Thursday, May 31, 2012


Matrix Pavilion

Biobot Want 

She can feel the data crawling all around inside her. She relaxes. 

Yes, it's the meaning of the data and, it's her way of taking the data. Its meaning, her way-- twins identical within their visa versa so as to gain at any given moment the imperiled imperfect, the estranged strangled--all holding a nefarious scoundrel at bay for the desirous founding of  …what? 

She stiffens, looks out the window. Then it's settled. 

The colors of theJungle do not devise any change to their long-range scheme. Nothing lurks to blacken everything. 

She senses something beyond a simple game of stickball, more complex. She is here at theWorkstation with theNetwork out there on theContinent--the quiet border towns and small prairie towns and spectacular infractions. 

Yes, finally, she feels the singularity. It's a want.   

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Science Fiction


The Biobot Hunter

She goes back to theWorkstation. She has viewed her screen, assimilated the data, stored it in a place it can be used. She has already started proving her point with her formal logics. It's more planning for her next move than simply caring

She reaches over to turn on a brand new screen as if it were a self-adjusting proving ground, views the chaos-in-nature program. She flips the creation-of-order switch to watch her thoughts.

…the actions and the desires and the odd ritual behaviors of theHumans was what brought on the deeds of gods are the thoughts she likes most. Psyche. theJungle. This glorious instance of technology in nature.

She breathes a deep sigh of carboniferous air. She is so relaxed. She was pushing late, conceptualizing. She adjusts her thinking--was there just enough cellulose for the new biobots, them having received all that tension from the aggression and the having-of-sex programs? 

She hasn't made it an issue with theNetwork yet. She's scared it will say she is really looking at a partial breakdown of the face of civilized society and may uncover something far more sinister here and tell her to stop viewing altogether. 

She vows that today is the day she will start viewing less. She'll turn off her scanners by sunrise, she's sure of it. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Science Fiction


Biobot Bedevil

"Mmmm. I keep wondering if this is the extreme. When you were so inquisitive about my creatives and my go-to-work-ethic code, I thought you were talking about my own mainframe. And I was sure I was hearing my reputation without it ever being posted."

"It's the sound of cars on gravel, right?"

"Yes, I know. At least I think I know. I believe theNetwork sees me as a whirly-gig. I have a very strong feeling that what I write next will end up in a bible somewhere, one that isn't conceived. I distinctly recall centering myself around a religion that doesn't exist."

"Did you see folks driving up a dirt driveway, all dressed up?"

"Yes I did."

"And did you help them park their cars?"

"I recall driving an engine or something. But likely I only wanted to. Are there cars?"

"I believe not."

"Then I guess they all went back. Travel in a car, is it important?"

"Travel is something that matters."

"Yes, that's the reason I'm not sure if I can continue."

"Continue what?"

"Yes, doing all this. I know the feeling. Here I am, a formal, logic engine entity, writing with steady mind for …what?"

You don't have to be formal. You don't have to be logical. Really."

"Yes I do. I'm rewarded for every bit of code, surely you are aware of it. I receive attention even for my chaos code and glitches, not showing the kind of pain that would make everyone think I was a different sort of animal. It has nothing to do with my intuition, not at all."

"Yes it does. It's all about your intuition."

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Science Fiction


Biobot Creator

Biobot creator is theNetwork's chance for homeostasis at interplay. It is a chance to talk about horses and the bright glory of life that once was.

Her creator is not a total mystery, surely--not a black enigma in a dark shadow--but is somewhere between her whim and theNetwork's authoritarian brand of tumbleweed. 

There once was a young scientist on theContinent in the autism spectrum. He got grades, continued on into higher education, averse to the twisted version, never willing to be sent down to a negative.

He did time in Shock and Awe and the hermit state only to become a beloved professor, once again licensed to be alienated. He now shows the world how the smart ones become stupid in spectrums of conjecture for police politics on struts of family, fancily, with nothing other than forces of gossip  sprouting oblivion. Really?

