Consciousness as Form in the World

Published in The Philosophical Review of Perception and Mind.

Interviewer: In your essay Consciousness as Form in the World, you write that consciousness is not a thing, not a process, but “a rhythm between response and resistance.” That is a striking statement. Could you explain what you mean?

John Arthur Lewis Hillstierna: It may sound abstract, but I believe it is actually closer to lived experience than most theoretical accounts. When I speak of rhythm, I do not mean it metaphorically. I mean rhythm in the most concrete sense, as the shaping of time through interaction. Consciousness, as I see it, emerges in the form taken by this interaction, when something resists and yet answers.

Many philosophical models begin by assuming a division between subject and object, with a consciousness that somehow bridges the gap. I think that split is misleading. Consciousness is not something that bridges a gap. It is the form that appears when no gap has yet been imposed.

Interviewer: You use the word “form” where others might say “representation.” Are you rejecting the idea that consciousness is a representation of the world?

John: Yes, entirely. Not because representations are wrong, but because they are insufficient. A representation implies distance. It assumes mediation. But the kind of consciousness I attempt to describe arises before mediation. It is not about encoding the world. It is about the structure that holds the world in a certain rhythm of attention. When that structure becomes stable enough, we call it awareness.

Interviewer: Would you say that consciousness exists outside the brain?

John: I would say that the question itself assumes something I would challenge. To ask where consciousness is, as if it has a location, is already to misunderstand it. The brain supports patterns, yes, but it does not contain experience. The experience appears in the form, not in the organ. When a musician holds a tone and shapes its decay, what we witness is not a signal but a conscious act. The consciousness is not in the head. It is in the holding.

Interviewer: So consciousness is enacted?

John: Precisely. It is not housed, not transmitted, not stored. It is enacted. And this enactment requires form. Not any form, but one that sustains a kind of relational intensity. I believe we have over-intellectualized the problem. We think of consciousness as a problem to solve. I see it as something to hold, like a sculptor holds clay, or a singer holds a phrase. The world forms itself through that act of holding.

Interviewer: Your approach seems close to phenomenology, particularly the work of Merleau-Ponty.

John: There are certainly resonances. Phenomenology opened the door by bringing perception back to the body. But I want to move even further. I want to think of form itself as the origin of awareness. Not the body alone, but the shaping of relation. The gesture is prior to the perceiver. The rhythm is prior to the image.

Interviewer: Do you think this view could be tested in scientific terms?

John: Perhaps, but only if the questions change. Right now, most science treats consciousness as an object to be measured. But if we begin to look at the conditions under which forms become sustained and responsive, then we might begin to measure presence, rather than mere correlation. That would require new kinds of instruments, and not just technical ones. It would require new forms of thought.

Interviewer: Your vocabulary leans toward the poetic. Is that intentional?

John: Very much so. Poetry is not a retreat from precision. It is a different kind of exactness. Philosophers often fear ambiguity, but I believe that some forms of ambiguity are necessary to approach what is real. Poetry carries structure, but without violence. It shows how the world shapes itself in what we hold. That is also what consciousness does.

Interviewer: One final question. If consciousness is rhythm, then what is death?

John: A rhythm that no longer finds response. Or perhaps a rhythm that returns to silence without ceasing to shape. It may be that what we call death is not absence, but the passing of form into another register.