Millipede Mound—Part 2

Now back to the mystery of why this particular arthropod ascended my pyramid. It occurred to me that this critter may have been drawn upwards by some urge it did not fully comprehend. After all, pyramids are reputed to possess inexplicable powers. Maybe those powers spoke to a lowly ground-groveling insect and promised it a transcending experience, if it only could ascend the formidable hill? Egypt's pyramids were built to serve as majestic tombs for the pharaohs. They were oriented so as to soak up the sun's rays at dawn; the eastern face becoming brilliantly illuminated, to literally lift and point the pharaoh's spirit towards heaven, riding the sunbeams heavenward.

Did my millipede make its last climb in an attempt to become immortal, like the ancient pharaohs? And what did it do, after struggling to reach the summit? Was it disappointed or devastated that there was no higher place to go? Once up there, all paths led down, but maybe it was not ready to accept that form of disillusionment. Unable to accept its failure, maybe it curled up there and dozed of or simply gave up the ghost?

Or maybe my millipede had been talking to nearby caterpillars, which are also critters who often crawl around on the ground. Caterpillars know that, if they conduct themselves properly, one day they will be released from their earthly prison, as they morph into a butterfly. The butterfly elders have told the young caterpillars that one day they will be free to soar through the heavens, far above their terrestrial woes—fully liberated and unshackled from their earthly bonds. Drunk on the hope that it too might take wing, did my millipede delude itself into climbing my pyramid seeking such freedom?

For a possibly deeper understanding, let's return to the powerful energies that pyramids reputedly possess. I'm not conversant with these powers, so I engaged in an internet search. Pyramid powers, according to believers, are magical. According to some websites I visited, the energy field of a pyramid can preserve food, sharpen razor blades (whoa!), improve one's health, trigger sex urges, and function as a “thought-form incubator.” Amazing! These beliefs are collectively called pyramidology.

Some master pyramidologists even claim that the Great Pyramid at Giza has inscrutable hieroglyphics that predicted (1) the exodus of Moses from Egypt, (2) the crucifixion of Jesus, (3) the start of World War One, (4) the founding of the modern state of Israel, and many more events. Furthermore, some pyramidological accounts claim that pyramids (1) were built by extra-terrestrials, (2) possess supernatural powers, (3) have measurements with esoteric significance that contain coded messages, and (4) possess countless other stunning qualities.

One website claimed that a pyramid “resonates various energy fields;” that its shape is “an amplified receiver.” It went on to claim that inside the pyramid the received energies then interact with each other, to create a three-dimensional spherical field, like “a globe of harmonic vibrations.” What's more, this website alleged that pyramid energy “is a life-giving force called bio-cosmic energy,” which allows the pyramid to become a kind of “cosmic antenna that tunes into vast energy sources, receives energy, and changes itself into a magnetic field.” Wow!

At this point my mind became numb from all these wonderful, entrancing, and magnetic revelations about pyramids. It made me deliriously happy that I had constructed my own enchanting pyramid. I can't wait to reap all the blessings of my own “cosmic antenna.” In the meantime, I'm puzzled by the immobilized millipede still squatting at the summit. Does it know something I don't? Has it received the “harmonic vibrations” of the gods and is it pointing the way toward a kind of immortality for me too?

Postmortem: In a day or two my millipede was gone. Had it ascended to bug heaven? Had it transformed into an ethereal creature? Had a breeze blown it away? Yet one more mystery that will likely remain unfathomable for me.

Millipede Mound—Part 1

Shortly after completing my 1:250 scale model Khufu pyramid (the Great Pyramid at Giza), I found a millipede curled around its peak. I was startled to see it there. Millipedes do not normally seek heights. They grovel around in the dirt or hide under stones, eating dead plant material. What was this guy doing, poised way up on the peak of my pyramid?
What had inspired it to climb the mighty pyramid—some 30 times its size, something equivalent to a human scaling an eight-story building? Was it seeking enlightenment? Was it compulsively drawn by the mystical power of my pyramid?

A day or two went buy and the millipede did not move. Was it still alive? Had it clambered up Mount Pyramid, only to expire at the summit? The mystery deepened. I have heard of pyramidical cults that perpetuate the belief that pyramids possess perplexing powers and energy fields. Had this millipede succumbed to my pyramid's mystical powers? Had it somehow been compelled to ascend the structure, seeking some kind of release from its mundane, muddy existence?

And had it really expired, or was it being held in suspended animation by the pyramid's magical energy field? Was it maybe now marinated at the peak, rather like a pharaoh's mummy—preserved for posterity?

I felt driven to understand this phenomenon better, so I engaged in some internet searches on millipedes. These critters are an arthropod (an insect with a jointed body, with two or more legs on each joint). It is closely related to the pill millipede—or sow bug—which is much smaller, and rolls into a ball when frightened or threatened (looking like a pill). The millipede is slow moving and defends itself by its noxious smell and bright color.

How does one distinguish a millipede from a centipede? No it's not 1,000 versus 100 legs, but (1) a centipede moves much faster (my millipede was extremely slow), (2) it is carnivorous (whereas a millipede eats rotten vegetation), and (3) centipedes have only two legs per segment, rather than four. Thank goodness; now I know I don't have to count hundreds of legs to tell them apart.
More on millipede heaven next time...

Millipede at Pyramid Peak

I found this millipede curled up on the peak of my pyramid. The bottom photo is a closeup. Click to enlarge.

Tetrahedral Tombstone

We all know about the Egyptian pyramids—those tetrahedral tombstones built to house the great pharaohs' bodies, preserved as mummies in perpetuity. For well over four thousand years the Great Pyramids of Giza have fascinated people. They are magnificent engineering feats that were included in every list of the ancient world's wonders. All the other wonders have vanished, while the pyramids endure.

I recently took an online course from Harvard University, on the Pyramids of Giza. The experience inspired me to construct my own pyramid—a 250^th scale model of the Pyramid of Khufu, which is also known as the Great Pyramid at Giza. Here are a few impressive geometric facts about this largest Egyptian tetrahedral tombstone: It is 481 feet (147 m) tall. That's equivalent to nearly the height of a 50-story building! The length of a side is 755 feet (230 m). That's equivalent to two and a half American football fields long! It is a perfect tetrahedron—that is, its faces are four equilateral triangles, and was built up using over 2.5 million stone blocks. That's pretty impressive!

The course noted that the origin of the idea for Egyptians to build pyramids came from the small, pyramid-shaped mounds of mud left behind, when the Nile River flooded each year. The flooded Nile was literally worshiped as a life-giving phenomenon, so its leftover mud deposits took on a mystical quality. Eventually, some ancient pharaohs began building geometric structures inspired by the mud mounds. The first few did not do well. Some were later torn down (or collapsed), and some had their design modified during construction, in attempts to make them stable. Finally the architect Hemiunu designed and oversaw the building of the largest pyramid for Pharaoh Khufu—built nearly 4600 years ago. The accuracy with which these tombs were built is astounding. Their longevity is astonishing.

I became inspired by the Giza Pyramids, and decided to build my own great pyramid, out of mortar (mixing cement, sand, and lime). It would be a 1:250 scale model—that is, 250 times smaller than the original. So the 481 foot tall Khufu's pyramid scaled down to a height of 23 inches (60 cm), with a side about 36 inches (90 cm) long. I would not try to build my pyramid from a couple million stone blocks as the original, but by constructing a wooden mold, and then filling it with mortar. I'd cast it while it lay on its side, and then tip it up into place.

The Great Pyramid at Giza is much more than a solid pile of stone—its interior is riddled with tomb chambers, passageways, and shafts of air that point toward the sky. Some of these chambers were hidden, but robbers excavated and stole many burial artifacts from several of the pyramids.

