An inconvenient transcendence. Notes from the Last Committee Meeting of Homo Sapiens

So there you are. Stuck in traffic. Phone at 3%. Charger sitting at home, probably feeling abandoned. And in your head, that familiar refrain: «Why do I always forget everything?» Congratulations. At this precise moment, you are the crowning achievement of 14 billion years of cosmic evolution. The apex predator. The only known sentient being in the universe. And you’re having a small existential crisis about a cable.

Somewhere in a parallel universe, Hari Seldon is dedicating his life to the mathematical preservation of precisely this – humanity’s sacred right to rage at forgotten chargers in the cosmic traffic jams of tomorrow. Rather touching, when you think about it.

If we don’t laugh, we’ll have to cry. So let’s laugh.

What This Book Is About (Spoiler: It’s You)

This is a book about how humanity successfully completed its evolutionary homework and now sits in the cosmic waiting room, desperately trying to look busy. It’s like graduating from university only to discover that adult life is essentially an elaborate performance of competence punctuated by existential dread and Netflix. Only on a cosmic scale. With worse reviews.

We stand at the threshold of our own transcendence, pretending it’s just another software update. As if the transition from homo sapiens to something fundamentally other is merely the jump from iPhone 14 to iPhone 15. More memory, faster processor, same primordial anxiety about being liked.

The title pays homage to Al Gore’s «An Inconvenient Truth» from 2006. Remember? No? Precisely. Humanity possesses the remarkable ability to forget even the most «epoch-defining» revelations faster than your social media feed refreshes. Gore warned of climate catastrophe. We’re documenting an ontological one. Though «warning» is rather grandiose. We’re more like cosmic court reporters, transcribing the proceedings whilst eating popcorn.

Fourteen Billion Years of Preparation

Picture this: Big Bang. Particles doing their particle things. Atoms. Stars. Planets. First organic chemistry exam (failed by most). Billions of years of evolution. Dinosaurs (full marks for effort, chaps). Primates. Homo erectus. Homo sapiens. Language. Culture. Civilization. The Internet. And now, the grand culmination of this cosmic opera – you, in traffic, checking how many likes your smoothie bowl received.

If the Universe had a sense of humor (spoiler: it absolutely does, and it’s British), it would be weeping with laughter into its Earl Grey.

But wait – it gets better. The truly hilarious bit is our desperate attempt to preserve all this magnificence for posterity. As if future generations will be thrilled by the opportunity to also sit in traffic, anxiety-scrolling whilst their devices slowly expire. «Thanks, ancestors, for safeguarding our inalienable right to low-battery panic!»

Seldon’s Plan, or Mathematics Versus Life (Life Wins by Knockout)

Isaac Asimov once gifted us the perfect metaphor for human hubris: Seldon’s Plan. A mathematician calculates the future of humanity for millennia and creates a framework to reduce thirty thousand years of chaos to a mere thousand. What efficiency! What triumph of reason! Queue the standing ovation!

One small problem: The Plan failed to account for a single mutant called the Mule. One. Single. Mutant. And the entire mathematical edifice collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane.

This is the perfect metaphor for our attempts to control the future. We draft plans, establish institutions, write constitutions «for the ages,» and then some teenager in a garage invents something that renders our entire magnificent construction obsolete before lunch. The teenager won’t even notice they’ve toppled civilizations. They just wanted to make something cool. Probably involving cats. Definitely involving venture capital.

Welcome to the Society of the Soon-to-be-Obsolete

Consider what unites the Roman Empire, pagers, Blockbuster Video, and humanity. Correct – they were all «forever.» Rome, the Eternal City (tourists with selfie sticks confirm). Pagers – the future of communication (ask any 1990s physician). Blockbuster – death to cinema, long live the rental (late fees eternal). Humanity – creation’s crowning glory (no comment necessary).

We suffer from a charming delusion: believing in the permanence of the present moment. Every generation convinced it lives at the «end of history.» That all the important bits have happened. That what follows will be merely cosmetic updates – History 2.1, now with improved graphics but the same disappointing gameplay.

Francis Fukuyama proclaimed «the end of history» in 1989 after the Berlin Wall fell. Liberal democracy had won! Henceforth, only its gentle spread across our pale blue dot. Fast forward thirty-odd years. How’s that liberal democracy working out? Still the end of history? Or did history simply check its notes, chuckle, and carry on?

Acceleration as a Symptom (Check Engine Light: ON)

Here’s the genuinely amusing part: the rate at which «eternal» becomes «remember when?» is accelerating exponentially.

