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

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

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On The Ontological Vacillation of Platonist Physics
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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.

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There is also semantics.
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So the ancient 'atom' was 'that which can not be cut'?
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Yet when they found that they could 'fission a nucleus'
they were already set on what the more modern terms meant.
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So is the modern 'quantum' the ancient 'atom'?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Ross A. Kosmanson
March 28, 2025
In the lost city of Atlantis where air smells of ozone

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