My 1:250 copy of Khufu's tetrahedron also has its secret chambers—in the form of bottles and cans that I immersed in the mortar, in order to decrease its potential weight from over 800 pounds (370 kg) to something about half that. Otherwise, tipping it upright would have been more of a job than I wanted.

I found that my engineering and construction skills paled in comparison to Egyptian architect Hemiunu. Maybe I can take solace in the fact that the design and construction of my pyramid required but a couple of weeks, rather than the more than 20 years for Khufu's. I discovered a few complicating factors that I'd not expected, although probably far fewer than those ancient Egyptians encountered.

So now I have my own cementaceous tetrahedron—even if it's just a tomb for trash. Will it acquire some of the mystical powers reputed to be possessed at Giza? I may have to wait a millennium or two, to find out. I possibly have a mysterious energy field already, however. The next couple of blog postings describe what has happened.

My Cementaceous Pyramid

Bottom photo: Interior, on its side, showing empty containers.
Top photo: Completed pyramid.
Click to enlarge.

Curtailed Cognition—Part 2

Let's return to humanity's dumbing down because of air pollution. What long-term consequences may result, if we do little to clean up our air? We already know that modern humans are dumber than our Cro-Magnon ancestors, who roamed Earth tens of thousands of years ago. Well, maybe not necessarily dumber, but their brains were at least 10% larger than ours. They probably needed to be smart in their environment, which had many more threats than ours. Today we don't need their smarts, because we've tamed our world. We no longer have to deal with the large predators they faced, or, for most of us, the threat of food shortages.

It's a fact that evolution kicks in when environmental circumstances change. Species adapt when their environment transforms. The brain is a very expensive organ to maintain. In humans, it sucks up some 30% of the energy we generate. If we can decrease the size of our brain and not suffer any consequences—say, because we live in a less risky world—then it makes sense for evolution to do so. All of humanity's domesticated animals—cattle, sheep, pigs—are dumber than their wild counterparts. Through breeding we've made them safe and tame...and less intelligent.

So an argument can be made that today we do not need the smarts we once did. In fact, you don't have to look far into modern culture for ample evidence that many people do not use all that much of their cognitive abilities anyway. So let the brain deteriorate a little; it doesn't require much intelligence to veg out on the couch in front of the TV, or compose 140-character Tweets.

There's yet another reason why we could let our cognition curtail a little, without suffering the consequences: our rapid development of artificial intelligence (AI). We already have computers that are far smarter than we are at certain narrowly-defined tasks, such as chess—let alone all the lightning-speed calculations they do. We soon may develop what's called artificial general intelligence (AGI), which will outsmart us in most every area. We can get dumber and dumber and live easier and easier, thanks to robots. It makes me wonder if we will one day willingly enter the Matrix, where we do nothing but live in our heads. Matrix living is the ultimate easy “life.”

Will your average person even care if his cognition is curtailed? Studies have shown that the actual amount of money that one makes is not nearly as important as how it compares to his neighbor's earnings. Keep his salary low and he won't complain, if his cohorts are making the same; but give his neighbor a raise and he'll howl loudly and long. So, if everyone is as dumb as everyone else, will it matter to anyone?

Nobody knows where this is going. We can't predict the future. What's more, we seem to be disinclined to do much about it, even if we can see the threat. It's so much easier to maintain the status quo... it's much less demanding.

A final question that speaks to me: Which is more important, to keep my brain from deteriorating any more, or fully use the cognitive power I've got? It is a shame to own a fine musical instrument, but never develop the skill to play it. Is it instead maybe better to own a mediocre instrument that I've learned to play well? It seems to me that many people already squander much of the cognitive capability they possess.

Sunset

Sun setting over the far ridge. Click to enlarge.

Curtailed Cognition—Part 1

The results of recent research by Yale University on a population of 20,000 Chinese people over the time span of 2010-2014 is very sobering, because the study is the first to demonstrate that air pollution reduces one's cognitive ability. We've known for decades that air pollution is physically damaging to our lungs, but now the physical damage to the brain has also been shown. Our intelligence is being threatened.

Some 95% of the world's population is known to breathe unsafe air. That problem is particularly acute in China, whose air pollution has been shown to be three times greater than the upper limits described by the UN's World Health Organization; which is why the Yale study was conducted there. The researchers demonstrated that air pollution caused a significant drop in test scores—particularly in language and math—creating the equivalent of a lost year in the average person's education.

So now we have further evidence of the health-damaging impact of air pollution. What do these results mean? How great is this threat? What should we do about it? Of course, the rational conclusion would be to take dramatic and immediate measures to reduce air pollution. Don't hold your breath, however (no intentional pun, here). Since most all forms of pollution and environmental degradation disproportionately impact the poor, we can't expect politicians—who owe so much to the rich—to do much of anything about the problem.

In related areas, very little has been done to slow global warming or the use of pesticides, so we can't expect much to be done about air pollution either. Politicians seem to be minimally concerned about the future, since the impact of their actions—harmful or helpful—often takes many years to bear fruit. Their attention is on the next quarter's bottom line, and their chances of getting reelected, not on distant events to come.

So what will the future bring, if air pollution persists? Are we doomed? Will we be getting increasingly dumber? What harm will we incur as a species, if we don't act? No one knows the answers to these questions.

Well, there's one thing that can be counted on: the pharmaceutical industry will swing into action by developing drugs to deal with the curtailed cognitive symptoms—especially if those drugs need to be taken for the rest of one's life (thereby ensuring continued income for big pharma). Our culture is good at treating symptoms—rather than root causes. We already know that citizens' lungs get messed up with air pollution, so big pharma has answered the call by developing inhalers. Similarly, we have medicines to treat diabetes and heart disease—all aimed at easing the pain and limitations of these problems, without the need to improve lifestyles. Drug companies make lots of money when industry makes people sick. 
 
So, will big pharma come up with medications to counter the brain damage caused by air pollution? It's a good bet that they will. We already have medications to treat the symptoms of Alzheimer's disease and other brain problems. We can count on the pharmaceutical industry to rescue us from having to do much about air pollution.

I am currently taking an online course on modern diseases and debilitation of old age, which makes another cogent point on this issue. The Dutch professor of my course, a physician, spent a few years in the emergency ward of a hospital, often treating the aftermath of accidents, such as when vehicles collide. He later went into family medicine and often found himself dealing with emergency situations brought on by heart attacks and strokes.

It occurred to him that he was repeatedly faced with health accidents that were brought on, not by a sudden automobile crash, but in the wake of a few decades of unhealthy living. In either case, he was dealing with a calamity—one that either happened in the ER from a crash a few hours earlier, or the other due to a gradual crash over decades. Are we creating a slow-motion crash of brain damage from air pollution—a crash that is as avoidable as heart attacks and diabetes, which could be dealt with by creating a healthy lifestyle?

More on dumbing down next time...

AI Goes to Mars

Six years ago NASA gently lowered the rover Curiosity into Mars' Gale Crater. It was a risky landing, that entailed lowering the rover onto the surface from a sky crane that slowly and tenderly deposited Curiosity, disconnected from it, and then flew off at a distance and crashed itself. Every NASA employee—as well as millions around the world—chewed their fingernails, until Curiosity radioed back that it was safely down.

Ever since that ground-breaking day, the rover has wandered about Gale Crater at the breakneck speed of 0.02 mph (0.03 kph), scooping up soil samples, drilling holes in rocks, and analyzing the compounds found. Its mission is to evaluate Mars' habitability, i.e., could the Red Planet ever have had conditions that would have allowed life to exist there? Can we detect the signs of those conditions today? I have blogged previously that NASA has learned from its 1970s Viking missions not to try to directly measure life on Mars (due to the ambiguity of the measurements), but to simply try to determine if Mars' climate ever was hospitable for life.

