Entanglement, Part 2
After morning tea I strolled down to the lagoon. As always, a pang within me knew, even as it tried not to know, that I did this every morning—tried not to see the groove I had worn in the path. I strained to focus and really appreciate the beauty of this place—not an easy task since it was never anything but beautiful, in this same particular way. The air fresh, fragrant, exactly balanced between warm and cool. The colors vivid, the landscape sublime, the people, such as there were, pleasant—encounters with them mild, without challenge.
The challenge—I could sense it—was within.
A whisper.
Outwardly, there was no challenge here. No chance or error. No decay. No pain. No time. These things were absent: that was what the whisper knew.
I sat on my rock at the edge of the water, trying to steer the exquisite scene before me into the lobe that knew it as beautiful, succeeding only in pulses, distracted by the specter of another kind of feeling that came from time to time, as fleeting as déjà vu, and with the same heartache of recognition, when I glimpsed—or remembered?—a different beauty in a different world—a world where things change—they die and decay and nourish new life in an endless cycle that includes everything in that world, and even that world itself.
A world that knows its beauty through pain.
For all my efforts to hide from it, the other part of me.
* * *
The birds were singing outside, but the man dressed plainly in black had no use for singing birds, and couldn’t hear them anyway. The thick walls kept the outside out. He hadn’t lacked for work during the long wait, and was compensated and respected for his craft, but it was the anticipation of returning to this interrupted session that kept the edge of his lust sharp.
He checked on the subject first thing every morning—checked his vital signs, peeled back his eyelids to see his eyes rolled back in his head. He understood this state well, and was prepared to wait as long as it took, and this above all distinguished him: his patience. He could wait forever. But of course knew he wouldn’t have to.
His reward would come, and nothing could prevent him from enjoying it.
On these morning visits he wouldn’t tarry long—only check the numbers then the straps that bound the man to the chair, pausing to touch his gleaming instruments—the ones that cut, the ones that squeezed, the ones that made blue flame or electric shock—and shudder, savoring the delicious taste of that coming morning—coming as sure as the sun rises—when the pulse would be strong, the core body temperature restored, and the peeling back of his eyelids would reveal those very awake and terrified eyes.
It was too exquisite—the sharper and more delicious for the delay.
He didn’t think at all of where the man was. He had no more interest in such dubious places than in singing birds. Or the wasted breath of hope. Or the things that people out of his grasp enjoyed, or congratulated themselves for, or gloried in. They meant nothing. As for the man whose return he awaited, whose debt was not yet paid, his distance from his own self, though measured in light years, universes, was in fact no distance at all.
What looked like two, was one.
“Don’t forget me,” he said, then with a slight bow added, “Until tomorrow.”
And with infinite patience extinguished the light and left the room.
October 27, 2022
Assembly Theory
“In assembly theory the future is determined, but not until it happens.”
“Assembly theory reintroduces an expanding, moving sense of time to physics by showing how its passing is the stuff complex objects are made of: the size of the future increases with complexity.”
“The future of the universe is more open-ended than we could have predicted.”
The above sound bites are just a sampling from the very quotable article “Time is an Object” by Sara Walker and Lee Cronin on Aeon (14 May 2023). A friend recently shared with me this careful attempt to explain “assembly theory,” which I had never heard of, but which captured me immediately.
The thoughts and habits and beliefs of all people, if left untreated, decay into ruts. You can euphemistically rename this inevitability “faith” or something else, but it’s still a failure of creative energy, and now you read about how the brain is programmed to predict possible futures, prioritizing the familiar, and thus, as everybody knows, to a large extent sees what it wants to see, and finds what it wants to find. I don’t understand why people fall roughly into two groups: those who domesticate the ruts, and those who feel trapped by them, but it seems to be so, the former group far outweighing the latter.
Personally, I equate being in a rut, maybe exactly, with depression. That’s why I found this article stimulating and refreshing—like the rescuers breaking through and the sweet air rushing in. The theory doesn’t introduce any new elements to the major players in our perception of reality—space, time, matter, force—it offers instead a novel way of thinking about their inter-relation. It especially offers a new way of thinking about time.
