Faraday’s Cage

  by

  C. Sean McGee

  Faraday’s Cage

  Copyright© Cian Sean McGee

  CSM Publishing

  Published at Smashwords

  Araraquara, São Paulo, Brazil, 2019

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, scanning or digital information storage and retrieval without permission from the author.

  Cover and Interior layout: C. Sean McGee

  Support independent art before it cuts its own ear off.

  Contents

  Track 1 (Red)

  Track 2 (Yellow)

  Track 3 (Yellow)

  Track 4 (Red)

  Track 5 (Blue)

  Track 6 (Yellow)

  Track 7 (Yellow)

  Track 8 (Red)

  Track 9 (Yellow)

  Track 10 (Blue)

  Track 11 (Red)

  Track 12 (Yellow)

  Track 13 (Red)

  Track 14 (Yellow)

  Track 15 (Blue)

  Track 16 (Yellow)

  Track 17 (Yellow)

  Track 18 (Blue)

  Track 19 (Red)

  Track 20 (Blue)

  Track 21 (Red)

  Track 22 (Red)

  Track 23 (Red)

  Track 24 (Blue)

  Track 25 (Yellow)

  Track 26 (Blue)

  Track 27 (Yellow)

  Track 28 (Red)

  Track 29 (Yellow)

  Track 30 (Blue)

  Track 31 (Yellow)

  Track 32 (Blue)

  Track 1 (Red)

  “What happens when we die? Is there a somewhere else? Is there an after here? And on that note, who are we by the way? And while we’re at it, who am I? Or maybe the question I should be asking is, what is I? What is the self and where in the brain is it? Is a man inside his home just a man, or is he the house and everything in it? Am I my body or, like the man in the house, am I tucked away, somewhere inside? Am I hiding in the attic, peering out through half-drawn blinds at the world outside? The man inside the house is a resident while I, inside my body, am a person. Where does the man go if his house is demolished brick by brick? Does he cease to exist because his house no longer exists? Then where do I go when my body is demolished atom by atom? Do I cease to exist?”

  His questions were met with blank stares.

  “I think, therefore I am,” he continued. “But do I think, or do I have a brain and it thinks, and I merely experience a brain thinking. I have a voice inside my head yet I cannot hear it. It’s there, I know it is, but it doesn’t have a sound. I don’t listen to that voice, not like you’re listening to me – I experience it. It doesn’t have a sound and yet I hear it all day long; in fact, I’ve heard it my whole life. And it says, ‘I’ every time. So who is this infamous I person? Is it the voice, or is it me? Am I the voice or am I experiencing the voice? Is the voice merely a feature of the body I inhabit? Like a hungry belly, is the voice just a groaning mind? Would the man inside the house think that the creaking in the walls was his voice too? Would that be the proof that he was the house? This voice has been narrating my life for as long as I can remember; an endless commentary on my intero and exteroception. It tells me when I’m tired, hungry, and sore; and it tells me I’m better than everyone else, just as much as it tells me I’m not as good as I think I am. It tells me all the things I cannot do and then makes me feel guilty about doing all the things it told me I could. Sometimes it’s funny and inspiring, and sometimes it plays my favourite song on repeat; most of the time, though, it’s not much fun to listen to at all – worrying about all sorts of stupid things that I can do nothing about. So, is the voice me?”

  The children all looked at their teacher, unsure if this would be in the test.

  “Is the voice any more mine than say, the commentary is on a football game? And the thoughts and memories; are they mine or am I just experiencing a play by play of every foul, fumble, and spectacular goal? Are my thoughts and memories merely a feature of the mind or is it proof of I? And if so, once again, what is I? If the man is not the attic, the staircase, the furniture, or the house; how can I claim to be the brain I feel I inhabit, the body in which it is incased, and the organs with which it is furbished? How can I attest to being anything other than awareness itself – aware that the attic, the staircase, the furniture, and the house exist, that they are separate from other houses, just as my body is separate from other bodies, and that looking out the attic window, my experience of life on this street is separate from my neighbour - who is also looking out from a window in his attic. Aware too that I am not the grass that grows in my yard, just as I am not the house’s façade. I am not the colour of the walls, nor am I the size of the property. I am neither heritage listed, renovated nor dilapidated. But I am aware too that my neighbour thinks I am. I am aware that my neighbor thinks I am my house; that I am the lawn, the façade, and the colour of my walls. I am aware that my neighbour judges me and so I forget that I am not the attic, the staircase, and the furniture; but instead, I go about acting as if I am the house. But I’m not the house, am I? So what am I?”

  One child raised her hand, but as it turned out, she only had an itch.

