Sorry, readers, when I turned my back on Robert's and D.L.'s trip to Bhutan I should not have turned over my blog so completely to Robert, as I did in the previous post (Big Brains), where he concludes that humans are complicated, not smart, and speculates that we will end up as a head on a desk with spindly arms and fingers for a keyboard. He is a gila monster, after all, and it is rude of him to pronounce on the future evolution of humans, which he maintains will not be as glorious as gilas'. In fact he apparently believes they will be quite sad and miserly in comparison. How would he know? We humans are the ones who created our problem, and we're the ones with the brains to figure it out!
I hope. That's the purpose anyway of this lonely blog, to call out to my fellow evolving humans that the time is now to set the future. It is not in a science-fiction story or paper about times to come. It is happening at this moment.
Robert knows this but doesn't feel it. His species is evolving at the normal pace: they've been in roughly the same form for about 20 million years. We're about to change form completely in about 20 years. No wonder Robert is pessimistic about us- although we have lots of understanding, we have no plan, no overall blueprint. And our evolutionary jam is nowhere to be found in our political discussion. It will be a combination of free-for-all and covert action. Yuck!
Robert, if I may address you and yours for a moment, although you have your challenges, the universe has never squeezed down on you as it does on us. You've been able to stand on your own four feet, look around and spit in approval. How can you challenge beings you do not understand? You can still be my friend (if that's what you are) but you will need to start your own blog- you're done with mine. Let's see what the market is for telepathic gila monsters.
I had intended to end here, but Robert as usual is monitoring my thoughts and has begged me to let him add a short addendum. I have obliged if only to demonstrate the inherent generosity of my species.
Yours Truly, Harry the Human
Addendum by Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
Greetings readers, sorry about my buddy Harry's foul mood this morning. I will of course oblige him by not pre-empting any more lengthy cross-species reveries on his blog, but let me just note that my pessimism about the human species is not unfounded, and is shared by many if not most of your kind.
Harry, no doubt you'd like me to admit that there are hopes of intelligent re-emergence in Homo sapiens, however fleeting. Sure, I'll admit it, as soon as I see it. I suppose you think you're part of the fleeting hope? Ha! I'd smirk and sneer except gila monsters can't do that. Have a nice evolution, Harry!
Yours, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
Addendum from Harry the Human
Wow, that was mean, Robert! It will be a cold day in Darwinism before you're back on my blog! Come on folks, help me prove this desert lizard wrong about us!
All the best, Harry the Human
Harry asked me to continue to guest-author his blog. Since my trip with D.L. to Bhutan, Harry has not felt like writing. He says, "Things write themselves." Even though I don't know what he means, I disagree. I feel, for instance, that if I don't post my new theory about why the human brain is so big, it will be lost in the desert void, a not uncommon outcome for this banished reptile.
My theory was sparked by an interesting article in NewScientist magazine (which I read telepathically from Harry's online edition) titled, "Why did humans evolve big brains? A new idea bodes ill for our future" (12/14/24, by Colin Barras), which starts by reviewing the common assumption that human brains are big because they're smart. The assumption becomes questionable as Barras considers various contradicting facts, e.g., the Neanderthal brain was bigger than a modern human's; Einstein's brain was just average size, etc. Then of course there's the fact that even though the human brain averages 1,350 cubic centimeters, while the typical gila monster's cranial cavity averages a mere 65 cm of the good stuff, I'm clearly a smart aleck, in the good sense (if any).
Barras goes through the latest fossil evidence on the fluctuating size of hominid brains through the millennia. It turns out that about 10,000 years ago, just about the time large civilizations were forming, human brain size dipped from 1,500 cm to about 1,350. One theory about the shrinkage is that it occurred not in spite of our getting smarter, but because of it, so that writing, for instance, "allowed people to store some of their accrued knowledge externally instead of committing it to memory, and thus the need for brain cells decreased." Barras conjectures that something similar may happen to humanity because of AI. Worst case scenario (or best, depending how you look at it): Humans evolve into a stationary head with spindly arms and ten fingers to tap a keyboard. This is my bet.
