Can Positive Human Attributes Scale with Group Size?

 

When you scale up a complex system, you’re not just multiplying what you started with by some constant factor; you change the system’s dynamics — Geoffrey West

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

Summary: At microscopic levels, quantum mechanical forces dominate, while classical mechanics accurately describes macroscopic scales, and therefore, for the physics of the system scales matter. Similarly, are positive attributes like sharing, caring, also scalable? Despite these attributes’ evolutionary advantages, their benefits do not proportionately scale with increasing group size because certain challenges hinder the seamless transition of positive attributes from small to larger groups.

Scales, and what forces are important at different scales, matter.

In the realm of physics, the concept of scaling plays an important role in deciphering the complexities of natural phenomena. Scaling involves the study of how different physical quantities change with size, and it can significantly simplify our quest for understanding the workings of various systems. When studying the dynamics of a system, certain forces can often be ignored at one scale but become important at another.

At microscopic scales, quantum mechanical forces dominate, and classical mechanics often falls short in providing accurate descriptions. For example, the behavior of electrons in an atom is governed by quantum mechanics, and ignoring quantum effects would lead to erroneous conclusions. However, at macroscopic scales, classical mechanics suffices to describe the motion of objects, and quantum effects can be safely neglected.

In the context of scaling, our previous discussion focused on the possible scalability of positive attributes such as sharing, caring, and empathy from small groups of humans to larger ones. We discussed whether these attributes would continue to prevail as small groups of hunter-gatherers expanded in size. The key points of our discussion can be summarized as follows.

In a small group of hunter-gatherers living in the wild, positive attributes such as sharing, caring, and empathy offer distinct advantages for both survival and reproduction. During a hunt, having someone who is vigilant and protective significantly improves the chances of survival.

As positive attributes provide survival and reproductive advantages, they would result in small groups of hunter-gatherers expanding in size. If these attributes were to scale proportionately with group size, the prevalence of wars and social upheaval throughout human civilization would not be there. We would live in harmony that mimics what happens in small hunter-gatherer groups.

Nevertheless, as societies evolved from smaller groups into larger entities such as tribes, villages, and nations, it did not happen. Somewhere along the way the evolutionary benefits of positive attributes lost their edge. In going from smaller to larger groups, additional (negative) factors must have counteracted the advantage of positive attributes.

What occurs when transitioning from an isolated small hunter-gatherer group to larger groups? Why does the benefit of positive attributes not scale upward with increasing size?

There are two primary challenges associated with scaling the advantages of positive attributes from small groups to larger ones: (i) the inverse correlation between empathy and degree of kinship, and (ii) the impact of random fluctuations on the physical, cognitive, and psychological traits of individuals within a group. These factors pose significant obstacles that must be overcome to successfully scale positive attributes with increasing group size.

The influence of kinship on the development of positive attributes is most pronounced among close relatives who share a common genetic background. As the degree of kinship between individuals decreases, the intensity of positive attributes also decreases.

Random variations in physical, cognitive, and psychological attributes can also influence the cohesiveness of larger groups. This occurs as certain individuals, because of random variations, having superior capabilities are better at securing more resources. Random variations, therefore, can benefit a subgroup within the group. Furthermore, it is more difficult to manage competitive tendencies driven by randomness in larger groups because the moderating influence of kinship is less prevalent compared to that in smaller groups.

It is important to acknowledge that the influence of kinship degree and randomness are unavoidable. The decrease in positive attributes with a reduction in kinship is inevitable, as the cultivation of such attributes necessitates time and energy, which are limited resources that cannot be allocated to numerous individuals within the group. Additionally, the impact of randomness on creating variations in physical, cognitive, and psychological attributes is also unavoidable.

The bottom line is that the influence positive attributes have in keeping negative attributes in check for small groups do not scale up as quickly with the size of the group as negative attributes do. Consequently, for larger groups the influence of positive attributes takes the back seat.

The dynamics that work in a small group are different from those for a larger group.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Parabolic Trajectories and Finding Grace in Mortality

 

Life is a trajectory, arcing through the vast field of mortality, each moment a point of motion that carries us forward and it is us who create meaning along the way.

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI: Escaping Velocity

Summary: Mortality and gravity are both ever-present forces shaping life’s trajectory. While gravity’s effects are predictable, mortality’s path is uncertain, highlighting life’s fragility. Yet moments of transcendence — spiritual, emotional, or sensory — offer glimpses beyond finitude, connecting us to the infinite. These experiences may serve as our “escape velocity” from mortality’s pull.

Mortality and gravity — whether we realize it or not, the two share similarities.

Consider us and the Earth: within their sphere both gravity and mortality are ever-present. From the moment of birth, mortality exerts a constant pull, steering the trajectory of life toward its inevitable end. Likewise, the Earth’s gravity continually draws us — and everything on its surface — toward its center. If we throw a stone into the air, gravity ensures its path forms a graceful parabola, bringing it back to the ground.

A key difference between the two, however, is that mortality’s effect on the trajectory of life is far less predictable or consistently graceful than the path of a stone. Life’s journey can come to a sudden, unexpected halt, reaching its end abruptly. At other times, for reasons unknown and unpredictable, lives that seem similar at birth follow vastly different paths — some longer, some shorter. Perhaps, just as a stone traces a graceful parabola in the field of gravity, there are trajectories of life within the field of mortality that might also be deemed graceful.

