Clinton St. Quarterly, Vol. 7 No. 4 | Winter 1985 (Seattle) /// Issue 14 of 24 /// Master# 62 of 73


VOL. 7, NO. 4 STAFF WINTER 1985 TABLE OF CONTENTS David Milholland Lenny Dee Editor on leave Jim Blashfield Associate Editors Peggy Lindquist Paul Loeb Michael Helm Design David Milholland Guest Designers Tim Braun Reed Darmon Stacey Fletcher Susan Gustavson Production Assistant Laura DiTrapani Cover Separations Sharon Niemczyk Ad Production Stacey Fletcher, Joyce Fletcher Laura Fletcher, Becky Chaney Rob Roy, Marcia Broyer Camerawork Laura DiTrapani Tim Braun Typesetting Archetype Harrison Typesetting, Inc. Lee Emmett, Marmilmar Ad Sales—Oregon Dru Duniway Sandy Wallsmith Ad Sales—Washington Judy Bevis Doug Milholland Development Suone Cotner, Dru Duniway Caby Anderson, Patti Trople Keith Scales, Marcia Caudill Proofreading Betty Smith Contributing Artists Tim Braun, Susan Cicotte Gregory Grenon, Susan Gustavson Jimmy Jet, Arnold Pander Henk Pander, Jacob Pander Isaac Shamsud-Din, Carl Smool Contributing Photographers Linda Novenski Photo Services Bill Bachhuber, Photo Art Printing Tualatin-Yamhill Press Thanks Linda Ballantine, Dan Baker John Bennett, Paul Diener Dennis Eichhorn, Bill Fletcher Linda Fox, Craig Karp, Gary Larson Tyra Lindquist, Theresa Marquez Melissa Marsland, Laurie McClain Enrico Martignoni, Kevin Mulligan Debra Turner, Ann Vrabel John Wanberg Traver-Sutton Gallery The Clinton 500 EDITORIAL ■ t /s easy to forget to count your blessings, what with the pressures of daily life, the economic insecurity and the doubts we all share about the future of humanity on the planet. It was thus a painful pleasure for me to meet and talk of the current situation in Bolivia with Lucila Mejia de Morales, head of the Federation of Peasant Women in that Andean country. Senora Mejia was here as a guest of the Council for Human Rights in Latin America to talk about the plight of her little-heard-from people. Bolivia is living under a State of National Emergency, produced by a reactions to the recently imposed austerity measures introduced by the government of President Victor Paz Estensorro. Dressed in the traditional garb of an Ayamara woman, with a long green skirt, a dark brown wrap-around woolen cape and a tall bowler hat, Sra. Mejia shared with me the current status of her people. “The whole country is in a desperate situation. Until recently most foods were kept at fair prices by the government. Now all those supports have been cut. More than 7,000 miners have been waging a hunger strike down in the mines since September 16, but the current government will not accept even a discussion with the working sector. Instead they put into effect a State of Siege, then a State of Emergency. You have to have a pass even to move around. And this was still in effect when I left Bolivia October 4th. “In Bolivia, all the working people, including campesinos (peasants) and government employees, are affiliated with the Central Obrero Boliviano (the Bolivian Worker’s League). And this group simply wants to open up a dialogue with the government. But they refuse to talk with us. Instead, we find our wages are frozen. A worker earns only $25-30 (U.S.) a month, and is lucky to find work at all. “The major problem we face is our external debt. It is causing hunger, misery and divorce. Even the largest factories are closed down, saying that they cannot buy raw materials. We the workers are paying, even though we’ve never had anything to do with a bank. We’ve fallen into debt without seeing any of the benefits. “The campesino lives on his luck alone. There is no technical assistance to help us diversify our crops. They have offered to help us create cooperatives, but always with ideas from outside our culture. And now the government wants to lend us money in dollars. But we won’t accept those loans. How could we ever repay such loans? In dollars? All we know is the peso. That’s how we would lose our land." The United States has long played the primary role in aiding (and exploiting) Bolivia. We are the primary market for most of her raw materials, including the cocaine which has itself produced dislocation in the country. “Another thing we’re being blamed for is cocaine. It’s true that coca leaf is sold here in the markets. Miners live on coca. Campesinos live on the coca leaf. Yet the government tells us we must abandon this custom. (ExDefense Minister) Luis Arce Gomez is a great trafficker in cocaine, but the government blames the coca producers instead. Ex-President Garcia Meza and his people had many cocaine factories. The money they have made has all gone out of the country in their pockets. “It’s all so strange because this is a rich country. Bolivia has great quantities of gold, silver and petroleum. But the money doesn’t reach the working people. Now everything is being cut off. We’re being made to pay for things we didn’t cause. What we want is peace, tranquility and bread, nothing more. We don’t want war nor confrontation. I’ve come to speak for the campesinos of my country, to tell you of our suffering.” Let us not forget those people as we go about our daily lives and as we celebrate the holidays. There is no simple solution that will bring about the needed change in Bolivia and elsewhere, but we should remember that it is our country, our multi-national corporations and our consumer culture that dictates what happens to Lucila Mejia and millions like her. It is our We Need Your Support! Last year at this time we announced a campaign to take the Quarterly from a labor of love to a self-sustaining magazine. To make this leap, we created the Clinton 500. Over 250 people have responded, but many others, while quite fond of the paper, found $100 a bit much for their budget. To incorporate these supporters in our Clinton family, we have begun a grassroots subscription drive. By building a subscriber base to go with the strong support we’re getting from the creative and business community, our future will be assured. If you’ve admired the growth and accomplishments of the CSQ over its history, the time to show that affection is now! Subscriptions are $12 for two years. 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Daniel D e n n e tt....................... 4 Confessions of a Feminist Technologist Mimi Maduro............................ 