The ground state of blue

                                                    

One evening, a yellowing notebook appears in my mailbox. A quick glance convinces me it has nothing at all to do with me and, as is usual in my apartment building, I pin it with a thumbtack to the modest corkboard in the entrance hall.           

A week passes and the notebook remains unclaimed. I take it down from the board and into my apartment where I steal another glance at its contents. The handwriting is orderly and clear on some pages, barely legible on others. There are many crossed out passages and a lot of scribbled remarks scattered over and in the main text. I realize it is an old and unusual diary – what is written in it verges on the being unbelievable. For reasons I cannot share, I have to assume that whoever put it in my mailbox had been hoping I would one day publish it. But, as I do not know the identity of the copyright owner, and have been unable to track whoever it is down, I have also been unable to confirm this as a fact. However, the unique nature of the story it tells is so compelling, I have decided to publish it anyway. What you are about to read faithfully follows the original text (under the obvious limitations of being a translation of the Hebrew transcription) except for the names of individuals and locations that have been changed or concealed in certain places to maintain the anonymity of the parties involved. Original remarks are uniformly marked << … >>. The title is of my own choosing and taken from the pages of the diary. For obvious legal reasons, this particular method of publication has been chosen.

 

May 2021  

 

 

*    *    *

 

10.07.1993 08:40 

I am writing this because I don't know what else to do.  I am afraid I'm loosing my mind. At some point I'm sure I'll cross some uncharted borderline without being aware – and then how will I find my way back? 

The real irony is that I have long been attempting to go out of my mind in the most literal sense. I have called it 'controlled madness' – the ability to see things differently from how they appear to others; different from how they appeared to me ‘before’. How else would I be able to free myself from the honeytrap of mediocrity? Without going out of your mind, your work would be limited to variations on a theme or generalizations. At best it would be yet another brick in a building you hadn't planned or built. And yes, you might attain a distinguished position, acquire status, maybe even manage to make yourself really stand out in a certain field. And then who knows, a few flush-faced Swedes would  bestow on you the 'honor' of that most distinguished prize. So, raise a lot of dust, make all the noise you want, but you can never lie to yourself and say it is an earthquake. And, as with some nymphomaniac who becomes obsessed with sex because she cannot reach ultimate satisfaction, it will continue to haunt you. Even in the bad years. And you will go on roaming the empty nights in the hope of hunting down some random morsel of truly original insight. You will argue with the moon, consult with alley cats, but you will only ever manage to fake true insanity.

I ask Danny – indirectly – but he says I’ve always been a little weird. Look who’s talking! So, do I just take a poll and have the majority rule? The same majority that, until recently, burned women at the stake? The majority? A collection of individuals who watch all the other individuals to make sure they haven’t drifted too much from the center mass, like stars in a galaxy. But collectively, their location is arbitrary.

And the psychologist I went to… what does he understand about creative processes and the toll they charge the soul? I’d bet he never had a single original thought of his own. With me, ideas form during sleep – then, in wakefulness, they just present themselves. Yesterday, I told my psychologist that in a dream, I had once even peeked at one behind a curtain when it wasn’t ready yet. It was a she, and she immediately hid herself in shame. He couldn’t stop laughing. Said that there was a natural storyteller hidden in me, and that I should consider doing something with it. But when it comes to that wadi haunting me, he has no idea what to do.

So I decided to consult with you, my dear diary. Each time I open you, I’ll read the things written in your pages and, should they look too strange, then I’ll know that I’ve gone insane: Either when writing, reading or both.  In any case, I’ll know if the line has been crossed. And then we’ll see what to do next.

Yes, I know, it’s hardly a perfect solution. Because if the words appear, to me, to have come from the mind of a sane man, it does not necessarily mean that it is so. It could be that perhaps it is my insanity as I read that causes me to view an insane text as being sane. Like a digital voltmeter checking the voltage of its own batteries… If the voltage is normal, the voltmeter cannot tell if it is a sign the battery is full, or perhaps it has already been drained and, as a result, its own circuits are not functioning properly.

Anyway, that is the plan and, who knows, maybe in the end it will be you, my dear diary, that will end up being my magnum opus. And a truly original creation.

 

21.07.1993 17:33 

Anatoly

Anatoly knocks on the door. He is out of sugar again. Which is his way of telling me we haven’t played chess in a while. Anatoly lives across the hall with Tsar – an alley cat who takes his name very seriously. Anatoly, has one daughter – a single mom who visits him once every two weeks. And he has me.

Lately, he has started getting into religion. He has always been close to Judaism, so he has told me in broken Hebrew, and has even paid for it by doing time in a Soviet prison. But to be honest, Judaism, and these new mannerisms he has adopted just don’t suit him well. Much like the clothes he picks up off the street near the neighborhood trash containers. In his heavy Russian accent he keeps on preaching “Leit atar panoi meneya” ("לית אתר פנוי מיניה") – a saying in Aramaic he’s picked up from the neighborhood's Chabad missionary.

I hurriedly correct an equation lest I forget and join Anatoly in his rundown apartment. Honestly, I could do with some human interaction too. The chessboard is already set up in the small dining corner – sixteen black pieces, sixteen white pieces, and one gray Tsar in between. Tsar and I are close friends by now and he’s all for me.

