[F]inal testing concluded as of 5:09 AM Eastern Standard Time on December 8, 2012, effectively vesting for time immemorial copyrights to all possible written works in High Arka Funworks.The said system was possible due to the copyrighting of all potential variations on the page--quite numerous to a human neurological system, but nothing to a ("synthetic") 1997 computer, a 2012 computer, or computers in-between. Though grounded in English, any portion of any fiction work that could be described by the 11,180,000 possibilities per page could cause the copyright to be extended to all past, current, and future Terran languages, and likening the coding to molecular, or atomic, coding for us-perceptible color, could be shown to represent exact copies of some percentage of any expression/product of digital visual artwork, or as "copied" prints of non-digital artwork, e.g., a print of an oil painting. The approximately one hundred and ten trillion variations, should they not be found to include html color coding for the totality of any human-comprehensible visual artwork, represents at least a complete copy of a component of such artwork. For example, the circa hundred and ten trillion combinations includes a detailed html-based description of every available sculpture less than or equal to the size that could be found partly or comprehensively inside a two-thousand-square-foot space, along with color coding for prints of all sides of the sculpture, proving that all sculptures created after 1997/2012 are expressed copies of the original F.I.S. design.
Computing power gives greater rise to such conundrums, whereby all potential creativity can be masked and made irrelevant by anti-copying law, which, like income taxes, manifests as a fair solution to a secretly created problem, and moves from machinated, ergo impossible, expressions of honor-based systems ("don't copy someone else's work," which we can privately understand, but which rhetorical trickery can turn into a stupidly plausible thieves' bazaar) to opportunities for trickery. We see permissible, disgusting copying in many varieties taking place under anti-copying law systems, reinforced by the verisimilitude of patent law, which would have been unprofitable and socially destructive under alternative regimes. Similar to the vilest accusations of marijuana advocates prior to U.S. legalization, the billions or trillions of labor expressed in dollars in annual codified copying, though perhaps the smaller quantity of concurrent death (though not suffering) caused by the medicine cartel compared to the entertainment cartel (we laugh; "as though they're different," but at a lower level they are), is its own justification for the profitability of the system. This one's inability to, say, exercise copyrighting protection over all movie scripts and books and other works of art created since late 2012 and sue for damages would probably be, if sufficient sums were invested to earn a formal reprimand, ironically attributed at least in part to the "spirit" of the copyright law, wherein "randomly" generated works merited less or zero protection compared to presumably original ones. To the extent that anyone of consequence is stupid enough to inwardly believe such rot, the difference is nonetheless expressed in the material power differential between owner and slave. The pretense of fairness is the open secret, not meant to be taken seriously by players, for those innocent enough to speak it are, like anti-fascists before bulldozers, made part of the next condominium association.
By way of comparison, an online social network destroys actual socialization by mimicking it, superficially treating disease by secretively causing it. In this way, "the internet" and "medicine" each show themselves to be fractal representations of greater history since Jenome. To a large if not total extent, we're rendered powerless by the prescription pad or the social network, resulting originally and necessarily from the stupid vulnerabilities of the dead and the dying.
"Who am I to arrange for something without official approval?" The granting of a paid mediator's license of some kind, contra the provisioning of a livelihood by the recommendation of those who've used your or your parent's services in the past, confers social approval as a precursor to the "like." Like all things we might today lament, the seeds were long ago sown. Many members of the aging peoples, as well as novices at this game, cannot even conceive of why or how to ask the foregoing question, ergo the imitative emptiness of the here and now. In a way, the political critic is as naive as the basically-trusting citizen. More directly put, consider one of the many anti-exploitation network activists trying to "wake people up" about this or that issue, minute or comprehensive, as roughly equal to the docile taxpayer who (however vaguely) disapproves of one or more forms of extremism, and participates in all aspects of the process, including being subtly or overtly exploited. From a perspective farther away, both are equally naive about their uses, chances, and part in the process (this one included). Quelle tragédie!
Increasing our estimate of computing power, imagine the copyrighting of not only pages, but rooms. Take a room, one meter by ten--perhaps too small; let's say ten by ten--and five meters from floor to ceiling all around. In that room, we have space for X molecules of air, pressurized to some relatively ideal range of local human-preferred pressure, same for gravity, subject to seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, et cetera.
Now, in that room, we have a certain range of molecules, or let us instead say "atoms" in certain arrangements. In that room, 10x10x5, displacing the air molecules or merely shifting the atoms within them, we can produce some quantity of possibility, from a room empty of all material and energy, all the way to a room so packed with atoms that it creates a solid block, 10x10x5, of the element that contains the densest possibility of atomic combinations--a single one, represented by some trans-alphabetical sigil on a hypothetical table of elements written small on laminated paper but nonetheless stretching from, oh, Sol to Pluto.
