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27.VIII.2012 – A brief guest-blogpiece about consciousness and how it gets that way.

Consciousness is mysterious. It isn’t just casually mysterious, it is REALLY mysterious, and perhaps, ultimately, the most mysterious thing our species has going for it. It is also hard to pin down, though neuroscience would like to and the philosophy of mind has been trying to for aeons. It is perhaps the hardest thing to pin down by its very nature: it may be the one most unpindownable thing of all.

Why is this? Try an experiment: you are reading these words right now, so you must be conscious of them. But how do you know you are? Because you are conscious of it? How are you conscious of that? We are able to recognise what it is to be aware of being conscious, though this is deceptively obvious.

When you wake up in the morning and realise you are awake, this is not necessarily the same thing as to realise you are conscious. Yet being awake clearly implies you are conscious. They are the same thing.

Even in a dream you are in some sense awake because you are aware of your dream-experience (even if you are not aware you are dreaming, though this is possible too).

In fact, at no point are we ever anything but conscious in some way, and the two obvious exceptions to this—dreamless deep sleep and death—that we assume to lack consciousness, can only be inferences from consciousness, that we could by definition never verify because we would lack the consciousness of them to do so.

So that their lacking ‘being-conscious’ can necessarily only ever remain hypothetical. Yet many billions of the scientific-physicalist and atheistic faithful maintain this necessarily unverifiable hypothesis as a dogmatic fact. Mysterious!

If, whether out of scientific habit, or sheer curiosity, you make ‘being conscious’ the object of your consciousness (or ‘being-conscious’) then it involves a strange circularity. You are being conscious of being-conscious purely by virtue of being conscious. Consciousness tries to objectify consciousness by virtue of consciousness. Surely this is just a kind of vicious circle that can’t get anywhere.

Even if you can, for a moment, make of your currently-being-conscious an object-consciousness, is that object still properly consciousness, or only a second-order representation of it? Is it even an ‘object’ at all?

To try to turn consciousness into an object seems to be to misrepresent it, because looked at more closely ‘it’ seems to behave more like an action, a process, like Heraclitus’ river which he said you can’t step into twice.

In the case of consciousness (among other things, like the ‘self’, with which consciousness has an intimate relationship) it could be said you can’t ‘step into’ it once, let alone twice. As soon as you try, it is not ‘the same’ ‘consciousness’ (or being-conscious). It is necessarily something else. There is always a remainder left over: the precondition, a primordial one, for being able to think, perceive or be conscious of anything at all.

Being-conscious will always be a step behind any possible statement we can make about it.

This is a problem for science, which requires the object of analysis to be a relatively stable and ‘objectifiable’ one. I can perceive and investigate external phenomena, such as stars and planets and rainbows, as things that have some objective existence, even when they also appear to subsist both ‘objectively’ and by virtue of my being-conscious of them.

But when I try to investigate ‘being-conscious’ in the same way, my methodology runs into the problem of its own reflexivity, which seems to mire the project in a deep and swampy subjectivity, or else a hall of mirrors whose infinite regress seems to promise only ultimate uncertainty about what I’m trying to clarify: what it is to be conscious.

But this might not be a problem from another perspective. Some contemplative traditions, especially those of the Hindu Vedanta, or of Buddhism, take it as a challenge: for them it might even be of ultimate import in their desire to understand ourselves and our given conscious circumstances more richly and fully.

The objective open-endedness of consciousness is something they have explored quite rigorously for thousands of years, and some of the reports they bring back are interesting not just in themselves, or for the spiritual or transcendental ambitions they express, but also for the purely ‘scientific’ impulse of getting some more data on what, from the perspective of the contemporary philosophy of mind, has reached an intractable, and intriguing, impasse.

It is a compelling fact that modern evolutionary biology and neurophysiology cannot explain ‘where’ or how ‘consciousness’ originates. Whether the conundrum of consciousness remains an obscure yet glaringly present question mark, or begins to be seen scientifically and otherwise as the most fruitful portal into further knowledge of ourselves and our universe (and how by virtue of consciousness they are not entirely separable) is a major question for the 21st century.

My guess is that taking up the challenge of that mystery could begin to provide some sorely-needed responses to who we are and what reality means in all the scientific, psychological, social and religious forms that now appear to fall short of our questions.

We invest billions of dollars into sending a space-probe to Mars. The irony is that, for each one of us, no expense is needed to enquire into the furthest stellar reaches of consciousness beyond the curiosity and willingness to suspend the assumptions, beliefs and worldviews that keep us from taking the journey.

