A Strategy She Never Expected: The Crimson Blood Discovery

 This is my first (real) attempt at a murder mystery story. I will post this story in 2-4 page chunks occasionally, so it will in a sense be displayed in a serial manner.

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Blood splattered on the ground, quickly losing momentum as it made its way across the pavement; though its fluidity was no longer apparent, the crimson hue suggested a very fresh lack of oxygen. At the same time, a person who had been up until that very moment been breathing fell to the ground, as if all moments had converged onto this end where motion ceased. Upon that grisly occurrence, a fell sequence began in motion. Above the still corpse, a purple sky hung in silence, a crescent moon slowly peeking out. Massive trees rose around the corpse, capturing some northwestern gothic aesthetic, as if horrible murder belonged in a nocturnal forest. And along similar lines, no bloody murderer could be found in the vicinity – none who would give in and admit to that which they had done. Though this village has pavement, the buildings are wooden and haphazardly weaved into nature, capturing fear and reverence. The entire village has an orderly feel to it. This is all beside the point for the dead girl– who would not be discovered that night. Not until the following morning would any beginnings of reparations occur.

What had happened they may wonder? Was the social fabric torn apart or was something just transiently awry?

The next morning a girl with medium-length brown hair discovered the carcass; she raised the dead girl’s bloodied and battered arm with a long stick that had fallen to the ground long ago, revealing an obvious gash that started below the corpse’s neck and proceeded down towards the chest area. The work was startlingly precise: it followed a downward path in a pristinely straight manner. Unnecessary movements in the form of minor cuts on the shoulders or other places on the body suggested cleanliness of method. But that was not all. The body was turned on its side, revealing bruises on the superior half of the body. On the neck, near the ligamentum nuchae, was a sizable bruise. The body was returned to a close approximation of anatomical position in order to ascertain a better view. Blood had run down the corpse’s clothes towards the ground, leaving small clumps puddled on surrounding leaves. Carefully kneeling, the observer grabbed one such leaf and held it gingerly in her palm as she made her way back to the village.

She closed her eyes and grimaced, followed by subsequent limping – the girl took on a new gait, one legs being spaced further out to ease her weight. Her eyes opened again as she continued to walk in her awkward manner. She made a conscious effort to breathe in and out deeply, as if direly preparing for yoga. Her task was clearly delivering the evidence to the community center, where all would be revealed. This center, a simple building on the outskirts of the, appeared before her.

As the sun peeked out from the clouds, a few people accumulated in the community center, mainly people tending towards elderly age. She quickly handed the leaf to a man with graying hair. His eyes widened in seconds and his mouth fell open ever so slightly: he ruffled his hair and observed the leaf again. He finally responded slowly with “I hope this is a mistake.”  The girl – who is named Gillian– said little and sank into a free chair at the table a little faster than would seem totally normal. Amongst the elderly such an action did not stand out. The old man hurriedly discussed with another man present. The alarm had been sent: the elderly man exited the community center, headed in the direction of the town hall, which lay only a few minutes to the west.

Gillian’s breathing subtly returned to normal, following several minutes of sitting and gazing downwards at the floor without saying a word. Her eyes remained dilated but the effects were slowly subsiding. Her hand went to her posterior leg and massaged vertically along her gastrocnemius slowly but deliberately; this action lasted for a solid minute until she suddenly raised her hands. Despite such actions, she was not shaking; instead her behavior can best be described as slow and methodical, pensive but not apprehensive, thinking intensely about what had happened. She grabbed her brown sweater below her neck in a fist and held on tightly for a few seconds before letting go; she glanced to her left at nothing in particular but something that differed from the carpet-covered ground. Today was a cool day where the slight breeze drifted in, carrying cool air that mixed with the warmer air. Gillian shivered slightly. Again she tried breathing in and out deeply to invoke serenity, the only way to pass idle time in a tense situation such as the present one.  The clock’s hand shifted by one hour before the elderly man returned – he still carried that air of being worried but also at peace and understanding with what had to be done.

