Space and the Surface of Time [updated and revised, April 12, 2015]

It is easy enough to pose the question: What is Time?

The trouble comes in answering it.

For some folks, Time is a pure concept, an abstraction, akin to things like justice, the good, eternity, the infinite, and God. But it can be little doubted that as facts go, Time is among the brutest, the most ineluctable realities we face. Were it not for Time, we might anticipate being able to live forever. Time, to put it in Heidegger's words, is a 'not to be outstripped' fact about our very existence; it is not the kind of thing we can hope to evade by means of some purely analytical, deconstructive process, and this suggests that treating Time as a pure concept would lead us to some thoroughly unsatisfying conceptual consequences; it would make us blind, as it were, to the most basic fact of life, to the approach of our own death.

On the other hand, calling Time a brute fact does at the same time call to mind its conceptual facet, for who can imagine a single non-conceptual fact? Perhaps we can refer to unknown facts, cosmic constants which science has yet to unveil. These may belong to that class of non-conceptual facts, but by virtue of such—as Dingen-an-Sich, as "things as such" (here in opposition to things as appearance)—they are immediately inaccessible to us. And they only come to light insofar as they have been brought under the heading of some concrete concept, of which temporality is the foremost (at least, such was Hegel's opinion of the matter). Facts, even having a concrete character, also at the same time have an abstract character. Facts, it seems, link the world of concepts to the world of physical things. Whatever is eternally true of temporality governs cause and effect, change, decay, order, chaos, and nature itself. So, in some respects, a knowledge of Time provides us crucial clarity in interpreting the proper domain and objects of physics and indeed, of all sciences.

Metaphysically speaking, we can occupy our attention with change, which is at least visible, if only by means of synthesizing a manifold of experiences (to use a Kantian language). That is, if we think of experiences of events as synthesized from a series of snapshots, we can bring those snapshots together in our understanding as a single flow, as an event proper.

At the same time, it seems somewhat unreasonable to think of events as "originally manifold", so that we have to do some further work of retroactively putting everything together. Of course, events "unfold" or "unfurl", so that events come together from manifold sources before our eyes. And in this respect, the emergence of an event does add to experience manifold elements which in seeing coherently, we take up altogether into a unity of sorts. Kant seemed to think that this manifold would remain disunified if it were not for the apperceptive self, the self-aware kind of being that we are. Memories and anticipations or plans do not appear as a unity without the being for whom life is itself conceived as a whole, i.e., in which I am someone individual. It seems that synthesis is not some pure abstraction, but something that belongs to lived, embodied experience as such. Even the understanding itself, construed broadly, seems to be meaningless without reference to embodied sensuality. What then is change to this synthetic understanding, prior to interpreting its coherence by accounting for it calendrically?

Change does imply measurable "rates", so that common endergonic and exergonic reactions both take place with reference to regularly repeatable physical paces, to seconds and hours, days and years, and so that change can be also tabulated according to various relative metrics, but this is not what I am attempting to indicate by change. What I rather mean will come to light better if we follow a certain imaginative experiment.

Let's begin by imagining the whole world as a 1-dimensional stream of particles. In such a constrained environment, every subatomic particle is locked into a specific order. Nothing "gets around" anything else. As such, light could not penetrate into this universe, except to say that there might be some two particles between which a photon would be able to bounce back and forth. These would be the natural spatial limits of every photon.

Also, particles would be unable to form into atoms. This should be evident from the fact that particles could not orbit each other! Everything would remain locked into the most basic elementary forms. One has to wonder if there would even be the possibility of forces trying to break this locked quantum state.

Also, we have to try and think of this universe from the inside, which may be quite difficult, since we are so much accustomed to seeing it in four dimensions, with change taken alongside length, width, and height. It is even difficult to discern whether a particle would even see horizonally, in the sense that particles closer to it would appear larger than particles hidden behind them! Indeed, perhaps the only horizons in that unidimensional universe would consist of the two particles that fell prior and posterior!

And we should wonder whether this linear world were itself capable of being bent! could the cosmically long line be folded into a knot? Could it be made to pass through itself at various points? And what would be that suspiciously dimension-like background which made possible this very bending? Have we not already violated the terms of a unidimensional universe in supposing such a possibility?

And what of the patterns of particulate motion? What forces would there be? Gravity? At least this would seem to remain intact, though one wonders if particles would be able to escape its grasp, or whether this whole unidimensional universe would be prone to collapse back into a singularity. Such questions are difficult to answer, but perhaps we can suppose the force of individual impacts between particles sufficient to ensure that at least some of them escape massive singularities.

And yet, it does seem that we must question whether gravity can exist in a world incapable of spatial flex! Would space be flexible in a unidimensional world? We often refer to gravity as the curvature of space. However, in our hypothetical world, space would seem somewhat rigid! Perhaps the most we can say is that in some places, particles would be prone clump close together and in other places would be more dispersed (though this too starts to sound like additive waves and such, and hence, to operate under higher dimensional physics). This fictive world of ours seems to have some very strange properties indeed!