As a conscious species, the awareness of mortality is also an awareness of our finitude. Part of this realization also involves recognizing its opposite — what we are not. Our life’s trajectory may be brief, and it feels even smaller when measured against the vast expanse of time in the universe (as we understand it today).

From my perspective, life has two ends, yet the music of existence was playing long before I appeared and will continue long after I am gone. Everyone observes this in the world around them: babies are born after I was there, while others pass away while I am still here.

The same holds true for space. After birth, our movements rarely stray far from where we are. Occasionally, we may take a vacation and journey to the opposite side of the Earth, but even those distances are insignificant compared to the vastness of space that is out there. From high above, our daily wanderings, if traced on paper, might resemble the erratic buzz of a mosquito confined to a radius of just 10 feet.

As unsettling as the awareness of mortality may be, it also brings with it a profound recognition of the vastness of space and time that transcends us. If only we could find a portal to bridge the divide between the two, we might escape the constraints of our finitude.

In the realm of gravity, there exists the concept of escape velocity. With enough force, a stone hurled at an initial velocity of 11 km/s will break free from Earth’s gravitational pull, continuing its journey indefinitely into the void of space.

Could there be something analogous that propels us beyond the limitations of mortality, connecting us to the boundless expanse of space and time? Is there a force that, working against the field of mortality, might grant us a sense of timelessness? Perhaps there is.

The transcendental and spiritual experiences we have been told about may serve as the escape velocity in the context of mortality. At times, even without consciously seeking them, we are unexpectedly struck by sublime moments that connect our finite sense of self with the vastness beyond. These moments might include holding your newborn for the first time, savoring the first bite of a cheesecake, standing at the edge of Point Udall in St. Croix and gazing at the endless blue ocean stretching to the horizon, or experiencing a psychedelic epiphany.

In such instances, the limitations of gravity seem to dissolve, and we are propelled beyond the constraints of mortality, connecting with the timeless continuum of all that existed before us and all that will endure after us. In these moments, we shed our sense of finitude and glimpse the vastness of infinite.

And so, just as there is a mechanism to overcome gravity, there exists one to propel us beyond the constraints of mortality: transcendental experiences. If only those fleeting moments could last longer.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Escape Velocity: Transcending Gravity and Mortality

 

Escape velocity is not just about breaking free from a planet’s pull; it’s about breaking free from limitations, fears, and the confines of mortality.

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI: Escaping Mortality

Summary: Gravity and mortality are ever-present forces shaping existence. While gravity pulls objects toward Earth, mortality incessantly draws life toward death. Just as escape velocity allows freedom from gravity, spiritual experiences offer liberation from mortality’s constraints. Through transcendence and deeper connections, we can momentarily escape life’s limitations, embracing the infinite and timeless.

Gravity and Mortality

In a previous discussion, I highlighted a striking similarity between gravity and mortality: both are ever-present forces, constantly exerting their influence. Unlike electric charges, which can repel or attract, gravity is always an attractive force, pulling masses toward the center of the Earth. Similarly, mortality inexorably draws every living being toward its own center: death. From the moment we are born, we embark on a journey that is inescapably oriented toward the ‘center of gravity’ of mortality. Though we may temporarily resist or evade their effects, both gravity and mortality assert their presence with unrelenting certainty.

Understanding the Pervasive Nature of These Forces

To grasp the ubiquitous nature of these forces, consider the trajectory of a stone thrown upward. Gravity allows the stone to ascend only temporarily; as the influence of the initial force dissipates, gravity takes over, pulling it back to Earth.

In much the same way, the force of birth propels us into life with a burst of vitality. Initially, the horizon of our possibilities expands, and our trajectory appears limitless. But as time progresses, the pull of mortality begins to manifest, gradually narrowing that horizon. Aging, with its attendant physical and cognitive declines, underscores the inevitability of this pull.

The Concept of Escape Velocity

Yet, the realm of gravity offers a loophole: escape velocity. At the Earth’s surface, this velocity is approximately 11.2 kilometers per second. A stone propelled with sufficient force to reach this velocity will overcome Earth’s gravitational pull and journey forever into the void of space.

This observation prompts a question: is there an equivalent “escape velocity” for mortality? Can human beings, seemingly forever bound by the constraints of aging and death, achieve an analogous state of liberation? Could we extend the similarity between gravity and mortality even further? Possibly so.

For mortality, the notion of ‘escape velocity’ may lie not in the physical realm but in the spiritual.

The Spiritual Experience as Escape Velocity

Spiritual experiences have offered individuals a glimpse of something beyond the limits of space and time. These moments of transcendence often reveal an infinite expanse, connecting us to a larger, timeless reality. Mystics, saints, and seekers from various traditions describe a state that transcends the ordinary constraints of life. In such experiences, the boundaries of the self dissolve, and the finite life merges with the infinite.

Consider the teachings of many spiritual traditions. In Hinduism, the concept of moksha represents liberation from the cycle of birth and death. Similarly, in Buddhism, the attainment of nirvana signifies the cessation of suffering and the transcendence of worldly existence. In Christianity, the promise of eternal life through faith offers believers an escape from the finality of mortal death. Across different traditions, the common thread is the belief that through spiritual practice and experience, one can break free from the gravitational pull of mortality.