8 Trade Wars vs. Techno-Education Fred Branfman interviews Jean-Jacques Servan-Schreiber 13 At The Water Wheel Jess Piper . . ............................. 18 Notes Toward Understanding the Death of Yoshiyuki Takada James Winchell.........................26 The Body Surfer John Sinclair........................... 20 Waging Peace Susan Cicotte........................... 28 Soviet Peace Groups Boeing Can It Be Converted? Melissa Laird with Dan McMillan......................... 36 Political-Economics for the Next Century Gar Alperovitz........................... 32 Ad Index.............................................35 Mister E. Pander Bros...............................25 The Clinton St. Quarterly is published in both Oregon and Washington editions by CSO—A Project of Out of the Ashes Press. Washington Address: 1520 Western Avenue, Seattle, WA 98101, (206),682 2404; Oregon address: P.O. Box 3588, Portland, OR 97208, (503) 222 6039. Unless otherwise noted, all contents copyright ®1985, Clinton St. Quarterly. political activity, or lack thereof, which allows this to continue. With this issue we celebrate the completion of seven years of existence. We thank you all for your support, past and future. May the holidays and the New Year be cheery and bright. Let’s keep each other warm through the darkest night. Seasons greetings. DM Clinton St. Quarterly

WHERE AM I? BY DANIEL ILLUSTRATIONS BY TIM BRAUN Now that I’ve won my suit under the Freedom of Information Act, I am at liberty to reveal for the first time a curious episode in my life that may be of interest not only to those engaged in research in the philosophy of mind, artificial intelligence and neuroscience but also to the general public. Several years ago Iwas approached by Pentagon officials who asked me to volunteer for a highly dangerous and secret mission. In collaboration with NASA and Howard Hughes, the Department of Defense was spending billions to develop a Supersonic Tunneling Underground Device, or STUD. It was supposed to tunnel through the earth’s core at great speed and deliver a specially designed atomic warhead “right up the Red’s missile silos,” as one of the Pentagon brass put it. The problem was that in an early test they had succeeded in lodging a warhead about a mile deep under Tulsa, Oklahoma, and they wanted me to retrieve it for them. “Why me?” I asked. Well, the mission involved some pioneering applications of current brain research, and they had heard of my interest in brains and of course my Faustian curiosity and great courage and so forth . . . Well, how could I refuse? The difficulty that brought the Pentagon to my door was that the device I’d been asked to recover was fiercely radioactive, in a new way. According to monitoring instruments. something about the nature of the 4 Clinton St. Quarterly

device and its complex interactions with pockets of material deep in the earth had produced radiation that could cause severe abnormalities in certain tissues of the brain. No way had been found to shield the brain from these deadly rays, which were apparently harmless to other tissues and organs of the body. So it had been decided that the person sent to recover the device should leave his brain behind. It would be kept in a safe place where it could execute its normal control functions by elaborate radio links. Would I submit to a surgical procedure that would completely remove my brain, which would then be placed in a life-sup- port system at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston? Each input and output pathway, as it was severed, would be restored by a pair of microminiaturized radio transceivers, one attached precisely to the brain, the other to the nerve stumps in the empty cranium. No information would be lost, all the connectivity would be preserved. At first I was a bit reluctant. Would it really work? The Houston brain surgeons encouraged me. “Think of it,” they said, “as a mere stretching of the nerves. If your brain were just moved over an inch in your skull, that would not alter or impair your mind. We’re simply going to make the nerves indefinitely elastic by splicing radio links into them.” I was shown around the life-support lab in Houston and saw the sparkling new vat in which my brain would be placed, were I to agree. I met the large and brilliant support team of neurologists, hematologists, biophysicists, and electrical engineers, and after several days of discussions and demonstrations, I agreed to give it a try. I was subjected to an enormous array of blood tests, brain scans, experiments, interviews, and the like. They took down my autobiography at great length, recorded tedious lists of my beliefs, hopes, fears, and tastes. They even listed my favorite stereo recordings and gave me a crash session of psychoanalysis. The day for the surgery arrived at last and of course I was anesthetized and remember nothing of the operation itself. When I came out of anesthesia, I opened my eyes, looked around, and asked the inevitable, the traditional, the lamentably hackneyed post-operative question: “Where am I?” The nurse smiled down at me. “You’re in Houston,” she said, and I reflected that this still had a good chance of being the truth one way or another. She handed me a mirror. Sure enough, there were the tiny antennae poking up through their titanium ports cemented into my skull. “I gather the operation was a success,” I said, “I want to go see my brain.” They led me (I was a bit dizzy and unsteady) down a long corridor and into the life-support lab. A cheer went up from the assembled support team, and I responded with what I hoped was a jaunty salute. Still feeling lightheaded, I was helped over to the life-support vat. I peered through the glass. There, floating in what looked like ginger-ale, was undeniably a human brain, though it was almost covered with printed circuit chips, plastic tubules, electrodes, and other paraphernalia. “Is that mine?” I asked. “Hit the output transmitter switch there on the side of the vat and see for yourself,” the project director replied. I moved the switch to OFF, and immediately slumped, groggy and nauseated, into the arms of the technicians, one of whom kindly restored the switch to its ON position. While I recovered my equilibrium and composure, I thought to myself / “Well, here I am, sitting on a folding chair, / staring through