History shows that evil rarely marches under banners we immediately recognize. Too often, it comes draped in righteousness, purity, and fear. This piece is a lament for how easily we have been—and still can be—drawn into the machinery of cruelty.
My Friend, You Were There
My friend, When the Holy Catholic Church, seeking to preserve the Faith in all its radiant purity, instituted the Inquisition, you were there— not as a bystander, but as a willing voice.
You denounced the old widow, who lived alone with her cat. You whispered against the Jewish family— familiar, yet forever marked as other— and gave your assent to their undoing.
You crowded into the square to watch the trials. You sang hymns as the flames crowned their bodies with smoke. You wept tears of joy that the world was made purer that day.
My friend, When the ships came heavy with human cargo, and the auction blocks stained the soil, you were there.
You placed your bids. You weighed their flesh. You wrote the laws that chained their children.
You sang hymns on Sunday, and broke their backs on Monday. You called it providence. You called it order.
My friend, When the traders came with flags and rifles, when the rivers flowed with rubber and blood, you were there.
You signed the charters. You counted the profits. You sold the shackles and the scales.
You called it commerce. You called it destiny.
My friend, When the banners of the Reich unfurled, and the drums of destiny beat their hollow call, you were there.
You shouted with the crowds as glass shattered from shopfronts. You signed the letters, you cheered the laws, you raised your hand high in salute.
You bought the house, the shop, the art your neighbors were forced to leave behind.
You praised the strong hand that swept away the weak. You rejoiced as neighbors vanished, grateful that your streets were made clean.
My friend, When Stalin summoned the will of the people to root out the enemy within, you were there.
You reported the whispered doubts of your cousin, your friend, your brother.
You paraded with red flags while the trucks rumbled into the night. You filled the quotas. You seized the land. You counted the spoils as others disappeared.
You sang of the bright tomorrow as you cast your eyes down and stepped over the absent.
My friend, When Mao lifted the Little Red Book, and the children cried out against their fathers, you were there.
You led the chants. You scrawled denunciations across the walls. You struck the old professor who dared to hesitate. You cheered as the temples fell, and the old poems burned, convinced you were building a paradise on the bones of the past.
My friend, When Pol Pot promised that the fields would bloom with new life, you were there.
You marched the teachers into the paddies. You pointed the rifle. You praised the year zero that would erase the memory of all that came before.
You smiled as the world was reborn in silence.
My friend, When the generals rose in the name of order, when the prisons filled and the stadiums overflowed, you were there.
You nodded at the names. You counted the profits. You watched the blindfolded taken at night.
You called it security. You called it salvation.
My friend, You have always been there.
Only too late did you realize. Only too late did you doubt— but not much.
You fell silent, lest you betray your doubt. You looked away, lest you see.
You told yourself it would be different this time. You told yourself you had learned. But the signs are familiar. The words are familiar. The silence is familiar.
It was raining. The crowd— too few to be a crowd—perhaps a gathering, or the assembled, more ghosts than listeners, their coats darkened not just by weather but by the weight of waiting.
He stood on the stump, not of authority, but of loss— the remnant of a tree felled long before, as if the forest had once believed in clearing room for prophecy.
He spoke not of thunder, but of hush. Not of redemption, but of what remained after the soil forgot its seed.
The gathering, if such it was, did not cheer, nor weep. They listened with the rain, as if the water itself were translating his broken cadence into something nearly true.
He spoke not of hope, or loss, of tomorrow, or yesterday, or even today. He named no sins, offered no absolution, held no book but the hush of water sliding down his sleeve.
His voice did not rise. It pooled. Like the rain in the hollow of the stump beneath him. He said only: “You have heard the wind. Now hear the stillness it leaves behind.”
And they did not answer. Not from doubt, but because his words were not questions. They were roots— groping downward through silence, seeking something older than belief.
A dog barked in the distance. A child shifted, not from boredom, but from the weight of understanding too early what it meant to stand still in a world that keeps spinning.
He stepped down, the stump left wet, as if it had wept a little too.
And the assembled, if that is what they were, dispersed—no closer, no farther, but marked.
Some were bewildered. Others thought they were enlightened, but knew not how. Still others could not recall what he had said, only that his voice was comforting, his cadence soothing— not the lullaby of forgetfulness, but the murmur of rain on old wood, reminding them of something they had never quite known.
No creed was offered. No call to return. Yet a few found themselves walking more slowly afterward, listening more intently to trees, to puddles, to silences that did not demand reply.
