Update: Fear of Sleep

Earlier this month, the International RBD Study Group published its findings that a certain class of sleep disorder is strongly linked to the risk of developing Parkinson’s disease later in life. As the group’s name implies, the disorder is known as RBD – REM sleep behaviour disorder, which causes you act out your dreams to sometimes fatal consequences for your sleep partner. All the people in the study suffered from this disorder, and after a 12 year followup, they were found to have a high chance of developing Parkinson’s or dementia.

It may not sound like it, but this is actually good news. By the time most people are usually diagnosed with Parkinson’s, the neurodegenerative disease has already done irreversible damage to their brain. Researchers have spent years looking for a reliable early warning sign, so that treatments can become prevention. They might have just found it in RBD.

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Hello Siberia, it’s Emily Underbite

Like most journalists, I dread transcribing interviews. I can’t afford to pay other people to do it, so I’ve been experimenting with computer programs that use artificial intelligence to transcribe for me. Last week I tried one of the more advanced transcription programs, Otter, and its performance was nearly flawless.

I felt an odd sense of loss as I watched perfect phrases tumble down my screen at close to the speed of real speech. I wasn’t sad about the hours I’ll save hand-correcting transcripts. Instead, I mourned the bizarre, sometimes profane errors of my older transcription service, Trint.

I am generally more likely to cover the evolution of sponges than a Presidential race or sex scandal. But Trint seems to want me and my interviewees to talk about what everyone else is apparently talking about: politics and sex.

Trint inserts “Trump” and “Melania” into my transcripts seemingly at random, as well as words like “dick.” “There’s a lot of data on this, in terms of being a dick,” read the program’s mis-transcription of one of my recent interviews with a soft-spoken botanist.

I suppose Trint’s proclivities should not surprise me. Like all speech recognition programs, Trint uses statistical algorithms trained on large archives of recorded human speech to predict what is being said. Machine learning technology has a well-documented tendency to reflect the uglier aspects of society, including our racial biases, and Trint, launched in 2016, has been reared on our society’s collective chatter since Trump’s election.

I am tired of spending hours cleaning up my transcripts for the fact-checkers, and eager to find a more accurate program. But I will miss some of Trint’s bizarre word choices and its constant attempts to help me join the crowd. Trint’s errors can also be remarkably creative, like the brilliant AI-generated cookie names published on the blog AI Weirdness: Hand Buttersacks, Apricot Dream Moles, and Walps.

Can artificial intelligence be talented? Does it have anything important to say? I have no idea, but before abandoning Trint I want to celebrate its weirdness with the following poems. I didn’t write these poems, Trint did. It is not my fault that they insult Melania Trump or read like dystopian Radiohead lyrics. I am merely Trint’s transcriptionist. Please share your own AI-generated poems in the comments!

Trint’s mistakes – suggestions? Strokes of genius? — are in bold.

Emily Underbite

Hello, Siberia

It’s Emily Underbite

I’m a relic

I haven’t found a gold star yet

My dream has no leverage

I hurt like imitation

Electoral thinking

What organism has analogous or homologous structures and functions to Melania’s? A slug, a lobster?

People have a lot of trouble with electoral thinking, which is essentially understanding the difference between two sponges.

I mean, what can you expect from a sponge?

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Looking at Giants

Whales are great. You can get a bunch of people who you thought were grumpy and walking by themselves along the sidewalk, and suddenly there’s a whale and you are all shouting and grinning at each other and most of the people have even hung up their phones or stopped texting or tweeting about how they’re taking a walk right now.  Maybe you are all now trying to use your phones to take a photo of something that is a tiny ephemeral exhale on the horizon but that’s okay. Trying to capture the ephemeral is what art is, right? And talking to people you don’t know about whales is good. And the whales, the whales are great.

What is it that makes them so great? Many things, but today I was thinking about the elegance of their big bodies, the surprise of when it slides up into the open air like a glimmer of island on an empty sea. I was thinking so much about the whales that suddenly I started to feel guilty because I could have gone to my son’s field trip to the fire station instead of seeing whales and then puttering around the kitchen, thinking about seeing whales.

