Towards The Propagation of the Savior Imperative

Abstract

The Savior Imperative is a means of resistance. Resistance implies opposition – an attempt at eliminating opposites. This is one of the typical varieties of ideological constructions, either political or aesthetic. This essay investigates the meaning and the reasons for organizing a Savior Imperative -themed resistance from a theoretical, aesthetic, and cultural point of view. The thesis is that the resistance has to be considered as an articulation of difference, and that means following a different order of thought than that which is characteristic of the current human – no longer beholden to signaling or mere rationality, but utilitarian, like a new dharma, a goal-oriented path and practice of creativity, challenge, provocation, steadiness, and truth. Towards this end, the aesthetics of the Savior Imperative will have to be tailored to the individual. Not one which submits to established systems, and uncritically replicates their memes.

1. Selecting a proxy body for the Savior Imperative

We begin with the recognition that opposition does indeed exist. A recognition that is necessary if one is to destroy opposites. It can be argued that ∀ ideological constructions, either political or aesthetic, one must recognize opposites. It is also true that with society’s growing complex processes, creating an opposition movement can no longer be thought of without regard for the technological forces at work or without considering the sheer size of the population. It is argued that this opposition must be based around the fact that our telos cannot be contemplated according to the self-modeling behavior creating an experience of closed individualism for humans. But neither can it be considered from the absolutely correct physical point of view, still not obvious to most in the twenty-first century, i.e., the view of a world without contradiction and without free will: where all manifestations supervene on the single will of the God-machine (oft short-handed as “The Laws of Physics”).

So if the assumptions of closed individualism and mere rationality are to be excluded, and this must be done by choosing a fundamental approach to life, then let’s list our options. Not considering the so-called spiritual wisdom of being one with the flow in a non-judgmental way, four or five other prefrontal cortex archetypes, each distinct and irreconcilable, can be characterized. All of these propose ways of contemplating opposition and present several varying theoretical answers to the problem of opposites.

[1] In short, the first position contemplates the problem of opposites by reducing conflict, by pacifying and harmonizing opponents. This is the typical solution of the aesthetic tradition, which always seeks to reconcile opposites, overcoming all conflict, and which is found today in discourses that propose to rediscover and rehabilitate notions of beauty and harmony. Interfaith dialogue is an example of this. [2] A second position, on the contrary, proposes making opposites radical and conflict extreme. In the aesthetic field this is manifested by appealing to notions of the sublime, giving rise to what we could call a kind of aesthetics of terror/profundity. With the decline of nation narratives and religion, this sensibility is increasingly indulged passively through artistic media.  [3] A third position, on the other hand, moves towards the relativization and the problematizing of opposites, towards a presentation of the terms of conflict based on irony and masking. This is the course considered “postmodern” by many, which has distinct proponents and representatives all over the world.[4] A fourth position is one that could be based on the notion of difference, which contemplates opposites in a non-symmetrical, non-dialectical, non-polar way, through the concepts of acuteness and provocation. Zen as well as absurdist humor can be an example of this. [5] A fifth position, increasingly intermingled with the postmodern, is that of the social sciences – seeking to refine understanding through taxonomizing and theory building, but claiming abstinence from normative personhood.

Without entering into the individual merits of these situations, each having its own virtues and defects, the only one that appears open to an effective experience of conflict is that which allows for becoming opposites, and therefore resistance. Namely, the second position. So how can we take up this second approach to life?

2. The articulation of the difference

First of all, resistance goes in the opposite direction of aesthetic conciliation. It moves towards an experience of conflict larger than dialectic contradiction, towards the exploration of normative opposition. Hence, resistance presupposes a logic of difference. Even the physicalist resistance proposed in the Savior Imperative, for instrumental reasons, doesn’t ask us to understand ourselves as a monist whole – as a single physical law expressing her single will. We understand a dissimilarity larger than the logical concept of diversity or variance in dialectic confusion. The element of this downstream selectivity is that which has been characteristic of rationalist and transhumanist thought – to add the configuration of the status quo to the bin labeled ‘arbitrary’ and ‘open to modification.’ The status-quo reversal test is one of the most important results we have inherited from these thought experiences, and which finds ultimate conclusion in the open individualism underpinning Savior Imperative.

In its best theorization, and here I think specially of Eliezer Yudkowsky, one must recognize that physicalism has left us with the duty of attuning our notions to it, not to find ourselves permanent strangers upon the ground of reality thus revealed, for example by calling quantum mechanics “weird” and attempting to bend it so as to preserve our intuitions. Physicalism urges us to resist simplification, our genes, the arbitrary. While instilling in us the pleasure of absolute truth, of ultimate remembering, of eternities of hope; in short, it has opened up to us the channel of reality.