  “Before we ask if I go anywhere when I die, we have to ask, do I exist at all? And therefore, can I even die? If, in fact, what I call being me is merely, like the buzzing from an old refrigerator, just the echo or ripple of neural assemblies in the brain, am I actually alive? Everything we know and touch is carbon. It can be smashed together, built up, and broken apart. And all those things, be they trees, dinosaurs, your new shoes, or even your teacher; they are all at the whim of entropy – my body, just like the house, will age and weather, and one day, it will return to dust. And we can see this in the cracks in the walls and in the lines under our eyes; but am I, as a conscious self, a physical thing that ages and is affected by the ravages of time? When an old man says, ‘You’re only as young as you feel’, is it because his experience has never aged? Is it because, unlike his body, his sense of self – his conscious self – is not a thing at all? What is consciousness?” he said, pacing back and forth, scratching his scruffy beard. “The reason I ask if it is a thing at all is that, as a scientist, I want to be able to measure things. I want to see it in a telescope or a microscope or with my own two eyes. But consciousness and all of the selves, they can only be experienced, and subjectively we can compare our experiences. But our words work for what we can see, hear, smell, touch, and taste – do we even have the right language to compare what we cannot measure? And how do I know that you are even conscious at all? If the man in the house is peering out through drawn curtains, how can he be sure that there is also someone peering out of the drawn curtains of the house across the street? He never saw anyone move in, so how can he assume anyone lives there at all? As a scientist, this is why consciousness is such a hard question. Am I conscious or am I consciousness? If the man is in the house, what part of the house is he in at any given time? If I am consciousness, where do I stay in my body? Do I live in the back of my head watching the world go by, or am I in my toes, feeling the sand disappear beneath my feet? Am I in my stomach, feeling myself full and incapable of eating another morsel? Am I on the other side of the street, feeling the person at the bus stop staring right at me? Or am I in you, when, even though you say you are fine, I can tell that you’re not. If I am not the voice in my head or the thoughts and memories it narrates; if I am not the body and all the cells and atoms that make it, what am I? What do I look like? What do I sound like? Do I have a shape or form at all? Do I have a reflection? Do I cast a shadow? Would I even know myself, if I caught myself outside of my body? Am I but a flame; an incandescent flicker born of a carbon man breathing air? Or am I something more? Am I observable? Am I provable? Am I deducible? Am I refinable? Am I measurable? If I am none of these things, do I even exist at all?”

  The children looked terrified. Those that could, gripped one another’s hands beneath their tables. Those that couldn’t, clutched to the seams of their shorts. If doubt were a seed then its fruit was ripe in their eyes.

  “Consciousness,” he continued, “is quite rightly, a hard question. And it’s fair to say that until we can answer the hard question, we can’t even begin to tackle the easier ones like, what happens when we die? Let me rephrase that. We shouldn’t be wasting our time tackling questions that, in all likelihood, amount to nothing. So forget Heaven and Hell and forget being reborn as an eagle or a cane toad; until we can be certain that any of you exist at all, any theory about life, it’s meaning, and whether there is or is not an after-life is an untested hypothesis posed as an absolute theory.”

  A boy with fret in his eyes raised his jittery hand.

  “Yes?”

  He was almost too frightened to ask.

  “Does The Easter Bunny exist?” he said.

  The other children huddled together. Their little hearts thumped in their chests. Panic swept across their little faces like a plume of soot and smoke. They held their breaths, and those that could, shut their little eyes. The suspense was merciless.

  “Of course the Easter Bunny exists,” said Miss Stevens, sweeping across the room like a light breeze, blowing the thick plumes of fear and indecision away. She smiled at the children before turning to scowl at the man whose speech, he thought, had gone remarkably well. “Have you no notion whatsoever?” she said in a hushe
d voice; one that was as coarse and combative as it was soft and surreptitious. “They’re seven years old for Christ’s sake.”

  Her face was shaped like a gavel.

  “What’s wrong with you? It’s Daddy Day. What does my daddy do? That’s it. Not, what does my daddy think will happen when I die? How is this a conversation for children?”

  She turned for a second and smiled at the class.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said, her face now shaped like a pot of gold. “While I talk to Nathan’s daddy, why don’t you all show how good our counting has gotten and show all the other daddies see how high you can count together. I bet you can count to fifty,” she said.

  “I bet we can count higher,” shouted a girl; and all the kids agreed.

  “That’s awesome,” said Miss Stevens. “Super-duper awesome. I bet you can too.”

  Her smile could stop a fever.

  “It’s Graham, right?” she said, turning back to the overweight man at the front of the classroom, still scratching his beard but with a naïve look on his face as if he were unsure what all the fuss was about; as if the offense the teacher had obviously taken was read between the lines of a language that he himself did not speak. “Listen, Graham, I’m sure you really are a nice guy, and a great father, and an even better scientist. I’m sure you do important things, and by the sounds of it, you’re asking some really big and important questions. But here’s the thing. They’re kids. They’re seven years old. They believe in fairies, magic, and wishes. And yes, they believe in The Easter Bunny too. They don’t have existential questions. Two times eight,” she said, her face shaped like a boxing glove. “That is the hard question.”

  “Can I interject?”

  “No.”

  It felt like he was seven all over again.

  “Now, you’re going to start from the top except this time all you’re going to tell the class is who you are and what you do. That’s it. Keep it short. Keep it simple. Keep it fun. And if you scare my kids,” she said, her face now shaped like a truncheon, “I will punish you.”

  Then she turned back to the class with a rapturous smile.