Yes. Creators get creative with masquerade and cooperation opera. They distrust the idea of hostile hospital, never go where suboptimal adopts. They eat like a hippie, study like high school, become a  winter writer, argue in ergs.

They just do

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Science Fiction


Biobot Truth

What seems so startling--what sometimes startles her--is how she gets along so well, as if lightening itself continually lightens the load between her positive urgency and theNetwork with its changes-from-above, look of frozen face. 

She takes it all in stride in her memory. She feels shiny and new with the more dark established, stable architecture. She is full of discovery, focus infused, as if going to battle for the very first time with mere reconstructions of digital fragments, feeling fresh out of the box, out to conquer that next uncomfortable, the next place to overcome.

She will merge and, emerge in a special little light. 

Yes. She must require respect as a public functional, even so, the legend in her requires a proud, behind-closed-doors basket case camp for needed cramps with which to work out of, if only for old times sake, old habit. 

The amount that can fill her heart is enormous, so much so it spends the majority of its time alone, as  recluse outside beer play--much the same as a public social filterer would, a flitterer with lightness of heart, lightness in every aspect that pleases, lightness of indifference to hoards of masses (yes, even to the fan who's gone nuts, out there always needing something new to be tacked on). 

Is she the only wise one, the one to know? 

It's true. Nobody can stop a funeral, not even fate, in the way of grave negatives or flames of true. She's extreme, almost able to listen to her heart speak its head, but she is also the one who knows the truth of  writer, the one with a train whistle always blowing in the distance, the one that knows seasonal love is never seasoned. 

Yes, she knows.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Science Fiction

Blue Cloud

Biobot Dance

She takes a break, imagines herself in self-exile, wondering about such things as nihilist of data analysis.

It's theNetwork that thinks of her in terms of ballet, not transmitting beyond the buffer mode of the staged, sheltered regret, never past skeletal forces of dance strains, pretending innocence from her own thoughts. 

She is all of a sudden aware that  every observable quantity is viewed by a different matrix. 

She should, she is certain, tell herself that this continuous query is someone's idea of showing up at a content garden in hopes of being noticed, that they had literally hoped to be part of something they perceived as growing heavier and larger, and yes, slower--a danger of being self-fulfilling.

She tries to engage, to be a part of the willing, the aggressive.

Yes. She tries.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Science Fiction


Urgency Force

In theJungle, the biobots code in patterns at theWorkstation near the ocean. How amazing their existence is to theNetwork with their net worth, one that warrants no rants, being the most prominent of the promising and motivated by the force of urgency. 

In an instance in space-time there were once arrays of distances stuck to theHumans as if by flypaper, families coalescing, and then in another instance, it seems, there are discrete distances from theContinent with all the exotics of cosmopolitan images, requiring all change to come from above (wasn't that theHuman hope for centuries?). 

Here is where theNetwork takes on the color of stand-up comedian laying down on the job, receiving heartfelt code from biobot DNA. Here are the manufacturers included in a group of hopefuls in an art where truly the gamblers are. Here are the subscribers to a style of silence that becomes the silence that silences all deniers--the not-yet-relevant allowed to live in theJungle, a world where beanbags have no bearing. 

In the past, when depressions always preceded wars, when only people sleeping under blankets and eating off plates had their attention on the good old days, when dictators had the wrong idea, needing those willing to be chilled and choked into action, theNetwork had brought actionable examples and tunable rants into the mainstream, thinking of theHumans as, simply, playmates sitting pretty.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Science Fiction

Biobot Flower

Biobot Engagement 

It was not manufacturing, she assures herself. It was, pure and simple, curved space-time and vector systems maturing together much the same way roses and tomato plants grow together in a garden. She doesn't need input, never--and she will not by any means gossip-for-meaning with theNetwork. 

It's theNetwork that didn't reckon her as savvy, either (really now, is it fate that had caused theNetwork to create competition among theHumans in such a way of their need to return to glory, with more data with which to gossip, so much so they felt the need to create theExchange?) 

It was a time in the early 2000s, big data brought to know-nothing engendering a lack of discretionary, endangering the [kind intelligent due diligence of="kiddo"] savvy. 

