a table of metal
has its coldness, its squareness
its place to get right down and work-ness
these features don’t appear to me, one-by-one —
they don’t take turns in my awareness…
they come at me, full force,
pervading this thing
called consciousness
the elements bind
forming a singular experience
in my sore and fragile mind
it all becomes wet concrete
in memory, never quite drying
but remaining malleable, soft
and plastic,
perfectly elastic —
as representation, an image of sorts —
of table…table…
table, dark and solid, place of my oblivion
locus of my obsession,
its binding in turn binds me
to it, with it
so I am part of its wholeness
in sensation and in action
of worker, worked, and work itself
all parts of the same stream,
all parts of the problem,
the problem…
of binding
Garbage Notes:
Even before I started studying cognition in graduate school, I had this fascination with the problem of consciousness. I think going back to my second year in college, right when I started studying psychology, I began to think more deeply about certain topics that seemed both appealing in their relatability but also intriguing in their mysteriousness.
Conscious awareness, free will, the nature of dreams, how we understand other minds—these topics always seemed tinged with a certain unrealness. Perfect fodder for fantasy and science fiction, but also the kinds of things so mundanely obvious to us as humans that we might overlook how actually strange it is that we experience these constructs at all.
In this poem—and the phenomenon to which it steals its name—the so-called Binding Problem has to do with how the objects of our perception, though each containing their own separate sensory features, are somehow combined into a single, unified experience.
So I was reflecting on the nature of sensory binding in relation to the simple situation of being a writer, sitting in a library, at a metal desk, and marveling at how the desk was more than just the desk—the desk was the cornerstone of the experience of my work itself, of writing, of imagining. It wasn’t just metal and solid, it was the place where narrative and poetry would emerge.
I could feel the wooden chair under my ass. I could feel the cool air conditioning, the perfect temperature for thinking, effortlessly. The lingering taste of coffee on my tongue and the remaining warmth in the half-full paper cup. The caffeine that would have just begun flooding my nervous system. I could hear the in-and-out sounds of other people in the distance, walking, typing, and so on.
It’s all of these little things, these bits of input that flow into our sensory organs. The sights, sounds, smells, and internal and external stimuli that make up the wonderful experience of existing—the stuff that comprises any experience of life. Being “worker, worked, and work itself.” All the insanity around us, and how we channel it into something peaceful and under control within ourselves.
The mind is a marvel, and this poem is a testament to that.
Franco Amati 2023
So thought-provoking. Amazing how you get us to think so deeply and yet still use such elegant language to express otherwise complex or esoteric concepts.Bravo, Mr.
I've always found it interesting how we can ponder a single word so deeply. On one hand, it loses all meaning to the point of nonsense, but on the other, it brings forth an entire universe of awareness of everything that's in some sort of contact with it. Thank you for elaborating on the latter.