But granting at least that particles are capable of coming close or drawing far from other particles, is it not a little odd that we should note that, in fact, photons do behave in this very way, that they bounce back and forth, as it were, between troughs and peaks? Of course we tend to imagine photons in a three or four dimensional framework, as moving along a vector as waves in an electromagnetic spectrum.

Still, in our one dimensional framework, they would simply bounce between two poles, their particle horizons. And if matter can move, even in this highly constrained environment, then perhaps all matter moves, if only toward the infinite ends of the unidimensional space which constrains it: an infinitely long line of infinitesimal particles bouncing off of each other, non able to get around each other, all forming a line that grows with Time. And what drives this "growing" at all, if not the energized photons, full of charge, bouncing back and forth between the other particles? does this not, as a whole net effect, press the whole line to become longer and longer over time?

If we were to suppose that we could begin with a very short line, in which every particle were packed as closely together as possible, i.e., as much as gravity would allow for—would not the energetic force of those oscillating particles press for more room? and in so doing, would they not become the very force of the unfurling of Time?

It has now become possible for us to ask the question we initially wanted to consider: where in this unidimensional universe would be the present? It would be in the change between the positions of the particles, would it not? But then we would have a two-dimensional universe, because we would need to map the changes of the unidimensional universe over Time. And this is why perhaps we have had a tendency from the start to regard Time as conceptual, because it plays an intrinsic role in our metrical accounting for Spatial change. Perhaps then, if we wished to stick to the unidimensional account, we would never even be able to escape the initial singularity which preceded our unidimensional big bang! If this world were to come into being at all, it would only be able to do so by virtue of a prior, higher dimensional Time which preceded it!

So then, we have come to an important realization: Time has to already be in place for the world to come into being. Time, as it were, sets the stage for creation. If there is any dimension which is fundamental, it is the Time dimension. This is the one dimension that can be taken as fundamentally really, as the sine qua non of the world. If that is so, then the so-called particles of the unidimensional world we have been so far imagining would be not unlike quantum particles, which pop in and out of existence; their very becoming and unbecoming would simply be their distance in Time from each other. And this would suggest that, unlike the treatment of Time as a pure concept, Time has a concrete function as a real dimension; indeed, the most real of dimensions, even if this has been indicated by 'virtual particles'!

We have been concerned as far as possible to avoid reducing Time to a merely "metrical-conceptual" account, like that of number and other mathematical entities. We have wanted instead to focus on what energizes us to think of Time, what first gives rise to its significations in experience.

But we have also been compelled to introduce Time as a second dimension in our highly constrained universe, having no other means of representing a present in opposition to a past or future when we treated this dimension as spatial. This is quite telling, and brings to the surface of our investigation just how much the force of thinking Time as a concept has hold of our every understanding of it.  

If Time would be a "mere concept", and one that relies upon the concrete-visible world of interacting particles for its most basic intelligibility, then it is nonetheless still a kind of "endurance", insofar as we admit that, behind change, there are prior conditions, prior questions of "existence" that inform the very possibility of visualizing and mapping change.

We have been concerned to visualize Time, to visualize change, to visualize the present as a certain sort of surface of change. We do not stand alongside the universe as outside observers who could watch change without being impacted by it. We are "in it", and change is something that we are very much a part of. But we are able to imagine this "being alongside" or "being outside" of the universe, much as God would be outside all of Time in Eternity. And when we imagine this unidimensional universe, do we not then impose the changes when we abstract away from what it "is" to what it "was" and what it "will be"? This transition between the transformations that we are immediately exposed to, versus those remote suggests that our immersion in temporality also has a "depth". The present is not unlike the surface of an almost unfathomably deep ocean, and one that is getting deeper all the Time.

We are rising further and further to the infinite sky of space upon the surface of this ocean which is filling the world with Time. Space, as all that is present, is just the surface of this ocean, just the "thickness of the now". And yet, we also see that light, which penetrates through this ocean, from the very edge of our understanding of creation, red-shifted and diluted in its energies, oscillating for eternity in the vast and asymptotically empty void retains the past as a certain kind of depth. We can see below us, into the waters of the past.

Time gives Space a surface, a proximity in the form of the Now, a distance in the form of the Past and Future, a surface in the sense of finitude, of birth and death. Time imposes this upon existence, so that in an important respect, the judgment of Time as a mere concept misconstrues it. Certainly, it is a condition for life and death. Certainly, it imposes existence upon those of us who are present. Time, in this light, is not simply a concept, but the most brutal and imposing of facts.

Always floating upon the surface of the now,
Yet lights below blossom from hoary antiquity,
Reminding us of where we have been.

Waters fathomless,

A storm above us,

Filling the world with presence,

Till at last,

Soaked and sea-logged,


The waters filling our every pore,


The air of life escapes us,




We drown.

What then?

Shape-shifting Divinities

A recent Wired.com article makes it amply clear that the constellations, as we know them, haven't been around forever.  The link is to a small collection of GIF animations showing how the forms of constellations change over large periods of time.