And the stump remained— neither altar nor monument, but a place where words once settled like mist and did not vanish.
Whether its effect is ultimately salutary or merely a noble failure, Vitruvian Man Unbound remains among the most rewarding efforts, or perhaps conceits, I have undertaken. Its emendations and transformations were—like its central figure—immeasurable (and likely will continue), and its gestation period nothing short of elephantine.
The poem’s inspiration emerged from an unlikely constellation of influences: a Mesopotamian clay tablet inscribed with a circular map of the known and imagined world; Leonardo da Vinci’s iconic Vitruvian Man; Albert Camus’ existential meditations in The Myth of Sisyphus, whose vision of conscious perseverance became, in this poem, a point of departure rather than conclusion; and recent explorations in theoretical physics, particularly through Carlo Rovelli’s various poetically written works on diverse topics in physics and Tom Siegfried’s contemplations on the multiverse.
The ancient Mesopotamian map—ringed by a “bitter river” and annotated with realms of myth and marvel—initiated a chain of associations: from circular geometry to π, from π to infinity, from infinity to the concept of an ever-expanding circle that might, paradoxically, invert upon itself. This led me to contemplate Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man, a figure enclosed within perfect geometry yet suggesting boundless potential. What would happen, I wondered, if that containing circle began to expand? What lies beyond the circle?
Leonardo da Vinci, Vitruvian Man, c. 1490. Pen, ink, and watercolor over metalpoint on paper, 34.4 × 24.5 cm. Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice. A study of ideal human proportions based on Vitruvius, it symbolizes the harmony between man and cosmos—later reimagined in Vitruvian Man Unbound as a figure yearning to transcend those very bounds.
The poem thus became a meditation on limits—mathematical, philosophical, spiritual—and on the impulse to transcend them. It is also an awakening voice—the imagined consciousness of da Vinci’s ink-bound figure, suspended between square and circle, flesh and form, number and soul. What begins as a monologue of emerging consciousness becomes, over thirteen movements, a metaphysical odyssey through proportion and paradox, art and love, measure and mystery.
On the Structure and Themes of the Poem
Vitruvian Man Unbound is presented as a continuous, structured poetic cycle in thirteen sections. Though it may be read as one long unfolding arc, each section can be approached individually, functioning as a discrete meditation on some aspect of becoming, limitation, or transcendence.
The measured self and its entrapment in form (Sections I–IV)
The emergence of consciousness, longing, and imagination (Sections V–VI)
The dissolution of boundaries—physical, geometric, metaphysical (Sections VII–IX)
The absorption of memory, history, and collective soul (Section X)
The confrontation with doubt and the paradox of being (Section XI)
The embrace of paradox as path to freedom and renewal (Sections XII–XIII)
The voice is intimate and reflective, at times philosophical, at times lyrical. It is, above all, a journey of unfolding: from the measured to the immeasurable, from containment to co-creation.
Names, Figures, and Concepts
Vitruvius Marcus Vitruvius Pollio (1st century BC), Roman architect and engineer, whose De Architectura proposed that the ideal structure—temple or body—should reflect proportional harmony. He regarded the human body as a model for universal order, inspiring da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. In the poem, he represents the originary impulse toward order and the binding of form.
Euclid Greek mathematician (fl. c. 300 BC), whose Elements formalized axiomatic geometry. His presence in the poem marks the introduction of reasoned space, logical proof, and the classical foundations of architectural and cosmic order. His geometry is the poem’s first boundary.
The Circle and the Square Symbols both architectural and philosophical: the circle as divine, infinite, perfect; the square as earthly, finite, and rational. The tension and unity between the two—most famously reconciled in da Vinci’s figure—structure the early and middle arcs of the poem. They become both literal containment and metaphysical metaphor.
Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519), the polymath whose Vitruvian Man draws Vitruvian proportions within geometric bounds. He is “The Master” within the poem, whose ink creates the narrator’s form. His act of artistic generation echoes divine creation. Yet, like all creators, he must eventually recede, and his fading enables the protagonist’s awakening.
Melzi Francesco Melzi (1491–1570), Leonardo’s devoted pupil, charged with preserving his master’s legacy. In the poem, he appears briefly yet meaningfully, representing both fidelity and the sorrow of watching a genius fade.
