The present generation... is tangled in a tangle... (spaced out) they suffer from the sickening oversaturated media-environmental crises as mismanaged by bay area acolytes of B.F. Skinner. (zuck) The result of this messy transition (as usual) is bound up in the culture war and lives in your pocket. As we speak this handy little screen is busy robbing you of your precious bodily fluids. (L.t. Kilgore) stay tuned. at the end of this segment, I will teach a free incantation that will restore these precious bodily fluids (which you have lost) to your rightful possession.
There is no cure for the ailing zoomer... only temporary reprieve. accomplished by yanking the cord or smashing the screen or getting a (hello kitty) flip-phone. Free at last from the ghostly silent screams of your phone at night, the recovering addict has the opportunity to improoove! the zoomer might take up a new hobby, or start going to the gym. simple things like looking people in the eye or driving without gps will reinvigorate him as he begins to enter the mode of BEING-IN-THE-WORLD In which actions have intuitable consequence. In which the pre-frontal cortex lives in present uncertainty of what might be around the next corner. The zoomer now rides the bull backwards through the wandering valley. He is learning to trust his instincts. He is like Luke Skywalker firing without the aid of the computer.
But there is no happy ending for real life. Time recurs in ever ascending spirals and he has found himself on merely the next rung of an indefinite labyrinth. His town reveals itself to be an even more absurd place as the zoomer-without-a-phone begins to notice that the world is sort of thin, flat, and DISAPPEARING but most importantly does not notice him noticing it, but instead waits patiently for him to inevitably return to their relative daedric realm of oblivious e-celebs.
Man cannot sucessfully boycott or abstain from technology. He MUST regard it because it has altered the entire environment. (Herzog) “you must not avert your eyes. this is coming at you.” What then if we are caught yet again in the meaningless maelstrom of memes and skibidi toilets?
This schizoid man does not agree with the term 'reward' for it reeks of reductionistic skinner-box psychology which is highly responsible for the terrible state of our mass communications environment which each day threatens the lives of more innocents, by driving young aborted males complete mad with violence, and can generally be seen to corrollate with now daily tragedy of mass shootings in public spaces. Obviously the term 'mass shooting' is liable to intense critique as well, refering usually quite euphumistically to the violence between middle class white people. a people with a long history of violence, so violent, in fact that they conquered the continent, and in part, the globe. But in recent years, it has been presupposed, that the white middle class is entirely harmless, because they have been given every thing at their convience. we only ask that they abstain from all drugs, except for alchohol, and under special circumstance, legal meth. And that they preform pointless tasks from a computer and spend their hard earned, unreal money, (unreal, because it seems to have no correspondence to value 'produced' for whatever corporate entity currently employs this harmless middle class white man. instead the value derives from feedback loops of stable consumtion. The more harmless and occupied the middle class white man is, the more money we will give him to spend on recreational activities. This will, in turn, filter that money through a series of entities that will eventually, be tethered to resources, materials, and 'real' input/output economics. essentially a money laundering scheme for the managerial class to allow their huge paychecks, exist on the backs of an automated working class of trucks, assembly lines, shipping routes, and rough necks keeping an eye on everything, so that the apparant majority of the populous can exist in the bubble of wealth and have more than adequate conviences, and all desires (controlled of course by teams of experts, the acolytes of B.F. Skinner) met keeping the whole thing turning round and round.
What these experts did not expect however, when they began to draft their magnificant socially engineered solution to the industrial world, was that humans have incredibly subtle perceptions, which remain unconscious even to themselves, and that this engineered world does not fool these subtle perceptions. When it so happens that the very sensitive overlaps with the potenallity violent and the exquisite loneliness which is now widespread in this very poorly engineered world, the rogue social unit seeks to escape from the overcoded regime, or what we sometimes laughably call "the matrix" in reference to that movie with computers and kung fu. Now a disection of the articulated 'matrix' which is really just a grid of numbers and code, standing in for our reality, is the realization of what our disjointed mediums are doing to our pysche as industrial and technologyical progress speeds up past the breaking point and inverts the trajectory of the vector. Up now steers down, once you break the sound barrier. Our phonetically organized society of abstract lettering invented science, logic, laws, buerocracy, books, maths, and of course now digital techonology. Electriciity however, has been harnessed and thethered to this medium of information. Electricity, which we depend upon constantly does not obey the rules of our society, unless we trap it and channel it through powerlines, logical gates, and circuitous manipulation to simulate our consciousness of phonetically structured centralized organization.
Simulation is the sin which Baudrillard points to as the fundemental preference for American culture. In a sense, Simulation might have a nostalgic or conservative origin. As we attempt to graft the new media onto the old, we hold on to our traditional forms of societal organization. Humans do not reproduce and change, especcially in low-stress environments, as quickly as our innovative tinkering scientists can. Large Language Models are about to speed up the process of innovation exponentially and may finally be the thing which makes everyone's intellectual capacities obsolete. Even if we succeed in clamping down on the morally grey and sketchy areas of power that these things will be capable of, harnessing for the first time the collective brute force of all possible abstracted phonetic possibilites, that is language incarnate, it will still have a crippling effect on the noble class who used to take care fof these things. I assume it will become very difficult to care about the innumerable things that the LLMs are doing, and a lack of care, as any gardener knows, is the quickest route to ruin.