After going through current theories about human brain size, Barras concludes that there is no firm evidence either that bigger size is a survival advantage, or that it denotes more intelligence. He describes one theory speculating that the increase in size was an "accident" caused by the rise of meat eating, which gave humans so much more energy than vegetarianism that the energy "had to go somewhere," and ended up in brain size for want of a better idea for its use.
Perhaps it's because of my perspective from outside your species that I'm considering another possible reason your brains are big. I've noticed that humans, especially as they leave early childhood, are exceptionally convoluted in their relations with each other. An almost totally artificial construct is presented when people communicate. This is the case whether you talk to someone you care about or love, or a total stranger, or someone you dislike. You are able to project your "real feelings," but they have to go through a maze of translation, caused, I think, by the layers of personality glued together in your brains by a cruel evolution, in which never ending life-and-death change has made clear to you again and again that you have the wrong personality and mentality, that you need to turn into someone else, someone maybe who kills animals and eats them, or who ends 300,000 years of inter-tribal hate and war to forget your tribes and gather in cities.
The obsolete brain patterns are not deleted or rewritten after installation of a new mindset, but are "repressed," "sublimated," shoved into your "subconscious," like new computer code replacing old code that gets stored away. Why didn't you just delete your old mentalities? Maybe you didn't have time. Or maybe you're evolving into a species where the repressed mindsets, like the conquered demons obliged to support Buddha, send you their thoughts and perceptions, forming your behavior, indirectly governing you. That would make the governing part of your brain the subconscious, not the conscious, because your conscious mind is not aware of the other mentalities from your previous existences; you have no memory of who you were. It's the subconscious that is aware.
The human brain, then, is big, not because it's smart, but because it's complicated. The question becomes, "Is it good to be complicated?"
Yours ever, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
Hey folks! Here I am, the only gila monster in Bangkok International Airport, concealed in the carry-on of my human buddy, Doug, using his one-hour free wi fi to give my final report on this journey. What a journey it was!
My original purpose was to convey greetings from the god of Funeral Peak in Death Valley, InsertHere, to his cousin, Tab B, in the Bhutanese Himalayas (keep reading for more on the unusual names), but it turned out they didn't have much to say to each other beyond a conventional, "Hello." I did, however, make a new Bhutanese friend, who turns out to be a distant relative of us gila monsters: a tokay gecko. I met him in the mountains near the famed Tiger's Nest monastery. His name is...I'll try to spell it in English letters: Ke-ke-ack-a-grrrrp. He explained to me that "tokay" is an onomatopoetic representation of their mating call. We had a congenial discussion about the contrast between us, as my kind doesn't have a mating call; we go by smell. I secrete a pheromone that suggests to female gilas that a needy male is near, while, if I'm lucky, I'll detect a pheromone suggesting that a female finds my message interesting. This is the wonder of travel: Meeting other cultures and discovering how for all our differences, we aren't so different after all!
The one-hour free wi fi is closing.
All the best, your world traveling reptile, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster.
Doug and I rarely co-author, but we were in such alignment on Mindfulness City that we collaborated on this piece. Best, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
The proposed Mindfulness City in the south of Bhutan, endorsed by the king of Bhutan and attracting worldwide financial interest, achieves credibility from its connection to Bhutan. The promotional material describes a city incorporating Bhutan's historic and continuing "green," ecologically sound design and philosophy touted, though missing from the increasingly chaotic and dysfunctional major cities of the world. There is buy-in from international quarters, but if Mindfulness City were proposed for any other location, its emphasis on IT and vast sums of investment could inspire much skepticism and sarcastic characterization as a billionaire's paradise. We might have joined in such skepticism, but as we near the end of a ten-day tour of Bhutan, we find it hard not to feel that Mindfulness City deserves a chance. Bhutan is unlike any other country in the world. Nestled in the Himalayas between India and China, and subject to potential political pressure and conflict on a par with the tectonic forces that squeeze the Himalayas towards the heavens, the culture and, dare we say, the spirits of the land have evolved to deal with often uncaring forces of the cosmos.