If the devatas are alive, one would expect them to move, to be animated. But the forms they change into aren't those of the living entities they are identified with.

Obviously, the constellation Leo isn't actually a lion, much less does it possess feline qualities.

Just in case you didn't already know.

History & Economy: on Looking Back and Looking Forward

The way of thinking to which civilization is by now largely accustomed is in large respect unprecedented in history. We are the prodigies of that Nietzschean forward-thinking philosophies of the future. There was a time when the capacity for historical recollection counted for something, when historicity was of the gravest concern. This general orientation—in which a society formed itself by reflecting on the past, by taking one's education from that great mother of life lessons—falls within the category of contemplating a facet of Time. It is not the whole of the thing, and as such, it's lessons are admittedly partial and incomplete.

But neither is the pure contemplation of the future. Philosophies of the future which form themselves out of a resistance to the drives toward historicity will find themselves seeking the convenience of dismissing the historical, and promoting merely what is "useful" in the acquisition of rhetorical clout. The future is certainly something for which we are responsible, and it seems to me that historians have been the best at conserving a particular kind of wisdom, the one that anticipates the future while avoiding the mistakes of the past.

But as such, this kind of conservation is not a mere conservativism!

Rather, such conservation allows for real progress; as such, this conservation is itself the conservation of progress. It is fundamentally not a one-sided view of history, in which we are only attempting to escape the past, or avoid growing older: rather, it is a kind of learning, in which the future can become genuinely better than the past, but which does not at the same time lose out on the lessons the past offers. Here, Time as a whole becomes the teacher, past, present, future, all as one being, one persona—and this is radically better (i.e., more wise) than a mere competition between conservators of concept mummies and visionary vampires seeking resources from which to construct their utopia.

The past still has much to teach us. But only if we are willing to learn. The future has much to provide us, but only if we handle our resources wisely. And those resources do include knowledge itself.

During the long course of the 20th century, a trend in public policy and culture gave rise to a gradual shift away from the expertise of historians and toward that of economists. Today, economics is generally at the dead-center of political debates between conservatives and progressives. Conservatives promote family values, deregulation, and private property as the crucible of a viable future. Progressives promote government regulation of private businesses, social welfare programs, and taxation as a solution to widespread economic disparity. Both parties are looking for resources to secure their future and the increase of their power; and both parties have a stake in the past.

It seems to me, however, that there are multiple pasts here, and with that, divergent views of the value and meaning of the past. So, the terms "conservativism" and "progressivism" may not in fact be the best terms to understand the kind of divide that has opened up here between these warring parties.

If a progressive can be seriously concerned with the value of progress, and with avoiding a retrograde collapse of public progressive values into a neo-con luddite-esque nostalgia, there needs to be a strong educational emphasis on the history of precisely what can be salvaged from such feelings, while at the same time offering a critique of such values.

And if a conservative is seriously concerned with the value of conservation, and with avoiding a collapse of the liberal values which have given their culture room to breath and thrive, then they really need to gain a better understanding of the history of liberalism, which is not simply some whimsical concept of mindless freedom, but which was hard-fought and won through tremendous bloodshed and intellectual struggle.

Conservatives don't "own" Western culture, anymore than Liberals do; and both parties have a deep stake in it. the forms of government which we have enjoyed in the last few centuries are not immortal, and pushing too hard to ossify their forms can lead to a paralysis of progress, but paralysis and arthritis are not forms of cultural health in the body politic. They are signs of its being on the wane. If a culture cannot thrive, it will become prey to predatory forces.

Conservatives may not own Western culture, but they are trying to privatize it. Giving the reins of cultural determination to economic modeling is not a culturally meaningful relationship with the past. It shallows the whole thing out, and makes history look less and less like a teacher, and more and more like a slave-driver.

Political Temporality: Past and Future, Conservative and Progressive

Politically speaking what is a conservative? And what is a progressive? How do they differ? Are there fundamental differences to speak of? And what does all this have to do with Time?

Well, for the mean Time, I will only offer a conceptual analysis (nothing like the deep sort of analysis which would involve an historical recounting of the development of these concepts). At the surface of the matter, we have two concepts to account for, conservation and progression. In each, there are distinctive root values, and these root values can be taken as conceptually basis for each as at least one of the major markers of difference.

