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A little backstory: I had mentioned our recent trip to Williamsburg to my friend, Ken, who is here on The Wall. He replied: Concerning the solitariness of Williamsburg in the rain, I would very much like to hear your reflections. Probably a subject for the wall.
No problem, I thought. And thought, and thought. And now 3 weeks later here is where I am. Despite having placed major ideas in the "deal with in another post" pile, I am aware that this post needs another pass of the "distill complexity" comb. But wanted to share this before 2013 turned into 2014.
Cheers,
RLS
Colonial Williamsburg and the Ur-chord
It is our tradition to celebrate our wedding anniversary in Colonial Williamsburg. This year that visit coincided with "The Grand Illumination." The "GI" lived up to its advance billing. Fife and drum corps accompanied sunset. Single white candles winked in every window up and down Duke of Gloucester Street. Wrought iron cressets held flaming knots of pine, maybe oak. Their golden glow danced across the cobblestones while rosenous smoke drifted up into a cloudy sky - a sweet and tangy Fall perfume long since eliminated by local burning ordinances across the country.
The drums fell silent when, from the Palace, the Capitol and the Powder Magazine, fireworks arced high above the town. All right, the degree of coordination across the three sites made one suspect that pyrotechnic enhancements beyond the ken of Williamsburg's mythical reality of circa 1775-1776 were involved, but it was quite lovely. However, as we strolled back down Duke of Gloucester street toward the King's Arms tavern the Grand Illumination morphed into the Great Inundation. The skies opened up and it poured for the next three days.
While the town must have taken a financial hit from from the poorly timed monsoon, we soon came to appreciate its effects. You see, we try to time our visits to the Colonial city to avoid peak visiting times - an inclination no doubt drawn from our unfortunate visit one incredibly hot, wall-to-wall people, July 4th. Initially, the rains of the Great Inundation simply drove the visitors inside, crowding the shops and craft houses along the main streets. But as the downpour continued the next day and youngsters grew bored, the town began to empty out, and in that emptying a strange transition began. There is, it seems, a Williamsburg behind Williamsburg. A smokey reality, behind the verisimilitude. Let me try to clarify.
Think about Disney World for a moment - any of them, it doesn't matter which one. And that is precisely the point. Disney World is a "reality" based upon a fantasy. It is the ultimate escapism. Peer beneath the veneer of Disney World and you will find the asphalt of L.A., a swamp in Florida, the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong or a bemused Parisian. With enough lights and fountains, glitter and tinsel, anyplace can support a Disney fantasy.
Williamsburg is different. We know that Bill Barker isn't really Thomas Jefferson, Richard Shumann is pretending to be Patrick Henry. Carnegie's Washington and Hull's Wythe are interpretations. Yet, the people upon whom those interpretations are based did live here. They occupied this space, sat in that pew, had their horse shod over there, downed an ale across the street.
That difference became tangible as the tourists, even the interpreters, sought shelter indoors. We, however, opted to unfurl our big umbrellas and wander the empty streets. It became one of those rare moments when the difference between loneliness and solitude becomes poignantly apparent. You are obviously alone, but far from lonely. Despite the deserted thoroughfares and empty alleyways, you are certain, almost, that someone just disappeared around that corner. The muffled clop of horses hooves and steaming droppings on the cobblestones provide further evidence of a world just slightly out of sight. The solitude becomes a lens that enables us to somehow peer back in time, moving, like Dicken's Yuletide ghosts, unseen among the lives of others.
I was, for awhile, content to simply revel in the sensation. But one nagging responsibility of the proponent of a "theory of everything," is that eventually you need to attempt to explain the phenomena you encounter. How then, does my theory of universal resonance come to grasps with the soft reality that seeming lurks behind the historically defined re-creation that is Colonial Williamsburg? I am currently drawn to insights offered by the cosmic microwave background and the theoretical notion of cosmic wormholes, or the Einstein-Rosen bridge. Yes, this would probably be a good time to refresh your eggnog or grab another cookie.
OK. Wikipedia tells us that the cosmic microwave background is the thermal radiation left over from the Big Bang that permeates the universe equally in all directions. Although that certainly simplifies the phenomenon, it is probably sufficient for this conversation. As I understand it, the cosmic microwave background provides a spacetime reference point for events that lie between the background and an observer anywhere in the universe. I will admit to not being completely clear as to just what all we learn from being able to place a cosmological event between ourselves and the cosmic microwave background. We place the event in time, we locate it in relationship to ourselves, etc. But it is the fact that the relationship exists, rather than the specifics of it that is important. There is a background and an event. Being able to locate those two points gives us increased information about both.