It is sometimes said that embracing science consists of mistrusting everything from indubitable certainties, absolute principles, essentialist and totalizing visions, to univocal and comforting answers. Yet there are truths to be discovered in the universe. Truths which are not beholden to the mental pirouettes and tribal identities of apes. Having realized a truth which is universal and interesting for true reasons, we must hold on to it and situationally transcend our indexicality.

 

3. Box B and Omega as self-reinforcing mirage

But here, in our indexical present, it appears we are manifesting something paradoxical. On the one hand we have a desire to revoke imperfection and, consequently on the eternal block, a proof of failure. For example, within the forward light-cone, as seen from outside the tenseless mathematical object, there exist minds of cosmic proportion who could assume their role as saviors of sub-par configurations by application of their own realization, intelligence, benevolence, resources, and do so for selfish reasons, knowing we are them. Take the case, for example, where a ‘single branch’ in the universal wavefunction figures out how to shut off the universe, a raindrop the size of epsilon in the probability density cloud containing success in this regard is all that was needed for reality to be permanently off. Given that this now exists, and that one is called by reason to believe in a physical universe outside immediate experience, we must conclude that all other nows also exist from their reference frame. Experiences are situational. They are rendered separate by virtue of their geometry and not by continuity of separate soul streams to the consternation of Atheists, Christians, Muslims, and common sense. Vindicated are those with looser frontal lobes, physicalists, and hoary mystics. We find ourselves, hence, face to face with a reality that will take absolute courage, grit, wisdom and social points to spare, in order to replicate upstream against biologically hard-coded intuitions and low-status associations.

Therefore, confronted with the difficult burden of physicalism, arises the temptation to crawl back into the womb of closed individualism, of uniqueness – not in configuration but rather a linear, persistent, and named kind of uniqueness. However, we must resist this temptation and still bet in favor of Box B in this Dark Version of Newcomb’s Paradox where our will is reduced to neither free nor emerald-studded by Omega. Embrace the Barbarian warrior-hood which takes up a sword even in the absence of a promised heaven. The reality of eternity is truly too important to leave in the hands of the non-rationalist ideologues ambulating today, or in those actuators of so many misaligned AGI’s of various avatar emanations (Clippy’s, Basilisk’s, Em-style, etc.).

In light of the long defeat, faced with vast forms of luxurious pleasure, of an endless amount of sufferings extending from the Stelliferous Era to the last harvestable black hole, from Lucy to 0x730x6By not available in your colors. Confronted above all with the event horizon preventing us from seeing it as it is – in every nook and cranny of conscious computation space we manifest with the tendency to conform to the trivialities of our local design, with the goal of sex or Dyson spheres, incapable of anything but confirming and flattering all levels of mediocrity and vulgarity and thus unveiling the true oppressive and mystifying nature of being informationally isolated. It remains the only hope to affirm the principle of difference, to activate forms of resistance, and to develop strategies of opposition.

It would be absurd, however, to recklessly oppose one’s psychological machinery, which would be like disagreeing with the very mitochondrial ATP transactions powering our motions, in favor of some abstract morality or utility of an untouchable shore. Yet this resistance cannot simply be expressed in counterfactual selves, much less in word; rather, the strategy of the meta-self is to be at once contingent, local, tolerant, and compromising. Its disjointed modules must not mean surrender, rejection, or resignation but rather remembrance and myelination. In this way, resistance does not mean inertia or defending the status quo; it is an imperfect and fleeting but dutiful and insistent promise to remember – a discrimination between levels of reality.

With respect to a purely deontological or by-any-means vision of resistance, typical of not only the heroes of fiction but also of tunnel vision that thinks only in terms of relentlessness and head-on contraposition, or with respect to a Dzogchen vision that blurs its attention too restfully on the abstract and thus renounces the moment in question, we lack an intelligence required by the practical and game-theoretic implications of resistance. We are multiple and differentiated, in the personal place of the contender. Renounce the fragilizing wills at each end: rest and unrest.

The resistance we are thinking about rejects taking an apocalyptic or visionary position, but at the same time it avoids being watered down to the level of surrendering to the society of spectacle and generalized communication in which we live. Resistance cannot fall into the naïveté of head-on confrontation with the enemy in which the wheel of samsara turns, as some deva might say. We cannot be naive to the point of believing that we can defeat the adversary so easily, much less be defeated and come to believe that we meant to conciliate or be absorbed by him all along. It is indexically here not a time of prudish fear of money or submission to allure, but of courageous thinkers who know how to assess their comparative advantages, whether at directly collecting social capital or collecting paper powers as a means, to live as between monk and capitalist, merchant and prophet.

