Progress · is · a · comfortable · disease

Dear Joseph,

I have been a horrible friend to you. I did not even have to read the body of the email to understand what was going on. Despite my lack of communication, and as you put it so beautifully, utter neglect of our friendship, you are always on my mind. You are part of my being in all the things that I do. The wisdom you have imparted to me through the projects in which we have worked together is always with me. But I have been a little like Alcibiades: I've had the wisdom inside me, but I have lacked the will to act upon it. I will not apologize for it. It would be like a cat apologizing for killing a bird to eat it. The beautiful thing about animals like the human being, however, is we can act upon ourselves to effect change within ourselves so that our "nature" or habits will be different. It is the care of the self Foucault ascribes to the Greeks and I think I understand it now enough, it's made a huge difference in my life.Brief outline of this letter. I will respond to your three points starting with the Israel/Palestine situation, then I introduce to you the changes that have been going on in my life and the suspected sources, finally, I will talk about the most important and life changing advice you have given me.

ISRAEL/PALESTINE

Nothing has affected my opinion about the subject more than the conversation we had on gmail about it. Not so much because of the actual facts that were discussed but because it planted in me the urgency to know more about the subject. You can look at the articles I have been reading on my facebook profile. My opinion about the deaths has not changed, I think the situation is and has been appalling. I have been jotting down a few notes from my research, here is one of the ones I think is most insightful:

"Israel has a right to defend itself."

The claim is not unreasonable. Every sovereign nation, so long as it considers its own right to existence to be true, would agree with the statement. The statement is the logical conclusion anyone would make that is dependent upon the constitution of a state for protection, political stability and justice. Even if we move away from international ethics and talk about the rights of the individual, the statement would still hold true. As opposed to most of the rhetoric coming from Mr. Bush's mouth we are not asked to take a leap of faith, we're not asked to link the statement to some vague liberalist end goal of freedom or democracy, in order to recognize the truth of the statement.

And here is a comment I wrote to head an article I posted on facebook:

I think nobody who supports the existence of any nation would deny the right of Israel to defend itself. But I think the question should be asked "What kind of defense practices are acceptable for the civilized world?" The question should be asked "What kind of change is necessary for the question of defense not to be such a brutally present one in the Middle East?" The right of the nation to act is not in question here, what is in question is the appropriateness of those actions and the impact on its neighbors, the world as a whole and the security of the nation itself. I think we owe it to all those who have suffered this conflict on all sides be they Israeli or Palestinian, and to our own sense of humanity to ask these questions.

One of the biggest influences my research has had on my views is it has made me realize that the whole one sided deaths argument is total bullshit. These are people dying period. There are no sides when children die, when you see mothers severely disfigured. It´s disgusting that a bunch of men can sit down and plan on the deaths of anybody. I mean what kind of world is this where we have to resort to meetings like that, planning on casualties? On every single one of the articles I've read from Al Jazeera they have the death toll on both sides. They use two part parallelism. Ostensibly, they are giving a statistical fact but really they are making an argument about the one sidedness of things. Militarily speaking, they are right: there is no way for Hamas to win any campaign against the Israeli army. The picture I put on my facebook is not correct. I still need to think more about this metaphor but crudely it's like when you plant Canadian grass in a place where the native species are clovers. I thought of it because I remember when I was a kid, my grandpa and I would go out to the backyard and pick clovers. I would be annoyed because those clovers would spring right back up within a week. The clovers are not invasive enough to choke the grass out of existence but they always grow, because it is their nature to grow. It was a never ending cycle. There is no way to exterminate or isolate a native species. You either blow the place up so that nothing can grow, destroying your Canadian grass or you can learn to incorporate the clovers into the beauty of your garden. Sort of like what I need to do in my own backyard.


CHANGE

I will start this part of the letter by narrating an anecdote to you I experienced recently while at a debate workshop. I have been telling this story at all, but maybe you can be the first one to understand why this is so important to me. I was judging a practice round by two so called advanced team. The topic was alternative energy. The aff was running a brownfields into brightfields urban development plan. The neg was running gentrification. Both sides were weary, or at least seemingly so to be spending their valued weekend time on a workshop with some dork judging them. I lost my flows so I can't be completely specific about where it happened, but somewhere in the second cross examination something magical happened. Something similar to what Foucault terms "parrhessia" in Fearless Speech. There was something powerful about what the kids were doing in their discussion, and now that I think about it the power in the speech was derived from the truth they were speaking. The truth about their lives. The fact that gentrification is more than a debate argument if you live in inner city Oakland. The fact that community development and environmental judgment sounds a little different if you wake up every night to an asthma attack because of the waste site you live next door to and can't go to the doctor as often as you'd like to because your insurance just doesn't cover it.