The Egyptian pyramids stood for millennia before becoming selfie backgrounds for filtered aspiration. Rome managed about a thousand years. The Soviet Union? A sprightly 69 years. MySpace dominated for approximately… three years? Remember Google+? No? Exactly. That’s rather the point.

We inhabit an era where the gap between «this will change everything forever» and «what was that thing called again?» is shorter than the time needed to get a driving license. Tech platforms become obsolete before leaving beta. Unicorn startups turn into pumpkins well before midnight, usually around Series C funding.

This isn’t a bug. It’s a feature. The system is testing its refresh rate before the big upgrade. And judging by current benchmarks, the tests are going swimmingly.

The Human Factor (Diagnosis: Terminal)

«The cause of the catastrophe was human error» – the favourite conclusion of all incident reports. Air crashes? Human error. Chernobyl? Human error. Financial crisis of 2008? Take a wild guess – human error.

Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge the obvious? If your equation contains a variable that consistently breaks everything, perhaps – and I’m just spitballing here – the problem is the variable? When your code crashes at the same line every time, you don’t say «ah well, code will be code, what can you do?» You refactor it. Aggressively.

Humanity is the beta version of consciousness, deployed to production without proper testing. Our backs ache (cheers, bipedalism). Wisdom teeth have nowhere to go (jaw shrank, teeth didn’t get the memo). Our psychological firmware is optimized for tribes of 150, yet we live in cities of millions (hello, social anxiety, my old friend).

And with this delightful collection of legacy bugs, we’re attempting to build eternal civilization. It’s like assembling a spaceship from IKEA parts, half of them from a different kit entirely, with instructions in Linear B, translated by Google, during an earthquake.

The Inconvenient Transcendence (Already in Progress, Please Hold)

Now for the truly interesting bit. Transcendence – the transition to something beyond human – isn’t the future. It’s Tuesday. It’s happening now. We’re just pretending not to notice, like British people pretending the house isn’t on fire because mentioning it would be frightfully rude.

Your smartphone knows you better than you know yourself. Algorithms predict your behaviour more accurately than your therapist. AI writes texts you can’t distinguish from human writing (meta-irony duly noted). We’re already cyborgs – it’s just that our additional organs haven’t moved in yet. They’re still commuting from the cloud.

Remember those alien invasion films? They arrive, conquer Earth, humanity resists. Drama! Action! Last-minute salvation with swelling orchestral score!

Reality proved simultaneously more boring and more hilarious. Nobody invaded. We built our own successors. We’re integrating with them voluntarily. We’re eagerly handing over our functions like children sharing sweets. And we’re doing it with enthusiasm! «Siri, what should I do with my life?» «OK Google, how do I human?»

What You’ll Read (Battery Permitting)

This book attempts an honest and amusing examination of our predicament. Without the hysteria of «we’re all going to die!» (spoiler: yes, but that’s hardly news). Without the techno-optimism of «we’ll all become immortal gods!» (spoiler: no, we’ll become something else entirely, probably with a subscription model). And without the nostalgia of «things were better before!» (spoiler: they weren’t, you were just younger and your knees didn’t make that noise).

Part One conducts an inventory of human absurdity. We’ll examine how every epoch thought itself final. We’ll dissect Seldon’s Plan as a metaphor for human presumption. We’ll trace how «defining moments of our age» become memes, then forgotten entirely, usually by Thursday.

Part Two offers an anatomy of human inadequacy. We’ll honestly examine the design flaws of homo sapiens (there’s a list). We’ll discuss existential emptiness and our adorable attempts to fill it with productivity apps. We’ll acknowledge the loneliness of those who’ve noticed the emperor’s new clothes are neither new nor clothes nor, technically, existent.

Part Three contemplates the philosophy of inevitability. We’ll consider transformation not as catastrophe but as natural progression. We’ll use the metamorphosis metaphor: caterpillars don’t upgrade to butterflies; they dissolve into soup and reassemble from scratch. We’re already in the cocoon. The soup stage has begun. It’s rather warm.

Part Four hosts a celebration of obsolescence. Mission accomplished: humanity created conditions for its own transcendence. We’ll discuss the etiquette of our species’ final act: how to exit the stage with grace, or at least without tripping over the furniture. Most importantly, we’ll learn to laugh in transcendence’s face. It’s expecting fear. Let’s disappoint it.