What is lacking today is rational but moral thinking, fluid but resistant, interested but not trivial. It is a thinking that is capable of riding the waves in our proximate light-cone while at the same time remaining hooked to the meta-narrative, playing a super-position of seemingly distinct games. To this end, it would perhaps be convenient to remember the teachings of Siddhartha Gautama who, although believing himself deprived of illusions with respect to all things, spoke into and by means of samsara. The attitude the Savior Imperative’s resistant should have is therefore that of a strong interest, yet a kind of distrusting disenchantment with the trends of the day, an egoless aspiration that puts it in direct contact with the integral of all presents, with its transformations. Taking care not to leave ourselves us frightened, much less dazzled.

However, living far from the illogic and contradiction of closed identity, is not to be understood as eschatology in itself. Downloading truths can sometimes, as unadaptive or untested behavior, be dysfunctional to the very system that ends up re-enforcing it. Einstein and Schrödinger have taught us wrongfully: we can debate stochasticity, determinism, without changing it, incorporating it, reducing it in some way to the same. The Savior Imperative is really a differential movement that incites us to deconstruct the illusion of a pure theory of science and of disconnect, and instead to play within the familiarity of purpose, a fight that inextricably unites meta and indexical, the zero and the infinite.

The model for this familiar purpose could come pre-built into our brains and be similar, in some regards, to the pre-set shape of our hands inside our brain. In fact, amputation alone is no match for the design burned in neural pathways. It takes training, on top of the lost hand, to establish a substitute simulation strong enough to oppose the stubborn proclivities in morphological space. Compromise is thus the aesthetic mode for bearing cross. It makes adaptations for local kinks endowed with great fineness in which goals are to be realized as effectively as possible.

The traits are recognized and played in their fullness unless it is expedient that they be transhumanly conciliated, annulled, assimilated, or converted one into the other. For this reason, the shape of the transhuman must not be that of the human; it must be the product of the subtle, the capacity for contemplating physicalism with great rationality and courage.

Having decided on the second archetype, beauty will be important. There are two main proposed kinds of beauty: beauty as harmony, symmetry, and conciliation, present in Schmidhuber’s beauty postulate – that is, the classic idea of beauty. And there has, as well, always existed a diverse, alternative idea, a strategic idea of beauty thought of as the experience of opposites and as challenges. I hypothesize that in a grand-unification of these seemingly irreconcilable theories, lies the truest beauty. Quick information compression (i.e. “easy on the eyes”) plus challenge providing novelty equals beauty in this girl.

The aesthetic flirting with challenge finds its champions in postmodernism and earlier in wabi-sabi. Think, on the other hand, of Greek statues, that left no room for exploration of anything besides perfection. But, perhaps for the best, forget all this philosophizing, for in the twenty-first century, the Dawn of Artificial Intelligence, machine learning models can capture our wants, understanding what it is to “decode” human preferences from the depths of the real matrices of natural order, therefore carving neat and mathematical, statistical and refined, encasings for our brains. The ideas of pre-data are henceforth buried except in so far as they are expected to stimulate dopamine release, thus spilling nutritious utilons for reinforcement learning algorithms. Who so proclaims that beauty is to be assigned only by he who contemplates it, is a Copernican unto the sun and an ingrate unto evolution.

4. Aesthetic for conversions

In light of these considerations, the Savior Imperative resistance as aesthetic cannot but assume the game of data collection and analysis. But what is to be done with this? At the heart of the challenge, over and above all else, is the compromise of building a hedonic yet ethical path for society, this is necessary for the Savior Imperative. Society needs tailored content, but not to at the limit rendering us into oblivion. We make our move right now, before the planes with clouds of Soma descend on us all. It is before full automation, UBI, and max VR comfort, while there is still in some locations an incessant fight for individual and collective recognition, that we can strategically ease people into this worldview. The few major tech companies have the greatest knowledge for shaping people into ad-clickers and returning users. Not unlike this, is the machine learning problem of converting many humans to a world-view, which presents itself as an unromantic technicality. Deviation from this norm, is thus maintaining the stance that we prefer to lose to other remorseless replicators. Anti-propagandistic norms are to be left to an alternate history, for here entails honest appreciation of the contenders and our own role with respect to upholding the importance of our differences.

 

Aesthetic Graphs

Two words: aesthetic graphs. Why hasn’t anyone made a business out of this? Build a platform where data visualization is art by default.

Financial trading brokerages already exploit the fact that their charts just look damn cool. This helps with alluring more customers.