Conservation and Wisdom: History as the Natural Domain of the Elderly

What is conserved in conservation? And when one progresses, what is this progress towards? Of course, generally speaking, conservation conserves something already familiar, an older structure (and by which reasoning the "GOP" or "Good. Old. Party." is a most apt name); for, in calling them "good", we recall the Platonic notion of the Good, in the sense of "good versus evil", "good versus the bad". The drives, or directives—which, at the surface of the analysis, and in broad strokes, paints the party according to some one or more principles of unity—are towards a conservation of the former, of the "old", of historical precedent, of tradition, of a culture which has accomplished before the present (and perhaps, the Older, the Better?). And of course, they are a "party" precisely in the sense of a coming together under the banner of unity, of nationalistic statecraft, "love of country", love of motherland. In all of this, the principle of conservation remains more or less consistently available as a sort of moral compass. The good old days—which are doubtlessly the days of "youth", the days of greater vigor and strength—are but a dimming twilight, so that the future can only look bleaker, darker, less promising than the promises youth once whispered into dreamier ears. Doomsday, Judgment Day, the Eschaton, Kali-Yuga, the End Times, a constant ear to prophesy, to older voices, spoken in times now only dimly recalled, and through a veil of interpretations, and by minds far older than our own, fears first imbibed in youth, like some bloody ritual which foretold our own deaths—all of these add to and compound the gloom of the future, and make the Time after our deaths seem bright by comparison. As the glimmer of youth fades from our own bodies and long after the milk has dried up in our breasts, a new milk has been produced by the hopefulness that we have for the future generations, but one that is mixed with the poison of a thousand foreboding traumas, a life of hardship and the school of life, of hard knocks, now weak and weary, now fading fast, no longer as interested, accomplished but soon to perish, before the fruits can any longer be enjoyed like once before; the novelty of youth, the anxious and courageous uncertainty of younger and sharper eyes, now replaced by dimmer "wisdom", a feeling of "having already been there, and already having done that", now to pronounce judgment, to pass over the renewed youth the trauma of experience.

"Do Not Enter [without my eyes ahead of you]!" says wisdom to naivete. All prohibition and ritual injunction: all re-citation, all re-call, all re-membering what so long ago passed. So much for the conservative ideation.

Progression and Youth: Futurity as the Natural Domain of the Youth

What then of the progressive? Is all progress mere response to the conservative? Or is the novelty of youth ever truly without precedent? Can the elderly wisdom of a prior generation fail to see the future so clearly as that of newer eyes, with less of a dogmatic, ritualized vision? What does the youth see with his younger visions? Are not the eyes clearer? Is not the mind faster? Does not all the understanding of the aged pale before the agility of a soul entirely at home in its originality of experience? Before the youth has learned the bloody rituals? Before the mind has been bent low, it has always been looking "up" with a neck still tender with youth, with eyes still sharp like an eagle's, with ears honed like a bat's, with all the cleverness of an unbridled novelty, attuned to the "NOW!" which, like a foot race, is best borne by legs unarthritic, and bursting with power.

The growth of this power is all that progress requires; the aims may be manifold, the ideas may range over the whole field of human knowing, and even toward dark forests never yet ventured into. Something of the future always remains at the head, like a head-strong ship's captain, like an agile officer in protection of all the ship's men—the netṛ, the eyes for the society. Here the strength of the senses are not unlike that truth often related as secularism.

Here eyes are still unencumbered by the horses blinders: the horse in nature never had such blinders. It was entirely an invention of man to break the horse's free spirit by partially blinding him, so that he could only see what someone more clever, "wiser" had intended for him to see; the "domesticated" horse is a fascinating example of the effects of censorship. By this partial blinding, the horse is made to see the world as that much smaller (here the "world" has been diminished, replaced by a "domain", a finite range of domination).

The youth in virtually all societies are at first kept within such a "house", a capax, a room, in order that their strength might develop unencumbered by foreign powers which would destroy it before it reached the height of adulthood. When youths are left to fend for themselves—the feral child, or else the street-rat—they are inevitably made smaller; our methods of domestication are best attuned to our own kind; these methods were designed foremost for us, and only afterwards, for the animals we bind to our houses.

Youths are well known to be on average more progressive than adults. They do not yet feel the weight of historical time; they do not yet have a regard for history, nor time to learn it: their eyes are all trained on the present and future. They cannot expect to understand legacy with the same clarity as action and anticipation; their vital force always trains them to look forward, to contemplate adulthood as "when I grow up, I will!" Their youthful optimism is nothing but that anticipation of adulthood, to the maturation of their powers, to the ability to overcome whatever obstacles may yet present themselves.

The Divide of the Generations: The Meaning of the Now and of Time in General, Politically Speaking

What have we learned here?

The conservative and the progressive have eyes trained upon different facets of Time. The elder spirits judges the world through the cataract, embattled lens of their own past, and speak as the light of the youths, their offspring; they pontificate as guardian spirits for; they are mediators of the real, censors, the house-binders, the domesticators, the dominant, the prior guard. The spirit of youth looks to the future, to all that is yet unseen, to all that cannot yet be anticipated, but which with their sharpened eyes, might yet be the first to catch sight of what looms over the horizon of extreme futurity; eyes trained unto the plu-futural.