At some point at the end of the cross-x one of the kids in the neg congratulated his partner by saying "My homeboy here not only looks like Barack Obama, he speaks like him, too." That phrase has stuck with me, it made me cry during the Obama inauguration (I will expand on this soon) and it's making me cry right now because I realize how long I've been waiting to hear it. How long I've been waiting for a role model for my people that is not famous for playing a sport, or for MTV style hip hop or for some horrible crime. You have a man that pulled himself by his bootstraps against all odds because of the way he speaks. Because of the content of his character. It doesn't matter to what extent that is completely true, he is already a symbol and the change his words and his narrative have effected--at least in me and the children I've been working with--a change that is beyond anything he can do in office.

I don't know if you remember the French world cup in 98. I've never been too much of a soccer fan but I remember one game and will never forget it: Mexico v. Germany in octafinals. As you probably know, Germany has been a world cup champion several times, not surprisingly given the German taste of excellence. Mexico has always made it to the world cup, but like most Mexicans will testify, they have a knack for "coming close." This time was not the exception by result but it was an exception nonetheless. The entire first half Mexico was on the attack, Germany was barely able to make any attacks. The first half ended scoreless. The second half starts and in the first minute of the game, a Mexican player whose name I shamefully forget right now weasels his way through the German defense and gets the ball to "El Matador" Luis Hernandez, he does a half moon kick which of course results in a goal and magic takes place. I can't even begin to imagine what this must have meant for bars all over the US, for schools and homes and storefronts all over Mexico. I have never been a big fan of soccer but it doesn't take a whiz to understand the beauty of that goal.

The beauty of the awakened spirit in the crowd yelling "Si se puede." The very creed that Obama now claims to be American. I guess it could be American if we forget about the stupid Mexico-US border. If Americans can truly come together as a people. For now, though, it is a Mexican creed, it is a powerful creed. Mexico wound up losing the game but you could see in both teams the satisfaction and happiness of a good challenge, the team captains exchanged shirts. People from the land of Nietzsche, Wagner, Kant, Hegel, Marx, Beethoven and all the world famous soccer players whose names I don't know exchanged shirts with my people because in spite of, or perhaps because of economic hardship, we learned to shine.

What does this have to do with the kids in the debate round? Well, I think the two stories, along with Barack Obama's election are dramatic examples. I guess I need to extrapolate more on what I mean by dramatic examples. In the movie "Batman Begins," when Bruce Wayne explains to Alfred Pennyworth his plans to become Batman, he says "People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy and I can't do that as a man...as a symbol I can do that"( I am paraphrasing). Similar to Bruce Wayne's character, I think people cannot see the possibility of change unless it is put in their faces in a way that they can touch and see and smell. These examples do that, I think, and at least for me, they have been enough to help me awaken to my life. This leads me to the third and final section of this letter, the best advice you have ever given me.


WAKING UP

I bet you remember a conversation we had on the phone about six months ago. You were telling me of the routine you had set for yourself of getting up earlier than you had to in order to take care of yourself. I thought it was a good idea, and it seemed like the right course of action at the time I was talking to you but, like Alcibiades, I would get right back into the everyday all too quickly, without taking the time to inscribe the basic principle into my heart. But an insight is constant like a hummingbird and the idea kept knocking at my head but took a while to gain enough momentum to turn to action. It was a small action to begin with, but an action nonetheless: I started drinking water at work instead of coffee or snacks. Over time I started drinking more and more to the point it became noticeable to my coworkers because I go to the bathroom frequently. I started feeling more energized until one day I woke up to my first alarm, at 5:30 in the morning. I usually would just use it to get me out of deep slumber and make it easier to wake up an hour later. That day, I decided to take a bath instead of going back to bed. Since I had extra time, I decided to try walking to work and listen to music. I made it to work with time to sit down and read the news before I had to clock in.

