May 1st, 2011

happiness whilst falling

I’m still in recovery-mode from all the turmoil and work of the last weeks, but in pain or not the sun is out and my extra-strong coffee will probably knock this headache back some. (I fell whilst cleaning and hit my head on the toilet seat as I went down. The lump is not all that tender, but the memory of the shock still lingers along with the headache. Falling is a very odd experience don’t you find?)

All that-is-past aside for a moment, I can feel the future beginning to open its eyes and peer back at me. It’s a nice, hopeful feeling even with the shadow-attendant fears about how the frak I’m going to pay the rent,  now that I am officially unemployed. But for some delightfully odd cognitive evolutionary reason, I trust that it’ll all work out. Probably because I can’t imagine myself dead.

Prognostication is a species of falling, I think. You may be able to mitigate the effects to a small degree, but most of the time, what you think you know about your future is really just an abudanace of luck, both good and bad. Like hitting the toilet rim just a glancing blow.  It could have been so much worse, but it wasn’t. The reason? There wasn’t one: the luck of physics. And of course there’s the odd working of the imagination, what and how the mind/brain works when we confidently assess what tommorow could bring.

I’m starting to get the sense that what I know about my own happiness is just as much out of my control as is the physics of a soapy hand on a wet floor. I’ve been reading Stumbling on Happiness by Daniel Gilbert and through humor (he really is funny) and erudition he’s given me a view of humanity that has much more to do with latter-day rationalization from the mouth of Socrates as he slides away on a banana peel.

I haven’t got to the part of the book where he promises not to tell me the secret of happiness, nor to the part where he’ll expose the mechanics of my illusion (which, he says, I will disregard). I’ll likely get there today, since I have declared this a Mary-holiday of a one day duration. (My house is still a horrendous mess, but it’ll have to stay that way until tomorrow. I’m going to sit in the sun, drink coffee and read. So there, you nasty dust buffalos.)

Contra-Gilbert, I do think I know what makes me happy. Yet, I also have doubts about that word “happiness.” I know what gives me pleasure in the moment, especially when I am experiencing it. But even the mostly-tried-and-trues don’t always work. Sun and coffee and a book usually work, but really it is a combination of things (some effecting life by their absence – silly bitchy people who cry at the drop of a hat, for example) effecting the place I am in life at the moment  (and here the past comes back, never having really gone away, but like a shadow its form, shape and density is dependent upon the nature of the light source – Given the dependency of shadows on light, do you think shadows can really be said to exist?). Such a literary-caffeine combo wouldn’t always have worked (17-year-old Mary was an alien, probably from Pluto. She did not, for example, drink coffee.), and probably it won’t always work in some future-Mary being. (I cannot imagine a post-coffee Mary any more than I can imagine being dead – this being the crux of the problem of prognostication – the limitations and workings of the imagination.)

I find the “failure” of imagination interesting, but not worrying. I mean, if I’ve fallen through time to reach this moment then I obviously have the necessary amount of good luck and the appropriate access to accidental physics. Banana peel-realized or not, today is about the movement of cool air across my arm, the warm response my shoulders have to the morning sun, the feel of a paper’s edge under my fingers, the sweet-bitter of espresso with brown sugar and the sound of the local black capped chickadee. The feelings I have under these conditions, that, I’m pretty sure, is happiness.  It’s funny to think I’m probably wrong.

March 30th, 2011

the adoration of death

Photographs often display as much cultural information as they do scenic. Looking at posed photos from another time or place often creates a sense of surreality and that, I suspect, comes from the oddity of the exposed cultural assumptions.

Look at this and then just list the things you now “know” about what it means to be a woman at that time.  If you feel like it, I’d love to read your lists.

Thanks to Letter from Hardscabble Creek for posting the link.

There’s an interesting post over at This is the End. The whole site is concerned with the question of the myth of apocalypse, its effects and its ritual remedies.  The author seems to treat the notion as a kind of social nightmare, which I think has some real potential as a metaphor.

One of the things this specific post mentions is Corbières. I had not known that there are supposed to be aliens living in the limestone caves waiting for December 21 2012 to save the few humans in the area.

I’ve always thought about what Noah’s neighbors must have felt when he started promulgating his own version of Corbières in 2012. I’ve never imagined it was a good thing but these two articles in the Telegraph have given me new fuel for that imagining. One of the articles says specifically that the villagers don’t find it funny, and I’m sure I shouldn’t, but I do. Not that I would want to live there in the next months leading up to the 2012 Winter Solstice. They could make it one hell of a party though.

