CONSCIOUSNESS un-EXPLAINED (profaned)

Meaningless Drivel

(Jan 15/06)
Saying that I only know (when) or (while) I’m unconscious when I’m conscious, is like saying I only know white when it’s black, or understand English when it’s spoken in Italian. Being unconscious is never unconscious, or being unconscious of being unconscious, but conscious of being conscious that I was unconscious, which tells us nothing whatsoever. Unconsciousness is an interpretation fixed by consciousness, a conscious interpretation of a supposed unconscious state, or non-conscious state that we suppose we had, or that we can interpret or extrapolate from consciousness.

In this manner, we never know for certain if we were, in fact, unconscious, but can only suppose from a conscious stance that we may have been, at one time or the other, in this state we refer to as unconscious. This non-conscious state we refer to as unconscious, is, in actuality, an interpretation, or a stance, that we refer to or interpret from a conscious state, nothing more. If this is so, which I suppose it is, then black is white and English is Italian if the two binary opposites depend on one another for they’re stance, or definition, or being things or stances or definitions or words or things at all.

Opposition fields meaning, and meaning is drawn from interpretation, which, in turn, is fielded from something posit against something else, a binary, or oppositional other, or other-ness. For all I know I could be unconscious yet never know it, or be conscious yet never really know whether what I take for consciousness is unconsciousness, or an interpretation of unconsciousness drawn from consciousness, or vice versa. In this manner, and bowing irreverently to the Socratic dialogue, I know nothing more than knowing that I know very little at all, and that, in and of itself, I can never be certain of. Sometime ago I wrote (under the influence of pedagogical one-up-man-ship) that philosophy was the ruin and bane of my life, I stand by that statement, and never once have I faltered or looked for a way out of Wittgenstein’s fly-bottle.