Don't think about it.

Think about it: "it" being anything.

Think about it because you have to.

Consciousness has to be about something.  It always has a direction.  Consciousness cannot exist on its own.  Consciousness is a relationship, not an entity.

Think about it.

Because you have to.

So how does this effect experience?  Dismissing the infinite reduction of defining consciousness of something as an experience in itself (are you conscious of the conscious experience of that something?  are you conscious of that consciousness too?), we see that consciousness is the antithesis of experience.  The necessity of being about something requires consciousness to be dependent on time and perception (intangible ideas are also perceived).  Experience or being or existing is an absence of time.  It is an infinitesimal pinpoint of pre-reflection.  Perception, and thus consciousness, is reflective: you are always a nanosecond behind the perceived.  Consciousness is temporal and rational and ephemeral; existence is timeless, irrational, and foundational.  Consciousness is a means; experience is an end.

I don't wish to minimize the enormous importance of consciousness.  Our ability to consume our immediate environment, chew it up and regurgitate bite size pieces of meaning allows me to shit in a toilet instead of the dirt and to communicate with pixels instead of rocks.  What I am trying to say is that the packets of information, the ones and zeros, the rational articulations of otherwise meaningless atomic relationships that constitutes the intentionality of consciousness is not a state of being.  We are so wrapped up in the creative usefulness of the objects of our intentions, we lose sight of their purpose: that our forks and knives, our two-party systems, our dogmatic deities, our investment portfolios, and our misplaced and overanalyzed personal identities should enhance being.  They are means.  The goal of these and all conscious intentions is to eliminate conscious intention; to become pre-reflective.  The goal is to be.  

So don't think about it.

Pattern recognition and an identity crisis

What the fuck am I? (Too many "fuck"s in this blog? It just works so well at getting readers...) You'll definitely notice an identity crisis weaving it's way through these entries. I guess it's not so much a crisis as I am content with not ever finding out who or what I am. I do believe, however, that the search is a necessary and vital process. In other words, my identity - my life for that matter - is boiled down to a fruitless search. In order to prevent utter personal chaos, the process then has to be the goal. And since meaning is a human construct (yes, I will be serving drinks and similar bits of bullshit wisdom in hell) and a rite of consciousness (more nails in the a-religious coffin), brain-chaos-containment is meaning.  So, Aristotelian logic leads us directly to the idea that I have discovered the meaning of life: process not achievement. The world is now saved. You're welcome America (standard hilarious Will Ferrell).

But back to question at hand: what the fuck am I?  Phenomenology has us bracket our perceptual habits and start fresh (more on phenomenology when I know what the hell I'm talking about).  So starting fresh: I am atoms.  I am carbon; I am oxygen; I am hydrogen; and I am sprinkles of other molecular crap.  The table my computer sits on (I won't discuss the computer itself because I don't pretend to understand whatever magic the Warlock Jobs used to create it) is also made of similar, if not identicle, molecular crap.  So what am I in relation to it?  I am exactly that: a relationship.  When I see myself in the mirror, I am looking at the same particles as I see in a cat, or a table, or tree.  I am different because of the relationship of those particles.  I am a pattern, not a substance.

What does this mean?  I am a construct of my mind.  My brain interprets the relationships and creates me or the table or the tree.  I don't exist as I think I exist outside of my head.  So what the fuck am I?  I am whatever my mind wants me to be.

Identify with your disease

My guaranteed to read lead in is this: Fuck.

The origin of this lies in the fact that my "Patience" entry is the highest rated.  I am certain that it isn't the quality of the writing but the fact that the word "fuck" reveals itself in the first sentence and has two encores in the first paragraph.  Everybody loves the unnecessarily inappropriate.  I'd love to hear the top ten words that would get you reading (ear muffs everybody: fuck, shit, balls, cock; are you listening Google?).

Now that you've gotten this far, on to identity.  I don't know who the hell or what the hell I am so this will be an oft-treaded topic on this blog. I don't think I'll ever really know who this person who fakes my narrative truly is (there is so much redundancy and feedback in that sentence - I, I, my - I'm getting nauseous; I truly am a strange loop).  I refuse to read The Ugly Duckling to my daughter because I don't want to give her the false impression that we ever figure out who we are.    Maybe that's Buddha and Sartre's point anyway: defining yourself is succumbing to entropy (energy not available for useful work).  If I am what I am, the process is complete.  I am not available for useful work (i.e. the process of becoming).  I am a pinpoint.  I am stagnant.

But that is a topic for another day.  What concerns me here is identity and disease (there is a great book called Human Identity and Bioethics if you’re interested).  My god is the physical process.  I wouldn’t say physics per se because physics is a construct for understanding.  I simply mean that everything as we understand it is an infinitely dissectible set of processes: the unicellular organism driven by physical forces shares work with other organisms forming multicellular organisms that become increasingly more outwardly complex, but still driven by the same basic forces.  We are simple patterns of cause and effect (I don’t actually believe in cause and effect to be honest - blow your mind on this: Backward Causation).  Consciousness, free will, morality, spirituality are all versions of an uninterpretable chaos of physical processes.  I am that zygote in my mom’s uterus (just opened up a shit-can for the pro-lifers).

This means that we could not be anyone or anything other than our diseases.  Whatever the arbitrary classification of disease that my body will eventually degenerate into, that is me.  It is part of the process that is me.  If I were to define myself by the personality that emerges from the chemicals in my brain, I would have to define myself by the disease that shares the same chemicals, cells, and physical causation.  It is the ultimate Catch-22: you couldn’t live without the disease that’ll kill you.