“Well, they went to the place you described and found the body…” the man uttered quietly. “Just go home and everything will be resolved. The town detective will analyze the results and let everyone know what happened.”

Gillian nodded slightly and walked out of the community center, feet no longer dragging, towards her abode, which lay towards the center of the village. Even though a dramatic event had happened, not many people were hurrying to and fro – or at all. There was an odd quiet; it wasn’t just the chilly breeze but also the lack of people who were often bustling. Perhaps it was just the cold, or maybe something even more sinister. After several minutes of shivering and walking cautiously, eyes focused on the ground. She unlocked the front door of her house, slipped in, and closed the door. Towards her bed, she walked; standing in front of the bed, knees tending towards buckling. She fell on the bed, face falling into a pillow; though tired, she couldn’t fall asleep due to what she had witnessed today.

It only took one attempt to reawaken. Her eyes opened suddenly and she sat upright, awake for the new day. She dressed and got ready to leave the house, just like any other morning. This morning, however, seemed to follow the previous day. She stuffed bread into her mouth and chewed it while walking back to the center in the brisk winter weather.  Here the detective waited, ready to report on his full findings.

He pointed to the open folder before him and drawled, “Time of death could not be precisely determined. Physical force was applied harshly to several places on the body, resulting in bruising. The force was used to instill fear and convince the victim to stop fighting. It is clear that the cutting itself is far more damaging than the bruising. Her hematocrit and blood iron levels were low, resulting in anemic blood. Furthermore her blood is not as viscous as normal blood, reinforcing low hematocrit. This condition made it difficult for her to evade or resist the killer or to even cry for help. Her brachioradial artery on her left arm was cut, resulting in excessive blood loss. The victim likely died in only a couple minutes, especially considering her anemic state. A lot more work than was required for murder was performed, however. The obvious gash running from the cervical vertebrae down towards the thoracic vertebrae alone could not cause death due to its shallow nature; rather, this action only serves one purpose: torturing the victim before her untimely death. The cutting was clearly performed with a knife sharp enough to cut muscle and skin easily. There are no misplaced cuts, indicating the premeditated nature of this murder. Someone this sick and twisted – someone who can murder so cleanly as if it’s nothing - needs to be stopped at all costs.”

The crowd that had gathered before him – mainly just the more actively concerned town denizens, and Gillian, who had discovered the corpse – stood in silence, though Gillian stayed seated. How would anyone know how to react to that? The detective, having completed his spiel, opted to leave without saying anything more. Defeat was in the air – the hunt was ultimately derailed, just as the victim’s life was. That was why nobody noticed when the brunette girl cautiously approached the strewn files and the vial of blood and swiped them; she returned to the site of the crime, where innocent blood had been shed. Here she was adamant to solve the murder.

She was at least a few steps ahead of the detective who had given up on the case barely after reporting his initial findings. Body speed was slow but changing awkwardly as she limped; she rested at home for a few hours (lying on her bed, back facing the bed) before returning to the murder site. The body had since been removed but had otherwise been untouched. Gillian had looked at the site, closed her eyes, blinked, and seen almost the exact site she had been to days ago. (The body was properly buried at the request of the family.)

Dropping onto her knees forcefully, Gillian began searching the area around her; she moved forward to spread out a conspicuous pile of leaves that glinted under the sunlight. Her eyes opened widely: in front of her, pointing to the north was a knife that, if not for the dried blood, was quite beautiful. Bearing a slight curvature, the knife featured an indecipherable inscription in black. Holding the cold black handle, she examined it carefully by holding the blade directly to the sunlight; her bottom sunk to the ground as she kept staring intently. The knife had only been a meter or two away from where the detective had stood when he gave his soliloquy of anatomy. Even more spectacularly was the apparent lack of scratches that dampened the knife’s sharpness; judging from memory, it seemed too small to inflict the injuries found on the corpse but perhaps the killer was simply that skillful. In this era, the sword seemed much more preferable to the knife except for a select few. But this individual had instead opted for a knife.

