A Disordered Mind

I have had some time to think, which is always a dangerous past time. As I leap within and beyond the parameters of sorrow and the celebration of life, I encountered this book today. John Searle's book on the Mind.

John R. Searle was famous for his analogy of the Chinese Room Argument. His repudiation of AI-as-equivalent-to-human-consciousness was drawn from his persuasive postulation that a computer's ability at algorithmic computation (even the deciphering of Chinese codes and signs) does not give it the ability to understand the Chinese language. As such, knowing how to write a grammatically perfect script does not mean that the computer understands the cultural nuances or signification of discourse. This is the very nexus and premise of postmodernism. Artificial Intelligence are machinic adepts in the production of signifiers without meaning. The machine may draw and perhaps mimic the perfect construct of an apple, but the apple means nothing to it. By lacking an anchor of meaning or meanings, the structure of an apple could be called a monkey for all the computer cares. An apple is no more and no less a combination of molecular structures or physical forms. Bringing this back to the argument of the Chinese Room, the AI machine could manipulate the physical symbols through a structure-sensitive program that 'draws' a Chinese symbol but would have no interpretative power or ontology to manipulate the meaning of the symbol in relation to context, discourse, ethics, social and cultural values.

When we ask about ontology or even begin to question the polemics of epiphenomenon, we are dealing with the mind. And the mind is a funny business that involves pain. If we were to question Descartes' famous but erroneous dictum of cogito ergo sum (I think therefore I exist), then we question embodiment and identity that are necessarily tethered to the conditions of having a mind. Searle was adamant that Decartes' Dualism between mind and body created intellectual chaos for hundreds of years. This separation between res cogitans (thinking being) and res extensa (physical, external world) split the phenomenon of Being into two separate entities. If the physical world could be reduced to an illusion of the mind, then it is postulated that the thinking self is the only truth. Thus I may repudiate all that exists but I cannot repudiate that I am repudiating. Searle taxonomised the Cartesian problem into eight segments and also into a few more brackets of solutions, but the general gist of his dispute aligns with my own thoughts. Cartesian Dualism does not take the philosophies of embodiment into consideration. Much of embodiment philosophy stemmed from existentialist movements and contends that the body and mind are not related causally but they are interconnected to perform a fluid performance of Being. The body does not touch fire first and then after introspection from consciousness deem fire to be hot and painful. The instant that body touches fire creates an unconscious reaction from both mind and body, which communicates dialogically to produce meaning and feeling from the object of fire. Affectivities cannot be understood through the split between an external, physical reality that is deemed illusionary but the mind itself capable of perceptual truth from the physical object of lies. Because we have to ask, what enables the mind to tell the truth if the mind exists independently of every other material reality?

While I agreed with much of Searle's anti-dualist contention with Descartes' work, it was not clear how his monist approach of 'biological naturalism' enables both mind and body to communicate dialogically without giving preference to either/or. If Descartes privileged the mind, Searle privileged the biological and naturalism of the body and argued that fundamentally, it is the brain that enables the mind to exist. It is thus logical to assume that if the brain ceased to function, so does the mind. This breaks down Cartesian Dualism because both mind and body (brain) are dependent on each other to exist. With the brain comes the mind, without the brain deceases the mind. But if one were to restate by privileging the mind first, then it would make no sense under the terms of 'biological naturalism'. One cannot say that the existence of the mind constructs the brain, without the mind the brain ceases to exist.

It would be absurd to suggest that the lower-neurobiological processess of the brain does not enable some of the conditions of (un)consciousness. Science has provided ample research to prove both empirically and socially that the brain is a power-source for our perceptive and motor skills. But a determination of consciousness through an essentialist view has its dangers. If the lower-neurobiological processes of the brain enables the mind to function and exist, then it presupposes also that if I were to transfer my brain to another human being, my self would still exist. (We have to take for granted that Searle sees the mind also as a causal producer of identity). To say that the self is biologically determined have been the grounds of feminist guerrilla warfare since the 1970s. If the brain is overdetermined to be the 'factory' of the mind, then our embodiment suffers.

Put it this way: if your mind is like the artisan of desires then according to Searle the brain is the collegium and factory of the mind. Let us also say that the mind is particularly fond of men and the so called gender landscape of this individual is male. So it would not be preposterous to assume that being gay means that the mind is affected by the neurological processes of the brain. It would also be true to assume that one could be made un-gay, for any particular reason, as long as those neurological pathways could be altered in the lower regions of the brain. Ah... we get the inimical picture now. I may have inferenced this particular scenario, but it is not a reductionist account of Searle's theory. Essentialism has a bad habit of cropping up even in the most unseemly of places.