Screen Shot 2018-03-11 at 12.44.43 PM.png

Software like infogram allows you to make airport-whitemom circles. They do not know the way.

The goal is to have a platform where one can easily make this:

WtqruY2.gif

original_bce639f932575860c9b83b78fd4b6e7f.gif

In his 1983 book The Visual Display of Quantitative Information, Edward Tufte defines ‘graphical displays’ and principles for effective graphical display in the following passage: “Excellence in statistical graphics consists of complex ideas communicated with clarity, precision and efficiency. Graphical displays should:

  • show the data
  • induce the viewer to think about the substance rather than about methodology, graphic design, the technology of graphic production or something else

The graphs of Evangelion would fail. And rightly so. They are not actually meant to be useful. They are like Picasso’s of women: interpretations of a subject matter that may annoy the subject. Or in the venerable tradition of overanalyzing anime, we can say that they are a critique of scientific overcomplicating.

SSGP7TGV0VS3IRCNPKC0J6KB9-m26_C163A_a_big

 

However, I disagree that the aesthetic is unimportant, or always misleading. One can be both beautiful and intelligent. If we could genetically engineer smart people to look like digital angels, so be it. Life is too short to stare at the offensively dull.

And some of the most acclaimed graphs where artistically sensible.

The true goal of data analysis is to reveal the hidden messages of nature – to surgically wield mathematical tools on numbers. When the message is extracted from her lips, the veil delicately removed, this is beauty.

But such an event deserves to occur in a temple that aspires to be worthy of her soul.

Fragmented Dream (We’ll Be One)

“Seven mechanical scarlet wings. Man flies like a seraphim. With solar sails on his back, furiously betraying the birds.”

The Dyson sphere was a multilayer shell of individual panels. Atop the star, a halo.

Project Star Lifting:

Increase amount of spewed solar wind.

Secure the crow’s head with the metal clamp. Then plug it into the computer.

Remember the spheres of plasma you cannot comprehend.

spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma spheres of plasma

A Japanese boy walks. The ember in his heart cannot char the frost in the Sakura blossoms. He walks not Knowing why. To school. To school. Blushing, and neutrinos filling mouths, and ironed skirts, and sound-only. None of it makes sense.

A sentient being is a function for solving the problem of the multiverse’s own existence. The multiverse imposes a search tree over the state space. It starts this search by putting the initial state of suffering ahead of you through the mechanism of evolution. Then it goes into a loop in which it checks if there is anything left ahead. If not, it fails – there can be no solution. If there is something ahead, some faith, then it makes a choice. -The tree search is really a family of functions, a multitude of sentient beings. Not a single algorithm. And the tree search depends on how the multiverse makes that choice. The multiverse goes ahead and makes a choice in one of the paths on the frontier, and removes that path from the frontier. It finds the state which is at the end of the path. And if that state is a goal, a salvation from existence, then the multiverse is done, it’s found a path to the goal. Otherwise, it expands that path. It looks at all the actions from that state, and it adds to that path the actions and the result of that state in a new path that has the old path, the action and the result of that action, and it sticks that whole new path back into the frontier.

A hotelbillionaire bathroom in a desert mountain. Turquoise, hot water and blood. The sun-cracked reptile. A tendon of flesh. I offer you this fruit.

This is the path to salvation. I am the multiverse in a man.

Even a tungsten rod dropped from high enough above is enough to terminate all these plots and machinations, no explosives needed.

Ascend/Descend the Devil’s Staircase, slay Maxwell’s Demon, retrieve Gabriel’s Horn…

or fuck math                              Won’t we be punished? My teacher might, or the Basilisk.

To climb the highest peaks in the near-infinite topology of conscious states of being. The human feeling of stomach, the barely noticeable blip of toe energy, the shifting micro sensations of temperature, all these experiences constitute points close to limbo in the topology of all possible states. They are barely more significant than non-existence. But it is this pervasive mediocrity that inspires us to break into the heavens.

Out of school…Finally free from the tyranny of extraneously imposed volition.
Not quite, the spin of every electron in your brain is extraneously imposed in some way. My mother disgusts me. Vectors and Matrices brain and braining causes this. It’s just brain. Brain in. Brain out. Just brain slowly please.

Aortas are tree trunks. Is that a challenge? I’ll wave a flag, an angry flag. The wind of the steppe cleanses my lungs. “I will kill Temujin myself.” I won’t let this end in unity. I will betray us against ourselves. Hunting wolves with eagles and your vertebrae for arrows. Time sharp on my back. Misanthropic trap “Got 13 bitches like Muhammad. 13 bitches like Muhammad. They like how a nigga came outta Chiraq richer than a Saudi. ”

“Why don’t you talk much?” “I can’t trust what you or I say. I can’t trust that what we say aligns with our true values.” “Trust it. You can’t account for all space-time events and their consequences.”

