In the 1990 film Awakenings, based on Oliver Sacks’s memoir of the same name, a patient named Lucy Fishman (Alice Drummond), although in a semi-catatonic state, suddenly catches a ball when it’s thrown to her.
It’s a wonderful scene. But it’s not the “will” of the ball that Lucy’s borrowing; it’s its time signature.
Lucy’s experience of time is askew. Her speed of time is so slow that it’s frozen, and her speed of light is so fast that it’s frozen. (Zero is a special number that can signify either itself or infinity.) Her core metabolic rate is in severe alkalosis, forcing her pH into severe acidosis. She’s both too dense and not dense enough. She’s stuck. For Lucy, time is standing still.
Lucy is with us in this quantum field. Her M/E (matter to energy) ratio is correct—but her c’s are severely deranged.
Her derangement is similar to that of Parkinson’s—another illness, like encephalitis lethargica, that responds, temporarily, to L-Dopa. Another illness in which the sufferer is “too far backward” in time.
But why the effect of the thrown ball?
When matter moves forward in space, it moves backward in time. And when matter moves backward in space, it moves forward in time. Picture an x and a y axis. To move L–>R along x is to warp back and up to y; to move R–>L along x is to warp back and down to y. It’s the left and right arms of the Fylfot. The x axis is space; the y axis is time.
The Fylfot, or tetra-gammadion—from the Greek for four gammas or four forces—is an ancient symbol signifying time that dates back to the beginning of time. It has been taken from us, and used as a symbol for evil. But we’re going to take it back.
When matter accelerates (speeds up), it becomes light. Light then swings up, to the future, and incarnates as matter.
When light decelerates (speeds up*), it becomes matter. Matter then swings down, to the past, where it moves forward into light.
(*Light cannot slow down because its true speed is zero. It can only speed up in two directions—toward or away from zero, in imaginary or real numbers.)
The forward motion of the past appears to us as light. Universes that are behind us in time appear to us as stars. When we look out at the firmament, we’re looking backward in time. We’re seeing the past—our past. We’re seeing ourselves.
The forward motion of the past is starlight.
The backward motion of the future, however, is invisible to us. Universes that are ahead of us in time appear to us as black holes. Our eyes evolved in response to the material world; we see only what’s material—time’s forward movement. We don’t perceive incarnation—time’s backward movement.
To put it another way: we only see—”know”—the past. We don’t see time itself. Here’s a picture of time (or, at least, one slice):
This is a three-dimensional map of the cosmos, from data gathered by the Sloan Digital Sky Survey. For the first time in history, we’ve been apply to aggregate images of 1.5 million galaxies and see—from a great distance—ourselves.
That’s what time looks like. Here’s how time moves: the past (cone on the left) speeds up and the future (cone on the right) slows down, until, at the ecliptic, they flip. Remember pH? The cone on the left grows more acidic as the cone on the right grows more alkaline.
Time’s movement is the twin-poled motion of a tesseract. The past gets hotter and the future gets colder until at the ecliptic, they flip (see below). This image has been called, among other things, “Anomalous Alignments in Our Cosmic Microwave Background.”
Matter that warps forward becomes light, and light that warps backward becomes matter. When I say the past speeds up and the future slows down, what am I really saying?
Old light is dying, and becoming matter, so that matter may become new light. The old heaven and old earth are passing away in order to make a new heaven and a new earth.
Because—let’s look again at the image of the data from the Sloan Digital Sky Survey. I’ve said that we don’t perceive the backward-motion (death) of future light. So why do we perceive the cone on the right? Who is the observer here?
We are, and we are the future. The new future. As the future dies and becomes the past, together we forge a new future.
Maybe now’d be a good time to hear from our old friend, Albert Einstein. When we look at time, we’re looking at Special Relativity. There’s Past Light, there’s Future Light, and there’s the Hypersurface of the Present that sits between them.
The Hypersurface of the Present—what we typically call “earth” but what might be more accurately called “now”—is flat. Like the past (the sun) and the future (the moon), these planes will appear to us as spheres only if our sight line encompasses more than one time zone. We’re observing the curvature of time.
Ever make fun of a crazy flat-earther? Those brazen free-thinkers who exhibited a greater allegiance to the inner voice of truth than the outer voice of opinion, even if it meant social isolation and public humiliation? Now’s the time to shake hands and buy him or her a beer.
He makes all things new. Matter is becoming light, just as light is becoming matter. But we don’t see it. We don’t see light as it dies into matter. Nor do we see matter as it dies into light. We just see the scrim—the projection—between them. The old heaven is dying and giving its light to the earth, so that earth—the new earth—may create the new heaven. It’s an iterative process that never ends. The circle is unbroken.
The plane of today is flat. As is the plane that sits adjacent to today, at a slightly wider angle. The curvature of time is not a globe. It’s a spiral. That’s why we need such funny math (e.g. leap years) to make our calendars work. By the time we complete the circle, the circle is wider. It’s the same place—but a different day.
The spiral of the future and the spiral of the past intersect in a double helix.
When matter becomes energy, time flips. For matter, the spiral is flat (Fibonacci). For light, time is an arrow. Here’s one:
Which in real life looks more like this:
And here’s many (below). Every straight line drawn outward from the Big Bang toward the sphere of timelessness (heaven) is one of time’s arrows.
I see some of you are looking a little peaked. What, did you think there was only one universe? One now? One us? On the contrary, there are many. In our father’s house are many rooms.
That homeless person you just passed on the street without so much as saying a quiet prayer for her, sending her some of your light? The dance of quantum mechanics is a karmastic two-way tango. In another universe, you are she and she is you.
Later on in the film Awakenings, in a heartbreaking scene, Leonard Lowe (Robert De Niro) stares into the camera after his tremors have begun to return—because the drugs are wearing off, as the drugs always do—and time is slowing down for him again, forcing his light to speed up. Dr. Malcolm Sayer (a fictional Sacks, played by Robin Williams) wants to put the camera away, but Lowe won’t let him.
“Watch watch watch watch watch watch watch,” Lowe implores, barely able to talk. “Learn learn learn learn learn—Learn from me.”
I speak now not just for the beautiful minds of Oliver Sacks and all those who belong to our noble tribe of physicians, but for the tens of thousands of citizen-scientists who’ve been toiling in the trenches with me: the tireless parents of children with autism; the fearless critics of damaging vaccines; the bed-bound victims of the worst disease I know—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome—who’ve been not merely mocked by our current medical system, but abandoned. I speak for the past, the future, and the mighty and unfathomable current of light that is rising between them, speaking not as one voice, but as a chorus of voices that now knows—now sees—where we went astray, and wants, with its whole collective heart, to make it better.
We didn’t give up on you, Leonard. We watched, and we studied—and, by God, we learned. Through the dark night, alone, with nothing but the hum of the monitor and the plastic cup of tepid water, the beloved dying in our arms, the light escaping through the crack at the bottom of the door. We watched, and we listened; though our eyes failed and our muscles burned. We did not look away. We refused to look away. We were not cowed by power. We kept going—we kept the camera rolling. We studied our own pain, Leonard—just as we studied, never stopped studying, yours. And eventually, in time, with time, by God, we learned.
The singularity isn’t coming. The singularity is here.