HOW HUMANS EXCHANGE INFORMATION

HOW HUMANS EXCHANGE INFORMATION

A report by exprmntl rsrchr #FIC137

I wish the subject of this report could have been ‘How Humans Reproduce,’ since that was, of all my experiences, the one that sticks with me. And I may be able to dovetail it in eventually, because I know my colleagues really want to hear about it. After all, they’re only human![1] Lol.[2] Meanwhile, I’ll at least pretend I’m focused upon my assigned topic: the exchange of information.

After so many months—years it was, in human terms—of humanoid training, I was still unprepared for how difficult was the most insignificant exchange of information. I could talk, if talk just meant selecting words and pronouncing them; I could think. I even had a certain degree of verbal style (for which I take full credit, because it’s not part of basic training). But talking, as I’d already suspected, didn’t necessarily mean any information got communicated. And I’d of course been generously appurtenanced with examples of human experience that resulted in memories dating nearly back to what is termed ‘infancy’—

But let me pause right here: Memory! What a clumsy way to store events, impressions, and responses. Half the time, when you require a particular memory you have to grope blindly in

shadowy mental caverns to grasp even a filament of what you’re looking for, since the human brainium is woefully lacking in storage apparatus. Then when you do grasp a memory, it can be like grasping a fish—though never mind, I don’t have patience to explain what a fish is. Something vigorous, muscular, slippery, and bent on escape.  

So, memory, as I was describing, is closely allied with emotion. Thus, to my consternation I had only to grasp a memory of, say, some close associate directing negative emanations toward me, and without warning my eyes would fill with hot brine. Or another memory would set me in a landscape composed of elements known to be satisfying to humans: soft emerald grass cushioning the unshod feet, a gentle swaying in the topmost branches of trees[3]…a pervading and inexplicably pleasant sensation of warmth from their sun…and the company of other humans, larger and smaller than myself, bounding about in the most delightful way, so that I felt a sharp ache across my midsection. I later learned that this ache is called ‘nostalgia’ or ‘homesickness’ (depending, I suppose, on the severity) and makes one wish to return to that particular environ. I don’t know whether I most liked or disliked it; frankly, I didn’t know what to make of it.[4]

But, about this difficulty of exchanging information. We, of course, are accustomed to informational exchange being instantaneous and effortless. ‘Spoiled’ would be their word for us. Whereas they—oh grokkers, the amount of pure caloric expenditure! Their speech organs are in constant motion, accompanied by hand-waving, hair-tossing, elbow-flapping, and chin-jutting; their volume intensifies as their inability to transfer mental contents becomes ever more evident. Yet they appear to derive endless enjoyment from this pandemonium, going out of their way to find occasions for it. They even have a selection of substances which, when imbibed in liquid form or drawn into their lungs as smoke, appear to encourage the continuance and consequent gratification of what is called, I believe, ‘social intercourse.’ In other words, the activity is not necessarily for the purpose of exchanging information; more often it provides an excuse for them to congregate. They are endearingly gregarious. Which meant that I, too, must be gregarious.

But—my training had not included this! Gregariousness, as you have instantaneously reminded me, is not natural to us. We are so completely formulated to be independent units, each with a specialized assignment of information-accrual, that it is almost impossible to ‘wrap our heads around’ the concept of purposeless interaction. Hard enough to frame information into words, which must then be forced out through the lips by internal bellows—but often there is noinformation! For example the revelation, once transmitted, that a human with the name of Auntie Marge went to the church social and won a plastic penguin at Bingo is baffling; why is this important? I had to process the possible meanings of ‘Auntie,’ ‘church,’ ‘social,’ ‘plastic’ (a manufactured substance), ‘penguin’ (these are generally not plastic), and ‘Bingo’ (a game of chance requiring no mental activity), and after that to ponder the listeners’ reactions, which included clapping the hands together and making a loud hooting noise. Incidentally, this loud hooting is a thing they do often, and the one time I tried it, I did feel a kind of buzzing sensation in my sinuses and larynx that was distinctly pleasurable—more proto-human than human.

At any rate, I became gregarious. The memory rations with which I’d been provided gave me access to literally hundreds of hominoids with whom I’d had thousands of interactions. Some were imbued with so much ‘emotion’ that I found it fascinating simply to sit and review them. To feel them. And now I found myself collecting new ones—genuine ones, from my own activities. And one in particular—

But wait, stop. This is the obvious time to bring up human reproduction. The subject has, especially in recent times, come under a great deal of their own information-exchange—as to the humans who are permitted to practice it, the methods whereby it may be practiced, the purposes aside from reproduction that insure its practice, and the necessity of it being practiced at all. One must first understand that they have a rather humorous modus for it. Some variation of the process is found over a wide spectrum of Earth life: a seed, non-reproductive in itself, is intruded, or inserted, into the aperture of another member of the same species, and the resultant union is reproductive. You will readily see that this requires a cooperative spirit, each member having to enjoy a substantial measure of motivation. 