Anatoly goes over to the kitchenette, returns with two steaming China cups of tea, and sits opposite me. Tsar flicks the a2 pawn and Anatoly accepts the cat’s ruling. I’m playing whites. Anatoly plays the Scandinavian Defense. He knows his chess theory, but he’s rusty. If it’s not a conventional opening he might quickly blunder.  So I let him off the hook sometimes.

The tea is strong, bordering on pain, and Anatoly slurps it noisily before each important move. He loses control of his pieces towards the end of the game, despite being in a superior position, and his white bishop defects. Four moves later, he resigns.

Anatoly has already finished his cup of tea, while mine has gone cold. Tzar lets the scattered pieces know who the real king is around here. Anatoly does not want to be swallowed into another week of isolation, and goes in search of a biscuit with which to sweeten my tea. He already knows he does not actually have a biscuit, which is why he asks me from the kitchenette what I keep doing with my stacks of pages. I tell him, and not for the first time, that I am working on my PhD in physics, but he insists on knowing more. So I repeat my usual fable. A theoretical physicist is a modern idolator, sculpting mathematical idols then putting to them various requests. For example, that they will predict the future for him. Yes, far-fetched, I know. There isn't  anything magical or transcendental in mathematical constructions. Machines, computer programs, nothing more. So why am I doing it? Because it worked for several idolators that came before me. These mathematical idols have developed autonomy, and started telling their creators things they hadn't even been asked about, which is possibly the highest form of magic I know of.

Anatoly bursts into wild laughter, exposing teeth that have known brighter days. Tzar freezes in horror.

"This is best magic you know?! Come, I show you real magic!"

Anatoly takes a coin from his pocket and places it on the table, slowly covering it with his empty teacup. Then he removes his hand.

The improvised act, as well as the magician, are so simple, that I already know how the magic will continue. In slow motion Anatoly begins lifting the cup, while both of us are staring at where the coin was left. Tzar is also curious.

"Ta-da!" Anatoly gives his act its final chord and clasps his hands in satisfaction as the cup is removed from the table. I keep staring at the place where the coin is supposed to be. And it's obviously there.

 

04.08.1993 14:52

That wadi again. And the tree. Its foliage dense enough to almost blot out the sun, but not completely. It is still possible to see shreds of sky through it and a few sunbeams penetrate far enough to flicker on the ground. And the wind. A light, pleasant breeze. Cool, but not too cold, providing the gentle rustle of white noise.

It is all so neutral, as if beckoning you to ignore it.

 

25.08.1993 16:30 

Shahaf – My Seagull of the Fall 

At the end of each summer, when days grow shorter, you pass through the sky of my life.

You see me from above, staring at you, my mouth agape,

And you shit a holy turd right into it.

Then fly on to a far, foreign land.

 

28.08.1993 21:45 

Shahaf doesn’t call me anymore. Doesn’t even answer my calls. My muse has left me. For good this time, she says. No longer will she appear in my peephole, her slender body hovering in the stairwell. Then glide straight into the bedroom, expressionless and mute, and fall on her back shot, naked, bleeding passion.  

There are other Seagulls in the sky. Perhaps... But when I'll kiss their tits of yours, only the bitter taste of pain will I feel. 

05.09.1993  18:07 

Pathetic. A loser faking delusions of grandeur so as to not recognize his true worth. Delusions are one thing, but grandeur? For what? For three years now, you’ve done nothing but stain paper with empty formulae. No wonder she left you. Because she could see exactly who you are. On the inside. Not that there’s much to see on the outside. A bent skeleton erecting his intellectual hair. A cheap, synthetic imitation of a fur.

 

12.09.1993   07:30 

I get out of bed this morning, barely able to pick myself up. The weight of a thousand tons seems to be resting on me. I carelessly make myself  a muck coffee with no sugar… there is no more sugar, as bitter as my melancholy. I don't know how I'll manage to teach in the state I’m in. I drag myself to the bus station. The driver, who knows me, gives me a hearty smile which I ignore. Then, at the faculty, I don't answer the secretary's, “Good morning,” uttered with a motherly look. I decide to take the elevator to the upper floor. What exactly did I lose there? Then I go up onto the roof through the emergency exit. 

A chilly morning wind welcomes me with a seductive caress, whispering in my ear to shrug off the weight resting on me, and join it. Down below, tiny human ants busily enter and exit the building – what could be so important that  they have to hurry like that? A pair of ants come together, a she ant, a he ant, and a distant little laugh. So distant.  I take a step closer to the edge of the roof and climb onto the rail. The wind raises its breathy voice to a shout. “Now! I'm leaving!” The little ants also start to shout, but they're too far away, so I can't make out what they're shouting. I spread my arms, possibly inspired by a crow passing, riding the wind currents expertly, looking at me with wonder in its black eyes.

And I let go.

The weight is instantly removed, and I'm light, like the little boy I once was. Tears of joy well in my eyes and are instantly collected by the wind which is now roaring in ecstasy and the ants draw nearer and nearer join it in a howl of terror.

            A crow's caw.

            A burning ray of light.

            I am awake in bed. I wake up in death.

 

12.09.1993   07:30 

This morning, I woke up in bed understanding:  I'm ending things. On the way to the campus, the bus driver, who has always smiled at me every morning, ignores me. The faculty's secretary marches right in front of me at the entrance to the corridor, just like in my dream. I try to catch her kind eyes, apologize (be saved?) but she does not even spare me a glance. I press the elevator button, but the elevator doesn't stop. It too ignores me. As if my existence has already diminished.  I wait a few minutes, then decide to take the stairs to the upper floor. It's a long climb, and I'm sweaty and breathless by the time I step out onto the roof. The air is still, the sun blinding. I climb up onto the rail and look down. The tiny ants are there, rushing around below, indifferent to my presence. Then I see the crow – the same crow from my dream.

