Posthuman Blues

Sometimes I'm struck by just how improbable the human species is. We're absurd-looking creatures, sauntering around on two legs, arms swinging gently at our sides, faces perpetually twisting to accommodate some passing emotion or barely noticed reaction. Imagine a planet where some other species ascended to dominant species-hood -- reptiles, or perhaps insects . . .

I imagine the skylines constructed by these civilizations that never were. How close would we have to be to recognize them as nonhuman? I can envision an insect-city composed of massive biomorphic forms, intricately criss-crossing tunnels, precarious spires jutting against a sky darkened with emissions from factories designed to imitate the workings of living bodies. A Giger-esque tapestry of not-quite streets and organic ductwork, narrow alleys mounded with discarded chitin. Skeletal bipeds with multiple arms hunched beneath the weight of egg sacs and cryptic appliances molded from resin and left to dry on vertiginous balconies. Everywhere: scurrying and the flicker of industrious limbs.

I approach, hands at my sides, until I am immersed in a mercurial forest of gleaming stick-thin bodies and listless antennae.

I am perfectly unseen.