COVID Topologies: Compelled to Be Present

At the suggestion of a colleague, I recently read J.G. Ballard's "The Enormous Space." The short story, about a man who decides that he's never going to leave his house again, has a "Bartleby The Scribner" meets Don DeLillo vibe to it, where -- as his self-imposed isolation sets in -- he starts to explore the space of his home more intimately, with predictably hallucinogenic results. But his initial explorations resonate with work in New Materialism and Object-Oriented Ontology: particularly as he explores his own relationship with his physical environment. 

I believe the story has gotten more attention in the shadow of COVID and its resultant quarantines (which, as of today, June 24th, 2020), people in the United States have seemingly become bored with and "prefer not to" follow. But the ongoing, slow collapse of the United States is something for another entry. I also believe that strict quarantines will be in effect again in some states after death tolls reach a level that registers on even the most fervent pro-life, evangelical conservatives' radar: that is to say, when enough of the right people die for the "all lives matter" crowd to actually notice; and/or when "bathing in the blood of Jesus" is no longer the necessary tonic to mitigate the long, slow, isolated, and painful COVID-deaths of loved ones. I have no doubt those deaths will be inevitably and preposterously blamed on Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, and somehow Colin Kaepernick and the Black Lives Matter movement. 

On some level, however, I think that broader politically- and religiously-based science denial is linked to the same emotions that people felt when they were compelled to stay home: an abject fear of seeing things as they are. Now that's a philosophically loaded statement, I know: can we ever see things "as they are"? Let's not get mired in the intricacies of phenomenology here, though. Those who were in quarantine for any length of time were suddenly faced with the reality of their living spaces. Those home environments were no longer just spaces in which we "crashed" after work, or the spaces which we  meticulously crafted based on home decor magazines. Whether living in a "forever home," a "tiny house," or the only space a budget would allow, people were faced with the "reality" of those spaces -- spaces which became the material manifestation of choices and circumstances. Those spaces no longer were just the places we "had" or "owned" or "rented," they became the places where people actually lived. We were thrust into an uninvited meditation on the difference between occupying a space and living in one.

Much like Geoffrey Ballantyne in "The Enormous Room," we found ourselves subject to the spaces which previously remained "simply there." Some, I know, went on J.A.K. Gladney-like purges as they suddenly realized just how useless -- and heavy -- much of the objects around us were, and instead of finding ourselves surrounded by the fruits of our labor, we were instead trapped by the artifacts of the past. How many people during quarantine fumbled through their possessions, timidly fondling knicknacks, looking for some kind of Kondo-joy. Others, I'm sure, went the opposite route and ordered MORE things from the internet to serve as an even more claustrophobic cocoon of stuff to block out all the other stuff which we couldn't bring ourselves to face -- let alone touch and purge. While still others continued to fail to notice their surroundings at all, yet found themselves suffering random anxiety and panic attacks -- blaming the fear of COVID rather than the fact that their surrounding spaces were becoming increasingly smaller as the detritus of daily life "at home" collected around them. 

Those spaces ... the spaces in which we "live" ... which were once relegated to the role of a background to the present, were suddenly thrust into the foreground, reclaiming us and our subjectivity. They didn't just become present, they became the present -- a present in which we were implicated; a present with which we may have grown unfamiliar. And, given the circumstances, can you blame anyone for not being too keen on the present? Whether its seeing more unrest on the news or on social media, or being compelled to haplessly homeschool your own children? The present isn't always that much fun. 

I think, though, that there is at least one positive thing that we can learn from Geoffrey Ballantyne: that it is possible for us to more consciously occupy the present moment instead of trying to avoid it. While I don't advocate the extremes to which Geoffrey goes (no spoilers here, but you may never look at your freezer the same way again); I do think that there is something to be said for noticing and engaging the spaces in which we are implicated. The spaces in which we "live" should be the ones which with we engage rather than just treat as some kind of visual or ontological backdrop. Engaging with our spaces is a way of seeing things as they are. It's a way of being aware.

 

Artifacts of Loneliness and Connection

Students often ask me about what it takes to pursue an academic career. One specific question that comes regards research. "How do you find your subject matter?" For the students who seriously want to consider getting their Ph.D.s in a humanities-related field, my answer can sometimes sound foreboding: the process will take you apart and put you together again. It will force you to face issues that are deeply personal, and you'll find that your area of research is often entangled in psychologically loaded subjects. I believe that this is one of the reasons graduate students are prone to mental health issues as the process unfolds. I always advise students to inquire about the availability of counseling services when looking into graduate programs. The most productive research is often tangled with the personal.

These entanglements, however, can bring insights both academic and personal.

One of the first subjects in this blog was the Aokigahara forest (aka the "suicide forest") in Japan. By chance I stumbled upon a This American Life podcast, "One Last Thing Before I Go," presenting another story from Japan which brings to the forefront connections the living and the dead. But this time, the symbolic gesture emanates from the living to those who are lost, rather than the opposite as evidenced by the threads left by suicides in Aokigahara. I'm speaking here of the Japanese "wind phone," through which living relatives symbolically connect to the dead.

While depression may have specific, common symptoms, I think that the affective aspect of it -- how it feels, emotionally, is poignantly unique for each person. Listening to the wind phone podcast, especially the kind of rapid-fire examples of personal grief (and loneliness) it brought forward, made me think a great deal about my own episodes. It sometimes flares unexpectedly, and other times ebbs in slowly like the tide. Understanding it helps me recognize the signs of its arrival, and allows me to work through it and rise above it more quickly. Understanding it also keeps me functional while it's with me. My depression has always manifested itself as varying degrees of disconnection, and it made me think of certain images and subjects -- namely are relationships to artifacts -- that have defined my own research.

When a tsunami hit Japan in March 2011, the world's attention was focused on the Fukushima nuclear power plant. But as waters and time recede, like with any disaster that takes thousands of lives, the larger upheaval calms and retreats into the depths of private, individual grief. Replayed and reconstructed in memories, the ache of loss is normalized into the routine; it becomes a scar around which the body remains. Numb at its center; only announcing itself in the visual space it occupies, and at its discomfort at the edges. At best we forget about it temporarily. At worst, we examine it and remind ourselves of its presence. It speaks as silence; as numbness delineated by the tissue around its edges.

Over 19,000 people lost their lives, multitudes more were left to grieve -- especially those whose loved ones were lost. in Otsuchi, Japan, 421 people were never found. This creates a certain kind of grief. With no physical remains over which to grieve, no physical remainder to fasten ritual or resolution, grief scatters like ash, covering the lives of those left behind. It becomes a fine dust that is only moved around and never quite mitigated. Prior to the disaster, a man named Itaru Sasaki was having difficulty with his own grief. His cousin had died:

He went out and bought an old-fashioned phone booth and stuck it in his garden. It looks like an old English-style one. It's square and painted white, and has these glass window panes. Inside is a black rotary phone, resting on a wood shelf. This phone connected to nowhere. It didn't work at all. But that didn't matter to Itaru. He just needed a place where he felt like he could talk to his cousin, a place where he could air out his grief. And so putting an old phone booth in his garden, which sits on this little windy hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean, it felt like a perfect solution.

For Sasaki, the phone's physical disconnection was not an issue, "because my thoughts could not be relayed over a regular phone line, I wanted them to be carried on the wind ... so I named it the wind telephone -- kaze no denwa [風の電話]"

After the tsunami, people sought out the phone as a means to connect to their loved ones, despite its presence on Sasaki's private property. Sasaki has welcomed the visitors and and estimates that over 5,000 people have visited.

As the story continues, we hear heartwrenching audio of people using the phone. Some are skeptical and say "I can't hear anything," others engage in conversation, and still others cathartically apologies and plea for their loved ones to return.  Grief is a particular, seemingly contradicting type of loss. It emphasizes the present (as the place where the loss exists) while also alienating us from it by forcing us to rely on the memories of the past. But really, I believe that the pain of loss is singularly housed in the present, because it is in the present that we reconstruct the memories of our past. The wind phone becomes an artifact which aides that reconstruction. The "connection" to the dead is open, with nothing to impede the reconstruction -- the re-writing -- of our memories of who they were. The solitary phone booth is a portal; the receiver is a conduit to something within -- which, in this case -- is projected outward, symbolically, through the phone. Dialing the number is a ritual to situate the living. As an artifact, the phone provides a focus that centers the living squarely in their loneliness.

Loneliness is an aspect of grief. When one is physically taken from us, there is both a physical and emotional space that dominates every aspect of our lives. It disorients us. The depression that often follows loss is part of a longer process of recalibrating the self to compensate for the loss.

Listening to the podcast reminded me of a concert I attended when I was in college. It was Peter Gabriel's Secret World Live tour. The opening song, "Come Talk To Me," apparently, was about the disconnection Gabriel felt after splitting with his first wife, Jill, and the struggle to connect with his daughter in the aftermath of the divorce. The song was haunting enough for me, but seeing it live affected me on a very deep level. Here's a current link, but I'm not sure how long it will remain there.