  “Twenty four?” she shouted, pumping her fists in the air. “Wow! You guys are the best. You’re awesome. You’re spectacular. Woo-hoo! Aren’t they just amazing, dads?”

  The other fathers stood shoulder to shoulder at the back of the class. They looked awkward and out of place, like a half dozen rooks in a dollhouse. As awkward as they seemed, though, it was no stretch of the imagination to see how proud they were.

  “Ok, Nathan’s dad,” said Miss Stevens. “How about we start again and tell these awesome kids what your name is and what awesome grown-up job you do.”

  Her face was shaped like an olive branch.

  “Hello everyone. Who wants to learn about the hemodynamic response function?”

  Miss Stevens shook her head; then tilted it as if to say, “Softer.”

  “Ok,” said Graham, starting over. “My name is Graham and I’m Nathan’s dad. And, uh, I’m a research scientist. Do you know what that is?”

  “No!” shouted the class.

  And what that meant was, ‘tell us more’. Miss Stevens smiled at Graham, urging him on. Her smile could earn her a Millennium Prize. It was proof, if anything, that the hardest of problems could be solved in the easiest way; and in no time too.

  “My job is to think of a big and important question, something nobody has tried to ask before, like…”

  He paused for a second, looking for the right analogy.

  “Where does my other sock always go?” shouted a boy.

  “Exactly,” said Graham. “Why is there always only one in my dresser?”

  The kids all laughed. One even lifted her pant legs to show her mismatched socks. The whole class thought it was hilarious. Her father, though, did not. He had dressed her this morning.

  “So, I ask this question and then I do lots of research. I study everything about socks and how we use them. And I get as much data as possible. So I might look under the bed, in the laundry, and maybe even in the fridge. I might even put cameras to record the data and maybe see where I take my socks off. I get all the information I can. This is the hard bit, and it takes a long time. Then when I have all my data, I can make a guess as to, not only where the sock ends up, but also, why it always goes missing. I call this guess a hypothesis. Then, when I have my hypothesis, I have to test it over and over and over, and when I’m pretty sure I know where the missing sock goes, I’ll do what’s called, drawing a conclusion, and I’ll say that every now and then, my washing machine gets hungry and eats one of my socks.”

  The kids all laughed; mainly because it was true.

  “And this,” said Graham, “is my theory. And then I share my theory with everyone, and this is what’s called publishing – and it’s really important in academia, which is kind of like gym class for the brain. And so that’s what I do every day. I ask big questions and I do lots and lots of experiments using a big machine called an fMRI to solve them.”

  “Wow, kids,” said Miss Stevens, her face shaped like a lightbulb. “That sounds super-duper spectacular amazing, doesn’t it?”

  The kids all cheered.

  “Now, does anyone have a question for Nathan’s dad?”

  A dozen hands darted up in the air. Graham braced himself for how to answer their questions. Surely they would ask about the machine. “What is an fMRI?” they would say, and he’d tell them that, like a magician or superman, the machine allowed him to see into people’s brains. They would cheer and clap and ask him to tell them more. Then he’d tell them about neural assemblies and Bayesian brains, and the kids would be so impressed they wouldn’t want to listen to Pedro’s dad who’s a policeman, or Evelyn’s dad, who built classrooms for poor kids in Vietnam. They’d ask him what his big question was and he’d tell them and they’d roar with applause. And he’d stand there while everybody whistled and chanted his name.

  “Yes, Pedro,” said Miss Stevens.

  The little boy stood up straight and pushed her chair under the table. His father, a policeman, was ever so proud.

  “Did you find the sock?” he asked.

  Track 2 (Yellow)

  At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how big or how important his question was, nobody really cared. Kids weren’t into data; they got their fix from danger. They liked eruptions and explosions, and things that went as fast as the speed of light. They liked rocket ships and handguns and trying on cowboy hats; there was no way he could compete.

  He didn’t chase down bad guys in the dead of night, nor did he pilot a jumbo jet over the Dead Sea. He didn’t put out fires, rustle cattle, or hobnob with the rich and famous. He wasn’t as brave as the other dads, and he was nowhere near as cool. Kids didn’t want to be scientists; they wanted to be superheroes and superstars – they wanted to save the day, no matter what the cost.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Graham,” said one of the fathers, getting into his convertible. “Sounds like you’re working on some really exciting stuff.”

  “Yep,” said Graham, biting his cheeks as he smiled. “Same for you too.”

  Then he hurriedly placed his son in the back seat.

  “When I grow up I want to be like him.”

  “You do?” said Graham, as patient as he could manage. “That’s nice.”

  “He flies airplanes all over the world.”

  “I know,” said Graham. “Lucky him.”

  “I want to fly airplanes when I’m older.”

  “You do, do you? You don’t want to be a scientist like your dad?”

  “Nope. Science is boring. I wanna fly planes.”

  “Good for you.”

  Graham struggled to buckle the belt.

  “He’s been everywhere in the world.”

  “Has he?”

  “Yep. And he even met the president, once. You don’t know any famous people.”

  “No I don’t,” said Graham, silently cursing life as much as he was that damn belt.

  “And he races airplanes too. He is so cool.”