Foundations of Consciousness

I Googled, What does it mean when an object becomes unrecognizable? and landed upon an article on a website called LiveScience.com about a viral trend—a mysterious image, maybe or maybe not generated by artificial intelligence, consisting of items all vaguely familiar but somehow wrong. What resembles a gallon of milk turns out to be mere negative space, maybe; what looks to be a grater of cheese upon closer examination appears to be two strips of paper glued together with two smaller strips across like train tracks, covered with an indiscernible hieroglyphics. And so on. There’s a teddy bear that isn’t a teddy bear. That’s the best I can do, description-wise, which appears to be the point, I guess.

The second result? The definition of “unrecognizable” from The Free Dictionary—adj. not able to be recognized or identified, tiny unrecognizable fragments.

The third, an article from The Mirror, “Why the viral image of unrecognizable objects is so CREEPY, according to experts,” which posits that “the creepiness is the result of our brains trying to process the image,” although only by citing the aforementioned article from LiveScience.com. (This was all in 2019, although I was searching now, in 2020; I had no recollection of this meme.) 

Next the Merriam-Webster entry on “unrecognizable,” virtually identical to the first definition; then an article from FastCompany.com regarding an AI that makes heavily pixelated images “crystal clear.” After that, three flight manuals, one on “Rotary Wing Flight” (“…objects which are large and distinctly shaped objects may become unrecognizable if viewed from a great distance at night.”), two on the UH-72 Lakota Helicopter (“Therefore, large and distinctly shaped objects may become unrecognizable when viewed from a great distance at night. Range is also difficult to estimate at…”), which, although amusing somehow, were of no help to me. 

The final result on the first page—surely, I would give up after it—at last/at least spoke to my predicament: the Google Books entry for the textbook Foundations of Consciousness by Antii Revonsuo. Another quick search revealed him (for he was a man—I wasn’t sure) to be Antii Revonsuo, the Finnish neuroscientist currently at the University of Skövde, according to his Wikipedia entry. Next, I examined his faculty profile on the University’s own website: 

“During my PhD project I initiated my three major lines of research that I have continued ever since:

-Theory and philosophy of consciousness,

-Neural mechanisms of consciousness, and

-Altered states of consciousness”

Quickly I found his email address and put together a note:

Dr. Revonsuo,

You don’t know me, I’m an American, I need your help. My glasses are no longer my glasses. Please confirm you’ve received this (so I won’t have wasted my time going into greater detail in case this is an address you hardly check—then I will go into said detail.) I promise you: it will be worth your while.

Alex

It was true—at least, I thought it was. Which is what mattered, right? 

As I awaited the professor’s reply, I returned to his Wikipedia article, which, upon second glance, suggested it had possibly been written by Dr. Revonsuo himself—for one thing, it had been flagged by a moderator for further elaboration and citation over eight years earlier, seemingly neglected or entirely ignored since then. And certain turns of phrase just tugged at the back of my throat, I could envision the man—I didn’t know what he looked like then, but the facsimile within my mind of a taciturn, bearded, rotund man turned out to be pretty spot on—I could envision him sitting down at his desk writing the article, mouthing the platitudes to himself, possibly even reading aloud. “His work focuses on altered states of consciousness in general and dreaming in particular.” Emphasis mine. You see what I mean, yes? There was a certain casualness but also an eagerness in the diction (“…his advocacy for the dreaming brain as a model of consciousness”) that gave me pause. At the very least, an associate of his had to have written it, a colleague, perhaps an underling. 

It took two days to hear back from him, and during those two days my glasses still weren’t my glasses. That is to say, they were my glasses still, technically, but they weren’t the same glasses I had before. Which could be reasonably explained if I had purchased or somehow acquired another pair (of the exact same prescription, I should grant), but I had not. They had transformed somehow. I could see still just fine—I have extremely poor vision but the glasses correct my right eye to nearly 20/20, although my left lags way behind, the lens is so much thicker, it barely fits in the frame—but when I adjusted them with my index and ring fingers, pushing them closer to the bridge of my nose, I felt a foreign substance, both on my hands and face. The metal was colder. When I removed them, I could see the temples were thinner and the tips were curved around my ears more steeply. It had been a week of this and I practically stopped sleeping, which of course made the feeling in my gut much worse. Uncanny is the word for this, maybe. They weren’t even the right color.

I’d had these glasses for a year. I’d worn my previous prescription for the three before that, but my vision worsened. I never wore contacts for I had a condition within my eyes that precluded me from doing so, except for specially-fitted hard contacts, which caused immense irritation. So I stuck to spectacles. Generally, I felt wrong if I wasn’t wearing them, and not just in my sight. I didn’t wear them when I slept but did practically anytime else. I often forgot to take them off before I would get in the shower, which was annoying. Eventually I developed a system—a post-it on the medicine cabinet mirror, a designated dish on the tile counter next to the sink—to avoid this. 

Finally, Revonsuo replied. He wrote to me:

Alex:

Hi there from Sweden. I don’t usually get messages like this. You should know that I am a neuroscientist/biologist, not a psychoanalyst/psychiatrist/nuerologist, but I want to help you if I can. Please email me when you see this. If it takes me a while to reply to your reply, I apologize: it is examination time and I have much to do. But I will reply. Be well. 