My mouth is parched, my temples threaten to explode, but the memory of the dream is so vivid.

So I let go again – and again, I wake up in death.

Is this what dying is like, or have I simply lost my mind? What is going on? Am I awake? 

 

15.09.1993 12:05 

I need to muster what little is left of the scientist in me, act methodically this time.

Tonight, Ayalon Highway. There are 24/7 traffic cameras there. And Dima has access to them.

 

15.09.1993 20:22 

It's holiday eve. Families are making their way up and down the Ayalon Highway; father and mother in the front, children in the back. Packaged in uniform tin cans; family canned goods in a production line. For a brief while the conveyor belt will linger. At the Uncle's or the Grandma's house. A  fattening station would start its routine and then the conveyor would resume moving. Advancing.  Wearing, squeaking, aging but constantly advancing because it has no choice.  

A man was run over tonight on the Ayalon Highway… the flow of traffic has returned to normal… and the weather will be normal for this season. Just go on living this industrial life without me.

No, I mustn't lose my calm now. Making sure there is a line of sight between the cameras and myself. Diary + pen will soon be put back in my pocket. Focus on the nearest lane – don't allow the driver enough reaction time to hit the brakes.

Pulse is regular. Breathing is steady.

 

15.09.1993   20:30 

A terrified driver's face flashes across my vision. She has no chance of avoiding a head-on collision with me. I feel no pain. I feel nothing. It's as if she passed right through me.

 

15.09.1993 22:50 

“Blat – you look terrible.”

Dima offers me a cup of coffee, which I impolitely refuse. His shift at the Ayalon Highway control room has just started. I explain to him that I need to see the camera recording right now. Dima gives me an inquisitive look, but asks no questions, just the precise time I want to see. I take a peek at my diary. A half-hour back.

Dima is as quick as a devil. “Blat – are we going to sit here all night counting cars?” he asks. “Why don’t you tell me what you're looking for?”

“There.” I point a few moments later at my image entering the frame. “What a nutcase – Blat – he's going to get run over!”

We both look at the figure of a man breaking into the road, running. The frame-rate is slow, but even so, a private car, a Subaru, is visibly hurtling toward the running man. A second or two later, the figure appears on the other side of the road, alive and well.

“He really is crazy!!!” Dima shouts. And I shout, “Stop! Stop! Rewind!”

Dima rewinds the recording, and this time plays it in slow motion. The figure bursts into the road. A head-on collision with the Subaru seems inevitable but, in the split second it is supposedly happening, a semitrailer passes by, obscuring the Subaru. Dima is going nuts. Rewinding and playing the same part over and over. “That is one lucky guy!” Lucky? The poor man can't even kill himself!

I ask Dima to give me the details of the Subaru. He's reserved about it, reluctant. He shouldn't, he tells me. But he also knows he owes me. If it wasn't for me, he'd be in prison right now. He opens the door a crack, peeks outside, then quickly goes to the computer station. I dictate the plate number and he comes back with an address.

 

16.09.1993 18:06 

13 Daffodil Street. A single-family house with a cultivated garden, strange sculptures scattered around it. Garlands of garlic adorn the doorposts. The Subaru is parked beside the house. The front bumper is whole, but the license plate is somewhat bent. No traces of blood, though.

 

16.09.1993 18:20

I ring the doorbell. A woman in her fifties carrying a cat that looks like Tzar's twin opens the door and immediately turns as pale as a sheet. She slams the door in my face screaming something unintelligible. I try to explain that I'm only here to ask a question, and that we can even talk through the closed door if it makes her feel safer. But she doesn't even give me the chance to complete a single sentence. She squeals and snorts and threatens to call the police.   

 

18.09.1993 10:34 

I refuse to live like this anymore, but I can't seem to die. How do you escape from a prison that has no walls, no fences? All that's left for me to do is go crazy. Force myself into insanity. After all, it can't get any worse for a man yearning for death. And perhaps the madman can experience hell as heaven?

 

22.09.1993 16:40 

A video camera lies on the bookcase in my bedroom. Just an hour's worth of recording – but it's better than nothing. My left ankle is cuffed to the steel frame of the bed. The window is wide open. A large water bottle is within reach – just as Dima said. “What do you need so much for – blat?” he asks me. This isn't a game. I reassure him that this isn't just for me.

The diary is open on my lap. Beside it are ten Hofmanns, separated already. The sky is blue, cloudless, a cool wind enters the room.

22.09.1993 16:45 

I lick a first Hofmann. No unusual taste. No Strange sensations follow.

 

16:59 

I take a sip of water. Pick up a second Hofmann. I'd already swallowed the first. I look at the sky through the open window. I can't recall ever seeing a sky so blue.

 

17:23 

After a fourth Hofmann. The sky! The ground  state of blue. And singing that's so beautiful… I am hearing singing! Songs of the angels!

 

17:57 

And the chiming of bells! Pealing along with the singing! So beautiful!

