More portage
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title: "Is a human mind in a robot body still…human?"
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date: 2016-09-14
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The question posed in the title is a particular example of a wider question: What makes us human? Are we nothing but the sum of our parts, or is there something more to it?
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I believe that consciousness and self-awareness is what defines a ‘self’. Put another way, to be ‘you’ necessitates knowledge that you are ‘you’. Unlike some, I do not believe our physical bodies play any part in defining who or what we are.
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And hence the question. Were a human mind to be transplanted into a robotic body, would that person still be the same? Still be human? That is, if you accept in the first place that there is a greater meaning, a quality that can be possessed, that makes us who we are. Personally, I say absolutely.
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For the sake of argument, postulate that the mechanical body has a ‘brain’ that is structurally identical to the human brain the consciousness was transferred from. Surely it would be nonsensical to argue that somehow the trait of ‘humanity’ has been lost in the movement. Perhaps not…
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The possibility of something more than just consciousness can also be entertained. The concept of a ‘soul’. Removed from its religious context, the idea of a soul is simply the concept of an immaterial facet to human existence. Perhaps synthesised by our consciousness, perhaps existing naturally like our physical body. Maybe even God-given, if you’re into that sort of thing.
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The presence of a soul could complicate the original question considerably, dependent on beliefs about its origin. I would say that it is more likely for the soul to be dependent on our consciousness than our physical body. There’s no evidence for nor against a soul’s existence, and thus I remain largely agnostic to the concept.
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Certainly there is a part of me that likes to believe in a ‘spark’. Somewhat unscientific, but…pleasing.
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*Originally published on *[*Blogger*](http://ift.tt/2cy04BR)
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title: "Frenetic Scribblings #34: Magic of the 4am silence"
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date: 2018-01-04
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Photo by [Khachik Simonian](https://unsplash.com/photos/G22cAfM7-tE?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)4am is a magical time. Where the late-nighters have mostly drifted off to bed, and the early-risers haven’t well…risen.
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It’s simultaneously eerie and relaxing in a most odd sort of way. Hearing birdcalls echo across a graveyard silence in a usually hectic city center is an…experience. The occasional twitters should feel out of place in the concrete jungle, normally masked by human noise as they are.
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They do not.
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Sitting there, watching the sky gradually lighten and listening to the calls is magical because you feel isolated. Despite being surrounded by thousands of people, you feel isolated because you are the near enough the only one awake and around.
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A city at 4am feels like a graveyard. Except that -unlike a graveyard — its inhabitants are only *temporarily* at rest.
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Passing through the airport close to my home earlier that night…well, morning, had a totally different feel. Even at the oddest hours, the place is together alive and dead. Alive because it is filled with people. And yet dead because those people are mostly waiting.
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An airport at 4am feels like an indrawn breath.
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There’s a sense of anticipation as people wait to jet off across the globe, or wing there way home. That too is magical, in a totally different manner.
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What was I doing around town at 4am having worked a double shift that day? I went to the gym after work, at gone midnight. I parked my motorcycle in a multistory carpark, assuming that because it was not locked by midnight it wasn’t going to be. Wrong! Leaving the gym (past 2am) I found steel shutters between me and my bike.
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I took a bus to the airport intending to walk home from there…and on arrival realised I’d left my keys in the gym. By the time I’d bussed back, I decided to wait for the shutters to be opened. And so, I found myself in one of the oddest experiences of my life — a city normally so filled with life emptied.
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They were long hours, but I almost don’t regret them just because of the 4am insight.
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> Thought for the day: The heavier the eyelids, the sincerer the words
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title: "Forging a path into the web of unknown"
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date: 2018-01-12
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Photo by [Benjamin Blättler](https://unsplash.com/photos/J40eheaQ_OE?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/path-night?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)I stand, hesitant
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Before me, the path splits
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Splits and splits again, dividing a myriad times
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The tangled web of choice pulsates gently
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A dull glow, alive and breathing
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I glance back, a moment
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See the path behind me
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Threaded in shining silver
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A halo of darkened paths around it
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Shriveled tendrils of choices not taken
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I tear myself away, return to looking forward
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Out over the future in all its perfect, fearful uncertainty
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Then, a choice is made, my mind and heart unite — and ignite.
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I step
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I step through
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I choose no beaten path before me
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**I choose no choice**
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**But my own**
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**I choose no path**
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**But my own**
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Thread winds out beneath me as I step again and again
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Glittering gold, not beaten silver
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I choose my own way
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Through
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There is no other
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title: "I don’t know how to write"
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date: 2018-01-13
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Photo by [Alex Iby](https://unsplash.com/photos/aU1cBKa3mJU?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/mask?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)That I honestly don’t know is something I always kept close to my chest. But no more.
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Because…I write. I write and write. I just *do* it. Only occasionally do I pause to search for the right word. Only some of my pieces are edited for more than a basic spelling and grammar check.
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Not all is calm sailing on a river of flow, mind. Poetry, for example, takes me far longer to write. Because I must wait for the right words to arrive, and for the right order to arrive too.