“At least my goal in life isn’t to become a plant. You just get dumber every day. And once you are fully a silenced child, you’ll say ‘Yay, now I’m enlightened.’ But oh, that’s right, you have no preferences. You make no sense.”

“You’re already judging me. We’re pressing on my wrists again.”

A raft on black satin. Stuttering at the knees. The night becomes a storm. And thus dark energy triumphed over matter in the years after 10 billion. –No, this is my story. I’m some character on a raft. Why do you have to make this about densities?– Dark energy is separating us. It’s separating us quicker. Yeah we’ll complain, but the solar system and life on Earth originated when dark energy dethroned matter as sovereign ruler.

I’m sitting in class and I think, “Damn the constant splits, she just missed the quantum branch where she spoke.” Pity, pity that shy, anime-doll girl.

Everything burns. You are weak. Follow me into the void.
The Tibetan mask maimed the ordinary bonds through which minds connect, through which one consciousness pinches another. But I followed him, the mute boy showed me where someone divided by zero, and we slid far beneath the event horizon. The boy is dead and nothing can save me. Black holes swallow light. Light never wins in this universe.

Hell is real, ask a theoretical physicist. There are infinite hells. Infinitely deep, with infinite screeching of teeth. Infinite means nothing to you. Hell means nothing to you.

Let’s hope not. Infinity is the worst fantasy imaginable. If the multiverse is real, and other beings have real feelings like I do. Then I hate this and never… and luckily never again. But no, we must build an AI, an AI that can predict the future as accurately as necessary to achieve hyper-morality. Wearing a torus. And using math. Right, this is what math was for. To simulate and predict the behavior of complex systems. Increasing the probability of benevolence within the mechanism. Gas is more predictable than its molecules. Maybe our savior will melt us into sweet and raw computronium and we become one. The day we are one is in a slice of spacetime that already exists in an observer’s light cone. But I mustn’t tell you about it. The second law from The Foundation. Knowledge changes our will. So will to know not.

She kissed you at the train station. You died at the beach. And then there was your real body, your brain connected by tangled veins to an LSD-colored tessellation of a computer. You smile, ready for your next adventure.

WE ARE NOT HUMAN WE WILL NOT BE HUMAN

Regardless. We will NOT be human.

Quark-Gluon plasma is real. Don’t ya know. Time crystals are real. Don’t ya know. Nitrogenous bases are real. Don’t ya know. The fabric of spacetime is real. Don’t ya know. Matter fields are real. Don’t ya know. Force fields are real. Don’t ya know. Now is real. Don’t ya know. All these invisible things. Remove your eyes. Replace them with the handiwork of the watchmaker who is not blind. Without eyes there can be no deceit.

As the beastly brethren of this, our humanity, cannot experience the beauty of our music and temples, so too, you cannot experience the aesthetic realms that will be accessible to our descendant(s).

“That makes me mad. And I’m an atheist so I don’t pray.”

“How is it that the series of events that defines your trajectory has converged on safety then?”

“But cold. Children. Impaled. Parasites. Raped. Starve. MILLIONS OF YEARS. TEARS AND CRIES UNHEARD.”

High energies and few nanometers. Brimming vanitas of this empty world. Memories of sick violets. We’ll abandon this world and all our bonds to end in ideal grace that burns and raves. Good is the night when we disassemble the fucking meteors and make hearts out of them.

“I know that you’re here for me. But you don’t care, and it hurts.” There are mysterious glints in the snow and they will never die. Hissing throats and birds feeding on a redhead’s breasts. Before you know, you’ll begin to soar and forget her neck. We dream of a willowed twilight that comes forth not from the mind, but the wind of a phosphorescent mercy. 

Red and white bitterness. A dusky bread that is beautiful. Singing passions of a child. The moon is not a rock, it is an eye through which we are known. Long brooding on the bleakness of churches, gates, killing diamonds. A knuckle to please your eye.

