The Dance


Before the churches rose, before the calendars named the months, women walked the turning earth on bare feet and felt a pulse beneath them older than any catechism. This painting belongs to that elder country.

A woman dances at midnight among violet blossoms and dark loam, the ankles bound in thin chains. The damp ground below quickens with wildflowers and ribbons of teal brushwork, each stroke a small wind drawn through grass.

The Dance

The piece takes its subject from “The Quickening,” a song from Shattered Goddess. It attempts in pigment what the music attempts in voice and string: a return to the pre-modern sense of the earth as a living thing. The old faiths understood this. So did every midwife, herbalist, and practitioner who held the earth sacred.

Acrylic on canvas, 30 × 40 inches

The Prison and the Map

A digital illustration of an alien woman with blue skin and large flowers in her head, set against a futuristic background with planets and stylized plants. She is smiling and wears a black garment. The scenery includes glowing plants and rocky formations.

On Coordinates, Cosmic Uncertainty, and Why Time Travel Is Probably Not Happening

It Started at Two in the Morning

I could not sleep. This is, admittedly, not the most auspicious opening line for what I intend to be a serious piece of writing, but there it is. It was somewhere past two in the morning, and rather than lie there cataloguing the ordinary anxieties that tend to colonize a sleepless man’s thinking, I decided to go bigger. Much bigger. The question I landed on was, at first glance, absurdly simple: can we determine the exact position of a human being on the surface of the Earth, measured from the planet’s core outward?

The short answer, as it turned out, was yes. The longer answer unravelled into one of the more genuinely strange intellectual journeys I have taken, and I have taken a few. By the time the sun came up I had worked my way outward through the solar system, the galaxy, the structure of the cosmos, and arrived at the proposition that we are almost certainly living inside a black hole. Which is either a profound cosmological insight or evidence that I should drink less coffee after six in the evening. Possibly both.

What follows is my attempt to reconstruct that journey in some semblance of order. I will say upfront, as I have said before in other work, that I am not a scientist. I am a student of the Arts, a painter, a musician, and a writer who has always found the hard sciences rather more interesting when approached from the side door than through the front. I am… standing on the shoulders of giants , and occasionally losing my footing. Bear with me.

Where Are You, Exactly?

The question of precise terrestrial positioning has been solved with a rigor that should frankly astonish anyone who pauses to think about it. The governing framework is called the Earth-Centered, Earth-Fixed coordinate system, ECEF for short, and it places its mathematical origin at the Earth’s center of mass. Three axes extend outward from that point in mutually perpendicular directions, and every location on the planet’s surface can be expressed as a set of three numbers relative to that origin. This is the mathematical skeleton upon which GPS navigation is built. Your phone knows where you are because it is, beneath all the friendly interface design, solving a set of ECEF equations in real time.

The standard reference for this system is WGS84, the World Geodetic System of 1984, which defines the reference ellipsoid that global navigation uses as its baseline. Geodetic-grade receivers can now determine position to within a few millimeters. A few millimeters. The center of the Earth is 6,371 kilometers beneath your feet, 3,959 miles (and change) for those that use the only system to put people on the moon with, and we can locate you relative to it with the precision of a thumbnail. That is, by any reasonable measure, extraordinary.

Now here is where it starts to get interesting. The Earth is not, in fact, a rigid body. It deforms. The Moon and Sun pull on it gravitationally and the solid surface flexes upward and downward by 20 to 40 centimeters, about eight-16 inches, in a cycle that repeats roughly twice a day, this is called the solid Earth tide, and most people have no idea it exists. Scandinavia and Canada are still rising at over ten millimeters per year, rebounding from the weight of ice sheets that melted at the end of the last glacial maximum. The crust breathes seasonally as groundwater loads and atmospheric pressure shifts. In short, your precise ECEF coordinate is not a fixed number. It is a number that is continuously, measurably changing.

There was, for a period in the mid-twentieth century, a serious scientific hypothesis proposing that the Earth itself was expanding, advanced most forcefully by the Australian geologist S. Warren Carey, who argued that the fit of the continents made more sense on a smaller primordial globe. The idea got a fair hearing before plate tectonics made it unnecessary. Modern geodetic analysis has since established that any net change in the Earth’s mean radius amounts to no more than 0.1 millimeters per year — well within known elastic deformation and nowhere near the expansion Carey envisioned. The Earth deforms. It does not meaningfully grow. Good to know.

The Sun Has No Address

Emboldened by the success of the ECEF system, one might reasonably suppose that similar precision awaits us at the next scale outward. One would be wrong, and the reasons why are worth dwelling on.

The International Astronomical Union has established coordinate frameworks for the solar system, and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s ephemeris models locate the Sun’s center of mass with precision sufficient to navigate spacecraft across billions of kilometers. So, in the mathematical sense, the Sun does have an address. The problem is that there is nothing at that address you could put a pin in.

The Sun is not a solid body. It is a plasma body in continuous turbulent convection, and its visible surface (the photosphere) is not a surface at all in any meaningful physical sense. It is a shell of opacity, the depth at which the gas becomes dense enough to be opaque to outgoing light. Below that is convective chaos all the way down. The discipline of helioseismology has mapped the solar interior with considerable ingenuity by inverting the acoustic oscillations that ripple across the surface, in much the same way a geologist reads the interior of the Earth from seismic waves. The dominant five-minute oscillations displace the solar surface by kilometers continuously. The Sun is, in the most literal available sense, ringing like a bell… one that has never stopped sounding and that nobody struck.