My understanding is that this motivation is in fact more than enjoyable. Indeed, in our own studies of human behavior we have witnessed horrendous internecine struggles over the privilege of practicing reproduction. Laughable as it may seem to my colleagues, since I have at last experienced it first-hand it no longer seems laughable to me. To explain:

From the outset I had been randomly assigned the identity of ‘aperture,’ which at that time meant I was ‘female.’[5] My given objective was to pass across the vision-field of a human designated ‘male,’ or ‘inserter,’ moving my limbs in such ways as had been proven to be attractive. And one day, as a lone inserter happened to appear on my own vision-field, I made the effort. It went better than I’d expected. Much depends on the flexibility of the hip joints, and as mine were Swivel-rite™ high-grade after-market add-ons, they performed seamlessly. With no further training than I’ve admitted to, I did to my surprise attract the inserter even as he continued on his way. 

I turned to take a better look—and my memory serves up a vivid picture of how this inserter appeared to me. I see his walk just as I saw it then; I see his shoulders, the swinging arms, the upward tilt of his head, the flare of his nostrils. I did not at first see the insertion mechanism itself, but humans have an amazing number of ways whereby they identify themselves to one another, and this human identified himself as an inserter by the following properties: 1) He was larger than me, thus subtly suggesting both threat and protection. 2) He wore the clothing typical, at that time, of the inserter, viz denim pants with a wallet visible in the back pocket, paired with a soft, sleeveless jerkin that accentuated the already noticeable contours of his upper body. 3) He grew hair not only on the surface of his head, as indeed most humans do, but also, sparsely, on his jaw and upper lip. 4) His eyes, in passing, had swept across my presence rapidly, powerfully, transmitting information with a speed that quite stunned me; by the time they flicked away, I had received a vibrational challenge that both angered and excited me. And if I haven’t yet sufficiently communicated this, both anger and excitement are directly related to memory. We might even say the human is defined by them. At that moment, I was well defined.

Now, there comes after this a deluge of memories, and if they are not as numerous as all the collective memories of my human life, they are among the most compelling. That is, I would not lose them for anything, even though the briefest review of them causes me a painful physical sensation they call ‘grief,’ or ‘desire’—either one. If nature had so designed that the inserter and the aperture were to join, to fuse, I must observe that our urge to do so exceeded natural motivation. That is, natural motivation would have ensured that, once having recognized our roles, we should simply meet, remove obstructive garments, adopt the necessary position(s), and get it done. But no, it is a more complex process, one I still don’t understand.

Why did this inserter walk away with no backward glance, was he unnatural? Then, was it nature that made me hurry up behind him and ask, panting, for directions to the Police Station? Then, why didn’t he just tell me, why did his sharp gaze penetrate deep into my consciousness while he asked whether I was in some sort of trouble? And my own response! With very little knowledge of this word ‘trouble,’ I yet let him know by ploys of my own—who knew I had ploys?—that I was indeed in trouble, and that he himself was the trouble, and that I lived for no other purpose than trouble.

Well, this isn’t exactly how it happened—but I gather that the way it happens is frequently a complete mystery to the participants. In fact, after fusion has been established, the two will likely engage in mutual informational exchange such as, I knew the minute I saw…it was when you…the way you moved your…and they seem to feel that some telepathic exchange has occurred, the importance of which can hardly be exaggerated. Accordingly, after three fusions, or insertions, my male—Brad was his name—lay back with a cigarette between his lips and said, “Yeah, I saw you. Would’ve been hard not to. With those eyes, like you’re from outer space…” [6]

Anyway, this reproductive imperative—no, I shall never be convinced that any intention of reproduction, on his part or mine, can account for what we put ourselves through. Each word, each touch, each glance became an instant memory which returned in force to color the next word, touch, and glance, incrementally amplifying our attraction, until I got the sense—though sense is not knowledge—that there was some sort of meaning behind it all. Not purpose (i.e. reproduction) but meaning. As meaning is a basically undefinable word, I can only say, in their vernacular: We were making something of it.

It's interesting—to me, anyway, and I hope to you—that I can at any time pull out any memory of this human inserter named Brad, who I saw so few times in my Earthly sojourn, and I am suddenly made of memories. Not just of Brad, though memories of him sear me as few others can, but of a million variations on the theme of human life. As if Brad had somehow humanized me, I’ll suddenly remember a waterfall…a mother…a kitten…a driver’s license… an open wound… a report card…a light bulb…a cuckoo clock…a piano…a deep ravine through which flows a river all the way to the open sea. 

Is this information? If I press my transmitters against the electromagnetic plate, will you find yourself swept away in the current of what I’ve learned? Will you cry out, as if you had a voice? I might as well try to communicate ‘color’ or ‘flavor.’ What humans do is ‘make something of it’—of absolutely anything—which is to say, they give it meaning. And what is meaning? I don’t know if this was a gift or not, this opportunity to be for a short time a whole human being complete with a life. The sorrow I feel over having had it and lost it is a sorrow I’d never have felt if I hadn’t had it at all; sometimes it seems unbearable. If asked, however—yes, I would go back, in a heartbeat, and try to make something of it—to find this meaning that so mysteriously transcends information. 

[1] This is what’s called a joke. My colleagues are of course not human.

[2] They use this acronym to indicate that a joke has occurred. 

[3] [refer to my report on ‘non-human Earth life’]

[4] ‘Making something of it’ is a peculiarly human proclivity on which I will discourse at greater length when I come to ‘Human Reproductive Practices,’ which I am getting to as fast as I can.

[5] This, like everything else, has since become a matter of human debate.

[6] Ah, Brad, how could you have known this?