The spiritual experience that liberates us from the constraints of mortality need not be tied to religious traditions alone. Such moments may arise from listening to music, experiencing a sudden insight during scientific research, or simply gazing at the infinite expanse of the night sky on a clear evening. Spiritual experiences, which momentarily propel us beyond the confines of mortality, can come in any shape, size, or guise. They could be embedded in a grain of salt.

Conclusion

Gravity and mortality are profound forces that shape our existence. While we cannot escape their influence entirely, the analogy of escape velocity offers a framework for understanding how we might transcend their constraints. Through spiritual growth and the pursuit of deeper connections with the infinite, we can break free from the fear of the center of mortality: death. In this way, we become like the stone that, propelled with enough force, escapes the Earth’s gravitational pull to journey endlessly into the cosmos.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Gravity and Mortality: Brothers in Arms

It is the push against the boundaries that is the essence of what it means to be human.

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI:  Gravity and Mortality

Summary: The parallels between gravity and mortality are striking. Both are ever present in our lives and are forces that cannot be escaped or ignored. They are universal, affecting all matter and all living beings, regardless of circumstance. Both are also attractive in nature, drawing toward a center — gravity toward the center of mass, mortality toward death.

Gravity and mortality! Who would have thought that they are brothers in arms.

Gravity and mortality are forces that shape our existence, each in their own profound way. While gravity governs the motion of planets and the fall of a stone, mortality effects the trajectory of human life. Both are ever-present forces that exert an incessant pull. Exploring their similarities just happens to be a fun exercise, and so, here we are.

Gravity

Gravity is an attractive force that acts between two masses. It is fundamental to the structure and order of the cosmos. Without gravity, the stars would not form, planets would not orbit, and life as we know it would not exist.

Gravity is the reason we remain bound to Earth’s surface, preventing us from drifting into the void of space. When a stone is thrown into the air, gravity slows its ascent, brings it to a halt at its highest point- the vertex, and then accelerates its descent back to the ground. The elegant parabola the stone traces embodies gravity’s pull.

Among the fundamental forces of nature, gravity is unique. It is always attractive, never repulsive, drawing masses together rather than pushing them apart like electric charges of same sign do. This universality gives gravity a special role in shaping the universe on a cosmic scale. From the clustering of galaxies to the tides of Earth’s oceans, gravity is a silent hand, always at work.

Mortality

Mortality is a constant presence that shapes the arc of human life. Its influence begins with birth.

At this starting point of our life, we are helpless and are entirely dependent on the care and goodwill of others. The horizon of our choices is very limited. Chew on a toy, claw on the leg of a chair.

The nurturing instincts that natural selection has embedded in us ensure that the fragile beginnings of life are protected and allowed to flourish. As we grow, our capabilities and choices expand. As we enter youth, life’s possibilities seem boundless.

However, just as a stone thrown into the air starts to slow down and reaches a vertex before descending, so too does life’s horizon of possibilities start to shrink as we grow older. Under the influence of mortality, with aging the horizon of our possibilities starts to narrow. The physical and mental vigor that once characterized youth begins to wane.

Life, in its later stages, becomes a process of consolidation and reflection, a return to simplicity of its beginning akin to the stone’s descent to the ground.

Parallels between Gravity and Mortality

The parallels between gravity and mortality are striking. Both are ever present in our lives and are forces that cannot be escaped or ignored. They are universal, affecting all matter and all living beings, regardless of circumstance. Both are also attractive in nature, drawing toward a center — gravity toward the center of mass, mortality toward death.

Gravity and mortality also evoke philosophical questions about existence.

Gravity binds us to the Earth, providing stability and a sense of place in the universe. Yet it also reminds us of our limitations, as we are unable to escape its pull without extraordinary effort.

Similarly, mortality gives life structure and urgency. The awareness of life’s finite nature compels us to seek meaning, to create, and to cherish the moments we have, qualities that also require extraordinary effort.

Both forces also inspire efforts to transcend their limits.

Humanity’s desire to overcome gravity has led to remarkable achievements in science and engineering, from the first flight to the exploration of outer space. Similarly, the desire to transcend mortality has driven advancements in religion, philosophy, medicine, the search for longevity, and the pursuit of legacies through art, knowledge, and culture.

These efforts reflect a fundamental aspect of human nature: the drive to push beyond the boundaries imposed by the forces that surround us. It is the push against the boundaries that is the essence of what it means to be human: to rise, to reach above, aspire to experience the limits of our potential, and ultimately, to return to our beginnings.

Gravity and Mortality are brothers in arms.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Balancing Novelty and Memory: Lessons from Larry

 

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards — Søren Kierkegaard

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI: Balance

Summary: Without memory retention, everything is done the first time, and it could make life interesting. However, this state of being also brings forth a paradox of balancing novelty, memory, and identity. While novelty brings excitement and growth, memory provides stability and a sense of self. Without memory of our past, we would struggle to form deeper connections and an identity. This highlights the importance of balancing new experiences with memory and having a fulfilling life.

Meeting Larry

We finally took the leap and moved to a 55+ retirement community. There were several reasons behind our decision: a desire to escape extended winters and avoid being homebound for a good part of the year; a wish to settle down in a place where we might eventually retire while our bodies and minds are still functioning well; and the appeal of being in a setting that offers ample opportunities for social interactions.