My work has improved tremendously since I started this. I was doing fine before, but the standards in the corporate world are low for excellence. I started to actually look at the reports I do and search for problems. I won't bore you with the details but it's gotten to the point where I've gotten managers in trouble for not doing their job. I feel fulfilled because I know the work I do is useful and it makes a difference for the people I work with. I even applied my dramatic examples philosophy to a fitness challenge we have with the district, basically we are challenged to walk the most steps in a month's period. I challenged myself to excel in this to inspire my coworkers, who are by and large overweight, to care about the challenge. I make it a point to exceed the minimum challenge (10,000 steps) by at least 50% every day. This weekend I walked/ran 12 miles, which resulted in 60,000 steps. That put the Industrial Engineering team--just through my own merit-- in the top 3 contenders in the district. People are already talking about it. I have challenged the young people in the office to a mini-challenge where the stakes are getting the person who wins wasted at a bar of their choice. Little glimmers of change are popping out now, people are drinking water instead of soda and bringing water bottles in their lunchboxes. I never talk about it but I know they see the difference.

I have also started a neighborhood cleaning program. Well, it's basically me with a broom, in my fancy work clothes sweeping my entire block. Again, apply the dramatic examples philosophy. I have talked to some of my neighbors and told me not to thank me but to do their civic duty. It's happening but there are still problems, mainly that we get littered everyday by advertisements and unrequested newspaper. I need to find out who my district supervisor is and give him crap about it, it's unfair that restaurants and newspaper companies get to litter in my neighborhood.

To finish, I would like to go back to Barack Obama's election and inauguration. I have not read Dreams of my Father, but from what I gather, Obama's story is strikingly similar. Especially the absent fathers thing. I don't have the intellectual capacity to do this conclusion properly or to link it back to love which is a really important factor in this equation. Maybe you can check out my livejournal (pownieboy.livejournal.com) so you can get a better idea of my development as an intellectual and now as an activist. I am really glad you inspired me to write this letter. I love you man and I mean it in the deepest way possible. Thank you for seeing the little sparks of beauty I gave during college. Thank you for inspiring me to explore the light I have inside and thank you very much for making me part of WDA when it began. One girl that had a crush on me in high school wrote on my yearbook that I was meant for great things. I tell it to you now man, you are made for great things. Look at what you have already done. I ask you now to continue to be a mosquito in my life and keep me accountable to these things I have said here. I will keep them in my livejournal. Again, I love you very much man. Thank you a lot for everything.

Yours Truly,


Hugo Alberto Vargas

Filigata was one of the most amazing people I met in high school. We befriended each other during AP US History class, if my memory doesn't fail me. I read some of her poetry during a write around in English class. It reminded me a lot about Edgar Allan Poe. I can't remember the specifics, I wish I had the papers still with me... Her soul was a strong one, she was very socially capable and had one of the most diverse group of friends I remember from High School; from jocks to nerds to tree-huggers. I took a picture with her at the prom which I include here at the bottom. The piece she is referring to, if there is a reader out there and you are curious is under the heading "Starry Starry Night" in this journal.

"hey hugo
how are you? hope all is well! i like your "about me" peace. i guess life does pile up kinda like the snowy problems in our life. but its the craziest feeling when you come upon that one moment that seems to reveal all truth to your mind. (i think those moments happen a lot often when a little herb is involved..lol) ahhhh those were the days. lol jk

i was also browsing through your music interests and saw saul williams on there! props to you man! love that man. he was at amoeba records on haight street about a year ago i think (it was a free performance to his latest album). shit was nice!
i hope i didnt bore you too much..lol just being nosey on myspace and came across a great page of relatable words. im a poet also and couldnt help myself. Take care.

FiLi"

Fili is no longer with us. I want to dedicate Starry Starry night to her because she has infused the words in that piece with meaning they would not otherwise have. It's hers because she has inscribed her memory into my words. Thank you Fili.

Dear Tomoe,

I went outside for a smoke. By the way, I don't smoke as often anymore, I have just been overcome by emotion today. So, I went out for a smoke and saw the Japanese cherry blossom trees blooming. One of the most beautiful things my eyes have witnessed. They made me think of you.(I did not know they were Japanese cherry blossom trees until just now that I asked Cassiopea what the name of that plant was). I thought about you because the cherry blossom trees made me think about the fox and what he said to the little prince, The story of the wheat fields. The Fox’s confession that the wheat fields would never mean the same after being tamed, that’s the way the cherry blossoms made me feel and this is why I felt compelled to write to you.

