Stream of Consciousness: Thoughts, Ideas & Creativity. Where do they come from?

Since being as young as eight, I have written in unconscious flows of writing. At that age, I was too young to even know or understand the term ‘stream of consciousness’ - as a literary technique - and just accepted whatever flowed unconsciously onto paper. 

In this episode, I share my own true life experiences investigating Consciousness and from where Thoughts, Ideas and Creativity arise.

Daniel Caine is the author of the science fiction crime thriller Matter of Time.

For more information visit www.danielcaine.com

Transcript

Speaker 1 0:07

This is Stranger Than Fiction with Daniel Caine. This episode explores how creativity, thoughts, and ideas suffuse consciousness.

Speaker 1 0:24

Across time, a man's hand rested motionless on a sheet of foolscap. The nib of the pen he held in contact with the paper's surface had bled its blue Indian ink in a slowly spreading blot that now marred the once pristine blank page, as if weakness had overcome the man before he could pen his final words. The silence in the room was broken by a faint sigh of air. A breath, a sign of life. Then came a movement in the hand that was at first so slight and barely discernible that it seemed unable to overcome the frictional inertia of the nib against the fibres of the paper. Another breath of air, and fuelled by the prolonged, subdued sigh of exhalation that followed, the pen he was holding in his now dithering hand began to move eerily across the page, its wanderings recorded by the wavering blue line issuing from the nib. Letters began to form out of the trail of ink, and the traverse would stop and start erratically, only to shoot back across to the left margin and continue again, leaving short stubbing marks on the surface of the paper in between the words. After some time, the man roused and opened his eyes. He centred himself and gathered his focus from out of the rapidly dissipating ethereal haze that was clouding his mind, and looking down, he gazed at the page. Always a moment filled with intrigue and anticipation.

Speaker 1 2:02

That again is an excerpt from my book Matter of Time, an excerpt that is a fictionalised version of my own personal experiences that led to the writing of the book. When I was as young as eight, an old schoolteacher predicted that I would become an author, and on turning nine, I was gifted a dictionary, which left me deflated as it was not the toy I'd expected. It just didn't occur to me that adults were reading my scribblings and reacting accordingly. And on entering high school, I would hand in maths homework with lyrical poetry scrawled across the equations I had solved, making it difficult for a concerned teacher to mark. I was oblivious. I didn't know that I had written the words, and didn't even register them on the pages. And after some consultation, it was decided to say nothing to me as my maths solutions proved to be correct. By my early teens, though, I was well aware of both my conscious and unconscious flows of writing, and was shocked on first hearing the term stream of consciousness as a literary technique, in the same way that I was shocked on first hearing the word subtext. I thought they were my own little secrets. To this day, I still prefer to use my childhood word flow rather than stream of consciousness. This would all seem to be linked somehow to the aneurysm I suffered as an adult that threatened to wipe the word processing centres of my left temporal lobe if I were to survive the surgical attempt at repair. And while I did recover against the odds, I still do suffer from occasional transient episodes of aphasia, a difficulty in connecting to the next thought or word. Significantly, though, I came to realise that the onset of those episodes of mild aphasia would almost always be the first sign of a slip in consciousness that would lead me helplessly into unconscious flows of writing. I did attempt to question both doctors and neurosurgeons about my experiences, but the blank looks back at me dissuaded me from asking again. "Who knows, with an organ like the brain," was the closest thing I got to an answer. And once again, being provided with no answers from medicine or science, I've had to try and explain my experiences myself. From my perspective, there would seem to be some controlling neural gate that prevents our ideas, thoughts, and creativity from flooding out of our minds in a continuous, unmanageable flow. For some, that gate opens more freely and often than for others. And in my case, it's as though some defect or damage in that neural gate suddenly allows ideas, thoughts, and creativity to flood out for an extended period, swamping my conscious state before the gate slams shut again. And it does open up that question as to where ideas, thought, and creativity stem from, which leads us back to the dilemma of the majority view of science believing that thoughts, ideas, and creativity have their ultimate source in patterns of neural network activity, whereas the minority view of science is open to the possibility that the ultimate source lies in a consciousness that suffuses the cosmos. But, whatever the source, tapping into it does let flow many phenomena that are stranger than fiction.

