of software can treat this as whatever it chooses: if we want it to represent a numeric value, then it would be a decimal 5; if we want it to map to a standard set of alphanumeric characters which start with "A" at zero, then it could be the letter "F"; or if we want it to represent a simple image, then it could be a four pixel image with alternating white and black pixels.
However, the computer has still not provided anything intrinsically meaningful: it has provided an interpretation that truly does affect the physical world, but another level of interpretation is required for the data to become more to us than an arbitrary arrangement of atoms. Take the case of the bit string interpreted as an on-screen image: when your eyes catch the photons from the screen, your mind has to organize the signals from your photon receptors into something meaningful to itself. Of course it does do this, and then consciousness picks up on it, reacts, and feeds the interpretation back to other parts of mind -- and at this point we're satisfied with calling the interaction meaningful. But that is all that we can tell happens; the mind just keeps reading data, modifying itself, and feeding data elsewhere.
So, does the final, meaningful interpretation happen at all? The question has well disguised depths; it provokes facile and specious responses; and the glowing, recondite heart of it is that we would react as if it did in spite of the truth. A complex self-monitoring system would have the illusion of a meaningful interpretation of its own data. And, were it to exist, anything fulfilling the role of the self, soul, final interpreter/observer, or whatever you'd like to call it, would necessarily reside someplace beyond material existence, leaving it forever beyond our definite discovery.
Maybe then there is nothing we stand to lose. Certainly we have no reason to assume there is, and it is very unclear what it could be. Still, the above duplication scenario evokes some discomfort in myself, and reminds me that there is potentially a non-material part of mind.
Progress the scenario to a few seconds after the duplication. One of the staff of the experiment approach the cube containing the clone, open it, and issue a first question to its occupant: "How do you feel?"
"Well I feel fine, of course; have you spoken to the clone yet?"
This suggests that a scheme for replicating our minds in different materials is possible -- and there has been much writing related to this idea during the past two decades (perhaps especially due to Ray Kurzweil). We know that our minds function as they do because of their ability to store and modify patterns; how could this ability be altered by changing the underlying mechanism from neurons to transistors? Well, it seems that it might be made more efficient and durable; aside from that, it shouldn't make one bit of difference.
Subsequent to my learning of them, and prior to my thinking which produced this essay, I had yet to doubt the possibility of a transfer of this sort; its plausibility seemed necessary. I still do believe them to be possible even, but with a certain important limitation now. I believe minds can be transferred, but I also believe something could be lost.
Imagine a variation on the substrate transfer theme: imagine sitting isolated within a small cube with plain blue walls and even lighting, awaiting your complete duplication: bones, blood, viscera, memories, habits, fears, moods, moles, scars, chromosomes, bacteria -- everything -- copied from yourself to an identical form, with consummate fidelity, two meters left in a cerulean womb a lot like your cube.
Would the creation of this duplicate have any effect on you? Would that part of you that's consistent throughout your life, which is often termed 'self' or 'soul' indiscriminately, be multiplied? If you were killed off at this point, would 'you' persist in the next blue cube over? You may not, though this is essentially what is suggested as possible in mind transfers. Something could be lost. Maybe we can make new, even enhanced, consciousnesses -- but we can't transfer ourselves without risk of losing something.
This seems to suggest that some part of our being may be non-material. Consciousness, i.e. self-awareness, emotion, creativity -- none of these are difficult to conceive of as having a material basis; perception at the final level, however, that's difficult. Perception at this level is useless in our materiel existence, it serves no purpose. Every last detail of human, or animal, functioning makes sense without it; and if it were taken away, no one would ever know the difference. Even now, we don't know whether it's there or not; but it feels like it is, and the chance of losing it is a very high stake.