Three years ago NASA upgraded the software in Curiosity's computer to give it artificial intelligence (AI) capability, which is presently operable. Thus the rover now can function autonomously, similar to the self-driving cars and trucks currently being tested here on Earth. Prior to this upgrade, Curiosity had to wait for NASA scientists to order its every movement. Humans decided its targets, based on photos taken by the rover, ordered Curiosity to take certain actions, reviewed the results, and then sent the next commands. 
This procedure made for a lot of downtime, as the rover waited for further instructions.

Now with AI, Curiosity can act on its own, much faster and with greater accuracy than before. It gets occasional overall directions from Earth, but attends to all the details on its own. This is similar to the autonomy that self-driving Earth vehicles have, but without the worry that the rover will crash at high speed, or run over any people—as has happened on this planet with autonomous vehicles.

In NASA's typically cautious manner, the upgrade to AI capability was slowly and carefully tested, using an Earthbound twin to Curiosity, that scientists can play with, at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California. And true to NASA's propensity to generate creative acronyms, the new AI software is called AEGIS*, for Autonomous Exploration for Gathering Increased Science. It makes me wonder if NASA may also have an acronym-naming group, possibly called Group of Radical English-Adept Technicians for NASA Acronym Mission Epithets (GREATNAME)? May Curiosity roll on for many more years.

*Aegis is the name of the battle shield of Zeus, and usually refers to the supportive backing given a person or organization.

Shedding Shoes

Growing up in America's Midwest, my family did not have the custom of removing our shoes upon entering the house. My mom might scold me for not being mindful about wiping my shoes on the doormat, but we kept our foot apparel on indoors.

I've been exposed to other cultures' customs in my adult years—of shedding my shoes upon going into another's home, or into religious buildings. I have come to appreciate the ritual. Recently I was pondering this shoe removal routine and found myself wondering how it may have come about, or what the reasons for doing it may be.

We often follow our culture's customs without taking a deeper look into why we do so. Is it just because we've always done it that way, or are there good reasons? After some contemplation on the question and some internet research, I offer this list as grounds for shedding your shoes upon entering an interior space.

To begin with, it helps keep the place cleaner. By not tracking in outdoor contaminants—dirt, disease, and toxins—one's home is able to remain more tidy and healthy. We may love the outdoors, but do we really want to track in its dust and dog shit?

Many cultures—particularly in the East—have long had the habit of leaving footwear at the door. People in these cultures also are more likely to sit on the floor, so as in the first reason above, a clean floor is more inviting to sit on. It's a good idea to be sensitive to this convention and follow suit.

A third, similar reason is that it's an act of respect to remove one's shoes, before entering another's private space—especially if it happens to be a spiritual space. And shouldn't all homes be spiritual?

A fourth motivation is that it's more comfortable to have your shoes off. One can be more relaxed. It can even be healthier to patter around in bare feet or socks, rather than keeping on one's clunky and stiff shoes or boots.

A fifth reason is the reduction of wear and tear on rugs and furnishings. Japanese floors often are covered with tatami mats, which are not very durable. Additionally, if I have removed my my shoes and find myself sitting in a big, snug chair or couch, my legs seem to naturally fold up, as my feet come up and get cozy. I would never do that with boots on.

Finally, pausing to remove one's shoes before entering another's home or sanctuary, is a great way to mindfully think about what you will be engaging in next. Sometimes we arrive a little tense from the drive or slogging through inclement weather. Do we want to drag those stresses inside, or leave them at the door? By hesitating, taking a couple of deep breaths, greeting our host warmly and respectfully, as we sit to doff shoes, we offer ourselves a useful psychological separation between the outside (maybe a bit frenetic) world and the inside (hopefully peaceful) space. Hey, shedding shoes might lead to world peace!

Io

Jupiter's moon Io, showing a volcanic eruption of organic material from the surface. NASA. Click to enlarge.

Gentle Giants

Both whales and porpoises are intelligent mammals who, millions of years ago, decided to evolve from a land critter back to one of the sea. That was an interesting return to life's origins—the sea. All of life began in the oceans and for a few billion years resided solely there, until some fish-like creatures crawled up on land, over 350 million years ago, and took up residence as terrestrial animals. Over time, mammals and many other species of animals evolved from those primitive, limbless, cold-blooded vertebrates; and then even later some of them (whales and porpoises) decided to return to the seas.

Whales subsequently evolved to become the largest animals on the planet—especially the blue whale, which at some 110 feet (33 m) long and 150 tons (136,000 kg), is the largest critter ever. Porpoises and dolphins are related to whales—both of which are often defined as “small-toothed whales.” The porpoise has a blunt snout and the dolphin a beaklike snout. Whales, dolphins, and porpoises are also called cetaceans, which is derived from the Greek word ketos, “whale.”

What's more, these cetaceans are very intelligent creatures, whose languages are far more complex than our simple human communication. Yes, that's right... their language is much more intricate than ours. In fact, the density of the information in their songs is such that they can transmit up to 10 million bits of data every half hour. That's about the same amount of information contained in Homer's Odyssey. So, within a half hour, they sing to each other the same amount of data that takes us a few days to read. Pretty smart, eh?

It seems sadly paradoxical that we humans have hunted down and slaughtered millions of whales, over the centuries. We obviously don't take into consideration their intelligence or their sophisticated communication, when we kill them. We don't view them as bright creatures—just as food.

What I find fascinating is that whales, being so much larger and more powerful than humans, have not used their advanced communication and brainpower to revolt and declare war on us. Scuba divers swim around whales that are up to 20 times larger and outweigh them by tens of thousands of times—yet aren't harmed. One flip of that powerful whale tail and the human is extinguished. Yet when we are in the water with them, cetaceans are overwhelmingly friendly.

Why should they be so gentle? Given how badly we've treated them, I find it remarkable that they've not turned on us. Why do they not perceive us as their enemy? They must be able to comprehend all the harm we've done to them. If they had chosen to battle us, we long ago would either have made peace with them, or eliminated them entirely—which we've done with many large land mammals. It seems to me that we could use a few lessons in nonviolence from these gentle giants. Too bad we're not smart enough to understand their language. They'd probably have a few useful things to tell us.

Allokataplixis Awe

So what is that impressive six-syllable word in the title trying to say? It's a sure bet you won't find it in any dictionary you might have, as it's been recently coined by Professor Liam Heneghan of DePaul University in Chicago. Why did he invent such a clumsy moniker, and what does it mean? Professor Heneghan wanted to express the wonder that we experience, when we encounter novel things in a foreign land—things whose residents have long ago learned to ignore. Fresh eyes often see fascinating features that accustomed eyes don't.

The professor noticed this phenomenon when he began taking some of his college students on a visit to Ireland each year. Having been born and raised on the Emerald Isle himself, but a long-time resident of the US, his eyes were neither fresh nor any longer habituated to Irish peculiarities, such as the smell of the air, eccentric architecture, local expressions, and novel foods. But his students marveled at and delighted in these and many other small things they'd never before seen.

So he coined the word allokataplixis, which is a conjunction of two Greek words: allo, meaning “other,” and katapliktiko, meaning “wonder.” He feels that the word captures the amazement and fascination that his students expressed so many times during their visits to Ireland.

I immediately identified with and was struck by this idea, as it describes a feeling I've had, whenever visiting a place I've never been before. There are so many details that capture my attention—details I find myself photographing or listing in my travel journal, each night. I often later chuckle at how many of these features are really quite ordinary, and thus become rather invisible to me, after a few days.

