sdi

I'm pretty slow, but I think I finally realized why consciousness is likened to light. Empedocles says,

We see Earth by Earth, Water by Water,
Aither by divine Aither, Fire by destructive Fire,
Love by Love, and Strife by baneful Strife.

This implies that Empedocles, like Plotinus, assumes that one has a body composed of each and one's experience is mediated by each body. But Fire is sharp and pierces more-or-less easily through the other roots, and so:

• When you have an air body, a water body, and an earth body, light passes through the first two and impacts on the third, which is why you experience having an earth body.

• When you only have an air body and a water body, light passes through the first and impacts on the second (having nothing further to impact upon), which is why you experience having a water body.

• When you only have an air body, light impacts on it (having nothing further to impact upon), which is why you experience having an air body.

That is, light travels as far from Fire as it can, reflecting or scattering itself on whatever is furthest away from it, and it is the reflection or scattering which finally returns to Fire itself that we finally experience.

I have this vague idea that every civilization, unless it is somehow terminated early (by war or famine or whatever), develops to the same level of sophistication in understanding the universe before it fails. For example, the Egyptians somehow knew how to measure the distances to stars (the Nabta Playa complex allegedly does so to great accuracy) and, of course, were capable of engineering feats that leave us in awe even today; while Greeks knew about such things as special relativity and chaos theory (Plotinus discusses both); but neither got much further than that before they failed. Obviously, I suspect our fate will be similar.

But what is especially interesting to me is that each civilization uses different tools to do so, and it seems that all the other things we think of as central to that culture stem from this. The Egyptians may have well used magic, the Greeks used dialectic, and we use science. By this I assume that the Egyptians had a Saturnine angel; the Greeks, a Solar angel; and we, of course, have a Mercurial angel. But consider the ramifications: the Egyptians took a very long time to get there, but had tremendous cultural longevity (and their solid-as-a-rock monuments persist even today); the Greeks got there very efficiently, needing little resources to do it (and produced remarkable beauty which is still imitated today); we have produced little cultural value of our own, rather favoring to steal from others (and have needed a massive population, massive industrial base, and massive communication and travel in order to accomplish what we have).

Thus, I do not think that the destruction of the environment and the ransacking of the world's peoples is an accident: it is the necessary byproduct of the designs of the Western cultural angel. One must suppose that there is a good (and a Good) reason for it, and trust in Providence.

The Neoplatonists assume levels of ontological causation as a matter of course: matter, which we see, must be animated by a higher soul; soul, in turn, must be caused by a higher being; being, in turn, must be given wholeness by a higher unity. This means that, in their model, the world is divided into various levels of being depending on these qualities.

The Neoplatonists also assume that the best things are those that are closest to the One, which is to say, have the fewest causes. The worst things are those that are furthest from the One, which is to say, have the most causes. While some things are better than others, nothing is considered "evil" in the absolute sense: evil is considered to be more like "darkness," an absence of good rather than the presence of anything bad.

Human existence, being in the sensible world, is often equated with evil. But while humans are indeed pretty horrible, I can't imagine that we are any more or less horrible than animals, existing as we do at the same level of ontological causation. Therefore, I suppose most of our misery comes from another source, and these things must be things below us in the ontological hierarchy. But what could be below us?

Well, the things we are the ontological causes of. That is to say, the things we create. I am speaking here of things that require our continual input of effort, of energy, of belief to persist: things which do not have a physical basis, but only a social one. The embodiment of such things is ephemeral, as we must lend them our minds for them to exist. But because these things only really exist in our collective imagination, we are their connection to the divine, and thus these phantasms are further from the One than we are and partake in less light than we do.

What kinds of things have this property? AI is all the rage these days, and sure, that's one thing, but let us not forget those more traditional fictions: corporations, governments, organizations and social movements generally (including religions!), methodologies (like "science" or even my beloved "mathematics"), and even such "neutral" constructs as money. These are things that have no real, physical existence: they only exist insofar as we imbue them with belief. When that belief is withdrawn, watch how quickly the phantasms fade! And fade they do: I wonder if granting human rights to corporations—explicitly "subhuman" entities—is what numbered our society's days. Certainly it drained a lot of the good that could have been out of it!

I think it is dangerous to consider these fake things to be more real than they are, and this is why the Cynics took a stance of withdrawing from society in an effort to demonstrate it. I call these things "subhuman"—I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call them "demonic," since, as I said, the model doesn't consider things "evil," merely less good—but it is at least clearly the case that you can't go up by looking down.

I would urge spiritual people not to place their faith in any "subhuman" entities, as these will not lead you towards divinity, but rather away from it. Follow the guidance and example of angels, and everything else will fall into place.

What happens when the impossible is finally achieved and we become light? Does time ultimately slow to a stop? To naturalists in 1911, Einstein remarked that what to us might be centuries would, to a living organism, be "a mere instant," provided the organism travels with nearly the speed of light. What about space? Does distance completely disappear? In his seminal 1905 paper, Einstein declared that, "For v=c all moving bodies—viewed from the 'resting' frame—shrivel up into plane figures." Everything is here and now, forever!

