“For centuries,” writes Corey S. Powell, who is a contributing editor at Discover Magazine and Aeon Magazine, “modern science has been shrinking the gap between humans and the rest of the universe, from Isaac Newton showing that one set of laws applies equally to falling apples and orbiting moons, while Carl Sagan intoned that we are made of star stuff, meaning that the atoms of our bodies were literally forged in the nuclear furnaces of other stars.”
Furthermore, “Gregory Matloff,” writes Powell, “is a veteran physicist at NYC College of Technology, who has ideas that are shocking. Matloff recently published a paper arguing that humans may be like the rest of the universe in substance and in spirit, with a proto-consciousness field that could extend throughout all of space adding that stars may be thinking entities that deliberately control their own paths.”
“Put more bluntly,” writes Powell, “Stars and the entire universe may be self-aware. A thinking universe. Furthermore, other philosophers and scientists, such as David Chalmers, a cognitive scientist believes this is possible and adding to that academic list is neuroscientist, Christof Koch of the Allen Institute for Brain Science and British physicist, Sir Roger Penrose.”
The bottom line; is the Universe Conscious? The scientific theorem, Panpsychism, means just that, the cosmos as we know it, is self-aware. The entire cosmos is a conscious, self-aware entity, suggest the above scientists, and is too important to ignore.
Powell writes that, “Three decades ago, Penrose introduced a key element of Panpsychism with his theory that consciousness is rooted in the statistical rules of quantum physics as they apply in the microscopic spaces between neurons in the brain, states Penrose.”
“He justifies his theorem,” continues Powell, “by adding that, one of the hallmarks of life is its ability to adjust its behavior in response to stimulus and astronomically, that is just what Stars and other Cosmic matters do according to Paranego’s Discontinuity theorem, the ability by objects, like stars to adjust their fuel source, emit jets, in only one direction that tends to alter its motion. This has been found to be consistent throughout the cosmos, states Penrose.”
“It appears,” writes Powell, “that humans and quantum physics have a lot in common regarding consciousness, self-awareness, and the ability to change behavior and form as does the Cosmos.”
My question is, if this is true, does this prove that God does exist? If God is the cosmos, are we part of some larger cosmic design? Does it also prove that psychic abilities are real and very common in humans to alter a direction of some event as time is captured differently in the cosmos? Does this mean time travel is possible, as far as being able to see the past and the future? One day, will we say, “Beam me up Scotty?”
Do these scientific theorems prove that angels and miracles exist? Is our self-awareness absorbed back into the cosmos at the death of our physical bodies, since energy is never lost but only changes form? Are these theorems answers to questions long sought by scientists, philosophers and even religious leaders worldwide?
A PARTICIPATORY COSMOS?
“According to Roger Penrose and his theories” writes Powell, “linking consciousness and quantum mechanics to self-awareness and free will begin with quantum events in the brain that inevitably link our minds with the cosmos.”
Inasmuch, as our chemical composition is made of the same stuff stars are made, does this make us cosmic beings? These are interesting theories with strong scientific data that may answer questions long sought by scientists and philosophers.
Finally, “is this the powerfully evoking sense of connectedness that humans feel with our fascination to the cosmos that Albert Einstein called the cosmic religious feeling?” writes Powell.
Was this cosmic feeling the beginning of often misguided religious fervor throughout our human beginnings that man alone was the pinnacle of creation by our cosmic God? According to science, we are what stars are made of and we are a part of some larger cosmic design. As Shakespeare wrote… “We are such stuff as dreams are made on….” The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1, line 175.
Could that be the Cosmos?
By K. D. Dowdall
To read the entirety of this excellent article by Corey S. Powell, please go to:
If you wish upon a star,
For true love’s sake,
Please don’t tell it,
Where you are,
For stars are fire,
And it will surely,
Take your sight,
For if your love is true,
No star can ere replace,
The light of love,
Upon your face,
Should there be,
The darkest night.
K. D. Dowdall
Fauxcroft writes some of the most meaningful and beautiful poems and prose that I have read. And, this is one of them. This poet writes on a wide range of subjects from the most earthy to the deeply sensual to the metaphysical and deeply philosophical poetic miens that capture deeply held beliefs and feelings that are existential life experience we all may experience in our lifetimes.
I saw a leaf float past my window
and it reminded me that the autumn, fall,
is on it way, as summer begins to peel away
and those lovely warm evenings fade to grey
and those green leaves, at least those that remain,
will turn into a fiery red display
and those that fall start going brown and crisp,
ready for decay.
As autumn, fall comes natures colours put on a resplendent display,
in an effort to try and brighten up darker days,
and echo warmth in times of cold,
many are striking and many are bold,
it reminds me that I must pay
more attention at natures array,
that contrast to the chiaroscuro sky,
showing that this is not a time when all flowers die,
some in this time truly strive and invigorate,
the scene before my eyes
and leaves me happy and full of hope.
in a way…
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J. K, Rowling so very creative and original with her writing and yes, the more transporters the merrier! Thank you for a great reminder, Charles, of what writing and reading does for the soul, the heart, and for the joy it brings to the writer and the reader! K D.