Sure, the magnificent views that I hoped to experience in Italy and Ireland were indeed magnificent and awe inspiring, but on the way to that overlook or that charming village, many small objects caught my attention and demanded that I pause to enjoy them. That's the biggest reason why I always keep a loose and flexible schedule when I travel: it allows stopping and smelling the flowers along the way. Many of my fondest memories of visiting a foreign land are composed of those small delights, and how they often led me to a fascinating discovery that I'd otherwise have missed, had I a strict itinerary to adhere to.

Allokataplixis can happen closer to home as well. Several decades ago I moved to the woods of northern Virginia—just a handful of miles from the West Virginia border. I found myself one day crossing for the first time the state line on my motorcycle, riding into West Virginia, where I began noticing several small, different, and novel sights—thinking, “Wow! I'm in unfamiliar and interesting territory!” Now that I've traversed that same state line countless times, it's no longer novel—it's become my familiar, ordinary neighborhood.

Professor Heneghan had another thought in mind, when he invented the word allokataplixis: that a newcomer's fascination with novel details in a new place can be contagious for long-term residents. It can reignite in them an appreciation for their surroundings. It can wake up jaded denizens. In this way, allokataplixis can become a gift to the residents of a place where travelers visit. It can show residents that there is the marvelous in the everyday. Mindfulness can do the same thing, as it can draw us out of our inattentive state of mind, to put attention to special little things. If something—anything—causes us to pause and absorb the mundane, we can come to realize it too is a true wonder.

Red Oak Grain

This is a piece of red oak that has been oiled to display the intricate grain and show the beauty of this hardwood. Click to enlarge.

Jumping Genes

When we think about who we are—our appearance, our susceptibility to diseases, and many other of our characteristics—we tend to think about our parents. We've inherited most of our traits from them, which they in turn got from their parents. That's the way evolution works. The key process is that when DNA is reproduced, tiny errors may happen, and those errors get passed down the hereditary path. If the errors are beneficial, those who possess them are more likely to survive than those who don't, and so those genes pass on the fortunate error. This is the essence of “survival of the fittest.”

So, our genetic makeup comes to each of us in this manner: from parent to child; and the child later becomes a parent and passes those genes on to their children. Our genome is mostly species specific.

Now, in addition, we do share many of our genes with the chimpanzees, because we and they have a common ancestor that lived some seven million years ago, who passed its genes to both of our species. In fact, we have about a 98% overlap with chimps. But don't we also share a few genes with cows and mice (other mammals), as well as with birds and even lizards? Don't we even share a few genes with trees and mushrooms? Yes, but again, it's simply because all life on Earth descends from the “first ancestor,” which passed on its genes to all of us.

Thus, even though we share a number of genes with other species, most of us have come to understand the story of our personal genes coming primarily through inheritance from our parents. But as so often happens in science, the accepted stories periodically become corrected and updated; a new story emerges—an improved theory comes to light.

Out of research at the University of Adelaide in Australia comes a recent update on the gene inheritance story: it seems that a portion of our genes do not come from mom and pop, but from what's termed a “horizontal transfer” of genes between significantly different species. These “jumping genes” are dubbed “retrotransposons.” The Adelaide scientists traced two particular genes across more than 700 species of plants, animals, and fungi. They found this particular pair of genes appeared repeatedly—and they also verified that these genes were not inherited from parents, but had entered the organisms, after birth, as foreign DNA.

These foreign genes behave sort of like a parasite—in that they can disrupt normal genes. In fact, the researchers conclude that retrotransposons have been a key driver in the rapid evolution of mammals over the past 100 million years. After the dinosaurs disappeared 65 million years ago, the tiny, ineffective mammals who survived were ready to rapidly evolve...and subsequently came to dominate the planet.

How do some genes jump from one kind of species to another very different species? How does a gene from a dandelion become a part of the genome of a human? As yet, the mechanism remains a mystery. Scientists theorize that the horizontal transfer process may be caused by ticks, mosquitoes, leeches, locusts, and viruses. Even bedbugs! Yikes!

Fascinating! This development raises a few crucial questions: Am I related to my tomatoes? Am I committing a crime—or even cannibalism, when I eat french fries? Am I a monkey's uncle? That last one plays upon my Mom's expression of mild disbelief in something, when she'd utter, “Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle.” I used to laugh, because she couldn't be anybody's uncle, but now I perceive a new slant on that old expression, thanks to jumping genes.

Wren Babies

Count the Carolina wren babies. How many are there? Four? Five? Click to enlarge.

AI's Outlook—Part 2

Continuing the second of three concerns about artificial intelligence begun last post:

2. Super-intelligence becomes a concern when we develop robots who are far smarter than we are—not just in a narrow sense (such as in chess or Jeopardy!), but in a more general sense. To date, AI's intelligence is narrow—that is, computers exhibit super-intelligence in only one area. But we soon will be seeing machines that exhibit what is called artificial general intelligence (AGI). When that comes about, will AGI decide to control us? Would it even care about us?

Another huge question is what impact AGI will have on human employment. AI already has stepped into mundane jobs (think of assembly line robots), but will soon disemploy many more people. What will we do with the millions of people who will no longer have work, because they've been replaced with robots? Very soon we'll see even rather sophisticated human careers—doctors, lawyers—terminated. We aren't prepared to deal with that problem.

Not a lot of effort is currently being applied to the issue of super-intelligence. Most researchers are rushing into the future, unable or unwilling to deal with this concern. Government barely understands the basics, let alone is currently prepared to address this matter.

3. Consciousness brings up another big question for which we currently have no good responses. Today's AI machines are most likely not conscious. But when—as evermore complex computers are built—will computers become conscious, or even sentient? Will they ever do so? Scientists are still struggling to define consciousness in humans and other life forms, let alone machines.

Is consciousness a continuum or is there a line which consciousness does not cross? Is a newborn baby conscious? A monkey? A tree? A rock? These questions are impossible to answer as we don't even yet know how to measure consciousness.

If AI machines do become conscious—after they become complex enough—will they be able to subjectively experience something? Could they experience pleasure or pain? How would we know? And would robots deserve rights, if they become conscious?

There are many unanswered questions about the future of AI. These machines may be a threat, or they may offer humans some type of salvation. Nobody knows at this point. Unfortunately, too few people—especially those in the public policy arena—are seriously considering these issues. Like so many technological innovations of the past, we may soon be dealing with huge problems, without having looked at the issues before they became problems.

AI's Outlook—Part 1

Artificial intelligence (AI) is upon us. From those primitive programming of computer decision-making capabilities just a few decades ago, we now have software that can beat humans at their most intellectually- and creatively-demanding tasks. Recent programs have shamed human champions at chess, Jeopardy!, and even the complex and ancient Eastern game of Go. Other recent spectacular feats of AI include sophisticated robots and self-driving autonomous vehicles.

These incredibly fast and impressive developments have some people ecstatic at the possibilities of future AI applications and other people frightened at what these smart machines may do. What happens when an AI robot becomes far smarter and stronger than humans? Do we need to fear what they might do to us? So far, AI has proven to be superior to the human brain only at narrowly-defined tasks (such as chess and Go), but what will the future bring?

I have been taking an online course from the Delft University of Technology in the Netherlands. One of their researchers did a fine job of scoping out the future of AI. It's pretty complex and replete with differing interpretations, but here's my try at summarizing what he said.

When considering the future of AI, it helps to understand it by looking at three different issues: (1) autonomy, (2) super intelligence, and (3) consciousness.

