A Library of Ghosts

The non local superimposed upon the local as the root of consciousness would be a probability if consciousness is not an emergent phenomenon. There is less certainty rather than more ratification of a conclusive argument as to what the Self is located as an orientation in spacetime.

One could say this is a simple conclusion as an entanglement of logic being tripped by it's own shoe laces while making a grand entrance onto the empirical world of surfaces.

One bio-physicist referred to the processing of the physical brain in relation to the mind as one that only sees the outlines of objects in the exterior environment and..if we take that same recognition inwardly toward the Self as seen through "personality" and this being an outline of something else I ask what that something could be. 

Ouspensky called what others experience of this something we may be a shadow corresponding to the experiences of Plato's cave dwellers. Gurdjieff used the term "false personality" referring to this term as defining the Self as a self referential database of reactive and binary correspondences without any actual coherence other than by imaging it to be so. Man's singular name is legion, he is not one but many fraught with cross purposes. That leads to how we define the historical world.
A universe fraught with layers of false references, both inward and outward. A good question is better than a good answer in this predicament.

This hole where Self may be if it is non-local... seemingly has no location within our own references and as a result, what we have imagined ourselves to constitute as an entification appears to be a process of back filling this gap through imprinting and memories which confirm themselves through referents. One wag called this a player piano.

These same referents are known to cause the illusion of time by the utility of comparing one marker to another. There seems to be a buried corpse in our closet that refuses to lie down and play dead. The bone is buried along with the dog that concealed it.

The conjunction of synchronicity as a nexus in a oceanic information field lacking a "now " or identifiable present tense as a metric that has been effectively erased as a conceptual model while the irony persists that our daily existence is ruled by an illusion for solely pragmatic purposes of coordinating tasks.

Is precognition a memory from the future?

If so, what constitutes a means for the retrieval of a memory from what has yet to occur?

Three days prior to his death the hand of Abraham Lincoln grasps a pen at the end of the day to place a disturbance on a map whose location is without a reference other than himself ,which by his own account would have no orientation outside his own corpse to recall it.

"About ten days ago, I retired very late. I had been up waiting for important dispatches from the front. I could not have been long in bed when I fell into a slumber, for I was weary. I soon began to dream. There seemed to be a death-like stillness about me. Then I heard subdued sobs, as if a number of people were weeping. I thought I left my bed and wandered downstairs. There the silence was broken by the same pitiful sobbing, but the mourners were invisible. I went from room to room; no living person was in sight, but the same mournful sounds of distress met me as I passed along. I saw light in all the rooms; every object was familiar to me; but where were all the people who were grieving as if their hearts would break? I was puzzled and alarmed. What could be the meaning of all this? Determined to find the cause of a state of things so mysterious and so shocking, I kept on until I arrived at the East Room, which I entered. There I met with a sickening surprise. Before me was a catafalque, on which rested a corpse wrapped in funeral vestments. Around it were stationed soldiers who were acting as guards; and there was a throng of people, gazing mournfully upon the corpse, whose face was covered, others weeping pitifully. 'Who is dead in the White House?' I demanded of one of the soldiers, 'The President,' was his answer; 'he was killed by an assassin.' Then came a loud burst of grief from the crowd, which woke me from my dream. I slept no more that night; and although it was only a dream, I have been strangely annoyed by it ever since."

His choice of words are interesting as his continued annoyance seemingly conveys that a dream can be a truth wrapped into a fiction or unfold in the opposing direction being a fiction conveying what could not be recalled in any linear account.

Images as a film unwinding in which the observer is the observed as reflection of a mirror which has no location.

Which is the originating source of this reflection that stands before him as an orientation?

It brings to mind the illusions of sidereal time wherein we occupy what has been projected as an input into the future that can also be recalled at rare moments, as a reiteration of a past yet to occur by a calendar or clock. Oneself as a ghost with parallel proxies in relation to the present as proverbial doppelgangers.

Jorge Luis Borges as a child was repelled by the mirrors in his childhood home for such a reason.

“`I was always afraid of mirrors,' Borges said in 1971. `I had three large mirrors in my room when I was a boy and I felt very acutely afraid of them, because I saw myself in the dim light -- I saw myself thrice over, and I was very afraid of the thought that perhaps the three shapes would begin moving by themselves …

Borges later wrote a fictional account of a library, the Library of Babel whose premise predated the physics of information as well as quantum mechanics, in a quest for oneself by the comparisons of information in relationships within individuation, perhaps as embodied in individuals sharing the path of fractals, or the circumference of a hologram on whose surface one metric leads and incorporates all other metrics and orientations of perspective.

There is perhaps no geometry in this only a field of information within a plenum that is self organising by way of continually making new comparisons one could call this the genetics of memory whose expansion is infinite in defiance of the laws of conservation.

The full possible set of protein sequences (Protein sequence space) has been compared to the Library of Babel. In the Library of Babel, finding any book that made sense was impossible due to the sheer number and lack of order. The same would be true of protein sequences if it were not for natural selection, which has selected out only protein sequences that make sense in relation to their orientation. Additionally, each protein sequence is surrounded by a set of neighbours (point mutants) that are likely to have at least some function in a interdependence.

Borges wrote:

“The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. From any of the hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal bookcase. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one's fecal necessities. Also through here passes a spiral stairway, which sinks abysmally and soars upwards to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror which faithfully duplicates all appearances. Men usually infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite (if it were, why this illusory duplication?); I prefer to dream that its polished surfaces represent and promise the infinite ... Light is provided by some spherical fruit which bear the name of lamps. There are two, transversally placed, in each hexagon. The light they emit is insufficient, incessant.

  Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered in search of a book, perhaps the catalogue of catalogues; now that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite. I say that the Library is unending. The idealists argue that the hexagonal rooms are a necessary form of absolute space or, at least, of our intuition of space. They reason that a triangular or pentagonal room is inconceivable. (The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a circular chamber containing a great circular book, whose spine is continuous and which follows the complete circle of the walls; but their testimony is suspect; their words, obscure. This cyclical book is God.) Let it suffice now for me to repeat the classic dictum: The Library is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible. ““

If there is no now as a reference in any of this, my mind turns to a physicist who remarked it was becoming more difficult to distinguish with any accuracy what organism is living versus in a state of death if energy is equivalent to information, it cannot be destroyed, only transformed.

I think of popular shows like Ghost adventures as representing an erstwhile comedy of errors as a result. They may be pulling a book out of the library with the assumption it is in the present tense and completely unaware that they themselves are ghosts.