A Field (n.) would give the whole a hold over its parts, which is exactly why Epicurean physics refuses to admit one.
The Field (n.) entered the human sciences by something like breaking and entering, smuggled in by philosophers pondering matter and form.
A Field (n.) gives every element two jobs: it submits to the pull of the whole and it reshapes the whole in return.
The Field (n.) is not something the mind adds to appearances; it is already woven into them before anyone perceives.
The Field (n.) of the psyche has three parts, not two: the subject, the world, and the tension between them, which exists only as potential until perception.
A Field (n.) that stays steady is a kind of information: its unbroken presence at every point says that its source still existed at a given moment.
A Field (n.) is the tension of a form, as between condenser plates; the domain is the stuff that can take form from it, and the two must not be confused.
A Field (n.) binds you to your surroundings without any touch: the individual is connected to the system around him without contact because he is in a field.
A Field (n.) that is silent still carries a possibility: it moves no energy, yet while it lasts the system can trade energy, and when it vanishes the system's whole topology has changed.