1. Autonomy is the ability of robots and AI to do things on their own, without human oversight. That said, autonomy is not a crucial issue on its own, since even the thermostat that regulates your household temperature does it on its own. This is important—it's not the autonomy that's the key, it's what the robot will do, and what control might we have over its actions.

Specifically, the concern about the autonomy of AI comes in when it deals with ethical dilemmas. Will the robot's actions be commensurate with human moral values or not? This question comes into focus when we ponder the choice that a self-driving car would make in an emergency. Will it, for example, decide to prioritize its passengers' welfare or that of pedestrians that are in the vehicle's path? How should the AI software program be designed to appropriately reflect human values? Do we even know what that means?

Self-driving vehicles certainly will drastically reduce the many thousands of highway deaths each year due to driver error or inattentiveness. There's no question about that benefit. But what about that one accident in which an autonomous vehicle made a “bad choice” in our eyes? We've already seen a couple of instances; for example, when a self-driving car killed a pedestrian in Arizona last March.

How do we program AI vehicles? We're a long ways away from knowing how. And who is liable, when a self-driving car causes a death? The vehicle manufacturer? The AI programmer?

This concern about autonomy is significantly greater for AI that is used in military robots and drones. Can an autonomous robot, sent in to a dangerous situation (in which the threat to the lives of military personnel might be avoided), appropriately discern the difference between a crouching enemy with guns and a frightened family that contains several children?

More on AI next time...

Big Fat Spider

This spider sure seems well fed. Click to enlarge.

Gnaughty Gnawer—Part 2

Now, I realize that a segment of society would strongly disapprove of killing the mouse—especially some of my Buddhist friends. I do not take to killing easily and have pondered at length how to fend off animal (as well as human) invaders without resorting to exterminating them. I have managed to come up with a few ways of deterring some unwanted critters or otherwise limiting their damage, but there comes a time when death seems the only alternative. This has been especially true for nasty, stinging critters like yellow-jacket wasps and termites. They are not inclined to curb either their appetite or their aggression, and are capable of considerable damage.

So yes, I confess. I had resorted to killing a sweet little mouse. Furthermore, I did it with premeditation and even a bit of a celebration afterward. What could be my justification to my friends who might condemn me for such a barbaric act? Well, my first thought is to suggest that some accusers examine the log in their own eye. How many of them live in an urban environment, in which they pay other people to kill on their behalf? They may call the exterminator to dispatch pests, buy meat that someone else has slaughtered, send their unwanted dog or cat to the local animal shelter (to later be euthanized), or buy high-tech products from companies that exploit the poor in China. (OK, so maybe that list is a little overstated, and maybe I'm guilty of rationalization.)

Years ago—in my youthful ignorance—I was inclined to use mouse poison, until a little research showed me that the effect of the poison was dehydration, which slowly—and likely painfully—kills. So I've decided that if I am going to kill, I believe it's better to do it quickly. The old-fashioned spring-loaded mousetrap is fast and painless, as an example.

But a more persistent accuser might ask me, did I really need to kill at all? There are traps that snare a mouse alive, which allows you then to transport it elsewhere. I once accompanied a sweet, caring friend who had live-trapped a mouse. We drove in her car for a mile or so and freed the critter. That seemed to be a kind thing to do for the mouse, but what about the carbon footprint of that drive, and what about the possibility that the pest was simply being transferred to someone else's house? For that matter, was it really kind to move the mouse to a new location, where it was unfamiliar with predators there or available food supplies? Could a cat there have been delighted to have a tasty meal dropped off—sort of the beneficiary of a feline meals on wheels?

Or maybe I should have caught the mouse, befriended it, and spent many hours training it—either to keep outside my meditation hut (I'd probably have to bribe it with regular meals) or maybe teach it tricks, so we both could join the circus and become famous and wealthy? Or I could make some endearing mousy video, post it on YouTube, and watch it go viral. My mouse could then bathe in the limelight that all celebrities enjoy and subsequently retire to Cheeseville, Wisconsin. I've got better things to do, however. This cheeky mouse stepped over the line and is now departed. I'll try hard not to let his death haunt my conscience.

Gnaughty Gnawer—Part 1

I have written a few times before about our struggles with pests such as mice, termites, voles, deer, various biting insects, and an occasional raccoon and opossum. It's a constant struggle trying to deal with these critters, living out here in the woods. Over the years we've learned some coping techniques that allow us to coexist peacefully with most of them—for example, by finding deterrent schemes, limiting their damage, or simply finding ways to view them less as enemies and more as mildly-problematic cohabitants that we can live with.

Mice are one of the definitely more problematic cohabitants—as they have a way of chewing up things that I'd rather stay whole, as well as hoarding copious stashes of food (once in our clothes closet), that either later spoil or attract ants. We have primarily relied on our cat or resident snakes to control the population of mice, and they've done a fairly decent job of it. 

In recent years we have yet another reason to keep mice at bay: they can be a link in the chain of Lyme disease transmission to humans, so breaking that link can be helpful.
Living in an underground house, we have blessedly few invasions of mice, but I have a meditation hut to which I withdraw a couple of times a week to spend time in solitude. Mice periodically assault my refuge, and a recent raid was launched by the cheekiest mouse I've ever encountered. By cheeky, I mean this guy was the most impudent, audacious, and in-your-face rodent I've ever dealt with.

It began its harassment shortly after I'd retired one evening. I was awakened by the sound of some critter gnawing at the base of the wall. It being unusually quiet and peaceful in my hut, the sound of the chewing on wood denied me any chance of sleep. I got up and banged on the wall to scare it away. It stopped, but the gnawing sound returned several minutes later, after I once again fell asleep. I whapped the wall again, returned to bed, and the critter soon again commenced its chewing. This went on for the first half of the night—keeping me from my needed rest.

But chewing on the wall was just the beginning of his assault. In the second half of the night, I was awakened by something falling from the windowsill to the floor—rather, something being pushed to the floor by... guess who? I arose from my bed, figured out that the culprit was most likely the mouse, who had by then apparently chewed his way inside my hut. I made a lot of menacing hissing noises, hoping to scare it away. (How does a fearful predator of a mouse sound? Should I have meowed like a cat?)

Very soon—as I was again dropping off to sleep for the tenth time—another object got nudged to the floor from the windowsill. I seized a flashlight. Shining its light in the direction of the sound, I saw the mouse, who perkily climbed the wall, stared insolently at me, then disappeared into the woodpile. By now I was so infuriated that further sleep was impossible.
I declared war on my cheeky invader. I set a mousetrap over by the window the next morning. Returning to my hut later that day, I found the trap sprung and the bait gone. Not only was he impudent, but he seemed to have a cleverness capability rivaling mine! I spotted the mouse squatting under the wood stove, watching me, but once again it quickly ducked into the woodpile as I menacingly approached.

That afternoon I returned to my hut for my badly-needed nap. I reset the trap in a more clever location and laid me down to sleep. Within five minutes a loud SNAP! startled me, and I rolled over to see my quarry kick its wee legs a couple of times and promptly expire. Success! One dead naughty rodent. Only later did I discover that it had also insolently roamed my meditation shrine, chewing up a bird's nest and knocking over two small Buddha statues. Good riddance, you impertinent rodent!

More on the mouse next time...

Tree Frog

This little guy came down from the trees to allow me to get a photo of him. Note his great camouflage, in the form of what looks like moss or lichen on its back, which coats many trees around here. It is about one inch (2-3 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 2

Let me turn to another type of sacrifice that my dictionary defines: ”An act of giving up something valued for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important.” This is another kind of sacrifice that seems to have gone out of favor these days. When I was young, people often purchased things from the store on so-called “lay-away plans.” You picked out something you desired, put some money down, and the store stashed the object in the back room. You made payments as you were able, until the purchase price was met and it was yours. Such a concept of delayed gratification is literally unknown today, as credit card companies encourage you to have whatever you want now—as long as you pay them usury charges of 22% or more on the balance.

