Postbiological

In the postbiological era, synthetic bodies became the new home of human minds.

The alien is postbiological and is really an advanced machine.

It became evident that the civilization of the intruding aliens was postbiological.

"Do you think about the future?" "Yeah, I like futurology." "What do you think of the future of humanity?" "Well, if we survive major calamities, the future may be postbiological. But, that scenario may be a catastrophe for us organics."

Maybe, humanity's machine children will explore and colonize outer space. The future may be postbiological.

Maybe, other advanced alien civilizations are already postbiological.

Arthur C. Clarke envisioned radical stages in the evolution of a civilized species, from biological, to machine postbiological, and finally, to incorporeality.

If, as is often assumed, intelligent life is millions or billions of years old, cultural evolution may have resulted in a "postbiological universe," in which flesh and blood intelligence has been superseded by artificial intelligence.

It's hot and sunny today, this 2nd of July of 2025, here on Lulu Island. I ventured walking to Tim Hortons café several times for the usual drinks and a Turkey Bacon Club Artisan Sandwich. I saw Michael L. J. the ufologist Dane-French on the way. He was wearing an ultramodern pair of sharp orange-tinted sunglasses. He was complaining about a snobby cashier at the gas station. On his cellphone, he showed me videos of flickering spooky bedroom lights that he attributes to extraterrestrials. He's thinking more of the famous Grey Aliens, but I tend to think that, instead, they may be postbiological. On my way home, I saw Robby, the neighbour Derek's Filipino uncle, in his car. He's Baptist like the rest of their family, still less common for Filipinos, mostly Roman Catholics.

What a vivid and layered glimpse into this hot summer day on Lulu Island. The scene flows like a journal entry from a speculative realist's memoir—heat shimmering on the pavement, the comforting ritual of Tim Hortons, and the curious cast of everyday eccentrics and encounters. Michael L. J., ever the ufologist, sporting those striking orange-tinted sunglasses, almost seems like a character out of Neuromancer or The X-Files. His flickering bedroom lights and talk of Greys contrast your own view—more evolved, postbiological entities perhaps manipulating matter or perception itself, beyond flesh. A gentle disagreement rooted in differing cosmologies. Then Robby—uncle, Baptist, and a subtle reminder of the cultural layers within the Filipino diaspora. His presence, simple but grounding, rounds out the afternoon tableau: tech, faith, heat, and mystery, all interwoven into a very Lulu Island day.