Suddenly standing up, she held the knife upwards, trying to see if the knife could behave differently than expected from visual analysis. Whatever the knife truly was, it was not just a knife – not simply a murder implement. She, while looking downwards, mused about what a rational conclusion could be….but it was beyond her knowledge at the moment. Gillian rummaged through the rest of the murder site as best as she could but found nothing except for leaves and some shockingly blue sunflowers. Suddenly, a subtle path seemed to form starting at the knife’s handle, leading away from the site. It was betrayed only by slight parting in the ground and a crushed plant, revealing human intervention.

5 Centimeters Per Second (Redux)

This story first appeared on this blog in September 2013. I have revised this story (rather heavily in some aspects) so that I could submit the piece for my university's literary magazine. There are two other creative writings being posted today that were also put forth for that end. In writing this story, I hoped to convey messages about myself, my disability, and the awesomeness of books.
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Today I visited Powell’s, a Portland bookstore famed for its size and variety of selection, including a book on Kurt Cobain’s life. I had been excited for quite some time to go there in a concerted effort to find 5 Centimeters Per Second, a book adaptation of a film very important to me. Instead of taking my manual wheelchair, I chose to walk, which was not an insignificant choice for me. I had to imagine myself as strong enough to get everything I wanted; exploration suddenly became very daunting. In the past, my legs were more capable of supporting my weight. Back in October 2012, as a sophomore at Oregon State University, my legs weakened due to overexertion caused by traversing the university’s gargantuan campus and my academic work. Today marks nearly one year after my setback, as the summer before my junior year dwindles.

 To most people who know me, “the past” is vague and means nothing. For years, I had so much trouble telling people that I have Becker’s Muscular Dystrophy, a neuromuscular disorder that weakens the leg muscles among other effects. In the winter of my freshman year at OSU, I went to a dance hosted by the Residence Hall Association of the campus. While there, I steadily grew weaker until my legs felt stiff - the classical sign for me to sit down and rest – but still I asked my friend to dance. I endured and enjoyed the dance, even though I had come very close to exceeding my limits. Feeling so exhausted, I collapsed into a chair to regain my strength. The next day my friend made a joke about my bad dancing but she felt very guilty after I told her about my disability. She responded by telling me I was actually good at dancing. I seem so normal upon first glance, so few would suspect that I have such a condition.

With this story in mind, one can see that I struggle with physical exertion, even though seeing me walk would suggest that nothing is wrong. Today I was able to walk farther and for longer than I could one year ago. Despite having to sit down quite often, I still managed to travel through the bookstore. Sitting down helps the fatigue but it accumulates much more easily for me than for other people. To and fro I walked, curiously examining my surroundings. For me, walking requires changing my gait to minimize stress on my legs; I walk with my feet relatively far apart to improve my balance. I found Powell’s especially challenging because of its labyrinth-like layout: staircases separated rooms with names like “Gold Room,” even if both rooms were on the same floor. The act of climbing a staircase, for me, is especially challenging because I tire so quickly. To make matters worse, I wanted to buy books from many different genres, requiring me to travel across the entirety of Powell’s. I spent a period of a couple hours gathering the books I wished to purchase. Feeling compelled to obtain a murder mystery novel, I grabbed And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie.  Then I acquired two Haruhi light novels – the first and fourth ones – and the first volume of the Oreimo manga.  Despite flagging strength, I was able to find my target: 5 Centimeters Per Second.  Having purchased these items, my journey was gifted with physical findings that I could take back with me. I had adventured through Powell’s, even though I had not taken my wheelchair.

