mindcycle

I’m not quite sure where to date my decision to pursue an academic career — probably somewhere between winter 2006 when I started my bachelor’s and a year from now. The more time I spent in academic surroundings, the more I feel attracted to them, even home, if that’s possible.

The big issue for me then was — and still is — to choose between philosophy and the empirical sciences (especially neuroscience and psychology). There are plenty of reasons, I think, to make either decision. But why not go a third way? Why not combine the two? I would consider this ideal as neither philosophy nor neuroscience or psychology alone can answer the really interesting questions.

With a BSc. in Cognitive Science with a clear focus in Philosophy and an MSc. in Neuroscience I’m already sort of a hybrid. I realize this has advantages. For instance, my background enables me to see how (or at least that) researchers from different disciplines talk past each other. The downside is that I’m not a thoroughbred member of either community.

My decision is pending. Could one or the other provide a better prospect for my future? Well, the received view certainly is to better stay away from philosophy and go into science, go where the money is. But how about science? A friend just posted this link on facebook. Jonathan Katz describes a scientific career as exactly the nightmare scientist warn me about when I tell them about possibly going into philosophy.

What had I best do? Avoiding either path, and switching to engineering does not sound like a convincing alternative … maybe just carry on and hope Fortuna to be propitious?

But from this point of view, should I even bother making a choice between philosophy and neuroscience? Why would it be such a big deal to be a hybrid? As long as I’m doing research, it’ll be just fine as there are experts in either area I can collaborate with — and thanks to my hybrid-being I actually see their points.

The job market raises difficulties. Who is looking for someone with neither full competence in neuroscience nor philosophy? The only viable solution, it seems, is to pick one or the other for my PhD and subsequent academic future while leaving the rest for leisure time.

But can this be true? And does it bring me any closer to solving the really interesting questions? I doubt it. And in the end, would a clear cut decision make the perspective for an academic career so much better?

What are memories? —A faint relict of past moments, one may answer, conserved stories, vivid recollections of what we once experienced.

But what do they mean? Memories are secret places in our minds that we can, but do not have to, share with others and we can consciously steer ourselves through them. Memories are where we can hide from reality, or what one can be terrified of. We can consult them to retrieve information that is not currently displayed to us.

Though seeming steady, memories tend to be re-arranged with every recall; they often supplement the perception of our current surroundings. Memories can go unnoticed, but they can as well be the source of pleasure or distress.

Memories are personal records of our being in the world—they define who we are. What would we be without them?

Without memories to cloud it, the mind perceives with absolute clarity. Each observation stands out in stark relief. In the beginning, when there’s not yet a smudge, the slate still blank, there is only the present moment: each vital detail, shocked color, the fall of light. Like film stills. The mind relentlessly open to the world, deeply impressed, even hurt by it; not yet gauzed by memory.

Loosing all our memories means loosing the sense of who we are. Now, if we ourselves do no longer know who we are, can we be said to still be the same person?

In “Man Walks into a Room,” Nicole Krauss introduces Samson Greene, a man who lost all his memories beyond the age of twelve.

[A]s he looks around the beautiful apartment he apparently shares with his wife and which is filled with all the souvenirs of a life well lived, Samson feels nothing more than a vague admiration.

Now in his thirties, Samson struggles to re-identify himself. Turing away from the life waiting for him to return, Samson starts hunting for the real-world counterparts of his childhood memories.

On his way, he gets to know personalities as fascinating as he himself: Lana, a former student of his, Ray, a neuroscientist calling him up to come to the desert, Donald, an old veteran suffering from lung cancer, and Pip, who found that Jesus is her one true friend. —A thought-provoking read.

Snowflakes swirling down,
melting as they touch the ground.
Christmas lights lining her window.
It’s been only a couple of hours since she opened the door,
was welcomed by the familiar smell.

A pile of unopened letters on her desk’s dusty top,
A freshly made bed in the corner,
An empty closet, a crowded bookshelf.

She let her mind wander back in time.
It seemed to her as if nothing had elapsed since her last arrival.
Still winter, still Christmas. But different.

Next door is playing a song she remembers from childhood days.
Less time she seems to have now.
And yet, it grows a strong desire to settle down.
She opened her suitcase, got out the little wrapped gifts.
Downstairs shining the Christmas tree.