In an classic experiment in 1970, Walter Mischel, a researcher at Columbia University, conducted a study in which young children were placed at a table upon which one marshmallow sat. The experimenter told the child that she had to leave the room for a few minutes. If, while she was gone, the kid could refrain from eating the one marshmallow in hand, a second marshmallow would be rewarded upon her return. The kids were filmed through a one-way mirror, and the torment they went through is hilarious to watch.

Mischel then followed the kids over the next decade or two. What he showed was that those kids who demonstrated self-control and won the second marshmallow were later more successful in life. Delayed gratification brought them greater achievement. As in the above dictionary definition, they were able to give up something of value (a single treat) to acquire something of greater value (two treats).

Michael Foley, in his book The Age of Absurdity: Why Modern Life Makes it Hard to be Happy, addresses this issue in a bit different manner. He describes Mischel's marshmallow experiment and uses it to make the point that if we can resist the desire for immediate gratification for anything (even yummy marshmallows), we have a better chance of achieving long-term fulfillment in our lives. He points out that fulfillment is hard work and that many people in modern society do not really want to do the hard work, because our culture teaches us that our desires can easily be satisfied with little effort.

So we no longer sacrifice—either in the sense of slaughtering an animal to the gods or by exercising self-control and delaying gratification. In either case, sacrifice is giving up something desirable today (like that delectable marshmallow beckoning me) for a bigger reward tomorrow. It calls for planning and letting go an immediate satisfaction for a happier future. It calls for hard work. Not many people are willing to wait.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 1

I found myself thinking recently about the ancient practice of sacrifice—whereby our deep ancestors made offerings to the gods, in the hope that the sacrifice would please them and they'd in turn grant the entreaties made in their name. There are countless examples of our forebears making oblations to their gods.

Why sacrifice? Those ancients did not understand how most natural events came about. Beneficial happenings—such as good rains, victory in battle, and good health—were believed to be delivered by the gods. Likewise, harmful happenings—disease, earthquakes, and floods—were also dispatched by the gods. The ancients believed that the gods could be helpful or harmful; it depended on their mood. In order to curry favor or placate them, the ancients often engaged in elaborate sacrificial ceremonies.

But what does it really mean to sacrifice? It has a wide variety of connotation—depending on the topic and the situation. My dictionary defines sacrifice as no less than six kinds of events: (1) an act of offering to a supernatural figure, in the way of slaughtering an animal (or person!) or surrendering some possession; (2) an act of giving up something of value for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important; (3) Jesus offering himself for the redemption of mankind; (4) a chess move, whereby one offers an opponent a piece, for strategic or tactical reasons; (5) in baseball, a bunt that puts the batter out, but advances one's team's base runner; (6) in bridge, a bid that is made with the belief that it would be less costly to be defeated, than to allow your opponents to make their contract. Those various definitions surely cover a lot of sacrificial ground!

Returning to our deep ancestors' sacrifices to the gods in exchange for favorable circumstances: their acts were essentially based on an ignorance of the natural world. An ancient Greek philosopher (Epicurus, 5^th century BCE) and a later Roman poet/writer (Lucretius, 50 BCE) both put forth the argument that earthquakes, floods, and bountiful growing seasons were not due to the capriciousness of the gods. They were natural happenings. In fact, these sages reasoned that the gods had better things to do than either bedevil or bless humans. Hence, they counseled that sacrifices were for naught. It was a fool's errand to appeal to the gods. Don't waste your prize goat.

However, their message fell on deaf ears, as humans continued to make sacrifices. Why? It is quite natural for us to conceive of storms, drought, and diseases as events far larger than ourselves—events that must be caused by a super being. Thus people carried on with the practice of offering something of value to the powers that be. Many acts of sacrifice demand our giving up something we really value—otherwise, it's a hollow deed. So our forebears came to choose the most perfect of their animals to slaughter. In the case of Abraham, he was even ready to kill his own son, to please God!

I wonder how the sacrificial ceremony and its aftermath might have played out differently, for those living in polytheistic versus monotheistic cultures. For example, in ancient Greece or Rome, people often selected one of many gods to be their personal deity. They had an altar in their home, with icons and other paraphernalia relating to their god of choice. The family developed ceremonies and appropriate sacrifices to their private god.

I wonder what did they do when their offering seemed to be spurned? “Hey, I killed my prize goat and we still had a crappy harvest!” Did they conclude that their sacrifice was not up to snuff and thus select two perfect goats next time, or did they get pissed off at their god and decide to worship another one? They had a sizable pantheon to select from.

Then along came monotheism, introduced by the Hebrews. Now there was only one God to sacrifice to. I wonder what did the monotheists did, when their sacrifices failed to deliver the goods? They were not afforded the opportunity to switch deities. They either had to embellish the next sacrifice, or conclude that God works in mysterious ways and muddle on. Luckily, humans later came to understand that many good and bad events indeed are natural happenings that do not call for sacrifices for which one will be granted favors or to be spared from tragedy. The hope of influencing events lives on, however, in the form of prayers offered for favors.

More on sacrificing next time...

Darkling Beetle

This beetle hides in the day and emerges at night. The larvae are called mealworms. They cannot fly, which is why this one stayed fixed, as I took several photos. Click to enlarge.

The Brain and Life Span

I posted a blog on 3/31/14 titled “Monogamous Dummies,” wherein I described a then-current result of studies of fruit flies, which had made the surprising discovery that polygamous male fruit flies demonstrated themselves to be more intelligent than monogamous males. Another surprising finding of this study was that monogamous males lived longer than their polygamous cohorts.

The researchers had no explanations for these results, other than to note that, within a given species, those individuals possessing a larger brain (and thus who are usually more intelligent) did not live as long as their smaller-brain comrades. A possible reason offered is that the brain of any critter demands a significant proportion of that critter's energy. Thus, big-brained creatures may sort of run out of energy sooner and expire before their dumber fellows.

It is a fact that the species which immediately preceded us Homo sapiens, the Cro-Magnon, had a bigger brain than we do (about 10% larger). Thus, as we humans have evolved, our brains have shrunk a little. Does this say that we are dumber than Cro-Magnon? That's very difficult to say, but the life of modern humans is certainly easier than that of our deep ancestors. While they had to work hard to forage for food, we walk into the supermarket and leisurely fill our cart with oodles of goodies. While they had to keep a sharp lookout to avoid being eaten by large predators, we have either done away with most of those predators or locked them up in zoos.

And what about the life span of Cro-Magnon, compared to modern humans? That's also not an easy question to answer, but it is surely affected by technology and availability of high-quality food. Our modern healthcare tools can be very effective at extending the life of people. Cro-Magnon did not have access to antibiotics, dentists, or surgical techniques. So maybe we H. sapiens live longer, not because we're dumber, but because of our modern medicine?

These findings also suggest a reason why evolution has gradually decreased the size of our brain. If we don't need the brain power we once had (because we have smart machines to care for us), why not let the brain shrink a bit—especially if it lengthens our life span? Is this not a wise trade-off that evolution has made?

That possibility is a little disconcerting, however. What might happen when we develop super-smart artificial intelligence machines? Will our brains shrink to the point that our dogs will someday be teaching us simple tricks and taking us to the vet to be neutered?