Peardg sent me this link.  It’s about the power of being alone.

Essentially it says that being with other people automatically triggers our capacity to  think along with others. We mimic each other, we work hard at understanding the group, we mentally swim along with the ones we are with. The thing that makes this so powerful a mental gift is that we do almost all of this without thinking about it: unconsciously. This is what it means to be a social species.

Mentally we find other people distracting. Other people can inhibit our memory formation, our thinking, our experiencing of what we (as individuals) think.

Perhaps this explains why seeing a movie alone feels so radically different than seeing it with friends: Sitting there in the theater with nobody next to you, you’re not wondering what anyone else thinks of it; you’re not anticipating the discussion that you’ll be having about it on the way home. All your mental energy can be directed at what’s happening on the screen. According to Greg Feist, an associate professor of psychology at the San Jose State University who has written about the connection between creativity and solitude, some version of that principle may also be at work when we simply let our minds wander: When we let our focus shift away from the people and things around us, we are better able to engage in what’s called meta-cognition, or the process of thinking critically and reflectively about our own thoughts.

As the article points out, how much time alone is necessary depends upon the person. Recently I read an interview with John McPhee in which he says he needs to wander around mentally for hours every day in order to get that few hours of productive writing accomplished. This is the same thing I suspect.

Some of us can sit down and drop into that meta-space. I cannot. In order to think well, to separate myself from my sense of duty, my sense of others, I have to wander alone and uninterrupted by that bug-a-boo, a sense of social obligation. I wish it had an off button. The only thing I’ve been able to come up with apart from just being out where there are no people is the closed and locked door of my car. In my house even my dirty dishes trigger that sense of “ought.” So I go out.

I have to stop writing now. I have to go to work.

I found Phantasmagoria by Maria Warner. Stars, what a good writer. In fact she’s so good I find it a bit hard to keep my mind on what she’s saying, so taken I am by how she’s saying it.

I know I found her through someone else, probably Chas Clifton or Bron Taylor but I can’t remember now. Probably doesn’t matter, but I’d like to thank who ever it was.

Phantasmagoria is a huge book full of interesting things so I’m going to break it down. Right now I want to talk about her chapter on zombies.

She starts with what she calls “a very brief genealogy of the zombie” which I find hilariously funny as a phrase. I’m not sure why exactly, except the whole point of a zombie is that they no longer have genealogies, since that requires a self. That linkage which is a familial past, a sense of placement that one has by being the past’s arrow into the future, is just what a zombie has taken from them.

Warner’s commentary on the creation our current concept “zombie” through the vicious destruction of the slave self is interesting but what I find really fascinating is the process of metaphorical extension of that history, that cultural genealogy, into the world of art.

Their (zombie) incarnate but numb and vacant condition reproduces the state of someone captured on film forever: materially present but also entirely absent.

I’d never really thought of movie “people” like that, as an echo of our deep anxieties about being cogs, or cannon fodder (or canon fodder?). A well greased cog is still a cog. It might make one feel as if the machine won’t wear our edges down so fast, won’t make us spin uselessly quite as quickly, but we know it only delays the inevitable. Is that what our movies have become? Our new religion? Our stories to both soothe and point our mortality, our dying? Do I do that, experience—at some probably unconscious level—the image as a “spirit”? Or as a material entity without an independent “self”? Are moving images zombies?

The thing that amazes me is in all the angst about the loss of feeling, we generate an ocean of pain, outrage, fear—feeling. When will that sink in? When will we get that the loss of soul hasn’t done what we feared?

While the quest for human spirit has engendered a train of spirits—from angels to ectoplasms—in modernity, soul is now chiefly figured by its absence.

Sure. But where from there? Because we still have the experience of living, of presence, even if it is from the point of view of the terror of absence.

The point of Warner’s book—the logic of the imaginary—has been to show that the things we use to think about our self/spirit/soul—”wax, air, light, and shadow”—are rooted in how we are, how we think, how our body is. But, these tools to think, these experiences of self/spirit/soul turn out to be “contingent, shaped in relation to time and experience”, as are all metaphors. As we are.

So our experience of a unified self, this thing captured by the term “soul” is dying in our world. We have become zombies not because humans are being particularly nasty to other humans. We always do that. Probably always will. We’ve become zombies because we need new metaphorical ways to think about the experience of self as a multiplicity since we’ve finally gained enough knowledge to realize that unity is a phantom and that it has left the material world which generated it.

In other words, we have finally realized that the way we experience our selves do not always reflect the facts of the case.

