Posthuman Blues

"Fuck this shit." Really, I'm a little angry at myself for stooping so low; I try to rise above that sort of stuff here. But I was pressed for time and exasperated -- a mental state not too conducive to articulate discourse even in the best of circumstances.

What I should have said: Religion is killing us. We've nurtured it and allowed it to fester to the point of malignancy. Arthur C. Clarke said it best when he likened it to a "disease of infancy."

I'm especially troubled because even though we're thoroughly infected, our collective immune system doesn't seem to be paying attention. We've actually reached the point where the end of the world as we know it (in the worst possible sense) has ceased to be a potential wake-up call; instead, we're welcoming it with outspread arms, eager for a terminal fix.





On the other hand, why do I care? Why can't I share George Carlin's attitude and enjoy humanity's fading hour as the bizarre spectacle it is? What stake do I have in this mess? I'm unmarried. No children. Consciously, at least, I have no abiding urge to reproduce, so I have little or no genetic imperative for wishing the world well. Perhaps I'm yearning for the opportunity to achieve technological immortality and hate seeing the rug whisked out from beneath me for no good reason. Or maybe it's simply a matter of principle.

Then again, I'm not totally without hope. Not quite yet. This species is doing some cool things. But will it be enough? Can we counteract the damage we've already inflicted? Barring that, can we gather the might to move elsewhere, leaving Earth to rebalance, spared the present burden of lethally superstitious humanity?

If so, will we have learned anything? Do we have the luxury of assuming the Cosmos has room for us?