I think I am beginning to understand what it means to love you. I know I said it many times and I meant it to the deepest of my heart when I said it but my mind did not understand it. I finally understood it when I felt the need to read the passage about the little prince and the fox and realized it’s now somewhere in Rome. I really hope you still have it. I've decided I will not read the little prince unless it is the copy I gave you. Also, I will only read it with you by my side.

So you see, in a very real sense, you hold a part of my life, a huge part of my life. As a gift, it symbolizes how important you were and are for me. How much you mean to me. How thankful I am that you have shown me the beauty of Japanese cherry blossom trees and all this by your mere existence. I can't think of a better way to say I love you. And I will not be able to say I love you in the same way to anyone in my life.

I finally looked at the card you left on December sixth, on the day you left. I looked at it and roughly knew what it said the day you left but I finally read it, the way I would read a Russian novel, two weeks ago. Vladimir was playing the bass, as usual, and I was sitting in front of the computer. I had your letter in one of the drawers on my computer table. I cried a little, I've been crying a lot lately, I see beauty in a lot of things and am overcome by emotion. But I am digressing. I read your card and have it in front of me right now. I think you are right, this is our story. Reading your letter right now makes me be even more certain of having given you The Little Prince. And by the way, I've decided The Little Prince is not really yours: I will just let you borrow it for as long as we are alive. You hold a part of me. And you will for the rest of my life, and not just the little prince. You have every moment we spent together. You have the tears I shed when I said good bye to you at the airport. And you have my first love.

I was talking to Tommy today about my life. I feel there's been a change in me and I am still figuring it out but I feel overcome by happiness. I think I have an idea of why its happening and will tell you when I figure it out but, again, I am digressing. You came up and I remembered how much I love you. We talked about how you and I met. I told him I always wanted you to know the guy you met was me in transition. I was transitioning into adulthood and wanted to focus on my thoughts. And those thoughts took me to the couch where you met me. We threw away a lot of furniture but our couch is still there. I sit on it every morning before I go to work, I think part of you is still there. Maybe it's all those hair bands you lost. Or maybe your dragon is somewhere inside. I don't know. But the fact is you are always present, but again, I am digressing. I was talking to Tommy about you and how glad I am he met you. And then we talked about destiny and he said one of the wisest things I've heard from anyone, he said destiny does not work through people being meant to meet each other. It works through people being open to experiencing. In the case of you and me, we were both open to experience love. And that was our destiny. I have never looked at the moon and stars in the same way again. I really apologize I am digressing so much, there are just so many things I want to tell you. Today I have been overcome by what I feel for you, but like you told me many times, my love is not a possessive love. My love is not a possessive love because it's grounded in the way you make me feel, it's grounded on the memory of the time we spent together.

I've been keeping myself busy these days. I go out a lot more than I did before, like you recommended. Yesterday I took a boat to Sausalito with the friend I told you I was going to have coffee with while you still were here. We had early dinner in a restaurant by the bay. The moon came out, I saw the moon and thought about the times you pointed it out to me, and how I would say there is nothing fascinating about a rock. Like the little prince, I was too young to know how to love you then. Now I understand the beauty of the moon. It's beautiful because of what it symbolizes. It's beautiful because of the times it had made people look up. It's beautiful because of the times it shined for everyone that has ever loved. And it's beautiful to me because of the times we sat under it in the couch in my backyard. And it's now even more beautiful because of the times it has made me think of you.

I also do a bit of running. I have been drinking lots of water. That's another thing that makes me think of you. I think about how I brought a glass of water to you almost every night you spent in my room. You see, you left so many things behind. I have the pinecone, the flowers I bought you and the seeds you left together on my desk. That, put together with the fact that you have one of my most important possessions, will ensure that I never forget you and I am glad because it's sad to forget someone you loved. Especially you, who I learned so much from. I have the beauty of the blossom trees to thank you for. Thank you very much Tomoe, for helping me learn how to love. I will see you, I am sure, we both are bound to our pinkie promise.

Love.