The conundrum of the final observer arises from the following: our minds are pattern manipulators whose state at any given time is the product of internal self-modifying processes and external sensory input. It's likely that a self-monitoring system, which we call consciousness, sits atop the remaining unconscious mental hardware for the purpose of monitoring an enormous array of variables representing select aspects of the unconscious mind. The values of these variables are interpreted by consciousness and responses are fed back into the unconscious. The unconscious mind is tied into the nervous system which exerts influence on the 'physical' body (it is, of course, all physical); and through the interaction of the physical body with the environment, data is sent back to the nervous system, back to the unconscious mental components, and back to consciousness. It's an endless interactive cycle resembling: environment, body, mind, consciousness, mind, body, environment. At the level of consciousness, the pinnacle of the cycle, all of the data for the rich experiences we have do exist; the problem is, there's nothing to interpret the data at this level; indeed, you face the problem of an infinite regress and must introduce the non-material in order to have meaning.
Data is meaningless without something to interpret it. This is made clear in computing systems: meaningless binary sequences are stored in memory and are given meaning when an interpretation for them is provided. An example: 0101 is stored in memory. A piece of software can treat this as whatever it chooses: if we want it to represent a numeric value, then it would be a decimal 5; if we want it to map to a standard set of alphanumeric characters which start with "A" at zero, then it could be the letter "F"; or if we want it to represent a simple image, then it could be a four pixel image with alternating white and black pixels.
However, the computer has still not provided anything intrinsically meaningful: it has provided an interpretation that truly does affect the physical world, but another level of interpretation is required for the data to become more to us than an arbitrary arrangement of atoms. Take the case of the bit string interpreted as an on-screen image: when your eyes catch the photons from the screen, your mind has to organize the signals from your photon receptors into something meaningful to itself. Of course it does do this, and then consciousness picks up on it, reacts, and feeds the interpretation back to other parts of mind -- and at this point we're satisfied with calling the interaction meaningful. But that is all that we can tell happens; the mind just keeps reading data, modifying itself, and feeding data elsewhere.
So, does the final, meaningful interpretation happen at all? The question has well disguised depths; it provokes facile and specious responses; and the glowing, recondite heart of it is that we would react as if it did in spite of the truth. A complex self-monitoring system would have the illusion of a meaningful interpretation of its own data. And, were it to exist, anything fulfilling the role of the self, soul, final interpreter/observer, or whatever you'd like to call it, would necessarily reside someplace beyond material existence, leaving it forever beyond our definite discovery.
Maybe then there is nothing we stand to lose. Certainly we have no reason to assume there is, and it is very unclear what it could be. Still, the above duplication scenario evokes some discomfort in myself, and reminds me that there is potentially a non-material part of mind.
Progress the scenario to a few seconds after the duplication. One of the staff of the experiment approach the cube containing the clone, open it, and issue a first question to its occupant: "How do you feel?"
"Well I feel fine, of course; have you spoken to the clone yet?"
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cereal thoughts
I had an idea to write some sentences while eating cereal lately. However, they would sense less make. Variety in means and increasing dosages, also. Still, tangent. And syntax violates, diction misinformed, tenses having obtrude. Which, were it as, defines -- no, contradicts, thence; but continue. And, so, tyrannied, nonplussery, sequence. Garble-goble.gourmet;sprocketedrelief. CoN;we,ro.ir"P).####****____
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Beer-Pong through College-Colored Glasses
It is the noblest tradition among those entering the latter years of education to undertake a pilgrimage in quest of knowledge divine and extracurricular. These pilgrimages are said to be fraught with peril, and often end in shame; but to those sturdy enough to complete the journey to frat house, their neighbor's up the street, or perhaps even their own living room, questions may be asked of sage Players older and wiser than themselves: "What is Beer-Pong? Whence does it come? By what codes and precepts do its participants abide? Can I just sit out this first round and watch?" And if the proselyte presents himself with obsequious, trembling humility, answers may be given.
"Beer-pong is the Eternal Game; the game of our roommates and of their roommates before them; the passage from innocence and youth into manhood; and the substance of life. Its origin is unknown, lost to the chaotic drunk that its own creation birthed. It's rules are lewd, numerous, and relative. And you have no choice but to sit out and watch the first round; you aren't even on the list."
