Liquid Technology
Animal and Artificial Intelligence
On windy days, my house shakes. The porch trellis rattles. I wish trees grew in my front yard; I like the sound of branches scratching at windows, even if it reminds me of bad things happening. The refrigerator buzzes at the other end of the house, noise muffled when the wind shakes violently. When I try to make a straight line with my black pen — I don’t use red — it squiggles. I rewrite over the mark so that everything is clear: this is a B- paper, not a B~ paper.
The phone buzzes. I look to my right but it’s not there. I reach into my pocket. Not there either. My kitty squats over something in the kitchen, something twitching. Kitty’s name is Martin after Martin Luther King Jr. or after Martin Short, depending on my mood. Is Martin staring at the buzzing phone, batting it lightly? Did my phone vibrate from the counter to the ground? Will it be cracked? Martin sits on his fat haunches and bats at a small gray thing but it isn’t my cellphone. It’s a mouse.
I shoo Martin. The mouse isn’t dead. Bleeding, not dead. Twitching, breath shallow, fur wet, not dead. One leg mangled beyond repair, gash near neck, gasping but not dead. I gag a little and search for paper towels. When I rip off a towel, I notice my phone on the counter, but I don’t notice quickly enough. My hands are occupied with complex motions, tearing paper off the roll, the roll attached to a faulty paper towel rack, a plastic thing that doesn’t allow easy dispensation. My arm, moving at a suddenly uncontrollable trajectory, knocks poor little phone to the ground. Martin watches, then looks back to the mouse. Not dead, but dying.
It’s shattered. It works, but I can’t read the screen. I pick up the almost dead mouse with a wad of paper towels and place it in the dirt outside. Should I kill it? Put it out of its misery? I can’t bring myself.
The next day, we take a field trip to the aquarium. For me, it’s calming. A docent leads the kids, giving me something of a break, though I’m still obliged to trail behind, catch stragglers, make sure no one picks a nose, tries to feed boogers to the starfish in the imitation tide pools.
The docent tells the children about an octopus. “She’s hiding in her tank. They can change colors, so no one can see her right now,” the docent says. “They’re very smart. In scientific experiments, they can tell the difference between various objects, and perform all sorts of tasks in order to get food. Because they don’t have bones, their bodies can morph, like alien shapeshifters! They can fit through holes the size of quarters!”
The children gasp but fidget too, and ask where the octopus is, even though the docent had already explained. She explains patiently again. “Hiding! She changes color and shape, so she could be anywhere.” They move on.
I stay behind for a moment and stare into the spherical tank, a tank rising from the floor to meet the ceiling. At the top, a few tubes are visible, pumping in clean water, filtering out dirty water, mimicking the ocean floor. A large amorphous rock rests in the tank, with many holes and crevices, nearly reaching the top. She is somewhere there. In a crevice or a hole. I see eyes in rock. An octopus the color of rock, in a crevice halfway up.
She bolts upwards, skin like vibrating electrical currents, dazzling blues and grays and faint yellows and reds. I’m about to tell the children, but I can’t speak. Briefly, I’m hypnotized by the creature, maybe, as she swims to the top, then vanishes again. I study the scene. For a moment, I think I see a tentacle outside the tank, around one of the filter hoses. Or it’s my imagination.
Did she escape?
That evening, I go to the cellular store to purchase a replacement phone. The employee lists the features of the newest model. “The polymorphic liquid polymer casing makes the phone nearly indestructible. Not only that, but it activates the whole phone, makes it all part of the user experience. No longer is our interaction limited to the screen. See the edges, the back, the logo? They change colors, see, depending on what website you use, or what app!” He laughs as the whole phone glows a rainbow of colors in his hand. “Cool, right?”
I nod. Outside, a crow lands on a trash can and pecks at the garbage.
He smiles widely. “It’s what we’re calling liquid technology.”
“Like blood,” I mumble, but he doesn’t hear. Outside, the crow pecks diligently. There’s something in there that it wants, something specific. It flings out paper wrappers, assorted pieces of refuge, things uninteresting, I suppose, to it. To him? I dislike calling animals it but can’t tell one crow from another, let alone discern gender. The employee still speaks but I’m not paying attention. I watch the crow, and look to the employee now and again to nod and smile.
I purchase the phone. When I go outside, I scare the crow away inadvertently, and don’t see where it flies to. It never found what it was looking for, did it? But it’ll be back, I think to myself, back to the very same trashcan to continue its search for treasure. Fast food. Something shiny. A secret.
The evening is warm, not windy. After I set up my phone, which doesn’t take long, I walk outside with purring Martin in my arms. We sit on the porch together. He still purrs, snuggled next to me. Something catches his eyes. Scurrying rodent? Large insect?
She doesn’t chase it. She won’t leave the porch.
I don’t know where that mouse came from but it’s gone now.
I’m raising money for a secret project. More details will emerge as time moves on, but if you jump on this bandwagon early, you will be a pioneer.