Furthermore, and this is the cool part, the Sun’s center of mass does not even sit at the Solar System’s barycenter. Jupiter is massive enough, at certain points in its orbit, to displace the barycenter outside the solar photosphere entirely. The Sun executes a slow, irregular orbit around this shifting point, a motion that is perfectly real and measurable. The thing we call the center of the solar system is not a fixed location. It wanders.

The honest conclusion is this: the solar center of mass exists as a real, instantaneous, physically meaningful point at every moment. There is just nothing anchored to it. It is like asking for the precise center of a wave breaking on a beach. The point exists. Finding it by any direct means is another matter entirely.

And the Galaxy Is Worse

Locating the Sun within the Milky Way presents a problem with no good analogue at smaller scales. We are inside the object we are trying to map. Every survey conducted from Earth is made from a single embedded vantage point, surrounded by dust and gas that obstruct the view in ordinary light across most of the galactic disk. It is, to turn a phrase, rather like trying to map a forest from within it, in dense fog, using only sound.

The Sun’s distance from the galactic center, which sits at the location designated Sagittarius A (Sgr A*), has been refined progressively over decades. Current estimates place it at around 26,000 light-years, though the uncertainty band remains several hundred light-years wide. The GRAVITY Collaboration, using interferometric observations of stellar orbits around Sgr A*, has produced the most precise recent measurements. The Sun also sits slightly north of the galactic midplane, by perhaps 50 to 100 light-years,  even this modest offset carries genuine uncertainty.

The Sun does not follow a clean circular orbit around the galactic center either. It oscillates vertically through the galactic plane on a period of roughly 70 million years, and its orbital velocity carries its own measurement uncertainties. The Local Standard of Rest, the reference frame defined by the average motion of neighboring stars, is a statistical construction rather than a physical landmark. One cannot locate oneself precisely on a map that is itself still being drawn.

The Milky Way’s large-scale structure, its arm positions, bar orientation, total mass distribution, remains genuinely contested in the contemporary literature. So not only are we uncertain about our position within the galaxy; we are uncertain about the structure of the galaxy within which we are uncertain of our position. This is, admittedly, not the most reassuring state of affairs.

The Supercluster and the Moving Floor

Every uncertainty established at each prior level propagates outward. An imprecise solar position within the Milky Way corrupts our galactic center position, which corrupts our Local Group position, which undermines any claim to precise supercluster coordinates. The errors stack rather than cancel.

At the supercluster scale an entirely new class of problem enters the analysis. The Hubble expansion becomes dominant. Galaxies are not merely moving through space. The space between them is stretching. This introduces a fundamental ambiguity in what the word position can even mean across cosmological distances. Astronomers distinguish between a galaxy’s peculiar velocity, its actual motion relative to the background expansion, and its recession velocity, the apparent motion produced by the expansion of space itself. Disentangling these two components at the boundaries of large structures is a genuine and ongoing observational challenge.

The Laniakea Supercluster, the structure within which the Milky Way resides, was not even coherently defined until 2014, when Tully and colleagues mapped it in Nature using peculiar velocity field analysis rather than positional data. Its boundaries are defined by watershed lines in the cosmic flow field. They are dynamic rather than geometric. If the structure’s edges are velocity flows rather than physical surfaces, what precisely does it mean to have a position within it?

To compound matters, the entire Local Supercluster is streaming toward a mass concentration called the Great Attractor, partially hidden behind the galactic plane in the direction of Centaurus. Its nature and precise location remain incompletely resolved. We are moving toward something we cannot fully see, at a velocity we cannot precisely measure, from a position we cannot exactly specify. I have been in military situations that felt less disorienting than this.

A surreal scene features a person sitting on a rock surrounded by fantastical blue and multicolored plants, evoking a sense of A Whole New World. A white, ghostly tree stands on the right, while a night sky filled with stars and a massive, swirling cloud looms overhead.

The Big Bang Had No Address Either

Having traced the cascade of uncertainty outward from a GPS coordinate through the solar system, the galaxy, and the supercluster, one arrives at what might appear to be the end of the line: the Big Bang itself. Surely, one thinks, we can measure our position from the point of cosmic origin. The universe began somewhere. Why not there?

Here the inquiry hits bedrock, and the bedrock is considerably stranger than the inquiry anticipated. The Big Bang was not an explosion within pre-existing space, a detonation at some locatable point from which matter expanded outward. It was an expansion of space itself. Every point in the observable universe was, at the initial moment, coincident with every other point. There is no origin coordinate to measure from, because every location in the universe can claim with equal geometric validity to be the site of the Big Bang. Mind blown.

I will admit that this took me a few minutes to sit with at two in the morning. My bed, the screen upon which you read this is the site of the Big Bang. The galactic center is the site of the Big Bang. A galaxy twelve billion light-years distant is the site of the Big Bang. All equally. There is no “there there,” as Gertrude Stein did not intend but accidentally summarized rather well.

What we do have is the cosmic microwave background radiation, the thermal afterglow of the early universe, redshifted down to microwave frequencies, which arrives at Earth uniformly from all directions and forms a shell around the observable horizon at roughly 46 billion light-years in every direction. This is a boundary of observability set by the finite speed of light and the age of the cosmos. Every observer in the universe sits, by definition, at the center of their own observable universe. Including us. Including everyone.

