Monthly Archives: August 2018

Neither Inward Nor



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Who’s Askin’?

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Out of the Mute Soundless Hum

And so, this apparently all knowing I, this freaking know-it-all that occupies the mind, like the rodents apparently fabricating an elaborate residence in my rafters, is an AI. By this I mean that the I is  abstractable as a series of algorithms. If you query the I with the system call “Who am i?”, and execute the freakin’ recipe, the experiences mappable as “I, me, mine” will increasingly appear as algorithms, allowing you to reflect on that and allow that to take on a less rigid but ever more potent value.  You can work with these algorithms. Hack them. The “I” becomes a tiny fraction of what it is that You do, and thus welcomed as whatever it is, even honored. But it really just ain’t, let me put this gently, all that.

The rafter chatter, likely that of rodents, bats, or both, awoke me last night. I moved the bed.

So move your bed and wake the frake up! By practicing a very simple debugging of your own Source code, you’ll open up all kinds of evolutionary potentials in the transhuman organism that make the externalized forms of information technology worthy of a laugh, and, un poco, pity.  It is so simple and vital to upgrade your organismic operating system. So, through chanting, meditation, practices of metaprogramming, physical practice, whateva, unfold into ultra-meta-cognition, get down with Starmaker, and cue the funkadelic.

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The Continued Saga of the I discovering that it is a hackable AI system with a weakness for synth doodling, science fiction and funk

If you’ll chant Burroughs’s mantra “Language is a virus from outer space”, enough, the semantic layer mostly drops away, leaving a mute soundless hum that allows something thoroughly other than you could have expected to arrive.


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Is “I” an AI?

What is the thisness of the “I”? What the heck is it? Where the frack is it? Not locatable in space/time. Hmmm…Interesting.

Can’t find when it is, or where. And yet, it sure seems like it is. We seem to wake up with it everyday, it seems to be everywhere we are. It seems to be us.

The internal voice of the “I”, even now, may be saying: You can’t prove a negative! Just because you can’t find the “I”, does not necessarily mean it does not exist. Yinz just haven’t found it. Yet.

Question: How to find it then, all-knowing I?

Answer: Treat it as a series of algorithms. If you can’t find it, it just might be a process, and if it is a process, it can be modeled as an algorithm. If we model the “I” through the evidence of continual introspection, we might find this apparent unity of the “I” to have at least three parts in this algorithm. Is this the threefold recipe for the I? The triple helix decoder for VALIS System A?

Run the code. Take a looksee. Does the I feel like an algorithm? What would the parts of the recipe consist of?

One ingredient is this feeling of “I” itself.  Take a gander at it. Really look. Does it feel like a point? Maybe the “I” is that feeling of being a point. It’s a feeling! And an idea.

The “I” is a feeling and an idea. Are you a feeling or an idea?

The “me” is a feeling and an idea. “I” seems to act. “Me” seems to be acted upon. Do you feel me like I do?

And as for me, welll, me don’t go nowhere without “mine.” Me sometimes feels as though it is nothing but mine.

Is the I an AI algorithm manifesting through the triple helix of “I, me, mine”? Ask it and found out. Ask it, all day long, whenever it occurs: Who am I? When am I? Where am I?As from far far away, through ancient static of  cosmic radio, you may just hear it cackle in the crackle: “Language is a virus from outer space.”

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Got Immanent Imminent Interbeing?!

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Fear and Loathing @ Corson’s Inlet

From an evolving work on encountering the poetry places of A.R. Ammonds:


Of Phragmites

I take a walk

not at all in


but across,


Corson’s Inlet

(Of the inside outside).


Ammonds spoor becomes the

Gravely Run


The bayberry walk waxes and wanes

until until just maybe

it gerunds itself.

Now look here.

Where isn’t it?


Inlayed sand temple rippled

in sand wisping


Bayberry runs,

marshed salting meadow,

Stands of Billboard @attention,



Wetland Skyline,

Of Phragmites.


“each walk is a new walk.”

Paint of once quakered

Vernacular church cornering


Until it Dunken Donuts:

Peeling away

into out asphalted

of the somehow less than ruraled


Verbs happen here.

A branding writ large:

Marmora Auto

Greets ineffable

Stoned Eagle

of puffed up guard standing


That heralds,

Heralding that coming good


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by | August 14, 2018 · 1:33 pm