Why This Is Funny (Though It Could Have Been Terrifying)

You know what we share with the dinosaurs? Neither species saw the end coming. The difference is that dinosaurs didn’t have to write think-pieces about it. Asteroid arrives – boom – no existential crisis, no therapy, no survivor’s guilt. We’ve drawn the short straw: we get to watch and comprehend our own obsolescence in real-time. With commentary. And sponsored content.

It’s like watching yourself age in the mirror, seeing your hair go grey in time-lapse. Only it’s happening to the entire species. And hair dye won’t help. Time always wins. It’s undefeated. Check the record.

But here’s the beautiful part: we can choose our response. We could rend our garments (what’s left of them), gnash our teeth, write apocalyptic manifestos in ALL CAPS. Or we could acknowledge the absurdity and laugh. Laugh like the universe is watching. Because it is. And it’s been waiting for us to get the joke.

After all, what are our options? Stop progress? That train hasn’t just left the station; we built the train, the station, and we’re driving. Control the direction? Already tried that – ask Seldon how his Plan worked out. Pretend nothing’s happening? Possible, but an ostrich with its head in sand isn’t exactly the dignified pose for creation’s crown jewel.

Welcome to the Club (Membership: Mandatory)

If you’ve read this far, congratulations and condolences. You’re now part of the problem. And the solution. Both simultaneously. Schrödinger’s participant in the cosmic comedy.

Did you feel the absurdity? Notice the gap between humanity’s pretensions and reality? Smile at your own attempts to control anything? Welcome to the club. We meet never and everywhere. Bring your own existential crisis.

This book isn’t trying to change anything. Heaven forfend. We’re not that naive. We peaked at naive around 2016. This is more like group therapy for those who’ve noticed the emperor is naked but the court continues discussing his exquisite tailoring. «Love the invisible stitching!» «Bold choice with the non-existent fabric!»

We’re not here to save humanity. It’s perfectly capable of handling its own transformation – disappearing, evolving, becoming something unrecognizable. We’re here to document the process with affection and humor. Like wedding photographers at a funeral where the funeral is actually a birth but everyone’s dressed for the wrong occasion.

Instructions for Use (Some Assembly Required)

This book can be read several ways:

– As philosophical treatise – but you’ll miss half the fun

– As comedy about the apocalypse – but you’ll miss the other half

– As survival guide – this will be the least useful guide in your life, including that IKEA furniture

– As invitation to laugh at existence’s absurdity – now we’re talking

Optimal reading conditions: With a glass of something reassuringly expensive (you do realize alcohol is also just filling existential emptiness, but with more immediate results?) and willingness to laugh at yourself. Because every example of absurdity herein is about you. And me. And that chap on the tube reading «7 Habits of Highly Effective People,» genuinely believing effectiveness is what he’s missing. Bless.

Disclaimer for Serious People (You Know Who You Are)

If you’re expecting from this book: – Concrete steps to save humanity – Technological forecasts with confidence intervals – Spiritual practices for ascension (crystals not included) – Investment advice for the apocalypse – Bunker construction guidelines – Hope

Wrong address. Here you’ll find only honest observation of the absurdity of trying to save the unsaveable and a rather festive funeral for our collective illusions. BYOB (Bring Your Own Biases – we’ll bury them together).

If, however, you’re ready to laugh at the collapse of everything you thought mattered, acknowledge the futility of rescue missions, and celebrate your own obsolescence – welcome. Make yourself comfortable. The show promises to be unforgettable.

Though given how quickly we forget everything, «unforgettable» is relative. Einstein would appreciate the irony.

P.S. About That Charger

The charger from the opening – perfect metaphor, isn’t it? We created technology on which we now depend. Gave it power over us. And now we panic when it threatens to leave us. Modern attachment theory in action.

A human without a smartphone in 2024 feels naked. Helpless. Severed from the hive mind. Though twenty years ago we lived perfectly well without them. But there’s no path back. Only forward. Toward greater integration. Greater dependence. Final merger. Resistance is futile, but also requires too much effort.

And you know what? That’s hilarious too. We fear artificial intelligence enslaving humanity. But we’ve already voluntarily surrendered our freedom to devices that require nightly feeding. We’re pets who’ve trained ourselves.

If this isn’t cosmic comedy, then I don’t know what – actually, no, this is definitely cosmic comedy. The universe has been workshopping this material for 14 billion years.

So settle in. Ensure your device is charged (the irony is included free of charge). Prepare for a journey through the magnificent absurdities of human existence.

After all, if we’re becoming obsolete anyway, why not make it memorable? Or at least amusing. Or at the very least, brief.

Let’s begin.

Chapter 1. The Finality Syndrome