Hugo Alberto Vargas Jr

It’s not even about frantically putting thoughts on a paper Nor is it about understanding why I look at people differently, nor knowing why I feel alone. It is not, it is not, it is not. It is not the sound of sentences, nor is it a quest for truth. It is not the fact that giving birth to something beautiful can cost you dearly, cost you even a life of dying slowly. Dying slowly, dying slowly being throttled by the thought of the past, the ghost of loves that have come and gone with no other evidence for their existence than the gnawing pain inside. No other evidence because the pain remains after even her name has been lost into a fleeting memory. Her name… but forgetfulness is not by any means so kind as to allow you the kind of freedom that is given to those without a past. It is almost ridiculous. Her name does not completely leave in that fleeting memory, it comes back in other bodies and other faces and other pronunciations. Coming back to remind you of something, whatever it is, I don’t think I am old enough to know. But the year’s now over, on with the other one.

We must be careful when we prepare a face to meet other faces, we must pick the right gesture or else we will be condemned to be real behind a mask too big for us to understand—not to mention live with, as told by others we will be out of luck because we will find that we have lost ourselves in a history that is by no means ours, in a fluffy dream enthralled with every impossible ambiguity of which we may not think of because it lies beyond intellect. Who are we to judge what it is we are? Of course, at heart, you must know that there is something more than this, bigger, greater, more beautiful. But if we tell ourselves this, we must by all means understand that we can't; that "is" or "be" is more than "why" (or un-death).
If we are to love, we must not understand, we must feel; namely because feel and think are like oil and water. But once we have gotten rid of "think", what if—by a fluke of destiny— we realize we have forgotten to feel... Who has more genius, one who understands, or one who looks at the moon and feels small or looks at the ocean and feels free, and for that matter, who is the crazier? Treat life as if it were some unspeakable notebook full of impervious formulas and you will be blind to life's mysteries: the mystery of clouds and rain, the mystery of trees and leaves of grass, the mystery of falling in love... Can it be worth it? To change all this for an answer, for a simple yet majestic phrase that squeezes our universe into a ball? And how find that answer, how define with or limited spheres of reasoning: five senses for billions of stars! One brain for thousands of galaxies... one pen for a million thoughts (or two). And just as yet do we wear a self and find it becoming. We succumb to life’s sometimes ugly mysteries and find beauty in them, and again, who are we to judge?
It's not our job to disprove or prove but to live, to be, without the question, to smile at the meaninglessness of our world( though it may be a lie) we must find company in solitude and not be afraid of being alone, for to be alive means to make life worth living or else we are doomed to undying... Or doomed (invited?) to consider sleeping and dreaming which is also a most unbearable burden because dreams are ephemeral bubbles. And how to end it? How to find a phrase that will bring us back to a non-essential unreality? Come back to be a "people", a taxpayer, a student from being a human being; must we function in a world and how presume?
After a trip with real and true, can you expect one to remain shallow? Shallow... It's impossible to say, or all the more to understand with only 27 or so letters in the alphabet... we are born into existence and convince ourselves that we die only to find( without knowing) that by dying, we only being born again. And by this, the world of meaningless trivialities becomes essential and who are we to judge? by "feel", by "touch", must we by "see" or "hear", by all these verbs in infinitive (lacking adjectives—for adjectives were made to confuse) must we overcome the problems of language, of a people, as we become a little more than the jumping puppets of a dream and as we look down (but the rest will not realize) we may even— just a little— laugh and also cry for all those that have let go. And this dream, now, we must comprehend, is beyond ourselves, there is no plan, no order only joy. Thus, we have no right or reason to make judgment or to think, we think and then what? Chaos is suddenly a bad thing something beyond our grasp that is somehow not true simply because we disagree. We, by some arbitrary truth prove false those things that make us happy, then what good is reality if it is meant to rid us of our hope, we give up humanity for that impossible term “objective”.
By what means can we find ourselves if all we do is deny and deny all that is beautiful simply because our senses are imperfect, simply because we have an “Idea of perfection” that we must thrive for and please tell me why? Why we must thrive for something we don’t want, something not only beyond our means but detrimental to our cause. A minute, all we may need is a minute and we may reach eternity, but no one understands that, and that’s why mankind I hate you, because you have the answer in your face and you refuse to see it simply because you need a proof. You build a world so perfect that when someone cries it is hard to listen, that when someone dies we just forget. And mankind I hate you because I was born to this exact world and was never able to adapt, and I never found escape and I am too much a coward to die for I know that by dying we are only being born again and the World goes on because it’s necessary…
And who denies that? Can it really come down to true or false, to a morality, to some ambiguous question of character that we by some inexplicable reason ask ourselves but never answer but do such a good job going around that...? “Well it’s done,” we say “we found it,” the answer and it is then when we are all the more lost. And then by means of what must we also manage to stay awake and then to dream and by some means deny? And then try to hold on to whatever is just and sad and detrimental… And to be left with nothing, but shadows of a shadow of a dream and that we call home, we call it real as we pat each other in the back for being redundant in a stylish way, become credible by means of semantics, and you expect a story a poem or an essay by means of which you feel good about the world; but how should it begin? Should it start “once upon a time…” should I head it toward some unseeming unreality that nobody understands but we accept because it’s an idea and ideas must be understood. And then how end it? Must I tell that all went great, that our hero finally got home victorious? And will you truly be happy then? Will you feel you have reached the place we call humanity? It’s not my ideal way, it’s not my hate of words, it’s not that I don’t care, just that I can’t believe.