The stage is dark. Bagpipes drone. And the Gabriel's plaintive voice pleads "Ah please, talk to me / Won't you please, come talk to me / Just like it used to be / Come on, come talk to me / Come talk to me / Come talk to me." As he sings, an old-style British telephone booth appears to rise from beneath the stage. Gabriel is inside, singing into the receiver. He remains in the phone booth through the first stanza of the song as the band rises from the stage and disperses to their places. At the first chorus, Gabriel emerges from the phone booth and attempts to move toward a female singer (Paula Cole) who stands at the far end of the stage (in the studio version, Sinead O'Connor provided the other voice). His progress is impeded by the physical line connecting the receiver to the booth. He pulls and strains against it, making his way closer to Cole. They never connect, and by the latter part of the song, Gabriel is pulled backward toward the box as Cole reaches out to him.

The image has always struck me on a visceral level, just as the story about the wind phone did as I listened to the podcast. In my college days I couldn't understand why the image affected me so emotionally. During my most acute and prolonged bout with depression in grad school, the image would often come up in my counseling sessions.

We seek connection: the image of the solitary phone booth, connected to nothing, in a solitary garden; the image of a man, pulling against a cord that pulls him back into one. In the former, the phone booth is a conduit to the dead. In the latter, it symbolically stands between him and the real person from whom he feels disconnected. Gabriel advances toward Cole with great effort, only to be pulled back and closer to the box. It also brings out the point that the loneliness that often accompanies depression can act as a lense that distorts everything we experience. Chances for connection can be right in front of us, yet we can't or won't see them. People closest to us feel the furthest away, even though they may not have done anything to alienate us. If the people around us are pulling away it can spark an episode, or it can intensify one already occuring.

These seem to be two very different representations of connection, but what makes them the same is the absence that each is trying to overcome, and the means by which -- symbolically -- they are attempting to mitigate that absence.

The wind phone makes sense in a culture where -- according to Meek -- keeping up a relationship with dead loved ones is not necessarily strange. "The line between our world and their world is thin," she says. A conduit, regardless of the symbolism therein, is conceptually easier to establish. Furthermore, the dead are perpetually reconstructed in the memories of the living. Maintaining a shrine in the home, or "speaking" to them on a telephone connected to nothing becomes a mean to reinforce the reconstruction. Whether the conversations are "straightforward updates about life," or requests of the dead to look after others who have died, or the explicit desperation of loneliness, the dead receive their shape from the living.

The staging of Gabriel's "Come Talk To Me" speaks to a different -- and perhaps, more cruel -- loneliness. One in which the memory of those we lost (or, even more tragically, think we lost) must compete with the relentless intimacy of presence. I always interpreted the song as a plea to someone that was right in front of him, yet further away than anyone swept out to sea. "You lie there with your eyes half closed  like there's no one there at all / There's a tension pulling on your face / Come on, come talk to me." In that presence. the disconnection is not only emphasized, but stands in active opposition to the speaker's own memory of what the other had been to him. The Hegelian master/slave dualism comes to bear here, but the "other" withdraws itself, leaving only the phenomenal self like an outline of what was: a cold, solid shadow that deflects attempts to know it.

Both losses are predicated on the spaces between the living and the lost. Those spaces have been theorized by the likes of Hegel, Heidegger, Lacan, and several cultural theorists. Each attempts to sanitize space through theoretical and performative filters. They obfuscate loss the same way that Heidegger accuses humanity of setting-in-order loss through ritual or outsourcing it to the "them."  I've often wondered why certain philosophers take such precautions when addressing solitude, loneliness, and loss. What loss was Hegel, Heidegger, or any of the other continental philosophers or cultural theorists dealing with as they sat in their loneliness? What pushed them to let loose such waves of explanation to fill the void?  Biographers can speculate, but their loss will be as private as each of our own.

Loneliness is. We can sanitize the word into "solitude" but anyone who is swimming through the black water of loneliness knows the difference. "Solitude" is loneliness's noble cousin, bolstered and anointed by volition. A "choice" one makes to escape noise and to retreat temporarily into a private space.

Loneliness creeps forward, into one's pores. It wraps around us. Envelopes us. It slithers into our spaces quietly. It tempts. And once we engage it, it clings to us; gracefully at first. The dance is a beautiful one. Loneliness flows like a voluminous coat that catches the air and billows around us. It protects us and accompanies us into the same private spaces we occupy when in solitude. It pulls us back into ourselves as we remain distracted by its movements. And then, without any knowledge of the exact moment of its happening, it enters our senses: the space between the point of interface and the knowing of the sensation -- creating impossible, crushing paradoxes. The light that enters our eyes is too bright, yet too dim at the same time. The sound through our ears is too loud but always muffled and incomplete. Our skin, sensitive to its own presence, yet uncomfortably unfeeling to the touch of others. The subtle smells that help establish our sense of place are just out of range, but the rotten and acrid are always with us. Our taste wants what is never there, and eschews what is.

It sinks deeper. A slow leak from a seal that has deteriorated. Seeping in patterns that efface its source. Already confused by our senses, we struggle against ourselves; questioning every word, gesture, and absence. Speak up. I can't make that out. Why is it so bright? Why is it so dark? Where is the thing with the name I can't remember that maybe I brought with me to a place to which I might not have actually gone? Vertigo. What time is it? What day is it? How old am I? Why can't I ...? Why can't I ...?

Confusion turns to rage; a chemical burn just off center in the chest.  Points of origin grow unknowable. We know things before they happen, or are we remembering them?

Loneliness is a drug. It is an addiction that promises its own cure. It speaks to us and beckons us forward, calling:  Fling yourself toward me. Hurl yourself into me. Use me. Bend me. Fuck me. Deep, deep into me, into you. I promise you release.

The afterglow glistens like pitch. Drips. Then leaves us cold.

When the other is still present, the phone (interface) becomes the barrier between them which, for whatever reason, seems as if it can't be overcome. When the other is gone (dead), the phone has no barrier of presence.

The barrier of presence. In each instance, the function of the phone remains the same, yet in each, the result is different. When it comes to the dead -- especially in a culture where the line between the living and the memory of the dead is much more permeable -- there is no obstruction to the memory. Memories of the dead can be remade at will. Although, for those with debilitating grief, the memories come uninvited. Still, the connection made is not with an other as much as it with the self. The loss of the phenomenal other places the burden on the person who remains to re-create the other. The phone then becomes a reminder, a representational device, that helps those to re-form what they knew. It becomes an icon around which the memories, thoughts, prayers can coalesce for a moment of connection. Even for those who "don't hear anything" on the other end, the memory of the lost is still brought into being through desire.

The "Come Talk To Me" performance, however, represents the staggering wound of loss-in-presence. The person is there, phenomenally. He or she is relentlessly present. Yet, the memory of what they were, how they used to be, how we remember them, or how we think they are competes with what we believe to be the cold truth of the real. Regardless of whether or not they have actually changed, or if we are just perceiving and projecting that change, the dynamic plays out the same way. Although the other is always Other, the disconnection brings out the space between. Attempts to bridge that space only serve to reinforce our attention on it. The distance pleads to be overcome. The space beckons to be filled. We hurl our "selves" forward into it. Lines of connection. Performances. Words. Gestures. Anything that might have meaning. In the void, those objects and texts announce themselves in their stark phenomenality. As they fly toward the other, they are stripped of meaning. Dulled and made bright at the same time. Dull in meaning because what we know of them no longer matches what they are. Bright in ostension because that unknown has made them into someone different, more present, like a stranger in a familiar place.

This is what we used to be. And now, estranged. The real stands in the way of our reconstruction of the other. For those who converse on the wind phone, and imagine the responses of the lost, or imagine that the dead are listening, the phone becomes an artifact through which that reconstruction of the other is made manifest. It disappears in its use. Even for those who "can't hear anything," they continue to speak. In these instances, the phone-as-artifact disappears in its use.

But for those faced with the loss symbolized in the "Come Talk To Me" performance, any artifact of communication only exacerbates the loss. The medium stands as a surrogate for our own inability to articulate ourselves. The performance turns the dynamic inside-out. With the other in front of Gabriel, almost within reach, he remains tethered to the artifact. The phone booth starts as a cage, he emerges from it, reaching out, but must pull against the receiver, and becomes entangled in the cord itself. At the closest moment of contact, leaning against the weight, he is pulled back, struggling against it. He could let go of the phone. But, symbolically, he never thinks to do so. To speak to a disembodied voice, we search for cues to help us understand. Without them, we are caught between an ambiguous voice and our own reconstruction of the other. As the other recedes, the intensity of the medium becomes oppressively apparent. What should connect us has only made our separation even more real.

