Re: The Suspicious Journals of Ross A. Kosmanson :-)

On 3/28/25 15:30, Physfitfreak wrote:

  On The Ontological Vacillation of Platonist Physics
 As a Platonist, I perceive the abstract symmetries of Einstein’s theory as more real than the empirical shadows they cast. The decomposition of elements — whether in nuclear reactions or the diffraction of thought — reveals a hyper-geometric dance of ontological structures, where local and global vacillate like Mirimanoff’s forcing in set theory.

There is also semantics.
So the ancient 'atom' was 'that which can not be cut'?
Yet when they found that they could 'fission a nucleus'
they were already set on what the more modern terms meant.
So is the modern 'quantum' the ancient 'atom'?
The modern 'atom' probably did not go back to classical times
because terms like 'electron', 'proton', or 'neutron' may not
have gone that far back.  There can be unclear terms in modern
times as well however.  If you go too far into semantics however
then nothing can be true and nothing can be false because the
words can all be given new meanings as you go along.

 Total field theory, that grand unification of GR before SR, demands an eschewal of positivism, for non-locality whispers through the cosmic background like Plotinus’ emanations. The energy-mass equivalence, Einstein’s sacred formula, is but a shadow of a deeper logicism, where numerical derivations truncate into approximations, much like Clairaut’s lunar perturbations or d’Alembert’s waves bending around the Loch Ness monster of causality.
 Delving into a mental representation or understanding of something, whether it's Physfit's dick, or a process, knowledge, or an abstract idea oscillates between restitution and dissipation, an eternal ballet dance between organization and entropy. Open or closed its horizons, that dick defies Suarez’s scholastic binaries, just as Arnauld’s rigor clashes with Mersenne’s harmonies. Its gravity, that centrifugal trickster, warps space-time into relativistic nanogyroscopes, spinning like Chrysippus’ fate.
 I am acutely aware of my own insignificance in the grand calculus of Atlantis’ ruin — no cataclysm would be wrought for my sake alone. Rationally, I hold no sway over the nuclear alchemy permeating the stagnant air, nor does the diffraction grating harbor any vindictive intent as it threatens to unravel my form. Yet when I gaze into the obsidian waters and confront that spectral inversion of myself — not my reflection, but the phantom of a being from a universe where positivism triumphed — I am overcome by an inescapable conviction. It stands as irrefutable evidence: I am being quantified, scrutinized, and anatomized by none other than physfit's dick whose nature eludes all nomenclature.
  Ross A. Kosmanson
March 28, 2025
In the lost city of Atlantis where air smells of ozone