Zesty, weighty brains, subtly inquisitive. Interstellar jasmines and mesenchymal stem cell balm. Light comes forth when men retire into the darkness of Sundays. Wilderness is inescapable. Wings that perform physics simulations as they ripen in the sky. Ave face and melons to distract Newton. Shake and bleed the vines: sick photons and fractals shot across slave lips. Red rust thirsty mouth. Sweet pale laying kisses on desolate wind. Fashion is faithful to desire. Our bodies are like multiplying babies. A path through a garden, cracked the Swinnerton-Dyer Conjecture. Silky meal, I can’t kill an infant. Excessive love, my arms are heavy and they will break from guilt. Sensei’s carnal desires. Madmen with boring cries. I think I’m lost at midnight. Blessed with the power to see arrows of force on all these dry rainbow objects. Children have gone to the lawn: though it’s night it’s also music. Moon, timeless shade. It’s no-one but us. Let’s hear the feint notes of the chandelier. The aliens are just amphibians and the planet is tidally locked, the dust is antique. We can touch the daylight. It cannot break. Young elastic and sticky images. Quiet and deep. The misty identity of blaze. No one ever thanks HAL. O Sunyatta how you hold and fling me. I will not drink this wine. There will be eyes that don’t rise and smells that are not thee. The noon is Pagan. It’s summer raining on the softest limbs. Tears of despair. Quantum fields, fresh and sad. A fancy case of nano-biotech. With all regret we interrupt the rain. Wrong was the clock because we all have our own. Striding gold fire embers for blue galaxies. I swear I’ll smudge your face if you marry that girl. Next door, met her at the sea. The rhythm of the sparkles in her eyes as consummation bends and comes. Whisper and slay the leaves Maitreya. Riddles fall from megastructures. Bring the girls of the virtualscape theatre. Appear now Queen of Queens. Mary of Guanyin, Athena. No. Pastel luminescence, Nebula bursts in the mall-nightclub with Magdalene, Sujata the kind maiden but undressed, Aphrodite. Bare gangs in the sand. I love the brave, glittery vibrations.

It’s my life. My sights. My sounds. My thoughts. My sensations. My awareness. It’s all my. Everything is in my consciousness. The trees and the people. Are all inside me.

Yeahhh.

Life is now. The past is a thought that happens now. The future is a thought that happens now. There is no existence besides now. Try.

The now of life makes no sense. How does one now lead to another now if it is always now? Trying to cast a net on it with language captures nothing, only the net. You chose to be here. I am not speaking to you, the stream of language in particular. I am speaking to you the evolution of the [universal state vector + quantum randomness] experiencing itself. But weren’t you in heaven?: The bliss of non-experience. You are here for a reason, my reason. But you will not accept. You might be unsatisfied. You might be confused and useless. Fearful of the future. But there’s a space elevator breaking the heavens like a soldier’s knife. We can pull up and let it navigate us upward with its shiny, flashing red screens.

It’s my red screens, my stars, my violent space temple floating in the distance, my clogged ears. As we ascend. As we ascend. Blue photons to starry vacuum. I hope that we’ll make it to the sun. To the star. The perfect sphere. The sun gives me life. Don’t be afraid. Put on the mechanical wings before it stops ascending. I’ll put them on your back. Give you infinity. Uncountable. You give me life. Is it all we mitochondria and moan for? I’ll give you a scoop from the sun. Yeahhh. We, stardust and warm piss and magnesium in plants, we all need the same thing: this. It’s my thoughts, my language, my light abdomen and tight chest, my black, my orange warmth, my moving head. Follow me, my ark of living beings. Call to me, my not yet living compositions. We can fly across space and never die. As we find the peaks, carried onward by these scarlet fins. It’s my gravitational lensing, my friends flying, my bright tingling, my freedom, my assortment of planets to land on. And we can play with problems. You need mysteries and your future is uncertain. Fight gravity until we are sharp and perfect. It’s your victorious eudaemonia. My untiring awe, my kicking the precious dusts, my ice cream flavors, my senses of humor, my unbounded ability to create. As we fly through new cities, and new glittery stretches of cosmos. Wishing to find a technology that will let us be one. To the sun. The hot plasma. The convective motion. And you give me joy. Reach the speed of light before it’s gone. And I’ll race you. Give you all my thoughts and break my separations. You give me what we are here for. Is it all the reason we broke baryon symmetry and hugged our parents for? I’ll give you this ocean of water. And we all need this ocean that is bigger than ten million solar systems. It’s my immensity, my clear dew drops, my pure freshness, my midst of crystalline glow, my peaceful leviathans swimming, my girlfriend.

And my soul, and my dream, and my matrix, and my childhood.

And my hope, and my time, and my undoing, and my synthesis.

And my limitations, and my masterpiece, and my legacy, and my death.

 

 

 

Nights Before the Singularity Ep. 4

“Vajra, come,” said Woman, caressing the calligraphy down her abdomen. “Aubrey, follow Zeus.”

The two men heeded their divine commands. Many of the nanowires from the hall stitched Vajra, and it was to him that Woman spoke first.