Watching TV

Several years ago I planted a trumpet vine seedling. There are times when I regret having done so, because this plant likes to take over the world. It propagates by sending its roots out in all directions and popping up another vine 15 or 20 feet away, that will grab onto any available structure and proceed to bury it under a profusion of greenery. For the rest of my life I will be hacking back trumpet vine, lest, like kudzu, it smothers every plant around.

If this vine possessed only this troublesome behavior, I would long ago have declared war and eradicated it—much as I succeeded in doing with poison ivy a few decades ago. But the trumpet vine has an endearing quality at this time of year: it blasts forth with the most gorgeous blossoms that attract hummingbirds and big ol' bumblebees.

Over the last couple of weeks I've had the pleasure of soaking in my outdoor tub and becoming fascinated by the beauty of the plant, while watching the antics of visiting hummingbirds. Unable to receive a TV signal out here in the woods—moreover unwilling to have it intrude into our peace and quiet—I instead get much enjoyment watching my hummers dip into trumpet vine (TV) blossoms. I watch my own kind of TV.

The blossoms of TV are aptly named. They are long and narrow, with the ends flared outward. Bright orange, they are “loud and brassy” against the TV lush greenery. The hummingbird's long, skinny bill and even longer tongue are perfect for sampling the nectar hidden deep within the blossom. I love to watch a hummer hover near a bloom, dip quickly into it as its head completely disappears inside, and then quickly pop back out. While its head is buried deep in the blossom, it is vulnerable to predators, so it doesn't stay in for long. A few quick dips and it moves on. Of course, the hummer is doing a good deed for the TV, as it gets its head coated with pollen, that it then spreads to other blooms. The hummingbird is participating in TV sex!

I watched a fascinating display put on by two hummers the other evening. My attention was drawn by the sound of one hummingbird strafing the top of the TV several times—zooming at high speed across the vine. I soon realized that it was the resident male seemingly threatening a female, who I saw dipping into TV blossoms. She kept snuggled down into the vine, to avoid his attacks—which were like the bombing runs of a fighter plane.

Why was the male acting so aggressively? I think it might be that the mating season is over, so the male need not attract the female, like he did back in June, when his aerial acrobatics were more like a frenetic dance, done in front of her, as he worked hard to dazzle her and hopefully mate.

Now she seems to be just another competitor for trumpet vine blossom nectar. I think he's being far too selfish. With all the rain we've had this year, the vine has an abundance of blooms. Why be so stingy? Whatever his motivation—and I don't claim to understand it at all—I do very much enjoy watching my kind of TV lately.

Great Spangled Fritillary

I caught this butterfly on a dianthus bloom. Click to enlarge.

No Phone Home—Part 2

Some SETI researchers have asked an intriguing question: If there are civilizations out there, why haven't we received a message by now? In other words, where are they? Well, a mismatch in technology could well be one reason. How do we get in touch with a civilization that may be thousands of years behind or ahead of us? What chance would intelligent creatures on Mars 2500 years ago have had of talking to the ancient Greeks by EM signals from that planet?

I believe that the lack of contact may be explained in a different way, however: simply due to the vast distances involved. I have written a couple of times on this blog about the enormous distances of stellar space. (As a reminder, one of my analogies was to collapse our solar system into something the size of a basketball. On this scale, the nearest star would be five miles away and the nearest galaxy—Andromeda-- would be 360,000 miles away!) It is a huge challenge for us to fathom the actual interstellar distances. 

For example, Andromeda is 1.5 million light years away. To send and receive an EM signal from any creatures in that closest galaxy would require three million years round trip! That's just too long a time span to “phone home” and wait for an answer.

Thus, there may indeed by “life out there”, but it could likely be just too far away for us ever to discover—let alone communicate with. We indeed may not be alone in the universe, but we may never find that out. The universe is simply too big. Would an ant in my back yard have any chance of finding out about similar critters in the rain forests of Brazil?

Let's face it: Earth and its life forms are but the tiniest blip in the universe—in both time and space. We do not amount to much in the grand scheme of things. We are not the center of the cosmos. We are a flash in the pan that will most likely soon be gone.

I think the more relevant question is: Does it matter whether or not there's life out there? We would love to know, but we may well remain ignorant. It matters to some people, because if we were to discover some kind of civilization beyond Earth, it would surely rattle some cages—especially those which contain anthropocentric people, or people tightly attached to religious beliefs that would have us at the center of it all. It's a fascinating question to ponder, but don't hold your breath for an answer any time soon. Maybe in three million years.

No Phone Home—Part 1

One of humankind's enduring questions is whether or not Earth is alone in the universe in harboring life. Are we the only—and therefore exceedingly special—example of animation in the vast cosmos, or might there be others out there? This very question has evolved as our understanding of the universe has grown. The ancients may have wondered about life existing on the other shore of the sea, and people a couple of hundred years ago speculated on beings living on the Moon and Mars.

Today, however, we know much more about the vastness of the universe (even though we may not be able to wrap our heads around how truly vast it is), so now our imaginations extend way beyond our solar system, even our own galaxy, to the billions of galaxies out there. Yet the same question still poses itself, but the potential territory has gotten immensely greater, and thus the possible answers far more manifold.

We also now know much more about how life may have arisen on Earth and the extreme forms that it can assume here. We know that the presence of humans, along with all the other planet's creatures is the result of a long and torturous path that could have taken countless other directions. Some of those other alternatives could easily have resulted in the final termination of life on Earth (it could have come to a dead end and may still), or brought about life forms quite alien to what we know today.

So back to that perennial question: Is there life out there? What chance is there that it bears any resemblance to Earth's critters? Would we even recognize it as life, if we were to encounter it? More to the point, are the distances so vast that we'd ever encounter it? Movies like “ET” offer us fascinating and bizarre creatures who come to visit, and then “phone home,” to return to their world. But any kind of life out there may be simply too far away for us ever to come in contact with, or simply be unable to phone home, because of the tremendous distances.

And the distances are what matters. Humanity has for a few decades been engaged in space communication efforts, in which various researchers have scanned deep space, looking for electromagnetic (EM) signals that distant civilizations may have broadcast to the universe—signals that announce their existence. These projects are labeled Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI). The premise is that distant technological civilizations (if they exist) would likely emit EM transmissions, in an attempt to notify other civilizations of their presence. 
 
But is this assumption justified? The SETI project surmises that distant technological species would choose to send out some kind of “I am here” signal, but is this true? Stephen Hawking wrote that this can be a risky process for Earthlings, if we engage in this game, because some life forms that may be far superior to us could thereby discover we are here and subsequently launch space ships to come and dominate Earth.

Another point to consider is that our SETI projects have evolved dramatically, in the last few decades. As our technology has advanced, we come up with progressively better methods of searching. But the civilizations we hope to contact may be centuries or millennia ahead or behind us. They may have developed communication schemes that we either once rejected or have yet to discover. We may be way out of temporal sync with these creatures and miss connecting, simply because our technologies do not match. It could be analogous to Europeans in the 19^th century looking for radio wave emissions from Tierra del Fuego, when the inhabitants there preferred smoke signals.

More on extraterrestrial life next time...

Lions Mane Mushroom

This is an edible mushroom. If it were golden color, it would appear much like a lion's mane. Click to enlarge.

Ultimately Untestable?

Contemporary physics is facing a problem—some physicists would even describe it as a crisis. And as is true for most crises, controversy erupts. Factions appear and engage in debate. Emotions bubble up. Yes, even staid physicists can become emotional, and a few of them even become impassioned.

The cause of this particular crisis is the shortcomings of what has come to be known as the “standard model” of physics. It describes the fundamental behavior of matter—which is essentially the core of physics. But the standard model, although it has been very successful in describing most of the behavior of aggregate matter, does not explain the behavior of elementary particles. The model does very well at the macro level, but is quite useless at the micro level.