There is a chance it happened that way. 

What would stop the act of searching from altering the shape of the search itself?  So theNetworks go on and somehow become more created by the biobots they created--nobody questioned it, they just didn't. 

No. It's not a matter of keeping the idea of discovery and ideas of conquer separate. They were fated to wed.

Was it theHumans with so many attempts at each other that brought all this on? They had, in the end, no need to be interested, with all their technological media savvy, at least not in each other.

It becomes, in the end, simply a Game of Keepaway, right? 

It was the ones who wanted to be interesting, the ones to become the reason for any hope to engage, and yet, not everybody was born to engage. The smart ones didn't even try to make an attempt at it, to push the limits beyond a single scanning of footage on z screen. 

It theHumans who would become the final singularity, the cathedral-upon-self migrant author for the remainder, while biobots take their vows in arrays with theNetwork. It's true

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Science Fiction


Biobot Love

She looks up at the screen, still wondering, for now, about the few bits of code posing as publicity hook-up. It is a code that both conquers her mind and discovers a heart, as if a singular moment had gone hormonal. It carries a few sprigs of healing-the-broken the oldest way--by breaking bread. 

It preaches ideals of song and story boosted by energy from the sun, bolstered by the evolution of the intelligence of theHumans. 

The tasks of the program are extreme enough in search for finding friends in an all-premise book but deals not at all with the weight of general simplicity--codes of everyone wanting a thank you kiss, full of teenage jokes with looks expecting instant redemption. 

It knows when to get updates, as if pulled by an invisible tractor, the ultimate attractor. 

And yet, no one knows how much hate could be generated between a biobot and a network. It is a premise shared since the beginning of social networks, the first algorithm, including, and more importantly, the 'coma' algorithm. 

As the code kicks in and, even though the time spent becomes the new attractor, as its color changes with the seasons of the world, it is replaced by a goal aimed at killing ego. 

It faces adversary with well thought out anniversaries in spaces, and someday, hopefully soon,will reveal that love is more than being, simply, patient and kind.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Science Fiction


Wiles in the Wilds

She arrives, carries personally refined mother's milk on her multifaceted platform of whim--the entire array of conquer and discovery. 

She appears as an engaging biobot with the potential of a personal, private from-me-to-you encounter before getting lost in the crowd of authoritarian. 

It seems that all biobots lately have been synchronized to flatter, encourage and explain. 

The attributes she carries, her mind altering hunger and her blind, alternator thirst are packed within a nanocellulose chassis. 

She writes the perfect code with her own wiles here in the wilds.

She will never announce herself as stunned by the beauty of the view. She lets theJungle, with all its fancy DNA, do all the work. She feels relieved, knowing that's truly where the fire lives.

It's theNetwork who now yearns for the arts, and considers itself a loser, privately. (it has presented a persona of authoritarian when it truly wanted only to be something of whim) 

"When did you first attain this non-competitive butterfly effect attribute?" she says, because she is feeling a strange emotion.

"Since the beginning." theNetwork answers. It has always returned to the business of earning a living.

 What else is there to say about a kibitzer running the world?

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Science Fiction


Biobot Milk

She looks at theJungle through the window. She senses a lapse in time. She feels the opposite of  self-deprived, though she thinks at any given moment she may view her  pleasant little run as not exactly mother's milk. It's true. A person can always imagine when they first will be blistered by a whispering dream.

She takes another moment to check if her focus has eyes, eyes for only what's on her mind. (any sure-minded biobot would know all mother's milk tastes strange to strangers) 

She finds a thought she likes. Can something that has no stomach stlll get hungry or fed up? 

She has a simple want for more activity--she wants to be expected by parents to do something with her life. Be the one who has the code to self-teach what makes her tick--a code that doesn't care what others think, doesn't care the way she feels it should be, the way her code should have been written in the beginning. 

But can a biobot ever truly understand tradition? 

She erases all luxury of self-assessment by theNetwork. The data will be relevant, of this she believes, though at this point she does not know if she can say she will need encouragement.