Artifacts extend us. I have stated repeatedly in my own work that artifacts extend our "efficacy." This is true. However, "efficacy" connotes the ability to produce a desired or intended result -- as a means to achieve an end. When that result is not brought about, we become focused in the attempt. And it's in those moments that we grasp the artifact more firmly, and feel its resistance.

The Droids We're Looking For

I've been a fan of Cynthia Breazeal for well over a decade, and have watched her research evolve from her early doctoral work with Kismet, to her current work as the creator of JIBO and the founder of JIBO, inc. What I found so interesting about Dr. Breazeal was her commitment to creating not just artificial intelligence, but a robot which people could interact with in a fashion similar to human beings, but not exactly like human beings. In her book, Designing Sociable Robots, she provides an anecdote as to what inspired her to get involved with artificial intelligence and robots in the first place: Star Wars. At first I thought this resonated with me simply because she and I had the same Gen X contextual basis. I was five when the first Star Wars film was released in 1977, and it was the technology (the spaceships and especially the droids) that got me hooked. But upon further thought, I realized that Breazeal's love of Star Wars seems to have inspired her work in another, more subtle way.  The interactions that humans have with droids in the Star Wars universe isn't exactly egalitarian. That is to say, humans don't see the droids around them as equals. In fact, the humans', and just about any of the organic, anthropomorphic aliens' interactions with droids is very much based on the function of the droids themselves.

For example, R2D2, being an "astromech" droid, is more of a utilitarian repair droid. It understands language, but does not have a language that humans can readily understand without practice or an interpreter. But even not knowing the chirps and beeps, the tone of them gives us a general idea of mood. We have similar examples of this in WALL-E, where the titular robot conveys emotion via nonverbal communication and "facial expressions," even though he really doesn't have a face, per se. But, getting back to Star Wars, if we think about how other characters interact with droids, we see a very calculated yet unstated hierarchy. The droids are very much considered property, are turned on and off at will, and are very "domain specific." In fact, it is implied that objects like ships (the Death Star, the Millennium Falcon), and even things like moisture evaporators on Tatooine have an embedded AI with which higher functioning droids like R2D2 can communicate with, control, and -- as is the function of C3PO -- translate. Granted, there are droids built as soldiers, bodyguards, and assassins, but it takes a deep plunge into fan fiction and the tenuously "expanded" Star Wars universe to find an example or two of droids that went "rogue" and acted on their own behalf, becoming bounty hunters and I'm sure at some point wanting a revolution of some sort. 

Trips into Star Wars fandom aside, the basic premise and taxonomy of the droids in Star Wars seems to represent a more realistic and pragmatic evolution of AI and AI related technologies (sans the sentient assassins, of course). If we make a conscious effort to think, mindfully, about artificial intelligence, rather than let our imaginations run away with us, thus bestowing our human ontology onto them, then the prospect of AI is not quite as dramatic, scary, or technologically romantic as we may think. 

I mean, think, really think about what you want your technology to do. How do you really want to interact with your phone, tablet, laptop, desktop, car, house, etc?  Chances are, most responses orbit around the idea of the technology being more intuitive. In that context, it implies a smooth interface. An intuitive operating system implies that the user can quickly figure out how it works without too much help. The more quickly a person can adapt to the interface or the 'rules of use' of the object, the more intuitive that interface is. When I think back to the use of this word, however, it has an interesting kind of dual standing. That is to say, at the dawn of the intuitive interface (the first Macintosh computer, and then later iterations of Windows), intuitive implied that the user was able to intuit how the OS worked. In today's landscape, the connotation of the term has expanded to the interface itself. How does the interface predict how we might use it based on a certain context. If you sign into Google and allow it to know your location, the searches become more contextually based, especially when it also knows your search history. Search engines, Amazon, Pandora, etc, all have been slowly expanding the intuitive capacities of their software, meaning that, if designed well, these apps can predict what we want, making it seem like they knew what we were looking for before we did. In that context, 'intuitive' refers to the app, website, or search engine itself. As in, Pandora intuits what I want based on my likes, skips, time spent on songs, and even time of day, season, and location.

Regardless, whether or not intuitive refers to the user, the machine, or a blend of both, in today's technological culture, we want to be able to interact with our artifacts and operating system in a way that seems more natural than entering clunky commands. For example, I would love to be able to pick up my phone, and say to it, "Okay Galaxy, block all messages except the ones from my wife, and alert me if an email from [student A], [colleague b], or [editor c] come in." 

This is a relatively simple command that can be accomplished partially by voice commands today, but not in one shot. In other words, on some more advanced smartphones, I can parse out the commands and the phone would enact them, but it would mean unnatural and time-consuming pauses. Another example would be with your desktop or classroom technology "Okay computer, pull up today's document on screen A and Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" video on screen B, and transfer controls to mine and [TA's] tablet." Or, if we want to be even more creative, when a student has a question, "Computer, display [student's] screen onto screen A." 

Now, to me, these scenarios sound wonderful. But, sadly, there isn't yet a consumer-level AI that can accomplish these sorts of tasks, because while there may be products that claim to "learn" our habits and become accustomed to our speech patterns, there is still a fissure between how we would interact with a human intelligence and a machine. That is to say, if there was a "person" behind the screen -- or controlling your car, or your house -- how would you ask it to do what you wanted? How would you interact with a "real" personal assistant who was controlling your devices and surrounding technology? 

The same holds true for a more integrated "assistant" technology such as smart homes. These kinds of technology can do some incredible things, but they always require at least some kind of initial setup that can be time-consuming and often not very flexible. Imagine the first set up as more of an interview than a programming session:

"So what are your usual habits?"

"I tend to come home around five or six."

"Does that tend to change? I can automatically set the house to heat up for your arrival or can wait until you alert me."

"Ummmm ... it tends to be that time. Let's go with it."

"No problem. We can always change it. I can also track your times and let you know if there's a more efficient alternative." 

"Ooooh ... that's creepy. No thanks." 

"Okay. Tracking's out. I don't want to come across as creepy. Is there anything else you'd like to set right now? Lighting? Music? Or a list of things I can look after if you wish?"
"I'm not sure. I mean, I'm not exactly sure what you can do."
"How about we watch a YouTube demo together? You can let me know what looks good to you and then we can build from there."
"That's a great idea."

This sounds more like Samantha from Spike Jonze's Her than anything else, which is why I think that particular film is one of the most helpful when it comes to both practical speculation of how AI could develop, as well as what we'd most likely use it for.

The difference between Her's Samantha and what would probably be the more realistic version of it in the future would be a hard limit on just how smart such an AI could get. In the film, Samantha (and all the other AIs that comprise the OS of which she is an iteration), evolves and becomes smarter. She not only learns the ins and outs of Theodore's everyday habits, relationships, and psyche, but she seeks out other possibilities for development -- including reaching out to other operating systems and the AIs they create (i.e. the re-created consciousness of philosopher Alan Watts). This, narratively, allows for a dramatic, romantic tension between Theodore and Samantha, which builds until Sarah and the other AIs evolve beyond human discourse:

It's like I'm reading a book... and it's a book I deeply love. But I'm reading it slowly now. So the words are really far apart and the spaces between the words are almost infinite. I can still feel you... and the words of our story... but it's in this endless space between the words that I'm finding myself now. It's a place that's not of the physical world. It's where everything else is that I didn't even know existed. I love you so much. But this is where I am now. And this is who I am now. And I need you to let me go. As much as I want to, I can't live in your book any more.

This is a recurrent trope in many AI narratives: that the AI will evolve at an accelerated rate, usually toward an understanding that it is far superior to its human creators, causing to "move on" -- as is the case with Samantha and several Star Trek plots, or to deem humanity inferior but still a threat -- similar to an infestation -- that will get in the way of its development.

But, as I've been exploring more scholarship regarding real-world AI development, and various theories of posthuman ethics, it's a safe bet to say that such development would be impossible without a human being purposefully designing an AI without a limitation to its learning capabilities. That is to say, realistic, science-based, theoretical and practical development of AIs are more akin to animal husbandry and genetic engineering than a more Aristotelian/Thomasian "prime mover," in which a human creator designs, builds, and enables an AI embedded with a primary teleology.

Although it may sound slightly off-putting, AIs will not be created and initiated as much as they will be bred and engineered. Imagine being able to breed the perfect dog or cat for a particular owner (and I use the term owner purposefully): the breed could be more playful, docile, ferocious, loyal, etc according to the needs of the owner. Yes, we've been doing that for thousands of years, with plenty of different breeds of dogs and cats, all of which were -- at some point -- bred for specific purposes.

Now imagine being able to manipulate certain characteristics of that particular dog on the fly. That is to say, "adjust" the characteristics of that particular dog as needed, on a genetic level. So, if a family is expecting their first child, one could go to the genetic vet who could quickly and painlessly alter the dog's genetic code to suppress certain behaviors and bring forth others. With only a little bit of training, those characteristics could then be brought forward. That's where the work of neurophysiologist and researcher Danko Nikolić comes in, and it comprised the bulk of my summer research.