It’s this season.
Or is it returning?
That initiates thinking about the past 365 days.
Have they been good? Have they been bad?
Where have I been? Where have you been?
When will we see each other again?
And everybody wonders: “What comes next?”

It’s still snowing silently,
a soft white cover emerging.

London, UK. It’s a rainy Friday night, it’s dark out and freezing – well, still 12°C but most people tend to wrap themselves in thick scarves, hats and gloves. I’m near Oxford street, on my way to see a friend; and I’m not the only one out there as you can imagine! The weekend is just about to start, the shopping centers are still open, and the crowds are heading home.

I need to get some cash before I head off. Luckily, I spotted an ATM. Unluckily, it doesn’t have any cash left after I queued for 15 minutes in the rain! I’ll find another one somewhere on my way, I suppose.

I continue walking, reach bus stop BY and get on the bus. I manage to find myself a seat, get rid of my backpack and sit down. That very moment, though, the bus driver jumps off his seat, runs out of the bus and down the street. “This doesn’t work! I don’t know why this doesn’t work!”

Silence.

Two minutes later, he returns. He settles down on his seat, closes the doors, starts indicating. … We don’t move. The driver gets even more wrought up (if this is still possible), jumps off his seat again, opens the doors and ensures he’s got no idea what’s going on.

I don’t either. But I know that I’m probably quicker when I get off the bus and take advantage of the open doors. Back in the rain, I walk towards Oxford Street. Once I arrive, I immediately see what’s going on — or, more precisely, what’s not going: traffic (apart from some cyclists who totally enjoy their freedom). Buses and cabs are standing in either direction; their doors open, the drivers gone. Awkward.

I’m walking down the street. Fed up with the plashy umbrella obstacle course, I decide to switch to the tube. I oyster my way through the barrier into the station and let the escalator take me under the ground. Trying to avoid bumping into people I follow the signs to westbound services on the central line. CCTV is watching me.

My way ends, though, rather sudden. People are jammed somewhere in the middle of the walkway to my platform. I cannot even see the tracks from here!

“Please move along the platform.”
“Please stay behind the yellow line.”
“Please don’t leave any luggage unattended.”
“Please keep your personal belonging with you at all times.”

What’s going on? Should I get back out? Maybe. But as it has already become impossible once people jammed behind me, I don’t entertain that thought any further.

“Let them off the train first!”
“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”
“Let passengers off the train first.”
“Please use all available doors.”
“Please move right down inside the cart.”
“Let them off first!”
“Stand clear of the closing doors.”
“Mind the doors please.”
“Your next train is 2 minutes.”
“For your personal safety and security, CCTV is in use throughout London Underground.”

It takes me about three trains, until I can finally approach to a door and enter. I grab a pole and hope it’s gonna be a quick journey, such that I will not lose consciousness due to oxygen deprivation. The train doors close, they open again. “Please do NOT obstruct the doors!” They close again, open again. “PLEASE! Ladies and Gentlemen, I said please do NOT OBSTRUCT THE DOOOOORRRRS!” I’ve never heard conductor so angry before. The doors close. Eventually. “Thank you,” sings her relieved but slightly annoyed voice through the speakers.

We start moving. Slowly. People are standing too close to the train for it to depart. A couple of more announcements follow before we finally leave the station. This procedure is about the same at every single stop. It takes forever. I decide to get off the tube and back into the rain rather than stay down here for another hour or so. Meanwhile, I should be close to Tottenham Court Road where I hope to catch a bus.

After struggling through a buggy, a man’s tuba, a dog, and a drunken old lady, I manage to get off. On may way out, I see people queuing to even enter the subway to the station! It’ still raining, but at least I can breathe!

Arriving at the bus stop, an extra sign informs me: “This bus stop is not in use.” Nice! I walk up the street where the bus would supposedly be going and plan to catch it at the next stop.

10 minutes later, I reach that next stop. No 58 bus passed me in the meantime. Not too good a sign, as it’s supposed to be going every 2 to 3 minutes. Since this bus stop is too crowded to get me under cover, I’m waiting in the rain again.

15 minutes pass. No bus. I finally give up on public transport, wished my bike hadn’t got stolen and start walking to my friend’s house. Only 40 minutes later I reach the locked entrance gate. Waiting in the rain, again! But now, for the first time today, I know it’ll be successful. I drag out my cell phone and tell my friend I made it!