As the initiate takes his place as spectator, waiting the interminable duration to his virgin game, he will see and hear many things unknown to him. He is as a nestling watching its mother fly for its first time. He observes acts that are unexplainable and imagines sensations beyond his experience, all with the growing excitement that he, too, will soon become part of this fantastic alien world. He sees giants of unmatched proportions bearing the weight of monstrous distended bellies, flinging, with the utmost delicacy, opal spiraling spheres. He sees steezy sunglassed playboys swaying like the leafy branches of spring, stumbling and recovering, casting and scoring. The mystery of how one so intoxicated could act with such precision will stay with him, and in shroud, for the next half hour or so. He listens to the powerful intellects in the crowd shout recommendations for re-racks, respectfully deliberate over progressive legislation, and muse over the more philosophic aspects of The Game. Should the cups be arranged with consideration given to horizontal and vertical alignments, or does valency reign supreme? Without a spokesman for the household present, what rules should be established as defaults for in-cup ball retrieval? Does the purity of one's water cup truly reflect the compassion of one's soul?
The powerful impression of myriad new sites and ideas weigh heavily on the initiate, and he is encouraged to drink of Economy's golden nectar. First he makes libations to the owner of the house and parsimonious supplier of beer; the remainder is drank personally and induces him to frown the Frown of Economy's Golden Nectar. His cheeks flush, and his cup is found wanting.
Finally his turn is called and he may take his place at the stately game table; the table which is gilt with hardened Venetian leather, heavily embroidered with gold; whose surface is responsive, glistening, and redolent of countless prior games. There is an inscription in the center inlaid in a glowing argent fire:
Though Beer-Pong be a game
Beer-Pong be that what shall remain
The initiate's partner brushes against him with damp and fashionable raiment, entreating him to play with the dignity of a warrior and to not, "fuck up." Unbeknown to him, his opponents are the peerless "Clarence" whose birth was the accident of the passion of a 14 game winning streak consummated in 1985, and the redoubtable "Floyd, bulwark of The South" who himself is now in the midst of a 14 game winning streak. The outcome is set; his fate is sealed with the promise of much more to drink.
Though his first game has been lost, the initiate is not dismayed; he knows something of Beer-Pong now and sees that it is like life with its changing seasons, victories and losses, joys and sorrows. Whichever way the evening goes, the initiate has taken his first steps to becoming a man, he has tasted of the best life has to offer, and he will surely suffer a formidable hangover come morning. His story is the story of all men throughout the ages who have ascended to the exalted peaks of human knowledge, and who from this eminent platform have truly progressed the vanguard of human experience. His story is eternal and yet timeless; it is the story we all live and learn from. His story, is the story of Beer-Pong.
"Beer-pong is the Eternal Game; the game of our roommates and of their roommates before them; the passage from innocence and youth into manhood; and the substance of life. Its origin is unknown, lost to the chaotic drunk that its own creation birthed. It's rules are lewd, numerous, and relative. And you have no choice but to sit out and watch the first round; you aren't even on the list."
As the initiate takes his place as spectator, waiting the interminable duration to his virgin game, he will see and hear many things unknown to him. He is as a nestling watching its mother fly for its first time. He observes acts that are unexplainable and imagines sensations beyond his experience, all with the growing excitement that he, too, will soon become part of this fantastic alien world. He sees giants of unmatched proportions bearing the weight of monstrous distended bellies, flinging, with the utmost delicacy, opal spiraling spheres. He sees steezy sunglassed playboys swaying like the leafy branches of spring, stumbling and recovering, casting and scoring. The mystery of how one so intoxicated could act with such precision will stay with him, and in shroud, for the next half hour or so. He listens to the powerful intellects in the crowd shout recommendations for re-racks, respectfully deliberate over progressive legislation, and muse over the more philosophic aspects of The Game. Should the cups be arranged with consideration given to horizontal and vertical alignments, or does valency reign supreme? Without a spokesman for the household present, what rules should be established as defaults for in-cup ball retrieval? Does the purity of one's water cup truly reflect the compassion of one's soul?
The powerful impression of myriad new sites and ideas weigh heavily on the initiate, and he is encouraged to drink of Economy's golden nectar. First he makes libations to the owner of the house and parsimonious supplier of beer; the remainder is drank personally and induces him to frown the Frown of Economy's Golden Nectar. His cheeks flush, and his cup is found wanting.