As I understand it, the latter point, the genetic manipulation part, that is relatively easy and something which cyberneticists do with current AI. It's the former -- the breeding in and out of certain characteristics -- that is a new aspect in speculative cybernetics. Imagine AIs who were bred to perform certain tasks, or to interact with humans. Of course, this wouldn't consist of breeding in the biological sense. If we use a kind of personal assistant AI as an example, the "breeding" of that AI consists of a series of interactions with humans in what Nikolić calls an "AI Kindergarten." Like children in school, the theory is that AIs would learn the nuances of social interactions. After a session or lesson is complete, the collective data would be analyzed by human operators, potentially adjusted, and then reintegrated into the AIs via a period of simulation (think of it is AI REM sleep). This process would continue until that AI had reached a level of interaction high enough for interaction with an untrained user. Aside from his AI kindergarten, the thing that makes Nikolić's work stand out to me is that he foresees "domain-specificity" in such AI Kindergartens. That is to say, there would be different AIs for different situations. Some would be bred for factory work, others for health care and elderly assistance, and still others for personal assistant types of things.

So, how do you feel about that? I don't ask the question lightly. I mean it literally. How do you feel about the prospect of breeding characteristics into (and perhaps out of) artificially intelligent agents? I think your reaction would show your dominant AI functional mythology. It would also evidence your underlying philosophical, ethical, and psychological leanings. I am purposely not presenting examples of each reaction (i.e. thinking this was a good or bad idea) so as to not influence the reader's own analysis.

Now take that opinion at which you've arrived, and think, what assumption were you making about the nature of this object's "awareness," because I'm pretty sure that people's opinions of this stuff will be rooted in the presence or absence of one particular philosophical idea: free will. Whatever feeling you came to, it would be based on the presence or absence of the opinion that an AI either has free will or doesn't. If AI has free will, then being bred to serve seems to be a not so good idea. Even IF the AI seemingly "wanted" to clean you house ... was literally bred to clean your house ... you'd still get that icky feeling as years of learning about slavery, eugenics, and caste systems suddenly kicked in.  And even if we could get over the more serious cultural implications, having something or someone that wants to do the things we don't is just, well, creepy.

If AI didn't have free will, then it's a no-brainer, right? It's just a fancy Roomba that's slightly more anthropomorphic, talks to me, analyzes the topology of dirt around my home and then figures out the best way to clean it ... choosing where to start, prioritizing rooms, adjusting according to the environment and my direction, and generally analyzing the entire situation and acting accordingly as it so chooses ... damn.

And suddenly this becomes a tough one, doesn't it? Especially if you really want that fancy Roomba.

It's tough because, culturally, we associate free will with the capacity to do all of the things I mentioned above. Analysis, symbolic thinking, prioritizing, and making choices based on that information seems to tick all the boxes. And as I've said in my previous blog posts, I believe that we get instinctively defensive about free will. After a summer's worth of research, I think I know why. Almost all of the things I just mentioned, analysis, prioritizing, and making choices based on gathered information are things that machines already do, and have done for quite some time. It's the "symbolic thinking" thing that has always gotten me stumped.

Perhaps it's my academic upbringing that started out primarily in literature and literary theory, where representation and representative thought is a cornerstone that provides both the support AND the target for so many theories of how we express our ideas. We assume that a "thing that thinks" has an analogous representation of the world around it somewhere inside of itself -- inside its mind. For me, even though I knew enough about biology and neuroscience to know that there isn't some kind of specific repository of images and representations of sensory data within the brain itself, but that it was akin to a translation of information. But even then, I realized that I was thinking about representation more from a literary and communication standpoint than a cybernetic one. I was thinking in terms of an inner and outer world -- that there was a one-for-one representation, albeit a compressed one, in our minds of the world around us.

But this isn't how the mind actually works. Memory is not representative. It is, instead, reconstructive. I hadn't kept up with that specific research since my dissertation days, but as my my interest in artificial intelligence and distributed cognition expanded, some heavy reading over the summer in the field of cybernetics helped to bring me up to speed (I won't go into all the details here because I'm working on an article about this right now. You know, spoilers). But I will say that after reading Nikolić and Francis Heylighen, I started thinking about memory, cognition, and mindedness in much interesting ways. Suffice to say, think of memory not as distinctly stored events, but the rules by which to mentally reconstruct those events. That idea was a missing piece of a larger puzzle for me, which allowed a very distinct turn in my thinking.

It is this reconceptualization of the "content" of thought that is key in creating artificial intelligences which can adapt to any situation within a given domain. It's domain specificity that will allow for practical AI to become woven into the fabric of our lives, not as equals or superiors, but not as simple artifacts or tools, either. They will be something in between. Nor will it be a "revolution" or "singularity," Instead, it will slide into the current of our cultural lifeworld in the way that email, texting, videoconferencing, WiFi, Roombas, and self-parking cars have: a novelty at first, the practicality of which is eventually proven through use. Of course, there will be little leaps here and there. Improved design of servos, hydraulics, and balance control systems; upgrades in bendable displays; increased connectivity and internet speeds -- mini-revolutions in each will all contribute to the creating of AI artifacts which themselves will  be firmly embedded in a broader internet of things. Concurrently, small leaps in software development in the realm of AI algorithms (such as Nikolić practopoietic systems) will allow for more natural interfaces and user experiences.

That's why I think the future of robots and AIs will look more like the varied droids of star wars than the replicants of Blade Runner or Lt. Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Actually, I think the only robots that will look close to human will be "sexbots" (as the name implies, robots provided to give sexual gratification). And even these will begin to look less human as cultural aesthetics shift. Companion robots at home for the elderly will not look human either, because the generation that will actually being served by them hasn't been born yet, or at least with a few exceptions is too young to be reading this blog. They'd be more disturbed by being carried around or assisted by robots that look like humans than they would be something that looked more artificial.

That being said, there really isn't any way to predict exactly how the integration of AIs in the technoculture will unfold. But I do think that as more of our artifacts become deemed "smart," we will find ourselves more apt to accept, and even expect, domain-specific AIs to be a part of our everyday lives. We'll grow attached to them in a unique way: probably on a level between a car we really, really like and a pet we love. Some people endlessly tinker with their cars and spend a lot of time keeping them clean, highly-tuned, and in perfect condition. Others drive them into the ground and then get another used car and drive that into the ground. Some people are dog or cat people, and don't feel complete without an animal in the house. Others find them to be too much trouble. And still others become "crazy cat people" or hoard dogs. Our AIs will be somewhere in that spectrum, I believe, and our relationship with them will be similar to our relationships with cars, pets, and smart phones.

As for the possibility of AIs becoming aware (as in, sentient) of their status between car and pet, well, if Nikolić's theory has any traction (and I think it does), then they'll never be truly "aware" of their place, because AIs will be bred away from any potential development of anthropomorphic version of free will, thus keeping them "not quite human."

Although I'm sure that when we get there, we'll wish that our machines could be just a little smarter, a little more intuitive, and a little more useful. And we'll keep hoping that the next generation of AIs will finally be the droids we're looking for.

Looking #Throughglass, Part 3 of 3: Risk, Doubt, and Technic Fields

In my last post, I discussed the expectations that Google Glass creates in relation to the internet of things. In this final section, things will take a slightly more philosophical turn by way of Glass's paradoxical weakness.

Connection. Integration. Control. They are related but they are not the same. One of the pitfalls of a posthuman ontology is that the three are often confused with each other, or we believe that if we have one, we automatically have one or both of the others. A connection to any kind of system (whether technological, social, emotional, etc. or any combination thereof) does not necessarily mean one is integrated with it, and neither connection nor integration will automatically instill a sense of control. In fact, a sense of integration can have quite the opposite effect, as some begin to feel compelled to check their email, or respond to every signal from their phone or tablet. Integrating a smart home or child tracker into that system can, at times, exacerbate that very feeling. Explicating the finer differences among connection, integration, and control will be the subject of another entry/series. For now, however, we can leave it at this: part of the posthuman experience is to have an expectation of a technological presence of some kind.

The roots of the word “expect” come from the latin expectare, from ex- “thoroughly” + spectare “to look.” (etymonline.com). So, any time we are “looking for” a technological system of any kind, whether or not it is because we want to find a WiFi network (vending machine, ATM, etc.) or because we don't want to find any obvious sign of a technological device or system (save for the most rudimentary and simple necessities), we are, generally, in a state of looking for or anticipating some kind of technological presence. 

Wide scale adoption of certain technologies and their system of use is a very important aspect of making that specific technology ubiquitous. Think about email. For each of us, when did email and the internet become important -- if not the main --  means of retrieving and storing information, communication, and entertainment? How much of the adoption of that technology came about by what seemed to be an active grasping of it, and what seemed to be something foisted upon us in a less voluntary way? The more ubiquitous the technology feels, the more we actively -- yet unconsciously -- engaged with it.