So far, living in this community has been a pleasant experience. The little pond behind our home offers a blend of tranquility, and there are plenty of social activities to choose from. Being here also gave us the chance to meet a fellow resident, Larry. This is a little story about Larry and the life lessons be brought home.

We don’t have any background on Larry and only come across him during our walks. The curious thing about our encounters is that each time we meet, it’s a novelty for him. Perhaps due to the impairments of old age, Larry might be having trouble remembering. At the beginning of each meeting, we go over the same pleasantries again. This repetitive yet novel experience has led me to ponder a paradox: each day is a new experience for Larry, but at the same time, he lacks the continuity of time and the memories that define the self. Given that, what is the utility of novelty for him?

Memory and Who We are

Memory plays a crucial role in shaping our identity. It is through our recollections of the past that we build a sense of continuity and self-awareness. For Larry, however, each day is a blank slate. This raises an interesting question: Is the perpetual novelty of Larry’s experience beneficial, or is there a need for a balance between novelty and the retention of memory?

On the one hand, the novelty of each day for Larry can be seen as a positive aspect. Every interaction is fresh and untainted by the baggage of past experiences, allowing him to live in the moment. This can be particularly beneficial in a retirement community, where the focus is often on enjoying the present, making the most of each day, and trying to brush aside the angst of our finite existence.

However, the lack of memory retention also poses challenges. Memories provide a framework for understanding our place in the world and our relationships with others. Without a clear notion of the past, Larry might struggle to form deeper connections and maintain a coherent sense of self.

Is There an Optimal Place?

The paradox of Larry’s situation underscores a broader truth about life: the need for a balance between novelty and memory. Novelty brings excitement and a sense of discovery, which are essential for growth. It keeps life interesting, prevents stagnation, and makes us look forward to getting out of bed in the morning. On the other hand, memory provides stability and a sense of identity. It allows us to learn from our experiences and build meaningful relationships. However, the capacity of our brains is finite. In the end, we cannot carry everything from the past along. Some memories need to be let go to make room for new experiences.

While not remembering anything and allowing each day to be a novel experience in bad, being forever burdened by everything from the past is not good either.

As we age, this balance becomes particularly important. It allows us to have new experiences while selective retention of memories helps maintain a sense of continuity and identity. A well-lived life is an intricate optimization problem. All aspects of our well-being require balance and moderation — neither too little nor too much exercise is good; both overeating and undereating are harmful; and too much or too little sleep is detrimental.

On one of our upcoming walks, we’ll run into Larry again. Instead of the usual, “Long time, no see. How have you been?” we’ll simply say, “Nice to meet you,” giving Larry the pleasure of a fresh experience. It’s the least we can do.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Eternal Bodies, Finite Minds, and the Notion of Reincarnation

 

I did not believe in reincarnation in my past life, and I still don’t — Woody Allen

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

Summary: Imagine a world where our bodies are immortal, but our brains have finite capacity. In this scenario, life would become a cycle of forgetting and re-learning, much like reincarnation but without the retention of past memories. With cognitive limits in place, perpetual rediscovery could ensure that life, despite its lack of temporal boundaries, remains dynamic and engaging rather than becoming a tale of boredom.

Immortality

It is the opposite of the finiteness of our existence — a finiteness that, once encountered and internalized, has the potential to shake our comfortable, often unexamined lives. The realization of our finiteness has led to many profound (and mundane) explorations and inventions throughout human history, including religion, various constructs of the afterlife, reincarnation, fortune telling, and dreams of finding the fountain of youth.

The notion of immortality in this discussion focuses on the physical body. It does not concern the continuation of our soul or self in any form; these concepts may simply be constructs to soften the harsh reality of our finiteness.

Can We Become Immortal?

The immortality of the physical self may not be such a far-fetched idea. With medical and technological advancements, most of our body parts might become replaceable. The possibility of 3D-printed body parts may not remain science fiction for much longer. Just as we walk into an auto parts store to buy a replacement for a worn-out windshield wiper, imagine one day walking into a human body shop, providing the required genetic information, and walking out with a new thumb to replace the one feeling twinges of arthritis.

There is, however, a part of our existence — the brain — that has unique limitations. Even if it could be considered physically immortal, its functional capacity has limits.

What About the Brain?

The brain is always working, constantly communicating with different parts of the body to keep us alive. It stores our memories, experiences, and everything we have learned. For humans, it is the seat of our consciousness. With its neurons and the connections between them, the brain is the organ that creates the self. Ultimately, however, the brain’s capacity for information is finite.

For all the intricate functions it performs, the brain has high energy requirements. This small, three-pound organ consumes 20% of the body’s energy. One could imagine that adding or augmenting the brain’s capacity and functionality would only increase its energy demands. Another unique aspect of the brain is that unlike other bodily organs, the brain — and what resides and occurs within it — uniquely defines who we are.

Following this chain of thought, a plausible scenario is that while the physical parts of the self could be immortal, the brain’s capacity and functions might remain limited.

A Counterfactual World

Let us indulge in imagining a world where our physical bodies are immortal, but our brains have finite capacity.