(Arthur Zajonc, Catching the Light: The Entwined History of Light and Mind)

So, if the soul is light, all time is "now" and all space is "here"—just like one would expect from metaphysics.

I've mentioned before that for the last year or so, my angel has liked to gift me bird feathers. I've also been talking about light lately. I was just thinking about these today and thought I'd share something nifty.

The prize feather from my collection is from a blue jay. (A distant cousin, perhaps—I'm a Jay myself, you know.) I didn't realize this until I was given the gift, but did you know that blue jays aren't blue? They're actually gray, but iridescent in such a way that, if the light hits them from the correct angle, they "shimmer" blue instead of show their normal color, sort of like moonstone or labradorite. I suppose we don't notice this on a live blue jay since their feathers are aligned in all sorts of angles, so some feathers are always hitting the light at the right angle and making them look blue—but with a single feather, it's very obvious: if you rotate it just right, it'll turn from dull gray to brilliant sky blue and back again.

If you haven't seen a blue jay feather up close, I hope you have the chance to, someday.

We cannot see light itself, but only those objects which it illuminates. So it is that we cannot see soul itself, but only those objects which it illuminates.

Consider also looking at the sky on a dark night. If one is not near a city, with its terrestrial lights, you see only the stars; though the Sun is shining brilliantly, we are blind to His effects because we are turned away from them. So it is with soul—if we look away from Divinity, we see only darkness, only matter, and none of the shining which Divinity emits.

I was musing with boccaderlupo that light is consciousness and consciousness is light. Let's suppose this is so. (Certainly, Proclus thought so: he distinguished three individual bodies, calling the physical body the "shell-like vehicle," the lower (irrational) soul the "pneumatic vehicle," and the higher (rational) soul the "luminous vehicle.")

If that's the case, then the soul—which consists only of consciousness, and thus of light—must travel at the speed of light. But Einstein can tell you that the faster something moves, the slower time seems to pass—and that once you reach the speed of light, time stops altogether. Perhaps this is why people who are outside of their bodies, whether due to a near-death experience or astral projection or what have you, experience timelessness.

It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz, and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. [...] "When do you wish to begin?" he asked.

"Now," I replied.

This seemed to please him, and with an energetic "Very well," he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol.

"Take this fish," he said, "and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen."

With that he left me. [...] In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the professor, who had, however, left the museum; [...] nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed, an hour, another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at a three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour, I concluded that lunch was necessary; so with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free.

On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum, but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my fingers down its throat to see how sharp its teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish; and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the professor returned. [...]

"Well, what is it like?"

He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts whose names were still unknown to me; the fringed gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshly lips, and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fin, and forked tail; the compressed and arched body. When I had finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air of disappointment:

"You have not looked very carefully; why," he continued, more earnestly, "you haven't seen one of the most conspicuous features of the animal, which is as plainly before your eyes as the fish itself. Look again; look again!" And he left me to my misery.

I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish? But now I set myself to the task with a will, and discovered one new thing after another, until I saw how just the professor's criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly, and when, towards its close, the professor inquired,

"Do you see it yet?"

"No," I replied. "I am certain I do not, but I see how little I saw before."

"That is next best," said he earnestly, "but I won't hear you now; put away your fish and go home; perhaps you will be ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish."

This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all night, studying, without the object before me, what this unknown but most visible feature might be, but also, without reviewing my new discoveries, I must give an exact account of them the next day. I had a bad memory; so I walked home by Charles River in a distracted state, with my two perplexities.

The cordial greeting from the professor the next morning was reassuring; here was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I that I should see for myself what he saw.

"Do you perhaps mean," I asked, "that the fish has symmetrical sides with paired organs?"

(Samuel H. Scudder; The Student, the Fish, and Agassiz)

[Socrates said,] "When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know the causes of things, and why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to be a lofty profession; and I was always agitating myself with the consideration of questions such as these:—Is the growth of animals the result of some decay which the hot and cold principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the element with which we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of the kind—but the brain may be the originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory and opinion may come from them, and science may be based on memory and opinion when they have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the corruption of them, and then to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly and absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily prove to you. For I was fascinated by them to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I had seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what I had before thought self-evident truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the result of eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and bone to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk becomes larger and the small man great."

(Plato, Phædo, as translated by Benjamin Jowett)

What Socrates here calls [the investigation of nature], is what the moderns call experimental [science]. The danger of directing the attention solely to this study is, as Socrates justly observes, truly great. For by speculating no other causes than such as are instrumental, and which are involved in the darkness of matter, the mental eye becomes at length incapable of beholding true and primary causes, the splendid principles of all things.

(Thomas Taylor's commentary on the above)

We might say that the Aristotle side of philosophy (e.g. natural history, science) teaches one to see the trees, while the Plato side of philosophy (e.g. metaphysics, theology) teaches one to see the forest. Neither is true—half of something can't be whole—but each is a remedy for the other.

Or, suppose we put it another way. It is easier to solve a maze working inwards from both ends than it is to solve it from either side alone; in the same way, should we not try to understand the world top-down (theology) and bottom-up (science), simultaneously?