Looking south from the highest point in London.

Gespannt steigt sie von Board und schleift ihr Gepäck über den Bootssteg auf die Insel. Was sie wohl erwarten wird?

Ein Bus würde sie in die Mitte der Hauptstadt bringen; und von dort würde sie mit unterirdischen Zügen nach Norden fahren – zu einem alten Haus, das ihre neue Heimat werden soll. Viel mehr weiß sie noch nicht. Aber sie wird damit beschäftigt sein, diese fremde Welt zu entdecken und viel Neues zu lernen.

Die Stadt, in die sie gebracht wird, ist spiegelverkehrt – zumindest hinsichtlich der Fortbewegungsrichtung. Viele Gebäude werden durch rückwärtige Keller oder kleinere Seitenflügel angrenzender Bauten betreten und erweisen sich oftmals – wirken sie von außen verfallen oder modern – innen als mystisch. Unter den alten Gewölben etwa werden gewisse Örtlichkeiten mit Handpumpen betrieben während am modernen Eingang Sicherheitsschleusen mit biometrischen Scannern jedem Fremdling den Zutritt verwehren.

Eines aber gibt es überall: Kameras. Nichts bliebt ungesehen, alles wird genau protokolliert.

Stählerne Treppen führen vermooste Mauern innen und außen hinauf, blinde Fenster lassen nur fahles Licht in die prächtigen Hallen. In einem Glascontainer in der Mitte der größten Halle werden die sterblichen Überreste des ideellen Vaters dieser Stätte ausgestellt. Sie werden jedem Neuling so lange angepriesen, bis dieser im Schlaf den Namen des großen Denkers buchstabieren kann.

In den Lesesälen der Bibliothek gibt es keine geraden Tische. Der Lack auf den Stühlen ist abgewetzt und ihre Beine sind unten zersplittert. Im hinteren Teil des Raumes hat man eine Zwischendecke eingezogen, auf der unzählige leistungsstarke Computerarbeitsstationen installiert sind.

Die Neuankömmlinge werden im Hof zusammengetrommelt und eingelassen. Es sind hunderte … nein tausende! Sie kommen von überall her. Jeder spricht eine andere Sprache und viele tun sich mit der neuen gemeinsamen Kommunikationsmethode schwer. Uniformierte Ortsansässige weisen den Neulingen an jeder Ecke den Weg und führen sie in kleinen Grüppchen von Station zu Station einer feierlichen Prozedur.

Die Wege sind viel weiter, als sie es gewohnt sind. Und auch am jeweiligen Ziel, treffen sie immer wieder auf ein neues Ritual. Zumeist umfasst dies das bilden einer sich nach rechts windenden Schlage wobei die Nichtachtung dieses Gesetztes mit verachtungsvollsten Blicken geahndet wird.

Am Ende aber sollen sie alle Mitglieder der stolzen Gemeinschaft werden.

Er schaut sie an, ein kurzes Nicken, der Anflug eines hilflosen Lächelns. “Danke, du auch.” Er dreht sich um und geht zur Tür. Routiniert drückt er die Türklinke herunter. Irgendwie fühlt sie sich heute ganz anders an.

Er tritt durch die massive Tür hinaus ins Freie, blinzelt dem untergehenden Feuerball entgegen, und atmet tief ein. Die Abendluft ist klar und schwer. Das übliche Kindergeschrei bevölkert die Nachbarschaft.

Er schreitet auf den Weg hinaus und hört aus einigen Metern Entfernung die Tür in gewohnter Schwere hinter sich ins Schloss fallen. Das bekannte Geräusch jagt ihm einen eiskalten Schauer über den Rücken. Abrupt hält er inne, dreht sich um und schaut zurück.

Für eine Sekunde scheinen die neuen Möbel wieder unausgepackt vor dem Eingang zu stehen.

Er blinzelt und setzt seinen alltäglichen Marsch zur wohlbekannten Bushaltestelle scheinbar unbehelligt fort. Eine einzelne Träne bahnt sich ihren Weg hinunter zu seinem Kinn. Diesmal wird er wohl nicht wiederkommen.

Aber vielleicht sieht man sich ja mal.