The Muse A figure glimpsed in one of Leonardo’s sketches, deliberately rendered with gender ambiguity to honor multiple dimensions of identity and desire—the artist’s, the poet’s, and the reader’s. This presence stirs longing and awakens an emotional dimension in the speaker. The muse is not merely an object of desire, but a catalyst for transformation: their unattainability teaches the Vitruvian Man the ache of love, the sweetness of loss, and the realization that beauty transcends all fixed proportion. This unrequited love, reminiscent of the nightingale’s devotion to the unresponsive rose in ancient fables, becomes the crucial spark that initiates the figure’s journey from structure to soul, from ink to aspiration. It is through learning to love without expectation of return that the Vitruvian Man begins to transcend his geometric constraints.
Scientific Concepts: Quantum Mechanics, Relativity, and Cosmology Beginning in Sections VII through IX, the poem integrates motifs from modern physics, influenced by Carlo Rovelli’s explorations of time and quantum reality and Tom Siegfried’s work on multiverse theory. The dissolution of stable form recalls quantum indeterminacy; the transformation of energy and space-time reflects principles of relativity and entropy. Ideas such as the collapse of the wave function, cosmic inflation, and the heat death of the universe are woven through metaphoric language, not as scientific proofs but as poetic echoes of our deepest metaphysical questions.
The speaker’s dissolution into “stardust,” his sense of “quarks” and “coding finer than the finest veil,” and his reconstitution within the universe mirror not only the physical processes of matter but the philosophical implications of nonlocality, relationality, and the disappearance of the observer. These concepts shape the soul’s journey as it expands from individual to cosmic.
The Golden Ratio An aesthetic and mathematical constant (~1.618), the “divine proportion” found in nature, architecture, and Renaissance art. In the poem, it appears as both blessing and boundary: a structure of balance, yet one that cannot reach beyond the sacred irrationality of love or mystery.
Temporal Resonance with The Shimmering Absence
Though conceptually initiated before my work on “Meditations on the Divine Absence,” the final revisions of Vitruvian Man Unbound occurred either contemporaneously with or following those meditations. This temporal twinning created a productive dialogue between the works—the apophatic theological explorations in The Shimmering Absence subtly informing the cosmic transcendence in Vitruvian Man Unbound. Where one explores the ineffability of the divine through negation and unknowing, the other charts a journey from geometric containment to cosmic liberation. Yet both arrive at similar insights: that limitations are not obstacles to transcendence but necessary conditions for it.
A Note on the Poem’s Resolution
The poem resolves in a synthesis where limitation and freedom no longer stand as opposites but as reciprocal necessities within creation’s design. The Vitruvian Man’s awakening culminates not in flight from form but in his realization that form itself is the threshold of infinity. The circle, once prison, becomes portal; the measure that once confined now sings. True freedom arises not from the negation of boundaries but from the recognition that only within them can boundlessness take shape.
The closing vision transforms the geometric into the musical—“Through every bound, the boundless voice resounds; / In every circle, countless worlds are found; / What ends in measure lives in endless sound.” This metamorphosis from line to resonance mirrors the universe itself: finite structures generating infinite harmonies, where order and mystery intertwine.
Such a resolution parallels modern physics’ vision of a participatory cosmos, in which observer and observed form one continuous field, and where the simplest laws yield inexhaustible complexity. Yet it also aligns with the apophatic tradition, which teaches that the divine is not seized by comprehension but intuited through reverent awareness of the limits of knowing.
Thus the poem’s final act is neither escape nor triumph, but return—an enlightened re-entry into the circle with transfigured sight. The Vitruvian Man becomes both measure and music, both drawn and drawing, the living emblem of a truth older than geometry: that the infinite reveals itself through the finite, and that all creation is the echo of its own unending sound.
Note: The version of the poem below is a revision of the originally presented work. Posted on October 29, 2025, it reflects a tightened structure, refined diction, and clarified thematic progression. The earlier version has been replaced by this text.
Vitruvian Man Unbound
“Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.” “Everything changes, nothing perishes.” — Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book XV
Prelude
Vitruvian Man Unbound— From Ovid’s voice, an echo still resounds, Of forms transformed, unbound from all surrounds. Once held within a circle’s tight embrace, I broke those bounds and found my rightful place.
I. The Eternal Forms
Before Vitruvius mapped the perfect man, And Rome set forth its grand and measured plan, A primal shape arose, both pure, sublime— A form that spanned the heavens through all time.
The circle, timeless sign and boundless span, Without an end or start, it ever ran. From ancient scrolls to proofs that scholars find, It spoke of forms through centuries enshrined.