Beginning about 100 years ago, a few physicists developed a new micro-matter theory that's come to be called quantum mechanics. It does a very nice job of describing the behavior of subatomic particles—such as electrons, protons, and neutrons. The problem—the crisis—lies in physicists being unable to reconcile the two theories.

What's worse, while the standard model has been verified by countless experiments, that's not true for several aspects of quantum theory. While many predictions of quantum mechanics have been verified by tests, there are some aspects of the theory that seem to be beyond experimental investigation. And that really bothers some physicists. The time-tested scientific principle is that scientific theories must be proven by experiment. So what do you do, when you can't put your theory to the test?

A rough parallel is the theory that was put forth by the Ptolemaic model for the universe—the nearly 2,000-year-old idea that placed the Earth at the center of the universe. Ptolemy's model was very cumbersome and complex, but it explained various phenomena for centuries. It was finally replaced by the far simpler Copernican (sun-centered) model in the 17^th century by Kepler, but his model's proof had to wait until science had the tools to do the experiment and irrefutably demonstrate that the new model was correct. The crucial tool that did the job: the telescope.

Quantum physics today is in a rather similar place. It could be that we may someday have the tools to run the experiments and confirm the correct theory (or correct theories). Yet some physicists are convinced we may never be able to do the experiments. If so, do we abandon the venerable rule that all theories must be testable, or just abandon those theories that can't be tested? The debate continues. Emotions are roiling.

Wary Wasps

Living in the woods—while inadvertently creating a tasty and inviting habitat for many critters—has brought us myriad fascinating encounters with many of them. We have forged an island of tender flora within the forest that attracts a wide variety of local fauna. Where once grew tough shrubs and woody plants, we have introduced succulent vegetables, flowers, and herbs, which have become beacons that beckon many insects and various critters (deer, opossums, rabbits, raccoons, and bugs) to come sample our wares.

One of the most pervasive and diverse creatures we attract are insects. While the forest offers a bee or wasp only scattered and meager rations, we offer a concentrated smorgasbord of delights—especially when all the spring flowers are providing their nectar treats. Additionally, a typical wasp or bee also possesses an ability to inflict a powerful sting. The largest mammal will allow itself to be intimidated by a bee, whose stinger is a potent weapon that will cause even a moose to retreat.

We humans, who possess the cognitive ability to comprehend the threat and impact of a wasp (especially if we've previously experienced its throbbing sting), can become extremely wary, if not fearful, of the sound or sight of a wasp. Too many times my spouse and I have been absorbed in some outdoor activity, to the point that we do not notice that we are intruding on a bee's or wasp's territory, and suffer the painful consequences of its prick. Once stung, twice shy, as they say.

Springtime brings many wasps and bees to our clearing—seeking nectar and places to build their nests. Outdoors, as we attend to our duties, we often find one of these insects hovering nearby at this time of year. At first, you might catch sight of one of them on the perimeter of your vision, or hear its ominous buzz. Your gut reaction is to duck and run, or swat them away, which is an invitation to be stung. By doing so, you may foolishly transform an otherwise peaceful insect into an attack fighter.

Over the years I have learned—the hard way—to freeze when I see or hear a wasp or bee. It has better things to do than to attack me. I have found that if I take on the appearance of a tree trunk, I almost become invisible to them; certainly no threat. The critter goes about its business—ignoring my presence.

What's special is that when I do become an observing statue, rather than a menacing and arm-waving giant, I can serenely watch the insect go about its business and learn something about its occupation. A few days ago I was going about my business when I heard the auspicious drone of a large paper wasp. These guys are almost two inches (5 cm) long and pack one nasty sting if provoked. I froze. Where it had warily circled me a moment before, as an imitation tree trunk I now disappeared from its attention.

Then I could become absorbed in its activity. It was evening, with dusk approaching. The wasp was probably engaged in its last foray of the day. Looking for a mate? A new nesting site? It wasn't giving up its secrets to me. In a minute or two it moved on, leaving me fascinated but stingless. Neither of us was a threat to the other. We could cohabitate without conflict. The big wasp went on about its business, and so did I. It's unlikely that it was nearly as interested in me as I was in it.

Snake Fight

I caught this photo of a black racer snake (huge; over 6 feet--2 m--long) capturing a poisonous copperhead snake (much smaller). Click to enlarge.

Can't Go Faster Than Light

Most of us have heard that the speed of light is the absolute upper speed limit of the universe. This fact was realized by Albert Einstein over 100 years ago, as he wrestled with what came to be known as his Special Theory of Relativity. He made an absolutely brilliant breakthrough, after struggling for several years with the dilemma of what would happen if we were able to race through space at velocities approaching the speed of light.... sometimes called relativistic speeds.

Einstein published his famous Special Relativity paper in 1905, at the tender age of 26, after having anguished for some 10 years over the paradox of travel near the speed of light. His special theory has a number of brilliant insights, but I'll focus here on just one of them: that the speed of light truly is an absolute upper speed limit. Nothing, not even light itself, can go faster. Here's a simple example of why that's true, and I'll use the TV series “Star Trek” as an illustration.

As millions of “Star Trek” viewers know, the USS Enterprise cruised through interstellar space, going “where no one has gone before,” and often at warp speed—that is, faster than light. Cap'n Kirk (or Cap'n Jean Luc Picard, in the follow-on series) would often command Scottie to move post haste to the next star system, let's say at warp factor 3—in other words at 3 times the speed of light. In critical circumstances, Kirk would even order a speed of warp factor 8! Sounds good, but those are impossible velocities. Here's how Einstein's theory demonstrates why.

Let's suppose that the Enterprise is temporarily based on Planet Zenon, where it is undergoing an extensive refurbishing. While the overhaul is going on, another (slower) starship, the USS Intrepid, leaves Zenon, headed for Earth, at 60% the speed of light, but they have inadvertently left behind an important document. Not to worry, says Cap'n Kirk; as soon as the Enterprise is ready to fly, we'll chase after the Intrepid at warp factor 3, catch up with them, and deliver the document well before they get back to Earth. 
 
Unfortunately, however, overhaul work on the Enterprise goes excruciatingly slowly. It's now four years later when Kirk's ship finally departs, at 3 times the speed of light. At that rate it requires them only one year to catch up with the slower Intrepid, which has been tootling along for five years, but has only gotten three light years away. Thus they meet in space five years after the Intrepid had departed—five long years of travel for the slow Intrepid, but just one for the speedy Enterprise. Still sounds OK. But...

I won't go in to all the details by using Einstein's complex equations of his special theory. Let me simply leap to the weird result that his theory predicts. From the perspective of the crew on the Enterprise (going at 3 times the speed of light), they left at year four and caught up with the Intrepid at year five. But if you use Einstein's relativistic equations, you get the impossible situation that, from the Intrepid's perspective, they were met by the Enterprise one year before (yes, before!) the Enterprise had even left Planet Zenon! 
 
I realize I've thrown around some possibly confusing numbers here, but the bottom line is, if faster-than-light speed is proposed, Einstein's special theory predicts an effect (the meeting with the Enterprise) before its cause (the finish of the rehabbing of the Enterprise). It's like saying that I celebrated my first birthday a year before I was born, or an arrow hits the target before the archer draws the bow! Clearly this is impossible. It's like time running backwards. We cannot have effects happening before the cause. 
 

Scientists have many times conducted experiments that verify Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity. The theory is right. In other words, the speed of light is an absolute upper speed limit. If it wasn't, things going faster than light would literally turn clocks backwards. Sorry, Cap'n Kirk, you can't do warp 3... and especially warp 8. But Star Trek was science fiction, after all.