It is unclear why the mind has been truncated to only the function of the neuroprocesses of the brain. I am tempted to state here that the brain is only one of many determinants of the mind. I am tempted to state that the distentions and fractures of the body are necessary for the habituation and communication of the mind, and not simply the brain. After all, would we still be us if all we had was just a brain? Would our mind be still an artisan of beingness if there were no eyes to see, ears to hear, body to touch or nails to clip? Would a prosthetic child be considered a child if all but its brain was linked and connected to machines and blinking wires that propelled the function of its life? Would that brain-child know the meaning of desire? Could it without the ability to sense heat or cold, know the sight or sound or vibration of life? Even the most disabled of individuals have a body. Could a posthuman child achieve beingness without a body? Questions, questions, questions...

Be as it may, we have a tie. Both monistic and dualistic philosophies of the mind may come head-to-head against each other but offer no conclusive terms of agreement. And tempted as I may be to mobilise a dialectic, I shall seek other epistemic avenues. After all, a solidification of contradictions might not necessarily bring about cohesion of answers. Ah... my research continues...

Security Announcement

Welcome to the Singapore Mass Transit Railway Station. This is a security announcement and...

Fuck this shit! Aight! I'm gonna give it to y'all real now. I ain't gonna beat around the fucking bush rite? So here's the thang... Don't put your shit in the train y'all! That's rite! I'm talkin bout your bags and briefcases and those damn handbags of y'all bitches out there. Ya take your shit in here, ya take it out wif ya. Aight?

Ahem! What my colleague here means is that you should be aware that leaving unattended belongings in the train station might jeopardise security...

What do you mean "what my colleague here means?" I know what I'm meaning! Cause it's simple y'all. Who knows what you mother fuckers put in that thang? Y'all terrorists bitches and hoes goin round bombing asses and all. What's wrong wit'you?! You ain't got nothin better to do wit'your time? Go play ping-pong or some'thin! Why you gotta go all pyromaniac on my ass? Like I said, take your shit somewhere else!

Please take your belongings with you when you leave the train... thank you.

"Thank you" my ass! There ain't not'in to thank. I'm tellin you to OBEY the law, that's what I'm tellin you. Wha'you looking at bitch? You pay'in attention?! Don't think I ain't got my eyes on your fake tits and botoxed face! This is Singapore bitch. I got my eyes ALL OVER your ass! And while I'm at it... You see that yellow sign on the side. It says "Please give your seat to someone who needs it". That means y'all brothers and sisters out there who don't look like your great-grandmomma can stand! Didn't i just tell you not to look at me bitch? Wha'you looking at? Pay attention!

It would be kind and courteous to give your seat to someone who needs it more than you do.

And who do you think you are? Hmm?! Y'all need some dees...sip... lind! I'm gonna fine your mother fucking ass the next time you step over that yellow line! You suicidal or some'thin? Who gonna clean up your shit after your intestines get all over the railway track? You stoopid? Damn brother!

Also... it would dangerous to step over the yellow line, which was placed there to protect you from injury of any kind. Please be aware...

Why you all nice to'em?! Woop 'em assses that's what I say! Don't be all "please" and "thank you" to these mother fuckers! They ain't gonna listen! Aight... I made myself pretty... What?! Do it again hutchie momma! Do it again! I saw that! I saw you take that shit outta your mouth and sticked it on the wall. Didn't you hear a thang I said?! I got my EYES ON YOUR DIM-SUMs! Damn! Chewing gum is ILLEGAL! That's rite! You take that bitch ass chewing gum of yours and you stick it up where the sun don't shine!

It is illegal to chew gum in Singapore. It can also carry a fine of up to 500 dollars should you disobey the law. It would be prudent at this moment to keep the chewing gum in your pocket until it is convenient for you to throw into a dustbin.

Put it back in your mouth bitch! Damn! I'm get'in all worked-up! Now... one more thang before I hit my jacuzzi. If the door is closin it means that you ain't suppose to get in or get out of the train. Simple rite? So that means that if it's rush hour, don't put your body in the middle of the doorway and hope you'd make it through you crazy mother fuckers! Who gonna pull you out of the door if you get stuck? We'all people got lives man! We gotta go home and feed the hamster and pet the kids; we'all gotta go loosen up some booty and holler at our partners. Who gonna have time to pull your ass outta the door?! So don't be stoopid aight? Take your crazy ass shit somewhere else and leave us law abiding citizens alone!

Er... hehehe... new comer. Er... thank you for paying attention ladies and gentlemen. If you require further explanation, please do not hesitate to contact our personnels at the information counter. Have a nice day - er... thank you, again.

Requiem of Love

I hold you immortal. I shall cast you immortality...

It was a typically humid day in Malaysia, but was always made cooler when one was so near the secondary forest of Ulu Klang. Grandma was preparing a feast that night. Mum, dad, my uncles and aunts were all coming down for dinner. Now, a traditional Chinese dinner was something that no sane Asian would slight. She was making Shitake mushrooms coated with Oyster Sauce on green, crispy Bak Choys. Preparations were made for two large plates of whole chickens that were marinated in Chinese wine and herbs and slow cooked in a steamer. Of course, what is a dinner without the freshest fish in the whole of Kuala Lumpur? My grandma had connections.