But then they disturb it… Why are they disturbing it? It was so perfect…

 

18:08 

No angels; no bells. Just the telephone ringing. And music coming from Anatoly's apartment. And the telephone ringing. ‘Blat! Son of a bitch cheated me, sold me fake Hofmanns. I'll fuck his ass. Blat!’

 

18:000

Watching the recording.  

 

                                                                              *    *     * 

 

10.10.1993 10:34 

It's raining outside. But I can only see the drops through a single closed window. It's been five days now since I stopped taking the pills they give me here. I'd drooled like a rabid jackal until I finally developed a technique I'm really proud of. Other than before bedtime, when they check my pulse, which is when I sometimes actually swallow. Just one pill to steady the heartbeat. Better than a sleepless night.

There are quite a few insufferable characters locked up here with me. Some are even violent. Good thing we have Vlad and Arthur – two refrigerator-sized orderlies who restore order when they need to. But there are others, too. The conversations with those deep guys keep echoing in your skull long after they end. So unlike conversations with physicists.  

 

12.10.1993  9:45 

Didi

Didi got up in the morning again soaked in his own piss. He knows when he's ‘having an accident’ while he’s still sleeping – and chooses not to wake up. Unwilling to give up the tiny patch of shadow he's found for himself in the hell that is his life. 

An RPG had pierced the diesel fuel trailer he had been dragging behind his jeep in Lebanon. Didi had found himself in a ball of flaming fire with his uniform soaked in burning diesel. Wherever he looked, all he saw were snakes and more snakes in orange and red, all coiling and twisting around him, whispering. ‘Oh well, I guess it's time to die now’ , Didi had said to himself, as if the man wreathed in flames was a stranger and not himself. So, he simply stood in that fiery hell, not even afraid. Until it suddenly hit him… he had no idea what ‘it's time to die now’ meant – what ‘I am going to die now’  means.

So he started moving his feet. Not because he expected it to do him any good. He just didn't know what would happen if he didn't. The wind, aroused by his movements, opened a crack in the red-orange curtain. Through it Didi saw the water tank being towed by the nearby command car. He ran to the water tank, opened the tap, and plunged into the stream.

Ever since then, even a smoldering cigarette butt may occasionally reminding Didi he still hasn't solved the riddle of death, and he returns – literally, physically – to the burning jeep in Lebanon, to have another shot at it.

‘Welcome back to Hell Channel, contestant No. 8! And you too, dear lost souls watching from home – we're all on the edge of our seats aren't we! Now, for the riddle of all riddles – in fact the one and only riddle – contestant No. 8, are you ready? – Ten seconds: what happens to you when you die?’

His thoughts scatter in all directions, colliding again and again with an inconceivable, impenetrable barrier, like a bee bumping into a glass screen. ‘Time is running out, contestant No. 8!’ The stench of burning skin scorches his nostrils, the flaming snakes squeeze his throat. And once again, there is not even a lead. 

The mummies in white uniforms don't understand him; don't understand the riddle. If they did, they'd know it can't be put aside. But I understand you, Didi. I understand.

 

14.10.1993 09:57 

“I feel much better,” I tell her, and ask to be discharged. Dr. Stein listens to me patiently. She's a relatively young doctor, decently attractive, and still not as worn out to the bone and extinguished as most of the staff here. A positive type overall, but as shallow as a puddle. She confirms that she, too, is seeing a considerable improvement in my condition, but she also says it isn't time yet. It was just two weeks ago, she reminds me, that I tried to commit suicide. “You had more LSD than blood in your circulation. I suggest you grow a little stronger, and then we'll think about what comes next, all right?”

“I succeeded” I correct her. “I succeeded in committing suicide. Several times, and I have no intention of doing it again. I've learned a thing or two since then.”

She smiles, I'm amusing her. “No,” she says softly, “you can only kill yourself once, and you certainly don't live to tell about it.” “Why not,” I ask. She dismisses my question. “I'm sure you're not asking that seriously.” “I actually am” I insist. “What would you have reported after a successful suicide?” “I wouldn't have reported anything, because I'd be dead, and you know that.”

Dr. Stein has entered the kill zone. As planned. “I know exactly what happens when you jump off a high tower to a concrete floor; I've told you this more than once. You say you don't believe my story – up to you – but let's suppose that tomorrow you are diagnosed with terminal cancer, and decide to jump off a tower too, to save yourself all the unnecessary pain and misery. What do you think your experience will be like the moment after your skull hits the concrete? Obviously, this question is very relevant to your decision of whether to jump or not because maybe the experience would be even more horrible than suffering the pain of a slow death?”

Dr. Stein gives a little involuntary grimace. “I would cease to exist,” she blurts laconically, “it would be like going to sleep without ever waking.”   “Cease to exist…”  I repeat her words, “… which means…”   “Just how it sounds,” she says. “I won't feel a thing; no pain, no sorrow, nothing.”   “Very well”, I begin with the butchering, “You won't feel a thing, which is, obviously, something you have never felt before because you always feel something. Even in darkness and utter silence you feel something. You feel darkness and utter silence.”   “True,” she affirms without too much thought.   “In other words,” I go on, “you're telling me that after hitting the ground you would experience X, but – and please focus now – if you can imagine X then it isn't an absolute nothing, it is still something. And if you cannot imagine X, then you actually admit to not knowing what X is, which means you have no basis for negating my version of X. And, equally, you always wake up. Perhaps there have been some discontinuities in your experience – you see the sun instead of the moon, or the hands on the clock have jumped forward – but you always wake up. So, even saying X = going to sleep without waking up is tantamount to the statement that you have no idea what X is.”