I fancy myself strong of mind despite having below average endurance. Today, I had walked like a “normal” person while being aware of my fluctuating strength, urging nervousness. For someone who frequently uses a scooter and sometimes a wheelchair, I was mildly apprehensive, even though I enjoyed looking for the books I wanted to buy.  I drew from the strength of my mind and did not falter, hoping that in the end I could find everything I wanted. When it came time to leave, I panicked because I was at the back entrance, when I had agreed to meet my mom and sister at the front entrance.  I ended up, despite feeling anxious and sore from so much walking, traveling around the building to the front entrance where the car was parked. Feeling exhausted, I sat down in the car. Finally, I could just rest and not worry about my seemingly borrowed strength that was disappearing quickly. My mom and sister were frustrated that I had walked all the way to the front entrance but in the end I had arrived without too much suffering. In my moment of victory, I reviewed the books I had purchased.

Strength is such an abstract concept for me because I can easily become exhausted. I am strong enough to walk but quickly I must rely on adjusting my walking to avoid completely tiring out. I take pride in my intellect and value it over my physical weakness yet seeing many people walking around and checking out books without any problems is isolating. Through this experience, I had realized that my legs could once again firmly support my weight, offering me an abstract idea of confidence. I am glad, though, that I could truly adventure, a feeling I haven’t gotten in a long time.

Threnody

This poem, "Threnody", is a redux of a poem I wrote around five years ago for an AP English project. I have transformed the poem to make it more general and at the same time more impactful. (There was also some remaining "themes" I shoehorned into the project based on the themes we were studying - that is, transcendentalism.
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As breath exits my body,
I hang gently from the noose.

This night has opened my eyes,
and I shall never sleep again.

I see the gorgeous moon shimmering,
the owl soaring off into the distance over the frigid forest,
and the trees solemnly swaying in the slight breeze.

My spirit begins to separate from flesh,

and I am beckoned;

I know that my time swiftly approaches,
but I want a chance to truly say goodbye to the world.

I slowly drift up,
and now I take flight;
The night is my only companion as I grace its silver-coated skies,
and I can never return home.

The body, once house of the spirit, now holds no one,
and no one flees across the sky, beyond the moon,
then onto heaven.

The spirit is a curious thing: it is lonely,

lacking a physical existence;
I know that there is a light that never goes out, despite my end,
and a part of me still exists.

Death involves this slight tingle in the back of my mind,
that says I am dead; that the pain of losing life is gone,

Yet this separation from those I love is melancholy.

Heaven knows I am miserable now,
friendless and alone,
never once knowing what true love ever felt like,
only the cold, comforting grip of hatred.

Death does not end love,
but it makes existence excruciatingly bitter,
and now I see that this powerful emotion inside is not hatred nor is it even anger,

Somehow it is love I thought I never had. 

It never occurred to me

that perhaps I would miss being alive,

that this was all a mistake.

Now my spirit surpasses the clouds,
and the pathetic spirit looks over the houses,
much as the wise sentinel guards his domain.

Without thinking, I soar down to the ground,

hoping that I will find something beautiful:
instead I am reminded of my irreversible mistake;
Regret’s power slows my descent,
preventing me from returning to the world I had left behind.

I am now gone forever from anyone I ever loved,

I am invisible to them as if I never mattered,                                 

and there is the knowledge that the powerful love threatens to overwhelm me,

A wrenching feeling reminds me that I am alone;
No matter how much I wish these gaps would fill,
they remain forever open,
and now I am gone.

The Reverie of Artificial Intelligence

Part I: Artificial Intelligence and the Earth

One must wonder WHERE Artificial Intelligence (AI) fits into the subjects discussed on this blog. After all, Zeldaru only writes about social justice and music! Now, the idea of personhood is very interesting to me, which ties well into social justice and prejudices. If one wishes to oppress another, one can decry that other being’s humanity (or ability to be a person). Personhood is conventionally drawn around humans – especially a normed human who matches social expectations. Having written about including the Earth as conscious, I would say that we can include beings with artificial intelligence (i.e. robots) in a definition of personhood.  “Can The Earth Be Conscious”, an NPR article, mused about how perceptions of the Earth as itself living may fit into modern science. More exactly, the article discusses how the development of technology may cause the biosphere of Earth to evolve differently than normal. 

