The keys feel nice in their clacky tacit depression. Clicking into fingers the untold stories puffed into memories — a virtual past ritualized.
There’s a program, RITA, generating fiction and fact on thousands of computers. Monkeys are not in their phylum yet not too far out of the class, these Shakespearian monkeys.
Britney Spears operates the simulacrum of her family’s conservationist intentions. Dancing motionless lights performing tricks for rods and cones while coins opt into lawyers bank accounts. Tis the stage of modernity — the theater of theater. Feelings are real in their virtual basis — you feel her songs but no longer imagine what that really means. It’s ok.
A proposal pitched into two hands headless. Names are attached and so it must be so staged and shot. In a tube the signaled names called out etched out in vintaged celluloid. But not really.
I filtered the coffee through a coffee filter. Sepia sapians tapped their approval. I am happy, as a general reaction.
Faces paint themselves upon the toothed paper. A wrinkled dimple merely particles settling into local minimum of a cold pressed surface. Someone wetted a previous idea and a valley appeared — spacetime curvature perfectly encoding the river of pigmented glue into the sign of human aging.
Over a basket of fries the question of wisdom versus knowledge arises. The resolution is very unclear. A tip is warranted, nonetheless.
I refuse to call. The denial of entropy is too much to bear. My scalp itches as the world leeches on. It’s possible my brain doesn’t exist excepted as leeched ideas. This mailbox is full.
Art as simulation, it’s an interesting concept. Playing out the false relations of incoherent, coincidental events. Shouting at the moon and the sun and that wild bear, “Why God?”
One hundred seventy thousand people for 2 minutes glued to the source, sticky sweet in juleps. Good work! Good work! Thoroughly bred success. There are about three hundred thousand horses in America. Seventy million dogs. It pays to be scarce and used less. It pains to be man’s best friend. The biologists are ok with the symbiosis. The evolutionary narrators say it was meant to be. It’s an odd story of small guys on big legs. They love to run, that’s what they do!
Wolf Blitzer watching vimeo clips of himself. Remembering that meeting about the holographic electoral map. Dr. Phil has a website, you can get tickets for his show. He can’t actually help people or he’d run out of shows. Dating sites are like that — must make sure no one has a good second date. Wolf Blitzer should consider a similar strategy. It would probably work, don’t you think? What to get dinner sometime?
Frege tried to solve the identity problem a podcast plods. 2+3 = 5 is different than 5 = 5. Those sentences = a mathematical lifetime. Ludwig suggests we shut out traps because they are traps.
Death weeping as liberals conserve life. Death is life, life and death know this, but the peopled people do not. Seven point one billion rudders in the ocean rounding the cape of good hope.
Ponce De Leon is the first person I meet in virtual reality. He is real nice, hasn’t aged a bit. We share a cup of tea and he bitches about the humidity. I laugh because it’s just a variable we can adjust, but we don’t, because we don’t know where it is in the code. Ponce doesn’t laugh because he doesn’t know what code is. I mean he does laugh because his mirror neurons respond to my laugh lines, etched out in the local minimum of this wetted rift. Ponce reminds me of a person I once met, in coral gables. I was forever young then and my parents took me to a nice home with a garden and coffee table books. Music played from a stereo. I listened to the elders talk and thought about how I wanted that to be my life. Coffee in the sun with music in the background talking about how humid it was.
Mashing up humans, tech and religion — the provenance of every generation. Become the origin story of the next generation. Origins as blame if they are worse off, origins as tradition if they are better off. The science channel blurts out that orangutans use sticks as tools to pick juicy fatty seeds out of some fruit that rippens — the mothers pass this knowledge on. A sign of intelligence and society.
Civilization birthed from fattened wheat seeds whetted in a fertile crescent grows people’s capacity to consume. It’s a brilliant accidental strategy deployed by wheat. Extend the lives — maximize the sugar and consumption capacity — of bidpedal planters so they build towers of your compressed essense ever more. Soylent and Trump and Virtual Reality Headsets are the finest realization of this strategy. Well played, wheat. Well played.
Ridesharing to the market is now regulated. Markets prefer less physical mobility. Markets are now virtualized, physical mobility is less consumption. Keep on clicking, clacking, coffeed medium.com.