For the first time since meeting Dr. Stein, I begin to suspect that she can actually think, even if only for a brief moment, and about something I’ve told her, no less. The sensation must be so alien and uncomfortable to her that she immediately looks at her watch. “We've run out of time,” she says, her eyes darting at the door. And as I leave she adds, “I know that you have a sharp mind. Perhaps you should make use of your time here to give it a little rest.”  

 

16.10.1993 

It's my mom. She signed the involuntary commitment form for them. Suddenly, she cares about her son! I'll just prove to them, mathematically, logically, physically, that they have no grounds on which to keep me here. I'll take it to court if I need to, and summon all the relevant witnesses, mathematicians, physicists, maybe even philosophers. Who do these white mummies think they are? They have no idea who they've messed with!!!

 

16.10.1993 16:50 

May it Please the Court <<or something like that>>, 

Physics – ordinary physics – is a social activity. Physicist A conducts an experiment, documents it, and then physicist B, in a different time and place, tries to reproduce it. Both, of course, report their subjective experiences: What did I see on the screen, what sound did I hear, and so on. But they both share the silent agreement that they have described something objective, something external to them both… nature, the universe, something. The mathematical formalism of classical physics was literally constructed to describe such social activity. It allows uniform representation – or at least presumes to – of the system under study and observation, and of all the physicists that have, or will, study it.

The mathematical formalism of quantum physics, on the other hand, does not allow the representation of such social activity, which is why every physicist should be made aware of the fact that the term ‘quantum physics’ is a misnomer. What we refer to as ‘quantum physics’ is necessarily a partial ad hoc description, albeit an occasionally practical one. 

<<Too technical. Aim lower>>

 

17.10.1993 

 May it Please the Court, 

Physics has its place in the foundation of the scientific pyramid. On it rest chemistry, biology and then, at the apex of the pyramid, psychology and sociology;  all are special cases of physics – different levels of abstraction. Therefore, when the distinguished establishment which I sue is involuntarily committing me, it is basing its claims on the laws of physics. They wish to prevent me from jumping off a tower, because, according to the laws of physics, it would be uncomfortable for them to observe the outcome of such an experiment – a puddle of blood and a smashed skull – and it would prove even less comfortable for my mother, though, judging by the way she has treated me in the past, I would say she'd hardly… <<Not good. Stick to the point. Don't involve emotions.>>

The doctors' motives are certainly understandable. But by taking the Hippocratic oath, their sworn duty is to first determine the patient's best interest. I aim to prove to the court that in the particular case under discussion, these same doctors do not have the necessary means to determine what the patient's best interests are, and must therefore turn to a specialist. And in our particular case, the specialist is none other than the person standing in front of you, unrelated to the fact that he is also the plaintiff. And that is because during the months preceding his hospitalization, he had conducted orderly experiments in the relevant field, and had documented his findings at length in a diary that will be presented as evidence before the court.

However, it is not the prosecution's intention to rely solely on empirical findings. In the coming weeks, I will present a complete formalism before the court – a new scientific discipline if you like – which I refer to as ‘Anatolian Physics’, as it alone contains the language necessary to properly discuss, let alone decide, in the matter being considered by the venerable court.

Anatolian Physics is intended to describe the ‘personal’ experience. This experience isn't arbitrary, and is subject to a set of laws that are a generalization of the laws of regular physics. For example, ‘I see an apple falling’, is obviously an experience as well. But, unlike regular physics, in Anatolian physics there is no need, and in certain cases no way, to separate the observer and the observed – separating Newton from the falling apple. Therefore, the Anatolian physicist does not shy away from dealing with the question of his own death as it is merely an additional aspect of his experience. And this experience is the only thing regarding which he has no doubts and cannot have any doubts, and which does not depend on any model or interpretation.

<<The Anatolian physicist marvels at the conventional physicist's amazement from the ‘‘implausible effectiveness of mathematics’’ in describing nature, as they are both a part of his singular experience.>>

 Unlike him, as a conventional physicist, I cannot, even in principle, use the laws of conventional physics to draw any conclusions regarding the question of: ‘What would my experience be after my head hits the concrete floor?’ As a conventional physicist, my private-subjective experience is yet another representation of the objective state of a physical system – my own brain.

            Brain-Condition → Experience

However, unlike other representations, such as a particular mathematical construction, I alone have access to this experience. This greatly reduces the benefit I am able to derive from the research of other conventional physicists. And there lies the root of the problem facing us when we try to answer the question at hand. Because, in order to know what I will experience as my brains transforms into a uniform biological mush, I have no recourse other than to check it for myself. Any form of description, which would argue the non-necessity of a direct experiment, even if provided by an intellect far superior to my own, and even if it could be ‘understood’ by me, remains unreliable – because I alone can have access to my private experience; I am that experience. 

There are those who would claim – and they would be wrong – that despite all that, as a conventional physicist, I can still get ‘close' to the answer, albeit never quite touch it, and that I can do so in two possible ways. In a direct way, I could have my brain undergo a profound, yet reversible process such as a clinical death or a deep psychedelic trip. Any such action should also include external documentation – say, a video recording or a recording of neural signals – allowing me to learn about the connection between my recorded/reported experience and the state of my brain at that time. This way, I could presumably deduce, for example, that colors are ‘sharper’ when I'm ‘high’. Presumably. For are these ‘sharp’ colors, which I report while being ‘high’ – are they ‘sharp’ in the same subjective sense I apply to the term when I'm sober?