If not ultimate answers, at the very least we’ll gain some new, stimulating and very possibly liberating ways of being still more conscious than we are now.

Copyright © 2012

*

At the “Happiness and its Causes” conference blog: http://blogs.terrapinn.com/happiness/2012/08/27/consciousness-mysterious-guest-blogger-martin-kovan/

This essay considers some meta-ethical questions that emerge from a consideration of the phenomena of terrorism in the context of Buddhist metaphysics: what, in the Buddhist view, ultimately causes terrorism (and its subsidiary effects)? What resources do the Buddhist metaphysical claims of no-self, karma, emptiness and related concepts bring to a meta-ethical understanding of terrorism and its effects?

Written in 2005; published May, 2012 in SOPHIA International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Metaphysical Theology and Ethics: http://www.springerlink.com/openurl.asp?genre=article&id=doi:10.1007/s11841-012-0309-1

Digital Object Identifier (DOI) 10.1007/s11841-012-0309-1

Work-torn clothes, the ache in his eyes:

how the knee that steadies paper or bowl is still

the same, slight uncertain crutch it has always seemed to him to be.

He can see only its hollow persisting, the way

his whole life is forever marked Anonymous.

 

           Via negativa – the great, uncomprehending way.

Deer in an American night, coyote moan: is their

dark path in the cold something that also vanishes

their bare, forked animal footprints as they move away?

Do I move with them in a solidarity of erasure?

My ears, at least, are almost as fine-tuned, and

what they hear is not always pure invention. Night-miracles:

insects lost in their haze of white-noise, airplanes

lowing to impermanence in a blackest sky, a father and

a mother crying, not far, in a shadow trailer-home.

And this dream of a lady-saint peering into brambles and thickets

because she can hear her own voice in there,

telling her the way.

 

To hear it she loses it somewhere, first.

Goes for days and years mislaying the clues

she has already given away – diamonds of a deaf-mute

scattered in the weeds. Left for dharma-lions

and wild men to stumble on,

long past midnight.

(II.2004, CA.)

Shedding

The image without an image
pinned up in the air
advertises
the Ten Thousand Things

but where was your heart when it
fell down
here?

never thinking it would fall for the nameless
unwanted, undesired         ‘things’
lost by the wayside.

city-skips full of refuse
obscure songs    expired train-stations their
tickets       un-used
books not yet read           a
child yelling
in the street            crone in the bar
who read your palm –
correctly.

Aged monuments      pigeon-strewn
standing-in              for something
other than themselves
lives that have stood up

to time & waste

one after another
surely         self-
shedding.

July, 2010

(published May 1, 2012, CORDITE POETRY REVIEW #38: http://cordite.org.au/poetry/sydney/shedding/)

M.Kovan

Where We Are

Vortices of cars on hi-ways a perpetual motion that never arrives. The impatience queues in the fast-food joints. Pre-emptive lovers’ gasp seeking white-haze of release. The earth, with moon, who turns light-years describing her strange histories.

Everyplace you are

holds the promise of being

elsewhere

and each new arrival becomes somewhere

you never reach.

California 2002

I

 

 

In the early hours we took to the road

fully-prepared    maps    compass   all-weather gear

& civilized guitars.

By midday worn down

we had to leave           half of it behind.

 

late afternoon        the maps had

lost their use

destinations     less pressing

songs unaccompanied

the journey its own reward.

 

nightfall there was only the single tent

to shelter those of us

waiting up        for the dawn.

 

Others     staying out

keeping company

with the stars.

 

 

 

 

II

 

 

High vast tilleul trees

hollow canopy domes of summer

thundering bee-droves         at fierce blossom suck

each tree a jet-plane

readying for lift-off.

 

walking underneath

in green translucid light

the mind stops –

 

unable to move     in mid-air

take a single thought

further

 

slipt inside          the bloom of the World

forever.

 

 

 

 

 

III

 

 

Some wanted to say

the eclipse could be explained

just as freedom

could be learned.

 

others refused to hear

hands cuppt over ears and eyes

private screenings         projected on

their own cavewalls.

 

Darkness descending       the obscured sun

in these days of hidden Buddhas

I sit outside my hut

wait for the clamour to die down

watch for the double

dissolution.

 

 

Georges St Labastide, France, June 2010

Another’s face looking out a window

Brimming with an inchoate music.

The house charismatic but spare, flat to bare ground

& whitewashed. (He lives alone.) A stable for

Attila’s horses come from the Hungarian plain.

(Hysterical car-alarms, magazine weddings of the suburbs.)