Nobody doubts that both the conservative and the progressive—to wit, the elderly minded, and the youthful minded—have an eye trained upon the present; and yet, even in this, they will differ in what they see. The unbridled youth will of course see much of what can yet be done; the wise elder will see the natural and historical limits in what has been done. The youth has an appetite for destruction, to tear apart the old in order to build up the new; the elder has little appetite, and wishes to retire from the hunt; they are chair-rockers, and story-tellers, wise-ones who impart lessons of effort and loss, who always keep an eye to the failures of the past, who examine Time as the great destroyer, and who thus suspect the youth to always be forms of Time, something of an existential threat, even a destroyer of a loving Grandfather or Grandmother. Teaching compassion and restraint, conservation and the morality of the prophets, of the saints, of those in antiquity who did no harm, who remained "innocent"—to wit, who remained just like children—these are the muddy affections of a mind that has no mind for the exigencies of adulthood, who wishes the child might always retain their youth: here is a mind that resents all that Time introduces to life, and yet who is possessed by that same force, now made into a tincture, a noxious poison intended to stunt growth, a so-called ambrosia which does little more than ensure that the child will never achieve to the full growth of their power; a Bonzai tree, a man-made dwarf-man.

Of course, my thoughts are not without a touch of poison themselves; albeit, I do not conceal the warning signs any longer. The youth will, if he only lives long enough, need to traverse the path toward the horizon of the plu-futural, that "future of the future yet to come", without the guardians who first brought him to adulthood. The child must be allowed to become a man, must learn to take over the traditions of his elders, but without being destroyed by these traditions. The traditions do conserve something of value for him, but let not such a thought make him so soft that he forgets his own instincts; that destruction is an indispensable part of every new creation. What the child creates with crayon, now the man makes with steel, and clear concept. What the child needs is given in such a way that he knows not how to earn it; the man must break something to extract the value from it, and for this, he cannot rely upon the softness of youth. He must embrace a way of being which leads him even to depart from the lessons of his elders, indeed, from every uncritical vision of the past, from every "Golden Age", from every "Good, Old, Day".

Doctor Whom and That Stubborn Arrow of Time

Currently, there is a trend among popularizers of scientific method to mistreat Time as a discrete "stuff," even when it isn't explicitly articulated that way. Many thinkers believe that they are giving you a clear understanding of Time when they explain Time in terms of entropic physics, or the known general tendency of well-ordered material systems to be subject to a high probability of becoming more and more chaotic or disordered over the course of Time. Of course, this is a demonstrable fact, such as when you break an egg. Stuff gets messy, and in such a way that it becomes nearly impossible to simply "reverse" the matter by some act of the will. As Adam Becker points out, it is almost always easier to just wash up than unbreak an egg.

Time's arrow does seem to always point "one way" (though what "one way" means here isn't exactly a unified spatial direction for all local events), even if all the known physical laws, described pristinely through the language of mathematics, does not prevent us from articulating a reversal of the equations of nature. According to these theorists, the act of Time reversal appears entirely possible, if only almost infinitely improbable. Now, it should be evident to many that there is something of an unsatisfying itch in this explanation. If the mathematics of nature truly allows for such a reversal, why then does it remain so utterly problematic to engineer a mechanical device that would allow us at least to reverse even a small portion of the space-time framework?

This question leads us to keep in mind a central fact: physics does not operate in an existential vacuum. In order to further clarify this fact, let us engage in a thought experiment: Let us suppose that there is a theoretical physicist whose sole aim is to engineer a technologically advanced device which will allow for some small region of three-dimensional space, however infinitesimal, to transcend the usual arrow[s] of Time, and kick it[/them] into reverse. Let's call him "Dr. Whom".

Dr. Whom is as ingenious a fellow as we might hope to allow for, and he is as well-funded as Batman.  But he still has fundamental physical problems to overcome. From the outset, in order to isolate this teensy-wheensy little bit of Space from the rest of the flow of spacetime, so as to bring about this reversal, he will have to dissociate this space-stuff from the fact that every single dimension of space is entirely pervaded by, and quite plausibly even entirely constituted by, the prior arrow[s] of Time. That is, he will have to live in a world in which space and time are not unified.

This should give us pause to consider what it is we are asking for when we ask how to enable a device to reverse the Time stream. Are we asking for Time to lose its vector altogether? (and would not a putative Time which at the same time lacked a vector be, to all evidence, without any Spatial character?) Are we asking for the reversal of a Time that is the unity of all times? Or for the reversal of a separable Time (or set of times) which is isolatable from other Times? Or are we simply stuck with thinking in Kantian-Newtonian terms, in which Time might be regarded as a purely conceptual force, a non-reality which exists only as a convenient fiction?

One thing is for sure, Time can only be entirely differentiated from Space if we can divide Space and Time into discrete "things". And it is not at all obvious that we can do this. Indeed, if Einstein's theories of special and general relativity are entirely correct—so that there is not a basic three-dimensional space plus a one-dimensional time, but only a four dimensional spacetime—then such a separation is wholly impossible, without exception.