Grandma shouted my name from the kitchen and I ran with those stubby legs of mine. She held up a humungus plate of mushrooms and asked me to dry them in the garden. She asked if I could do it? Precociously I said, "Of course!" Now, I remember she specifically demanded that I was not to drop the mushrooms on the muddy garden. I could hardly see over the edge of that massive plate and felt my way through the doors to the humid space outside.

PLANG! CLANG! DING DANG! DING DANG!

Or at least that's how I remembered it. The mushrooms were on the soggy earth. Now, when a person specifically asks you not to do something, and you do it exactly the way she asks you not to - I mean, you're in a lot of trouble. Grandma was always forgiving, but not until the cane met your backside. And so I got caned three times. I tried not to cry but somehow that look of utter disappointment from grandma always gets me.

I shall cast you in my staglamite of memory. I shall let my thoughts drip through the minerals of time.

When she was in her middle-years, Grandma loved to play mahjong. I'm sure she loved to play mahjong before her middle-years, but that's being conjectural now isn't it? So, anyways, she always went to Aunty Lucy's to play and I never knew what went on, but I always got excited when she pulled-out a funny animal from the pile of marbles. I said, "Pong!" It's a chinese exclamation for a stack of cards that made a suite or something along those lines. She used to rub my head and said I brought her good luck. And then I'd get bored of the game and slept on this huge bench made of marble and wood. A very uncomfortable bench but there was nothing else to do, except maybe sometimes, if I'm lucky, a rat would run around in the kitchen and I'd scream in excitement.

Don't forget - ever. Help me remember. Help me remember in your hearts.

There was always a smell in the morning. Coffee and cigarettes. She smoked Benson and Hedges. I remember stealing one from her when I was a teenager. I nearly retched at its taste. But grandma made the smell exotic. It was always around her and there was always something comforting about the heady intoxication of cigarettes. She would smoke one in the morning and head straight for the toilet. I got my habit from her. And then she's light one after making lunch and there was always this pleasurable bliss in her face. It was her little time off from the world. She would stretch over clumsily and sit on her chair made from blue and red ropes. Then she'd click her lighter, burn tobacco and just closed her eyes with a smile.

I remember. I remember the smell. I'm crying again.

Grandma loved telling stories about her childhood. It was always filled with noise, colour, people and fun. She was a tomboy. A t-shirt, a pair of cut-off pants, and clogs, and she was off running with the boys. She always envied boys because they could take off their shirts in the heat. Not to mention they never had to touch a mop or a broom to save their lives. She always compared our toys with those she played in the 1940s. There were no Transformers or Barbies in her days. It was bottle caps and cigarette boxes. She would collect bottle caps and shoot them across her palms or hands and knock-off her opponent's bottle caps. And she would collect all sort of cigarette boxes as a collection and show-off to her friends.


I will be strong. Strong and fierce just like her.


Everyone with a WOO to their surnames had a temper. Grandma's was the worst of them all. Once, grandpa had a taste for Cha-Cha and couldn't get enough of it. Grandma gave hints that she wasn't happy but, as usual, grandpa didn't get it. So one day she called him up at the school and told him that my dad was dying from fever. He cycled home immediately and gasped up the stairs. Grandma was ready for him. Once through the door, he met a bottle of Turpentine and it was forced down his throat. Grandma was so mad. She said if he couldn't be bothered with the family's welfare and that if he prefered to philander about with hussies in tights, then she'd first kill him and then all the children and finally suicide. She was never known for her subtlety. Of course, grandpa was frightened out of his wits and dashed down stairs and out through the doors. Now, I never knew if grandma ever lied about this, but she reiterated consistently that she ran to the kitchen, pulled out a butchers knife and threw it at grandpa as he left the bulding. The knife chopped into the door just as grandpa closed it.

One more.... just one more. I can't see clearly through this gossamer in my eyes.

What made grandma "Grandma" was always her strength. No one could put this woman down. If God was to knock on her door and asked her to go with Him, she'd say, "You can wait a bloody minute longer" and she'd finish her speech about family values. She said this once to me, "My darling, when you grow older and have kids of your own, I want the middle name of your first child to have the word "Ka" in it. It means family. Remember it. This is my wish." I will try grandma. I will. And grandma would make me promise that on her death bed she will look beautiful and young. She said no one will ever say that she did not die with grace and beauty. Her cheeks will be rosy and her lips bloodied in vibrance and youth. She will look like Sleeping Beauty. You will grandma. You always will. And there were other promises that I made as a child but forgotten in the headiness of adolescent exuberance. Perhaps I will remember them in time.

I etch you in memory, in time, in space. I etch you forever in love, in forgiveness, in passion. The pain is worst when I said I would take you out for lunch and we'd do the things you'd love like shopping and eating. We'd go to your flower shop and buy plants you never keep. We'd walk in the streets and chat about everything and nothing and laugh about everything and nothing. We'd buy sweets and I'd tease you about your false teeth. And we'd just sit at the coffee shop and lament how silly teenage girls and boys look like these days. But now these are all lies. Lies I made to you and me. Forgive me... Forgive me. I love you grandma - always.