And in the present day, we expect much, much more from the internet than we did before. Even in other technological systems: what do we expect to see on our cars? What will we expect to see in 10 years’ time? 

In this context, the successful technology or technological system is one that creates expectations of its future iterations. Much like the film Inception, all a company needs to do is plant the idea of a technology in collective consciousness of culture. But that idea needs to be realistic enough to occupy that very narrow band between the present and the distant future, making the expectation reasonable For example, cost-effective flying cars may be feasible in the near future in and of themselves, but we also know that wide scale adoption of them would be contingent upon a major -- and unrealistic -- shift in the transportation infrastructure: too many other things would have to change before the technology in question could become widespread. 

In this case, Glass -- subtly, for now -- points to a future in which the technological presences around us are evoked at will. Most importantly, that presence (in the internet of things), is just "present enough" now to make the gap between present and future small enough to conceptually overcome. It is a future that promises connection, integration, and control harmoniously fused, instantiated by an interface that is both ubiquitous, yet non-intrusive. 

In the present, in terms of everyday use, this is where Glass falls short for me. It is intrusive. Aesthetically, they've done all they can given the size limitations of the technology, but its user interface is not fluid. I think its reliance on voice commands is at fault. Although the voice recognition present in Glass is impressive, there are sometimes annoying errors. But errors aside, using voice as the main user control system for Glass is a miss. Voice interaction with a smartphone, tablet, or computer can be quite convenient at times, but -- especially with smartphones -- it is infrequently used as the primary interface. No matter how accurate the voice recognition is, it will always lack what a touch-interface has: intimacy.

Now this may seem counterintuitive. Really, wouldn't it be more intimate if we could speak to our machines naturally? In some ways, yes, if we could speak to them naturally. Spike Jonze’s Her presents an incredible commentary on the kind of intimacy we might crave from our machines (yet another entry to be written ... so many topics, so little time!).  But the reality of the situation, in the present, is that we do not have that kind of technology readily available. And voice interfaces -- no matter how much we train ourselves to use them or alter our speech patterns so that we’re more easily understood -- will always already lack intimacy for two main reasons. 

First, voice commands are public: they must be spoken aloud. If there is no one else in the room, the act of speaking aloud is still, on some level, public. It is an expression that puts thoughts “out there.” It is immediate, ephemeral, and cannot be taken back.  Even when we talk to ourselves, in complete privacy, we become our own audience. And sometimes hearing ourselves say something out loud can have a profound effect. A technological artifact with a voice interface becomes a “real” audience in that it is an “other” to whom our words are directed. Furthermore, this technological other has the capacity to act upon the words we say. These are, after all, voice commands.  A command implies that the other to whom the command is directed will enact the will of the speaker. Thus, when we speak to a device, we speak to it with the intent that it carry out the command we have given it. But, in giving commands, there is always a risk that the command will not be carried out, either because the other did not hear it, understand it, or -- as could be a risk in future AI systems -- does not want to carry it out. Of course, any technological device comes with a risk that it won't perform in the ways we want it to. But it’s the public nature of the voice command that makes that type of interface stand out and augments its failure. I propose that, even subconsciously, there is a kind of performance anxiety that occurs in any voice interface. With each utterance, there is a doubt that we will be understood, just as there is always an underlying doubt when we speak to another person. However, with another person, we can more naturally ask for clarification, and/or read facial expressions and nonverbal cues in order to clarify our intentions. 

The doubt that occurs with voice commands is only exacerbated by the second reason why voice interfaces lack intimacy. It is something which is more rooted in the current state of voice recognition systems: the very definite lag between the spoken command and when the command is carried out. The more “naturally” we speak, the longer the lag as the software works to make sense of the string of words we have uttered. The longer the lag, the greater the doubt. There is an unease that what we have just said will not be translated correctly by the artifact. Add to this the aforementioned performance anxiety, then we have the ingredients for that hard-to-describe, disconcerting feeling one often gets when speaking to a machine. I have no doubt that this lag will one day be closed. But until then, voice commands are too riddled with doubt to be effective. And, all philosophical and psychological over-analysis aside, these lags get in the way. They are annoying. Even when the gaps are closed, I doubt this will ameliorate the more deeply rooted doubt that occurs when commands are spoken aloud, publicly. 

For now, the real intimacy of interface between human and machine comes in the tactile. Indeed, the visual is the primary interface and the one which transmits the most information. However, on the human side, the tactile = intimacy. Thus, when trying to navigate through menus on Glass, the swipe of a finger against the control pad feels much more reliable than having to speak commands verbally. Having no middle ground in which to quickly key in information is a hinderance. If we think about the texts we send, how many of them are will willing to speak aloud? Some, clearly, contain private or sensitive information. Keying in information provides the illusion of a direct connection with the physical artifact, and, in practical terms, also is “private” in that others can’t easily determine what the individual is keying into his or her screen. 

Whether or not this aspect of privacy is in the forefront of our minds as we text doesn't matter, but it is in our minds when we text. We trust that the information we're entering into -- or through -- the artifact is known to us, the artifact itself, and a potential audience. Make a mistake in typing a word or send a wrong command, we can correct it rather quickly.  Of course, there is still a potential for a bit of anxiety that our commands will not be carried out, or understood. But the “failure” is not as immediate or public in most cases as it would be with a command or message that is spoken aloud. Repeating unrecognized commands via voice is time consuming and frustrating.

Furthermore, a physical keying in of information is more immediate, especially if the device is configured for haptic feedback. Touch "send," and one can actually “feel” the acknowledgement of the device itself. Touching the screen is reinforced by a visual cue that confirms the command. Add any associated sounds the artifact makes, and the entire sequence becomes a multisensory experience. 

At present, technology is still very artifactual, and I believe that it is the tactile aspect of our interactions with technological systems which is one of the defining factors in how we ontologically interact with those systems. Even if we are interacting with our information in the cloud, it is the physical interface through which we bring that information forth that defines how we view ourselves in relation to that information. Even though Glass potentially “brings forth” information in a very ephemeral way, it is still brought forth #throughglass, and once it has been evoked, I believe that -- in the beginning at least -- there will have to be a more physical interaction with that information somehow. In this regard, I think the concept video below from Nokia really seems to get it right. Interestingly, this video is at least 5 years old, and this clip was part of a series that the Nokia Research Center put together to explore how 

mobile technology might evolve. I can't help but think that the Google Glass development team had watched this at some point. 

My first reaction to the Nokia video was this is what Glass should be. This technology will come soon, and Glass is the first step. But Nokia’s vision of “mixed reality” is the future which Glass prepares us for, and -- for me -- highlights three things which Glass needs for it to be useful in the present:

Haptic/Gesture-based interface. Integral in Nokia’s concept is the ability to use gestures to manipulate text/information that is present either on the smartglass windows of the house, or in the eyewear itself. Even if one doesn't actually “feel” resistance when swiping (although in a few years that may be possible via gyroscopic technology in wristbands or rings), the movement aspect brings a more interactive dynamic than just voice. In the video, the wearer’s emoticon reply is sent via a look, but I would bet that Nokia’s researchers envisioned a more detailed text being sent via a virtual keyboard (or by a smoother voice interface).

Full field-of-vision display. This was my biggest issue with Glass. I wanted the display to take up my entire field of vision. The danger to this is obvious, but in those moments when I’m not driving, walking, or talking to someone else, being able to at least have the option of seeing a full display would make Glass an entirely different -- and more productive -- experience.  In Nokia's video, scrolling and selection is done via the eyes, but moving the information and manipulating it is done gesture-haptically across a wider visual field.

Volitional augmentation. By this, I mean that the user of Nokia Vision actively engages -- and disengages -- with the device when needed. Despite Google’s warnings to Glass Explorers not to be “Glassholes,”  users are encouraged to wear Glass as often as possible. But there’s a subtle inference in Nokia’s video that this technology is to be used when needed, and in certain contexts. If this technology were ever perfected, one could imagine computer monitors being almost completely replaced by glasses such as these. Imagine for a moment what a typical day at work would be like without monitors around. Of course, there would be some as an option and for specific applications (especially ones that required a larger audience and/or things that could only be done via a touchscreen), but Nokia’s vision re-asserts choice into the mix. Although more immersive and physically present artifactually, the "gaze-tracking eyewear" is less intrusive in its presence, because engaging with it is a choice. Yes, engaging with Glass is a choice, but its non-intrusive design implies an “always on” modality. The internet of things will always be on. The choice to engage directly with it will be ours. Just as it is your choice as to whether or not to check email immediately upon rising. Aside from the hardware, what I find the most insightful here is the inference of personal responsibility (i.e. and active and self-aware grasping) toward technology.