Reblogging: Stone Hearts, by poet, Delia. . A real, tell-it-like-it-is poem about the social jungle and trying to find authenticity where there is little to none. Delia often writes, real, raw and authentic prose and poetry that will catch you unawares, and reach inside you, grab you, and make you see beyond the obvious. K. D.
Happy Friday, SE Readers. It’s time for another round of writing tips we’ve found around the web. If you haven’t read Mae’s post, Understanding Tribes on Triberr, and Staci’s post, Classic TV as an Inspiration for Contemporary Fiction, be sure to check them out.
And now, for this week’s curated content.
- 4 Ways to Write a Thought-Provoking Mentor Character (K M Weiland)—Part 16 of the Dos and Don’ts of Story Telling
- 10 Things New Writers Should Avoid (From Just Publishing)
- Figures of Speech (fifteen classic devices)
- Character Vulnerabilities (ways to advance and strengthen realistic relationships)
- Backmatter (making the most of the stuff after “the end”)
- Conflict (more than just fighting)
- Midpoint (insights)
- Tough Talk (more than just expletives)
- 35 Famous Writers’ Quotes about Writing (mostly links, a few direct quotes)
- Muddle in the Middle (3 tips to fix the sagging middle of your novel)
- 10 Plot Problems, 10…
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Ray Bradbury’s beautiful metaphors in his opening chapter, is stunning and I love this kind of writing, so poetic in nature. Thank you Charles for another great literary post! K D 🙂
One of the reasons that I love to read, in addition to experiencing other worlds, walking in the path of other characters, learning about the world around us, and escaping from reality for a short time, is to enjoy the beauty of words. Some writers are able to elevate their writing to a level of poetry and beauty that is exhilarating and joyful to read.
One writer, whose use of words, reaches poetic levels is Ray Bradbury. He is a writer not easily confined to one genre and whose work is defined by love of story. I have taught his work in several college classes in both Muhlenberg College and Lehigh University, and his writing has been an influence on me as a novelist.
I will offer two passages from his brilliant novel Dandelion Wine, a BildungsRoman or coming-of-age story, set in late 1920s in Green Town…
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Kim, thank you so much. We have relatives in Tampa. So, your lovely, thoughtful, and caring post means so much. Karen 🙂
On the day of her mother’s funeral, Megan Donnelly found a mysterious package, wrapped in faded brown paper and twine, on her dresser. She had no idea where it came from or how it got there. Somehow, despite her grief, the bundle of faded brown paper and twine seemed to have a strange power over her, as if she were spellbound. Megan was about to reach for it when her cell phone rang, startling her. She reached over to her bedside table and saw it was the geeky boy who lived in the house next door.
“Hello, Jake,” answered Megan. Megan was willing to talk to anybody, even Jake Peterson.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Megan. I really am. Is there anything I can do – like help you with your homework or something? Anyway, I was just wondering if you wanted to catch-up on what’s goin’on at school. Or, you know, I just got a brand-new Future Time game and it’s really cool. I thought maybe I could come over. It might help you, you know, take your mind off things.”
“Thanks, Jake,” replied Megan, gulping hard and trying to swallow her pain. “Maybe, but I’m kinda not into it right now. I’ll call you later.” She put her cell phone back on the table. “It isn’t fair”, she murmured. It was the saddest day of Megan Donnelly life.
Megan got up from the edge of her bed and walked over to her dresser. Her ginger-colored bangs fell over her hazel eyes in feathery wisps. She pushed the bangs aside, and as she did she looked down at her black dress shoes. She noticed bits of red dirt still clung to the bottom of her shoes. She inhaled sharply as a wave of grief enveloped her. Exhaling slowly, she picked up the package with her name scrawled on it and sat down on the edge of her bed.
She tore at the brown paper wrapping and stared at the leather-bound journal that included a lock and a silver key on a chain. She looked down at the journal on her lap and ran her fingers over the aged leather binding. It looks really old and it even smells old—like it had been wrapped in mothballs. She considered for a moment something she had not thought of— maybe my mom sent this package! It would be just like her to try and comfort me, but there was no note or card from her or anyone else. Megan slipped the silver chain with the key over her head. It felt warm against her skin. She put the key in the lock and turned it.
Thankful for any distraction from her grief, she shrugged her slender shoulders and flipped it open to the first age-yellowed page. It was written in an old style with ornate flourishes by a skilled hand—like historical letters she had seen in museums. Megan read the title aloud: “The Strange Beginnings of Delphi Altair.”
A strong breeze billowed into her room from the open window. She had not noticed until now that it was a bright sunny afternoon. It was Friday and there would be a football game at school tonight. Everyone would be there. She felt a sudden chill and got up to close the window.
