In which I pretend to not be aware of my own mechanisms.
In which I also pretend I don't want to profusely apologize for them.
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| not my stairwell |
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| not my theater entrance |
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| not my park across from a glassy building |
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| not my building or my apartment bathroom or my black and white tile |
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| not my state park, not my East Trail path |
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| not my place I've forgotten, definitely my palm tree necklace |
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| not my roof, not my roof again |
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| not my public restroom mirror with margarita glasses for lights |
From an interview with Adina Roskies on neuroscience's reflection of free will:
Roskies: [W]hen we make choices, we are making choices with mechanism... Our choices are mechanistically governed, but they're still our choices. What you have do is reconcile the notion of freedom with the idea that we are mechanisms.
Interviewer: And we can be machines and still be free?
Roskies: (slight pause, then higher octave) Yes.
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