a piece of plate glass at my own brain... . But wait,” I said to myself, “shouldn’t I have thought, ‘Here I am, suspended in a bubbling fluid, being stared at by my own eyes’?” I tried to think this latter thought. Itried to project it into the tank, offering it hopefully to my -------------------------------------- *--------------------- brain, but I failed to carry off the exercise with any conviction. I tried again. “Here am /, Daniel Dennett, suspended in a bubbling fluid, being stared at by my own eyes.” No, it just didn’t work. Most puzzling and confusing. Being a philosopher of firm physicalist conviction, I believed unswervingly that the tokening of my thoughts was occurring somewhere in my brain: yet, when I thought “Here I am,” where the thought occurred to me was here, outside the vat, where I, Dennett, was standing staring at my brain. I tried and tried to think myself into the vat, but to no avail. I tried to build up to the task by doing mental exercises. I thought to myself, “The sun is shining over there," five times in rapid succession, each time mentally ostending a different place: in order, the sun-lit corner of the lab, the visible front lawn of the hospital, Houston, Mars, and Jupiter. I found I had little difficulty in getting my “there’s” to hop all over the celestial map with their proper references. I could loft a “there” in an instant through the farthest reaches of space, and then aim the next “there” with pinpoint accuracy at the upper left quadrant of a freckle on my arm. Why was I having such trouble with “here”? “Here in Houston” worked well enough, and so did “here in the lab,” and even “here in this part of the lab,” but “here in the vat” always seemed merely an unmeant mental mouthing. I tried closing my eyes while thinking it. This seemed to help, but still I couldn’t manage to pull it off, except perhaps for a fleeting instant. I couldn’t be sure. The discovery that I couldn’t be sure was also unsettling. How did I know where I meant by “here” when I thought “here”? Could I think I meant one place when in fact I meant another? I didn’t see how that could be admitted without untying the few bonds of intimacy between a person and his own mental life that had survived the onslaught of the brain scientists and philosophers, the physicalists and behaviorists. Perhaps I was incorrigible about where I meant when I said “ here.” But in my present circumstances it seemed that either I was doomed by sheer force of mental habit to thinking systematically false indexical thoughts, r where a person is (and hence where his thoughts are tokened for purposes of semantic analysis) is not necessarily where his brain, the physical seat of his soul, resides. Nagged by confusion, I attempted to orient myself by falling back on a favorite Clinton St. Quarterly 5 philosopher’s ploy. I began naming things. "VI orick,” I said aloud to my brain, “you are my brain. The rest of my body, seated in this chair, I dub ‘Hamlet.’ “ So here we all are: Yorick’s my brain, Hamlet’s my body, and I am Dennett. Now, where am I? And when I think “where am I?” where’s that thought tokened? Is it Suppose I were now to fly to California, rob a bank, and be apprehended. In which state would I be tried: In California, where the robbery took place, or in Texas, where the brains of the outfit were located? tokened in my brain, lounging aboyt in the vat, or right here between my ears where it seems to be tokened? Or nowhere? Its temporal coordinates give me no trouble; must it not have spatial coordinates as well? I began making a list of the alternatives. (1) Where Hamlet goes, there goes Dennett. This principle was easily refuted by appeal to the familiar brain transplant thought-experiments so enjoyed by philosophers. If Tom and Dick switch brains, Tom is the fellow with Dick’s former body—just ask him; he’ll claim to be Tom, and tell you the most intimate details of Tom’s autobiography. It was clear enough, then, that my current body and I could part company, but not likely that I could be separated from my brain. The rule of thumb that emerged so plainly from the thought experiments was that in a brain-transplant operation, one wanted to be the donor, not the recipient. Better to call such an operation a body-transplant, in fact. So perhaps the truth was, (2) Where Yorick goes, there goes Den- nnett. This was not at all appealing, however. How could I be in the vat and not about to go anywhere, when I was so obviously outside the vat looking in and beginning to make guilty plans to return to my room for a substantial lunch? This begged the question I realized, but it still seemed to be getting at something important. Casting about for some support for my intuition, I hit upon a legalistic sort of argument that might have appealed to Locke. Suppose, I argued to myself, I were now to fly to California, rob a bank, and be apprehended. In which state would I be tried: In California, where the robbery took place, or in Texas, where the brains of the outfit were located? Would I be a California felon with an out-of-state brain, or a Texas felon remotely controlling an accomplice of sorts in California? It seemed possible that I might beat such a rap just on the undecidability of that jurisdictional question, though perhaps it would be deemed an inter-state, and hence Federal, offense. In any event, suppose I were convicted. Was it likely that California would be satisfied to throw Hamlet into the brig, knowing that Yorick was living the good life and luxuriously taking the waters in Texas? Would Texas incarcerate Yorick, leaving Hamlet free to take the next boat to Rio? This alternative appealed to me. Barring capital punishment or other cruel and unusual punishment, the state would be obliged to maintain the life-support system for Yorick though they might move him from Houston to Leavenworth, and aside from the unpleasantness of the opprobrium, I, for one, would not mind at all and would consider myself a free man under those circumstances. If the state has an interest in forcibly relocating persons in institutions, it would fail to relocate me in any institution by locating Yorick there. If this were true, it suggested a third alternative. (3) Dennett is wherever he think he is. Generalized, the claim was as follows: At any given time a person has a point of