I’m not a card-carrying member of any political party or religion or school of thought—except maybe some vague generality like science or ethics—but to me, formalized common sense (science), and primal compassion (ethics), are above tribalism and don’t issue cards. I enjoy not knowing because only when I know I don’t know, which is always, can the space of discovery unfold before my eyes. Only then can I feel I may be using my mind for what it was designed to do, or rather, for what it may be capable of doing. I have, however, in my lifelong search for the thing I cannot name, sometimes found myself in the sweet spot where the counter-intuitive becomes intuitive—most resonantly, for me, with the idea of the Tao, which seems to harmonize nicely with assembly theory. A quotation from the Tao te Ching, Chapter 6 (trans. Stephen Mitchell) is in order:
The Tao is called the Great Mother:
empty yet inexhaustible,
it gives birth to infinite worlds.
It is always present within you.
You can use it any way you want.
The Tao might conjure the image of a uniform, omnipresent primal plasma from which all things issue, but assembly theory suggests that the emergence of phenomena is local: things appear and grow in complexity only where they can, where there is sufficient information—that is, memory—to build upon. The Tao is not everywhere, only everywhere it is. “Everywhere” is just too big a word—it can’t contain all the possible nothing. But “nothing,” as Roger Penrose observed, is unstable, so we can say the Tao is possible everywhere. It manifests reality when there are memory and different combinations available, new information in the environment, and the ability to replicate. If the Tao is not somewhere, that means that somewhere is not ready for it, or in other words, is nowhere. Nowhere is not an absence of space, but of time.
At least in my attempt to understand the theory, two thought patterns are particularly helpful: one, that time is not a screen upon which reality is projected—neither is it (as Einstein felt) in an absolute sense an illusion; neither is it simply another word for movement, or entropy: it is an actual material property. And two, time is the slow, creative process of selection and evolution, in the development not only of life forms, but of everything that develops. The process is not determined until it is, but neither is it random. And a “block universe” has no need of evolution, which alone can explain complex things, so that’s dubious. I think of it as a force—like gravity, which is equally invisible and known by its effects, too primal to be explained. “An object can be produced only where there is local memory that can guide the selection of which parts go where, and when.” And: “Time is the ever-moving material fabric of the universe itself.” No object can come into existence in a space that is too small for it—that is, without sufficient memory to support it. Life forms, which take an enormous amount of memory, and very deep time, to develop, of course can themselves channel the Tao and create their own complex objects. “High-assembly objects can be generated only by life.” I would include among those the idea where forms are subjugated to a consciousness of possibility itself, often called “enlightenment.”
Complex molecules, the life forms they become, the complex creations of art or engineering, are not random but are selected out of the space of all possibilities. The monkey with a typewriter and infinite time eventually chancing to type the complete works of Shakespeare would never happen, not only because the concept of “infinite time” is invalid—time is not a line extending forever, or a blank space waiting for a monkey to type every possible combination of letters—it is something that happens where there is memory. “As the memory requirements increase, the probability that an object was produced by chance drops to zero because the number of alternative combinations that weren’t selected is just too high.”
The authors, when they get to the questions we’ve been waiting for—“But how did something emerge from nothing? How did life emerge from non-living atoms and develop consciousness and intelligence?”—only conclude that in assembly theory these things are fundamental, not emergent. Reminds you of the physicists at the blackboard in the old New Yorker cartoon: at a certain point of complexity—“then a miracle occurs.” I didn’t notice the authors answering the questions, but I believe they would say the answer lies in deep time. Complex forms, including life, are not specifically determined, but are latent in, original material. To me, that is a hard distinction to grasp. As for “original material,” I’m afraid I have to ask—where did it come from?
Assembly theory challenges conventional thinking in several ways. As with the idea of the Tao, the theory sees the universe as a seedbed of possibility. But equally for me, the theory challenges the direction of the universe. Traditionally we see it—or are programmed to see it?—as having a beginning, then expanding from there toward we’re not sure what. One thinks of Aristotle’s “prime mover”—as long as we remember that Aristotle saw the “moving” as attraction, not pushing. He thought reality didn’t emanate from the Prime Mover, but was attracted back to it—since he needed a Prime Mover that wasn’t itself caused, or motivated, lest we get into an endless loop of what caused that?
The movement of the universe is not from but toward. God is infinite possibility, and thus can never be a completed thing: God didn’t create the universe, the universe is creating God. That works for the Tao too. Why does “God” have to be a being? Why can’t it be a force? Why can’t it be time itself? Nothing is planned—everything builds on what was before, and unfolds. Even if you insist the universe is determined, you can’t prove it can be predicted.
Like a good novel, the universe keeps you wondering what’s coming next.
August 20, 2023