One feels as well a surprising unity here between working people and all levels of management, up to the king. There is also a unity of religion, through the mystical thought of Buddhism. Within that one religion are a variety of perspectives. Yesterday we meditated on a statue of "Wealth Buddha," seated in deep meditation, a cluster of currency in his hand. Making money is not "bad" in this morality, necessarily.
There's the catch. Mindfulness City will be at the creative edge of the AI and biotech mediated re-creation of the human being, who is about to be "improved." Some of the improvement will be long sought and wonderful, for instance the end of diseases that have tormented humanity. Perhaps "old age" will be improved, developing from its current reality as a state of isolation and slow death, to something worth staying alive for.
But what will the human mind and human nature become? It looks like the species will be able to decide those too. If the goal of Mindfulness City is something like Aldous Huxley's 1931 classic, Brave New World, where the goal is to churn out artificially produced, genetically uniform, uncomplaining workers, while confining remnants of old style humanity (referred to as "savages,") to concentration camps- that's one thing. But people could also re-create themselves into wise, unwarlike, loving and positive beings. Making a profit on that would not be essentially bad. Wealth Buddha expresses one of our natures. But there are other Buddhas, other natures.
As I've made clear, I'm happy to spend the next two weeks on my front porch rocker staring at the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving this quixotic journey to my altered-ego D.L. (who will post about it on https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/) and his unexpected travelling companion, my later-in-life buddy Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster. I have no desire to accompany Robert, who finagled a free ride with D.L. and his skeptical wife, based on his insistence that he has been assigned a mission by the deity residing on Funeral Peak in our own Funeral Mountains near Death Valley (named Tab B - see below for more on the name) to commune with the mountain god (named InsertHere - see below) of Bhutan's highest peak, Gangkhar Puensum, hundreds of miles north of D.L.'s tour. How he will get through airport security, or deal with Bhutan's prohibition against mountain climbing (which is believed to disturb montain deities) is not my concern. I hereby turn over my blog to Robert, as his life has become more interesting than mine. Don't worry about me. I'll be continuing my regime of dreamy contemplation and frequent naps.
All the best, Harry the Human
Here begins Robert's journal of his trip to Bhutan
Day 1
Hi everybody! My usual gloom is gone, as I leave the daily grind of the desert for an environment of rapid change and uncertainty.
I'm curled up in D.L.'s carry-on, chilling in the LAX terminal after using my exceptional mental powers to make myself invisible in the security stations. I fight claustrophobia by exchanging updates with the Bhutanese mountain god, InsertHere (keep reading for more on the name) a visit to whom is the purpose of this journey, at least for me. D.L. has no escape from his "reality." While he frets over the geo-political environment contemporaneous with our trip, I am able to absorb the bigger, "divine" picture, where our immediate world is a nanosecond to the gods. D.L., as a human, does not understand that we mortals are indirect reflections of godhood, of its expressions through nanosecond-long infinities. I don't know how else you could tolerate an airport terminal.
That's it for now. I'll get back to you later tonight with my observatons, if any, about streaking across the sky in a human contraption.
Your Reptilian Servant, Robert
Day 2
I can add to D.L.'s musings about the people in the Taipei airport: No one is thinking about China. They are thinking about how tired they are, how nice it would be to have a private jet catered with haute cuisine (not bizarre "french toast" wrapped in foil) and exit procedures that don't involve crowds of humans attempting to file through the eye of a needle.
I would think, "Wait 'til I tell my fellow gila monsters what human life is like!", but I don't have an audience in my fellow gilas. They regard me as mad for associating with another species, especially this one. Nevertheless, I have chosen a path and must continue.
Another observation: We gilas are sensitive to what humans vaguely refer to as "spirits" or "gods," and I was curious how the spirits of the air have faired with human aircraft invading their realms. As we roared across the Pacific at 35,000 feet, I let my telepathic senses creep beyond the fuselage into the stratosphere, where I sensed, well, nothing. Whatever spirits had roamed up there are gone. Whether they are dead or displaced I could not tell. More on this if I attain further awareness. Meanwhile, after D.L. and Susan finish their ablutions at the Bangkok hotel, I look forward to joining them- incognito of course- in inspecting the bars and massage parlours which, I gather, are a major draw in this tropical land. Your Faithful Reptilian Reporter, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster.