Best,

Antii

Immediately, I felt a golden glow in my belly, a sort of release (not in that way). Immediately, I wrote back:

Dr. Revonsuo—or Antii—is it okay if I call you that?

First a word on how I found you, so you don’t think I’m a creep or anything—I searched online for “What does it mean when an object becomes unrecognizable” and after a few memes I was directed to your work. The problem is, I don’t have time to sift through your work to find the proper academic answer; I have not slept for nearly a week and I find it to be somewhat impenetrable, your work, I mean. I feel like my heart is going to stop. I simply do not have time to give your work the proper examination I’m sure it needs/warrants. 

I’ve led a good life, like a C+ life, which is above average—all things considered. that is good for this world. (Think about it!) But I feel like my life is coming to a natural end. I thought this before my glasses transformed and that just confirmed it.

I guess I should get into it—after returning from my friend’s house (my only friend), my glasses had become not-my-glasses. So your first thought would be, well, does this friend wear glasses? She does not. So I couldn’t have taken hers. And I drove myself home after seeing her, I made no stops. I never ever took my glasses off. I don’t mean literally ever; I mean that night. No one broke into my car and replaced my glasses with new ones or anything. I would have had to take them off anyway, if that was what happened. And why would someone do that, regardless? Plus, I keep nothing in my car. Some junkies broke into my car, this was maybe six months ago. They tore through everything, they stole my ID. Blood everywhere, on account of the shattered glass. How do I know they were junkies? Well, they stripped the center console inside my car all the way down to its metal frame, wires just hanging about. I’m worried I’ll get electrocuted now, but I haven’t been, not yet. What were they looking for if not for drugs? or money for drugs? What else does one hide within the center console of one’s car? So now my car is clean, totally clean. Well, it’s still somewhat dirty, I guess, but there’s not actually anything inside it other than inside the glove box, which to me means clean, in regards to cars. And they actually left all the stuff that was in the glove box, other than my ID and registration—they left my proof of insurance and a number of CD’s, which I guess aren’t really of any value to anybody anymore. I still have them because my car is of that two year stretch when cassette players had been removed but auxiliary ports were not yet standard. If I want to stream music, I have to hook my phone up to a Bluetooth transponder that fits in the cigarette lighter and casts the songs to my radio. This is an inconsistent process, and besides, the junkies took the transponder, although it is worth no more than the CDs are. (It probably looked nicer than it actually is.) Anyway, my car is totally empty and there is no way I could have swapped glasses in there. The only additional pair I own are prescription sunglasses, copper-colored Wayfarers, and they have not transformed. I find myself wearing them this week much more often, indoors, wherever, because they give me comfort. They also make it so that regular life becomes a bit more like sleeping, if that makes sense. The security of unseen eyes gives me greater liberty to zone out or totally nod off—not that I’m interacting with anyone in person, I just hold myself to certain standards, as I’m sure you must, as well. 

I have a little money now, more than usual. I have been purchasing the Magic: The Gathering card “Noble Hierarch” when it hits a low, usually around $15, in large quantities, hundreds at a time, and then I flip them at twice the price when demand picks up. I’ve made thousands. I have rent covered for two years. I’ve made a few more investments in cards—“The Tabernacle at Pendrell Vale,” for instance, I got at a little above three grand mint, hoping to sell at 10k—but for the most part I am sitting pretty, waiting for the next phase of my life to begin or whatever. I need my glasses to see but I have found myself afraid to wear them, to even look at them. (I can still see without them, although reading isn’t much fun and I’m not supposed to drive.) 

They are off-brand frames meant to resemble Ray-Bans. (The sunglasses are the real deal.) They never did a great job at not looking cheap—in fact, they look more expensive now, if anything. The metal is thicker. They have not simply warped, from my ass or whatever else—this is something closer to alchemy. I did not notice it happen while they were on my face, but it must have. I noticed when I went to the mirror and looked, which I hate to do. Then I felt it. It was unmistakable. 

“I guess my greatest fear is this will start happening more, with other objects. And will it stop there? Will it not extend to people? Does one develop this sort of blindness later in life (if that’s the right word, blindness)? You seem kind and wise and I hope you can take a moment to give me a bit of advice. Is there a medication for this? Do I have a tumor? I am perfectly healthy otherwise. 

Thanks so much,

A

I read over the email quickly and decided to delete it. Instead, I began writing:

I have led an excellent life, a B- of a life, which to me is excellent. I have enough money to sustain myself for a while without working. I get healthcare through the state. (Not like you do.) 

Again, I deleted it. 

I started writing once more:

I think it best if we speak over the phone. I have international calling and I’m guessing you do, too. (If not, I can seek alternative arrangements.) You can reach me at (310) ___ ____. 

Alex

Now I was satisfied and so I hit SEND. Then I found him on LinkedIn and confirmed my beliefs regarding his physical appearance. I would not dare message him there. I’d sit and wait.