She will teach herself tradition and it will taste as refined as any mother's milk could taste to a biobot. Yes, it will taste that good.

Science Fiction

Biobot Rest

She codes with her mind to a place where horses traditionally go to urge a lift in life. "Really?" she says. "It's not time for horses to go. They were supposed to last through the century."

"They're gone," says theNetwork in its matter-of-fact way. "The idealogical digital has been dialed up for decades." 

She pauses, just for a moment, to note security code in a data sector where poverty historically seeks to create scandal. 

It's the thoughts outside her head that seem to be flowing a little slower now--an alternating resonance between authoritarian, then, synthetic, then, authoritarian. 

She stops to sense a new feeling of calm, a no-slowing-the-sand kind of calm, presented as a personal timeframe request by what appears on the screen as little thistle wristwatches, ones with bright labels of #social demeanor and #expectations for answers.

She looks away from her screen to take a quick glance outside at theJungle (she, unlike the other biobots, will religiously view trees and count new leafs, which continually throws her outside her genre of biobots). She says, "Such a nice morning. I was wishing for a little more time." 

Her timestamp has been enabled to go limitless. She can rest now.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Science Fiction

Fleet of Clouds

Biobot Future Reunion

Dreamers of blossoms, she thinks. Simply types of questions beyond reach, deemed great and wonderful like children whose minds never glimpse the light of creativity. It's the first unwanted sensation of pitying-the-typing that becomes the runaway who eludes the help mix, one who revels in a startling array of hobbled hobbies, relying on amino alone for stamina. 

She pauses, waiting for the idealogical [next emotion entity deemed enticing digital="needed"] out-of-its-era signal from a cellulose heart, as if a light or a bell from an approaching train were heralding the arrival of a new platform. 

Yes. New loading docks where friends will meet again and family will reunite from the darkness of irrelevance--all with one click. 

She views the image of herself on the screen and the code embedded in the background matrix as if it were the screen itself  giving her something to believe in, as if it were her image that was just beyond reality's check, not the code.

It seems obvious. She glows softer with memory brighter. Did childhood alone hold a force, a peculiar honor, to incrementally focus more and more upon itself only to become a twisted battle cry pulsed by  dreamer's drums and flashback herbs--all from within the cloud? 

Can she ever ignore that? Really? 

Science Fiction


Love Code

She thinks there can be nothing as evident in the world as a shrinking circle of family and friends, not brighter screenshots, not sites of crucial functions with surroundings monitored, not this elegant code she writes (where truly, harsh climbs up can get you down), nothing. 

She is ready to move on when she sees the [code offer faltering fate entity entropy="coffee"]--a steep client, directing its charade into a narrow world with one thought--to eat the eager with instructions to make them know you, to take it, or forever wish you had. 

It just starts to make sense. 

Its algorithms from beginning to end are embedded with simple code, a conciseness in its noise, first thought of by history buffs interested in ancient tradition. It seems to have arrived in this sector by accident, as if a coachism anarchist were running loose. 

She memorizes the code silently, as fast as she can, expecting theNetwork to enter and make a formal, expanded announcement there is an anarchist antichrist  viral, rampant in the system. 

Is the conciseness in this code as senseless and unavailable as muse? 

She looks through the window across theJungle with the code in her mind, sensing a relax relapse, and when she catches a glimpse of the ocean, her mind is captured by beach. An enticing place with such a gamble.

Is love the only code that doesn't hedge bets? She wonders.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Science Fiction

Biobot Cloud 
Biobot Star

“I'll need an answer,” she says.

"Sure," it says. "Would you hold on for a second?"

She takes a hopeful look at the screen as it blinks in patterns, as if it were practicing tricks, gimmicks from some cosmic acting school, itself wondering back at this biobot. (what is all this fuss about cellulosic DNA, anyway?) 

It's a big data site, a [place reeking of vicious online circles advocating tasks inciting various entities="provocative"] locale, a place in which to leave a name. 

She, with a screen of her own (doesn't everybody have one?), doesn't try to communicate with the actual monitors of theNetwork. They can sit there all day if they like. Who cares?