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Even still, little conscious thought is involved…my muse doesn’t even have the decency to whisper to my inner ear. She just grabs control of my fingers and writes away. Writing seems to come second only to breathing, for me.
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If that sounds a lot like magic…that’s because it *feels* a lot like magic too.
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I’d urge you not to envy me, though. Yes, the writing flows. Flows easily, most days. And in that I am massively blessed and freely admit that.
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*But, *I don’t know what makes me tick. I don’t know *how I flow. *Not the first clue. I know I have a wide vocabulary from reading voraciously. That makes sense. I don’t know, though, how that translates to sentences that string themselves together seemingly without my help.
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That’s more than a little terrifying.
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Because what if…oh what *if*…the words disappear? What if I suddenly lose my flow? Without it, I’d be helpless. And I wouldn’t know how to get it back.
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I’d no longer be *a* writer. I’d no longer be *the* Frenetic Scribbler*.*
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Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. I hope they don’t. I need my words. Losing them would be like having my throat torn out. That makes me fearful.
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But for now, I write. And write. Fingers flying, brain dragged along for the ride. Through me, the Muse sings.
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Perhaps one day I’ll even understand how it happens.
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title: "The Key to Immortality"
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date: 2018-03-31
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#### Perpetuation from a shattering?
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Photo by [Vincent Foret](https://unsplash.com/photos/3S_nePubrtw?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/broken?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)A broken heart never quite
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heals
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A broken heart never quite
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forgets
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A broken heart never quite
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lets go
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Lets go of the
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soul that broke it
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A heartbreaker lives on
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in the souls they dismantled
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And one that breaks a thousand hearts
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never dies
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Twist of fate?
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Just Life
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title: "Flickering like candle-flame in the wind"
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date: 2018-07-01
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#### The edge of vision otherwise dark
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Photo by [Paul Bulai](https://unsplash.com/photos/XOQJa4OC8P0?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/candle?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)[I have a blind mind’s eye.](https://medium.com/frenetic-scribblings/minds-eye-blind-93509e102fe)
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> I don’t see mental images. It’s incredibly difficult to describe what I do see, but certainly not the vivid mental imagery that I’m told others experience.[1]I’ve also recently figured out I am a broadly visual learner. Which renders my memory next to useless. Since if I learn through imagery, and yet my image recall is short circuited…I can’t very well learn *anything* can I!
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Though as I’ve said before, [some things stick](https://medium.com/frenetic-scribblings/some-things-stick-519bc645e86d). Somehow, moments of intense emotion stick. As for why, I couldn’t say. My relationship with emotions in general is *complex*, to say the least. I’m still working through that. One step at a time, one puzzle piece of my eight dimensional jigsaw at a time.[2]
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> My mind is like a sieve, selecting if not the particularly good or bad, but the significant of all kinds.More to the point of *this *piece though, just now I experienced a phenomenon I’ll call ‘flickering’.
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Just as with anything involving this subject it’s complex to describe. Maybe the best description is….
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*Ghosted images, like the retina starbursts after firework flash. Flickering like the flame of a candle in hissing wind. Dancing on the peripheral of mental image. Tantalisingly unseen like a body’s curve clad in sheer silk. A Schrödinger's image.*
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Why I can describe so well that which I cannot picture is another classic dilemma in my personal, crazy puzzle.[2] Regardless, I won’t elaborate on the image itself, but I’ll say it was a strong one. And yes, emotionally charged. Enjoyable, even.[3]
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Now of course, it has vanished. Startled by my mental clawing at it, my trying to drag it into full, glorious vision, it has dissolved.
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A grain of sand in the wind of time. Lost.[4]
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[That’s not *all* bad, though.](https://medium.com/@aronajones/frenetic-scribblings-18-living-in-the-moment-fe903df21ee0)
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All I can do is…
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> **[wring] every ounce of experience out of every damn moment that I breath.**That’s turning out to to be a pretty sweet way to live.[5]
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[1] Self-quoting wasn’t…well..self-indulgent, was it? I feel uncomfortably like it was.
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[2] Excuse the metaphor — I certainly don’t mean to imply my mind is complex as in ‘smart’. More complex as in *pain in the arse*.
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[3] Get your mind out of the gutter![4]
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[4] Oh, was it just mine that was *in* the gutter to begin with? Damn…
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[4] Dammit. I really *was* enjoying that.[3]
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[5] Course, I’m not very good at it.[6]
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[7] Yet
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title: "A spark"
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date: 2018-09-27
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Photo by [Jarl Schmidt](https://unsplash.com/photos/WxEI0pKND_Q?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText) on [Unsplash](https://unsplash.com/search/photos/embers?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText)A spark
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*a million volts*
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*for a split second*
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If the spark lands just right
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*it kindles a tiny flame*
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Hot but flickering
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Should you gentle cradle this flame
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*unafraid of being burned*
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It will resist when it would be doused
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If you feed this flame
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*it will grow explosively into a fire*
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A conflagration that consumes and ignites
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Should you survive the fire as it dies
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*you will be left with smouldering embers*
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Quieter and less ostentatious than the heartbeat spark, the jittering flame, the rumbling fire
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Discreetly white hot
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*a star core pouring lightness into the world*
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