view, and the location of the point of view (which is determined internally by the content of the point of view) is also the location of the person. Such a proposition is not without its perplexities, but to me it seemed a step in the right direction. The only trouble was that it seemed to place one in a heads-l- win/tails-you-lose situation of unlikely infallibility as regards location. Hadn’t I myself often been wrong about where I was, and at least as often uncertain? Couldn’t one get lost? Of course, but getting lost geographically is not the only way one might get lost. If one were lost in the woods one could attempt to reassure oneself with the consolation that at least one knew where one was: one was right here in the familiar surroundings of one’s own body. Perhaps in this case one would not have drawn one’s attention to much to be thankful for. Still, there were worse plights imaginable, and I wasn’t sure I wasn’t in such a plight right now. Point of view clearly had something to do with personal location, but it was itself an unclear notion. It was obvious that the content of one’s point of view was not the same as or determined by the content of one’s beliefs or thoughts. For example, what should we say about the point of view of the Cinerama viewer who shrieks and twists in his seat as the roller-coaster footage overcomes his psychic distancing? Has he forgotten that he is safely seated in the theater? Here I was inclined to say that the person is experiencing an

illusory shift in point of view. In other cases, my inclination to call such shifts illusory was less strong. The workers in laboratories and plants who handle dangerous materials by operating feedback- controlled mechanical arms and hands undergo a shift in point of view that is crisper and more pronounced than anything Cinerama can provoke. They can feel the heft and slipperiness of the containers they manipulate with their metal fingers. They know perfectly well where they are and are not fooled into false beliefs by the experience, yet it is as if they were inside the isolation chamber they are peering into. With mental effort, they can manage to shift their point of view back and forth, rather like making a transparent Neckar cube or an Escher drawing change orientation before one’s eyes. It does seem extravagant to suppose that in performing this bit of mental gymnastics, they are transporting themselves back and forth. Still their example gave me hope. If I was in fact in the vat in spite of my intuitions, I might be able to train myself to adopt that point of view even as a matter of habit. I should dwell on images of myself comfortably floating in my vat, beaming volitions to that familiar body out there. I reflected that the ease or difficulty of this task was presumably independent of the truth about the location of one’s brain. Had I been practicing before the operation, I might now be finding it second nature. You might now yourself try such a tromp I’oeil. Imagine you have written an inflammatory letter which has been published in the Times, the result of which is that the Government has chosen to impound your brain for a probationary period of three years in its Dangerous Brain Clinic in Bethesda, Maryland. Your body of course is allowed freedom to earn a salary and thus to continue its function of laying up income to be taxed. At this moment, however, your body is seated in an auditorium listening to a peculiar account by Daniel Dennett of his own similar experience. Try it. Think yourself to Bethesda, and then hark back longingly to your body, far away, and yet seeming so near. It is only with long-distance restraint (yours? the Government’s?) that you can control your impulse to get those hands clapping in polite applause before navigating the old body to the rest room and a well-deserved glass of evening sherry in the lounge. The task of imaginat ion is certainly difficult, but if you achieve your goal the results might be consoling. Anyway, there I was in Houston, lost in thought as one might say, but not for long. My speculations were soon interrupted by the Houston doctors, who wished to test out my new prosthetic nervous system before sending me off on my hazardous mission. As I mentioned before, I was a bit dizzy at first, and not surprisingly, although I soon habituated myself to my new circumstances (which were, after all, well nigh indistinguishable from my old circumstances). My accommodation was not perfect, however, and to this day I continue to be plagued by minor coordination difficulties. The speed of light is fast, but finite, and as my brain and body move farther and farther apart, the delicate interaction of my feedback systems is thrown into disarray by the time lags. Just as one is rendered close to speechless by a delayed or echoic hearing of one’s speaking voice so, for instance, I am virtually unable to track a moving object with my eyes whenever my brain and my body are more than a few miles apart. In most matters my impairment is scarcely detectable, though I can no longer hit a slow curve ball with the authority of yore. There are some compensations of course. Though liquor tastes as good as ever, and warms my gullet while corroding my liver, I can drink it in any quantity I please, without becoming the slightest bit inebriated, a curiosity some of my close friends may have noticed (though I occasionally have feigned inebriation, so as not to draw attention to my unusual circumstances). For similar reasons, I take aspirin orally for a sprained wrist, but if the pain persists I ask Houston to administer codeine to me in vitro. In times of illness the phone bill can be staggering. But to return to my adventure. At length, both the doctors and I were satisfied that I was ready to undertake my subterranean mission. And so I left my brain in Houston and headed by helicopter for Tulsa. Well, in any case, that’s the way it seemed to me. That’s how I would put it, just off the top of my head as it were. On the trip I reflected further about my earlier anxieties and decided that my first post-operative speculations had been tinged with panic. The matter was not nearly as strange or metaphysical as I had been supposing. Where was I? In two places, clearly: both inside the vat and outside it. Just as one can stand with one foot in Connecticut and the other