Re: Free will (was: Re: Nucleus Accumbens Transplant)

From: J. R. Molloy (jr@shasta.com)
Date: Sun Feb 14 1999 - 14:27:12 MST


Scott Badger has written,
>I fail to comprehend how you (or Crick) equate
>unconscious computations with Free Will. Wanting
>to do something (anything) may require a healthy
>"anterior cingulate sulcus," but Crick seems to be
>suggesting that this area is an enigmatic black box
>which serves to covertly puppeteer our behaviors.
>That doesn't sound like any kind of Free Will I've
>heard of.

As Francis Crick has pointed out, and as I previously posted:

"My first assumption was that part of one's brain is concerned with making
plans for future actions, without necessarily carrying them out. I also
assumed that one can be conscious of such plans -- that is, that they are
subject at least to immediate recall."

The part of the brain "concerned with making plans," as Crick clearly
stated, "is located in or near the anterior cingulate sulcus."

I read no suggestion into Crick's article of any "black box" doing any
"covert puppeteering" and I fail to see your point. I get the feeling you
object to Crick's discovery out of anti-scientific bias. Not very extropian,
that.

>The great experiment we are a part of addresses the question,
>"Can deluded entities without free will discover and/or transcend
>their true nature?"

To what "great experiment" do you allude? I'd answer your last question with
a definite "no" not that it makes any difference to any rational discussion
of Free Will. As far as it concerns me, extropy (which, in this context
means self-organizing life) coincides perfectly with my "true nature."
--J. R.

PS: Please, I beg you, don't bring any of your "deluded entitites" into this
thread.

><((((º>`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.·´¯`·...¸><((((º>¸.
·´¯`·.¸. , . .·´¯`·..><((((º>`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.·´¯`·...¸><((((º>
This just in: No one knows why anything exists at all.
·´¯`·.¸. , . .·´¯`·..><((((º>`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.·´¯`·...¸><((((º>
><((((º>`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸.·´¯`·...¸><((((º>¸.
Determinants may reside in our genes,
the likes of which our cunning cannot fathom.
J. R. Molloy



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