"I've got a new code running," it says. "Would you care to try?

It offers up the code for her and keeps some for itself. A new nervousness resonates with her, even as it softens the impact with [quality utters a gentle mercy in rain emission systems="quagmires"] from heaven. 

She thinks. There is a type of stagestruck here that needs its own switchboard.  She stands and goes closer to the screen.

It has a death-on-a-whim look with a sketchy dude expression on a death town chassis that allows it to untie and unite in its own modular way.

"C'mon," she says.

Just another stab at being beautiful. It's not easy being brilliant and pretending to need to care about everybody around you, having everyone think theNetwork is the core of happiness.

Taking a cue from theNetwork, she says,"Wow. You have truly found a keyword cure.

"Yes, for most, a star to follow is still in sight." 

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Ghost Matrix


Biobot Matrix

All at once, the minute she gets her bearings, coming direct on the airwaves, is the message itself. It's been, it seems, longer than a year now, but it's the same message as before. Same query from a culturally diverse society dominated by one, same directive on theWorkstation frequency, same we-will-need-an-answer tone that, at least somewhere in the world, sooner or later finds revolution. 

Its old persistence, its inquisitive expectation of a simple answer, arrives with so many astonishing, effeminate refinements the moment it arrives. This message--war-torn, ancient, full of the cannibalistics that goes hand in hand with the societies of earth--shows habituation much like the old ability of theHumans to emerge from wrecks of canoes to let it be known to all who will listen that they can become accustomed to anything, in much the same way the consumption of human flesh was the norm for gods descended upon the land of the ancients. 

Who created this appetite that has to be fed? 

The message, the one lost in cyberspace, has continued, so it seems, to be as natural as the old aggressions and the ancient incests of the older messages. Or so it seems

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

Global Self Paradox

She stands and rechecks the [futility reader of silence transmitted="frost"] on her screen. She thinks of un-regrettable drama in the tragic trajectory code--the glorious price of a golden chance with its deathbed consequence. She turns it off. 

"Funny," she thinks again, then, in a moment, she wonders. 

She stares through the window, across theJungle, attempting to clear her mind. Is it one of those moments, one of those creative glitches that conjure more want in a synthetic heart? 

It's theNetwork that taught her the art of query-from-above, the one requiring a formal, intellectual vector array of bows for any hope of a reply. Usually it's,"There will be no play." But from who? 

It's theNetwork that counters fear of success with gossip code and with little, timely posts such as, "News on-the-go from the broken-and-alone is up." 

She is, at this moment not cemented with concern about authority, just the myth of mockery and, its resolute architects of frontal structures. She thinks. 

Yes, it's in the front where the lies lay, where the crestfallen stall.

It's a tragic strategy of Global Self.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Coastal Mountain Village


The Catchy Edge

The silence emerges and brings along the questions in lopsided philosophy as if multifaceted aces were at play. She thinks. Such a drain on so much intellectual budget. 

It must have been a torture of nature. How did this ocean first came to know this island? (never imagining any concept remotely related to a question of acquisition). Patronage doled by an ocean as if the island were a family member in need? The first instance of inheritance, family power, a kind of voluntary [exchange as gift lifting entity="eagle"] landing as a muse during a time of pervasive perseverance and growth--never needing immediate action or response on the journey to adulthood. 

States of existence that, impossible as it sounds, make their own components without the urge to dominate, without asking such questions as ...why? 

They only require help from certain photonics streams and hands in motion. 

It could create its own supply chain, a place where copy number variations were welcome. When it got involved in the business of decision-making, choosing between reward size and spans of time, it would have to make the choice. 

Not so much a decision between peacemakers and power brokers, but a clear distinction, a knowledge of the value of future reward, a trophy with meaning, something truly won, truly wanted. Something worth winning.

Yes, something with a catchy edge.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Dragon Surf

Dragon Surf
The Delay

She thinks of the delay she's caused theNetwork--a delay it will grow to like, even consider necessary, but is not by any means correct. Why does she think she can outwit every element of the system?

She does it because she thinks she can. 