In such a world, our capacity to retain past experiences and memories would be limited. As we accumulate memories and knowledge, we would eventually reach a point where new information could only be retained at the expense of letting some go. This would lead to a cyclical pattern of learning and forgetting, somewhat akin to the notion of reincarnation. We live, accumulate memories that help define the self, die, and when we are reborn, nothing is remembered, and we start from scratch to build a new self.

The cycle of learning, forgetting, and relearning might seem tedious, but it has a silver lining. Even with immortality, we would not face eternal boredom or a lack of novelty. Despite the repetition, the human capacity for novelty and pleasure would persist. Each cycle would allow us to rediscover activities and experiences, deriving joy from them as if they were new. This perpetual rediscovery could sustain our engagement with life, even as our cognitive limits constrain our ability to retain all our experiences.

Sounds Like We are Talking About Reincarnation

Functionally, this existence would mirror reincarnation, with each cycle offering a fresh perspective unburdened by the weight of past memories. The finite nature of our cognitive capacity would necessitate a continuous renewal of our experiences, ensuring that life remains dynamic and engaging along with our immortal bodies.

In conclusion, while physical immortality with a finite brain capacity presents challenges, it also offers a unique form of existence where the joy of discovery and the novelty of experiences can perpetually renew our engagement with life.

The same is true for our finite existence — it is the joy of learning, discovery, and novel experiences that help us age gracefully and ensure a sense of vitality and interest. The challenge, of course, is to balance our desire to thrive with our awareness of mortality, without letting the latter become overwhelming.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

The origin of my consciousness

 

Intelligence is the ability to solve problems, and consciousness is the ability to feel things and have subjective experiences — Yuval Noah Harari

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

A dreary summer afternoon, and there is absolute stillness all around. Not a single leaf on the trees outside is fluttering.

A while back, when I stepped out onto the screened porch for a minute, all I could hear was the buzzing sound of cicadas and flies. It feels as though I am the only one around here, living on some frontier outpost of humanity, waiting for the next supply ship to arrive and bring some cheery news from the Earth.

There is not much else to do here except watch flies scuttle around busily or think about philosophical questions like what consciousness is and what it might have been its origins.

There is an effervescent beauty in philosophical musings. They are also a bottomless source of questions to keep my mind engaged and keep soul sucking boredom at bay.

It is fun to ponder over the origin stories of common objects that are around me — why something is what it is? Do things owe their origin merely to chance accidents or there is some inevitability to their existence?

Why do I have physiological mechanisms for sensing the environment, or for that matter, is there a reason that I have five senses and not six? Are there plausible explanations for observable facts around me?

Philosophical musings, although may not have practical utility, they keep my mind engaged and help me feel connected to something larger than myself. They allow me to transcend the narrow confines of my ego.

So, what could be origins of my consciousness and the reason that I am aware of a fly buzzing around, and when it lands on the cup of muddy coffee I am drinking, it makes me react with annoyance.

There are two origin stories for consciousness. One perspective posits that consciousness is an entity of its own. It is separate from the physical brain, which receives sensory input and seems like an integral and a crucial component for my awareness. This view, known as dualism, suggests that a non-physical substance or property constitutes consciousness.

The alternative view posits that consciousness is a construct of the physical brain’s myriads of activities. This notion argues that consciousness is an acquired capacity and hinges on the workings of the brain. Along the evolutionary path, the capacity for consciousness evolved to give biological organisms an edge in the race to acquire finite resources, thereby increasing their chances of survival and reproduction.

It is easy to comprehend that all biological organisms require a mechanism to (a) sense their surroundings, (b) interpret the sensory input, and © make an inference from the input received and react accordingly. These are the three basic functions of the brain. If I did not have these traits, I might as well be a rock.

Starting from that premise, it is not difficult to envision that as brain functions and structure acquired more complexity to coordinate increasing specialization of different organs, a nascent capacity for proto-consciousness (e.g., a capacity to remember what happened in the past few minutes ago) may have evolved.

Once the capacity to consciousize was there, it gave an enormous edge in the race for survival and reproduction. Shaped by the hands of natural selection, the nascent capacity for proto-consciousness continued to get better and better.

Neuroscience and cognitive science are advancing the understanding of the physical basis of consciousness. The biological foundations for memory already exist and are connected with the concept of synaptic plasticity.

With a neurological basis for memory in place, cognitive science can build on that foundation to develop macro-level explanations for the hallmarks of consciousness such as perception, attention, language, reasoning and problem-solving, flow of time, and metacognition (the ability of consciousness probing itself). These are the traits that are used to define the capacity (or can serve as markers) for consciousness.

This pathway for evolving a capacity for consciousness is a plausible narrative.

A corollary to the possibility above also comes to mind that once the capacity for memory is there, and I am aware of the past, an awareness for the future has to come in. I cannot imagine a world where an awareness of the past without an awareness of the future, and vice versa, can exist.

Plausible as it may be, there are lots of unanswered questions that are associated with the notion for a physical basis for consciousness though:

· Why is there such a big gap in the capacity for consciousness between me and countless biological organisms that exist around me? How and when did this quantum leap happen?

· A more fundamental question, however, is how to measure consciousness to begin with? It is only when I can do that that I can ask if the capacity for consciousness falls on a continuum.