Wowzers.

and why I like it. We can do this:

via Wimp

Part II is concerned to show how some of our most basic ideas about human reality are based in primary metaphor and then reasoned about through metaphorical extension (the development of conceptual metaphor). For example, our concepts of time are all based on things like movement, perceived distance (3D space), and events (or change in objects or relations between objects). This is because we don’t experience time, we experience movement, objects and distance. We use the logics of these bodily experiences to reason about time.

When I move from the picnic table to the car and back again, time is experienced as the “thing” which separates the elements of these movements. Time is the “ground” which separates picnic table and parking lot. So time has steps, has discernable intervals, because I take steps, have discernable intervals. Consequently, if I was a being that experience movement, object re-location and space quite differently (an orca?), I would conceive of and think about time quite differently. I might not, for example, develop clocks with hours and minute intervals even if I had the “intelligence” to do so.

What the authors of the text show is that our ideas of cause, mind, self, morality, etc. all work like this. We begin with a physical experience of being human in both human (family, society) and non-human environments (field, forest) and based on those most basic experiences (grasping, moving, forcing the movement of objects, etc.), we reason about our world.

About what’s real: the fact that we reason and conceptualize metaphorically based on our bodily experience and reach an idea of what “cause” is doesn’t mean there are no causes in the world outside the human mind. One of the things the authors do is point out that “there do appear to be real determining factors in the world, determining factors of many different sorts” and so the existence of a mind is not a prerequisite for this literal form of causality. But care is needed with the word “causality” because any idea or thought or theory we can imagine or have about this literal causality necessarily extends the various logics of our various basic bodily experiences (primary metaphors) of causation.

So, I move from the car lot to the picnic ground and its logic involves some idea of agency with causation. There must be a first cause, for example. Well there is a first cause in human terms—I have to get up and move. But this doesn’t make it so with respect to the literal universe. The literal universe is not human.

Another kind of causal logic involves me lifting the food basket and moving it from one place to another, and of me slipping while walking down the hill. This sort of causation involves imposed forces and when used to reason about what is “really” the “true” cause, leads to a completely different conceptual paradigm than the one involving necessary agency.

All this metaphorical building is based on the simple, literal existence of a “determining factor.” And without our metaphors? Really what can be said about the requirement of a “determining factor” without resorting to them?

The consequence of all this applied to philosophical questions is what Part III of the text is about.

I saw this video when I came back home today, just as I’m getting into section two of Philosophy in the Flesh. The video made me think about the fundamental power that our capacity to reason through metaphor gives us. It is that power, along with attention to actual experience, that allows us to understand and predict the lion’s probable reaction—and get away with part of their kill. It has other implications as well, such as the fact that it works (hence human survival) means that our basic metaphors and cognitive unconscious probably share many of the same structures as most life forms that share environments and life-ways (i.e. hunters, scavengers, etc). It brings into question Nagel’s bat thing, for one. We might, in fact, know much of what it’s like to be a lion if our base metaphors and our cognitive unconscious share many “genetic” similarities.

Chapter 8 ends section 1 of their argument. The have been at pains here to show how the basic system of embodied reason works and why the fact of metaphorical concepts destroys the footing of much of analytic philosophy. In effect ,chapter 8 works as a bit of a summary and set up for the following section so here I’ll just block-quote the final paragraphs on the chapter.

Some Philosophical Implications of Metaphorical Thought

Even the few simple examples we have looked at so far have radical implications for philosophy. It is no small matter to say that ordinary, everyday reason can be metaphorical. Even at this preliminary stage, before we go on to analyze philosophically important concepts, we can see a great many implications for philosophy:

• Correlations in our everyday experience inevitably lead us to acquire primary metaphors, which link our subjective experiences and judgments to our sensorimotor experience. These primary metaphors supply the logic, the imagery, and the qualitative feel of sensorimotor experience to abstract concepts. We all acquire these metaphorical modes of thought automatically and unconsciously and have no choice as to whether to use them.

• Many, if not all, of our abstract concepts are defined in significant part by conceptual metaphor. Abstract concepts have two parts: (1) an inherent, literal, nonmetaphorical skeleton, which is simply not rich enough to serve as a full-fledged concept; and (2) a collection of stable, conventional metaphorical extensions that flesh out the conceptual skeleton in a variety of ways (often inconsistently with one another).

• The fundamental role of metaphor is to project inference patterns from the source domain to the target domain. Much of our reasoning is therefore metaphorical.