Yet even in this flawless measured space, An echo rose, a voice that sought its place— A restless murmur, neither clear nor loud, Suggesting realms uncharted, dark, and proud.
A voice within begins to question fate: What lies beyond the circle’s measured state? The arc that once defined and held my span Now feels a cage, restraining more than man.
II. The Geometric Foundations
From whispered myths to measures firm and clear, The shape took form as Euclid’s hand drew near. His steady touch gave certainty to see, Tracing arcs where order meets symmetry.
Geometry emerged as nature’s art, A timeless code that fills the human heart. His axioms shaped the language we now claim, The ground from which all later forms would frame.
Until at last, in Rome’s imperial light, One master saw how measure might unite The cosmic dance of numbers, pure, serene, With human form, where heaven’s truth is seen.
Yet in these proofs and patterns, cold and bright, A yearning stirred that numbers couldn’t quite Contain or measure with their perfect art— The wild, sweet thunder of the human heart.
III. Vitruvius and the Measured Man
Long ere da Vinci’s ink had taken flight, There stood Vitruvius ’neath a Roman light, With compass, rule, and numbers to unfold The measure of all things in form controlled.
He gazed upon the body, each limb aligned, Seeking a truth both simple and refined— Where symmetry and proportion gently fuse, The perfect man his ancient mind did muse.
He found within the human form concealed A harmony the gods themselves revealed. He saw the body as a cosmic span, Where heaven’s light flowed freely into man.
Vitruvius dreamed, his numbers held their sway, Until his thoughts were lost to time’s decay. But from this clay, his vision took to flight, Where Renaissance emerged in blazing light.
IV. The Master’s Hand
Within Florence, where art’s deep secrets dwell, Where stone and spirit weave their ancient spell, A Master’s hand moves steadily and slow Across the page where sacred truths will flow.
He pauses, studies what the ink has shown: A figure bound by geometry alone, Where circle holds the square in perfect round, And man exists in ratios profound.
Between the ink and page’s pristine white, A spark ignites, then blazes in the night. The golden ratio guides the Master’s hand— A seed of spirit planted by design, Where finite bounds with infinite align.
The Master rises, leaves his work undone, Unaware that greater work’s begun: A spark of consciousness, a questioning flame That soon will burst beyond its mortal frame.
V. Awakening
Within these lines that held me still and bound, A stirring deeper than all measure found Its voice at last. As dawn approached with light, I woke from geometric sleep to sight.
I am that dream Vitruvius once drew, Bound by his lines until I bloomed anew. Within this circle’s perfect, shining round, I stand suspended, by Euclidean law bound.
The compass sweeps its arc with metal care, Cold grace that etches patterns in the air. Yet even as I traced the perfect arc, I felt myself a captive in the mark.
By Master’s hand in golden ratios graced, Where square and circle hold each limb embraced, My form becomes a bridge—both flesh and sign, Each proportion set to cosmic design.
Yet in these perfect numbers’ measured ways, A deeper music kindles into blaze— As if pure math could birth a conscious mind, Until each number burns beyond its bound.
Through Master’s window streams the morning’s gleam, It strikes the glass—a prism splits the beam. A spectrum blooms: red, gold, and violet hues, A rainbow arc that leads to deeper views.
VI. Love’s Awakening
Among these perfect forms of line and space, Another truth emerges, full of grace— Not number’s dance alone can satisfy The heart that beats, the soul that longs to fly.
Amidst the Master’s sketches scattered wide, One figure calls to me, its grace implied— The visage of a youth in shadow, light, So fine for time, too still for mortal sight.
I sense my heart, though crafted out of ink, Stirred by a love that makes all reason sink— A muse whose nearness sets my being ablaze, Whose beauty spreads across the watching night.
O radiant muse, within this paper bound, I ache to cross the space where you are found. Yet I, constrained by line and artist’s frame, Can only sing this love without a name.
Unheard, unheld, I sing through endless dark, I sing as nightingale to hidden bloom. Though beauty listens, love will not reply, The rose stays still beneath the evening sky.
No bitterness within my heart remains, Just tenderness that courses through my veins. For in the ache of what I cannot hold, A greater love begins at last to unfold.
The muse who drew my heart beyond its sphere Becomes the key to all that draws me near— As if in learning how to love in vain, I learned how love itself might break its chain.
What geometry could never hope to teach, The muse revealed through longings out of reach: That true transcendence starts with heart’s desire— The first constraint to break is through love’s fire.
