Sunday, August 13, 2017

13th August, 2017

St. Mark 

"I believe; help my unbelief!" Mark 9.24

Palm Sunday's reed cross holds pinned to my wall beside the watercolour aviary and the jar of cut flowers (peach roses and yellow carnations today, replacing last fortnight's coronet of sunflowers). "Carry your cross." These are the words with which one receives one's reeds. "Carry your cross, Sarah." I had been ill all winter; I had been away from church all winter; my baptism had fallen through; I was as the boy with the spirit that from childhood had "cast him into the fire and into the water, to destroy him," the boy whom the disciples could not heal, the boy who could only be restored through his father's cry, "I believe; help my unbelief!" Palm Sunday was my first day back at the church. I was handed my reed, and told "carry your cross." I took the cross home and pinned it beneath the moorhen, and I shall not take it down until I receive another next year. I shall carry my cross.


"Love only knoweth whence it came
and comprehendeth love."
J. G. Whittier

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Gradual Hymn today was Whittier's "Immortal Love." We are rather tuneless at Holy Cross, on account of most of us being over ninety and partly deaf. I haven't that excuse. I think I really ought take singing lessons and see if my tunelessness can be repaired. If I could sing better, I could sing at a higher volume, and then the vicar wouldn't be left doing all the work. The vicar has a resplendent singing voice; there is no finer moment than when, during the second to last verse of the recessional hymn (and it is always the second to last verse), he proceeds down the aisle, his baritone causing even the candles in the corners to quake, and as he passes, for one sublime instant, every tongue in the church is transformed, and we become angelic choirs not tone-deaf nonagenarians.

One by one all of these tongues will fall silent, and then it shall just be me. I should learn to sing. Even if I am the last voice in an emptied edifice, even if it is only I and the dust motes, and the lonely spears of light that pierce the hands of stained glass saints, even if it is only this, I should learn to sing. I should learn to sing for all that was, in remembrance and reverence of all that was, for every soul that brought his yearnings to the pew, her aching to the altar, his penitence to the prayer cushion, her love to the altar. I should learn to sing for all who suffered, and all who rejoiced, and all who cried out, "I believe; help my unbelief."

The last congregant may pass, and there may be no other to replace him, and the churches may fall silent, and the stones fail, and the stained glass saints bleach to a blankness, and even the dust motes return to dust, but Love shall not perish. There is no end to Love. My singing shall not be a threnody. I believe. Help my unbelief.


Images: 
St. Mark: By Jean Bourdichon - Bibliothèque nationale de France, lien/link ici/here, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=24527937
Whittier: By BPL - John Greenleaf Whittier, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9722792


Tuesday, August 8, 2017

8th August, 2017



It would be conceit and folly to attempt a counterattack on a philosophical movement when one's exposure thereto/knowledge thereof consists of little more than one article in one popular philosophy magazine. As luck would have it, I am both egotist and eejit, and thus just the woman for the job. Hurrah! And...Onward:

Panpsychism: the belief that pans have consciousness. (Also the belief that colanders, cheese-graters, paring knives, and salt-cellars have consciousness. And salad bowls. And tapas dishes. And the grains of rice you put in the salt cellars to keep the crystals from congealing like Lot's wife. And everything else.) 

Before laying into the demerits of panpsychism, I suppose it would only be sporting to say a thing or two about its, well, its non-demerits. Spoonful of sugar and all that, even if the sugar isn't quite sweet enough to merit the unprefixed affirmative. 
  • Panpsychism isn't physicalism. That's something. The panpsychist doesn't reduce everything to physical entities and processes. So your average panpsychist is one-up on Empedocles and Anaximenes and...let me see...Hippasus of Metapontum. The panpsychist's world isn't all a confluence of Earth, Wind, and Fire (no disrespect to Thales and his water-water-everywhere monism; it just doesn't jive with Mr Maurice White's horoscope).
  • Panpsychism recognises that something-coming-from-nothing is a hitch in the ontological giddy-up. The notion that consciousness can arise out of non-consciousness is tricksy and rightly deserves more consideration than physicalists have afforded it.
  • Panpsychists likewise acknowledge that entities are more than what they do. A pan is not simply a bundle of behaviours "brought about by mass, spin, charge, etc." There must be "more to [a pan] than what it does; and according to panpsychism, mass, spin, charge, etc, are, in their intrinsic nature, forms of consciousness" (Goff).
  • Panpsychism adds quaint heft to one's notion that one's potted cactus is genuinely, subjectively happier on the left side of the mantelpiece than on the right side. Come on, admit it: you know full well your cactus wants to be by the photo of Great Aunt Clara and the misshapen pencil-pot you paid £50 too much for at a Cotswold pottery kiln.
Grand. Now for the quibbles:

Who needs panpsychism when you've got idealism?