Questions like this can never be properly answered, as my ‘sober’ brain is different from my ‘drugged’ brain. The same applies to the memory of the colors being ‘sharp’. That would be about my current experience, after my recovery from brain trauma, which would have nothing to do with my experience while I was still in trauma (other than, perhaps, my belief).

Of course, one could claim that my brain is ceaselessly changing anyway and, therefore, the distinction between my sober and drugged brains, even if justified, would not nullify the value of such experiments. And there is some truth to this claim, but only up to a certain ‘level’ of being drugged. Once I started ‘seeing’ voices, or ‘hearing’ colors, the report would lose its value – all the more so when I stopped reporting. And beyond that, why should we even think that this same deep, yet reversible change in the brain moves me ‘closer’ to the answer rather than further away? In other words, if:

            Sober brain → Experience X,

            Drugged brain → Experience Y,

            Brain mush → Experience Z,

then on what basis, and in what sense, am I allowed to assume that experience Y is ‘closer’ to experience Z than experience X is?

The second way of finding the connection between the objective and the subjective  assumes the existence of a certain ‘morphism’ between myself and another system. The closer this mapping is to an isomorphism – the greater the similarity between the systems – the greater my confidence is in the applicability of a research on a foreign system to myself. In this way I deduce in what ways a brain injury would affect my experience without having to suffer an injury myself. In fact, this morphism is the basis of my discrimination against various systems. I feel compassion for my own species, and to a lesser degree – though still considerable – for mammals, and to an even lesser degree for animals that aren't mammals. And on particularly dark days, even for plants. But for sand and stones, I feel no compassion whatsoever. Yet, even if we were discussing my identical twin, the same maximal morphism would be nullified the moment my twin's brain suffers a particularly severe injury, and especially when he transformed into a uniform biological mush. Naturally, all the additional reservations that apply to the direct way, apply here as well. Particularly, non-reporting does not mean there's nothing to report.

However, the conventional physicist's failure to solve the riddle of death is even more colossal. As a conventional physicist I may ask, and even partially answer, the question – ‘What will my experience be before my head hits the concrete floor?’ But as to what I might experience after, that is a question I am not even allowed to ask. And that is because the concept of ‘after’, in the context of the case under discussion, involves personal time – the time that ‘flows’ and orders events – and it is an aspect of my present experience, while another aspect of it is the experience of an intact brain (For the same reason, the conventional physicist is not allowed to ask, ‘What was my experience before I was born?’). More generally, the very said division into: objective, external 4d world; which generates neuronal stimuli in my body's receptors; which are fed to the brain; which leads to a subjective experience – is a product of an intact brain, to which I cannot subscribe while my evaluation of my own brain is: `not intact'. And as in the digital-voltmeter case, nor can I even trust  my evaluation of my brain as `intact' – and unlike in the case of a voltmeter, I cannot evaluate myself `from outside' thereby, perhaps, proving that `intact' evaluation is only possible when indeed intact, since such meta-evalution owes its validity to an intact brain, as does this meta-meta-evalution etc. And if so, then the notions of an intact brain, objective external reality etc. are void of any meaning other than being part of my  experience which is therefore the object in need of observation and scrutiny.   

<<    C        l        u        m        s        y    >>

 

19.10.1993 09:38 

Anatolian Physics 

(1) The first law of Anatolian physics. Only the believable happens. Or, the unbelievable never happens.

(2) The second law of Anatolian physics. Only what happens is believable. Or, what does not happen is unbelievable.

As Anatolian physics is a fresh scientific discipline, much research will be needed to reach a conclusive formulation of its laws. This is especially true for various death types, which I haven't experienced yet. The mere formulation of these laws by using a formal language – such as Hebrew or mathematics, for example – very much limits their use, as language requires context, which may change or even nullify altogether. A comprehensive formulation of Anatolian physics will take the form of a new type of experience, the restriction of which to (1) and (2) is made possible in simple cases only. I will emphasize that the term ‘science’, in its various inclinations, does not refer strictly to academic science in the narrow sense of the word. Everyone is subject to the laws of Anatolian physics, and therefore everyone is a scientist in this field. 

Of course, the question might arise:‘Who are these things intended for?’, if, by definition, a separation between myself and others is impossible – as everything is just a part of my own experience. The simple answer is to unask the question. I voice things with the objective of affecting my experience for the better, and my familiarity with this self-experience, and with the laws of Anatolian physics, is what dictates their content.

Laws (1) and (2) ostensibly express a two-way containment, the meaning of which is an identity between that which happens and that which is believable, and nothing more. And that is almost precise. Almost, because the meaning of the terms ‘happens’ and ‘believable’ are slightly different in each of the laws. The non-trivial dynamics derived from rules (1) and (2) therefore take place in the twilight zones of what ‘happens’ and what is ‘believable’. There, the boundaries of the two are constantly being shaped in a close and elaborate dance; one time the first takes the lead, then the other takes its place. One time a serendipitous observation is established as an experimental fact, stretching the limits of the ‘believable’, then, another time, a prediction from the edges of the ‘believable’ is verified in a daring,  well-thought-out experiment that slightly broadens the ‘happening’. With the touch of a master choreographer, the successful experimenter is able to shift the dance to areas where the ‘happening’ leads; areas in which his belief is flexible and passive enough. At first, the shift takes place in his laboratory only. The required belief isn't always enough for the ‘happening’ to include a systematic reproduction of the experiment in other laboratories. But the good scientist is patient. He knows that in Anatolian dynamics, the speed of dance is finite.