Speaker 1 5:55

I began to register the sound of voices, of passing traffic, and the clanking of freshly washed coffee cups in a tray being placed back on the service counter. And pen still in hand, I opened my eyes to then notice the scrawl that now defaced the paper lying on the table in front of me: 'I loved her across space and time. I loved her for a thousand lives. I was just waiting until again I could look into those eyes. But when that precious moment came, she had no clue of who I was. What a waste of a thousand lives'. Glancing around the cafe, all seemed as it should be, and no one, to my relief, was looking over in my direction. It had happened again, a slip in consciousness while sitting with pen in hand, wondering if it would happen again. That message of the written words I'd just unconsciously penned while I was devoid of awareness is relatable to everyone, I supposed. And that curious verse was filed away and forgotten in the bottom of some drawer. Synchronicity. It just won't let us be. One morning, my visual cortex was temporarily usurped in yet another of those mind-altered episodes, and a brightly colored vision of a mandala had replaced the entire 360-degree vista of normality that I should have been viewing. But when normality resumed a few seconds later, I was possessed of an inexplicable urge to seek out some insight into Buddhism, a belief system that I had not been exposed to nor had any interest in. And later that day, when I overheard two passers-by talking about a Buddhist temple they'd attended, I had no choice but to seek out the temple that opened its doors to the public for teachings. And given the circumstances behind my visit, I really should not have been surprised, despite the years that had passed, that the particular day's teachings being offered was from the 1300-year-old verses of the Buddhist monk Shantideva regarding 'the senselessness of craving and attachment to loved ones when they may not be encountered again for a thousand lives'. And whatever was trying to grab my attention had certainly succeeded. Fuelled by intrigue, those weekly visits to the temple continued, and I obtained a copy of Shantideva's verses about the path to enlightenment from which the initial teaching was taken. And perhaps noticing my interest in the work, the nun facilitating the weekly meetings gifted me a detailed commentary textbook to help me understand the sometimes archaic wording that had been translated from the original Sanskrit to Tibetan and then to English. And on persevering through the sometimes challenging text, one paragraph I read on turning a page was to send my mind into a freefall that offered no landing place. The translator explained how Shantideva employed a particular metre in his verse writing that was typical of Sanskrit poetry of the time, his verse being a looser, more modest attempt than some of the other exponents of that period. A metre composed in verses of four lines, with each line having eight syllables, or sometimes sixteen, with a half verse of two lines, sometimes included. My free fall of the mind accelerated. I felt as though I was being dared to check that unconsciously penned verse of mine from years before. So I started the count: 'I loved her across space and time'. Eight syllables. 'I loved her for a thousand lives'. Eight syllables. 'I was just waiting until again I could look into those eyes'. Sixteen syllables. 'But when that precious moment came'. Eight syllables. 'She had no clue of who I was'. Eight syllables. 'What a waste of a thousand lives'. Eight syllables. It was also a four line verse, followed by a half verse of two lines. The verse, originally written in Sanskrit thirteen hundred years before, had been unconsciously reproduced in the same metric form in English in the present day by a layperson with no knowledge of the original author or what he stood for. A layperson who had also been unconsciously inspired to seek out a teaching of that verse being held at some random temple thirteen hundred years later. At that point, I knew that the literary visitation in the cafe had held more significance than a mere curio to be filed away unseen in a drawer. My brief impromptu exploration into Buddhism ended there. I had witnessed enough.

Speaker 1 11:12

That one experience of mine alone does challenge the majority view of science concerning thought, ideas, creativity, and consciousness. As the 19th century philosopher and psychologist William James famously said, "In order to disprove the assertion that all crows are black, one white crow is sufficient." And since billions of people through the ages have reported such white crow experiences that are stranger than fiction, it must be asked how the majority view of science can adamantly consider that thoughts, ideas, and creativity stem solely from a brain's own isolated patterns of neural activity with no connection to a greater source. It follows that the majority view of science can only remain tenable by scientists rejecting, denying, and minimising another's life experiences. And that is what science is known to do when it comes to so-called supernatural or paranormal experience. Unfortunately, one of the most effective and efficient ways to minimise another human being is through ridicule and mockery, which those of the majority view do openly direct towards their highly qualified colleagues who dare to suggest that consciousness is more than a mere byproduct of brain activity. However, rejection, minimisation, and denial are the very tools that the human psych utilises in its most basal defense mechanisms. Some challenge to us, such as a challenge to what we believe, increases our anxiety. And to reduce that anxiety, our subconscious reacts with displays of defense mechanisms to negate the challenge, often by distorting the reality we are facing to another reality, one that we are more comfortable with. But the significance of this is that scientists would not be mocking and ridiculing if they were not challenged by a truth they find uncomfortable, nor would they feel the subconscious need to distort reality to maintain their beliefs through confirmation bias. But where is the scientific method in all this? Where is the objectivity? Is it any wonder that science openly admits that it knows little about consciousness? And if science confesses that it knows little about consciousness, how can it be so adamant about what it is or what it isn't? So when I face rejection, minimisation, and denial for expressing my personal life experiences and truth, I know that it is only based on fear and uncertainty being experienced by others. The truth about consciousness cannot be denied. It will be revealed. It's just a Matter of Time.

Speaker 14:35

You've been listening to Stranger Than Fiction with Daniel Caine. Join us in the next episode as we continue to investigate why the reality we perceive truly is Stranger Than Fiction. For more information, visit www.danielcaine.com.