Within this room, 10x10x5, lie all the possibilities of the universe. All possible atomic and subatomic relationships, or all possible sub-sub-etc. components of such relationships, can be expressed via this room. All possible subatomic relationships and energy relationships can fit in this room, including a zero kelvin state paired with an absence of molecules all the way to, let's say, 100 googol (100G) kelvin paired with completely-packed subatomic particles which can only exist in a solid state when suitably compressed by appropriate pressure.
Inside the room can exist, per molecular rules, an exact duplicate of your five-year-old self discovering and tasting an apple, meeting the grown-up shape of your ideal lover, or the two-hundred-year-old-you whispering final goodbyes to the equally aged version of said ideal. And everything in-between. Within 10x10x5, the perfect duplicate of 18-you or 25-you can discover the perfect apple, the rotten apple, the okay apple, the apple preserved in a small alien stasis device, et cetera. All the possibilities are there, depending on sub-atomic relationships charged with (or not charged with) any given quanta of energy.
Like characters on a written page, all material possibility can be placed within that room. You finding the apple can be represented in, say, a trillion trillion trillion ways, depending on the exact size and composition of the apple at the time of discovery, and so forth. The room will be affected by time, too, so imagine the room's possibilities increasing based on the potential speeds of sub-atomic particles, thereby increasing the possibilities rather exponentially. Let's say one "hour." In one, your fourteen-year-old body shows up, wonders about the room, wanders about the room, picks at the walls, gets metaphysically confused, and sits down to think about it for forty-five minutes before vanishing. In the next, you get frustrated slightly slower and sit down to think about it for forty-four point nine nine nine et cetera minutes before vanishing. And so forth.
Conceive then of better computers than the ones you think of as being here now. Imagine a computer that can, as matter-of-factly as my hundred-ten-trillion character mixes generated for a printed page, generate in five minutes of whirring the exact quantity of such possibilities for said room. 10x10x5 of sub-atomic space gives a certain amount of possibilities for what exactly will be in that space, and what will happen to it, or not happen to it, for that one hour.
We're discussing here finitude, in the sense that, however "large" the number of possibilities, that number is finite. Maybe it's a googol googol googol ~. Let's call it "1000" just to be cute. Whatever 1000 is, it's a finite number. Like verbal-derived work, it's finite. There are only so many ten-word sentences that can be written, just like there are only so many sub-dividable integers within a hundred-ten trillion possibilities or pages. We can make the number bigger, perhaps impressing ourselves by adding a few zeroes, or a few googol zeroes, and accounting for the increased possibilities of discovering newer, smaller sub-atomic particles, subdivisions of time, increasing available space from 10x10x5 to "galactic supercluster" or "a googol times the size of the known universe," but the quantity of material interactions from which we're able to extract possibility will remain finite.
Given eternal lifespans, we would gradually come to sort-of recognize all possibility, as we would come to sort-of recognize all hundred-ten trillion copyrighted works in my earlier example. Given sufficient computing power of our own, we'd then not sort-of recognize all possibilities, but recognize them, understand them, overstand them, and in all ways conceivable to now-us and then-us, know them. Trapped in such a bounded eternity, we would so completely know what was happening that we could liken our participation in such endless trillion-year groundhog days (sub-local repeating reference) better to sleepwalking a recurring nightmare than to wake-walking novelty (or "living"). It is difficult to convey, to the human-lifespan-focused mind of here and now, the pain that would be caused to such a profound hypothetical entity by finitude, wherein concepts of repetition and suffering would transcend what we can conceive of to the n, and what we would be more powerless than a mortal in a dungeon/hospital to resist. In this sense, comparative nonexistence and delusion-fostering is merciful, as is the presumed provisioning of such to the ignorant future torture-subject.
(A systemic Jenomic apologetic, that, and connected to something we may discuss later regarding the positive aspects of decay, though largely irrelevant as to personalized- or group-motivations now. Apologies to the past several generations of Olivers, if you will, for feeling [rightly?] entitled to their personal or vicarious material beauty and honor. How ironic it would seem, to them, that the harshest racial recognition would lead down a darker path than they'd accept.)
This cuts to the essence of creativity and positive infinity. I've previously discussed the impossibility of a totalized, "negative-including" infinity, in which a "true" infinity cannot exist because of its potential for including perpetual non-existence. Things can exist because such a non-existence is not possible; a true infinity, in the sense in which we sometimes define it here, is impossible. More importantly for here, for now, is building the sense that creativity--the constant expansion of possibility; the slaying of finitude--is necessary for reality. If you don't do it, someone will a googol^n years later, because it has to be, so there's no real pressure; this isn't a blog as a proselyte, a post as a polemic, despite its recurrent appearance as such. What we're trying to do in making learning faster, however comparatively minute, is developing creativity at early stages. Material is a finite trap, plagued or dotted with (your terminological preference) traces of rhetorical foreshadowing or hindsight which can never be pinned down, ergo this now, this one.