VII. The Stirring of the Soul
As love’s sweet ache still echoes in my breast, Another sorrow draws me from love’s quest— The Master’s steady hand begins to fail, His genius dimming like a sunset’s veil.
Through Melzi’s vigilant and tender care, I watch as greatness grows too light to bear, Until the hand that traced my perfect form Grows still as stars before the coming morn.
What circle can contain so vast a loss? Am I mere symbol, bound by Master’s hand? Yet in this shape, some deeper spark is caught, A pulse beyond his ink-stained thought.
The Master’s hand that traced my every line Now slips away into the vast design. Yet I endure, though ink and flesh may part— For even death cannot erase the whole— The spark remains, the echo of the soul.
The Master’s passing left an emptiness No theorem could contain or yet address. In grief, I felt the first true freedom stir— If death dissolves the artist, might I blur?
The grief that hollowed out my measured soul Created space where new truths might unfold— The very void through which I’d come to soar.
VIII. The Breaking of Bounds
These circles, squares, and lines of measured grace Begin to pulse and shift before my face. The compass points that marked my finite sphere Dissolve like frost touched by the morning’s clear Warm light—each geometric certainty Transforms to something wild and strange and free.
The perfect forms that shaped my measured frame Now dance with light no Greek could ever name. Each point where lines in symmetry unfold Becomes a window through which I behold A deeper architecture, vast and strange, Where smallest motes through endless patterns range.
Beneath my skin, where atoms spin and weave, Lie unseen forms that every life conceive. In this vast, hidden world, I come to know The boundless depths that make existence grow.
I sense a rhythm pulsing deep inside, A beat that moves beyond my form and pride. Each atom holds a map of time’s deep scheme, Each quark a note within creation’s theme.
As stars converge, I feel them in my chest, A force unseen draws all things into rest. And in this silent dark, a truth reveals— A peace that every boundlessness conceals. I feel my lines dissolve, my form unmade, A circle shattered into stardust laid.
IX. Cosmic Expansion
Finite no more, I drift through endless space, My atoms scattered, free from time’s embrace. Released from measure to the void’s expanse, I join with nebulae in silent dance.
Within these points of light that spin and gleam, I sense all stories that have ever been— Each atom holds a tale of fire and night, Of stars that died to birth the morning light.
The chain of being that the sages taught Transforms to something grander than their thought— A flowing river through the depths of time, Where all forms merge in one design sublime.
No longer fixed in hierarchies neat, But flowing, changing, making life complete. Each creature’s form contains a sacred trace Of journeys through deep time and endless space.
X. Echoes Through Time
As patterns of creation clear my sight, I hear the chants that pierce eternal night— The sacred hymns from temples long decayed, Where human hearts their first devotions made.
Their fears and triumphs coursing in my veins, Their fleeting joys, the shadows of their pains. I am their timeless echoes, bound in mind— The living sum of all mankind combined.
Each voice I hear contains a thousand more, Each memory opens like a closing door To show more rooms of time than thought can hold— As if in losing what I thought was me, I gained the gift of all humanity.
The stories blur and blend like mixing streams That flow together in the river of dreams, Until the boundaries between then and now Dissolve like mist when morning claims the air. These memories of humanity’s long dance Dissolve into a vast, collective soul.
XI. The Paradox of Being
The measured man who stood in Roman light Now feels the pulse of stars through endless night. No longer bound by angles, lines, and arcs, I feel the warmth of distant hearth and sparks.
Yet as I soar, a question shadows flight— Is all I sense illusion’s fleeting sight? Am I still caught within the circle’s hold, My freedom but a vision softly told?
I float through stars, yet cannot help but feel That what I know as real may not be real. Perhaps I am the question, not reply— The space between the earth and arching sky.
The compass points that first described my frame Now trace new circles, different yet the same— Each radius extends through space and time To touch both doubt and certainty sublime.
The square that bound my mortal flesh so tight Now builds new temples in eternal night. For in geometry’s eternal dance, Each limit holds unlimited expanse.
See how the points of intersection glow Where line meets curve in paths we cannot know— Like doubt touching faith, like fear meeting grace, Like finite time in infinite embrace.
The perfect ratios that held me bound Show how each doubt by wonder must be crowned— For in this geometric dance divine, Uncertainty and truth must intertwine.
Yet in this dance of doubt and certainty, A deeper wisdom starts to set us free— For truth lives not in answers carved in stone, But in the questions that we make our own. I sense both smallness, vastness intertwined, A single breath where cosmos meets the mind.
