Goodreads’ very own relentless nincompoop is back at it again after conscientiously imbibing a great deal of medicinal grog until the rhetoric of my motor behavior rejects the very notion of the volitional as absurd, and, (As you will see. For you must helplessly follow the logic, because you are a being whose own agency is impugned and ridiculed daily by constraints both obvious and clandestine. A being who persists in an illusion of self determination that simply cannot be reconciled with the limits imposed by the system in which your corporeality is instantiated and maintained. A being who will stubbornly cling to this illusion, even while your own brain operates as a skilled insurgent, authoring your intentions and passing them through the Cartesian theater in order to sustain the useful fiction of a mind-body dualism which has been so thoroughly undermined by experiment as to rattle even the staunchest theologian inside the buried sanctum of their most private reservations. It is, even now, conducting your behavior along imperatives precipitated out of mass death on time scales geologic), the rejection will be so self-evident that this verbose treatise will appear as obscene as the fact that the living are a subset of the dead, and an exceptionally rare subset at that. So I balance yet another “Have you ever?” precariously atop my vacuous and embarrassingly overwritten oeuvre. Because I cannot do otherwise. The writer is a decanter of frosted glass with a troubled homunculus pitching its voice inside, a voice you do not necessarily recognize, or even claim as your own. And since the responsible parties which are alleged to exist within this construct of consciousness are on, according to the findings of neuroscience, permanent hiatus, I am powerless but to prattle on in this vein for extents interminable.
I do not like talking about books on this website - that is a recipe for disaster - and I can only hold accountable a series of mechanical events, starting with the meager load of burning hurt shot into my mother’s plumbing, that final squirt from which, nine months later, your narrator would be so reluctantly born, for this senseless journey you’re about to embark on. One that could only prove injurious to your ego. One that could very well result in such a diminution of your concept of ‘self’ that you will come to regard your grey matter as the high-kneed tiptoed skulk of a vaudeville fiend that it actually is. Conjuring images of philosophically inclined felines with kleptocratic claws fingering the naked gangly minds of public intellectuals who absently sip absinthe from the bowls of their own navels. (See now that you were unable to keep from populating your mind with the unorthodox images contained in this conceptual flash bang. You had as much say in this act of creation as the innocent bystander did when a canister exploded and activated all the photoreceptor cells in their oracular equipment, disturbed the fluid in their ear, and flattened the dense grass of their stereoecilla like a crop circle enthusiast, and through a weird, inverse pointillism, disintegrated and dispersed into blackness, the image which had preoccupied them before being Swatted by a crank caller. If I ask you now to think of an animal, whatever creature first appears to you will do so unbidden. Whatever explanations you produce to justify enshrining this beast in the spotlight of your attention and not some other, will all be post hoc rationalizations.) Protest if you will. You can’t help it, after all.
But behold! The moon hangs in the sky like some strange, half-eaten fruit, pregnant with otherworldly juices and memory is but a meager attempt to hold on to something long since lost, through a wrestling match in a wet, spongy organ. The connotations of these words, their full impact and their broader context, are still implicit, available only to those neural networks. Your memory is a conspiracy on the point of being uncovered. Your neurons are slyly stretching their dendrites, they cautiously lift their tentacles, scribbling their graffiti, unreadable for now, on the inside of the bone box. The white dress billowing under the drowned woman’s shoulders looks like the open, lifeless wing of an enormous angel. Yet the only reason why we hold on to this absurd notion is that little flesh machine lodged inside our skulls. It’s hooked on meaning and cohesion. Something clicks between the synchronicity waves of our neuronal fields and certain harmonic structures in our perception. That is all. An illusion. Nature, shrouded in veils, does not easily tolerate mere mortals to contemplate her in her naked state.
The last remnants of the mist have disappeared, the clouds are shredded into ribbons, and the sun is setting in a dusk gathered out of a few gasoline-soaked rags of indigo and some crimson-fingered dirty flames. The sounds of fucking, she has discovered, can easily be imitated by rhythmically beating a stalk of celery on a raw slab of filet mignon. Consider for instance, one trivial mystery of the brain, namely the remarkable split between its two halves (one half specializes in hentai, the other in complex geometrical approximations [citation needed]): It is a split that we never experience. Consider the deep miracle of eclectic synchronization, the 40 Hz quantum impulse of consciousness that rides on the waves of asynchronous brain activities: What we “are” amounts to nothing more than a ghostly apocalyptic rider on a nonexistent and yet very real horse. Consciousness is a theater in which we can see only perfectly predetermined or long-transpired acts, and yet we have the illusion of a freedom of improvisation unmatched by any jazz musician. Our brains are the authors of our lives. We are merely the actors. Cognitive psychology is a beautiful, never-ending enterprise. To lose yourself in the details of the mind, in phenomena that last for only a few milliseconds and then dissolve into the great melting pot of consciousness without leaving a trace, it’s like trying to guess the number and function of the cogs of a tiny machine encased in a steel box that has been welded shut, just by shaking it. There’s a warning sticker on the outside of the mind: Warranty void if opened. No user-serviceable parts inside.
The girls in Texas, Father said, walk on their toes like Siamese cats, and they carry their heads high on their elegant necks like pretty accessories that serve no practical purpose.
Fuck you, Sam Harris, I do what I want!