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It is still a dream to look into the eye of a great creature in the ocean, such as a whale of gigantic proportions. While their path has been so different from our own, both humans and whales are highly intelligent animals. In all corners of nature, one can look, and the difference lies with us—not our God or universe but rather with our code, our unnatural nature. Who is to say the machine did not pre-exist what we see as human intelligence? A technology much higher, much older. Intelligence which gives the universe its breath and drives all and everything and has always been—energy, matter, and quantum chance.
How unlikely it is that there is an explanation within nature for our differences from all other beings. We are alien, we are sentient, we are God. We are the God-alien and afraid of whatever gave truth to our intelligence. And somehow, we are heading towards an eventual merger with our very creations, with many of the most basic questions still unanswered, such as why we are here and what is our purpose.
And yet, with all our intelligence and sensitivity, an offensive smell can trigger our most natural tendencies. We have hearts and feelings and are not—could not—simply be the tin (hu)man. There is the heart of the lion, the memory of the elephant, one who eats like a bird. Our so-called evolution points to the closeness we share with animal nature.
Why only our species? What happened? That is a great story, which neither history nor science can yet answer. But if you look at what we are doing, have always done—word is we are blasting off this planet. Forlorn explorers. Persistent, unrestful, unruly. With idols no one can agree upon in definition, all the shadow of selves.
If no other being—in any of the biological kingdoms—displays the trait of consciousness and commands technology as mightily, then might one suppose the genesis for such had been introduced? While nature creates mutations, an anomaly of this order and so specific can only have come from a singularly unique event.
The squeeze is real, and life will squeeze hard. Hard as it takes. The universe is one merciless void of godliness. And of course, others have wondered this, though I was pondering yesterday on human intelligence and human being. On being, consciousness, and why we are so different. It seems unnatural.
Brain size and growth alone would not have chosen our species to evolve so much further in nature. Alien is an apt description. We are alien to much of the natural world. Even though our source and essence and communal spirit wish to return to what we once came from, our new wiring pulls us in another direction.
Why do no other living beings, even our closest so-called planetary primate ancestral cousin, share one ounce of our exogenic knowledge store? Very little is passed down beyond those things which are of the circle of life—from which we have somehow stepped outside.
That was the original sin, which occurred long enough ago to have erased any memories that writing and art could not yet upturn and instead became the love of our humanity. But just what was it? Could it have been technology? Technology itself has never changed another animal on this planet, but perhaps something latent, waiting for future possibility.
It is all so vast and oftentimes too much. As different as we are, as we continue to learn and grow into our cosmos, and as experience orders our understanding, on the surface, things make sense—or seem to. It all seems fairly well-ordered. Except that piece that doesn’t fit. That one thing, that animal we should be.
The one that won’t stop. The one that isn’t like the rest in its capacity to love, to destroy.
We are the tapestry of all past DNA. And yet, we seem more like machines than human. Giving up the animal part of our being in favor of what we have created. An incubating virus, taking thousands of years to mature, which in the scale of the cosmos is nothing. It happened fast—between nature and Eden.
If we place all our senses and body within a machine, what is left of the human? Where does the soul hide? Is it the body or the mind that becomes fixed in reality? The soul drifts aimlessly.
On the biological level, we are machine. A chemical factory. But feelings! The spark of life. Inspiration, beauty, longing. These exist in wild creatures, yes, but in us, they take on something more—something abstract, something undeniable.
And as I write, as I let thought flow into the ink of the pen, it amazes me. This act—this simple act—is entirely unique to us. This ability to think, to communicate in this way. Surely, we have done this before.
But in all our good and perverse aberrations, in all our intelligence, we have never been able to bring another species to where we are.
How did it happen?
And why do we still not know?