Finally his turn is called and he may take his place at the stately game table; the table which is gilt with hardened Venetian leather, heavily embroidered with gold; whose surface is responsive, glistening, and redolent of countless prior games. There is an inscription in the center inlaid in a glowing argent fire:
Though Beer-Pong be a game
Beer-Pong be that what shall remain
The initiate's partner brushes against him with damp and fashionable raiment, entreating him to play with the dignity of a warrior and to not, "fuck up." Unbeknown to him, his opponents are the peerless "Clarence" whose birth was the accident of the passion of a 14 game winning streak consummated in 1985, and the redoubtable "Floyd, bulwark of The South" who himself is now in the midst of a 14 game winning streak. The outcome is set; his fate is sealed with the promise of much more to drink.
Though his first game has been lost, the initiate is not dismayed; he knows something of Beer-Pong now and sees that it is like life with its changing seasons, victories and losses, joys and sorrows. Whichever way the evening goes, the initiate has taken his first steps to becoming a man, he has tasted of the best life has to offer, and he will surely suffer a formidable hangover come morning. His story is the story of all men throughout the ages who have ascended to the exalted peaks of human knowledge, and who from this eminent platform have truly progressed the vanguard of human experience. His story is eternal and yet timeless; it is the story we all live and learn from. His story, is the story of Beer-Pong.
Mechanistic Beauty Via Conversation
[Wherein two eccentric old friends drink whiskey and talk about serious matters under the stars.]
Cannon: "By Jove's sable brow! Didst thou just drink all thy whiskey?"
*Cadwalader's face is contorted in a manner that suggests "yes", but he is unable to reply. Moments later, he sets his countenance straight and clears his throat.*
Cadwalader: "Yes. Unfortunately I had no choice: I know of nothing better to combat those vile change-of-season pathogens."
Cannon: "I see..."
*pause*
Cadwalader: "Anyway.. You were asking me something just before?"
Cannon: "Right. I had meant to ask: do you not think that by taking a purely mechanistic, physicalist view of reality that you limit your own ability to perceive its beauty? And more than that, disregarding how things actually are, and stepping beyond the bounds of your own beliefs, do you hold that the belief would be benevolent, generally applied?"
*Cadwalader lets his head drop near his knees to better consider the proposed question. After a moment of deliberation in this position, he raises his head and begins rubbing his bristled chin, checking a few final details for consistency.*
Cadwalader: "I think it is a powerful view... It has great potential; but it may be misapplied, misinterpreted, and simply incomprehensible for some I'd imagine. Or.. at least they wouldn't be willing to put the work into comprehending it. I say this because to fully understand it requires a reasonable amount of imaginative effort -- not to invent something about reality, mind you, but to understand something about it that is invisible to human minds and eyes."
Cannon: "Well, that's rather vague isn't it?"
*Cadwallader laughs a moment and then thinks silently for another before continuing.*
Cadwalader: "This is where the viewpoint's problems begin: the beauty it has the potential to reveal is everywhere within it; and yet, just as atoms are everywhere and invisible, so to might this beauty be. Both atoms and the beauty in physicalism are at first transparent because of limitations inherent in humans for dealing with: the extremely small, in the case of atoms, and the extremely numerous, in the case of physicalism -- which will require some explanation. However, just as we were able to find an indirect route to atoms in physical reality, an indirect route to beauty in physicalism may be walked."
Cannon: "Why though? Why put effort into 'locating the beauty'? Isn't it a sign that we're on the wrong track if we have to strain to see it?"
*Cadwalader smiles*
Cadwalader: "Not at all. This is an easy mistake to make; one of the many pitfalls along the way to a safe comprehension of physicalism. Just because we have to put effort into seeing the beauty initially does not mean its radiance will be dimmed once spotted; you won't be perceiving beauty through squinted eyes, you'll just have to furrow your brow in the effort to reach it. This is done beforehand. You're still free to relax and enjoy yourself at other times; in fact, it's encouraged.
The other reason you should bother is because it's useful and gratifying to know the truth. Physicalism is an accessory viewpoint automatically installed when a mind is furnished with man's most current knowledge of the universe. And while this knowledge expands, bits will be revised and scientists will work in changing paradigms; but you can be certain enough that we won't ever take back the universe's deterministic nature (despite what that daft pseudo-scientist who misinterprets quantum theory for you might say); this is all that physicalism requires."
