Truth as Anosognosia

by rsbakker

Our brain marshals cognitive resources, and somehow our image sparks in the blind informatic grind.

Consciousness minimally involves identity in the absence of distinctions. There’s the target of focus, and there’s a blurred and asymptotic either/or threshold, what James called the ‘margin’ of conscious attention. This is what necessitates asking all the old questions from the standpoint of what is lacking: the asymptotic nature of margins means that we suffer any number of ‘natural anosognosias.’ We literally have no inkling of our cognitive limits. Margins are the informatic equivalent of the Non-Euclidean edge of the universe: what lies outside of them does not exist even as an absence. They limn the illusory physics of the first person.

Life evolved on this planet blind to itself … and we are no earth-shattering, evolutionary leap. That feeling of limitlessness you have, the absence of intrinsic constraint, is simply an illusion, a kind of ‘cargo cult effect.’ To focus is to neglect…

To be is to be blind to Being.

All are machines and machines are all. This is the insight science has used to wring the neck of the real. ‘Truth’ is nothing more than a low-dimensional feed on the informatic angle forced on us by evolutionary contingency. Survival entails lateral sensitivity, the systematic ability to neurally recapitulate and manipulate environmental structure. Evolution has machined the brain to track and capture. Lateral sensitivity requires medial neglect, the structural inability to neurally recapitulate the neural recapitulation of environmental structure. Evolution has machined the brain to track systems other than itself. Thus medial neglect entails truth, the most breathtaking heuristic of all. Determinations of adequacy become post hoc, the residuum of sensorimotor loops. We writhe. We convolute. We spontaneously reassemble ourselves, latching onto environmental regularities, raising machines about the machine that we are, componentializing ourselves to componentialize our environments–extract what we need to fuck and eat. And the brain, because it can do this, cannot fathom that it does this, and so conjures us, and all the apparently indubitable chicanery of the intentional. It conjures Truth.

Truth is componency, as seen by the blind. Truth is efficacy whittled down to the ether, so low-dimensional, so informatically impoverished, as to escape environmental cognition altogether, to become as empty as the Abstract and Eternal. Truth is the only native means of making a neural component of what has served as a neural component in a greater environmental machine. Truth is how we metacognize what we cannot see.

Thus, its deflationary nature, why ‘the snow is white’ is true if and only if the snow is white. Truth simply affirms the efficacious componency of some efficacious neural component. Medial neglect occludes the concrete and situated mechanistic truth of Truth, leaving it bereft of where or when, rendering it something that ‘just applies’ anywhere at anytime–apparently. Medial neglect is the literal nowhere that steeps those ‘views from’ we take as the Truth of the true.

Thus the ancient compact between ignorance and certainty. Nowhere doubles as everywhere, and makes Truth immovable, among the most bloated of our ancestral delusions. Thus are fools always the first to crow. To say that truth is nowhere is to say we are blind to the truth of Truth, in precise accord with our mechanistic nature. And to philosophize Truth in the famished terms that Truth offers is to grope blindly in blindness of that blindness, and so, to be convinced we can see. To act out our ancient agnosognosia.

What we experience and conceive as Truth is nothing more than a coin viewed from the edge, a multidimensional, mechanical process–a machine–collapsed into something less than a line.