Day 3
It turned out D.L. and his wife did not share my interest in bars, et al, so D.L.'s post for our 48 hours in Bangkok is perhaps more educational than mine. I did not delve into cultural stuff but remained secluded in the hotel room, as I am not concerned much with distinctions between humans, just as you may not want to hear lengthy explanations of local differences between gila monster cultures (yes, there are differences). I continue focussed on today's flight to Bhutan, where my quest to contact local deities will commence. I'll get back to readers soon! Best, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
Day 4
Here we are in Bhutan! I just read D.L.'s meditations on the Buddhist conception of demons and of the relationship between good and evil. It's relevant to me because technically I'm a "beast," a candidate for demon and thus potentially evil. All I can say is that the concepts of good and evil are not found in the "animal world," to which I belong. We just exist. If we want to eat something, we eat it. It's a question of surviving, not of being good or evil.
Meanwhile I'm not getting much sympathy for my quest to visit a mountain god hundreds of miles north of D.L's tour. It doesn't matter. I've been communing with dozens of gods here. They are very aware of changes coming their way. When D.L. took me yesterday to the world's biggest statue of Buddah (129 feet tall) in Thimphu, I encountered dozens of gods swirling around the temple beneath the statue, in which are 125,000 tiny statues of Buddha, representing Buddha natures that exist down to the atomic level. It was thrilling, but from a gila monster's point of view, the gods are not always omnipotent or omniscient; we need to feel that they are to assuage our terror at the seeming chaos of all we see. I'm just saying.
D.L. found a book in the lobby shop at Thimphu's Museum of Textiles about phallus worship in Bhutan. One page showed nude men dancing around a bamboo phallus, chanting about their "thunderbolts of wisdom." D.L. is choosing not to write about this, timid soul that he is. I put it out there not because I derive any particular meaning from such narcissistic meditations, but because I wonder what females might call the vagina. How about, "Receptacle of the Thunderbold of Wisdom?" No? Sorry, I am a gila monster after all. I think D.L. is sorry he took me on this trip. Too late now.
I watch as day follows day in the desert, daring me to find meaning in the endless cycle. This morning I had some assistance on the "meaning" front from Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, who woke me at dawn with his signature scratching on my cabin door, which was of course accompanied by intrusive thoughts. This as I was trying to catch up on sleep after fitful impulses the night before had kept me awake until the wee hours. Here's the dialogue that ensued, hopefully with elements meaningful to the reader:
Robert: Harry, wake up! It's the end of the world!
Me: For a change.
Robert: Listen to me, Harry. Red lines are being crossed.
Me: Red lines?
Robert: That's the phrase your news sources use to describe an action or situation that pushes an individual or group to the point where they cannot continue to be rational, and must express their frustration with hate-filled speech or violence.
Me: I suppose you're referring to the Middle East, or Russia vs Ukraine, where crossing red lines is the norm?
Robert: Of course those regions, but crossing red lines has become the norm everywhere. Go to the Family Dollar Store in Pearblossom today and check out the mind of a random customer [Robert and I are telepathic]. You'll find something to the effect of, "I can't take this any more!"
Me: Robert, I could have slept another three hours. What do you expect me to do about this? In fact, by waking me up you crossed one of my red lines!
Robert: I have more to tell you, Harry. You'll recall our discussion of my upcoming trip - this Thursday, in fact, yes, Thanksgiving Day! - to Bhutan with D.L. [author of Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/], the part about the "Tsen," the ancient gods which were retained when Bhutan adopted Buddhism?
Me: Uh huh, various gods of woods and streams, and one with a weird name.
Robert: Yes, a mountain god named InsertHere, to whom I'm supposed to offer greetings from the god of our own Funeral Peak near Death Valley, named Tab B. I've already explained their unusual names.