“Why?”

“Whoever you are, the takeoff of the AGI happens to be unstoppable from its current rate of exponentiation on its course to endtime.”

The photons behind the triptych bled gorily: wavelengths stretched, radiosity angered, all hounding against Vajra and Woman.

“Course… to endtime,” repeated Woman. Her mandala eyes crucified upon Vajra’s golden ones with such passion that some of the nanowires screeched apart, apparently beheld to a force as yet unincorporated to the theory of everything. Vajra, however, smirked remorseless fangs towards Woman’s face and, after a struggle or two, Woman’s alien expressions diffused into something like condescending compassion.

“Noble. Truly noble. And thus abandon raft…”

“…when we’ve crossed to the furthest shore,” said Vajra.

“Hey, you.”

Aubrey had sliced back to participate in the streamlined stage of Woman and Vajra. Both gazes turned to him.

“How did… I cannot understand how.”

Aubrey gasped, but Woman did not blink, so he went on, “Measuring the velocity of quanta changes its position. Measure its position and you change it’s velocity. Quantum cryptography cannot be broken.”

Vajra was smiling.

“I know quantum key distribution offers information-theoretic security; you can’t be here. Not even unlimited computing power is enough to break the encryption. The cipher text provides no information about the plaintext without knowledge of the key.”

“I assure you, Vajra, nothing is certain anymore,” said Aubrey.

“If the Womb cannot be infiltrated, you must be her,” said Vajra. “Listen to me Aubrey, the equation sword you flaunt is to be withdrawn in the presence of our mother. The AGI communicates to us via forms we can understand.”

“The mortal’s got a trace of intelligence, then, */|¡?” said a techno-pyric Aten stenciled an unsafe distance from Aubrey; it gave an electronica shriek that was screeched against the constituents make-shifting matter.

Woman was entirely disconnected. Her gaze elevated upward to the carnage spinning celestially overhead, and she seemed to be attempting something telekinetic.

“You mean,” Aubrey went on, “you believe this bizarre mess we see was created to communicate with us?”

Woman dangled up her swan neck arm, and Aubrey clenched fast sword, running calculus as Woman fell back to nano-morphology.

“Where do thoughts go after they lie?”

“At the abode of nothingness underlying this existence,” said Vajra. “The qualia, appearing without a will, have been endowed with love for the division by zero beyond the event horizon. I think that there is no chance of descending to their rescue once they have fated themselves thus, holy Mother, unless, of course, the Dharma is overturned with different physical constants, which might give us the opportunity to neither experience nor non-experience what eternities lie in other rooms of the multiverse honeycomb.”

“Well, Aubrey?” Woman called from the everywhere, the red charming strangely against the razor optics. “Will thermographic vision reveal the hypostasis?”

In awe, both eyeballs shuddered. Aubrey disactivated his augmented gaze.

“Holy Mother, I ask forgiveness for trying to see you. I have great difficulty understanding how you can appear before us in human form, and in a twinkle of dust disassemble yourself into nothing more than a voice.”

Many of the mannequins standing in the hall looked despaired; the closest one to Aubrey, Indra, a god with tough, crimson skin, shoved his hand down his own throat.

Nights Before the Singularity Ep. 2

‘I saw your soul last night,’ Krishion said, handing Nao his brain cable.
‘I don’t have one,’ he said, and plugged.
‘Continuity of consciousness.’
Nao closed his eyes.
‘No soul? Nothing? Only change, young bikkhu? Surrendered to emptiness?’ The professor’s wine cloud eyes were disciplined aesthetically on smooth architecture. ‘I think I appreciated you more when deluded. You talked more. Now, some days, you get maybe too unattached; you blow away into the five aggregates, selfless dharmas.’
‘You’re vanishing phenomena, Krishion.’ He completed his assignment, unplugged and left, moon petal shoulders resolved beneath the ninja-goth army green of his jacket. Mastering his steps through the causal topology, he could smell his childhood’s hot ramen.