Goff argues that "common sense intuition" must prevent us from sweeping consciousness under a singularly physicalist carpet, but surely that same "common sense intuition" should shield us from sweeping matter under a singularly mental one. Naturally, the panpsychist will protest that he hasn't swept the carpet under the carpet, that he never does any sweeping, that he doesn't even own a broom (in which case you can get him on charges of intellectual slobbery). The panpsychist is going to argue that he has, on the contrary, tread the middle path and reconciled the Scylla of substance-dualism with the Charybdis of physicalism. But, really, methinks the panpsychist does protest too much. For if one is going to redefine all "mass, spin, charge, etc" as "forms of consciousness", one really hasn't done much more than Anaxagoras, who, as Aristotle tells it, "avails himself of Mind as an artificial device for producing order, and drags it in whenever he is at a loss to explain some necessary result" (Metaphysics I.IV.5). Anaxagoras was less philosophically crude than the aforementioned Hippopotamus of Megapondus, granted, but that's not exactly an achievement you'd want to frame and put up on the wall: "I hereby certify that Mr. Pan Psychist is less primitive than a pachyderm".

I think it in my fingers, I think it in my bones

If all the world is busy ruminating, right down to one's individual electrons and subatomic charges, does that mean one's body really does have a mind of its own? Does my stomach think different thoughts than I do? Do my digestive fluids likewise have a separate subjective experience to my stomach (do my digestive fluids, ahem, digest)? And do the enzymes therein have a different experience yet again to said fluids? That would give a whole new pith to Melville's "Hell is an idea born of an undigested apple dumpling". 

There is something tantalising about the prospect of my atoms being philosophically at odds with myself. It's a charming image; I'm tempted to let it go unquestioned if only to allow myself the pleasure of debating with my knees. Yet, sigh, I can't shake the problem of pluralities. It's one thing to say an electron has consciousness, but what of two electrons together? Do the duo have a combined consciousness independent from the individual consciousnesses of the electrons which comprise them? Or are the two consciousnesses blended into one single superconsciousness? If that's the case, though, where does the blending end? At a universal consciousness that subsumes all things? Then how is it I feel my subjective experience to be individual and limited? Do individual elements go on having individual subjective experiences while the larger matrices thereof have larger, more complicated ones? What then determines which groups of individual elements will give rise to a new, more expansive consciousness? 
      The physicalist can get away, more or less, with a physical monism by maintaining that a pan isn't really a pan at all, but simply a bunch of fundamentally identical bits-and-pieces (subatomic energy packets or whatnot) distributed in certain arrangements in space and time. The physicalist's premises are flawed as your average Greek Hero, no doubt, but there is some coherence in his argument's form. The panpsychist hasn't even that advantage. For the panpsychist, as best I can fathom him, would seem to want to say that a pan has its own consciousness, and that said pan's consciousness is subjectively different from the consciousness of the atoms that comprise it. Yet this leaves the mystery of how the pan's consciousness arose as resolute and inscrutable as if its consciousness arose out of nothing, for the pan's consciousness is not, in this model, simply an illusion brought about by indivisible bits-and-pieces of consciousness hanging out together in the same spatio-temporal arena (as the pan was in the physicalist reduction). Even if the panpsychist was content to say that the pan's consciousness was an illusion, and was reducible to subatomic consciousness-packets (or something like that), he's going to run up against the problem of how those consciousness-packets produce the illusion of pan-consciousness. 

I know you are a reductionist, you said you are a reductionist, but what am I?

Panpsychists do not simply declare animal and human consciousness a sacred mystery which must have arrived by magic. Instead, they try to explain animal and human consciousness in terms of more basic forms of consciousness: the consciousness of basic material entities, such as quarks and electrons. It is true that consciousness itself is not explained in terms of anything more fundamental: the basic consciousness of basic physical entities is a fundamental postulate of the theory. But there is no reason to think that science must always follow the most reductionist path. (Goff)

Let's untangle that, shall we? 

