Eric Stever - Non Metallic

Consciousness is on the periphery of brain activities. It’s the way the brain observes itself, and also the way the brain observes how it observes the world. My daughter tells me this is called meta-cognition. She is in second grade, so she explained it to me in a way that made sense: It’s the way you think about what you think. That’s a pretty good description.

But there’s a lot more going on in your brain than consciousness. Lots of interactions, plan-making, analyses, memorializing, swapping chemicals, etc. And sometimes (only sometimes) does that information get forwarded up to conscious thought. The method of transferring information to consciousness is what I call non-linguistic communication. This happens internally through dreams and intuition (communication within your brain), or externally through art (indirect communication from your brain to other brains) or through your body language and pheromones (direct communication from your unconscious brain to other unconscious brains). That’s probably why I hate texting. I can’t see/hear/smell you, so I don’t know what you really mean. That also may be why writing good fiction is so tough.

Consciousness is a clumsy but useful recent addition to our brains. From the fossil record we know humans have existed for roughly 250,000 years, yet our recognizable ancestors (non-human species) go back six million years, land animals 300-500 million years, and life on Earth a few billion years. They all had brains too (okay maybe just the last few hundred million years), and they also managed to survive. So brains are good for something. And since we can only be related to animals that have survived long enough to reproduce, we are all a product of success. What a weird family reunion that would make!

We haven’t been conscious for very long. Nobody knows how long. Some say the great leap forward in art and technology (about 30,000 years ago) indicates our burgeoning consciousness. Others place the date at 100,000 years, and others are more generous, and place consciousness even in non-human species, such as Neanderthals or Homo Habilis. Please notice I’m not answering the consciousness question, and, I’m doing it in an artful way. I haven’t thought of a fail-proof method to measure consciousness in the archaeological record. Email me if you figure it out.

In this story, the last of the collection, I address human consciousness. I had thought I only recently became interested in this idea (2018), but as it turns out, ten years ago I started writing about non-linguistic communication, artistic imagery, and the importance of facing up to your own dark self. At its core, this is a tragedy, but there is a ray of light at the end. Perhaps humans can save themselves, even if we are aware of how dangerously imperfect we are.

Leo trudged down the waterlogged road, jumping over the deeper puddles where the garbage had settled after the previous night’s torrents. His knees started to wear after only a mile, and his spry jumps turned to awkward lurches and finally, a numbed, sloppy, acceptance. By now, he was immune to most of the diseases the water carried anyway. His Uncle took care of that.

Leo passed the MiniSuper store, waving to the owner, Soledad, as she swept the trash from the previous night’s rain into the puddled street. Each movement of the broom was a hurricane in itself, a sharp jab against the natural disorder of the universe.

“Bueno,” he said as he walked by, but there was no time for idle conversation. The Coordinator was waiting for him.

Leo turned left, off the main street, and began to edge up the hill with short stuttering steps. He caught sight of his gangly reflection in a car window. The beginnings of a salt and pepper beard dotted his sun reddened cheeks; grey tufts of hair sprouted from beneath his neon green painter’s cap. He wondered who that old man thought he was, staring back at him from the reflection.

Leo adjusted his paint-speckled purple t-shirt, smoothing the wrinkled cloth over his stomach, and then continued wheezing up the hill. His legs began to tremble and he wondered if his body would have enough juice to get him back home in time to finish his work. During the rainy season, time seemed to slip by him, almost unnoticed.

At the top of the hill, Leo approached the Coordinator’s small house, breathless from the exertion, and a tinge of nerves. He rapped twice on the door, which pushed open on his last knock. Coordinators never locked their doors.

“Leo my man, what are you up to?” asked a voice from behind the half opened door. “Come on in.”

Leo pushed open the door, smelling the damp, incense laden air inside the small house. A fan turned reluctantly on the ceiling.

The Coordinator sat in an old rocking chair, a sun-faded book in his lap. His tied-back grey hair and reading glasses gave him a scholarly appearance, offset only by his stained tie-dye shirt. A cup of tea sat on the table in front of him, untouched.

“Nothing worth crying over,” Leo said with a shrug. “How’s your week been?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain. It’d be nice to see the sun again though.”

Leo smiled his agreement, then said, “It’s the hand we were dealt.” The words felt forced.

Jim looked up at him, over his lowered glasses.

Was that the encoded message that they wanted him to give, Leo wondered? He could never tell what they really wanted, what his Uncle really wanted.

“Have a seat Leo, you’re making me nervous.”

Leo obliged, sitting down on the damp blue couch directly across from Jim’s chair. He had to squeeze by the table in between them, jostling the cup of tea.

Jim took off his glasses and rubbed his nose, then continued. “We have a lot to talk about, and I’m sorry about this, but it might take quite a while. Just so you know, I’m fully On today, so you’re talking to both of us.”

Leo stiffened. It wasn’t often that he saw anyone On anymore. There wasn’t much of a need. But to be in the presence of a fully aware Coordinator was… overwhelming.

“I don’t feel the urge to turn On, is that all right, man?” Leo asked, his hand rasping back and forth on his chin.

“If you needed to, then you would. Your Uncle is doing fine by the way, he wants you to know.”

Leo nodded, suppressing the urge to ask how the message was passed. “How’d our boy do— or did the ‘Snoops’ pick up a she this time?”

“The new subject failed every one of their tests,” Jim said grimly.

“Every test, every single one. That’s–-”

“Great? That’s what I thought at first too. But my Uncle disagrees. I got this bad indigestion all of a sudden,” Jim said. He flexed the fingers of his right hand.

Leo wondered if that was another encoded message or just the effect of the rain.

“So here’s the problem my man,” Jim continued, his hand now resting in his lap. “It’s getting too easy. The Snoops aren’t stupid. They’ve saved hundreds of civilizations, and nudged thousands more into destruction. It’s pretty rare they sit back and do nothing. So what’s up? Why are they letting us pull the same old tricks on them, over and over again?

“Man, I don’t know,” Leo said, drawing out his words for emphasis. “We can’t get off the planet half the times we try to. How is that a threat to their galactic empire?”

Jim shrugged but said nothing. He scratched his left leg absently. “Tell me about your walk over here,” he said.

Leo gave Jim a wry smile. A conversation with a Coordinator could be maddeningly random at times. But it was still easier than turning On each time you made a report. No one likes a bright light in the face, even if it’s pitch black outside. So the Uncles relied on indirect methods of communication to talk with each other; body language, misplaced turns of phrase, even pictures or poetry. It made the conversations sometimes nonsensical.