Maybe if you take binary logic and melt it, you get consciousness.

Oh, you may object to "melt." What am I talking about, right?

In my learning and behavior textbook from college, there's a definition of language. One requirement is that the elements of a language have discrete meanings. That is, "I ran away" can mean many things in many situations, but it definitely does not mean "I started my egg sandwich." We can draw a clear separation. "Red" covers a range of colors, but they share a particular quality that is not "blue." We can separate the colors easily enough in practice because the words are discrete.

In class fifteen years ago, I thought of what happens when the discreteness of language breaks down. What does that look like? What would a language be without discreteness?

Here's one great example: tarot cards.

But what if you felt really daring, and wanted to go a little further? What happens, computationally, when you get a breakdown in the discreteness of binary logic? It's still computational. It's still a physical process.

I consider human experience proof this universe isn't deterministic. But I don't mean this exactly the way you suppose. I mean that I don't see the point of feeling our way through countless options to carve out one path if there were only one path to begin with. That is, what is the universe doing creating my conscious experience and yours, if not to put it to use? It seems to me that I'm conscious because I choose among alternatives that are possible, ones that change not just my course, but the universe's.

It's supposed that the presence of consciousness might (causally and deterministically) shift the informational processing of the mind without providing anything we might recognize as freedom. It could be functional without any suggestion of bifurcating a one-track universe. Yes, perhaps. But how would pure consciousness influence information processing? If we were to isolate that effect - isolate what would be lost if only consciousness were removed, leaving all the biological computing machinery operating no differently - what could comprise it? The essence of consciousness appears to be multivalence. Consciousness without choice borders on an oxymoron. Feeling informs yet does not seem to fully determine. It seems to us that the feeling is one half, and what we think, say, or do is the other. Why is it important that we actually feel? The universe is not wasteful with phenomena.

There's also the suggestion consciousness could be an inert side-effect, a little like fumes from an exhaust pipe, or hot water in the river near a nuclear plant. Maybe it has influence, but that is only incidental to what a sentient being does; consciousness could safely be removed as far as behavior is concerned. But nothing in this universe is unilateral. We continue to suppose every force has an equal and opposite force: isn't that another phrasing of the law of conservation of energy? The impressions of consciousness into this "me" object, the surprise I feel, the constant flow - it seems I consciously consider other paths because they could be taken. Not just in theory, informationally: by the universe.

It seems to me that to will is to compute, but maybe it is not to compute deterministically. There's no shame in a hypothesis, even when some studies appear to contradict it.

Certainly I could be mistaken. This - what we feel - is not an absolute proof. But maybe it's evidence all the same. It's an empirical observation shared across humanity and history.

When people think that science is inferior to the "human" realm of art, feelings, and communication, this hides an unexamined assumption that humans are superior to other creatures, including extraterrestrials.

If humans are really so much more nuanced than the natural world, then aliens have little hope of surpassing us. If, however, the natural world is just as nuanced as humans, or much more so, then we have no trouble recognizing the importance of all life on earth and beyond.

Anything bad - it has an upside that makes it more tolerable, if you can't avoid it. Even if you were to die one minute from now, there are plenty of upsides. I say this with confidence because life inevitably involves pain. Each moment of future pain you prevent is a kind of upside. And whoever you are, however kind and considerate, you will undoubtedly cause some problems for others in the future. Not causing them is a kind of upside. Put these two categories together, and we've already pointed to many upsides.

I'm not suggesting that dying is a good idea, or something not to seek with every ounce of your being to avoid. You should avoid it. But there is no bad thing without some upside, at least not in recorded human experience. Even the greatest tragedies you've ever heard have the upside that they've been communicated and at least partly understood, so now they can be a little more easily avoided. And if no one hears of a hypothetical tragedy, it's usually easy to find upsides. A tornado that kills a solitary person who is never found still carries out the energy-flow purpose of a vortex, and the person's atoms can be used by other life. Perhaps any pain that person feels in the last moments has no upside. Then again, perhaps even pain that is never remembered or communicated serves some purpose. And at least it was brief and did not cause a lasting psychological wound.

I could simply have said "Every cloud has a silver lining, and every silver lining has a cloud," but reiteration is not always powerful. When you've heard the words "Just do it" but still struggle to get into them, well it could be that they just won't help, but it could also be that today, in this moment, you need illustration. Some source of the Nile needs to bring you fresh verisimilitude, elaboration, a gentle twist of the neck. Maybe today it's art that you need. One function of art is to illustrate what we already supposedly know.

You know war is bad. Yes? Are you going to tell me Saving Private Ryan doesn't change how you feel and what you know?

When we read a story, we're acutely aware of the human realism. That is, if a person's reaction smacks of falseness, it's upsetting and we may call the whole story bad. Plot holes are next: if the stream of events sets off incohesion alarms, we might tell our friends not to bother. Scientific realism is a distant third.