I had actually proposed something similar to this in my 2004 paper on time travel ethics, that the microwave radiation might represent the overpressure wave of the Big Bang expanding outward like a nuclear detonation. The modern picture is considerably more sophisticated, but the intuition that the CMB marks something fundamental about the geometry of everything was not entirely wrong. I will take that.

I should note here, because it bears directly on the argument, and because the timing is almost absurdly fortuitous, that a paper published in Physical Review Letters in March 2026 by Liu, Quintin, and Afshordi of the University of Waterloo and the Perimeter Institute has proposed what they call Quadratic Quantum Gravity as an ultraviolet completion of the Big Bang. Standard cosmology requires inflation — the rapid early expansion of the universe — to be driven by a separate theoretical apparatus, an inflaton field bolted onto Einstein’s equations by hand to make the numbers work. The Waterloo team found that inflation can emerge naturally from gravity’s own quantum structure, without any additional ingredients, by adding quadratic curvature terms to the gravitational action in a way that remains mathematically consistent at the extreme energies present at the universe’s birth. This matters for the argument here because it is one more piece of evidence that our standard picture of the early universe is a work in progress rather than a settled account. The model also predicts a minimum level of primordial gravitational waves detectable by forthcoming experiments such as LISA, which would make it testable in a way that earlier quantum gravity frameworks were not. I mention it with appropriate qualification: published in a first-rank journal, carrying genuine observational predictions, and not yet confirmed. Interesting times.

I want to address something that readers familiar with my Codex of the Outer Realms may have noticed building across this section. The paper’s argument that the Big Bang has no locatable origin coordinate, and its proposal that the cosmic microwave background may constitute the event horizon of a parent universe, implies a prior condition, something structurally anterior to our spacetime from which our universe was generated. One might reasonably ask whether this sits comfortably alongside the Codex’s treatment of Azathoth as the primordial void, the condition that precedes and underlies all causal structure. I have looked at this carefully, and the answer is that the tension resolves itself rather elegantly. The Heretical Shape of the Universe states directly that there is no fixed center, only the pressure that arises when systems behave as though a center were real — which is, almost word for word, what the paper’s cosmology concludes about the Big Bang’s non-locatability. More pointedly, the Azathoth volume of the Codex describes him as the anti-origin where reason moves yet arrives nowhere, creation beneath his pulse not genesis but repetition without source, a cycle without inception. A cycle without inception is precisely what the black hole cosmology implies: an infinite regress of parent universes, each generating the next, with no first cause and no original coordinate. The Codex was written as philosophy rather than physics, but both arrived, by different roads, at the same structural conclusion. I find that more satisfying than any deliberate reconciliation I could have engineered.

We Cannot Even Agree on How Fast We Are Expanding

The expansion rate of the universe is expressed as the Hubble constant, H-zero, relating recession velocity to distance: approximately 70 kilometers per second for every 3.26 million light-years. This sounds precise enough. The difficulty is that the two best methods of measuring it disagree, and the disagreement has not gone away as the measurements have improved. It has gotten worse.

The Planck satellite‘s analysis of the cosmic microwave background gives a Hubble constant of about 67.4 kilometers per second per megaparsec. The cosmic distance ladder, using Cepheid variable stars and Type Ia supernovae as standard candles, consistently returns values nearer 73. Both methods are now mature enough that simple measurement error cannot comfortably explain the gap. The statistical discrepancy exceeds five sigma, which is the threshold at which physicists start taking something very seriously indeed. This is known as the Hubble tension, and it may eventually require a fundamental revision to the standard cosmological model.

Then there is the matter of dark energy. In 1998, the supernova survey teams of Perlmutter, Schmidt, and Riess established that cosmic expansion is not merely continuing but accelerating. Something is actively driving the universe apart with increasing vigor. This something is attributed to the cosmological constant, a term Einstein introduced into his field equations and then famously called his greatest blunder, before the universe had the audacity to vindicate it. Dark energy constitutes roughly 68 percent of the total energy content of the cosmos by current estimates. We have no idea what it physically is. Needless to say, this makes any calculation of our cosmic position rather more complicated than one might prefer.

I also want to note something that tripped me up at three in the morning and that I think deserves more attention than it usually gets. When we observe a galaxy at a distance of twelve billion light-years, we are not seeing it as it is now. We are seeing it as it was twelve billion years ago, because that is how long its light took to reach us. The actual present-day distance of that galaxy, accounting for the expansion that has continued during the light’s transit, is considerably greater. There is no snapshot of where everything presently is. There is only a layered record of where everything was at various historical moments. The universe, as we observe it, is a palimpsest rather than a photograph.

The Block Universe and the Promise of a Map

I want to turn now to a philosophical framework that has direct bearing on where this argument is heading, specifically the question of time travel, which has occupied my thinking in one form or another for over twenty years.

The block universe, or eternalist, position in the philosophy of time holds that all moments of spacetime possess equal ontological reality. Past, present, and future are coordinates within a four-dimensional manifold, not sequential states of a process that flows in one direction. The year 1066 exists as surely as this present moment. It is simply elsewhere in the block, at a different temporal coordinate, rather than genuinely gone. The physicist Lee Smolin has argued forcefully against this view, contending that time is real and fundamental rather than an illusion produced by our position within a static block; his book Time Reborn makes the case at length. I find the question genuinely open.