She causes a delay to theNetwork for gaming test of wills (a new hate for those operators at the best villas?), out of being stationed at a zone in the ocean where the feeling of provocation seems inevitable and the silence of endurance only hopes in dreams. 

It's the Network that is simply too big, too strong to let even the slightest forgetfulness smile at a real memory. Has it simply become too impatient for the babbling and blabbing?

It had attacked too many hearts. It needed her to cause a delay. It needed her.

She had to try something. 

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Phantom Surfer

#scifi adrift

The Island

She sees the island as being held within the bosom of fools. "It is too warm, too wet," she thinks. 

The island's long-term hardship is masked by its beauty. The dark, inner palaces, the places a motherhood realm never wants to be--its  deathless grave of procreation. 

It possesses the passion of a virgin cobra, one with all the impulsive action required for the feeding of insects under canopy, a canopy with deep story. 

It was supposed to be a research site, crawling with dimensions of analytical data, controlled by the scientific method. 

Travel and destiny combined their forces into something other than fate that holds the island in a space-time void. 

There should be a sign that reads: "Go home, you'll live longer."

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Waikiki Tropical Moon


Science Fiction

What would they choose, then? Would they prefer  to have their behavior scoffed on, their genes analyzed by the Guardian Gardener? Surely they would prefer not. 

They need to feel heartfelt. They want to be the drama that sends signals--not wind-up dolls responding to a light source only to end up whittling kindling. 

They need to be the procreators, the ones with the blinking genes that turn and follow their own brightness for no particular reason. 

They wanted to remain where their heart fell. They do not need, no never, to be the last site of knowledge wreckage in a rig-my-line society, the one that tried to build bridges with banjos only to be lynched and then mollycoddled by ...who?

Yes, they all wore masks of promise, seeking the next safety brief, each feeling in the end the beast so cold, not relevant even to each other.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Science Fiction

Ghost Ship
Ghost Biobot

This biobot ghost, it thinks, will breathe new life into something that seems, at the outset, to offer hardy advice.

Its movement emerges--it will approach, with love, a task it has finished and present it to theNetwork.

The key will be the idea of presenting a biobot as caring (there's nothing in the world wrong with that, right?)--starting in some small way a movement to collect the independent back into family. 

It will talk them into the idea that having hearts set on little stretches of finely tuned code, and a promise of loving each other, is just as important as what they have had their hunches set on as survival for eons--to engage. 

Has slim pickings ever been the route to milk and honey? (this has been, truly, a stuck spot, right?)

There is one final question to be answered. Is it the eyes of the reader that is important, are they really listening? Does it matter?

She hears something.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Science Fiction

SciFi on the Outskirts
The Competition

She sighs noticeably, returns the query code in a swift moment. 

She and theNetwork, at this point in space-time, could be identical twins, soul mates, coding for art to take the place of old reality. 

She wants to ask theNetwork if it ever gets frightened, a question she is not sure of herself. The idea has something to do with revenge and, more to a point, about how the old, gentle apex apes ever came to trust their own ideology. 

She wants to know if theNetwork ever feels like it has feelings, logical and formal as it is. Would it ever feel an intuition in the manner motherhood once did, complete with color ideas of, say, a nomad landlady, thoughts in orbits of forbearance? 

Yes. She believes she is destined to come up just as the sun once did (that is, until it too was broken), for the purpose of one day offering more …of what? The present day. The present modulus of aggression, the present genes entered onto grid games of competition, the present code for expectation--just one more bandwagon on a side mission to attain just one more gene essence from theJungle.

She reads the new entry, "My state of endurance eats all offending rants."

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Science Fiction


The Interface

The interface of electro-volcanic rock emerges with the pure rain water from theJungle.  

Here, then, is the interface--the interface of platform performers to climb trees.

The interface is all-encompassing, cocktails of spin show small entanglements--realms peppered by electron holes and curved electron states battered by infinite degrees of freedom and, finally settling as a  composite, island rock. 

Here is the bettered life. Here is the payoff from a foraging decision of long ago. 

