My concern about the blowing of leaves may largely be subsumed under the rubric of weathering and erosion, the Grand Canyon being a prime example thereof. Leaves and tumbleweed happen to be amongst the most visible signs of the actual process, which mainly involves water and pebbles or sand.
The problem with aging and entropy is where or how to draw a line between its foreground and the background. Or, in 'theological' terminology, where to draw the line between an actual young Earth and an apparently old Earth. IOW, how do we keep our ancestors from getting mixed up with the dinosaurs, as has been depicted in more than one Creationist museum, or is there only one, out there?
While contemplating this, last night, I was attempting to subsume aging within the Ouroboric cosmology, which is mainly teleological, with the final cause having precedence over the efficient cause, and in which the world is a waking-up dream, into the Telos or Omega.
I would like to balance that, with a similar process occurring wrt the Alpha. Such is the process by which we might construct a suspension bridge, starting from both ends, where the initial and final dreamtimes are the buttresses. The suspension cables are the recycled trajectories of the cosmic soul, constituting the 'warp' of the creation tapestry or magic carpet. I have refered to Nature as the 'woof' of this tapestry, but one may also think of God/love/gravity in the role of holding the suspension cables in place.
There is also the frame to consider. The frame consists of several parts or aspects. The twelve 'houses' of the zodiac with the corresponding twelve initial megalithic sites, and the twelve final megalopolitan cities, are parts of the geodesic frame. The four points of the compass are the A, O, X and Telos, forming and 'X' or T-square in the Ouroboric or Glactic circle, very roughly speaking. In particular, the X refers to the X-event.
That event defines the outer limit of God's love. It is the death of God. That is the Pale of Creation. It defines the magnitude, and frames the woof, of our tapestry. Look, sports fans, this is not a lesson in Euclidean geometry. This is a kind of Riemannian geometry of the spirit, so don't get out your slide-rule or your T-square, or get your knickers in a knot. And, yes, Creation is geocentric, Christocentric and, finally, anthropocentric. This is the one coherent response to the Anthropic principle and to the mind-body paradox.
10:40---------
This is the state of the art of my ability to frame the cosmos, to square the circle, and to fill in around the edges. Just think of me as Tom Sawyer, with a sewing needle and a dream of the Bayeux tapestry.
How do we get from today's leaves blowing across the lawn and yesterday's rain-gully on the hillside, to the Grand Canyon, without invoking some seriously deep time, or without turning God into a terra-forming hydraulic engineer?
I think I will invoke the craters on the moon........ It was those lunar craters that started the process of bringing Heaven down around our sublunary ears, a process, which, as Chicken Little, I am bound to complete.
What were we to make of those lunar blemishes, compounded by Galileo's solar acne? How could we lay up our treasure in Heaven, if the same mundane, corrupting processes were at work, up there? What of our glorified/celestial bodies?
But recall that other transgressor of the lunar barrier, Pythagoras, who brought the celestial harmonies to our ears. As Robert Frost would point out..... something there is that doesn't love a wall..... celestial or otherwise.
And here I wish to build a wall between the young and old Earths? Not in my dreams, I don't.
And what of those wandering and shooting stars? How were we to save those appearances?
Was the iron that fell out of the sky, not considered sacred? Meant for ritual implements.... for carving that little sacrificial chicken? Am I hemming or hawing?
Without much apology, I see the moon as our stepping stone to the Heavens, in every way but Sunday, pace NASA! It anchored the Sky, marked our mundane affairs, and spun a thousand yarns? It was the rarest of the Rare Earth components. And who was that man in the Moon, consorting with Selene?
And what if we had gotten to the Moon, and found that it consisted of green cheese, or that our heads were filled with sawdust? Would we not rightfully suppose that God was being perverse? How may God eschew perversity? How may God ensure that Moondust is, indeed, dusty? If these sound like silly questions, perhaps you are just a bit too wise to play this game. Suffer the little children to come unto me....... they come from Heaven, trailing clouds of glory.
One obvious way is for the old Geezer to bone-up on his mathematics...... Noetherian symmetries, Mandelbrots and all that. And then simply to be the best monadic Self-concealer, this side of the Great Attractor.
Am I saying that there was no late bombardment, no Lunar catastrophe? Golly, it sure looks like there was. How else is a body to save those appearances?
12:45------------
I could say that the Cloud did it....... or it could be the Big Cloud in the Sky, also known as our collective uCs...... hey, whichever's faster. We could knock out that simulation in a few seconds.
But when the meteorologist simulates a rainstorm, she doesn't bring her umbrella, now, does she? But suppose, further, that we are simulating the simulation, of the Lunar catastrophe. Or that God is simulating our simulation? In that case, we might wish to bring an umbrella to the moon, or, at least, a dust pan. If not, then, at least bring a cheese knife.
What more can I tell you about the birds and the bees, and about the Grand Canyon and Moondust? God, with anthropics and some silicon, made Titan possible.
And made it possible for Chicken Little to spin one last yarn.
Titan, the Internet and the Moon, are ontological stepping stones to the cosmic Mind/Self, between the micro and macro-cosms. We are God's distributed intelligence, just about to get our act together, ready to storm the gates of Heaven. Are we sticking our necks out too far, like Tom turkey? Are we due for a pratfall or a Tribulation? Or is God waiting patiently, with her sewing needle, and her machine code? How can we find out which end is up? Are her lips sealed? Where did I leave that darned umbrella?
Now, do we understand why and how the leaves blow across the lawn, and why it takes most of a day to hike the Bright Angel trail to the Phantom ranch, and three days to get to the Moon?
There was a young man who said "God
Must find it exceedingly odd
To think that the tree
Should continue to be
When there's no one about in the quad."
Reply:
"Dear Sir: Your astonishment's odd;
I am always about in the quad.
And that's why the tree
Will continue to be
Since observed by, Yours faithfully, God."
Well, perhaps. But, quite frankly, I wouldn't want God to be losing sleep over every tree in every quad. In this age of tree-hugging, it seems to me that if a Stanford ecology coed were to wake and miss the Tree, there would be hell to pay. In which cosmic simulation do the trees of Birnam wood come to high Dunsinane? Can't we leave that simulation to Willy?
When the leaves blow across my lawn, should they disappear on the Neighbor's, who happens to be away, sipping a painkiller at the Soggy Dollar? How do we invoke the Least Action Principle? Where is Emmy, when we need her? How can blowing leaves be conserved, while allowing flying saucers to materialize? Did Emmy put that in her computer?
3:30---------
A watched pot never boils. But can an unwitnessed saucer materialize? Ask Ingo.
4:35---------
It may not be a brute force materialization. It might be more a question of navigation, using your neighborhood psychic as the Vortac beacon. No wonder that witches got the torch. I mean who wanted those little buggers snooping around?
But still, we are dealing with a very considerable discontinuity, in this navigation between worlds. Angels come and rescue folks. Is it psychokinesis? Ingo was a big-time RV person. It works both ways. Saucers have direct access to our shared psychic spaces. We have direct perception, usually more passive. Whatever they do, they don't seem to rule this roost. They would much rather play hide and seek. They take after the old Guy, naturally.
They stoop, but don't quite conquer. They don't have the gift of the gab, unless you wish to count the Urantia book, wherein brevity is not the soul of its wit. Does it not seem witless?
You can't fly a craft without the critter. Crafts and critters are wont to transgress our form of matter, but they don't mind drinking our water, when it suits. Or a draught of bovine blood. They may be vampires of our emotions...... they being the virgins and we the dynamo, or is it the other way?
(cont.)
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