in Rhode Island, I was in two places at once. I had become one of those scattered individuals we used to hear so much about. The more I considered this answer, the more obviously true it appeared. But, strange to say, the more true it appeared, the less important the question to which it could be the true answer seemed. A sad, but not unprecedented, fate for a philosophical question to suffer. This answer did not completely satisfy me, of course. There lingered some question to which I should have liked an answer, which was neither “Where are all my various and sundry parts?” nor “What is my current point of view?” Or at least there seemed to be such a question. For it did seem undeniable that in some sense I and not merely most of me was descending into the earth under Tulsa in search of an atomic warhead. When I found the warhead, I was certainly glad I had left my brain behind, for the pointer on the specially built Geiger counter I had brought with me was off the dial. I called Houston on my ordinary radio and told the operation control center of my position and my progress. In return, they gave me instructions for dismantling the vehicle, based upon my onsite observations. I had set to work with my cutting-torch when all of a sudden a terrible thing happened. I went stone deaf. At first I thought it was only my radio earphones that had broken, but when I tapped on my helmet, I heard nothing. Apparently the auditory transceivers had gone on the fritz. I could no longer hear Houston or my own voice, but I could When I looked into the mirror, I was a bit startled to see an unfamiliar face. Bearded and a bit heavier, bearing no doubt a family resemblance to my former face, and with the same look of spritely intelligence and resolute character, but definitely a new face. speak, so I started telling them what had happened. In mid-sentence, I knew something else had gone wrong. My vocal apparatus had become paralyzed. Then my right hand went limp—another transceiver had gone. I was truly in deep trouble. But worse was to follow. After a few more minutes, I went blind. I cursed my luck, and then I cursed the scientists who had led me into this grave peril. There I was, deaf, dumb, and blind, in a radioactive hole more than a mile under Tulsa. Then the last of my cerebral radio links broke, and suddenly I was faced with a new and even more shocking problem: whereas an instant before I had been buried alive in Oklahoma, now Iwas disembodied in Houston. My recognition of my new status was not immediate. It took me several very anxious minutes before it dawned on me that my poor body lay several hundred miles away, with heart pulsing and lungs respirating, but otherwise as dead as the body of any heart transplant donor, its skull packed with useless, broken electronic gear. The shift in perspective I had earlier found well nigh impossible now seemed quite natural. Though I could think myself back into my body in the tunnel under Tulsa, it took some effort to sustain the illusion. For surely it was an illusion to suppose I was still in Oklahoma: I had lost all contact with that body. It occurred to me then, with one of those rushes of revelation of which we should be suspicious, that I had stumbled upon an impressive demonstration of the immateriality of the soul based upon physicalist principles and premises. For as the last radio signal between Tulsa and Houston died away, had I not changed location from Tulsa to Houston at the speed of light? And had I not accomplished this without any increase in mass? What moved from A to B at such speed was surely myself, or at any rate my soul or mind—the massless center of my being and home of my consciousness. My point of view had lagged somewhat behind, but I had already noted the indirect bearing of point of view on personal location. I could not see how a physicalist philosopher could quarrel with this except by taking the dire and counter-intuitive route of banishing all talk of persons. Yet the notion of personhood was so well entrenched in everyone’s world view, or so it seemed to me, that any denial would be as curiously unconvincing, as systematically disingenuous, as the Cartesian negation, non sum. The joy of philosophic discovery thus tided me over some very bad minutes or perhaps hours as the helplessness and hopelessness of my situation became more apparent to me. Waves of panic and even nausea swept over me, made all the more horrible by the absence of their normal body-dependent phenomenology. No adrenalin rush of tingles in the arm s, no pounding heart, no premonitory salivation. I did feel a dread sinking feeling in my bowels at one point, and this tricked me momentarily into the false hope that I was undergoing a reversal of the process that landed me in this fix—a gradual undisembodiment. But the isolation and uniqueness of that twinge soon convinced me that it was simply the first of a plague of phantom body hallucinations that I, like any other amputee, would be all too likely to suffer. My mood than was chaotic. On the one hand, I was fired up with elation at my philosophic discovery and was wracking my brain (one of the few familiar things I could still do), trying to figure out how to communicate my discovery to the journals; while on the other, I was bitter, lonely, and filled with dread and uncertainty. Fortunately, this did not last long, for my technical support team sedated me into a dreamless sleep from which I awoke, hearing with magnificent fidelity the familiar opening strains of my favorite Brahms piano trio. So that was why they had wanted a list of my favorite recordings! It did not take me long to realize that I was hearing the music without ears. The output from the stereo stylus was being fed through some fancy rectification circuitry directly into my auditory nerve. I was mainlining Brahms, an unforgettable experience for any stereo buff. At the end of the record it did not surprise me to hear the reassuring voice of the project director speaking into a microphone that was now my prosthetic ear. He confirmed my analysis of what had gone wrong and assured me that steps were being taken to reembody me. He did not elaborate, and after a few more recordings, I found myself drifting off to sleep. My sleep lasted, I later learned, for the better part of a year, and when I awoke, it was to find myself fully restored to my senses. When I looked into the mirror, though, I was a bit startled to see an unfamiliar face. Bearded and a bit heavier, bearing no doubt a family resemblance to my former face, and with the same look of spritely intelligence and resolute character, but definitely a new face. Further self-explorations of an intimate nature left me no doubt that this was a new body and the project director confirmed my conclusions. He did not volunteer any information on the past history of my new body and I decided (wisely, I think in retrospect) not to pry. As many philosophers unfamiliar with my ordeal have more recently speculated, the Clinton St. Quarterly