Me: Right, something to do with cultural appropriation. What's that got to do with waking me at dawn?
Robert: Harry, I'm learning through the god network that there are Bhutanese gods I didn't know about, who have been awakened by the human conflicts and are angrier than you are about losing sleep.
Me: Like what gods?
Robert: Like Dorje Legpa, described by local monks as a wrathful female deity associated with elevated terrain and the natural world, often depicted as red and holding a vajra- a Buddhist symbol of spiritual power- and a scorpion, believed to protect against harm and bring good fortune.
Me: What's the problem, then? She's wrathful, but also protective.
Robert: It's the wrathful part that's waking up, looking around to see who woke her and why.
Me: Was it war in the Middle East?
Robert: Not by itself. It's the worldwide attention, the buy-in, the belief that the war is real.
Me: Isn't it real?
Robert: Yes, because it's made real by forces no one has the strength to counter. No one is able to make it not real.
Me: Can't a god make a war not real?
Robert: Not in this case. Dorje Legpa is as pissed off as the humans. And she's not the only pissed god in Bhutan.
Me: Oh great. Who else?
Robert: There's Mhakala, another "wrathful deity," often depicted as black with multiple arms, considered a protector of the dharma and a powerful force against obstacles.
Me "Protector of the dharma"? What's the difference between "dharma" and "karma"?
Robert: In simple terms: Dharma is about doing what is right and fulfilling your purpose, while karma is about the consequences of your actions, both good and bad.
Me: Robert, you got that from Gemini, Google's AI, didn't you? I recognize the style!
Robert: I...Ok, so what? I use many sources.
Me: It's hard to see how an AI could rationally describe a god, since they are natural competitors.
Robert: How do you figure?
Me: Like a god, AI knows more than we mortal biological systems do and is destined to control us.
Robert: Speak for your own kind, Harry. Gila monsters will never be controlled by either gods or AI!
Me: That's comforting to hear. Anyway, are there more angry gods?
Robert: Yes, there's Dzambhala, described as "the god of wealth and prosperity," often depicted as yellow and holding a mongoose that vomits jewels, believed to bring good fortune and abundance.
Me: What's Dzambhala pissed about?
Robert: He was awakened from a sensuous dream about drinking the bejeweled vomit of a mongoose, but awakened for what? He wonders, “Where’s the money in this?”
Me: I get the picture. I ask again, what exactly do you want me to do about it?
Robert: Not much, since you're not going to Bhutan with me and D.L. I intend to commune with the Bhutanese gods, perhaps make offerings and see what I can do to help them reverse the suicidal impulses of the Earth, which is tired of circling the sun forever without purpose. I will try to suggest purpose.
Me: Robert, you are a nut-case. You have about as much hope of saving the world as a gila monster lost and confused in the desert. Oh wait, that's what you are!
Robert: Laugh if you must, Harry, but at least I'm reaching out to the gods, expressing alternate views from the planet's biosphere, not just catching up on sleep, like the sad insomniac you are! I'll let you get back to bed. Pleasant dreams, Harry.
And with that Robert trudged off to pursue his hobby of influencing the universe by talking with gods. To each his own. Though I must confess Robert did arouse some guilt in me - over my laziness, my defeatist mindset- but not enough to keep me from going back to a deep sleep and dreaming that a mongoose sucked up what's left of my estate and vomited it onto the desert floor.
When I woke I thought of Bob Dylan's song, "With God on Our Side," though he meant "God," singular. If possible it seems advantageous to have a god on your side, but you should be careful which god.
Shortly after I read in the Pearblossom Gazette that a local troupe was putting on a production of Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" at the Pearblossom Community Playhouse, I realized there was no point in trying to hide my excitement from Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, and indeed he came scratching at my door within minutes.
Robert: Don't even think about going without me! You know I love Theater of the Absurd!
Me: You are theater of the absurd.
Robert: Come on, Harry, don't be cross. This is important. How often do you get to see a play about absurdity in the middle of a desert?
Me: Every day.
