The entire universe is composed of information, about the past, present and future. Every particle carries a record, the memory of where it has been and is going. Wild when you consider that for particles, time means nothing.
On the macro level, the one that we occupy, or let me rephrase that, the middle level (galaxies and black holes are really the ‘macro’ level) provides us with all manner of frames of reference. Consider the concerns of world citizens about the goings on, war, jobs, the cost of gasoline, the ever increasing price for basic foodstuff, or whether one celebrity or another is pregnant or headed to jail; all delivered via the internet, tv, newspapers, or the ever popular tweets of cohorts and complete strangers. Sifting through all muck, it takes a good deal of strength and mental fortitude to put everything in perspective, to see the information for what it is, passing frames of reference.
Consider the frame as a single captured moment of time, in a specific place, that attempts to transfer a unique sequence dependent on what came before, or what will follow after. I know, your scratching your collective heads and saying “Get on with it already!”, and I will, but I’m just trying to explain the basis of what is coming next, meaning the next paragraph. So, frames of reference, memories of particles, information theory, and that nothing is ever lost (Hawking lost a bet on this, turns out if you fall into a black hole, you maybe torn apart, but the information is retained!).
Unable to sleep, PBS was turned on, in the intense desire to view something that didn’t involve shouting (Egypt) or the misbehavior of local citizens (LA at its worst trying to be cool or hip). Of course, the program that I stepped into, discussed nothing but my little fixation above, the information that is being ignored intentionally by those that are paid to examine us in death. The coroners offices around the country are the least funded, but are the ultimate arbitrages of truth, discovering cause, reasons, and possibilities of all the different manners we figure out to die from. Pathologists are paid to deconstruct the corpse, dismantling it, weighing it out, jotting numbers, facts, figures down for reference in files that will probably never be looked at. There is nothing holy, sacred, or even anything remotely romantic in this work, beyond the cut and dry discovering of truth, pinpointing cause.
Yes, I know that I am prattling on about something that any good TV viewer probably watches in a glorified sexed up crime shows that air at all manner of hours throughout the day. I guess what I am trying to call attention to, is the same thing that I did a few days ago, once again, the very small, the middle, and the macro. The composition of each is infused with information, records, as methodically compiled, stamped and clear as a time card hanging on a wall. It is our job, to cut through the noise, drain the passion of emotion, and to understand, each point of reference, each passing frame, posited in our view.