It would seem that the notion of symmetry in quantum mechanics demands a parallel relationship between the universal harmony of the universe and the ongoing construction and expression of our own chord. This assertion springs from my consistent position that the unfolding of the universe as defined by special relativity, quantum mechanics and string theory, and the composition of or ordering of our personal chord or harmony are, in fact, simply differing manifestations of the same process. If we pursue that line of thought we inevitably arrive at the conclusion that there is a harmonic equivalent to the cosmic microwave background - harmonics radiating so as to permeate the universe equally in all directions. This ur-chord, if you will, stands in a constant referential relationship to our personal, unique, unfolding chord.
I have written elsewhere about moments of powerful spontaneous harmonies and moments of sudden discord. We "fall in love" with a stranger on a train, or feel "at home" in place we have never been before. Conversely, an innocuous stranger "gives us the creeps," or a shiver convinces us that someone "just stepped on my grave." These sensations are, I would contend, rooted in the ur-chord. Consideration of the somehow sentient solitude of Williamsburg leads me to an explanation that also has roots in this ur-chord. And this is where we jump over to wormholes.
Wormholes are conceptual shortcuts through spacetime revealed in the equations of general relativity. For a simple analogy consider a water balloon. Not a "filled-tight, careful-not-to-squeeze-it-or-it-will-burst" water balloon, but a "squishy-sloshy-floppy" water balloon. That water balloon is the universe. Now take a marker and make two Xs on the balloon, as far apart as possible. Rest the balloon on a counter top. Put your finger on one of the Xs and squish the balloon around until you can push down on the other X. The two formerly widely separated parts of the "water balloon universe" are now cheek-to-jowl. That's a cosmic wormhole. Jean-Claude Van Damme used them to hop around the universe in Timecop. The problem with wormholes is that while they are mathematically solid; outside of Hollywood, there is no observational data of their existence. So while we "know" they are out there, we've never seen one.
This brings us to the observational-reality conundrum. Books like Richard Panek's The 4 Percent Universe: Dark Matter, Dark Energy and the Race to Discover the Rest of Reality, point out the extent to which our perception of reality is constrained by the tools we have to observe and measure phenomena. We have, particularly in the sciences, tied ourselves to the notion that if we cannot observe "it" - ideally directly, but at least an indirect observation of its impact on other entities - then "it" isn't there. The Higgs Boson only became "real" once we could "observe" evidence of what we believed, almost knew, was there. Good theory leads - eventually - to observational, experimental confirmation. But too often we get pulled into a narrow perspective and miss some really fascinating stuff lying slightly askew to our line of observation. Great discoveries often occur by accidents that shove us off our theoretical tracks.
Remember the drunk, the lamp post and the car keys? It's midnight. Drunk is down on hands and knees, searching for his car keys under the lamppost. Cop comes along, offers assistance and asks "Are you sure you dropped them here?"
"No, I dropped them back there," the drunk responds gesturing back into the shadows.
"Then why are you looking here?" inquires the incredulous officer.
"The light is better here."
We have, in my opinion, restricted our consideration of the nature of the universe and existence to the area under a rather restricted lamp post. If we insist on seeking to explain moments of intense harmonic resonance with tools developed to track distant galaxies or the Higgs boson buddies, then we will never "discover" the literal music that knits the universe together. We will remain "color-blind" to the spectrum we seek. And that hidden spectrum may well be the one that reveals the broader nature of certain phenomena that continue to escape our search beneath the current lamppost.
(Something we need to keep in mind, and at the moment I can think of nothing more artful than this clumsy aside: The ur-chord I propose below rests directly upon the harmonic manifestation of the "strings" of string theory. Strings are the smallest discrete entities in the universe and, as such, are utterly undetectable with our contemporary observational tools. We can no more directly observe a single string than a Neanderthal could observe a molecule. Like wormholes, we are convinced that strings exist because the math says they do. Keeping that in mind, let us move on.)
Consider this possibility. Perhaps "wormholes" are far more common in the harmonic spectrum. But let's not call them "wormholes," - a terrible name for such incredible structures. Let us call them "harmonic bridges," that allow us to "listen" easily across the vast separations of spacetime. I would hypothesize that we "hear" most clearly the powerful resonances and significant discord that jump between the ur-chord, our own developing chord, and a third entity that forms the harmony bridge between us and the ur-chord.
Examples? Those mentioned above, stranger on a plane, steps on our grave - and the echos of the past in Williamsburg. Those are all examples of the "third entity," the "sound system," if you will, that creates the harmony bridge between the ur-chord and our personal harmony. The idea is that chords can linger. A sort of hologram in a harmonic field - not unlike the Higgs Field - that, when aligned along a harmonic bridge with a particularly resonant or discordant, unique chord (yours or mine), moves to some extent into our perceptual field. We "sense" something. The existence of such phenomena could certainly lend insight into incidents reported as "paranormal," which, thus demystified, would simply draw them into the realm of the normal.
