Let’s take it as written that sometime earlier today you discovered plausible evidence that you are a clone. What will it mean if it’s true? What if I am a clone?
As a clone your cells will not be your own — at least you will not be the original owner of the sacred DNA that dictates the construction of the physical you. That DNA will be borrowed from the real you — “You version 1.0”.
And if you are one of those scifi “pop into consciousness as a fully mature adult” type of clones, then all of your memories will be borrowed or manufactured. Since you are fresh out of the vat, those memories of running over grassy hills with your dog Rover have been injected from some source other than experience.
What a shocker. Here I sit with the sudden realization that all of my memories are not my own. They have been feed to me through a tube. Now I have a huge existential sissy-fit. But, why?
The scientists and med technicians that breed you in the pink goo are also running around with memories that do not belong to them. Only difference being, your memories were inserted into you through a tube and their memories were inserted by a system of intricate herd mythologies designed to socialize babies into functioning members of society. Function being measured by standards set by society.
I’m not advocating jumping on the anti-social bus — for two reasons. One, the anti-social bus is not outside the gang-bang called society — it is just another end of the same stick.Reason two: that is not the way out.
Back in 1969 I was caught in a human stampede at a concert. Criminally ignorant producers of the event opened twelve large flood gates which led down a wide corridor at the end of which was a single entrance to the auditorium. And, if you are wondering how I made the distinction between plain ol’ ignorant and criminally ignorant, these same producers announced over the PA (loud speakers) that seat numbers were no longer valid. It was first come, first served. This led to a massive all out rush for front row seating.
Twelve doors leading into a hall with one door to get out. A recipe for trampling in the hallway and if you manged to survive the rush you’d be crushed at the other end.
Fortunately for me, I had read something in a manual on handling emergencies that when caught in a rip-tide at the beach the best way to escape it was to swim to the side. I figured a hysterical crowd of running people was pretty much the same as a rip-tide. So I grabbed my friends and we “swam” to the side of the corridor and found a doorway in which to escape the rush. And, as luck would have it, this door also led into the concert auditorium.
The point being: swimming with a rip-tide will just take you out to sea, and swimming against the rip-tide will just exhaust you then drag you out to sea. The way to escape is to swim to the side. Find a direction that is not part of the inherent ebb and flow of the rip-tide.
Given that either my memories were fed into me through a tube during the cloning process or my memories were constructed by enforced cooperation with socialization scheme that does not have my personal best interest at heart, what is one to do? In my case, I have decided to swim toward the side of the social rip-tide. Are my political views mine because they represent who I am, or because they were formed by nature of my environment? Doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t view political views as something that is mine. Same goes for language, religion, favorite football team, or preferred movie actors and actresses. These are not mine. They are part of style and style is part of the current socioeconomic machine.
So what does belong to me? If I am a clone or a pre-programmed indoctrinated socially fit adult, what is me?
At the moment my answer to that question is: attention and presence.
My memories, opinions, and social programming can change with style. My attention and presence are outside the vagaries of the relative world. That is the doorway on the side of the corridor from which I choose to explore the landscape.