*Cannon takes it all in while contemplating star-ward, then turns back to Cadwalader.*
Cannon: "Okay then, how is the beauty located? As far as I can determine, physicalism sounds dull and plain, uninspiring and.. mundane. I can surmise no redeeming qualities which it might posses in the way of enjoyability."
*Cadwalader acknowledges with a nod.*
Cadwalader: "Well, the first obstacle you have to overcome has to do with comprehending large numbers. When people see numbers like 10 to the 42nd power, the only thoughts they can have regarding it are along the lines of: that's a damn lot! But what's important is how damn much it really is.
As humans evolved, they were not required to deal with quantities in that range; we are still without the capacity to proceed otherwise, directly. The national debt is incomprehensible, the number of sand-grains on a beach is more incomprehensible, the number of atoms in your thumb is far more incomprehensible. Once you understand how greatly concentrated the units of matter in the universe are, try for a grasp of how large and complicated the universe is.
Take a moment and try to visualize each step: the lot which your high school and all of its grounds rested on was a great deal less than a single square kilometer; the surface area of the Earth is over 500 million square kilometers. The sun we revolve around is millions of times larger than our Earth. The observable universe contains more than 50 billion trillion stars organized into more than 80 billion galaxies. Now, think about how many atoms must be in the universe.
This is such a hugely, extravagantly, vast number of interacting parts that I can conceive no limitations of beauty and wonder afforded to the system containing them. Not only that, but the unsurpassed elegance and genius of the laws of physics which define how the parts interact, giving rise to all of the coordinated grandeur of stars, planets, DNA and life, rather than to chaos, is more worthy of reverence than anything else known to me.
This is the compass of the physicalist viewpoint, this is what it allows for. I have no doubt in my mind that a system with this level of complexity could give rise to perceived emotions as rich as the most profound love or diabolical, raging hatred; to our most awe-inspiring works of art in music, architecture, painting, poetry; to entities which can be moved by them as we are; and finally, to delicate flowers, gurgling streams, epic sun sets, and all of the rest of natural world.
Once you realize the full import of these statements, you can feel free to discard them. Perceiving beauty has nothing to do with whether you believe in god or atoms; it has a lot to do with observation unclouded by thought. Not just visual beauty either, beauty of the moment, as I like to call it. This is something that can be found when you tune into sounds, smells, appearance, temperature -- in short, everything around you -- without thinking anything about it, just appreciating and waiting for more. All that's required to perceive beauty with physicalism is to remove the obstruction which a false impression of it may leave you with.
*Cannon is silent for a moment.*
Cannon: "I'll have to think about it."
*Cadwalader smiles again.*
Cannon: "By Jove's sable brow! Didst thou just drink all thy whiskey?"
*Cadwalader's face is contorted in a manner that suggests "yes", but he is unable to reply. Moments later, he sets his countenance straight and clears his throat.*
Cadwalader: "Yes. Unfortunately I had no choice: I know of nothing better to combat those vile change-of-season pathogens."
Cannon: "I see..."
*pause*
Cadwalader: "Anyway.. You were asking me something just before?"
Cannon: "Right. I had meant to ask: do you not think that by taking a purely mechanistic, physicalist view of reality that you limit your own ability to perceive its beauty? And more than that, disregarding how things actually are, and stepping beyond the bounds of your own beliefs, do you hold that the belief would be benevolent, generally applied?"
*Cadwalader lets his head drop near his knees to better consider the proposed question. After a moment of deliberation in this position, he raises his head and begins rubbing his bristled chin, checking a few final details for consistency.*
Cadwalader: "I think it is a powerful view... It has great potential; but it may be misapplied, misinterpreted, and simply incomprehensible for some I'd imagine. Or.. at least they wouldn't be willing to put the work into comprehending it. I say this because to fully understand it requires a reasonable amount of imaginative effort -- not to invent something about reality, mind you, but to understand something about it that is invisible to human minds and eyes."
Cannon: "Well, that's rather vague isn't it?"
