Artificial Intelligence
Were humans engineered? Did an advanced race of beings once inhabit Earth? Can we wormhole across the universe? Occasionally, I obsess over places like Atlantis, Angkor, Machu Picchu, Easter Island, and ancient Egyptian civilizations. I wonder about their culture. Was life hard? Were they educated? Did they have free will or service a king? What kind of Gods did they worship?
My caffeine-duped biorhythms weren’t firing right after driving from Los Angeles to San Francisco most of the night. Every so often, I glanced at my map in the passenger seat to confirm my location. The perfectly distanced street lights overhead created a strobe effect in my car as I passed under them. The stripes on the road and Art Bell — the talk radio host channeling through my backseat Boombox — were plotting to hypnotize me.
It was four AM when I entered a foggy San Francisco. I had planned to get through the city before rush hour and take a few pictures of the sunrise with my FunSaver. Without traffic, I was reasonably able to navigate to Golden Gate by the road signs, but the view from the bridge was a letdown. All I saw were suspension cables and metallic towers rising, disappearing into the mist.
On the north side of the bay, I found myself on a winding two-lane road that supposedly offered a picturesque overlook of the bridge. Of course, this wasn’t what I saw. Frustrated, I pulled onto a gravelly turnout then cracked the door to kick on the interior light. After fighting with my map for a minute, I confirmed I was off my route, but not by far. So I pulled a Coke from my cooler and contemplated whether to wait and see if the fog would lift. Art’s guest talked about the Very Large Array (VLA) of radio telescopes in New Mexico, which can pick up signals from across the galaxy. I’d never heard of it. It was just enough esoterica and watered-down technospeak to keep me mystified. What are radio waves? What creates them? Aliens? Natural phenomenon? Science or fiction?
In my early twenties — the eighties — my passion for bike racing doubled as an excuse for road trips. By the time I was twenty-two, I had competed in fifteen states and driven through almost forty. When possible, I’d go five to eight hundred miles for a big race in my beat-up car (with a blown radio). Agreed, it was fuzzy logic, possibly a waste of time. My Boombox was my entertainment. When I got tired of my cassettes or couldn’t pick up an FM radio station, I scanned the AM band. No matter where I was, at night, I could always pull in Coast to Coast, Art Bell’s show of the occult and paranormal. I was once curious enough to read why AM signals travel farther than FM signals, but I can’t recall now.
For reference, Highway One is known as Cabrillo Highway south of San Francisco but Shoreline Highway to the north. I know this because I learned it at 4 AM when I was sleep-deprived and desperate to stay out of drive-time traffic. Three hours north, “The One” merges into the Pacific Coast Highway, which you can take to Canada.
The overcast dawn hours on my northern California drive felt like I was meandering in a lonely dream state. Outside of tourist season, the narrow serpentine road seemed forsaken, destined for nowhere. It snuck under Fall canopies and crept along the coast. At times, I hit a stretch with no fog and got a glimpse of a lighthouse or the Pacific Ocean. Other times, when I was near the ocean, I’d see a rocky mountainside up the road a mile or two, half smothered by an evanescent sea mist chimera.
I’d seen pictures of seaside terrain in magazines and books, but watching the waves crash on the shore repeatedly, tasting the salt in the air, feeling the chill of the ocean, made me feel adrift. At some point, I shut off my Jambox and drove in silence, with the voice in my head. What was this place like before people? Do the aliens look like us? Are they trying to tell us something? Why would they use radio signals? I know — these are absurd questions. I’ve always been interested in weird stuff. The fact that my mind wandered without reason as I roamed the United States isn’t lost on me. Travel has that effect — it piques my curiosity — makes me consider things I might not otherwise. The schools I went to didn’t answer my questions about Peruvian Nazca Lines, Mayan mythology, or Native American culture. They weren’t the place to entertain these irrational ideas; they were for learning fundamentals, job skills, and heuristics.
When you live in the city, you grow accustomed to ambient noise. There’s always something going on in the background, but you don’t really “hear” it: outside, a car drives by; a couple argues; a construction team works; a baby cries; children play; someone is on their phone; landscapers are busy; a television is on. You don’t notice these omnipresent noise patterns until they aren’t there.
The Coastal Redwood jutted from the ground and shot straight up into the dissipating mist. Its trunk, scored with trenches deep enough for a person to fit in, didn’t branch out until a height of well over a hundred feet. As I stared up in awe, I could sense its immense weight — tons and tons and tons of solid wood. It was undoubtedly a living thing, albeit not like me, but it didn’t seem possible. I tried to compare it to something familiar. Thirty stories? Forty? How? How does it? How old is it? How much water? Why here? Evolution? Not only could I not answer these questions, but they also defied a logical answer. Seeing just one of these trees up close would have been memorable, but I wasn’t just near one; they surrounded me. Each trunk was as thick as ten to thirty regular trees. And each spiked straight up with a singular purpose like they were competing against each other for height supremacy.
A ghostly aura of vapor lingered about, illuminated by sun rays that pierced through the top foliage in random places. Two hundred feet? Three hundred feet? Taller? As I tottered about these solid titans, I felt insignificant, vulnerable, where humans are grub for giant rodents and Jurassic reptiles. I was the insect. Nothing was to scale; all I could do was admire their tenacity in reverence.