The reason the block universe matters here is that it is philosophically seductive for time travel. If past moments exist with the same ontological weight as the present, then to travel through time is not to access something that no longer exists. It is to navigate to somewhere that exists as fully as the room in which one currently sits. The block universe does not merely permit time travel in principle. It demands it, in the sense that there is a real address to go to.

The catch, and this is where the two-in-the-morning cascade of thought becomes genuinely uncomfortable, is that navigation requires coordinates, and coordinates require a stable reference frame. Everything established in the preceding sections of this essay demonstrates that the universe provides reference frames of radically diminishing stability as one moves outward in scale.

Why You Cannot Get Back to Last Tuesday

To return to a specific past moment, even granting the block universe entirely, one requires a precise four-dimensional address: three spatial coordinates and one temporal. The analysis above establishes that the spatial coordinates of any past moment are, practically speaking, irrecoverable.

The Earth occupied a different position relative to the Sun. The Sun occupied a different galactic longitude and latitude. The galaxy occupied a different position relative to the supercluster centroid. The supercluster itself was configured differently relative to the Shapley Attractor. Space has expanded and altered its geometry since every historical moment, because space expanding is what it does. The reference frames against which any past coordinate might be specified did not exist in their present forms. WGS84, the BCRS, galactic coordinate systems, these are human constructions mapped upon a dynamic reality.

The ECEF coordinate of your present chair in 1066 AD does not correspond to your present chair. It corresponds to a point in space somewhere in the vicinity of nothing in particular, because the planet has moved, the solar system has moved, the galaxy has moved, and space itself has expanded between all of those positions. This is not a navigational inconvenience. It is a fundamental feature of a universe in which there is no fixed external reference frame.

I want to note here that this argument is actually an extension of something I touched on in my 2004 paper, where I observed that getting to the past on Earth was the genuinely hard problem, even granting wormhole travel. What I did not fully appreciate then was that the spatial displacement problem is not merely one of calculating travel distance. It is a problem that exists because the universe has no anchor… no fixed point from which past coordinates could be defined with the precision that time travel would require. The block universe may be perfectly real. The addresses within it have been scrambled by fourteen billion years of expansion, orbital mechanics, and cosmic rearrangement.

Unless We Are Inside a Black Hole

This is where the two-in-the-morning thinking took a turn I did not anticipate, and which I want to present carefully because it sounds considerably more outlandish than it is.

The proposal is this: our universe may be the interior of a black hole belonging to a parent universe, and the cosmic microwave background radiation, rather than being merely an observational horizon, may constitute the actual event horizon of that black hole as seen from within.

I want to stress that this is not a fringe notion dreamed up by the sleep-deprived. The hypothesis has legitimate theoretical pedigree extending back to 1972, when the physicist Raj Pathria noted deep mathematical correspondences between the Schwarzschild metric of a black hole exterior and the metric of a closed universe at maximum scale factor. It was developed with particular rigor by Nikodem Poplawski of the University of New Haven, whose Einstein-Cartan torsion cosmology proposes that every black hole generated by gravitational collapse creates a new universe within its event horizon. Lee Smolin‘s cosmological natural selection framework, proposed in 1992 and elaborated in The Life of the Cosmos in 1997, advances a related argument. More recently, a 2025 analysis of over two hundred early galaxies observed by the James Webb Space Telescope found that roughly two-thirds rotate clockwise, when only half would be expected to do so by chance. One compelling explanation is that our universe inherited a preferred rotational axis from the spin of its parent black hole.

In Poplawski’s framework, a repulsive force generated by the interaction of torsion and fermion spin prevents the formation of a genuine singularity within a collapsing body. Matter reaches an extreme but finite density, undergoes a bounce, and expands rapidly. This bounce corresponds to the Big Bang of the resulting universe, and the rapid early expansion it generates reproduces the characteristics of cosmic inflation without any additional theoretical machinery. The model also resolves the singularity problem that has long been a headache for standard Big Bang cosmology: in Poplawski’s version, there is no point of infinite density, only a very dramatic bounce.

Now, why does this matter for the coordinate problem established above? Because a black hole event horizon, unlike any structure within the universe, possesses genuine geometric meaning as a causal boundary. It is not a statistical construction. It is not a velocity-field watershed. It is a mathematically precise surface defined by the local spacetime geometry. The parent universe, if such exists, observes our black hole’s event horizon as a fixed location in its own spacetime. From that external frame, our entire universe has a definable position and history. The cascade of positional uncertainties traced through the solar system, the galaxy, and the supercluster all occurs within the horizon. The horizon itself is the outermost fixed surface. It is the wall of the container.

The Geometry of the Trap

The proposal that the CMB constitutes the event horizon of a parent black hole carries an implication that I find simultaneously elegant and rather final with respect to the time travel question.

The interior geometry of a black hole is not merely spatially bounded. It is temporally directed. Within a black hole’s event horizon, the roles of space and time are exchanged in a specific and consequential way. All future-directed paths lead toward the central singularity. There is no trajectory within the horizon that leads back across it. Causality inside the horizon is absolutely one-directional. This is not an engineering problem. It is not a matter of insufficient energy or inadequate technology. It is a structural feature of the interior spacetime geometry, as fundamental as the requirement that time increases rather than decreases.

Poplawski has observed that the arrow of time in a universe generated within a black hole would be inherited from the parent universe through the asymmetry of matter flow across the event horizon. Our universe’s temporal directionality is not an arbitrary or unexplained feature on this model. It is a legacy of the causal structure of the parent spacetime, transmitted through the formation event. We did not choose the direction of time. We inherited it.