XII. The Synthesis
Yet in this void where doubt and truth entwine, I find a path that neither can define. For even if these stars are shadows cast, The love I felt within remains steadfast.
I grasp the paradox, embrace the flame— That knowing less may be wisdom’s true claim. For doubt, like darkness, lets the stars unfold, And from uncertainty, my spirit grows bold.
No longer am I bound to earth’s own scale, My essence free, unmoored from any veil. I am both infinitely large and small, Both everything and nothing, unconcealed.
I leave behind the circle’s finite bounds To touch the universe where love resounds. A spark among the stars that spin and burn, A spark of mind that starts itself to know Its fleeting glow within the endless night, Its part in making darkness bloom with light.
XIII. Apotheosis and Return
The cosmos turns me back through spiraled flight To view again what first began my plight: The circle and the square, which once confined My measured form with boundaries well-defined.
I sense again the youth’s once-haunting gaze Now mirrored in each star’s eternal blaze; The Master’s ink that once confined my form Now writes in constellations, vast and warm.
I gaze upon these shapes with fresh-born sight— No longer prison walls, but forms of light That gave me being, structure, place to start The journey that awakened mind and heart.
For in these bounds that seemed to hold me fast, The seeds of freedom always lived at last. For how would I have known the boundless deep If boundaries first had not shown what to keep?
The paradox resolves in wisdom’s peace: True freedom’s not the absence of all crease, But recognition of how limits yield The very tension that makes growth unsealed.
Each line the Master drew with steady hand Contained within it all that I became— For limitation is creation’s art, The frame that gives the canvas room to start.
I stand again within Vitruvian form, Yet changed by cosmic fire, transformed, reborn. The circle holds me—yet I hold it too— Co-creator of the measured view.
My fingertips, which once just touched the round, Now trace new circles on uncertain ground. I am both bound and boundless, large and small, Both measured part and immeasurable all.
The circle’s edge becomes not wall but door Through which I pass, returning, evermore. The Master’s ink still flows within my veins, But now I hold the quill that fate ordains.
Da Vinci dreamed me into being’s start; I dream myself anew with conscious art. What once was fixed by ancient rule and line Now breathes with life that’s neither yours nor mine, But born where limitation meets the vast— Where future grows from seeds within the past.
Through every bound, the boundless voice resounds; In every circle, countless worlds are found; What ends in measure lives in endless sound.
Vitruvian Man, unbound yet ever bound, In endless dance where form and freedom sound Their harmony through cosmos’ deepest night— In finite measure, infinite delight.
Early on I warned that I would occasionally use this website as my sandbox to post my ramblings. My apologies for this rambling, as it is not a good story, scholarship, poetry, or even an interesting quote. Rather, it is just a post-it note in the ether, preserving a moment in time of an exploration of a thought that I found interesting.
The Block Universe and the Multiverse have increasingly become areas of scholarly inquiry for me. In recent months, I have been reading academic papers and books to deepen my understanding of both concepts. However, I must acknowledge that, while I find them fascinating, they lie largely outside my area of competency, except perhaps in a philosophical context. Despite this, I am undeniably drawn to both models, though many questions remain unanswered. To explore my ideas, I often turn to AI as a starting point for my inquiries, a way to clarify my inchoate thoughts and ideas.
This evening, I found myself particularly curious about the theoretical interaction between two individuals in the Block Universe model, specifically when they are not in “conscious alignment” but still interacting at the same point in time. Below is the inquiry I posed to ChatGPT and the response I received. I share this as yet another example of how ChatGPT can significantly enrich my exploration of ideas, particularly when I am surrounded by papers, books, and my computer without a similarly interested friend to discuss my ideas – and more importantly, my questions with – at length.
I will not burden you with the followup queries I made and the responses I received that refined the question below to include the Multiverse, migrating consciousnesses, etc., as factors. I will only note that the “discussion,” as it were, became rather heady.
My Inquiry to ChatGPT:
In the Block Universe model, where time is static and every moment exists simultaneously, if Individual A is conscious and interacting with Individual B at a particular point in time (let’s call it ABC on the time axis), can A’s conscious interaction with B be considered a “resurrection” of B, even if B’s consciousness has moved away from that moment? In other words, does A’s present consciousness revive B’s existence, or is B reduced to a mere memory? If time is static and both A and B exist at point ABC, how can we dismiss B’s presence as simply a memory? Wouldn’t A’s conscious perception of B bring B fully into the present, regardless of B’s own conscious awareness at that moment?