*Cadwallader laughs a moment and then thinks silently for another before continuing.*
Cadwalader: "This is where the viewpoint's problems begin: the beauty it has the potential to reveal is everywhere within it; and yet, just as atoms are everywhere and invisible, so to might this beauty be. Both atoms and the beauty in physicalism are at first transparent because of limitations inherent in humans for dealing with: the extremely small, in the case of atoms, and the extremely numerous, in the case of physicalism -- which will require some explanation. However, just as we were able to find an indirect route to atoms in physical reality, an indirect route to beauty in physicalism may be walked."
Cannon: "Why though? Why put effort into 'locating the beauty'? Isn't it a sign that we're on the wrong track if we have to strain to see it?"
*Cadwalader smiles*
Cadwalader: "Not at all. This is an easy mistake to make; one of the many pitfalls along the way to a safe comprehension of physicalism. Just because we have to put effort into seeing the beauty initially does not mean its radiance will be dimmed once spotted; you won't be perceiving beauty through squinted eyes, you'll just have to furrow your brow in the effort to reach it. This is done beforehand. You're still free to relax and enjoy yourself at other times; in fact, it's encouraged.
The other reason you should bother is because it's useful and gratifying to know the truth. Physicalism is an accessory viewpoint automatically installed when a mind is furnished with man's most current knowledge of the universe. And while this knowledge expands, bits will be revised and scientists will work in changing paradigms; but you can be certain enough that we won't ever take back the universe's deterministic nature (despite what that daft pseudo-scientist who misinterprets quantum theory for you might say); this is all that physicalism requires."
*Cannon takes it all in while contemplating star-ward, then turns back to Cadwalader.*
Cannon: "Okay then, how is the beauty located? As far as I can determine, physicalism sounds dull and plain, uninspiring and.. mundane. I can surmise no redeeming qualities which it might posses in the way of enjoyability."
*Cadwalader acknowledges with a nod.*
Cadwalader: "Well, the first obstacle you have to overcome has to do with comprehending large numbers. When people see numbers like 10 to the 42nd power, the only thoughts they can have regarding it are along the lines of: that's a damn lot! But what's important is how damn much it really is.
As humans evolved, they were not required to deal with quantities in that range; we are still without the capacity to proceed otherwise, directly. The national debt is incomprehensible, the number of sand-grains on a beach is more incomprehensible, the number of atoms in your thumb is far more incomprehensible. Once you understand how greatly concentrated the units of matter in the universe are, try for a grasp of how large and complicated the universe is.
Take a moment and try to visualize each step: the lot which your high school and all of its grounds rested on was a great deal less than a single square kilometer; the surface area of the Earth is over 500 million square kilometers. The sun we revolve around is millions of times larger than our Earth. The observable universe contains more than 50 billion trillion stars organized into more than 80 billion galaxies. Now, think about how many atoms must be in the universe.
This is such a hugely, extravagantly, vast number of interacting parts that I can conceive no limitations of beauty and wonder afforded to the system containing them. Not only that, but the unsurpassed elegance and genius of the laws of physics which define how the parts interact, giving rise to all of the coordinated grandeur of stars, planets, DNA and life, rather than to chaos, is more worthy of reverence than anything else known to me.
This is the compass of the physicalist viewpoint, this is what it allows for. I have no doubt in my mind that a system with this level of complexity could give rise to perceived emotions as rich as the most profound love or diabolical, raging hatred; to our most awe-inspiring works of art in music, architecture, painting, poetry; to entities which can be moved by them as we are; and finally, to delicate flowers, gurgling streams, epic sun sets, and all of the rest of natural world.
Once you realize the full import of these statements, you can feel free to discard them. Perceiving beauty has nothing to do with whether you believe in god or atoms; it has a lot to do with observation unclouded by thought. Not just visual beauty either, beauty of the moment, as I like to call it. This is something that can be found when you tune into sounds, smells, appearance, temperature -- in short, everything around you -- without thinking anything about it, just appreciating and waiting for more. All that's required to perceive beauty with physicalism is to remove the obstruction which a false impression of it may leave you with.
*Cannon is silent for a moment.*
Cannon: "I'll have to think about it."
*Cadwalader smiles again.*
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