acquisition of a new body leaves one's person intact. And after a period of adjustment to a new voice, new muscular strengths and weaknesses, and so forth, one’s personality is by and large also preserved. More dramatic changes in personality have been routinely observed in people who have undergone extensive plastic surgery, to say nothing of sex change operations, and I think no one contests the survival of the person in such cases. In any event I soon accommodated to my new body, to the point of being unable to recover any of its novelties to my consciousness or even memory. The view in the mirror soon became utterly familiar. That view, by the way, still revealed antennae, and so I was not surprised to learn that my brain had not been moved from its haven in the lifesupport lab. I decided that good old Yorick deserved a visit. I and my new body, whom we might as well call Fortinbras, strode into the familiar lab to another round of applause from the technicians, who were of course congratulating themselves, not me. Once more I stood before the vat and contemplated poor Yorick, and on a whim I once again cavalierly flicked off the output transmitter switch. Imagine my surprise when nothing unusual happened. No fainting spell, no nausea, no noticeable change. A technician hurried to restore the switch to ON, but still I felt nothing. I demanded an explanation, which the project director hastened to provide. It seems that before they had even operated on the first occasion, they had constructed a computer duplicate of my brain, reproducing both the complete r information processing structure and the computational speed of my brain in a giant computer program. After the operation, but before they had dared to send me off on my mission to Oklahoma, they had run this computer system and Yorick side by side. The incoming signals from Hamlet were sent simultaneously to Yorick’s transceivers and to the computer’s array of inputs. And the outputs from Yorick were not only beamed back to Hamlet, my body; they were recorded and checked against the simultaneous output of the computer program, which was called “Hubert” for reasons obscure to me. Over days and even weeks, the outputs were identical and synchronous, which of course did not prove that they had succeeded in copying the brain’s functional structure, but the empirical support was greatly encouraging. Hubert’s input, and hence activity, had been kept parallel with Yorick’s during my disembodied days. And now, to demonstrate this, they had actually thrown the master switch that put Hubert for the first time in on-line control of my body— not Hamlet, of course, but Fortinbras. (Hamlet, I learned, had never been recovered from its underground tomb and could be assumed by this time to have largely returned to the dust. At the head of my grave still lay the magnificent bulk of the abandoned device, with the word STUD emblazoned on its side in large letters—a circumstance which may provide archeologists of the next century with a curious insight into the burial rites of their ancestors.) The laboratory technicians now showed me the master switch, which had two positions, labeled B, for Brain (they didn’t know my brain’s name was Yorick) and H, for Hubert. The switch did indeed point to H, and they explained to me that if I wished, I could switch it back to B. With my heart in my mouth (and my brain in its vat), I did this. Nothing happened. A click, that was all. To test their claim, and with, the master switch now set at B, I hit Yorick’s output transmitter switch on the vat and sure enough, I began to faint. Once the output switch was turned back on and I had recovered my wits, so to speak, I continued to play with the master switch, flipping it back and forth. I found that with the exception of the transitional click, I could detect no trace of a difference. I could switch in mid-utterance, and the sentence I had begun speaking under the control of Yorick was finished without a pause or hitch of any kind under the control of Hubert. I had a spare brain, a prosthetic device which might some day stand me in very good stead, were some mishap to befall Yorick. Or alternatively, I could keep Yorick as a spare and use Hubert. It didn’t seem to make any difference which I chose, for the wear and tear and fatigue on my body did not have any debilitating effect on either brain, whether or not it was actually causing the motions of my body, or merely spilling its output into thin air. The one truly unsettling aspect of this new development was the prospect, which was not long in dawning on me, of someone detaching the spare—Hubert or Yorick, as the case might be—from Fortinbras and hitching it to yet another body—some Johnny-come-lately Rosen- crantz or Guildenstern. Then (if not before) there would be two people, that much was clear. One would be me, and the other would be a sort of super-twin brother. If there were two bodies, one under the control of Hubert and the other being controlled by Yorick, then which would the world recognize as the true Dennett? And whatever the rest of the world decided, which one would be me? Would I be the Yorick-brained one, in virtue of Yorick’s causal priority and former intimate relationship with the original Dennett body, Hamlet? That seemed a bit legalistic, a bit too redolent of the arbitrariness of consanguinity and legal possession, to be convincing at the metaphysical level. For, suppose that before the arrival of the second body on the scene, I had been keeping Yorick as the spare for years, and letting Hubert’s output drive my body—that is, Fortinbras— all that time. The Hubert-Fortinbras couple