But nowadays, even a good and patient scientist struggles to generate significant movement. In the past, all he had to do was wait until the same movement spread to a small number of scientists. From there on, he unreservedly believed, it would freely spread to the 'common’ people. But the number of active scientists nowadays is almost as plentiful as the number of 'commoners' in the past, and collectively they share a vast body of knowledge that has cemented itself as ‘happening’ in the Anatolian physicist's experience. He therefore tries to specialize in a narrow field with few scientists and few 'happenings'. This, indeed, leads to the thawing of the dance – but at the cost of pushing it onto a tiny stage.

<<For this reason, today, to be a good scientist takes extreme isolation and ignorance. Isolation can be attained at any point in life, but you get only one chance to be ignorant. Therefore, it can be said that, to a large extent, anyone setting foot on an academic track, sentences himself to creative extinction>>

 

20.10.1993 20:02 

Lab Report: 'Dear Diary' in light of Anatolian Physics

 The first event to be analyzed concerns my committing suicide by jumping off a tower, the inspiration for which, supposedly, came to me in a dream. But in Anatolian physics, ‘dream’ and ‘reality’ states of being do not have an absolute meaning. There is only relative dream and relative reality.

Mostly, when I dream, I experience the dream as reality. I believe I can fly, therefore I fly. It is only when I wake up, that which was reality until that moment gets reclassified a `dream' – relative to the newly born experience of  reality. In this new reality, the pair of ‘happening-believable’ might – not necessarily will – deviate sharply from the old one, in which case I can no longer fly.

I have dreams in which I am aware of being in a dream, meaning: I believe I will be able to wake up from that state of being. And, due to the first law, I do indeed wake up, sometimes into a new dream, but mostly into reality, meaning: I believe that, from this state, I can only fall asleep, never wake up. But this belief is challenged when the question of my death becomes tangible. Because if waking up is not possible, then what is the alternative? And when I examine this empirically, the ‘happening' will take the lead in that dance with the ‘believable’, and the second law will then dictate the answer.

Although I have not yet demonstrated this explicitly, it is safe to assume that the cyclical oscillation between the relative states ‘dream’ and ‘reality’ has a natural explanation. The following of the ‘happening’ after the ‘believable’ – a notion which those unfamiliar with Anatolian physics do not give the time of day to – is not devoid of a 'mental price' – a complex concept in itself, but the intuitive interpretation of it is sufficient for the purpose of this discussion. Perhaps it is not as much as the price of an intensive chess game, but, over time, `stabilizing' a fixed reality becomes increasingly more difficult. Even a simple experiment would be sufficient to witness that… <<give credit?>>  Place a coin under an opaque cup. Raise the cup; make sure the coin is still under it, and cover it again. Repeat this action every hour on the hour. At a certain point, the coin will vanish, or turn into a cockroach, or you will turn into a cockroach, and so on. And this will not be conceived as ‘unbelievable’ to you – as is mandated by the laws of Anatolian physics; the ‘happening-believable’ couple will simply shift to a new one which is easier to stabilize – unless your experience undergoes an occasional sleep cycle, between round hours.

<<This must also be why Didi has to eventually ‘wake up’. A dream-reality is a reality, which is difficult to stabilize over extended period>>

Putting (personal) experience at the basis of Anatolian physics illuminates yet another side of that cyclical oscillation. As noted, the conventional physicist's level of identification with various systems  reflects the homomorphism between himself and the system. In contrast, for the Anatolian physicist the relevant morphism is between various parts/facets of his experience. Thus, for example, I experience a ceaseless oscillation between ‘waking’ and ‘sleeping’; or, to be more precise, my present experience contains the ‘memory’ of such an oscillation. But I am also experiencing a homomorphic image of this oscillation in other parts of my experience related to the ‘other’. It is for this reason that I can emotionally empathize only with systems that can also fall asleep.

This last point is of fundamental importance to the problem of death, as it contains the essence of the embarrassment that overwhelms the conventional physicist upon seeing a lifeless body, when the homomorphism between him and the breathing version of this body nullifies. For the Anatolian physicist, seeing the corpse does not entail a discontinuity in his own experience, hence no confusion. That aspect of his experience which had been related to the live version of the body, continues to be an integral part of his experience, albeit in a different way. 

The sequence of events that began on 12.09.1993 proves the relativity of the states of ‘dream’ and ‘reality’. The diary describes only a ‘dream within a dream’, and does not continue to a ‘dream within a dream within a dream…’ But this is only due to a deliberate severance of this ‘babushka’ unpacking. At that stage, after the second jump, I realized that my belief regarding possible eventualities of such jumps had contained nothing other than waking from a dream, and I saw no point in trying to jump off a tower again. Undoubtedly, this was the hardest moment of my life. The realization that there is no emergency exit; no back door through which to escape when the suffering becomes unbearable – doesn't matter where to – so long as this stops.   And strangely, the moment I accepted the cruelty of an unavoidable existence, my suffering began to slowly fade.