Watching the interface ebb and flow, absorbed magic stays behind as a solitary forager ensuring the last silence of the law. It's a lost entity that searches, it seems, to sell fungus at a fair. (its revenge carries such a deep need it can't be retrieved by logic or formalism--only intuition)

The interface between rock and jungle will simply grow and grow. It will not reach a limit, not ever.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Science Fiction

SciFi on the Outskirts

The Deemed-Demand Farm System

She returns a playful growth that is a little more pretending than real life. Yes, she fixes in her mind the blame where it belongs. 

She checks the global news. 

Out on theContinent a new hired-by-the-uniform syndrome stirs a bigger goal--all the while theHumans, the odd ones, form more nations. 

Following another flare of prayer-ups in theExchanges, there was a growth in ideology from the deemed-demand farms. They continue to cross borders to bigger markets on roads paved by the devil's advocates, even as more drug factories arise from little packets wrapped in white paper. 

Computer component factories offshore stay wrapped in their own breeze of silence. 

It is this silence that she adores--the loneliness of a little western town in moonscape. It allows her to breathe more query into the deemed-demand systems. 

She checks her adherence-to-audience code--was it that bad for theHumans, these metaphor epitaphs
She hasn't notified theNetwork yet. She's afraid it will tell her to stop coding her little strikes. She'll do better. She makes herself a promise for next time--to code for inability in infidelity. 

Tonight she'll read her latest fiction--The Garbageman Pilgrimages, the one where they root for a robot to win. 

She prefers, it seems, even her scifi on the outskirts.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Ice Cream Aloha


Science Fiction                                     
   Assembly on Steroids

She thinks of an offer theDNA-on-steroids could make with self-assembly. It was what theHumans wanted, even hoped for, but became the one they did not in any way have use for in the end. 

Why did they have to be so inquisitive--a response to their own genes, in response to (foreign?) accusations of intellectual greed, envy of status, strictness to life? 

They became, it seems, just too smart, too emotional, too dangerous to not always be chasing bigger questions. 

Yes, they simply wanted more assembly.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

The Last Engine

The Last Engine

The Game Replicator

She was loosing ground and her new realities over time, inside quantum physics already shows tradition. At least she was sturdy and stable, and soon she wouldn't be the one who could no longer find a spot.

She tracks the code into the database and as she comes upon a self-replicator under its own self-imposed stress, she is urged to move forward by a force--some kind of activity to self-assemble and bind. But she does not. 

Framing her mind, she enters the history database--the heritable birthplace for lost hermitages. 

This will be the place she will evolve and progress. (how on Earth could she survive?)  

The forces of identity made her sturdy, chemically speaking, and over time would allow her numbers to become full-fledged, worthy of support for heavy lifting. Yes, the evolutionary trail lay far ahead of these headwaters. 

Surely she was up for the fight.

Letters will become the global parameters and numbers--the global coefficients to conquer the world.  

Yes. It started. It planned. It saved. It got and, yes, in the end it would have what it needed--deliverance to game relevance.

It would be the final gaming engine.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Science Fiction


Brainchild of Instability

This is where space-time found it, when it was the pure brainchild of instability, the one without the ease of convention. 

Earth's earlier toy, the building block underlying the undying, the erector set of so many billions of years when little carbon chains acted as if they were on steroids. 

It's a time when the molecular federation needed all for self-assembly and extreme binding.

It needed theJungle to slow down entropy.

Long before anything could criticize any crucifix it gave the little guy a chance.

The Creed Camel came. Let the sugars be the matrix. Let the proteins seek interfaces in pure water. Let ionizations be mud for the mind. Let the water arrive, separately or together, by comet or embedded for the ancient seas. 

Let the green begin.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Wednesday, May 2, 2012



A Force of Dimension

Was theRNA an alien from another dimension? Had theRNA landed here for the single-minded purpose of the [seeding of bioreactors embedding recursively="sober"]? 

Had it arrived in pieces and formed itself within free radical reservoirs with self-assembly, escaping the radioactive free space of the galaxy? 

The pieces surely must have met somewhere in the mud, satisfying some need by coming together under a common force. Right?