would seem then by squatter’s rights (to combat one legal intuition with another) to be the true Dennett and the lawful inheritor of everything that was Dennett’s. This was an interesting question, certainly, but not nearly so pressing as another question that bothered me. My strongest intuition was that in such an eventuality / would survive so long as either brain-body couple remained intact, but I had mixed emotions about whether I should want both to survive. I discussed my worries with the technicians and the project director. The prospect of two Dennetts was abhorrent to me, I explained, largely for social reasons. I didn’t want to be my own rival for the affections of my wife, nor did I like the prospect of the two Dennetts sharing my modest professor’s salary. Still more vertiginous and distasteful, though, was the idea of knowing that much about another person, while he had the very same goods on me. How could we ever face each other? My colleagues in the lab argued that I was ignoring the bright side of the matter. Weren’t there many things I wanted to do but, being only one person, had been unable to do? Now one Dennett could stay at home and be the professor and family man, while the other could strike out on a life of travel and adventure—missing the family of course, but happy in the knowledge that the other Dennett was keeping the home fires burning. I could be faithful and adulterous at the same time. I could even cuckold myself—to say nothing of other more lurid possibilities my colleagues were all too ready to force upon my overtaxed imagination. But my ordeal in Oklahoma (or was it Houston?) had made me less adventurous, and I shrank from this opportunity that was being offered (though of course I was never quite sure it was being offered to me in the first place). There was another prospect even more disagreeable—that the spare, Hubert or Yorick as the case might be, would be detached from any input from Fortinbras and just left detached. Then, as in the other case, there would be two Dennetts, or at least two claimants to my name and possessions, one embodied in Fortinbras, and the other sadly, miserably disembodied. Both selfishness and altruism bade me take steps to prevent this from happening. So I asked that measures be taken to ensure that no one could ever tamper with the transceiver connections or the master switch without my (our? no, my) knowledge and consent. Since I had no desire to spend my life guarding the equipment in Houston, it was mutually decided that all the electronic connections in the lab would be carefully locked: both those that con- rolled the life-support system for Yorick and those that controlled the power supply for Hubert would be guarded with failsafe devices, and I would take the only master switch, outfitted for radio remote control, with me wherever I went. I carry it strapped around my waist and—wait a moment—here it is. Every few months I reconnoiter the situation by switching channels. I do this only in the presence of friends of course, for if the other channel were, heaven forbid, either dead or otherwise occupied, there would have to be somebody who had my interests at heart to switch it back, to bring me back from the void. For while I could feel, see, hear and otherwise sense whatever befell my body, subsequent to such a switch, I’d be unable to control it. By the way, the two positions on the switch are intentionally unmarked, so I never have the faintest idea whether I am switching from Hubert to Yorick or vice versa. (Some of you may think that in this case I really don’t know who I am, let alone where I am. But such reflections no longer make much of a dent on my essential Dennettness, on my own sense of who I am. If it is true that in one sense I don’t know who I am then that’s another one of your philosophical truths of underwhelming significance.) In any case, every time I’ve flipped the switch so far, nothing has happened. So let’s give it atry. . . . “THANK GOD! I THOUGHT YOU’D NEVER FLIP THAT SWITCH! You can’t imagine how horrible it’s been these last two weeks—but now you know, it’s your turn in purgatory. How I’ve longed for this moment! You see, about two weeks ago—excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve got to explain this to my. . urn, brother, I guess you could say, but he’s just told you the facts, so you’ll understand—about two weeks ago our two brains drifted just a bit out of synch. I don’t know whether my brain is now Hubert or Yorick, any more than you do, but in any case, the two brains drifted apart, and of course once the process started, it snowballed, for I was in a slightly different receptive state for the input we both received, a difference that was soon magnified. In no time at all the illusion that I was in control of my body— our body—was completely dissipated. There was nothing I could do—no way to call you. YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I EXISTED! It’s been like being carried around in a cage, or better, like being possessed—hearing my own voice sa^ things I didn’t mean to say, watching in frustration as my own hands performed deeds I hadn’t intended. You’d scratch our itches, but not the way I would have, and you kept me awake, with your tossing and turning. I’ve been totally exhausted, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, carried around helplessly by your frantic round of activities, sustained only by the knowledge that someday you’d throw the switch. “Now it’s your turn, but at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing I know you’re in there. Like an expectant mother, I’m eating—or at any rate tasting, smelling, seeing—for two now, and I’ll try to make it easy for you. Don’tworry. Just as soon as this colloquium is over, you and I will fly to Houston, and we’ll see what can be done to get one of us another body. You can have a female body—your body could be any color you like. But let’s think it over. I tell you what— to be fair, if we both want this body, I promise I’ll let the project director flip a coin to settle which of us gets to keep it and which then gets to choose a new body. That should guarantee justice, shouldn’t it? In any case, I’ll take care of you, I promise. These people are my witnesses. “Ladies and gentlemen, this talk we have just heard is not exactly the talk I would have given, but I assure you that everything he said was perfectly true. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d— we’d—better sit down.” Daniel Dennett is Professor of Philosophy at Tufts where he is Director of Cognitive Studies. He’s the author of Elbow Room, MIT Press, 1984. Artist Tim Braun is an Evergreen College alumnus living in Portland. Clinton St. Quarterly 7