As she turned around to pick up the journal she noticed the book now open to a different page and thought, that’s strange. Oh, well, it must have been the wind, of course, and scooped up the journal into her lap. What she found inserted into the journal was a letter addressed strangely: To Whom the Journal Has Found. Megan, perplexed as to who could have sent her the journal, began to read it in the hopes that it might reveal the sender.
TO WHOM THE JOURNAL HAS FOUND
I found this journal by accident (or perhaps it found me). My mother and I had come to live with my grandmother after the untimely death of my father. The house we came to live in was a very old Sea Captain’s Manor situated on a bluff, overlooking the sea, in a time forgotten town.
One day, a very wet and windy day, I found myself with nothing to do. I was feeling sad and lonely, missing my home in New England, and my friends. In my room there was only a small bed and a very old sea chest. The house was very old and the mist of sea sprays had crept through the windows and doors over the years and I remember still the scent of sea spray on the weathered wooden walls.
Underneath the window sat the old sea chest. “The key to the chest”, my grandmother told me, “was lost long ago”. My very superstitious grandmother saw this as a sign to let it remain unopened and that was that.
Never one to let well enough of alone, I decided to see if by chance a key might have been placed on top of the wooden window frame. People did that sometimes I had been told. To reach the top of the window frame I had to stand on top of the old chest. I carefully climbed up and searched for it. To my disappointment there was no key to be found. As I gingerly stepped down off the sea chest the lid popped open, as if by magic.
I can’t say I wasn’t frightened, but then my curiosity was stronger than my fear. After all, it was just an old trunk with a rusty old lock that broke free, being so old, no magic needed. I slowly walked up to the old sea chest to see what treasure it might hold.
As I began looking through the numerous folded blankets and clothes, I saw a package wrapped in plain cloth. I opened the package to find inside a leather-bound journal. I opened the journal to the first page and on it was written, the Strange Beginnings of Delphi Altair. It was hand written in an old style with ornate flourishes. I felt oddly compelled to read this mysterious journal. Soon, I found myself being taken to a magical and dangerous place and time. I cannot say more. I daresay, to whom the journal has found, keep it safe, whatever you do. So much depends on it.
Megan sat dumbfounded. There was no signature on the written letter and not a single clue as to the author of the journal. Curious, she turned the page and began to read.
THE OLD SEA CAPTAIN’S MANOR
Beside a narrow strip of oyster shell road is an old Victorian Manor sitting high on an ancient bluff over-looking the sea. The manor was built long ago by a wealthy Sea Captain. As time went by, the Sea Captain grew older and bequeathed the manor to his sons who, in turn, bequeathed the manor to their sons.
The Old Sea Captain’s Manor had survived countless storms, gales, and violent hurricanes for more than hundred and twenty years. But oddly enough, when Eastern gale winds blow, the Old Sea Captain’s Manor begins to shake violently on its foundations.
The Tuttle family that came to live in the Old Sea Captain’s Manor was not put off by the manor’s mysterious quirks. A poor family, the Tuttles felt fortunate to live in such a grand place bequeathed to them by a far removed, extremely distant relative.
The gossiping town folk reckoned the Tuttles were strange enough, but the young girl who lived with them was more than strange. Delphi Altair had unusually bright violet eyes and a firestorm of shimmering dark red hair that almost looked purple in bright sunlight. But it wasn’t her looks, specifically, that cast Delphi in a suspicious light in the community. It was her very unusual way of being. The town folks would often say, “There is something peculiar about that girl.” Yet, no one could say exactly why.
Fortunately, the Tuttles did not care what the town’s people thought about Delphi. The Tuttles loved the strange girl that was not their own. Delphi was a foundling. They found her in an old shipman’s basket one cold morning, wrapped in a blanket. Clutched in the infant’s tiny fist was a small star-shaped pendant with a blue stone inset in the middle. A weathered parchment was pinned to the infant’s clothes. The only words written on the parchment were these: Delphinus Decima East of Altair. The Tuttles had never heard of such a place called Delphinus Decima that was East of Altair. So, they shorten the words to make her a name: Delphi Altair. The Tuttles believed it would be best to keep the infant as their own until someone came to claim the child. But no one ever came.
As time went by, the Tuttles had two children born to them, Scout and Scooter, known about town as the “scalawag” twins. By the age of eight, the mischievous and rambunctious boys, tall for their age, were without mercy to little Delphi, teasing and taunting her daily.
Most people in the old seaside town made their living in some way connected to the sea. It was a booming industry and the people in the town did fairly well by it. It was booming, that is, until the blight came to the sea and in turn to the people of this seaside town. In a small town suffering great hardship everything is suspect and nothing is ever forgotten. Someone had to be blamed for the town’s misfortune.
Delphi became the focus of all the town’s troubles. From the very beginning of the town’s decline, there was the question of Delphi’s mysterious discovery by the Tuttles on that cold winter morning. This was the mindset that kept the townspeople eyeing Delphi suspiciously (besides the fact they found her mysteriously strange anyway). Like an unchecked simmering pot, things were bound to reach a boiling point.