  1. Animal and human consciousness are not sacred nor the product of magic. Jolly good. Nice to see religion (the sacred) and superstition (magic) being leagued together as per usual. Sign of the times, I guess: it's a lonely day in the Apologetics aisle if I'm not rubbing shoulders with a Wiccan; Crowley and Kierkegaard have never been closer bedfellows.
  2. Consciousness is to be explained by the basic consciousness of basic material entities. Lordy. Okay, so I assume basic here means, what, smallest? Least complicated? The most reduced? The most basic material entities Goff mentions are, after all, the poster-children of material reductionism (namely, quarks and electrons). Thus, consciousness is to be explained, presumably, by its most reduced form as manifested in its most reduced material counterparts.
  3. You can't reduce basic consciousness to anything more fundamental than basic consciousness. Well, quite, otherwise presumably it wouldn't be "basic" consciousness. Tautology taken on board. No infinite-regress reductios allowed.
  4. Out of left-field comment on science being non-beholden to reductionism, a comment which, by its placement, is naughtily positioning itself as a conclusion, despite actually being a non-sequitur. Goff describes panpsychism in reductionist terms, then says "not all science needs to be about reduction, folks." One might as well say "all omelettes require breaking eggs; but one doesn't have to break eggs to make a nutritious breakfast." Both statements ("omelettes require breaking eggs" and "nutritious breakfasts don't") might well be true; both might have subject-matter in common; but the one doesn't follow from the other, and to make it seem as if it did would be intellectual chicanery. So, tsk-tsk Goffum. Tricksy habitses.  
But, enough for now. I'm off to the store to buy me some thinking milk.

Panbrainism.

Monday, August 7, 2017

7th August, 2017


I do not ordinarily keep to-do lists outside of work. At work, after opening shop according to the usual routine, the first order of the day is always the to-do list which I indelicately scrawl in a series of smudgy bullet-points in a notebook that is really too pretty to deserve such ill-treatment (not that ugliness pardons ill-treatment; pity the fairy-tale dupe who fails to treat the snaggle-toothed crone as respectfully as the inevitable Venus she conceals). At work, the to-do list is a necessary corrective to my otherwise day-dreamy proclivities; without it I would run the risk of, well, of being as I am when I am not at work.
          To order my non-work time by a to-do list, on the other hand, would seem like a category error. At work it is necessary for me to be a machine to a certain extent (albeit one overseen by a stridently human soul, an Anthropos-ex-Machina as it were). At work I must be the instrument by which certain things get done; away from work, I must be anything but a machine. Away from work, my fullest attention must be on developing my humanity, my soul, and while this development may (indeed, probably always does) take the form of particular activities, to think of those activities as activities (i.e. as things “to do”) would be to turn soul-development into a variety of self-improvement seminar, something that involved completing a certain number of assignments to a certain standard before being handed one’s certificate and going on one’s way to pursue other activities. Perish the thought!

Yet today, a non-work day, I have broken my rule and have written a to-do list. I excuse myself in part because my primary reason for writing said list was to ensure I didn’t end up being a bad friend through forgetfulness. I am notoriously hopeless at maintaining punctual communication with the people I love, in no small part because I feel those people deserve more than boilerplate fripperies on every occasion, no matter how trifling, and so I can’t reply to even the simplest text message without at least fifteen minutes' pause to consider the most considerate response (despite the fact that the most considerate response is often the unconsidered, immediate one). On account of this lack of punctuality, I end up with a backlog of messages on one medium or another, and then I forget to reply at all. Thus today’s list. And yet I failed to stop there. Although it is true that most of today's list consists of “text so-and-so” and “call such-and-such”, other items have ended up slipping in also: “Vacuum room”, “Finish Typography Book”, “Read something by Chesterton”, “Write blog post”.  I suppose, in my present state of mental wellness, I have been feeling strong enough to overcome the lure of completion-for-completion’s-sake (or, more accurately, completion-for-check-mark’s-sake). Herein lies hubris. Not unamalgamated hubris, but I admit I did end up approaching Chesterton as a task to be accomplished, and not, as he deserved, as a friend to be enjoyed or a teacher to be minded. (Of course, it is impossible to treat Chesterton entirely as a means to a check mark; there will always be points at which he breaks through one's utilitarian trance and biffs one, as one quite rightly deserves, on the metaphorical nose).


It is now late afternoon. This was not the post I intended to write. That post was on the article on Panpsychism, the reading of which also finagled its way onto the to-do list. That post shall have to wait (or pone? as in postpone?). The order of the afternoon is to walk. This too is on the list, but it is also on the heart (and, hummty-tum, the sole), and so can’t be wounded by a bullet-point.