For the time travel question, this is rather decisive. The block universe framework may well describe the correct metaphysical structure of reality. All moments may exist with equal ontological standing. The event horizon hypothesis provides something the earlier analysis could not: a genuine fixed reference from which coordinates within the block might in principle be anchored.

The structure that provides the fixed reference, however, is precisely the structure that enforces the one-way temporal geometry of the interior. The block may be fully real. Navigation through it contrary to the direction of the temporal arrow may be structurally forbidden by the same geometry that constitutes the block’s walls. One finds the map. The map is the prison.

Conclusions, or What I Worked Out Instead of Sleeping

The line of thinking I have traced in this paper began with my ceiling, thinking of the stars beyond, satellites, and a GPS coordinate. It arrived, in the small hours of the morning, at the proposition that we are probably living within the interior geometry of a black hole, subject to its causal rules, unable to precisely locate ourselves within its four-dimensional structure, and almost certainly unable to navigate backward along the temporal coordinate even if we could. Depressing.

In my 2004 paper I concluded that time travel should not be attempted on ethical grounds, that the potential for damage to the present from even well-intentioned meddling with the past was too great to justify the attempt. I pretty much still stand by that conclusion. What the intervening twenty years of thinking have added is a deeper reason for the same position. The ethical argument says time travel should not be done. The geometric argument advanced here says it’s probably not possible to do in the first place, because the universe’s own structure forbids backward temporal navigation at the causal level… man’s technical prowess cannot overcome this.

The block universe, if it is the correct metaphysical picture, preserves every past moment at a real address within the four-dimensional manifold. Fourteen billion years of expansion, galactic motion, and cosmic rearrangement have rendered those addresses practically irrecoverable. And the interior geometry of the black hole we appear to inhabit enforces the one-way temporal direction with a rigor that no engineering has any obvious means of circumventing, so, where science fails, faith must persevere.

I find this conclusion simultaneously frustrating and rather magnificent. The universe is, in this reading, both a perfect record of everything that has ever happened and a structure that makes that record functionally inaccessible. It keeps its own history with perfect fidelity and denies us the means to read it directly. The void, as I have written elsewhere, was never empty. It turns out it was a black hole all along, and we have been living out its interior geometry since before the first atom cooled.

I think I was asleep by half past four.


Sources

Pathria, R. K. (1972). The Universe as a Black Hole. Nature, 240, 298-299.

Smolin, Lee. (1997). The Life of the Cosmos. Oxford University Press.

Smolin, Lee. (2013). Time Reborn. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Poplawski, Nikodem J. (2010). Cosmology with Torsion: An Alternative to Cosmic Inflation. Physics Letters B, 694(3), 181-185.

Tully, R. B., Courtois, H., Hoffman, Y., and Pomarede, D. (2014). The Laniakea Supercluster of Galaxies. Nature, 513, 71-73.

Wu, X., et al. (2011). Accuracy of the International Terrestrial Reference Frame Origin and Earth Expansion. Geophysical Research Letters, 38, L13304.

Planck Collaboration. (2020). Planck 2018 Results: Cosmological Parameters. Astronomy and Astrophysics, 641, A6.

Riess, A. G., et al. (1998). Observational Evidence from Supernovae for an Accelerating Universe and a Cosmological Constant. The Astronomical Journal, 116(3), 1009-1038.

GRAVITY Collaboration. (2019). A Geometric Distance Measurement to the Galactic Center Black Hole. Astronomy and Astrophysics, 625, L10.

MacFarlane, L., et al. (2025). Analysing Galaxy Rotation in HST and JWST Survey Fields. Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society. [Preprint]

Liu, R., Quintin, J., and Afshordi, N. (2026). Ultraviolet Completion of the Big Bang in Quadratic Gravity. Physical Review Letters, 136(11), 111501. DOI: 10.1103/6gtx-j455.

Medley, R. (2004). Ethics in Time Travel. OC-615.

The Unsalvageable

Original acrylic painting depicting a tall ship with blue-violet furled sails being seized by deep crimson kraken tentacles, set within a nautical compass rose against a vivid vermillion background, with dark churning seas below — "The Unsalvageable" by Rob Medley, Kreative Forge.

The Unsalvageable — Acrylic on Canvas 18″x24″

There are charts for every sea. Degree by degree, the compass rose promises orientation, mastery, the civilised fiction that one always knows where one stands. The ring of numbers encircling this composition — 165, 180, 195, 210, 225 — speaks that language of navigation with calm authority, even as everything within it descends into beautiful catastrophe.

A tall ship rides the centre of the world, her furled sails the colour of bruised twilight, blue-violet against a sky of burning vermillion. The moon lingers behind her masts like a pale witness, uncommitted and cold. Below, the sea has already made its judgement: dark, frothing, circling inward in that particular way water moves when something vast displaces it from beneath.

The kraken comes not as surprise. It comes as verdict.

An artistic depiction of a ship surrounded by stylized octopus tentacles, with a vibrant orange background and a compass-like design.

Those deep crimson tentacles do not merely attack — they catalogue. Each coil is deliberate, almost ceremonial, winding about hull and rigging with the patience of a thing that has outlasted a thousand such vessels. The contrast of that arterial red against the orange fire of the background gives the creature an almost volcanic quality, as though the deep itself has erupted.

And the compass rose watches. It measures nothing now. It records everything.

