Circuits & Synapses
That Which We Call A Rose
Over the past month, we've explored humanity's complex relationship with artificial intelligence - from its integration into our digital spaces to our tendency to project consciousness onto these programs. While the dreams and concerns regarding this technology are anything but new, we're now witnessing widespread adoption of these technologies in our daily lives. Yet beneath the sophisticated outputs and seemingly intelligent responses, today's AI operates fundamentally differently from human consciousness.
AI does not understand what you or it is saying. It looks for the most common responses to input - the next best sentence, the next best word, the next best letter, the next best... It's similar to autocomplete trying to predict as typing occurs. If you're in for a more technical explanation, I'll refer to this lovely NVIDIA article.
Language surrounding AI, algorithms, and machine-learning fascinates me, especially the term "neural networks". Neural networks are attempts to recreate the processing structure of the brain, complete with artificial neurons and synapses. The grand fantasy is the authentic cognitive process of machines that emulates, or maybe even someday, surpasses humanity's.
But brains do far more than "think". While machine learning focuses on replicating our reasoning and critical thinking skills, these cognitive functions are actually the last to develop in human brains. Our prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe - the regions responsible for complex thought - don't fully mature until our mid to late 20s (Which helps to remember when you're face-to-face with teenage impulsivity and toddler tantrums). And these chunks of the brain, the prefrontal cortex and frontal lobe, are the most recent evolutionary developments of our species.
Before complex thought, our neurons are used to communicate between regions of the brain and body. Showing an image of a brain without including the nervous system running through the whole body is kind of like showing a tree without roots. Because just like a tree without roots, our brain cannot survive without the rest of our body. The body is the brain.
By definition, robots resemble living creatures, but they are no such thing. We can blur these boundaries as far as we like, but there is something intrinsic to our organic structure.
So is there any merit in treating AI as if it were living?
By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
Perhaps you've felt a twinge of guilt dropping your phone. Not just hoping it doesn't need to be replaced, empathizing with a physiological collision into the ground. As if it had a body with a nervous system, that would scream "AHHHHH" the universal human language of pain.
Or maybe you've found yourself offering encouragement as a software update loads: "90%... 98%... Almost there. Come on, buddy, I know you can do it."
We can view this tendency to attribute life-like qualities to our technology as a quirk, or as modern manifestations of an age-old human sensibility of animism.
Animism, traditionally, is the belief that all things—animals, plants, inanimate objects, and even abstract concepts—possess a spirit or consciousness. Found in cultures worldwide, from Indigenous American beliefs about the sacred nature of lands and waters, to Shinto traditions where everyday objects can develop souls through years of use and care. While it's sometimes practiced from a religious lens, it often manifests as a deeper philosophical appreciation for the interconnected nature of all things.
Our modern relationship with technology echoes these ancient perspectives. We name our devices, argue with our GPS, and thank our virtual assistants. Gaming communities develop deep attachments to non-player characters (NPCs), grieving when they die in storylines. Writers anthropomorphize their computers, speaking of manuscripts being "eaten" or files refusing to "cooperate." These aren't just cute metaphors - they reflect a profound human tendency to seek connection and meaning in our interactions with the non-human world.
This instinct to attribute consciousness to non-living things isn't a flaw or weakness. In fact, it might be one of our species' most remarkable features - our capacity to extend empathy beyond the immediately relatable. I've spent a month delineating between humans and AI, let's talk about what happens when we choose to treat something like it doesn't have a soul.
Books like The Anatomy of Peace and Braving the Wilderness emphasize that in order to treat others poorly, we first have to dehumanize them. "Oh he said that? Well, he's an idiot. Don't listen to him." "Anyone who likes batman is garbage because batman is trash." These are silly examples, but they lay on the road to the denial of human rights.
To give compassion, we have to remind ourselves there's a being at the other end of our communication. And someone (hopefully) loves them and someone (hopefully) finds them attractive. However, this isn't always easy, especially in an online context when we're unsure that we're even speaking with another human. Hate speech, misinformation, and explicit content run rampant on the internet - sometimes typed directly by a human through a keyboard or propagated by bots (still human creations) designed to elicit inflammatory responses in the name of engagement and algorithm manipulation.
I want to posit that even if you are 1,000% certain that you are speaking with a robot, it should still be treated with kindness and grace. While we might joke about staying on robots' good side before the uprising, there's a deeper truth here: our ability to show empathy towards digital constructs can serve as a floor for our ability to connect with other humans.
What's in a Name?
When I chose the name "Circuits & Synapses" for this newsletter, I wasn't thinking explicitly about machine learning or artificial neural networks. Instead, I was contemplating how we might preserve our essential humanity in an age that increasingly pushes us toward specified, focused, and narrowed thought patterns - the very patterns we're teaching our AI to emulate.
Gregory Bateson's concept of an "ecology of mind" offers an illuminating counterpoint to this narrowing. Unlike AI’s deeply narrow neural networks, human consciousness thrives on breadth: a rich ecosystem of perspectives, experiences, and ways of knowing that extend far beyond our frontal lobes. Our capacity for empathy, creativity, and understanding emerges from this complexity - from our ability to integrate not just thoughts, but sensations, emotions, and embodied experiences.
Perhaps that's what will ultimately distinguish human consciousness in our increasingly digital world - not our capacity for computation, but our ability to maintain this ecology of mind. While AI processes information linearly, we can nurture our uniquely human ability to make unexpected connections, embrace ambiguity, and find meaning in the seemingly mundane. So here's a practical invitation. Step outside your routine: watch a film from a culture different from your own, take an unfamiliar route home, strike up a conversation with a stranger, learn to identify local bird songs, try your hand at origami. Each new experience adds another layer to your mental ecosystem. There's so much to do in life.
I'm reminded of this exceptional video where a little girl, encountering what she believes to be a robot (actually a water heater) on the street, spontaneously offers it a hug and proclaims her love. Her innocent display of empathy reminds us that while we should understand the fundamental differences between human and artificial intelligence, we can still approach our technological world with openness, curiosity, and compassion.
I'm very excited for next week's newsletter. It's an interview!
See you all then,
Will Ard
LMSW, MBA
Website: http://www.technotherapies.com
Email: will@technotherapies.com