John Searle, Francis Crick, Karl Marx, Descartes, Plato, Nietzsche, and Der Jood have all had a say in what is and what may not be consciousness. Shit, Sam Tyler questions that shit for most moments in each day in new 1973. I empathize with Tyler because I question consciousness all the time too and I notice the little things that overlap with the various levels of being, and I long to pass through to levels that appear forbidden, and I wonder, "who am I and what the fuck am I doing here?"
Consciousness is a bitch, and can serve several functions: from context-setting and learning to decision making and self-maintenance. Consciousness can be perceived as thoughts, sensations, perceptions, moods, emotions, dreams, and self-awareness. Blah-blah-blah. But mostly we ask, like Admiral James Stockdale, "who am I and what the fuck am I doing here?"
You see, it seems that I'm only comfortable in the hospitals anymore. I view hospitalization as the only quality destination for a vacation during these ridiculous times; the last great getaway. I've been enamored with the hospital existence since I was on a respirator as a three year-old; since I was in traction for a month at ten. At age 38 I asked if I could have my appendix back, in a jar, when they exorcised it from my gut. I'll visit anyone in the hospital but I feel insanely jealous when I have to leave because I know that nighttime is the very best time on the inside. At night it's all IV pumps, call buttons, and creepy guys with mops and rheumy eyes doing the creepiest of shit imaginable. It's dying time.
The hospital trumps the spa and the spa trumps the gym if you're making side bets. Because if you really want to take leisure to extremes, you can always piss and shit while lying in bed watching Let's Make A Deal and get "fed" through a tube in your nose...even though I actually love hospital food. The hospital is the only place to watch the first four days of the NCAA tournament or extended coverage of anything OJ does with any focus. When the restraints are too tight I never complain. And aside from waking you for "vitals" every four hours, it's the place I'd always rather be. I'm that dude with the "I'd Rather Be Hospitalized" license plate frame on my piece of shit car.
You see, I'm addicted to hospitalization; to the smell the cafeteria and disinfectant and puke, and hearing old people braying for help and babies screaming while nurses from Montserrat ignore all pleas as being "so laaazy, mon." Without that wristband I am naked. And without an IV I feel too anxious and far too unattached. Once they put the earplugs in for a cranial MRI, I'm as good as tucked-in. I'd rather be wheeled in a bed than pushed in a chair. That's just how I process in this life; this is my consciousness.
As best I can explain my consciousness is like being an actor in the theater. There's my formal character. There's the "me" on stage running lines, waiting for cues, and selling the character. My me can be remarkably similar to or very different from my characters, but I often grow to become more like the characters over time as the character develops tics and flourishes distinctive to my real me. Consciousness is neither linear nor structured.
At some point I can slip between the curtains though, pushing them aside to get to the safety of the darkness behind, where I'm always surprised at the weight but never the odd comfort of the musty, woody smell of ancient theatrical drapery. Once backstage I regain a semblance of control and order of former attitudes and behaviors. I make choices with regard to who I want to or need to be at that point; whether I want to break character or stay all hyped, as Galileo or Enoch, or Seyton. I can go from bold, serious drama to pinching the asses of stage hands in a matter of seconds and at will. And after the final curtain I can get mad baked with others' real, in character, or imagined. But once home with my family or among the other squares, I am often something very different (role + duty = character). Automatic or not, there are choices to consciousness. There are levels and worlds and scenes to transcend with or without the blessings or knowledge of the Master Control Program.
Then one day something happens to disrupt the normal and expect functions of your senses and your predictable cognition. Maybe it's the motorcycle accident where you slightly injure your brain and can no longer smell roses or something. Or you have a stroke and you now cannot make yourself, force yourself, to walk as you did before. Maybe you just suddenly stop processing new information, you somehow completely blow out your short term memory and just stop processing information newly presented to you. Just like that. Or, you wake up and realize that you are in a hospital with a tube in your mouth. You can see and hear and smell and taste and feel but you just cannot move or talk. They keep you alive because you're still giving feedback via brain waves and eye blinks. You're still showing signs.
I guess the medical/scientific supply community doesn't find it necessary to conduct focus groups about products that are viewed as insignificant to the their precious tests. But I can tell you that every time they whip out the Ten20 Conductive Paste for the EEGs, I'm disappointed that no one has mentioned that the paste that they use to attach electrodes to your head smells way too much like burning hair. Part-scrub-dab-stick-burn? No! Make that shit smell like a piña coladas and I'm good to to. Part-scrub-dab-stick-zzzzzzzz!
But you're showing signs....and you wonder, "who am I and what the fuck am I doing here?" Perhaps the doctors know; Jew doctors, Indian doctors, and Chinese doctors, in that particular order.
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