Ai generated image of an orbital strike.
No, not that kid of orbital strike…

Listen, kids, don’t look for clarity in this piece; it’s more like a disjointed symphony.

We’re neck-deep in the age of information, in a muck teeming with mental quicksand and deceptive clarity.

Think of this as a roadmap, scribbled in crayon on the back of some cosmic napkin something I’m leaving behind in the hope it helps you.

The space we inhabit now is uncharted, volatile, and seething with the essence of a thousand burning libraries.

I believe I’ve stumbled upon something —a process, an effect, a byproduct of grander schemes. It’s not headline news, but it’s true and it’s pertinent.

To some, it might be an apriori notion; to others, a maddening absurdity.

It functions for me, and perhaps it could serve you as well.

Continue reading “Calling down Orbital Strikes” →

When I dreamt of ai as a young man it was forlorn and wistful 
houris and hyperspace utopias
bordered by vast unobtainable tracts of time
vectors that my trajectory would never span
except as nebulous unconscious fragments
in the children of my children’s children. 

Today I woke from a dream of AI 
that involved interfacesand alingment
and yes it is still far away 
but we are talking clouds not stars 
and its windy on the beach
The underlying mission of the front group thrift store
was as synthetic as the myth it was built on
as synthetic as the false weathering of the papercraft leather binding
On the “Hamilton: The Revolution - libretto and tour guide” 
which rests in a pile of books next to a gently used microwave
in coming decades the synthetic weathering on the book 
will mature, become authentic as acid and pigments in the paper bitrot
same with the words, half as long, into memory

But the pigment of the hi-lighter that underlined passages in this book
applied by children thinking they were studying history
While also synthetic
will not age as well