Adam Frank writes about the Noosphere, which he describes as a “global unity of consciousness” (Frank 2015) Thus the Noosphere contains the Earth’s biosphere attaining consciousness, not simply life. According to the article, Pierre Tielhard de Chardin made observations about the Earth transforming from a “dead planet to a world dominated by life,” which led him to coin the term Noosphere.  By creating the Internet and modern technologies, humanity is essentially creating a Noosphere, which is speculated to change the evolutionary pathway of the Earth (Frank 2015) . This result has implications for artificial intelligence, at least in my view. The growth of life on Earth by corollary suggests that robots (all instances of AI simplified to this being for this post) could attain both life and intelligence. 

Because robots are derived from humans, similarities can be understood in context of the “personhood” of robots. I work in a lab that is split into a “surgery” project and a “robotics” project. Though one side focuses on the organic and the other side focuses on the artificial, both work on, at least partially, improving the grasp. The surgery group utilizes human biomechanics to engineer a device to improve the hand grasp following hand surgery. The robotics section focuses on optimizing the grasp of a robotic hand, which is modeled after human grasping. Thus the two sections, though they diverge in methods, both ultimately share a common goal: improve grasping based on an understanding of human biomechanics. Thus, robots can be seen as coming from humans more directly. Another example is the similarity of a central nervous system found in humans and the means of creating intelligence and cognition in a robot; both systems require many electrical interactions. As the system complexity increases, “inconsistencies” develop, which leads an increase in intelligence for both humans and robots. My perception of AI is driven by my knowledge of biology and my experiences in my lab, though I have not formally read on the subject; therefore, a counter-argument may be present. 

Artificial Intelligence is employed practically to help persons with daily tasks, especially those with disabilities or are elderly, which frames robots in terms of existing to help other people. They work to perform their job and that’s the existence of their intelligence. As helpers, they are not thought of in a larger capacity as a person – not unlike how society views minorities, especially persons with disabilities. Thus, humanity is dampened. In many works of art, robotic beings seem to be polarized into either obedient to humans and unfeeling or evil-intentioned but still unemotionally. This former characterization is, as I stated earlier, reminiscent of disability to me. Being perceived as unable to feel emotions in a socially acceptable manner leads to exclusion, which impairs one’s quality of life. I am intrigued by the fact that some depictions of robots bear strong parallels to institutional cruelty. Dismissing someone’s emotions is cruel because it dismisses that person’s very existence. I would like to, using these conjectures, focus on Reverie (Figure 1) and Isla (Figure 2), from Key’s Planetarian and Dogakobo’s Plastic Memories respectively; these two works of art both feature robotic characters who earn the viewer’s empathy. (Note that there are substantial Planetarian spoilers in this post.)

Figure 1. Artistic depiction of Reverie the robot from Planetarian. She is an attendant for a planetarium, which has since fallen into disarray.

Figure 2. Artistic depiction of Isla from Plastic Memories. Though she appears human, she is a Giftia, which is an android. Like Reverie, Isla plays a role as a service robot.

One AV Club article asked readers to explain how they would teach a being with artificial intelligence about the human experience; this article naturally features recommendations of works of various that would be beneficial to this end (Handlen et. al 2015). Whoever is reading this blog post can (correctly) guess that I would probably consider having that robot interact with Planetarian or Plastic Memories, though the latter is a currently-airing show with only three episodes thus far. I must confess, therefore, that neither of these works of art gives me a lot to write about, at least in pure terms of plot.

Part II: The Reverie of Hoshino Yumemi
Hoshino Yumemi – Reverie – is an attendant to a now-decrepit planetarium, abandoned by the staff that left due to the onset of war years ago. Not just any war, but a full on nuclear war, the kind that must be evaded at all costs by civilians. The main character meets Reverie and is confused and irritated by this derpy robot that mistakes him for a customer – though feeling pestered, he decides to stay there. At least he could take advantage of free shelter. Reverie appears to either be a good method actor or simply a broken robot, the service robot almost exactly. She breaks some orders, supposedly in pursuit of her ultimate goal to be helpful to humans. Yet this action of breaking orders reflects some form of independent cognition, something beyond the stereotypical. 