The title carries its full weight. There is no salvage operation equal to this reckoning.
Available. Inquiries welcome.

Pop Psychopomp

Note: I finished this in 2025 – I just never posted it to the website.

Every painter who has ever picked up a brush in the last sixty years owes Warhol a debt and an argument. The debt is obvious — he proved that bold, flat colour against a strong ground could carry genuine spiritual weight. The argument is this: thirty-two Marilyns in a grid is magnificent once. It becomes wallpaper by the third print run.

This piece began as a tribute to exactly that tradition. Gold ground, high contrast, flattened form — the visual DNA of a Warhol screen print, translated into acrylic. Anubis as icon. The idea had merit.

Then the jackal had other plans.

An artistic depiction of Anubis, featuring stylized illustrations of a black jackal-headed figure in various poses, adorned with blue and gold accents, along with a colorful scarab beetle and a falcon motif in the background.
Pop Psychopomp

Somewhere in the process the painting stopped being a tribute and started being a conversation. The anthropomorphic god refused to stay in his single frame, so a second panel arrived — the pure jackal form, recumbent, collared in red, ancient and watchful. A winged scarab claimed the upper left corner as its own territory. White geometric lines divided the surface like a comic book page, and suddenly the whole thing had the structure of sequential art rather than pop repetition.

Which, on reflection, is far more honest to the subject matter. Anubis is a god of passage and transformation. He does not stand still for his portrait. He guides, he weighs, he opens the way — three distinct functions rendered here as three distinct panels. Warhol’s genius was the freeze-frame, the idol held perpetually in amber. Anubis resists that entirely.

The gold ground remained. In Egyptian funerary art it signified the flesh of the gods, the light that persisted inside the Duat between one sunrise and the next. That much, Warhol and the Old Kingdom agree upon: gold means something permanent lives here.

Pop Psychopomp. The icon who refuses to be merely iconic. Available,

The Sublime Beyond Terror

A skeletal figure with vibrant red hair, wearing a black outfit, plays a violin amidst floating rocks in a space-like environment with swirling orange, blue, and green colors. A large celestial body is visible in the background.

What the Vastness Actually Reveals


A word of departure: those who visit this site regularly will know it primarily as a home for paintings. That remains true, and it will continue to be so. Some months ago, however, I closed my Substack and made the decision to consolidate all of my work (visual, musical, philosophical) under one roof here at robmedley.com. The hope is for the visitor to gain deeper insight into what makes up the character that is Rob Medley. The categories are now separated so that visitors may find their way according to their own interests without wading through territory that does not concern them. This post belongs to the Philosophy category. If it is not what you came for, the paintings remain where they always were. If it is a curiosity, welcome to a somewhat different kind of conversation.


There is a moment, familiar to any person who has stood at the edge of something genuinely immeasurable, when the mind does not so much comprehend what it faces as register its own inability to do so. The cliff does not instruct you – it simply exceeds you. And in that excess, something curious occurs. The experience is not pleasant, not in any ordinary sense. Yet one does not flee. One stands, and something in the standing matters enormously.

This is the territory the philosophical tradition has called the sublime, and it is among the most persistently misunderstood concepts in Western aesthetic thought.

The Long History of Vastness

Longinus, writing in the first century, identified the sublime, hypsos, as a quality of speech and thought that strikes like a bolt of lightning, that overwhelms rather than persuades. His was a rhetorical category, concerned with greatness of soul made manifest in language. The vast, for Longinus, was not a landscape feature; it was a register of mind.

Edmund Burke, writing in 1757, brought the sublime decisively into the realm of sensation. His Philosophical Enquiry located the experience in astonishment, “that state of mind in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror.” Terror, he argued, was the ruling principle. Obscurity, infinity, vastness, darkness, and power: these were the conditions under which the sublime operated, because they threatened, however distantly, the organism’s sense of its own continuity.

Burke’s account remains the more viscerally accurate description of what the experience feels like in its first moment. The Kantian resolution came later, and it came at the cost of a certain phenomenological honesty.

A skeletal figure with vibrant red hair, wearing a black outfit, plays a violin amidst floating rocks in a space-like environment with swirling orange, blue, and green colors. A large celestial body is visible in the background.

The Kantian Turn, and Its Ambiguity

In the Critique of Judgment, Kant distinguished between the mathematical sublime, the overwhelming of imagination by sheer magnitude, and the dynamical sublime, the encounter with forces so great that physical resistance would be futile. In both cases, the experience begins in inadequacy. Nature, or number, or power defeats the senses.

The resolution Kant proposed is the hinge upon which everything philosophical turns: the defeat of the senses reveals the dignity of reason. We cannot imagine a true infinity; we can think one. In that gap, Kant argued, we discover our supersensible vocation, the fact that we are not merely natural creatures subject to natural forces, but beings capable of apprehending what surpasses nature. The vastness humbles the body and elevates the mind.

This is a genuinely extraordinary claim, and it is not without difficulty. The elevation Kant describes risks becoming self-congratulation, the universe overwhelms me, therefore I am noble. The movement from cosmic awe to anthropocentric reassurance is, philosophically speaking, somewhat too convenient.

What the Sublime Actually Points Toward

Rudolf Otto, in Das Heilige (1917), recovered something closer to the original phenomenological texture. His concept of the numinous, the encounter with what he termed the mysterium tremendum et fascinans, the mystery that at once terrifies and draws, resists the Kantian rescue operation. The numinous is not a mirror for human reason. It is genuinely other. It exceeds not only the senses but the categories by which the mind attempts to contain experience.