In the second event, dated 15.9.1993, I was already open to possibilities other than simply waking. There was a reason that a scene monitored by cameras was chosen. I remembered all those times I had crossed a road with utter carelessness, immersed in thought, when a honk or a screech of tires would ‘wake’ me. And whenever I tried to recreate the moments preceding that awakening, I would often struggle to explain how it was I had stayed alive and unhurt. Indeed, the result of the experiment did not much surprise me, as complete surprise means a complete disparity between the ‘believable’ and the ‘happening’, which is forbidden by the laws of Anatolian physics. The external documentation, in particular the recorded footage, as described at 22:50 of the same evening, did not surprise me either. On the one hand, I did not believe that I would see a car colliding head on with a man, leaving him without as much as a scratch. On the other hand, I believed that the man in the footage was me and, unlike when awakening from a dream, I was continuously conscience from the event of collision to that of observing the footage. The disruption of the documentation prevented the unbelievable from happening.

The hysterical woman's reaction, as described on 16.9.1994, also falls under the definition of disrupted external documentation.

A full analysis of the event dated 22.9.1993 is yet to be completed for technical reasons. In the intensive care unit of the hospital the nurse told me I'm luck to still be alive after a vehicle unloaded me there and hurriedly left the scene. Temporary conclusion: I was unable to wake up as I had in previous times. Perhaps because I had been under the influence of drugs, or perhaps because I did not want  to? Judging by the wrists of some of my fellow ward-mates, they had been unable to wake up either.

 

23.10.1993 16:55

Noa

Noa is helping that small Ethiopian cleaning lady again. She no longer knows where she ends and others begins.

At first, she gathered all the derelict street cats and fed them in her apartment, because she didn't know anymore whose hunger it was.  She then distributed what little money she had to the homeless because she did not know whose pain and sorrow it was.  And one day, after putting some lentils she had sprouted in a pot of boiling water, she saw a life dying, and did not know whose life it was.

And yesterday, she wetted a dry stain of corrosion.

 

26.10.1993 16:30

Meeting Summary.

(You asked me to write a meeting summary and I have willingly obliged).

Documented by Dr. Hadas Stein, attending physician. Also present at the meeting: Dr. Eldad, director of the ward, and Dr. Waldman, an intern.

The meeting began with a confrontation. You demanded your immediate release and threatened to press charges against our institution. Dr. Eldad started to explain to you that such an option is not possible, but you interjected and waved the diary. You said you have a clear case and sound scientific discipline to back it up, and that no proper court of law would reject your claim. Dr. Waldman came to Dr. Eldad's assistance, and you turned the poisonous arrows of your tongue in her direction – and you hit your mark too.

Then you were silent. As were we. You looked at Dr. Waldman and a hint of tears glistened in your eyes. You lowered your gaze and asked her to forgive you for the things you'd said. When you raised your eyes again, your lips were already trembling. And a moment later the dam holding back the tears broke. You began to cry. Primordial sobbing. The tears a child would cry, complete with snotty nose and heavy gasping. Over and over, you asked to be forgiven and apologized and tortured yourself for being hurtful. There was no doubting your sincerity.

You hadn't cried since you were a little boy. You thought you'd forgotten how to cry.

When you calmed down a little, Dr. Eldad explained that there was no intention of keeping you in the closed ward. He had tried to tell you before that there was no way you could sue the institution for involuntary commitment.

From that moment on, the choice was yours. We recommended you be transferred to an open ward for an additional short period of time, but you might choose to become an outpatient, or to simply move on with your life.

And I'm experienced enough to know when one of my patients isn’t taking his drugs.

You ask me to read what I am writing down. You're smiling. It is the first time I've seen you smiling.

 ‘You can certainly write, Dr. Stein.’

 

26.10.1993 18:55

(3) The Third Law of Anatolian Physics

 

                                                                                *    *    *

 11.05.2021 16:50

Yes, I know. Much time has passed dear diary. It is simply that I have become very normal over the years. I didn't want to bore you. The old flame has been extinguished, and the pale grass of compromise has bloomed in the now cold furnace. Also, there have been too many things to organize, which has left little room for doubt. Now, reading you, I feel a little yearning for the passion-filled savage that wrote you. Was he completely sane while writing? Too sane.

But somehow, I've always known we'd meet again. And not because I was afraid I might go crazy again. No, I've left my fear of insanity far behind, along with my ambition to leave a mark on physics. A man has a narrow window of opportunity to be successful in these two fields, and I must have missed mine. Honestly, I am no longer afraid of anything. Which might seem strange considering my condition.

When the doctors gave me two months to live at the most, I politely thanked them, packed a small backpack, and headed straight to the Araba valley. Everyone whispered under their breath, "He's gone crazy again," when I told them I was going to search for the Wadi. And the tree.

And now, I am sitting in the shade of the trees. The foliage is dense enough to block the sunbeams, but not completely. You can still see bits of sky and the sun’s rays are dappling on the ground. And there's the wind. A light, gentle breeze. Cool, but just enough. Generating a rustle of white silence.

And a great serenity.

Unknown date   Unknown time

That`s it. My hearing is completely lost. Soon vision will follow and then surely the rest of the senses.  Gradually I'm deprived of all external stimuli, and with wonderous tenderness led inwards... 

To Anatolia... where there is no "there is". Only...

 pure love to all I`ve ever been. To all ever been me.

Such wisdom and compassion...