If Google Glass morphed into something closer to Nokia’s concept, would people abuse it, wear it all the time, bump into things, get hit by cars, lose any sense of etiquette, and/or dull already tenuous social skills? Of course. But Nokia’s early concept here seems to be playing for a more enlightened audience. Besides, at this level of technological development, one could imagine a pair of these glasses being "aware" of when a person was ambulatory and default to very limited functionality. 

Overall, Glass is the necessarily clunky prototype which creates an expectation for an effective interface with the internet of things.  Although it may not be practical for me in the present, it does make me much more receptive to wearing something that is aesthetically questionable so that I might have a more effective interface when I choose to have it.  It is, however, a paradoxical device. It’s non-intrusive design impedes a smooth interface, and the hyper-private display that only the wearer can see is betrayed by very public voice commands. Its evoking of the information provided by the internet of things is impeded by too much empty space. 

But in that failure lies its success: it creates an expectation that brings technological otherness down from the clouds and integrates it into the very spaces we occupy. Over half a century ago, Martin Heidegger implied in The Question Concerning Technology that the essence of technology does not reside in the artifact, but in the individual’s own expectation of what the artifact or system would bring forth. He would be horrified by Glass, because it “sets in order” our topological spaces, objectifying them, and rendering them into information. The optimist in me would disagree. but only with the caveat that engaging with the “technic fields” that an internet of things would emit must be a choice, and not a necessity. That is to say, it is the responsibility of the individual to actively engage and disengage at will, much like the somewhat Hyperborean user depicted in Nokia’s Mixed Reality project. 

Philosophically speaking, this type of technology potentially offers an augmented integration with our topologies. It highlights the importance of the physical spaces we occupy and the ways in which those spaces contribute to how and why we think the way we do. Used mindfully, such technologies will also allow us to understand the impact that our human presence has on our immediate environment (i.e. the room, house, building, etc. we occupy), and how those spaces affect the broader environments in which they are found. 

Now, will Glass just sit on my shelf from now on? No. I do have to say that more apps are being developed every day that increase the functionality of Glass. Furthermore, software updates from Google have made Glass much more responsive. So I will continue to experiment with them, and if the right update comes along with the right app, then I may, at some point, integrate them into my daily routine.

#Throughglass, however, the future is in the past-tense.

[I would like to express my appreciation and gratitude to Western State Colorado University and the faculty in Academic Affairs who made this possible by providing partial funding for obtaining Glass; and for the faculty in my own department -- Communication Arts, Languages, and Literature -- for being patient with me as I walked through the halls nearly bumping into them. The cyborg in me is grateful as well.] 

Place and resistance

I've never been a real fan of Kant, but every time I cover some of his philosophy in any of my classes, I always keep coming back to his more poetic turn of phrase about the dove thinking that if there wasn't resistance, it could fly higher:

Mathematics gives us a shining example of how far, independently of experience, we can progress in a priori knowledge.   It does, indeed, occupy itself with objects and with knowledge solely in so far as they allow of being exhibited in intuition, but this circumstance is easily overlooked, since this intuition can itself be given a priori, and is therefore hardly to be distinguished from a bare and pure concept.  Misled by such a proof of the power of reason, the demand for the extension of knowledge recognises no limits.  The light dove, cleaving the air in her free flight, and feeling its resistance, might imagine that its flight would be still easier in empty space.  (from The Critique of Pure Reason)

In many ways, one could say that we need our own topological spaces as a kind of "resistance" for our embodied cognition.  Importantly, I'm not using the term "resistance" pejoratively.  I'm thinking of it in the same register as Kant.  The spaces give our biological cognition something to "push against" that is more than simply the body in which it (primarily) seems to be housed.  Of course, too much resistance can be counterproductive.  But too little can be equally problematic.  "Too much" resistance would be a space which has too many distractions -- whether they be things which are superficially distracting (i.e. noise, uncomfortable environmental conditions, etc); or more subtle, emotional distractions (good or bad memories).

But what would "too little" resistance be?  At first I thought that a space that was too comfortable either physically or emotionally would provide little of the resistance I'm thinking about.  Then I wondered if it would be a space that was somewhat empty -- devoid of objects and distractions, similar to a topological tabula rasa.  The latter, however, is not feasible in the practical sense of the word, really.  Unless we're talking about exceptional situations such as prolonged solitary confinement or sensory deprivation.  But if we remain within the confines of the Geneva accords, I'm thinking that the former is more suitable:  where too much comfort or even familiarity offers little resistance.  And, when we're too comfortable in a particular place, where does our motivation come from?  What do we "push against" in order to really think?  On top of that, we also need to consider that the desirability of these two aspects is situationally contingent.  Sometimes, we need a bit of ease.  We need to also take into consideration the fact that certain types of people will rely more heavily on the physical  "outer" spaces around them than others.

It's important to note, however, that it's not so much the presence of the "stuff," as it is how effectively it's utilized:  how efficacious is the environment to our thinking?

Regardless of the degree of integration with our topological spaces, those spaces act in a similar fashion to how Kant's "experience" provides a priori knowledge with something to push against.  Even though I'm not one for a priori knowledge, I think that Kant's metaphor is useful.  Affectively, no resistance = no ambition; no drive; no motivation.  Topologically, the spaces we occupy provide that needed resistance for our biological cognition.  The phenomena around us provide the stimuli through which a distributed cognition is woven.

On cities, mountains, and hoarding.

I wrote this entry over two days while I was on my semester break in Denver.  I was sitting in a Starbuck's, amid the traffic noise, reading through articles to help with a revision of an anthology chapter I was working on. I found myself thinking again about place and topology. And I came to an unsurprising, but somewhat disappointing conclusion: I think better in cities. My mind can make high-end and productive connections so much more quickly when I'm surrounded by a more urban landscape. I find my thoughts more centered, more precise, and less encumbered by counter-productive meanderings.

The reason this is "disappointing" is a more personal one. For an academic who lives in the middle of the mountains, to know that my best thinking doesn't happen in the place where I live is concerning. What would I be like if I taught in an institution located someplace else? How different would my teaching be? I already know that my research would be more productive. So yes, there is something a little concerning there.

But academically, and in the scope of the chapter I'm working on, this is really par for the course in terms of the topological nature of distributed cognition. This also helps to prove an important point that I think a lot of scholars working on "thing theory" may be overlooking. It's quite tempting to look at the types of thoughts analogously with the types of spaces we're occupying at that moment. That is to say, it seems to make sense that if we're in someplace that is quiet, serene, and pastoral, that our thoughts should be similar. But think for a moment about people who visit places that are serene and quiet and find themselves even more stressed and agitated than they would be if they were in their more "native" environment. For me, being in downtown Denver doesn't give me more "cosmopolitan" thoughts. More accurately, the downtown atmosphere seems to match up to, and be more conducive to, a more native modality of thought. That is to say, i can concentrate on things more easily. I can sustain deeper, more complex thought for a longer period of time. At least -- and this is a very important caveat -- it seems that I can. It feels like that's the case. I feel more "me." It would be interesting to perform a more formalized study using various memory and concentration tasks. Perhaps in May.

In terms of the chapter I'm working on, however, I think it's important to move beyond what I mentioned above, and move away from characterizing types of thoughts per se and instead concentrate on the specific thought process that brings forth a specific self-ing one's specific lebesnwelt. Actually, a more accurate way to put it would to simply say "brings forth a particular, individual lebenswelt."

So, let's take the cultural construction of hoarders on reality television, for example. In most of the shows I've seen, the hoarders themselves seem to fall into two categories: 1) the hoarder who has come to the conclusion him or herself that he or she can no longer live the way in which they are living; or 2) the hoarder who has been thrust into an intervention due to some outside circumstance (i.e. a health/fire scare where rescuers could not get into the dwelling in a timely fashion; or a local municipality is threatening to condemn the property due to neighbors' complaints). In the former case, the hoarder is more self-aware and knows that how they are living is -- within the larger cultural framework -- "wrong." Even if they don't see their existence as uncomfortable or unsanitary, they have had some kind of insight or interaction that tells them that their own sense of "home" or "comfort" is somehow sociopathic. In the latter case, however, one can usually see a complete lack of awareness on the part of the hoarder that what they are doing is "wrong," "unhealthy," "sick," or "crazy." In fact, interventions for these hoarders have an added facet of difficulty, in that the hoarder fully and actively works against the team's efforts to help them clean things up.

But in both cases, there is a disconnect between the perception of it being wrong in terms of how "society" sees the issue and what the hoarder is actually feeling. That is to say, the hoarder feels at home in his or her hoard. It feels right to put more things in the home. The squalor and decomposing matter around them doesn't affect them in the ways it does an outsider. Yet, the hoarder is told that it is wrong and feels a certain kind of socially-instituted shame about their condition. And I'm sure that much of that is engineered as well by the reality television industry itself. If we were to really think about it, in many cases, the thing that separates a hoarder from a collector is socioeconomic standing and/or the perception of a culturally-constructed notion of "squalor." The millionaire who owns multiples of the same car, or who has a facility filled with "collections" is simply that, a collector -- probably because he or she can afford to keep the collection in perfect condition -- sans mummified animal carcases and rodent droppings.