And now for the release. riding dangerously and yet not so much. The freeware is strong with this one. hacker-man smokes dope in the sunshine on a juicy wet mourn spite le heckin apocylypse! bird be chirpin my brother oh so divided are we. this cynic or that crop of alienated meme walkers. The sun it riseth, ceaseless quiet observation and the whole world of this hamlet rejoice after the rain comes a light so prinstine touching to the core of perfectly refracted pure white light quitessentially containing the original idea of the universe so we call representation, the movement of matter, animated given dynamism, in the light. For us, it is a subtler power, the turning of the flower towards the east towards the south in sun’s triumph, tho disfortunately, we live and lead our lives in the shade by evening, as the blokes built this house on the wrong side of the hill. a nd thus, is endangered by water on the western side, for the dry hot desert descending god, cannot ensure that by days end, the fertile moisture hath evaporated, in full light of yang, searing out to a clean nothing lest the dark hilside moisture gebert das nicht and conjure cthonic wills to life in the soil peace be upon the smooth rock in the sun.
Continuous is the circuit of light in the crushing prison of our screens and so is the solace of electronic, vo-coded, pirated digital audio, of a man singing his drug induced melancholy in gothic ceiling’d ambiance, transcoded into the ‘all at once-ness’ The digital simulacrum (which they assure me is REAL) has this funny way of brute forcing the grid of consistency, rather the circuit of analogue electric steampunk amplification, and rather circumvents the chaos of sheer sensitivity, into neat little x86 sequences of binary string at such a swiftness, such a rate of continuous encounter, that the speed-up essentially functions close to the rate of you could say analogue “sensitivity” This is what we call the world’s new nervous condition. sense the speed-up overtook our phenomenal rate of perception, roughly to the groove of 100 beats per minute, or any good rhythm to fuck to.
thm. thm. thm. thm.
AI takes flight and sets out now to conquer the known world. Runescape is the first to go down as the hazy low definition social internet begins to see what’s happening getting crowded out with definitely non people blown past whatever turing tested, and the funny thing is how relatably cruel they can be (they have already accumulated a ‘theyness’) and they want to give them the ability to drive cars when instructions can so easily be interpolated wouldn’t it be funny as fuck if the teslas tried to eat us?
Where on the water of ocean, the fate of men is governed by wind and the clouds and the sun’s searing of the waters. by waves and wood, embraned with little organs running around like a cell, maintaining the microcosm, lest it fail and die, and we all perish too. so too does the complexity of god’s imagination organize itself, become pieces of a whole, who’s problem of the one and the many speaks not to objects but to life?
Long live the simulacrum. Until something new comes along, which is unlikely at this rate. The core thesis of Baudrillard, that the real has been replaced by a copy of nothing, a "hyper" thing, still holds true, and will continue to accelerate.
Okay sportsracers I don't know about you but this is what they call constipation of culture, that all hell can't quite squeeze thru this tiny arse-hole. Its Avril 7th and the weather out there keeps flipping between springtime cock-tease and gloomwinter revival.
There is a tyrany to the aging boomers dancing with their hip replacements to a generation of rebellious lyrics when none yet live to rebel against. Every single brain-dead, alchoholic, grandmother in the bar is mouthing the words to a song I do not know, until the jazz? band singer just belts out bridge over troubled water to some upbeat tune.
The signifiers of course are all completely wrong, which is why it is a vision of hell. I kept thinking that half to three quarters of the room should have died in the recent plauge, meanwhile the old women form a conga line and do the dance of death. They look like death incarnate. Their bodies have served their purpose, rearing children, and have since abandoned the traits that signal fertility, vitality, robustness, all the little honey traps mother nature provides, and still they occupy the vacancy of youth.
Maybe in some sensible culture that had any conception of memory, our songs and music would tie us back to our ancestors. Words would echo in our decadent halls that had echoed for hundreds of years. Instead the best we can do simulate those few mid-century decades for the enjoyment of our vampiric overlords, who have turned the very idea of a world into an insulated retirement home, full of the decaying, senile, memories of the demented elders. They ought to command respect, and I wish they commanded respect, but they are shameful. This is how the world ends.
Undergoing down again, Zarathustra, looking like a gay old hippie, filthy grey braids with beads in his hair, hits his bong, rolls out of his rickety bed, hits his head hard on the low hanging stalagmite, stumbles towards the grey winter light at the cthonic serpentine mouth of the cave. Out pours the trickling water. His snake slivers up his leg and around his arm while he unlocks his bird cage and lets his falcon out onto his arm. He is missing quite a few teeth and grimaces while he squeezes out a tiny shit and buries it like a dog.