Intelligence in Nature - Jeremy Narby [48]
Then Arikawa showed us some adult silkworms. These peculiar animals are moths that have been cultivated for their capacity to produce silk when they are in their larval stage. Once the males become adults, all they do is remain immobile until they smell the pheromones released by females; then they copulate. The females lay eggs. Adult silkworms never eat. They copulate, lay eggs, and die. Thatâs all. Arikawa placed four male silkworms on a brown piece of paper. They looked like white moths with stubby wings. They did not move at all. But when he sprayed them with a vial containing female pheromones, they buzzed into action, beating their wings and moving around in circles on the paper.
Arikawa said the silkworms had been given to him the previous day by a colleague with whom he had co-taught a public science class. I asked if he enjoyed communicating with the general public. He replied that participating in exercises of democratic science came with his job, and that he liked stimulating peopleâs interest in moths and butterflies. I asked how he felt about science dealing increasingly with money, rather than free knowledge for people.
âYes, thatâs sad,â he said. âI would say the purpose of living is to entertain ourselves, to enjoy life. So the question is: How can we enjoy life, or do what makes us happy? Making money is one of these things, so itâs important, and it makes life very convenient, by using cars and such items. But I want to put on the same list of what entertains people, enjoying music, or reading novels to stimulate your brain. And science must be regarded as music, as an important piece of social entertainment for human life. Thatâs why I like democratic activity.â
Later that afternoon, Beatrice and I made our way back to Tokyo. The typhoon was coming to an end. The rains had ceased. Hundreds of broken plastic umbrellas lay strewn around the waste bins in front of Shinjuku subway station. As we walked around town, the setting sun burst through an opening in the clouds and illuminated the city sky in pink and purple.
At one point we went into a store and admired the sophistication of the latest electronic gadgets. Several lifelike mechanical animals caught my attention, in particular a small green bird that chirped different melodies when the photosensitive cell on its chest was stimulated. When it sang, it moved its beak, shook its head and wagged its tail. I thought about butterflies, with photoreceptors on their tails. And Kentaro Arikawaâs words came to mind: âThere is no clear border between ourselves and machines.â Butterflies see better than we do in some respects, though their brains are mere specks two millimeters in size. Their tiny brains can even adjust their interpretation of colors in function of light. Fancy circuitry in the butterfly brain must be involved, but for the moment its details remain unknown.
Butterflies are transformers as they metamorphose from worm into winged insect in the pupa. People in Japan are transformers, pushed by volcanoes and history to innovate and renew themselves. Shamans are transformers, changing into animals in their minds. Every living creature is a transformer, the result of a long series of transformations through evolution, which is ongoing. Every living cell is literally a transformer, transforming charges between the outside and inside of its membrane. Life itself is a transformer; it diversifies, unfolds, and morphs, and takes on as many incarnated forms as possible. And machines that act like animals are transformers, halfway between machines and living beings.
Kentaro Arikawa said there are no clear borders between ourselves and machines. He said this with complete serenity and without regrets. We ourselves are the products of the machines that are our bodies and brains, he saidâwithout regrets, because machines can be