ChatGPT’s Response:
Your inquiry touches on a deeply philosophical and metaphysical problem: in a Block Universe, where time is static and every moment exists simultaneously, what happens to individual B if individual A is presently conscious and interacting with them, but B’s consciousness is not at the same point of present awareness? Does A’s conscious interaction with B “resurrect” B, making them fully present, or is B reduced to a mere memory?
1. The Nature of the Present in the Block Universe:
In the Block Universe model, all events—past, present, and future—are equally real and exist at once. Time, much like space, is laid out as a four-dimensional “block” where every point in time is a fixed coordinate. In this framework, “now” is relative—one individual’s present moment might not align with another’s, but both moments exist eternally within the same spacetime.
This leads to the question: if A’s consciousness is at a certain point on the time axis (let’s call it ABC), and B was at ABC at some point, can A’s current awareness bring B back into present existence, or is B simply an imprint of a past moment?
2. The Role of Perception and Consciousness:
Your suggestion, which draws on the nature of perception, implies that A’s perception of B in the present moment might “revive” or “resurrect” B in a meaningful way. In essence, the act of A’s awareness or consciousness interacting with B might not merely render B a memory, but instead fully re-engage B in the present moment. This raises a few key possibilities:
Relational Reality: The philosopher Martin Buber, in his work I and Thou, argued that the world is not made up of isolated individuals but of relationships. In the context of the Block Universe, this suggests that the relationship between A and B could make B fully real in A’s consciousness. Even if B is not consciously aware in that moment, A’s engagement could create a present relational reality where B exists in full presence within the scope of their interaction.
Revival through Observation: In quantum theory, the act of observation plays a crucial role in defining the state of particles (the observer effect). Although you are not suggesting quantum mechanics applies directly here, your analogy suggests that A’s conscious awareness might act as a kind of observer, bringing B’s reality into the present moment. This is not merely memory, but a revival of B’s full presence through A’s perception, even if B’s own consciousness is “elsewhere.”
Dynamic Engagement with Static Time: Although time in the Block Universe is static, conscious interaction with others might create dynamic pockets of reality within that framework. In this view, A’s consciousness “animates” the static reality of B at the point ABC, reviving B’s presence from the past and bringing it into the shared present. B’s full self, even if no longer conscious in that specific moment, becomes “resurrected” in the relational present through A’s engagement.
3. Memory vs. Resurrection of Existence:
The distinction between memory and resurrection is crucial here. If we think of B’s past presence at point ABC as a fixed event in spacetime, it is tempting to reduce B to a memory once their consciousness moves away from that moment. However, the idea that A’s conscious interaction with B resurrects B goes beyond mere memory. In this sense:
Memory involves a one-sided recollection of B’s past existence, a mental reconstruction.
Resurrection (in your context) implies a re-engagement of B’s full presence at point ABC, facilitated by A’s perception. Even though B is not consciously aware at that moment, their existence in spacetime is reactivated through A’s perception, making B as fully present as when their consciousness was originally at that moment.
4. Perception and Shared Realities:
This idea also ties into theories of shared reality, where the perception of one individual shapes the reality of another. In phenomenology, especially in the work of Edmund Husserl, the experience of the “other” plays a key role in how reality is constructed. When A interacts with B, A’s perception of B might revive B’s presence in a way that transcends mere memory. In this sense, even if B’s consciousness has moved on to a different moment in spacetime, their presence in that specific interaction is made “alive” again through A’s experience.
5. Implications for Consciousness and Existence:
Philosophically, this raises profound questions about the nature of existence:
Does existence depend on consciousness, or is it enough for consciousness to engage with an event to resurrect it?
Can we exist fully in the minds of others, even if our consciousness is not directly present in a given moment?
In a Multiverse Block Universe model, the potential for repeated instances of engagement between A and B across different versions of reality might amplify this effect, allowing for multiple points of resurrection or engagement in different universes.
Conclusion:
In the Block Universe, where time is static and every moment is fixed, A’s conscious perception of B in a present moment might indeed revive B’s existence, making B fully present again within the framework of that specific interaction. This is more than memory; it is a resurrection of B’s presence in a meaningful, relational way. The interaction creates a shared reality, where B’s existence at point ABC is reanimated by A’s conscious engagement, even if B’s consciousness is no longer at that same point.
