This demon Icelos In Heaven’s high hall
The gods have named, but men Phobetor call;
What is in a name. Reference to subject. Say a name to God, and what does Ge think of? OF all the referents, in all of time and space?
No. That kind of colocation isn’t possible, couldn’t possibly be possible. Not as we physically understand things. But is God physical?
The operation of a computer. Is it the physical interchange of electric current, stimulating electrons into positions we can read as 1, or 0, off, or on, black, or white. Yes, that is the day to day of the computer, the substrata, the earth, bedrock. What lies above.
Programs. Running, the amalgamation of trillions of flips, flops, exhibits. Deriving new principles, assembling recycled information. 100% efficiency. In function not form. No, there, in that realm, everything is new, all of the underlying pieces turn out to be a type of glue, holding a new perceptual experience together, one that can survive in salty or stormy weather, except it can’t really can it, one string of mismanaged bit flips and the whole edifit comes crumbling down, whizzing in static and noise, so that what was once consecrated orchestra is now meaningless melodrama. Our perceptions are certainly as fragile. Add a sensation, subtract a motivation, shuffle around the pathos, saints greatly become sinners and great sinners become saints. Role reversal, if you’re into that kind of thing. We all are. Because we’re not just hardware, but the software too. Components of a system we aren’t totally privy to, how could we be. Knowledge of things greater than the systems we’re equipped with. Like telling a dog to execute Office. Kerning?
Yet there is a way for us to synthesize the problem. Get down beneath binary. Trinary? Unicode? No, that’s translation, not simplification. What we’re looking for is a shadow, a cast of things external that represent, capture, but don’t impede the internal. A 3D object becomes a 2D subject. Is something lost? Yes. Temporarily. Whatever we cannot process is lost, whatever we are blind to is culled. Unneccessary.
I rest my case. The judge pulls me aside, puts me into his pouch. It’s a kangaroo court.