What if we considered the human realism just as much a question of science, given that psychology and neuroscience are domains of study subject to the scientific method?

That is, the human and the scientific need not stand against each other in a pit. In stories, we tolerate some unrealism. When, how much, why, and in exchange for what - these are personal questions, though we overlap.

Likewise, subtle concern for scientific accuracy need not be seen as stodgy or unartistic. The natural world and its forces are just as nuanced, just as real, and just as lived as the human mind and heart.

Arguing well - by which I mean accurately - generally requires a sense of humor, or at least of play.

We believe good debate is the verbal equivalent of what a gladiator does. Gladiators are dead serious. Consequently, as would-be gladiators, we heft our swords and scan for anything that moves and carries a weapon. Seeing an enemy, we narrow our eyes and crouch, readying sword and buckler.

By debating in this style, we eventually fail to catch good arguments even when swimming in a caldera of them. To burst a metaphor (or stretch it so far it's silly): gladiators don't have time to pause and scoop up blood in their hands and taste some, let alone fake blood, let alone find a blue rose or a zipline off the ground to safety. We're aiming for the jugular, not focusing on evidence, logic, compassion, and imagination - all of which are required for good debate.

You can't prove anything without humoring fallibility: the possibility what you're saying is totally wrong. Therefore you shouldn't equate someone else making a good point (or even just trying), up-front, with your own bloody death, or that of someone you love. If you don't have the stomach to start with the notion that you may be 100% confused, don't expect to settle an issue.

Good debate, if anything, is much more like Tai Chi or Aikido. You relax. You do what Bruce Lee suggested: you "flow like water." You attune to changing arrangements quickly. You let everything happen and just barely tip the existing energies here or there as if they were your own, where needed. In a word, you play.

Maybe you look unconcerned or lazy, but no one can defeat you, because you operate according to nature's contours, rather than your valiant preconceptions of them.

You truly "win" a debate when an idea you put forward matches reality, not because you huffed and puffed and blew someone's house down.

Proof - whether scientific or social - means walking us from the beginning proposition that an idea is totally wrong - while taking fair, transparent, verifiable steps - to the proposition that it's most likely right. You squeeze out uncertainty to establish an idea. If you don't start out uncertain, there's nothing to squeeze. Without squeezing, there is no proving.

This runs counter to our received image of the self-assured contestant. But watch the best ones carefully, the ones with a long track record of right answers, practical ideas, and cogent arguments for them. You'll see they have the boldness to allow and even invite and compliment challenges. In truth, while they project or even feel confidence, the pattern isn't confidence so much as it's the necessary foundation for proving anything. Start with a blank slate. Flow like water. Let the best ideas win. Allow any idea to try. Don't reflexively stab it as if it's trying to kill you. You aren't that weak, and reality is far stronger still.

Because you are not really threatened, you can humor even the ideas that would horrify you if they happened to be true. You know discussion is not reality, but a reflection. You can observe a solar eclipse from its shadows. These are the words of a debate. These are play. The play is a critical component. Without it, you either don't look, or your eyes are damaged.

When you argue from a (perhaps fearful) position of complete certainty, not only are you too rigid, but technically, as I just suggested, you can prove nothing of what you're out to prove. Proof exhales and releases uncertainty; without initial uncertainty, proof has nothing to breathe. You can't get an A on the test without taking the test, which means showing up and allowing the possibility of getting it all wrong. And you don't deserve an A on the test if you go in with a list of all the right answers, previously verified. It's the uncertainty that makes it a valid test. This is true of all proof.

Consequently, you need to humor arguments that undermine what you're trying to prove. To try to blot them out, forbid them, or shame anyone who mentions them is simply cheating.

(You probably are not aware that you are cheating. Our culture does a poor job of making sure everyone understands these natural rules of dialectic, or good argument - which in practice must be softer than mathematical or scientific proof, not harder, to keep discussion going. You're forgiven, at least by me, for cheating without realizing it. But now you know.)

Discussing extremely serious issues while humoring ideas you disagree with generally requires a sense of humor, or at least of play - and using it.

If you can maintain this sense, and the other parties can, you can have a good discussion.

If you can't, it will threaten your relationships even to talk, which means it won't be a particularly good, open, or informative discussion, in all likeliness.

There's a basic mechanic to all this. Good debate isn't a total mystery. It works according to natural rules, much the way your car engine does. When it breaks down, there are reasons. When the car responds to the accelerator, there are reasons.

The tragedy of modern democracy is that if everyone knew this, democracy would be 10x more effective, if not 100x more effective. 

People make fun of the old "elements" - earth, air, fire, water. But all they are is the use of phases - solid, gas, plasma, liquid - as symbols, metaphors. Once this metaphorical thinking was thought to work like a science. Now we know it doesn't. It's a myth. But myths can tell us about ourselves. They tap into dreams and change us. There's nothing wrong with using plasma as a metaphor for inspiration, will, action, change.