This is the honest account. The sublime, in its authentic form, is not ultimately about the discovery of human greatness. It is about the recognition of a genuine alterity – something that stands outside the circuit of human meaning-making, that does not require our apprehension to be what it is.

The question this raises is not a comfortable one: if the sublime points toward something genuinely other than the human, what relationship is possible with that otherness? Flight is the obvious response, and the one most cultural frameworks tacitly endorse. One admires the mountain and descends to the village.

The Contemplative Alternative

There exists, however, a tradition, poorly represented in mainstream Western philosophy, though present in Hermetic, Gnostic, and various non-Western frameworks, that does not regard the encounter with the radically vast as a terminus. It regards it as a threshold.

The difference is not a matter of courage, exactly. It is a matter of orientation. The tourist at the cliff edge experiences the sublime as something that happens to a self that remains fundamentally intact throughout. The contemplative practitioner asks a different question: what if the self that feels overwhelmed is not the final word on what one is?

This is the inquiry the Codex of the Outer Realms was written to pursue. The entities at its center, drawn from the Lovecraftian cosmological tradition, though treated here as philosophical and contemplative frameworks rather than fictional horrors, are precisely the kind of radical alterity the sublime points toward. Azathoth is not comprehensible. Yog-Sothoth does not resolve into familiar categories. Nyarlathotep does not offer consolation.

What they offer, approached through the lens of genuine philosophical inquiry rather than either horror or dismissal, is the thing the sublime has always offered in its most honest form: the dissolution of the assumption that human scale is the measure of what is real.

This is not a comfortable teaching. It was never meant to be. The sublime, properly understood, was never comfort. It was the first honest encounter with the actual dimensions of existence — and the beginning, for those who do not look away, of something that might cautiously be called wisdom.


Further Reading

The primary sources referenced in this essay are available in full, without cost, through Project Gutenberg and the Internet Archive.

LonginusOn the Sublime (c. 1st century CE), translated by H.L. Havell, with an introduction by Andrew Lang: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/17957/17957-h/17957-h.htm

Edmund BurkeA Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757), first edition facsimile: https://archive.org/details/philosophicalenq00burkrich

Immanuel KantCritique of Judgement (1790), translated by J.H. Bernard: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/48433

Rudolf OttoThe Idea of the Holy (1917; English translation 1923), translated by John W. Harvey, Oxford University Press edition: https://archive.org/details/ideaofholyinquir0000otto_k1y1


The Codex of the Outer Realms is a five-volume philosophical series. Volume information and purchasing details are available here.

The Priestess

A sovereign feminine figure rises from the mist beneath a blood moon, one hand raised to channel the storm, the forest bearing witness

She stands where the mortal world thins and something older breathes through. Wreathed in mist beneath a blood moon, her raised hand channels what the forest remembers and civilization has long since forgotten. The aurora turns above her like a living wheel.

The Priestess

The Priestess explores the archetype of the feminine as sovereign conduit — not suppliant, not symbol, but the very vessel through which the numinous speaks. Painted in acrylics, she emerged from the same cosmological current running through the broader Kreative Forge body of work. 16×20” – Available.

Rot and Rebirth

A figure witnesses the end of the world as cities fall and sky burns, yet ancient branches bloom amid the ruin
An artistic depiction of a skeletal figure with vibrant, fiery hair, surrounded by blooming flowers, sitting amidst a backdrop of skulls and dark cityscape under a swirling blue sky.

Some fires destroy.
Some fires reveal what survives them.

In this piece I imagined a witness to the end of the world. Cities fall, the sky burns, and the ground fills with the remains of what once lived. Yet even in the middle of ruin, something ancient continues its quiet work.

Branches bloom.

The figure carries death in her bones and life in her hair. Fire becomes a kind of crown, and the blossoms refuse the logic of extinction. The world collapses behind her, yet the tree grows anyway.

Rebirth rarely arrives gently.
Sometimes it rises from ash, bone, and memory.

This painting sits in that strange moment between ending and beginning, when the smoke has not yet cleared and the future is still deciding whether it wants to exist.

Brambles

Sometimes a song and a painting arrive at the same place by different roads.

While working on this piece I kept returning to the imagery from the Shattered Goddess song Brambles that I wrote. The lyrics speak about moving through a thicket of thorns in order to reach the place where something deeper began. It is not a path of comfort. It is a path of persistence.

“Follow the brambles down, down, down to the hidden ground
Every wound I bear shows me the way there.”

That idea shaped the painting.

The figure shields the heart while thorned branches wrap across the body. Scratches mark the skin where the thorns have caught and dragged. Yet the brambles do not simply imprison the figure. They form a path downward, spiraling toward the center of the body where the light gathers.

The song suggests that wounds can become a map. Each mark left by the thorns shows where the traveler has passed. Instead of avoiding the bramble patch, the voice in the song chooses to follow it deeper.

“The thorns may make me bleed, but I must know the seed.”

In nature, brambles are protective plants. Their thorns keep larger creatures away while sheltering smaller life within the tangled growth. They are harsh on the outside, yet they guard something living at their center.

Human experience often works the same way. We accumulate scars, defenses, and memories that grow around us like a dense patch of thorns. At first they seem only painful. Over time they begin to reveal something else: a record of the path we have taken.