We can get greater clarity on this problem by considering what our Dr. Whom has been forced to reckon with. This little, itty bitty piece of spacetime which he is trying to reverse necessarily has no means of differentiation from the spacetime around it. That is, spacetime is a fully continuous, fully unified phenomenon (the metrical differentiation is a conceptual artifice, a symbolic distinction, indicating two functions of spacetime, but not two things as such). What device then could succeed in separating this little "space" from the spacetime around it?! The device itself would of necessity be constructed with spatiotemporally constituted matter and energy, and this would suggest that in order to isolate this little "island of space", the good Doctor would need to reverse the space it was directly contiguous with, and this contiguity would hold "all the way up", from the smallest spatiotemporal scales to the greatest cosmic scales; in other words, the only way Dr. Whom could reverse this little piece of spacetime would be to reverse all spacetime, everywhere. And this would necessarily require an infinite amount of energy.

"Why?" you ask? Well, think of it this way: If Dr Whom was feeling a little more ambitious, and wanted to reverse the orbit of the Earth, he would need also to reverse the Galactic orbit of the Sun, because of the way that rotational inertia works. And likewise, if he wanted to reverse the Galactic orbit of the Sun, he would necessarily need to reverse the vector of the whole friggin' Milky Way! In fact, if he wanted to reverse the vector of the whole Milky Way, it is likely that he would have to reverse the universal phenomenon of inflation (I think you can see where this is going by now). So, while in extreme abstraction, the mathematics of physics seems to allow for this reversal, the omnipotent fiat existential fact of a prior arrow of Time, the one that already exists everywhere and everywhen, has an infinitely overwhelming advantage in predetermining the general direction of the flow of causal events.

Now, it may be possible that there are some fundamental laws which can be described regarding the function of inflation, so that in time it may become possible to shortcut the reversal method I have imagined above, but until then, I must remain something of a teapot skeptic toward the hope for a functional theory of Time reversal. Pending that much, Time still leads the way for my common-sense intuitions about causation and the fatal force of that enduring arrow. 

How the Clock Changed Everything

Here's a pretty awesome example of just how much Time has taken on a central role in the structuring of existence in the Postmodern period, and this in turn speaks to the religious image of Kali yuga in the Hindu imagination.

The Wheel of Becoming: Bhava-Chakra as Astral Calendar (Updated March 15, 2015)

Bhaktapūr, City of the Devotees

This last year, I stayed for a month at the Ecotel in Bhaktapur, Nepal. The Nepalese I encountered were a very kind people, and I enjoyed my stay immensely. The city itself is an antique treasure to behold; everywhere one looks, antiquity discloses itself in the minute details of the architecture, in the erosion of bricks, in the "killing them softly" style of pūjā in which the Nepalese are accustomed to worshiping their deities. Slowly, slowly, by the applications of tens of thousands of kuṁkum powder anointments and water abhiśekhas, the stones images have worn away, so that the once immaculate details of these intricate carvings erode, leaving only muted shapes behind. 

This small maṇḍira rests atop a small hill surrounded on all sides by buildings. I stayed in the hotel embedded in the hillside.  As you can see, the deity's face, stained with a deep hue of red, attest to the daily life of worship that embodies Nepali custom. 

The religious life of Bhaktapur appears as something of a melange of Hindu and Buddhist teachings. Viṣṇu, Śiva, Lakṣmī, Durgā, Kālī, and Varahī are among the most prominent images of deities I have so far come across in the local temples, yet the numerous Thaṅka schools and shops that pepper this small former capital city sport primarily Buddhist icons alongside the popular Hindu varieties.

Many of the Thaṅka shop workers and artists say that the Kāla-chakra-maṇḍala is the most popular image purchased by the many tourists who visit. And there are indeed very many tourists visiting these shops. One can surmise without too much ado that it is these tourists who provide a critical bulk of the income for this city. Indeed, one must purchase a $15.00 US visitor's pass to gain access to the central region of the city, where the architecture reaches its aesthetic height.

Darmur Square is perhaps the most lovely site in the whole area, sporting an old palace where the former rāja and rānī resided in times past, before Nepal was unified. Nowadays, it is littered with local students who frolic about the decaying architecture. Nepal reflects Hindu culture to such an extent that one might easily confuse the town for an Indian location. But again, there are many Buddhist influences that demarcate the city as Nepalese. Some of these, of course, are borrowed from Tibet, which lay just to the north of Nepal, now in Chinese territory. 

Kāla-Cakra

One of my purposes for staying in Bhaktapūra was to learn the famous art of painting Thaṅkas. For six or seven days a week, I sat for some seven or eight hours, painting the intricate image of the Kāla-cakra-maṇḍala, the "Wheel of Time"; I had been planning to do this for some time now, and my need to renew my Indian tourist visa presented me with an ideal opportunity. As such, I decided to stay there for a month, spending my days painting, and my evenings reading, writing, assimilating the form of my studies. 

The Kāla-Cakra, according to David Germano, while a Buddhist teaching tool, is derived in part from Vedic materials. The image is detailed but repetitious, consisting in iterations of similar forms, built one upon the other, leading to the center. Black, Red, Yellow, Blue, White form the bulk of the inner region, while Maroon, Orange, Green, and Dark Blue circumambulate the form. This comes in (at least) four varieties, each distinguished as the glow emanating from chakra, again: Yellow, Blue Red, Orange. 