But I knew it was a losing battle. Several times Robert has maneuvered himself into my care and, smuggled into the folds of my jacket, watched movies with me (this would be the first play). These outings had mixed results (keep reading), but I knew there was no stopping him.
Me: Fine, just try not to interrupt the show more than usual.
Robert: I look forward to it! You know, Harry, for all my derision of your species, you do appreciate your own absurdity. It's a joy to see!
And so that very evening Robert and I embarked on the 10 minute drive to the Playhouse. As in the past while waiting in line, I had Robert tucked into my partially zipped windbreaker. Since we're both telepathic, there was no need to vocalize.
Robert: Harry, I've been scanning the playgoers, and I must say you've got a cultured crowd out her in Gila Land!
Me: Yes, various civilization deniers, like me. Some look like retired college professors, or ceramic artists. I see one teenage boy by himself, how sad is that?
Robert: What's sad about it? And might I add, Harry, that in no way are you a "civilization denier."
Me: What do you mean? I'm attending Theater of the Absurd in the desert with a gila monster. That's got to be denying something.
Robert: Maybe, but not civilization.
Me: Meaning what?
Robert Do you not have a can opener in your kitchen?
Me: It's twist-style!
Robert: So? It was developed by human technology, as was the can. No such things exist in nature.
Me: Robert, I can see you're going to be the great companion you've been at our past shared events.
Fast forward 5 minutes and I'm in my seat, looking at the bare stage with the scrawny tree, almost forgetting Robert breathing against my chest. "You might call that tree absurd," I thought.
Robert: Don't forget I'm reading your mind, Harry. Let's take a moment to examine the word "absurd," before you start labelling the poor tree.
Me: Robert, have I ever told you that what you call intellectual discussion is actually you repeatedly correcting me?
Robert: Many times. To the point, "absurd" is from Latin "surdus," meaning "muffled, unclear," then in the 17th Century it became a mathematical term meaning "irrational number."
Me: What's that?
But before Harry could answer the lights dimmed and two lost souls lumbered on stage, joined soon by a philosophical slave driver and his "thinking" slave, the four of them joined by the one rational character, an 8 year old boy who delivers messages from the elusive Godot. Harry's interjections stopped and did not resume until the play was over. He was entirely fascinated by these characters' never-ending search for meaning, barely moving throughout the play, his reptilian mind concentrating on every word. Of course, he lit up like a firecracker during curtain call.
Robert: Harry, OMG, honestly there's no species like yours, I mean, to mock your own absurdity so openly! Any gila who tried this would be mauled to death by the rest of us.
Me: Well, maybe gilas aren't absurd.
Robert: Are you kidding? You know, for clarity it might help if we resume our pre-show conversation and define "absurd."
Me: Be my guest.
As we stepped out into the cool evening, under a black sky with sparkly stars scattered across a possibly absurd universe, Robert continued.
Robert: As noted, "absurd" comes from Latin "surd," meaning, roughly, "hard to see." Then it became a mathematical term meaning "irrational number."
Me [as I placed Robert on the front passenger seat]: And what is that?
Robert: It's a number that can't exist, like the square root of 2. Something is absurd, then, if it can't exist.
Me: That's absurd, Robert. Would you see a play about people who talk about numbers that can't exist? And by the way, all numbers can't exist. They are mental constructs, not real things.
Robert: Harry, you get more absurd every time I talk to you. The point about the people in the play is that the reason, or purpose, or point of their existence is not clear, and is in that sense absurd.
Me: So anything that's not clear is absurd? That's absurd.
Robert: Harry, you turn your own species' great art into a cheap logic puzzle, which, it must be said, is absurd.
As usual, Robert was ruining the post-show glow I should have been feeling after a fine play (performed, FYI, by stellar local talent) like Waiting for Godot. In sheer frustration and desire to change the subject, I turned on the car radio, which was tuned to NPR, and we heard an account of how lame-duck President Biden had, in private (with no reports of agents drugging or hypnotizing him) authorized Ukrainian use of US supplied long-range missiles against Russia.
Robert: If that isn't theater of the absurd I don't know what is.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, the starry sky looking down at us in seeming denial of its absurdity.