· How consciousness relates to the subjectivity of experience? Is it because of the different physiological structures of the brain? Is it because synapses differ from person to person and (with age for a person) and synapses are what makes us.

· How does capacity for consciousness evolved subsequent to my birth — am I as conscious on the day I was born vs. when I was twenty vs. when I am at 66 now vs. when my current cognitive abilities will decline with age?

· What role the brain as an interpreter of sensory input plays in what ‘consciousness is?’ Does the biological, chemical, and electrical activity in the of brain the seat of consciousness or it is a two-way street?

· Does consciousness and IQ have a connection? Does someone who can speak 58 languages has higher level of consciousness than me who has difficulty keeping track of one.

· Does consciousness…

…and the list of questions can go on and on and is long enough to keep me gainfully occupied for the rest of my living days.

For now, the buzzing fly just could not resist committing hara-kiri and dived into the cup of stale coffee. Time to get up and make a fresh cup of tea.

Once again, the world of living trumps the work of thinking. Thankfully, it always does.

Ciao and thanks for reading.

Consciousness and existential crisis

 Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth — Alan Watts

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI: Consciousness Probing Itself

One of the fundamental causes for the ailment existential crisis is my capacity for consciousness that also makes me aware of the future. It is in the future that mortality resides, and the recognition that I live for a finite span of time lurks. It is said that if I live in the present moment, and thereby, not being aware of the future, I will be connected to immortality or timelessness. But who can manage to always live in the present? For that matter, what is ‘present’?

Along with the awareness of the future, the recognition of my mortality is validated further by the memories from the past (e.g., memory of loss of friends and family that are no longer with us) that I carry.

Being aware of the future and remembrances of things past are hallmarks of the capacity for consciousness. Indeed, various definitions of consciousness are peppered with the word ‘awareness’. Wikipedia suggests that consciousness, at its simplest, is “awareness of internal and external existence” and may include cognition, experience, feeling, or perception. It goes on to say that “It may be awareness, awareness of awareness, metacognition, or self-awareness…”

Merriam-Webster describes consciousness as “the quality or state of being aware especially of something within oneself.”

What fun I can have splitting hair and continue to ponder on a concise definition for the capacity for consciousness, but whatever it may be, the fact remains that with the awareness of the future it brings, I am also aware that I may no longer be an I in the next moment. Knowing this fact is the cognizance of mortality that fuels and sustains the ailment of existential crisis.

The consciousness and capabilities it provides me with has helped greatly in the evolutionary race for survival and reproduction. It is because of this capability that my species has come to dominate the Earth and has become its self-appointed manager (although humans are not very good at it).

As beneficial as the trait of consciousness may be, it is a double-edged sword — it allows me to be aware of the continuity of time and helps define me and my identity, at the same time letting me know that for me time is also finite.

The capacity for consciousness is no free lunch.

Another trait of consciousness is that it can explore itself. The capacity of consciousness allows me to ask a basic question where consciousness may have emerged from?

Perhaps the self-referential nature of consciousness and its ability to probe itself makes comprehending it an impossible task. The more it probes and learns about itself, deeper questions about itself it comes across.

But for now, let me not chase my own tail and focus on where consciousness may have come from.

There are basically two possible answers to this question. — consciousness is an entity that is independent of the self I am. Alternatively, like other parts of me, it is also a biological construct.

If consciousness is independent of my physical form then even after I perish, the consciousness (presumably in some way influenced by what I have been) will continue on.

If it is a biological construct then both my physical form and my consciousness will cease to exist at some point in time. Among the two, conceptually this option is a much easier answer to construct but is much harder to swallow and the discomfort leads to the ailment of existential crisis. [The former is a more acceptable option but is full of riddles].

The feasibility of the second alternative being possible is not that hard to envision.

In an environment, to be able to survive and reproduce, a biological organism has to have some mechanism to (a) sense its surroundings, (b) interpret the sensory input, and © react to it [what kind of reactions). This necessity of these three functions is the blueprint of nervous system and the brain.

Following evolution as biological organisms became more complicated and started to develop specialized parts, the nervous system and brain had to also evolve more sophisticated capacities to coordinate different specialized parts.

Along the trajectory of developing and achieving more and more sophistication, the nervous system and brain, perhaps by accident (either genetic mutation or because of the environmental pressure to be better than others, at some point may have evolved a nascent capability for memory formation. Giving an advantage in the race of survival and reproduction, the nascent capacity for memory would evolve further to become a trait. Once established, it ultimately matured into a capacity to remember the past, and that by definition, an awareness for the future.

Following this plausible path, here I am living with the capacity of consciousness that wants to explore itself. I have a memory of the past, an awareness for the future. I also have the cognizance of my mortality, and with that, the ailment of existence crisis.

Once in a while I also wonder in what way the capacity for consciousness probing itself helps in any way and how does all this philosophizing matters. Is knowing or not knowing what consciousness is and what its origin would be of any utility.

In those moments of doubts, I am reminded of something I read in a book by Daniel M. Klein (Every Time I Find the Meaning of Life, They Change It: Wisdom of the Great Philosophers on How to Live): “My [philosophical] wonderings certainly never really get me anything or anywhere. But they do happen to make me feel more alive.”

These wonderings certainly do make me feel more alive. They also connect me to a larger universe, make me look beyond the confines of my narrow self. They prove to be soothing balm to calm the ailment of existential crisis. They help provide a meaning and purpose to life that the aware of mortality is constantly trying to marginalize.

