JUNE 12, 2022 – (Cont.) “You see, because of our biological needs, we’re very short-term creatures. No oxygen, we perish in minutes. No water, a couple of days. No food, a bit longer, but not much longer. And even if we have plenty of food, water, and oxygen, one way or another our bodies give out within only a 100 years—at the far end. For you, for whom time doesn’t exist because you appear to have no natural limit to your longevity—correct? . . .”
“That’s right . . .”
“. . . short-term thinking must be an alien concept . . .—oops! No offense! . . .
“. . . none taken . . .”
“So, anyway, for us humans, from a purely physical, biological perspective, we’re geared to be very short-term thinkers. Over millennia we’ve managed to develop food surpluses and water reservoirs, but even in the current day, we’re learning how vulnerable these can be. Point is, because we gotta breathe, gotta eat, gotta drink—now!—our brains tend to be geared that way on other fronts as well.
“In fact, it’s more a matter of brain chemistry rather than mechanics. Heads produce a neurotransmitter called dopamine, which, among other things, sends us scurrying around for quick and easy gratification. This powerful messaging feature performed an essential function in spurring early members of the species to get out of their caves in the morning and go hunt down some food—to get up and go . . . survive, then thrive. It still gets us out of bed—and into bed in pursuit of our main function in life, believe it or not, which is procreation, but that’s another whole conversation. I suppose you could blame a lot of our myopia on dopamine, but you’d also have to credit it for our survival and success as a species.”
The alien shot extra illumination into its filaments, much as we humans widen our eyes upon hearing bizarre information. I pretended not to notice the alien’s astonishment. I was wary of a diversion into territory any stranger than the one I’d stumbled into.
“Here in America,” I said, “our entire system revolves around dopamine.”
The alien’s filaments flashed excitedly. “How so?” it asked.
“Okay. A little backdrop: Our main religion is capitalism. Its central tenet is profit. It’s main place of worship is the local shopping mall. Its primary mission is to get us to acquire as much crap—sorry, stuff—as we can cram into our mouths, our cars, our homes, our yards, our garages, our yards. The main function of the religion’s evangelical priesthood is to convince the masses to buy products and services. To do that, in turn, the priests work tirelessly to unleash dopamine among the hordes and trigger mass myopia.”
“How in your world do you do that?” Poor alien. When it’d landed on our porch, it’d had no idea what it was going to hear about. But poor me. When the alien came out of the thin air, I’d had no idea what I’d be pressed to talk about. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