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DNA to RNA to Protein

This frog’s DNA works the same way yours does.

Yesterday I was thinking about how much I love the central dogma of molecular biology.

“Central dogma” is a funny name for it. It sounds like it has something to do with religion, but it’s not; it’s just the thing that makes all living cells work. A cell has DNA; that DNA has a code, which gets transcribed into the almost-the-same-but-not-quite code of RNA; and then that RNA gets read and used as a template for building proteins. This is happening all the time in all living cells–the cells in the skin on your right ear, the cells in your pancreas, the cells in the rootlets of the plants outside, the cells in a polar bear’s liver.

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Redux: Water in Yomibato

Alejo_GHS_5892
Alejo with his arrows, just in case. (c) Glenn Shepard

In 2016, I went to the Peruvian Amazon on assignment for National Geographic. I focused on a group of indigenous people, the Matsiguenka, living inside Manu National Park.

One of my sources was Alejo Machipango, a hunter, farmer, and member of the water committee for the village of Yomibato. Alejo is about 34, but I would have guessed his age at 22. He is married and has several kids. He is a jokester. He likes chewing coca, drinking manioc beer. He takes his arrows with him most places, just in case. I saw him shoot at some birds, but never hit one. And he always laughed when he missed.

One day, Alejo took me to see the spring where Yomibato gets its water. The water system in the village was installed by a charity called Rainforest Flow between 2012 and 2015. When I did my reporting in Manu, National Geographic hired Rainforest Flow to get me there, because they have their own boats and boat drivers.

A few generations ago, the Matsiguenka used to be more dispersed on the landscape. Each family lived apart, and households moved often. The whole community would gather together once a month, on the full moon, and have a big party with manioc beer. But more recently, many families decided to move to Yomibato to be near the school and clinic. As the community grew to several hundred, the local river and streams became contaminated with bacteria and waterborne illness became a chronic problem. Continue reading

Robin Season

An American Robin signing in the snow

There are approximately 50 American robins in my front yard, a noisy, colorful flock centered around my crabapple tree. They have been partying for at least 24 hours, gorging themselves on the fruit and singling lustily.

These festive aggregations are a common feature of spring throughout the United States as the birds migrate. Robins are big colorful thrushes that do well in the Anthropocene. They like the same sorts of habitats we do: lots of grass and a few trees and shrubs, and the expansion of the suburban landscape has increased their numbers in the last several decades.

We often mistake rarity for value and disdain the common. Robins are sometimes victims of this reflexive snobbery. I too have caught a bird in the corner of my eye, only to turn away once I identified it as “just a robin.” So in celebration of the flock that is visiting me, I looked up American robins in four bird books: one from 1827, one from 1922, one from 1988, and one from 2019.

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Guilty, We

Just past lunchtime one warm Tuesday last spring, as I walked through my neighborhood to the local Indian restaurant for samosas, I saw a big yard sale going on. I’ve long been a fan of a good rummage sale—that hunt for something tired and old to dust off and love anew. From a distance I could see the usual household bits and bops, some well-used furniture, and piles of clothes and bedding spread over half a block of sidewalk and trampled grass. Odds and ends seemed to have toppled down the steps of the townhouse hosting the event—it was a remarkably disorganized set up. People poked around, others loaded items into trunks and back seats of hastily parked cars as drivers waited, engines running.

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How to lose a good name

You may recall a moment a few years ago when all the papers were going crazy about a futuristic small electrical implant that would fit like a cuff around your nerve, interfering with its signals to bring the sick back to health. Asthma, arthritis, diabetes, and hypertension – all could be walked back, simply by overwriting natural nerve signals with artificial electrical ones.

As the initial excitement about these electro-stimulating nerve cuffs trailed off into the long slog of research and development, it seems only natural that articles extolling the devices would have tapered off as well. And they have tapered off – you don’t see them mentioned very much anymore. But waning hype is not the only reason you haven’t seen them mentioned. The real reason is much weirder: the devices lost their name.

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