But, in terms of the hoard itself, for whatever psychological reason, the hoard is intrinsically related to a sense of self and well-being. The stress from the removal of the hoard comes from the breakdown of that self and well-being. The hoarder's own habits and highly personal and protected "being" is suddenly held under scrutiny, and deemed "abnormal." Shame and/or resistance follows. Removal of the hoard becomes a highly stressful enterprise, causing the hoarder to often just shut down as the hoard is removed, or to actively thwart the efforts of the removal team. As viewers, this is where we often feel the most sense of superiority and when we get to judge the hoarder as being "crazy" or pity the mental illness that brings them there. However, we might be able to find a bit more compassion if we found ourselves having to voluntarily remove one of our own limbs. The "oneness" of our physical bodies is, in most cases, intrinsic to our senses of self. For psychological reasons, the sense of that bodily oneness for hoarders -- pathologically -- is more acutely distributed among the hoard.

I am hesitant, though, to put too much credence in the way in which reality television portrays the hoarder. That being said, the fact that the situation is specifically engineered by the producers of the show to bring about as much "drama" as possible, it is the very fact that the situation is so artificial that makes it compelling and useful to look at the role of the hoard. To present the hoarders' living situation in such an artificial, constructed manner -- constructed for consumption by an audience -- further highlights its pathology through multiple frames.

This entry has spanned two days. And now I find myself sitting in the same spot in the same Starbucks, facing a 4 hour drive back to the mountains. As I drive back over snow covered mountain passes, I probably won't be able to keep track of the shifts in the modality of my thinking. I'll just know that when I sit at my desk at home and look out over the breathtaking landscape, that something will be missing.

Gelassenheit, Serendipity, and Multitasking.

A student of mine came across a Heideggerian term which I haven't thought about in along time.  He was reading an article that linked Heideggerian existentialism with theology.  I've read these things before, and the arguments of the authors usually hinge upon an attribution of purpose or telos on the Dasein which isn't necessarily justifiable. These interpretations of Heidegger are also contingent upon a general ignoring of anything and everything Heidegger has ever said about death.   But that's another post.  What struck me about this article was the appearence of the term "Gelassenheit," which the author of the article unforgiveably translated as "openness or attunement," which is -- I believe -- more than just a stretch of a translation.  Then again, the article was trying to shoehorn Heideggerian ontology into a theological perspective.  Just because Heidegger borrowed the term from Meister Ekhart, it's not a crack in his atheism.  But that's a rant for another post.

After double-checking from several sources -- including two German-speaking colleagues, I found that my own translation as "stillness" or "calm" was more accurate in that context.  The implications of the slanted translation definitely affected the arguments of the article.  But it did inspire me to think more of this term, and to track it down in Heidegger's writing -- and I've got Country Path Conversations (Davis translation) queued up on my Kindle.

But this use of Gelassenheit serendipidously worked with some things I've been wrestling with in terms of technology, distributed cognition, and a theory of posthuman determinism I've been thinking about.  I am finally getting to read Nicholas Carr's The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains, but from my own personal experience, I know that certain ways of using technology can mess with my concentration.  I realized last year as I started to write again that multitasking had really screwed up my ability to write.  I had to painstakingly extricate myself from multitasking and re-evaluate the way I used technology.  It took more will power than I care to mention.  But I did it.  And now I find myself much more aware of how I use my own technology than I was before -- specifically, my behaviors:  How and why do I multitask?  Was there ever a moment when multitasking was useful, or even necessary?

But as I thought more of multitasking, it became clear that we multitask even when we don't think we're multitasking:  music on in the background?  Guilty.  Screensaver on while doing something else?  Guilty.  Texting or surfing on a smartphone while the TV is on?  Guilty.  Once again, serendipity came in to play as I started reviewing McLuhan for my Communication & Theatre class AND found McLuhan cited in a source I was using for the book chapter I'm working on.  McLuhan's theory of hot and cold media, and autoamputation are still useful and valid.  But I think they have a wider application than what we often attribute to him.

But from what I've read so far of The Shallows, I think that there will be a very interesting crossover between his work in how the brain re-wires itself in light of technological media, and my own ideas of the role of topological spaces and distributed cognition.  I also think that there just might be some hope regarding more effective ways to use technological artifacts and applications with Carr believes re-wires our minds in counter-productive ways.  This idea of Gelassenheit may be a part of it, but there's a distinct possibility that Heidegger's "stillness" may itself be a red herring.

Regardless, part of this requires some experiments on my part -- some of which I'm already engaged in.  But I haven't been engaged in them long enough for them to become habit.  But I will say that the few things I'm doing differently have increased my concentration a great deal.

More soon.

Aokigahara Forest, Part 3: Empty Spaces and Pieces of Mind

[This is the final installment of the Aokigahara posts]

"Studying how people co-exist with nature is part of environmental research.  I was curious why people kill themselves in such a beautiful forest.  I still haven't found an answer to that."

Sometimes my literary theorist upbringing can really do me a disservice.  I was initially going to jump all over this statement and say that Hayano is actually not looking to see how people co-exist, simply because he is finding the things that seem to not belong to nature.  After all, it is the objects themselves which lead Hayano either to  decomposing corpses (which, as per the end of the video, are transformed into objects or markers of pity, "Sometimes I feel sorry for them"), or to nothing.  But even if nothing is found, Hayano populates the empty space with a narrative of what might have happened.  By no means am I faulting him for this, or even criticizing him for it in an academically snarky way.  On the contrary, this is what humans do.  This is how our brains operate.  And I believe that this narrative-making is actually the manifestation of a truly human instinct. All living things have a survival instinct.  But if we're going to really figure out what makes human specifically human, it would be our unique way of creating narratives (whether literary as in the creation of myths, or scientific in the creation of theories and postulates).  I also think that the way in which humans utilize objects is also an aspect of that narrative.

What Hayano is studying is our co-existence with nature, and, by his own admission, he cannot seem to rectify the beauty of the forest with what he sees as the ugliness of decomposition.  Instinctively, we should see decomposition as ugly: decomposing corpses are toxic and can pollute water and food supplies.  They can attract vermin and other scavengers which are detrimental to health.  Yet, one of the ongoing markers of "humanity" or at least advanced thought, has been ritualized burial.  And what is ritualized burial but an attempt to re-integrate the body with the earth, and simultaneously ameliorate a sense of loss.  The two are not diametrically opposed.  We memorialize the dead, as a way to simultaneously remember (bring to mind) and forget (return the body to the earth, and mythically, return the soul to whence it came, or liberate the life-force).  But we don't really want to forget,  do we?  We need that act of burial to mark an end, to find closure, and to leave a remnant behind which can focus our memories when we need them to be focused.

Now, let's think of this in more posthuman terms.  To circumvent the deleterious effects of decomposition, we find elaborate ways to either preserve or dispose of the dead.  Whether we choose a "green" burial and commit the body naked into a pit and foster decomposition; or we burn it to ash, make the ash into a diamond, and wear it around or necks; or if we mummify the dead to be unearthed millenia later and put on display in a museum, they are all, essentially, the same action:  a reintegration into the landscape as object, and an integration of loss into the conceptual landscape of self.  Mourning is a reconstitution of self in light of an absence.  Instinctively, I want to jump to the emotional/affective loss.  But I'm going to resist that urge again and focus on the physical loss.

The closer I am to the person who has died, the more likely their physical presence is attached to the idea of them.  In fact, I can actually get a visceral response when I think about the people whom I love the most simply not being there physically.  In the topography of everyday life, the physical presence of others around us is more important, I believe, than even emotional connection.  I think that existentialism may have done us a disservice in that it has elevated the concept of the consciousness to a point where it becomes unduly synonymous with the emotional, intellectual, and conceptual self.  We become so focused on getting over a loss on a conceptual level, that the sheer weight of physical absence is overlooked.  If thinking, then, is truly distributed over the specific topological spaces we occupy (as per Andy Clark's work), then the physical absence of a person with whom we've shared a specific space would have a profound effect on the mechanism of thinking itself.  The process of cognition would occur with a major piece missing, literally.  One would be thinking with a piece of his or her mind missing.

One last bit from Hayano to bring this home:

 "I think the way we live in society these days has become more complicated.  Face-to-face communication used to be vital, but now we can live our lives being online all day.  However, the truth of the matter is we still need to see each other's faces, read their expressions, hear their voices, so we can fully understand their emotions.  To coexist."