To My Beloved Reader,

I have had trouble getting my thoughts to amount to anything these days. It is embarassing to say that my relationship to my dear Philosophers has receded into the background. It is hard to concentrate. I feel as though parts of me that have been dormant, are awakened into a new existence. A moment, a brief touch, or two eyes that meet. It is hard to think about anything but the present. I am having trouble saying anything these days. It seems like language and the wind have conspired to leave me breathless. Words are suddenly no good and I find myself looking out for another way to speak.

It's the way of inspiration, completely undeserved.

Today I had a conversation with Joseph about certain gospel passages that were discussed in a Philosophy tutorial. The subject matter was interesting, i guess. I have not been a true lover of wisdom for quite some time. It is not so much that my interest has shrunk, as my conception of philosophy has shifted a bit. I do not have a desire to know, that is, the unquenchable thirst for knowledge-- the term itself gives triggers in me a sort of disgust-- is no longer there, and i do not think that it was ever there. It seems that "thirst for knowledge" as a term is symptomatic of a lacking conceptual vocabulary. I think behind any sincere "thirst for knowledge" there is a question of moral application. Short of that, the claim of a thirst for knowledge is indicative of outright immaturity.
As I said earlier, my relationship with philosophy has shifted. It seems to me philosophical method, as broad a term as that might be, constitutes a means. The philosopher, in my experience, is not so much driven by a thirst but by a relationship to a question. This relationship is misinterpreted or misconstrued when it is established as a thirst for knowledge. In the Republic, Plato establishes that philosophy, like poetry is a craft (techne). The craft is always a means. I need to get back to my thesis. Peace.

Strangely i have this urgency to say something. it's not derived from any kind of importance i give to something i have to say. As a matter of fact i am pretty sure anything i can say has already been said. Most of the insights i may have are pretty negligible, and i don't mean it ironically. We are dying--with death at the door with every breath we take, can there be anything that is really important? A rhetorical question. I mean, there is a lot of information that we don't know, there are a lot of things that we don't see and well, we are always here. That is, until we die, and then there is nothing. But that is not what i set out to write. I really wish there was a point in time where i could say that i have expressed myself. Let out this gnawing feeling in the middle of my stomach. The thing is, i am always afraid that today will be the day or afraid that the opportunity has been given me and i was either too busy or too lazy and now it's gone. You can never be sure. In terms of what happened to me... nothing much... i am pretty oblivious too my surrounding. Life is so full of momentum that regardless of what happens, anything, however intense, will not prevent me from sitting back and becoming an expectator. A stranger sitting in a corner with a cigarrette somewhere other than being. But that i am not afraid of. I don't really know what i am afraid of, fear is something so spontaneous... almost as spontaneous as the drive to write that so easily leaves and thoughts never find a source or end. Just an utterance among the rest in this endless purgatory.

So i was having this interesting discussion late yesterday involving the soul--which i understand as the subject--and the passing on or death. My argument, or moreso my speculation was that the self after death, if it could be at all experienced would not be experienced in the conventional sense or any sense that could be intelligible for a human consciousness. It seems to me that once the structure of neural patterns channeling electricity producing what appears to us as thoughts is absent a coherent sense of self. Anything that takes place as a constant story or series of images or emotions repeated by memory derived from the work of neurons would be gone. Beyond this speculation, i think there is an interesting conceptualization of the soul as the product of a body which ends as the body ends but is not the same thing as the body. The subject exists through the body but it is a different thing. It is experienced differently.