The painting reflects that moment. The figure is wounded, yet still illuminated from within. The brambles press inward, but they also guide the eye downward toward the place where life begins again.

Sometimes the way forward is not around the thorns.

Sometimes the way forward is through them.

A close-up of intertwined human arms and torso, featuring vibrant colors and visible wounds, with thorny vines wrapping around the body, symbolizing struggle and confinement.

Whispers by Firelight

Figures gathered around a small campfire under a glowing moon, the surrounding wilderness fading into cool blues and shadow

The painting unfolds beneath a vast nocturnal sky where moonlight and firelight share the same stage, each illuminating the landscape in different ways. At the center of the composition a campfire burns intensely, its warm reds and oranges pushing outward against the cool indigo and violet tones of the night. This contrast between warm and cool light forms the emotional heart of the work. The fire gathers the figures, tents, and earth into a circle of life and community, while the moon casts a silvery wash across the surrounding wilderness, expanding the scene outward into quiet solitude.

Whispers by Firelight

The brushwork leans toward a light-driven impressionism, where form emerges through color and gesture rather than rigid detail. Clouds move in sweeping strokes that echo the movement of wind and atmosphere, creating a sense of motion in the sky. The trees stand skeletal and quiet, their silhouettes framing the scene like stage wings. These gestural marks allow the viewer’s eye to complete the image, a hallmark of impressionistic technique where suggestion carries as much weight as description.

Light itself becomes the true subject of the painting. The moon glows softly through the shifting clouds, bathing the landscape in a cool luminosity that dissolves edges and deepens the mystery of the forest. In contrast, the fire pulses with raw vitality, throwing sparks of color onto the tents and ground. The interaction between these two sources of light creates a layered visual rhythm, drawing the viewer inward toward the human gathering while still honoring the vastness of the surrounding night.

The scene ultimately becomes less about a specific place and more about atmosphere and memory. The viewer is invited into a moment suspended in time, where wilderness, community, and sky converge under a luminous moon. Through color harmony, expressive brushwork, and the interplay of natural light, the painting captures that timeless human ritual of gathering around fire beneath the open night.

Convergence

A medieval castle sits in afternoon light, suspended between history and something older

I did not set out to paint a ghost story. I set out to paint a castle.
Somewhere in the process, the painting decided what it wanted to be, which is something any painter who has spent serious time at the easel will recognize. You plan one thing and the canvas negotiates. Convergence is the result of that negotiation.


The castle came first. I have always been drawn to medieval architecture, to the logic of towers and curtain walls, to the way a fortress sits upon its hill with the particular confidence of something built to last. I wanted that warmth of late afternoon stone, that ochre and sienna glow that makes old masonry look almost alive. I wanted it to feel prosperous. Safe. Untroubled….That feeling of false safety is where the painting’s real subject announced itself.

Convergence


The ghost came next, rising from the lower left, from the water. She was always going to be there. I cannot entirely explain her except to say that certain paintings require a witness, and she is that witness, patient, translucent, unhurried. She has been waiting longer than the castle has stood.


The storm was already building in the upper right. The mountains there carry that particular grey-blue of approaching weather, and the clouds push down toward the valley with no great urgency, which makes them more ominous rather than less. Urgency can be outrun. That slow, indifferent gathering cannot.


Between the ghost and the storm, the castle sits in its afternoon light, entirely unaware. The blue sky above it still looks like an ordinary day. That is the heart of the matter.
The swans were the last element to fully resolve, and I am most pleased with them. The large bird in the foreground demanded honesty, the exact orange-red of the bill, the weight of the body on the water. Swans have carried enormous symbolic weight across European tradition for a very long time, and I wanted these birds to earn their place in that company rather than merely decorate the foreground. They are witnesses too, though of a different order than the ghost. They are simply living their lives, indifferent to the drama gathering above them, which strikes me as true to how the world actually works.


My partner named the painting. She looked at it and said convergence, and that was the end of the matter. She saw immediately what I had been working toward, the ghost, the storm, and the castle all moving toward the same moment of reckoning along their separate paths. The regent in that tower, whoever he may be, has a buried past. The painting knows this even if he does not.


If I’m asked what tradition this work belongs to. I would say it belongs to the tradition of moral landscape, the idea, running from the Northern European painters through the Romantics, that the natural world is not merely scenery. It reflects. It remembers. It converges.

“Chaos Killed Christmas”

A cat reduces festive holiday decorations to glorious ruin, capturing the moment festive order meets its natural predator

Acrylic on canvas by Rob Medley

There’s a certain honesty in the way cats ruin holidays. The garland becomes prey, the lights become quarry, and somewhere in the middle of the night, a crash signals that festive order has finally met its natural predator. R. M.’s Chaos Killed Christmas doesn’t merely depict that moment, it canonizes it.

Chaos

Here, the feline doesn’t perch guiltily beside the wreckage, but reigns within it. The ornament becomes both culprit and reliquary, reflecting the fallen tree like a battlefield trophy. The cat’s eyes, impossibly green, hold the quiet triumph of a creature who has done exactly what he meant to do. Around him, R. M. swirls the background into cosmic curls of blue and violet, as if the wallpaper is the universe itself spun in bemused orbit around this household apocalypse.

The work hums with that peculiar domestic truth: that perfection is brittle, and the best memories often begin with disaster. In the shimmer of acrylic, in the reflections of a toppled ornament, Chaos Killed Christmas captures what every pet owner secretly knows, order is fragile, and joy is what comes clawing through it.


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