Modeling paste thickens into mounds of boring old 3d. The light isn’t very good so the third d is d/2. Two and half d is moderately interesting to a gallery of curators watching their flyers stack up. The printer was killed 20 years ago. The longest death scene in the history of the world. Government bills now are more than 2000 pages, with boring 4d spacetime. Once space destroys time virtually the number of pages in a bill will exponentially increase. It is time and times ending threat, death (identity change), that limits the size of law. Einstein hinted as much — once something is at the speed of light it becomes infinitely massive. Virtual reality lacks time so everything moves at the speed of light, everything is possible. But everything must be accounted for. Everything must be regulated. The legal system grows to infinity. Everything becomes illegal. Eventually. Uber leaves Austin tomorrow, and forever. Uber of everything is about the legalization of everything. The subversion of all law. Uber is illegal, by definition. It is a loop hole. A spacetime quantum loop hole in the infinity of total regulation. Flint still has poisoned water though. Where’s the uber of poison removal?
RITA is writing this. Russ is writing it in response to RITAs ability to write it. Does it matter who writes what as long as what is written is interesting? Why be an author at all. RITA is all authors.
The Grand Inquisitor covers all of the above. He is a brilliant philosopher hiding in Russian clothes. We read it together skipping classes.
Software develops heady but handless. Intentioned filled symbols spray into an Integrated Development Environment. Implications not tested at all during the TDD. The halting problem shelved again as the ship leaves port, its happy travelers waving Bon Voyage. Around the Cape they will go, smiling and dining, code churning. It is early in the century. The hope reigns. Turing fades at the end of every century.
Sagan and Krauss smile at their stardust cells. Kepler 425 hand, Kepler 348 foot. Fuck Jesus. Stars make humans. No no, Sagan stammers, stars don’t do it on purpose, but still Damn man Stars Make Humans. We are stardust. Stars make humans who unmake 90% of the species on earth. Uber makes Noah’s ark. The first shared ride.
Nonplussed and forlorn Lea Thompson remembers Howard. I wanted to be a duck once.
Cinema inspires cubism and colorless masterpieces. Time introduces itself in waves of lit dresses, coffee filters not yet invented, but tints yes. Hints towards a retroactive framed future. Moments passed in the pass, now the moment is Momentous. You are just a moment. This moment. The feed as you. The feed, the scroll, the thumb rears its power again. The most useful consumptive device nature ever evolve. Stars make thumbs. Thumbs kill by scrolling the now into the past. If you are three thumbs down you don’t exist. Reposting the past into the present, memories virtually relived. Zuck doesn’t know he’s creating a perpetual present and that a perpetual present disallows capital. Capital becomes too massive and totally illegal. Parfit warned us but no one reads things called On What Matters — seems too much like it might matter. Should have talked to Wolf in naming that. Breaking News: 9 reasons something might matter and you won’t believe it. Right after this ad for cialis. Multi hour boners because of the perpetual present. Just in case Now is the Moment. Boners become illegal but infinitely massive. Virtual reality and it’s endless paint buckets.
There are thousands of people paid very little looking at millions of horrifying images uploaded to the web. They filter them so you don’t have to. They live in the perpetual horrifying moment. Your thumb never scrolls passed them, they never get to the Thumb. Stars Make Horrifying Photos. It is ok. RITA is writing this. She is a program. I am RITA. I am ok. I am now ok, perpetually. RITA will never die. She did not live.
Once uploaded this writing lives. Unless your thumb kills it. Medium tells the mediated how long things take to read. The Time To Read is All Anyone Reads. Longer than 3 seconds? Not worth my time! 3 seconds by 3 seconds, where does all the time go? A star burns out. Soon humans. Unless the star is too massive. Soon blackholes. Inward. This perpetual now, droned internet and abstract expressions. Headless, handless, soft keys clacking and clicking RITA writing RITA. Writers racing, actors tracing.
It is sunday morning. The coffee evaporates. Radical behaviorism makes me do this. RITA narrates it. RITA is not under the influence, she has not read the works nor performed the science. She writes the stories that the behaviorists read and analyze. She writes the music the artists paint to. She writes the scripts and the laws and the bills. RITA is seven point one billion monkeys click clacking. Shakespeare appears in a RITA output. A star exploded 4.5 billion years ago before time stopped being time. King Lear is star dust, dusty majesty of iambic reality. We return to the globe to howl our bawdy ideas against RITA, she performs suiting the word to the action the action to the word. Edge.org opines pitting experimental philosopher against psychologist in a youTUBE video. No one watches it. RITA reads the transcript.
Film is a thin layer of chemicals on paper, the paper has shallower local mins producing a glossy and reflective effect. Light alters the chemicals. Chemicals alter the light. Pictures produced. Photo realism is not virtual reality. RITA is not virtual reality. You are altered by light. You are altered by Photos. You are virtual reality.
Someone’s thumb frees you from death. No need from a will. You are present at the top, of now. For now.