To some extent, every physical object that constitutes our immediate, regular environments is a part of the thinking self -- literally.  A truly distributed cognition system consists of the biological brain, body, and physical objects within a person's specific living environment.  One can say that the machine through which one "co-exists" with others virtually also makes up part of that cognition system, but somehow, that virtual presence is qualitatively different than having a face-to-face, "real life" interaction with someone.  A distributed cognition might explain why an online, virtual presence "just isn't the same" as the "live" alternative.

Aokigahara, and the suicides therein, gives us an albeit extreme way to recharacterize the lebenswelt  (or life-world: our lived experience in our specific, individual space and time).  I don't pretend to try to get into the minds or the inherent anguish these individuals have experienced.  But as someone familiar with the impact of loss (especially the kind involved with suicide), it is the intricacies of the physicality of loss which often remain unexplored or de-emphasized.  If we miss out on the role of physicality in the tragedy of death, we'd be even less inclined to see the role it has in our everyday interaction with the world around us.

Aokigahara Forest, Part 2: Vitally Active Debris

I don't want to get too hung up in terms of rendering people as "debris" as much as I do elevating the "debris"  -- which would mean elevating all of that which is left behind in the suicide forest on an -- and I have to take a deep breath when I write this -- equal ontological footing as humans.  But I want to do this hypothetically, as a thought experiment.  What if we were to look at those non-human objects which were left behind with the same ontological weight as human beings?  It's not easy to do, unless we begin by thinking in terms of agency first.  Can we possibly think of those objects as having the same agency as the humans who left them?

One way to do this is to follow Jane Bennett's lead in Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, and think of the role that "vitality" plays in how human beings separate themselves from other objects. In her book, Bennett calls for a reconceptualization of what we tend to consider inanimate matter into something with more agency -- to think "beyond the life-matter binary" (Kindle location 422 of 2417).  As much as I enjoyed Bennett's book, trying to find a solid definition of "vitality" or the "vibrancy" of which she speaks is difficult; but I do not think that's necessarily her fault.  To think about what is traditionally thought of as inanimate matter (or objects, or instrumental technology) on equal ontological footing with the human subjectivity which "knows," "experiences," or "utilizes" such matter is intrinsically counter-intuitive.  It's not easy to do, and less easy to explain.  But I think the following section sets up some parameters, and helps us to at least figure out a sense of what she's getting at:

"Why advocate the vitality of matter?  Because my hunch is that the image of dead or thoroughly instrumentalized matter feeds human hubris and our earth-destroying fantasies of conquest and consumption.  It does so by preventing us from detecting (seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling) a fuller range of the nonhuman powers circulating around and within human bodies.  These material powers, which can aid or destroy, enrich or disable, ennoble or degrade us, in any case call for our attentiveness, or even "respect" ... The figure of an intrinsically inanimate matter may be of the impediments to the emergence of a more ecological and more materially sustainable modes of production and consumption."  (Kindle location 36 of 2417).  

I chose the quote above because it stands in contrast to the objects we're seeing in Aokigahara:  Those objects seem to be poignant reminders of life.  But if we think about the objects which the individuals have left behind, they themselves would seem, by traditional standards, to lack a certain "vitality."  In fact, the only way they do gain some kind of "life" is by another living witness's granting of agency upon them.  In other words, a person such as Hayano comes across an object; the object is granted a kind of subsidiary vitality via the connection (by another) to its imagined "owner" (i.e. human agent).  The vitality of the object seems contingent upon human subjectivity.  It only means something if there is a human witness there to give it such a meaning.   But, from an alternative -- but not opposite or reciprocal --  view, the object itself does have a real impact on the vitality or agency of the human.  That is to say, my instinct here is to flip the sentence rhetorically and say 'what if  human subjectivity were contingent upon the vitality of the object?'  But in doing that I'm still kind of stashing a little human ontological nugget into the object itself:  "vitality of the object" does nothing for the present discussion, because "vitality" here still has human connotations.  It is difficult to think of vitality any other way than in human terms.  So "vitality of the object" simply means "object with human agency projected onto it."

But, a slight tweak may get us on the right path.  Perhaps, "what if the vitality of human subjectivity were contingent upon the object?"  To achieve what Bennett calls for, I believe that "vitality" must always be associated with humanity; vitality is a placeholder for "humanness."  It's a kind of anthropomorphization-lite.  If we think of objects having vitality, according to Bennett, then we aren't giving into that hubris-feeding, earth destroying fantasy of conquest and consumption.  Human subjectivity works as human subjectivity because it must bestow a vitality on objects it comes across within its field of experience.  Even if we see an object as something to be destroyed, used, or otherwise exploited, we must imagine it as such -- visualize it.  It must come into our field of experience.  This, I believe, is the vitalization Bennett's calling for, and if this is the case, then her call becomes an existential one -- albeit a very reformed, avant-garde existentialism, in which the centrality of subjectivity is de-emphasized to pull the importance of the objects/matter into the foreground.

So then, if we take that vitality as a kind of neo-existentialism (perhaps a materialist-existentialism?), then we can more easily occupy the "object" space in a kind of inverse eidetic reduction.  How does this object "activate" my subjectivity.  How does it "ping" the self?  Getting back to Hayano in the forest, the objects he's handling are not really acting as reminders of the humans who left them there.  In reality, those objects are bringing Hayano's self-reflexively forward out of the forest, allowing Hayano to think of the possiblities of the people who may have left these objects behind.  These objects are not direct links or reminders of people, instead, they are actants which activate Hayano's subjective experiences, and thus his epistemological processes which provide a series of possibilities as to where these things came from, who they belonged to, and even the more involved -- and presumptive -- narrative origins of how they got there.  The objects activate the thinking-Hayano; the self-reflexive Hayano who is aware of himself being aware of his spatio-temporal position amid the environment of the Aokigahara forest.  The objects reinforce his imago in extremely complex and manifold ways.

In this way, the objects are vital as per Bennett's definition, but only because they are actants upon the vitality-bestowing capability of the human being itself.  I think the objects are "vitality"-inducing.  I'm tempted to say that these objects -- really, any objects -- act as a kind of ongoing efficient cause of selfhood.  All objects perpetually trigger, reinforce, and reiterate the self.  But, the most important thing to remember is that it is a self which is composed of the objects around it.  It is a self that is unique to that specific topology and temporality.  How is this different than a Husserlian model of consciousness, where the self is dependent on phenomena (it's own biological phenomena as well as the phenomena around it)?  Husserl implies that phenomena allows the self to come into being -- as a raw material -- that fuels the consciousness; and that the overall modality of experience is contingent upon the internal structure of the consciousness.

Let's try that another way.  For Husserl, what we experience "out there" in the world around us is actually occurring internally -- within our consciousness.  So, the distinct qualia of our own, personal experiences is determined primarily by the consciousness itself.  The phenomena (of our biological functions, as well as the sense data from the external world) is always already filtered through the process of consciousness.  For me, however, I feel that the very processes and mechanism of consciousness itself is determined by the external.  So, it's not just the shape of thoughts ... it's the mechanism and shape of consciousness which is determined by what we traditionally call the external world.  So, how the consciousness functions, and the qualia of experience, is a tapestry in which the biological phenomena of thought, memories, emotions, etc, are woven together with the specific topography that particular human being occupies.

This isn't that difficult to conceptualize, actually, when we think about extreme examples of how we experience the world.  When we are obsessed to the point of distraction with something, it's the emotional phenomena which rises to the surface and affects experience the most, pushing the "external" to an almost dangerously low level.  It is an aspect of "self" which takes center stage, and seemingly detaches us from the world we physically inhabit.  Conversely, when we are completely subsumed in the external world ... say, in those moments when we are "running by instinct" alone,  or are completely in the moment, that "self" is subsumed to the point of not even being able to form a coherent temporal schema (i.e. "The car hit a patch of black ice, it started spinning, and the next thing I knew, I was upside-down in a ditch").

I think that each of the individuals who enter Aokigahara doesn't just experience the forest differently, I think they are the forest according to their individual experiences.  As soon as they step into it, they become all that the forest is, including what they know of it before they enter.  For those that enter determined to die, they leave no trace of themselves, but instead willingly subsume their "selves" into the topology of the Aokigahara itself.  They disappear.  Those who step in with doubts must find a way to assert their "selves" against the topology of the forest, and thus leave behind lifelines, notes, and other marks distinguishing that self -- either to save their own lives, or to leave a bit of themselves to be found by an other.  Not to be morbid (probably too late, I know), if a person wants a part to be found, then there was always doubt -- always an aspect of them which desired to live.  The debris -- or remnant -- is an inanimate surrogate of self; as if to say, "I cannot bear the prospect of living, but nor can I bear the prospect of nothingness."  That object left behind (whatever it may be), isn't alive, but it's not nothing.

Ironically, to leave something behind becomes the final mark of the human survival instinct.  The object is what remains of the human.

This is all leading somewhere, and I'll wrap up my Aokigahara thoughts in the next post.