His letters to Stefi Geyer curl edge-wise with suicide.

Like a painter who sees through cobwebs

he closes the blind to everything

begins                     again

drags up sense from organic form

justifies the unwilling lover (is she really his muse?)

a Bluebeard who would play acid electric guitar

so they’ll all come flocking

hovers over injured manuscript in the time

it takes to brew black, bitter tea & strychnine.

 

The composer waits, in a foreign summer

for nothing in particular.

Then the Gordian noose of sound unravels

sends in fibre-optic substitutions

epilepsy stilettos defying obsessive

circuitries of reconfigured pain.

Allegro barbaro. Moto perpetuo. Demonic ostinati.

Abused violins (she’s a violinist) – the Bartok snap!

inner-ear that hears what’s coming soon after 1909.

Like Schoenberg what he knew was

everything lies in the sequence

the withdrawal when she calls

his absurd shouting in the night

(Wozzeck is there, Joseph K., even Stanley)

that make her close her peasant shutters.

What was needed was a trapdoor

or a trance-house Totentanz.

Into another unseen place

Not a home, nor loveless exile

(not these irreal portents of another TV-war):

a first quartet, a poem, barest grace.

 

Summer 2002

This essay presents a general and critical historical survey of the Burmese Buddhist alms-boycott (pattanikujjana) between 1990 and 2007. It details the Pāli textual and ethical constitution of the boycott and its instantiation in modern Burmese history, particularly the Saffron Revolution of 2007. It also suggests a metaethical reading that considers Buddhist metaphysics as constitutive of that conflict. Non-violent resistance is contextualized as a soteriologically transcendent (“nibbanic”) project in the common life of believing Buddhists—even those who, military regime and martyred monastics alike, defend a fidelity to Theravāda Buddhism from dual divides of a political and humanistic fence. Presented to the International Association of Buddhist Studies (IABS) conference, Taiwan, June 20-25, 2011. First published in the Journal of Buddhist Ethics, April, 2012: http://blogs.dickinson.edu/buddhistethics/2012/04/16/the-burmese-alms-boycott/

Not to have found, or lost

Anything. The hours in burlap

improvised tents we sit in through darkness

games & joke & out-of-tune guitar to

draw the breath closer in the same

close skin we all crave.              Sunil

never gives sign of seeing himself

from a distance all night serving big brown

Germans dhal, rice & tea, his third thumb

corkscrewing out of his wrist          birth-wonder

we abort in the West.

Orion flexing above      dogs fighting in mud

madness is real and I’m not sure

what’s worse getting drunk on Indian whiskey

or waiting for the earthquake already long due.

Only raving Irish Baba tries to make it for real

comes down to town to recruit fools like me

help him drag supplies up high for the winter

another five-thousand feet, at snowline

immured in a cave, sunset, stark mad in his

dead-ordinary stark sane mind.        Milarepa

turned nettle-green Shiva was blue

and Baba is Hep. A yellow          the rest

of us lonely & trying     hooked on distances

on vertical time on all reasonable dharmas

though the opium is crude it’s cheaper than love

& his useless loose thumb is the most perfect

thing there is. In the morning we can expect

the eight cold hells and rituals of cobbled shame

giving out rupees      lusts & forgetfulness

knowing there is no time that nothing

taken nothing gained is the only

slow    sure    road out of town.

Dharamsala, January, 2001

Untold technology to short-circuit

‘mental fight’         even here.

“armies amassing”            (synaptic doubt)

you look again

ascertain asymmetry

of the real

between hand-held video

depth-of-field and

sheer lines of jagged high mountain

tumbled within a window frame            beyond.

perfectly quiet and clear afternoon at snow-line.

not far

they build fortifications on either side

of the Border

 

Young girl waits by village pump

plastic bucket in hand

radio music resonates

inside her questioning eyes

never yet seen car-bomb    town-square    carnage

of the Border

 

aged mother who

turns off TV    slow headshake

brings goats in from high pasture

the boys demonstrate wooden rifles

we fight for our country      our honour sir

protect the interests                    as anyone does

of the Border

 

Always that margin

neglected further edge

detested pull of the other

always that further place

for which we must keep vigil

must keep

there has to be a line somewhere

(in the dirt            washed by monsoon)

where children safely play          lives tethered

against this space

Mongol hordes Visigoths damn redskins

gypsies & cretins & supernumerary Jew     swept clean

to under-side            of the mind

keep em out         other side

 

stealth planes too fast to see      from both sides

of the Border.

Jammu Kashmir, 2001