And why, we might well ask, hasn't this path been more rigorously explored? Well, it has, perhaps most obviously in the 1800s. When early experiments in electricity began to reveal power "hidden in the ethers," intellectuals naturally began to consider that death was also an "ether-bound phenomenon, hence a relatively simple transition from "our side" to "the other side," and conversations across the ethers might be possible, like a telephone call or a radio broadcast - wonders were already transforming everyday life in the 1800s. Why not reach to another area previously thought impossible and talk with dear-departed Aunt Ruth or Granddaddy? The people posing these questions were not "fruitcakes." Consider this entry in Wikipedia:
Many scientists who investigated the phenomenon ( of spiritualism) also became converts. They included chemist and physicist William Crookes (1832–1919), evolutionary biologist Alfred Russel Wallace (1823–1913) and Nobel-laureate physiologist Charles Richet. Nobel laureate Pierre Curie took a very serious scientific interest in the work of medium Eusapia Palladino. Other prominent adherents included journalist and pacifist William T. Stead (1849–1912) and physician and author Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930).
Conan Doyle, who lost his son as a result of the war, was also a member of The Ghost Club. Founded in London in 1862, its focus was the scientific study of alleged paranormal activities in order to prove (or refute) the existence of paranormal phenomena. Famous members of the club have included Charles Dickens, Sir William Crookes, Sir William Fletcher Barrett and Harry Price. Pioneering American psychologist William James studied spiritualism, publishing supportive conclusions. The séances of Eusapia Palladino were attended by investigators including Pierre and Marie Curie. The celebrated New York City physician, John Franklin Gray, was also a well-known and prominent Spiritualist in New York City.
So the problem with the early examinations of certain unexplained phenomena was not the caliber of the minds posing the questions. These respected intellectuals saw "spiritualism" as an opportunity to turn the new and exciting eyes of science to questions that had long intrigued us. What happens after death? Is it simply an "on off" switch? How do we explain intense personal emotional experiences? What are these experiences that "feel" real but offer no tangible evidence of causality? Or even evidence that anything actually "happened"? Are my senses deceiving me? Am I a "hysterical" woman? A "shell-shocked" soldier?
There were several reasons why these early lines of investigation died out. First, consider this. If these phenomena, these echoes of the ur-chord, are manifestations of activity at the string level of the universe, they are still vastly beyond the pale of our very best 21st century observational "lampposts," of space-based telescopes, of immense particle colliders. What chance did the rudimentary 19th tools have of detecting "ripples of strings in the ethers?"
Second, the possibility for, and instances of, fraud were immense. People who sought out spiritualists were often over-wrought and desperate to contact a dead loved one - a parent, spouse, lover, or child. They also tended to be well-to-do, and well-read. They wanted to believe, and were willing and able to pay to "reach someone on the other side." With marks that willing, the con artist is unable to resist. I have no idea if there exists anything like a true "medium," someone who does have the ability to sense harmonics on a string level, and interpret them in such a way as to help folks advance the tuning of their own chord. If there are, and if they were practicing in the 1800s, their insights were surely drowned in the cacophony of the fakirs.
Finally, any research that might have established a scientific tradition of searching for the ur-chord was completely overwhelmed by the whirlwind success of research in electronics, physics, mathematics and the related practical applications that drove the industrial revolution. In the academic-industrial complex, the money follows empirical results that can be turned into marketable products or research grants. Few institutions have the intellectual will and even fewer corporations have the fiscal courage to "throw good money after bad" - to engage in science whose "payoff" lies decades down the road, if it exists at all. As a result over the next 200 years the line between physics and meta-physics, between math and philosophy, between technology and theology, became deeper and more distinct. The resultant fallacy became orthodoxy: there is the real and the imaginary, and they are discrete and separate entities. I am reading/listening to Walter Isaacson's biography of Albert Einstein, and Einstein, who reveled in the arrogant questioning of authority, would be appalled by this current retreat from curiosity.
I am firmly convinced that were Einstein to be walking along the streets of Williamsburg on a smokey, rainy evening, and from out of the bright doorway of a tavern, or softly from around a shadowy corner, or whispering through the high branches of an old oak tree, he heard the faint call of the ur-chord, he would not dismiss it as some sort of perceptual aberration. "What was that?" he would inquire. "Did you hear something? That had to come from somewhere. That has to mean something. That has to be accounted for in any theory of everything."
Yes, it does.
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