^^^o m in g of age in America in the early seventies, I found myself in a white, middle-class high school embracing the new American ideal— that I could have it all. The cultural heartbeat was a thrilling horizon where there was equal opportunity for women, it was possible to have sex without, guilt, and technology promised to make life better. I savored Robin Morgan's Sisterhood is Powerful, was inspired by the civil rights movement, and was dazzled by burgeoning options for women. I felt that all of the elements of a complete life seemed possible. Through these early years my diaries were my faithful companions. These plastic-coated, pastel books with latches for safekeeping were filled with page after page of dreams about a future where love was compassionate, work was ample, creative and economically just, and housework was shared, especially the dishes. I felt equal to boys; they were my friends. I was eager to learn how to fix my own bike, and a neighborhood boy showed me howto grease my chain, adjust the brakes, and fix a flat. My prize mathematical feat was constructing a demonstration of the binary system. I was fascinated by the notion of a world of just zeros and ones. As I molded my world, my resilience stemmed from my dreams and firm belief in the women’s movement. Action around the ERA was full steam ahead, and so were my fantasies. There was no doubt in my mind that the ERA was an idea whose time had come. I left my ethnic neighborhood with my own unique blend of confidence, expectations, and naivete. The media’s chants also assured me that America would take care of me. Television told me it was so. . Progress is our most important product Better things for better living through chemistry. . . The quality goes in before the name goes on . . . What is good for General Motors is good for America . Little did I realize that this was “cultural armor” on a dragon I would eventually attempt to slay. My initiation rites into adulthood were happening at the height of an affluent crest in America’s growth economy. Riding a wave of cultural bliss, I graduated from college, married, and got a job editing educational materials. I continued reading womens’ literature and rallied to support progressive political ideals. For awhile, while I was surrounded by the ingredients of happiness and fulfillment, the dream was working. Several years later my black, leatherbound journals oozed page after page of anger and angst about the contradictions, ambiguities and inequities of both my marriage and my work. My marriage was disintegrating quickly. I questioned where the compassion was, and even though we shared the dishes, our relationship didn’t feel equitable. We both tried to make our relationship succeed, but had little understanding or experience of what constituted a successful relationship. At the office as I edited educational reports and curriculum guides, I felt like I was cleaning up someone else’s undigested dogma. I began to question how my work influenced my world. At work I used my trusty tools: pencils, pens, typewriters and white-out. One day I wandered from the water fountain to the word processing pool and nearby computer room. Although I understood what computers did, I had never seen one before. My curiosity was aroused. What could I do with these machines? Could they make my work easier and more interesting? I was once again seduced into thinking that these tools, and technology per se, were good, and that with technology we could triumph. Wasn’t that what the cultural armor had indicated? A new frontier glistened before me. Within a few months I got a divorce and needing a job became a technical writer with a computer company. I promised to explain to people how the company’s software and hardware worked. I had no doubts that I could pick it up quickly. They promised challenging work, a decent salary, and career opportunities. That was five years ago. I remember going to a party during those first weeks on fhe job where someone asked me what I “did.” I said that I wrote computer documentation. The man stared at me like I had a social disease. When I went on to explain that I really was a translator—I made computers understandable to ordinary people—his gazed softened, conveying that this was more palpable, even though he was still perplexed. At least I was convinced. I thoroughly enjoyed unraveling the mysteries of computers, terminals, modems, and software applications. The work appealed to my need for logic and order. I saw myself as a user advocate interpreting the language of programmers and engineers. The work continued to be challenging. With each new project I became more of a technologist. I kept getting raises, earned the respect of my colleagues, won awards, and was promoted to middle-management. I had arrived. Yet a frenetic gnawing in my stomach told me that this notion was not quite right. As my responsibilities grew, my collaborations were almost exclusively with men. I found myself engaged in discussions on how decisions would affect employees, was eager to solve “people problems,” and constantly lobbied for more longterm project planning. Even though my work was valued, something was missing. The technological world that appeared to be working so well for me was leaving many others around me as puzzled outsiders, especially women. The promise of iechnqlogy had seemed a real payoff—household appliances, electricity, computers, word processors, and the pill were at our disposal. What I had not anticipated was that the growth of technology was in the so-called “national interest;” examining CONFESSIONS of a I THOROUGHLY ENJOYED UNRAVELING THE MYSTERIES OF COMPUTERS, TERMINALS, MODEMS, AND SOFTWARE APPLICATIONS. THE WORK APPEALED TO MY NEED FOR LOGIC AND ORDER. I SAW MYSELF TECHNOLOGIST Feminist Clinton St. Quarterly AS A USER ADVOCATE INTERPRETING THE LANGUAGE OF PROGRAMMERS AND ENGINEERS. By Mimi Maduro Illustration by Susan Gustavson