The pigments are traditionally derived from mineral-rich stones, the greatest merit of which, that the colors do not fade quickly, but last for many years. But buyer beware: these days, such a claim may be made out of purely economic considerations. Sometimes the paints are comprised of modern, synthetic pigments.

Initially, I painted on a paper photocopy of the maṇḍala's outline, but even before I could complete that, my teacher decided that I should work on the Thaṅka, the cotton canvas. I began that work after only a couple days. This single piece was about 80% complete after the month's end, including all the detailed ornamentation that will be layered atop the basic design.

My Thangkha Project (in process)

Bhava-Cakra/Saṁsāra-Cakra/Wheel of Life

While I have always known one particular design by the name, Bhava-cakra, locals did not describe it as such. They called it either "The Wheel of Life" or else saṃsāra-cakra. As there were so very many Thangka schools in town, I did some wandering in order to locate a good Master of this image. After a short time, I met with one Tyen Jzin, a former Buddhist monk who studied with the Liṅg-Pas in Bangalore, India. We sat for a short while to discuss the nature of my work, and I presented to him my desire to learn bhava-cakra-maṇḍala from him. After explaining why I desired to do so, he derided my interpretation of the image, dissociating it from the cosmological impressions that I had related.

"No, so many people will say that this image is related to the seasons. They will say that the twelve images reflect the months, January, February, March. . . like that. Because you have studied this image in a particular way, so you interpret it that way; but the image is actually a teaching of the Buddha." 

And like this, he took me through a teaching of the six realms: Human, God, Demigod, Hungry Ghosts, Hell and Animal life. Each he related to specific bhāvas, or emotional states: Anger, Greed, Pride, Envy, Desire, and Ignorance. And these he taught were to be overcome by the teachings of the Buddha, who pervades the six realms. 

I don't entirely disagree with him; certainly, the role of the Buddha's teachings in motivating the construction of the image would be foolish to miss. And indeed, for many who revere and preserve these arts, the teachings remain a significant motive for producing the images. Still, I found it necessary to point out that his own view was somewhat if not entirely specific to the Liṅg-Pa Buddhists, while my own studies are rooted in other traditions that have also contributed to the overall significance of the image. After some time, we came to a putative agreement that he would teach me the art of painting the bhava-cakra. 

It should be noted that even among those traditions which regard the bhava-cakra to belong to their heuristic "canon" of sacred maṇḍala teachings, there is considerable variation. And likewise, the image is depicted with some variance. But if one compares many of these images, some general patterns do emerge, providing  evidence for the reconstruction of an earlier, perhaps extinct version of the image. Locating even one such antique image which conformed to the majority—or even better, totality—of these reconstructed symbols, would amply bolster our case, and might even provide us a hallmark of authenticity. That I am so little familiar with the variant traditions only amplifies the need to locate such an image.


                                                                  Yāma, Lord of Death

Yāma frames the wheel of life, an important feature of our interpretation. For the very figure closely reflects dominant features of the form of the constellation, Boötes. Several features are notable in this regard: 

1) Yāma is three-eyed, while the "head" of Boötes consists of three bright stars arranged in an identical fashion, if disproportionate to the rest of his "body". This suggests that the proportions might be "doubled", as we do see Jewels on his wrist which reflect the form of Boötes, in a similar alignment from the central ājñā-cakra to the wrists. 

2) The realm of the bhūtas and pretas frequently usually depicted to Yāma's left side, reflecting the star rho Boö.  

3) Archturus, or alpha Boö, is situated near the region where a copulating couple is often depicted in the image; this reflects the fact that Arcturus is considered Boötes' genitals. 

4) Boötes' legs are also depicted in a sitting posture, again, much like Yāma's. 

Other elements are similarly suggestive, and improve the overall case. There are numerous symbols depicted in the inner region of the image, many of which correspond to differing traditions of constellations. A few notable points on this: 

5) Cetus (cf., Rāhu-Ketu) or some form of serpent is almost always depicted in the waters of the Animal realm.

6) Bulls and Cows are also popular, corresponding to Taurus. 

7) Orion is usually depicted as a hunter, perhaps hunting Taurus, given where his bow is aiming. But other than that, I have recently come to suspect that he is identified with Gaṇeśa, for the following reasons: 

a) The region of Orion from the belt down does appear to reflect the image of an elephant's head, looking straight on. 

b) Just South of Orion is another constellation, related by the Greek tradition as a rabbit. Gaṇeśa is almost always associated with a rodent, and, if one looks closely, one can make out the profile image of a mouse, granting that one takes the star, Syrius as the tail. In this way, one can see the Elephant's head, riding atop the rodent. 