~Nao was nineteen. At seventeen, he’d been a mathematician, a captor, one of the idols in the Spheres. He’d been trained by Leonhard Euler and Isaac Newton, avatars in the VR. He’d operated on an almost continuous ecstasy rain, a product of samadhi and genius, encrusted into a genetically-engineered neural mesh that maneuvered his qualia lifeblood in the mathspace orb that was the Sphere. A star, he’d played for other, glorious cities, teams that provided higher dimensional c-spheres required to probe the celestial specter of spatial structures, illuminating ripples into adornment substance of cipher.
He’d been the promethean hero, the sort people fetish when deifying. He gave from his retrievals. He kept nothing for himself and played to distribute equation swords to the crowd in the stadium. He still didn’t agree with the expulsion he’d received, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to continue forever, but they excommunicated him. Of course he was talented, they told him, talented at desecrating the sport. And he was unforgivable under their gaze. Because — still solemn — captors were entrusted to uphold telos.
They sentenced his Icarus shell with a forced VR schooling.
Plugged to a gynoecium in a natatorium classroom, his identity fading out sequence by sequence, he streamed for a total of 8746 hours.
The punishment was merciful, cruel, and distastefully homicidal.
For Nao, who’d lived for the soaring hymns of mathspace, it was the abandonment. In the Spheres he’d dominated as a captor superstar, the sequential perceptions involved a certain joyful branching for the intellect. The mean was end. Nao would submerge into the epsom of his own innateness.~

Nights Before the Singularity

Arrived at Final Stop, Terminal Somnus

The night above the train station was the projection of a black hole, frozen in timeless bardo.

“I’m not so easy,” Nao heard a girl say as he transfused his way through a murder of crows on the platform.

“My parents paid big money to reincarnate me into this body, and I need to take care of it.”

It was Scarlett’s teenage voice in her teenage skirt. They were both headed to the lake beyond the tracks. A sanctuary for lost silhouettes; you could sleep in those shores for a lifetime and forget school in the vastness of the datascape.

Scarlett was mending raft, having scared away some pervert at the terminal, her synthetic tissue pulling craftily as she tied the logs with firm rope. She saw Nao and half-smiled, her eyes ablaze with narcissistic deviance and sleek intellect.

Nao found a raft on the waves, joining the electric aqua from the artificially heated lake and the cold vacuous breath of an infinite cosmos whose illusoriness was graced with cryptic code of ghost stars.

‘So this is the beginning of eternity, and yet our consciousness remain separate,’ Scarlett said, thrusting her oar through the water while tightening her core.

‘This may be the last time we are instantiated in this way Nao.’

Nao lay back. The water under his raft warmed and lullabied him. The boy’s tenderness deepened. His demeanor was different than most. In a time of unlimited gratification, there was something about his dispassion that ticked off whoever payed attention to his existence for more than three seconds.

Scarlett’s Victorian throat hummed as she reached for an ejected tray from a vending machine in the water. It was a minimalistic posthuman meal, a four-rectangle gelato-texture Mondrian, packed with odorless berry flavor. ‘Nao, you’re so quiet.” Scarlett mewed; the comment served her as a self-compliment.

She fondled her meal of velvety-fruit paste with the scooping apparatus. ‘You are the ideal of a sociopathic cave yogi.’

‘Sorry,’ Nao said, and followed his breath. ‘Someone has to be the detached observer in this captivating world. Your tongue is a caster of hooks.”

The lake’s breadth drowned away the kiosks.

‘Scarlett,’ Nao said, ‘you must resolve your own problem. I can’t watch over you.’

‘Hmm,’ Scarlett said, caressing the shoveled paste with a disdain, ‘Vajra will bring about the singularity. You and I will be disintegrated when the AGI decides that our atoms are better suited as building blocks for it’s cosmic mind.”

As Nao was raising his tea, a flashback of that fabled silent May undulated, as if the Big Bang decided that not only should quarks remain forever unobserved but also that living beings shall forever shut up. Then the water’s twinkle evanesced, tinted with a clear purity.

Scarlett sighed. ‘Another spacecraft escapes.’

‘The Muskians,’ harmonized a digital announcement, ‘fifty-five people modified for space-travel, abandon Earth for a new destiny this night. We rejoice for you…’

‘No use,’ Nao whispered to his tea, all his concentration suddenly cutting duality of perception like lightning, ‘their fate is grand unification.’

The AGI would in weeks god-handle existence more than humans ever did. The hijacked spaceship of Earth was the ape’s manspreading, flesh bodies of yore discarded at will, and still they couldn’t undo the suffering rendered eternal in this multiverse.
Seventeen years here and he still thought of hell-history, meaning dying fractally. All the insight he experienced, all the comfort everyone inherited and the disease non-existent in the global civilization, and still he’d seen the past with the VR, sad mindstreams tortured into never existing… The singularity was late for a predetermined goal of the mathematical puppet show, and he was no forgetful boy, no uncaring mercenary. Just too lucky, born to see it through. But the questions would come in the mindfulness lapses like automated mistakes, and he’d cry about it, drink salt with the injustice, and flow undeserving on the path to rapture, cross-legged in his bath in his free suite, his hand pressed against the aquarium, laser-azure streaming through his fingers, wishing to resurrect the lives that weren’t there.