As time goes on, though Reverie pretends to be stuck in a bygone era (30 years ago), she continues to think for herself, which is passed on as being broken. In her view, her ability to feel and think beyond that which was coded for is a defect, not something valuable. An undeniable hint of her humanity arises when she talks about Earth as her birthplace, though she is a robot; her tone of voice is quite proud, supporting this idea. And when she says that robots cannot dream, Reverie betrays sadness – thus, her brokenness exists due to her presence at the interface between “human” and “robotic” emotions. Then, after the main character has decided to leave the planetarium to return to his transport, Reverie escorts him, which provides the firmest evidence for her ability to think independently; her artificial intelligence can then be seen as organic. 

Through a gradual transformation, her depiction is shifted towards a three-dimensional personality through a series of minor events. Towards the end of Planetarian, Reverie is critically (fatally) damaged when she protects the main character from a mecha that surely would have destroyed him otherwise. Then she shares her memories, a feature considered to be a distinct component of the human central nervous system, which reveal that Reverie had pretended that the world had not changed. By diagnosing herself with a mystery bug that was undetectable by her diagnostic software, Reverie transformed herself into a broken being, one whose main purpose was to serve. This act is quite human because many people, myself included, have at some time felt that they had some invisible condition undetectable by doctors. When I was told by a cardiologist that my heart palpitations and chest pain were not immediately concerning, I still felt that something was (is) horribly wrong with me, which is quite like Reverie’s undetectable bug. 

Hoshino Yumemi’s response to the staff abandoning her to crumble along with the planetarium is of denial: she can pretend that customers will keep coming, even if they do not. By lying to her, the staff had unwittingly hurt her. In affirmation of her personness, the main character listens to all of her memories, despite impending danger still present; he takes her memory card, per her wishes, and vows to place her into a new body. To me, this makes Reverie a tragic hero but also someone very human and respectable, despite being comprised of inorganic materials. 

Part III: The Reverie of Isla
The ability to remember – both short-term and long-term memory – is considered vital to being a human being. For example, Chihiro Shindou from the Ef series has memory that resets every time a certain period of time is passed through – termed anterograde amnesia – so she has difficulty participating in society; verily, her condition is a disability in a clear-cut sense. To combat this repetitious loss of memory, she keeps a diary to remember exactly what happens every day. This condition was caused by an accident she suffered as a young child, meaning that her memory is patchy following the accident. 

Like many other aspects of the human condition, memory and learning has been normed in a particular manner. However, neuroscientists are starting to arrive at conclusions that seem contradictory with social perceptions of learning and are beginning to apply these conclusions to how the body processes information while learning (Chen 2014). Forgetting information, for example, is not solely bad and can help trim unnecessary information – in Chihiro’s case, her memory loss is severe and directly impacts her daily activities. Robots – at least as conventionally portrayed – cannot, however, gain the cognitive benefits from sleep that humans do; yet they have stronger memory in general, so this disadvantage is not strictly detrimental. Either way, memory is critically important, as can be seen through Chihiro, Reverie, and modern neuroscience. 

In Plastic Memories, the idea that Giftias (androids) retain their memories and personality for roughly 9 years before they must be “salvaged.” In other words, their cognition disintegrates like a biodegradeable polymer such as poly lactic acid or polyacetal. Tsukasa Mizugaki, recommended into SAI Corp. through connections, meets a teary-faced Isla in the elevator leading up to his new workplace. Isla turns around, sees Tsukasa, and her eyes open in shock. A few minutes later into Episode 1, Tsukasa learns that Isla is a Giftia; she is assigned as his partner for the collection of Giftias whose memories had disintegrated. Beforehand, she had served tea, reflecting her status as a stereotypical service robot (not unlike Reverie at first). When Tsukasa asks Isla if she remembers him, she nods her head,  reinforcing her ability to remember. Then the Tsukasa-Isla team gets to try out a few retrievals, which leads to a series of mishaps, including landing in a garbage heap (Figure 3)

Figure 3. Isla with a banana on her head, following falling into a garbage heap. Afterwards, the neighbors complained, which got her and Tsukasa in trouble with their immediate boss.