Of course, we may ask what the "noose" is, if Yāma is Boötes. The noose may well be none other than Ursa Major, given the polysemy of that constellation in any tradition. This would indeed typify the American image of a Cowboy, lassoing animals, and indeed, we do know of a star, in Boötes, called the cowherd. In other traditions it is a Plough (cf., the old Irish flag commemorating the revolt of 1912???), while in others, it is the Grim Reaper's scythe. And again, in the Vedic tradition, at least according to Michael Witzel, it is the Seven Sages (saptārṣayaḥ). In various ways, then "Death" has been depicted with the instruments by which he brings life to an end. But in this case, we may note that Balrāma, with his plough, makes life possible, by tilling the fields, and thus making possible the crop. Here, the images of life and death are superimposed, merged even, in keeping with the earliest Upaniṣadic image of the "two deaths," (perhaps semiotic compliments to the "two births", dvi-jā?) one the elder, another the younger (saṁ-vatsara: the yearling calf). It is a testimony to the popularity of this ancient notion that a still common word for the year in South Asia dialects is "vatsar" (bacchar in Bengali). 

8) Other animals populate that region of the sky: 

a) fish (pisces, dolphinus, etc.)

b) birds (aquillus, cygnus, etc.)

c) Cancer (the crab)

d) Leo (the Lion). 

e) Leo Minor (the Lion Cub)

f) Cameleopardalis (the Camel)

g) Ursa Major (the Large Bear)

h) Ursa Minor (the Bear Cub)

i) the Lynx

j) and the Goat-herd, Cephius

All of these bolster our case, as they can all be seen in variations of the Bhava-cakra.

9) The realm of humans is reflected of a region of the sky next to that of the realm I have related to the animals. Hercules, Boötes, Virgo, and Ophiuchus. Here, we have four humans, three males and a female. As Boötes is one of these, and, as he represents Death, perhaps these others also represent portions of life. We do recognize from the Greeks that Ophiuchus, at least, represent the return from death, perhaps owing to his own proximity to the celestial river of milk. 

10) While the realm discussed in (9) is depicted as that of humans, it is perhaps also not to be disregarded in thinking of the gods represented in the maṇḍala. Ophiuchus, for example, does represent a mountain at times. This particular symbolic version can be seen in relation to a number of classical narratives, these to be addressed in a future blog, pending more research. Meru is the most important signification for the present moment, as the Bhava-chakra represents it at the peak of the wheel. 

11) Nearby, Indra fights upon the elephant, Airāvata, whom I associate with Scorpio, which looks like an elephant's head looking in the direction of Saggitarius. 

12) Saggitarius and Capricorn both represent "mixed" creatures, like Kinnāras or Kimpuruṣas. In this respect, they are counted among Śiva's gaṇa, and, from a Vaiṣṇava perspective, are regarded as "demons" (asura).

13) Scorpio is certainly a venomous creature, and is thus malevolent in some respect, representing the "darker" guṇa, tamas (cf., drops of the halahala poison from Śiva's nila-kaṇṭha episode in the Bhāgavata-Purāṇa). And nearby we also find the Hydra constellation (cf., Ahir-Budhnya, the "serpent at the bottom" [of the world]). Thus we see various poisonous creatures in this region of the sky, in addition to "mixed" categories. 

14) The humans/divinities also lay at the opposite ends of Ophiuchus, when regarded as a mountain, or else Ophiuchus is counted among the gods, just as Śiva is counted among the devas (cf., Brahma-Saṁhitā). In this way, they stand, looking toward each other (for the most part) as if in combat.

15) And between these divinities and demonic forces lay the Milky Way itself, sometimes represented as a cloud, sometimes as the path of Nirvana that leads out of the wheel of birth and death. 

16) Often, in the realm we associate with "heaven" here, there is a Buddha playing the stringed Vina. We have elsewhere suggested that this is also Narada-muni's Vina, being symbolic of the Lyra constellation. The Lyra constellation is important insofar as Vega, or alpha Lyr, is the brightest star seen in the sky during the Summer months (cf., dyumādga-dyuti), or the "Summit" of the Year. 

17) The Hells: 

These are less clear to this paradigm. It may be that they are something of an afterthought, a fragment that doesn't find a clear place in the image, and thus is "forced" into the heuristic of Buddhist teachings. However, there are "Southern" Constellations, or Constellations that are more visible toward the Southern hemisphere. 

In any case, we note that Buddhism did catch on in Śrī Laṅkā quite early on in its history (some of the most conservative forms of Buddhism are found there today), suggesting that some of the tropes for the "hellish" realm may derive in part from astrological lore to be found in that area of the world. One matter which is suggestive of this can be seen in the fact that both the Vaiṣṇava Itihāsa, Valmiki's Rāmāyaṇa and the Buddhist narrative of conversion, depict Śrī Laṅka as a realm full of cannibals. Thus, to the Northern imagination, far removed from the realities of the South, such narratives may have fed into a "hellish" image of the Island's indigenous culture. Such a speculative hypothesis ought to be taken as putative and subject to revision following appropriate critical response. I pose it, not to enhance prejudices against Śrī Laṅkans, but to pose the fact a known history of this sort of depiction. I quite simply do not pose it as an ethically normative depiction. But I do separate that portion of history which is concerned with rescuing discernible facts from the one which attempts to construe the past in terms of politically "convenient" opinions. Let us not confuse these two issues.