• Metaphorical thought is what makes abstract scientific theorizing possible.

• Metaphorical concepts are inconsistent with the classical correspondence theory of truth. Instead, what is required is embodied truth.

• Formal logic has no resources for characterizing any of the aspects of human concepts and human reason discussed so far in this book. The reason is that formal logic is disembodied, literal, nonimagistic, and nonmetaphorical

• Reason and conceptual structure are shaped by our bodies, brains, and modes of functioning in the world. Reason and concepts are therefore not transcendent, that is, not utterly independent of the body.

• Much of everyday metaphysics arises from metaphor.

The analyses to follow in the rest of the book will give more substance to these claims. They will also allow us to explore more fully the far-ranging implications for philosophy of unconscious metaphorical thought.

As we shall see, our most fundamental concepts—time, events causation, the mind, the self, and morality—are multiply metaphorical. So much of the ontology and inferential structure of these concepts is metaphorical that, if one somehow managed to eliminate metaphorical thought, the remaining skeletal concepts would be so impoverished that none of us could do any substantial everyday reasoning.

Eliminating metaphor would eliminate philosophy. Without a very large range of conceptual metaphors, philosophy could not get off the ground.

The metaphoric character of philosophy is not unique to philosophic thought. It is true of all abstract human thought, especially science. Conceptual metaphor is what makes most abstract thought possible. Not only can it not be avoided, but it is not something to be lamented. On the contrary, it is the very means by which we are able to make sense of our experience. Conceptual metaphor is one of the greatest of our intellectual gifts.

There’s quite a bit in this chapter dealing with the philosophical fundamentals of things like what it means to say “realism.” In brief, “Realism is fundamentally about our success in functioning in the world.” By defining realism like this the authors make embodied realism the only possible sort. I mean I’d like to see a mind that is without a body kiss my hand. Really, would a mind raised up without a body even know what a hand was?

The authors have argumentation for this version of realism, but you can read too so I won’t outline it here. They do take pains to say that what they are suggesting is not a form of extreme relativism, whilst still maintaining a ban on absolutism of the sort that one often finds in idealism or dualism. What they say, as discussed in chapter 6, is that there are stable sorts of knowledge, such as the existence of cells, or stars, or the earth’s rotundity. They also show that “directly embodied concepts” such as up/down, back/front have an “evolutionary origin and enable us to function extremely successfully in our everyday interactions in the world. They also form the basis of our stable scientific knowledge.”

It is so refreshing to find someone fascinated by the mind to grock that this means the body-working-in-the world.

The authors do talk about “precursors” to embodied realism. (Delightful, that word “precursor.” Oh what it suggests!) They talk about, for example, correspondence theory and how it only allows for one level of truth, or at least for the dominance of one level of experience to be seen as the “real” truth.  Showing that this won’t work, the section establishes that there are levels at which something can be true, whilst being false at another. The example they use is “green.”

The levels are cognitive, neurocomputational and neurobiological. Cognitive: “includes notions such as phonemes, verbs and concepts.” Neurocomputation: links the other two and is associated with their cognitive unconscious already discussed in earlier chapters. Neurobiological:  “notions of ion channels, axons, dendrites, synapses.”

So green: there is no such thing as green at the neurobiological level. Does that mean green does not exist? No, of course not. Green certainly exists at the cognitive level, we know this because I can write “green” and you know that it doesn’t refer to “red.” The big question is whether it exists at the neurocomputational level. The authors are going to suggest it does in the last section of the chapter called “The Efficacious Cognitive Unconscious.”

In short, the cognitive unconscious is thoroughly efficacious: intentional, representational, propositional, truth characterizing, inference generating, imaginative, and causal. The fact that it is efficacious indicates that it is real. The mode of its efficaciousness indicates that it has real conceptual structure—structure at the level of intentionality, representation, propositions, truth, and inference—and not just structure at the neural level.

One of the fun things about this chapter was the argument. Searle’s name is mentioned repeatedly, for example. (Go back to the use of the word “precursor.” Love that. So cheeky.) I also really like the definition of “real.” It’s fundamentally what enables the whole chapter. In that quote above, for example, their definition of “real” is what makes them able to say “the fact that it is efficacious” indicates that it is real.” Once they do that they knock Searle and his objections right out of the ring.

More than that though, I like the idea that truth is stable within its “level” of experience.  There are things we can count on and yet change is possible; we know the world because we are embodied, not despite that. I’ve always had a problem with philosophy if it can’t take into account the evolution of life and what that must mean to how and what we know.