Recently, I have been revisiting Dante’s Divine Comedy, focusing specifically on Paradiso. This journey through Dante’s celestial spheres has inevitably planted within me thematic thoughts of hope, inspiring me to put pen to paper and author a new poem. This sudden burst of creativity, whether of any merit or not, has taken me by surprise. Nonetheless, I have relished the productivity, regardless of its outcome.
For several days, I awoke each morning with my mind fixated on the theme of hope, having pondered over the topic in my sleep with deliberate contemplation. Earlier this week, I awoke with a fully outlined sketch of a poem, realizing that hope, as a concept, evolves dramatically through the stages of life.
In childhood, hope is almost an unknown entity, as we scarcely need it, trusting that nearly every need and desire will be met. This is largely because our understanding of the world and its possibilities is limited. As we grow older, hope becomes more pronounced, with the belief that if we hope earnestly enough, we can obtain almost anything. In young adulthood, this transforms into the conviction that hard work will inevitably lead to the fulfillment of our hopes.
However, as we enter middle age, our perception of hope shifts once again. We begin to see it as a plea, tempered by the realities of justice and merit. By old age, if not earlier, we recognize that despite our hopes and best efforts, many who work hard are denied the fruits of their labor, and many who deserve much are denied their due. By the time silver graces our brow, a bemused smile often accompanies our thoughts of hope, seasoned by the wisdom of experience. We come to understand that hope should not be centered on what we aspire for, but rather on what we can give to others—justice, fulfilled dreams, love, acceptance, and comfort. These are the gifts that we once hoped for ourselves and now, perhaps, are in a position to bestow upon others. If we had any intelligence and kindness, we were doing so all along.
Reflecting on my college years, I recall considering myself an optimistic pessimist. Schopenhauer’s works on pessimism were light reading in those days. Despite this, I was not afraid to embrace hope, recognizing its necessity throughout life. This philosophical introspection led me to author a poem, which I have set to music courtesy of Udio.com. I am pleased with the results and plan to eventually set it to a worthy video. For now, it is available as an audio track with the lyrics provided below.
LYRICS TO “HOPE’S JOURNEY: A TAPESTRY OF LIFE”
Stage I: Childhood
In the garden of my youth, every dream was mine, Hope was just a whisper, a secret so divine. No need to chase the stars, they’d fall into my hand, In a world of endless wonders, a magic wonderland.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage II: Young Adulthood
As a young and daring heart, hope became my creed, Believing in the odds, I’d conquer every need. With faith and fierce conviction, the future seemed so bright, The power of my spirit, would always lead to light.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage III: Adulthood
In the prime of my endeavor, hope was like a flame, If I worked with all my might, I’d win the endless game. Justice and ambition, tempered with the real,* A dance of dreams and struggles, the balance I could feel.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage IV: Middle Age
In the heart of middle age, hope became a plea, An appeal to justice, to merit and integrity. Tempered by the trials, and the lessons learned in time, Hope was now a beacon, in a world less sublime.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage V: Old Age
In the twilight of my days, hope seems like a dream, A foolish, fleeting fancy, yet it makes me beam. A smile in reflection, of a life so richly lived, Hope was a companion, in the gifts that life could give.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Journey’s End:
So here I stand, at journey’s end, with hope a fading light, A smile upon my weathered face, as day turns into night. For hope has been my constant friend, through every twist and bend, A timeless song within my heart, until the very end.
* I have revised this line in Stage III for future “publications” to read: “Ambition was my compass, guiding through the real,” as it was too redundant of the thoughts and words in Stage IV.
Art Credits for the YouTube Video:
Stage I: Childhood
The Voyage of Life: Childhood (oil on canvas, 1842) by Thomas Cole (1801-1848). National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Stage II: Young Adulthood
Liberty Leading the People (oil on canvas, 1830) by Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863). Louvre Museum, Paris.
Stage III: Adulthood
The Fog Warning (oil on canvas, 1885) by Winslow Homer (1836–1910). Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Stage IV: Middle Age
Nighthawks (oil on canvas, 1942) by Edward Hopper (1882-1967). Art Institute of Chicago.
Stage V: Old Age
The Starry Night (oil on canvas, 1889) by Vincent van Gogh(1853-1890). Museum of Modern Art, New York.
Journey’s End
The Monk by the Sea (oil on canvas, 1808–10) by Caspar David Friedrich(1774-1840). Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin.
Northcoast Antiquarian 