Like A Druid In The Old Days
I’m happy to say I slept quite well last night. It was a bit disrupted towards the end, but I’ll take what I got.
I was going to write something about the ship of Theseus yesterday, so here we go. For those who don’t know, the ship of Theseus is a philosophical problem: Theseus sets sail in his ship and, over the course of many voyages, gradually replaces the wood of the hull as it is damaged. By the end of the voyages, every plank has been replaced. Is it still the same ship?
Hold that thought.
I’ve written before about about flashbacks triggered by music (for example In My Private Universe, 4 August 2010). This generally happens with two specific albums: Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark and Focus’s Moving Waves, particularly the track Focus II. When these flashbacks happen they are very real; it isn’t just memories that are triggered but a strong sensation of moments in time being connected, of being in a particular place at a particular time (my bedroom in Glen More, East Kilbride). The sensation is not unlike deja vu, but somehow more real.
What has this to do with the ship of Theseus? Well, they reckon that the cells in our bodies are replaced on a seven year cycle. In the 45 years or so since the time to which I flashback, by whole body must have been replaced. So how can I have flashbacks if I am not physically the same person? What does that tell me about memory and continuity of consciousness?
Continuity of consciousness is, by the way, a problem I have with the transporters on Star Trek.
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850 more words written today, and the story is going in a distinctly Hammer House of Horror direction, at least for this chapter. I’ll be interested to find out what happens next.
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Music: in the last year of primary school and first years of high school, the charts were dominated by T Rex, the Osmonds and David Cassidy, plus associated other glam acts. It was an article of faith amongst the boys that Marc Bolan, the Osmonds and David Cassidy, the subject of a thousand gushing features in Jackie, and the favourites of most of the girls in class, were ‘poofs.’ I have to add that, as Hamish Imlach once said, in the west of Scotland, any man who prefers the company of women to a pint of heavy is neccesarily homosexual. It didn’t occur to us that abusing their heroes was a poor strategy for attracting the favour of the girls we fancied.
Anyway, this is the record with which, in late 1970, fey hustler and desperately-wannabee pop star Marc Bolan, ditched the hippy image of Tyrannosaurus Rex to become T Rex, and achieved his dream. Ride A White Swan. It’s brillliant, of course, something the girls knew and we little twerps didn’t (except Tom Clark, who had long hair).
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