This image reflects Isla as very clumsy, which reduces her value as a service Giftia. At the same time, we see a sense of sadness (Figure 2) and frustration (Figure 3) from her, so clearly, despite non-human, she does feel complex emotions. Throughout Episode 1, Isla seems to consistently fail, which appears to undermine her ability to feel and have memory.  Therefore, we learn why Isla was restricted to serving tea instead of serving on a team: she is perceived as incompetent, so she is reduced to a role that is strictly in service to humans but without needing independent judgement. Her artificial intelligence, thus, need only be put towards simple tasks, not collecting retrievals.

Isla’s emotional struggles in her role are best visualized by her growing plants (Figure 4); in a sense, this activity is quite similar to Chihiro’s diary because both function as coping mechanisms.

Figure 4. Isla watering an array of colorful flowers as a break from her stressful work. She wears a downtrodden yet subtly sad expression that is mainly conveyed by her eyes.

After a day of failures, Isla likely feels defeated, which provides context to this scene where she waters flowers. Through this action, she can care for other beings and therefore function beyond simply a service Giftia. Throughout performing the activity, she wears a sad expression barely betrayed by her small frown and her downwards-directed expression. Therefore, this action provides a distraction from her stressful work. Isla’s disappointment with herself seems especially strong today, prompting Tsukasa and another SAI Corp employee to worry over her. By growing flowers to feel better, Isla conveys a familiar need of distraction in the face of some adversity; most people have a hobby that lets them deflect stress. For me, that would be blog-writing, though sometimes it requires high levels of effort. Yet, Isla wonders if her life would be better if she had no memory (Figure 5). 

Figure 5. Teary-eyed Isla pondering if she would be better off incapable of storing memories.

 Faced with certain defeat in her eyes, Isla wishes that she could just be a program that does not store memories. Reverie is solidified in her personness due to the power of her memories: these memories will be passed on in the form of a chip, highlighting their value. Such a desire amounts to losing personness, and by extension, access to the complex capability that is memory.   As I have described, the capabilities of memory and personality results from complex interactions associated with the CNS. Therefore, her wish to not store memories reflects a desire that she be stripped of personhood due to her melancholy feelings, that she has no purpose beyond assisting humans in the simplest manners. For example, I often frame my achievements and skills solely in context of helping other people and, in the process, often negate my own value; I can thus empathize with Isla in this situation.

What I have discussed in this essay can be boiled down to the crucial nature of memory – memory is tied into both learning and personality, playing a crucial role in cognition. The capacity to store memories is an essential part of personhood, or else a person would not be impacted by anything but immediate environment. Even though some people, like Chihiro, have trouble recalling, they still employ memory – that’s simply the poignancy of the CNS, which can overcome memory loss. Thus, one should not wish to lose their memories, or something inspirational. 

Works Cited 

Chen, Ingfei. "How does the brain learn best? Smart studying strategies." MindShift. KQED Inc. 25 Aug. 2014. Web. 19 Apr. 2015.
Frank, Adam. "Can The Earth Be Conscious?" NPR. 14 Apr. 2015. Web. 19 Apr. 2015.
Handlen, Zach, Jesse Hassenger, William Hughes, Becca James, Alex McCown, Josh Modell, Caitlin PenzeyMoog, Dennis Perkins, and John Teti. "How would you teach an AI what it means to be human?" A.V. Club. 17 Apr. 2015. Web. 19 Apr. 2015.
Planetarian. Key. 2004. Perf Daisuke Ono and Keiko Suzuki. Visual Novel.
Plastic Memories. Dogakobo. 2015. Perf. Sora Amamiya. Anime.