Ciao.

Note: Writing ‘capacity for consciousness’ over and over starts to feel tedious. When queried, one of the suggestions from ChatGPT for a verb alternative for ‘capacity for consciousness’ was Consciousize (kon-shuh-sahyz): To become aware or make someone aware. Example: The mindfulness workshop was designed to consciousize participants about their inner thoughts and emotions; I can consciousize; I consciousize, therefore I am.

Not a bad suggestion.

The reason I see and hear what I see and hear

 

Sometimes asking God for a reason for something is like asking Him why the sky is blue. There is a complex, scientific reason for it, Claire, but most children, including you, are content with knowing it is blue because it is — Susan Meissner (Why the Sky Is Blue)

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

In the previous post I discussed how my senses can only perceive a small fraction of what exists. I can only see only 0.0035% of the electromagnetic spectrum between 380 nanometers (nm) (violet) to about 750 nanometers (nm) (red) and can hear compression (or longitudinal) waves that travel through the air and have frequency between 20Hz to 20,000 Hz. My range of hearing and vision being limited does not mean that there are no electromagnetic and compression waves beyond the limits of my perception. It just means that anything happening out there which falls outside the range of my sensory physiology does not get registered.

Right now, there are worlds beyond the reach of my perception of which I am not aware.

I am oblivious to much that goes around me. I am continuously flooded by electromagnetic waves to which I am not aware. Similarly, there are sound waves continuously passing by, wavelengths of which are beyond my auditory capabilities. The same sound waves, however, are picked up by the dogs taking their evening stroll with their owners on the sidewalk and occasionally their ears perk up as if they are listening to some melodious symphony that is not accessible to me.

Why is it that I can see and hear only a fraction of what is going on out there? It is not by random chance that I, as part of the human race, was blessed with this sensory range, perhaps when the world was created. Is there someone out there divvying up frequencies of spectrums like the FCC does?

The reason for my physiology being what it is has an explanation that traces back to the environment in which my ancestors, and more broadly, life on Earth, evolved.

The BLUF (Bottom Line Up Front) is that the range of wavelengths to which our vision and auditory physiology is sensitive is the result of an interplay between environmental conditions and the principles of natural selection, which work to increase our chances for survival and reproduction.

To understand the range of the electromagnetic spectrum I can perceive, the starting point is the radiation that the Sun emits. For every living thing on Earth that requires energy to maintain its biological functions, the source of that energy, directly or indirectly, is the Sun.

Plants, through photosynthesis, convert the Sun’s energy into various nutrients (such as glucose) and byproducts (like oxygen). They accomplish this remarkable transformation using water from their roots, carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, and light energy from the Sun. For my own existence, I depend on the nutrients produced by plants; thus, the origin of my energy source also traces back to the Sun.

The intensity of the Sun’s electromagnetic spectrum is concentrated within a range from about 200 nm (nanometers) (ultraviolet) to about 2000 nm (infrared). It also happens that at the top of the atmosphere, the spectral irradiance of the radiation emitted by the Sun peaks at about 400 nm (violet-to-blue). Additionally, the gaseous composition of Earth’s atmosphere allows a majority of the radiation emitted by the Sun, between 200–750 nm, to pass through. Conversely, radiation in the infrared frequency is largely absorbed by the water vapor in the atmosphere.

The bottom line is that, with the Sun’s radiation being the ultimate source of energy and its spectral irradiance peaking around 400 nm — declining rapidly on the ultraviolet side and tapering more gradually on the red side (but being absorbed in the atmosphere) — it is unsurprising that the majority of life forms on Earth have evolved to capitalize on this specific environmental condition.

This is why the physiology of my eyes has evolved to perceive what we call the visible spectrum (the use of the word visible is not surprising and is self-referential because I am bound by the limits of the language I use to communicate. What else would I call it?).

What about the physiology of my ears? The story there is no different.

Sound waves are compression waves that travel through the air. Their speed and other characteristics, such as how far sound can travel without losing its energy, depend on the air’s density. My auditory range has adapted to the frequencies of sounds most relevant for communication and environmental awareness, thereby increasing the prospects of my survival and reproduction.

The frequency of sound that can be efficiently transmitted is influenced by the medium’s properties through which the wave is traveling, including its density and pressure. The human ear has evolved to be most sensitive to the range of frequencies that travel best under the atmospheric conditions at Earth’s surface.

The frequencies within the human auditory range are those that can travel through the air easily and are more likely to be associated with sounds that have been important for our survival. The process of natural selection has guided human (and other animals’) hearing to adapt to the typical conditions of Earth’s atmosphere, where the density and pressure support the propagation of sound waves most efficiently within the 20Hz to 20,000Hz range.

Thus, it is no coincidence that my eyes and hearing are attuned to seeing and hearing what they are. In the environment where my ancestors lived and the overall biology on Earth evolved, these are the features that increased the chances for survival and reproduction. Attempts to utilize alternative seeing and hearing strategies either did not progress far along the evolutionary path or became relegated to specialized niches (for example, bats using echolocation).

Ultimately, the principles of natural selection, working within the constraints of the environment where the game of survival and reproduction is played, are the invisible forces that have shaped the physiology of my senses.