As I walked about on the damp ground, I realized I was alone in the middle of the wild, hours from civilization. I was a city boy, used to a false sense of security. Here, nothing was familiar. There was no sound — no birds, no animals, nothing. Do they know I’m here? Yes. I think so. Are they observing me in silence? Maybe. Are they conspiring? I don’t know, but I feel like I’m in their space, like I don’t belong. Everything was alive, natural — except me.
I was in the area for maybe thirty minutes when a breeze began to howl through the trees. It intensified quickly. Soon, the ground vegetation sprang to life and started vigorously shaking in unison. Above the Redwood crowns, I heard a rumble — the sky had grown darker, signaling its intent. With the plants casting shadows about, my fear-adrenaline kicked in. What was that? Who’s there? I saw something. Where did it go? Giant centipede? No. Not real. Wolf? Bear? Yes. Maybe. Do bears live —shit! Each time the wind kicked up, the trees murmured louder. The smaller trees, the plants, the ground, all connected, seemed to be preparing for something. Still, the Redwood pillars stood resolute. Disoriented, I started to hike back. With each step I took, I could hear plants rustling, gossiping behind me. The interval between each footfall quickened. I wasn’t running, but I wasn’t exactly walking either. The moment I returned to my car, the sky dropped a load of rain that it had been holding all day.
Some Indigenous People of North America call Redwood trees Ancient Ones. They believe Spirit Beings inhabit the trees, a divine race that existed long before humans and taught them how to survive. A mature Redwood can live more than 3000 years and hit a height of over 350 feet; it can easily have a trunk circumference of twenty feet. The species has evolved into one of the most resilient on Earth and has existed for over 200 million years. Unlike most other trees, they have shallow root systems that don’t burrow down so much as they intertwine horizontally and network with adjacent Redwoods, allowing them to scale to great heights. They are incredibly impervious to forest fires and naturally resistant to decay from termites. Generally, they only fall over and die due to changes in the surrounding environment, which affects their stability. Because they feed on the fog, the Pacific Northwest is ideal for their continuity.
None of this information about California Redwoods factored into my decision when I drove this stretch in 1991. I was simply going to a bike race. I had heard of the National Park, and I had seen pictures, but I happened upon it by chance. Now, I’m glad I took the route because it’s a surreal memory. Strangely, it feels like an accomplishment, even though it wasn’t a reasonable use of time. I took pictures that day, but I rarely look at them because they somehow lessen the experience. It’s my memories that I cherish and call on when life has me feeling anxious, or I want to put everything into perspective.
Not long ago, I had an opportunity to drive from Portland to San Francisco. It was my first time going that route in over 25 years. Google mapped a course for me straight down the I-5 at about ten hours. But, I figured the PCH option, which would add three hours, would be worth it. Additionally, the Highway One route north of San Francisco would add three more hours — again, not the most efficient use of time — but I was okay with it. I used my smartphone to search for places to eat and sights to see as I set out. With each set of results, I browsed photos and videos of the area. I used a GPS to triangulate my position and navigate from node to node. After a few hours, I couldn’t help but think the journey felt a little…inadequate. At every turn, I knew what I was getting into and what I was going to see. My destination was locked in, but something was missing.
The feeling of discovery, learning something new — that’s what was missing. Exploring outside of the rules — that’s what was missing. I realized that I didn’t want to know everything that was going to be on my journey. After you reach a certain age, most of what you take in is predictable. I wanted to be surprised, deconstruct. I wanted to encounter, maybe endure, something unexpected, nonlinear. So, I shut it all off and just drove in silence — with my thoughts. It didn’t take long for my senses to come alive and fill the void with my own sound. Are we the only sentient beings in the universe? Is it possible we came here from somewhere else? Are we the only creatures with a spirit aware of our mortality? These are still esoteric questions, fueled by too many childlike hours considering possibilities rather than the concrete.
Along my drive, I stopped in random spots to admire the landscape. I took some pictures while reflecting on my life. This time, as a mature man, I had a lot to look back on. At times, I felt regret and the heartache of my mistakes; other times, I felt proud of my accomplishments. It hasn’t been a perfect ride.
After entering the northern outskirts of San Francisco, I saw an exit for Golden Gate View Point, so I took it. Moments later, while admiring the panoramic view of the skyline and the bridge, I realized I’d been there before. But this time, I had clear visibility. And what I saw from my bird’s eye view is that life is often blurred between absolutes.
As I looked over at the silent curiosity in my young son’s eyes, I felt happy for the road ahead of him. But, I also felt sad for some of the things I knew he’d have to endure. On some level, I wanted to minimize the hardship, negate the failures before they happened. I knew from experience that this wasn’t realistic. As he looked up and smiled at me, I returned the smile, put my arm around his shoulder, and silently sent him a message. Sometimes, you’re just going to have to ignore the data and drive with your emotions. Spend too much time obsessing over the details, and you’ll miss the forest for the trees.
I’m Gilbert Ramirez, author of The Chameleon: Plot to Weaponize Bias, an alumnus of The University of Texas at Austin College of Communication. I’m a philosophical technogeek, a Media Literacy freak, and a proud Veteran. I’m out to unite diverse cultures through technology.
I go by The Chameleon on Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter to evangelize Media Literacy topics: rhetoric, sociology, neurobiology, philosophy, psychology, and of course, media.