In some ways, natural selection could be considered a godlike force making me most adept to where I live.

Ciao.

The worlds beyond my senses

 

Imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, “This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in; fits me rather neatly, doesn’t it? In fact, it fits me staggeringly well! It must have been made to have me in it! — Douglas Adams

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

My senses serve as portals to the universe. They provide my brain with the data using which the brain interprets the world outside of me. Through the signals brought in by my senses, the brain discerns what to savor and what to shun; what to love and what to avoid. Over the years, this process has shaped my preferences and aversions.

What would I call an entity that is completely isolated from the external world (that is, for some reason, it does not ingest any signals from the external world)? What could such an entity conceive and comprehend? What would its comprehension of the external world be like? For that matter, for such an entity, do words like ‘external world’ even hold a meaning.

This inquiry might seem strange (or may sound even absurd), yet in my sleep, floating amidst dreams, I am such an entity. My brain is not processing much of sensory data (for example, related to vision), and yet, devoid of sensory input, some juxtaposition of brain and mind do conjure up brilliant worlds of fantasies.

Among my quintet of senses — vision, hearing, olfaction, tactility, and gustation –the faculties of sight and sound are especially vital for discerning the external world.

Vision, frequently hailed as the most important sense, empowers me to discern forms, hues, and motions. The percepts of vision are crucial for orienting myself in my surroundings, seeking sustenance, identifying friends and adversaries, and, in the current era, for reading a book — thus broadening my perspectives through the wisdom and experiences shared by others.

Hearing allows me to perceive sounds, a sense essential for recognizing the rustling of leaves, engaging in spoken language and communication, appreciating melodies, and heeding the sonic warnings of hazards that lurk in my environment.

As indispensable as my sight and hearing may be, the part of our world that my senses can grasp is small. Beyond the confines of my sensory capabilities, there exist worlds of which I remain utterly unaware of (that is assuming that they are there but are merely beyond the capabilities of my perception). The worlds I am unaware of are far bigger than the ones I comprehend.

The mechanism of my vision involves the transformation of electromagnetic waves into electrical impulses by my retinal cells, which are then relayed to the brain for interpretation. The richness of the world I see has extraordinary details — the blue sky, constantly changing formation of clouds drifting in the wind, the mountain peaks topped with the whiteness of snow, or sometimes a rainbow unfurled across the sky.

And yet, the world I do not see is far bigger than the one I do see. The electromagnetic spectrum encompasses a wide range of wavelengths, from very low-frequency radio waves to high-frequency gamma rays. The entire electromagnetic spectrum includes, in order of increasing wavelength (or decreasing frequency): radio waves, microwaves, infrared radiation, visible light, ultraviolet radiation, X-rays, and gamma rays.

My eyes (and their physiology) can see only an exceedingly small fraction of the electromagnetic spectrum, which (and no surprise) we have named is the visible spectrum (what else would we call it?).

The visible part of the electromagnetic spectrum ranges from about 380 nanometers (nm) (violet color) to about 750 nanometers (nm) (red color) in wavelength and only makes up about 0.0035% of the entire electromagnetic spectrum. So, I am only seeing a tiny sliver of all the electromagnetic spectrum that exists around me. I have no idea what worlds exist in the part of spectrum that I cannot see.

It is inconceivable to think that the only interesting things that are happening in the universe are happening in the fraction of electromagnetic spectrum I can see. That idea would be too self-centric or anthropomorphic.

The range (and story) of our auditory perception is no different. The sounds I hear are compression waves travelling through the air that make our eardrum (or tympanic membrane) vibrate. These vibrations are converted to electrical signals that are sent to the brain for further processing.

The physiology of the human ear is such that it responds to compression waves between 20 Hz and 20,000 Hz (Hertz)and makes me capable of hearing things that vibrate in that range. Like for electromagnetic waves, it does not imply that compression waves do not exist beyond the frequency range of my hearing. They do and physiology of ear in different animals can respond to those waves. The Greater Wax Moth is capable of sensing compression waves at a frequency of 300kHz.

The bottom line is that there is a lot going on out there (or I assume that is so, even if I cannot be sure) of which I am not aware. Who knows what kind of wonders exist in the worlds I cannot see and cannot hear? Is there a world that exists and is beyond my perception, however, is a deeply philosophical question.

A cloud in the sky is visible to me because it reflects the electromagnetic waves coming from the sun in the range of visible spectrum. Are there no other “objects” in the sky that can reflect various parts of electromagnetic towards me, but I am unaware of them. If they do, what would they look like?

At some level, the above sentence is bizarre because I am using words and experiences that are human to discuss what is independent of us, and more so, has never been perceived by our senses. I am trying to augment the world I cannot see or hear into the world I am familiar with, but a moment of reflection tells how absurd the notion is.

Heck for that matter, there may be many more dimensions out there that my senses cannot contact. Perhaps, because of some unintended perturbations, those unknown dimensions leak into the realm I can perceive and after a moment retract themselves back to where they came from. Who knows what else is out there and is beyond the range of my senses.

Do I ever dream of floating through a space that has more than three dimensions? Even if I do, how would my waking self-know.

Ciao.

Note: Electromagnetic and compression waves: The former can travel through empty space while the latter requires the existence of a compressible medium, like air.