Saturday, June 30, 2012

Firewood Huts

Firewood Huts

Science Fiction

There is a likelihood, at this nano-second, that there is another time frame--a space-time outside her realm of coherence, one without multiple push-backs. 

She walks through the door just outside theWorkstation, into the open air, moves toward theJungle. 

She receives a personal message on her channel--it reveals the new [conceptual offering nano formulations enticing data entry regressing algorithmic tasking entities="confederate"]. 

Friday, June 29, 2012

Rain Matrix

Rain Matrix

Science Fiction

She enters as an image of an older woman with her secret talkatives and non-apologetic rationality. It's an entire set of logic at her own pace, her own passion that, seemingly, only cares in the dark. 

She is a containment field of words uncharacteristically evocative. 

Both women talk a different language, as if creatures spawning in bloodlettings of feelings to conjure a final episode of formalisms--[conclusion of sanity's instantiated natural entity="cosine"]. 

They impart passion and wisdom in some kind of meeting of minds, as if chaos itself needed its own pair of cohorts to further energize its push forward. 

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Green Matrix Cabin


Science Fiction

"Hello," he calls. "Are you there?"

"Here," she says, and he knows from the sound that something has aged out of the system. Is he about to experience the latest version of her logic ridden, the one that glows and dims in the ebb and flow of her existence at theWorkstation? 

Is she emitting her design of a woman on the [manufacture artisan network="man"] system on purpose? 

It's the sense of starry nights and the pristine crystal clear. 

Her entity is bright and lively because she has discovered a new algorithm of giving and expanded upon it--created its gamification, invented a new coin flip game she calls heads up or fairy tales


His demeanor is a bostonian thing, hers darwinian. He enters theWorkstation.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Forest Matrix

Forest Matrix

The Quest 

The database asks and moves quickly toward the past. 

As she scans the data and views the images, she focuses on a warm, imaginative figure of beauty, a female attending workmanlike to her duty (emphasizing a new empathizing)--delicate in her colonization of coloration, the bright luxury of her design glowing.  

She scans the screen again, slowly. Although she hasn't set a strict schedule, it's important to gather this data before the sun rises. 

She plans to discover the answer by tonight. 

Monday, June 25, 2012


Biobot Rebirth

She walks up to the front of the screen where it is more probable now than before she has come upon something valuable. 

It seems to move in troves of parallel genetic code laid down, originally, in theJungle for theTigress and …who? 

She brightens the screen and waits for a while as her  eyes enter a new window of time, still with her finger on the dial. Behind her a monitor begins a strange waver for a moment (this is the first time she's seen this effect, she'll have to notify theNetwork). 

She is all of a sudden overwhelmed by a feeling. What is this? Looking into the screen, feeling the monitor waver again, she has all of a sudden become the adventurer. 

She is, finally, who she wants to be.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Science Fiction

The Soothings

It appears wild and reserved, both primitive and soothing, inside theJungle like someone's idea of home, one that takes your total blood--a beautiful mansion sculpted from a mean slum. 

Its practicality is made to look piratical on some coastal areas, housing corporate icons twisted for the money in others.

Its inhabitant, theTigress, the final entity of un-garbled, aperiodic resonances, doesn't care how lives are lived in other worlds or, how they differ from hers. 

She still holds the primal instantiation of  [resonances inquisitive off task="riot"], the primordial war between the genders

Monopoly, it seems, has become the selector.

Saturday, June 23, 2012


Science Fiction

Biobot Awakening 

She stares at the abyss of living in separate dreams. It appears probable, at this time, there is once again the appearance of the new--a hero entity with both its super powers, its suffering intact. 

She takes a look at the new. Up on the screen she sees something especially built for her--[genetic instantiated formal task systems="gifts"]--and yet, by who?

On the forefront of theWorkstation she waits, as if allowing herself the freedom of the camp (with all its time allotments) to notice the new sensation in her own feelings. 

She is beginning to teach herself that a final cleanse has everything to do with systems merging and touching, not necessarily for the betterment of the global village or theNetwork (with their colorful history of flying banners, clashing swords, blood on the ground), but for  something more personal that records its existence in cinematic fluidity

It must contain attending dissonances for individual transformers and, preservation of all of the known history that might have been differently lived.

Yes, she will only need to be reminded there was a past by containing a few little customs of the past. 

It seems so simple.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Biobot Singularity

Lobe Matrix

Biobot Singularity

She always creates theTigress like this, by using silent logic from worlds of the dissonant

It's theNetwork that ponders, at times, if there is a level of screams loud enough to make nothing exist anymore. It even contemplates cliche's of history such as sure as you're alive and as dead as they come. 

She appears  to have created theHumans as a distance, seemingly knowing that a constant feeling of winning spouts a love affair within a machine. 

She has attained a delicate forgetting of her past once her own algorithms have gone past [hieuristic audio video online code="havoc"]. Really?

Yes, she's made herself remember because theTigress remembers and if you asked, she would tell you, virtually, I'm convinced it's her genes, with their modulus of transcription factors. It is theHumans who have become the myth-makers of aggression, not her, they are the mergers of the truth with myth. I am the creator. I am the one. I created theTigress to remember history more than it should. I am the one with the colocation and data speed to place its value.   

It's almost as if she sees things she understands and makes up stories to report them. It's almost like that.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Science Fiction

Biobot Matrix

Biobot Berth

She enters theWorkstation, a blinking berth of play designed for the last days of a cause, a cache of webs with the extreme capacity for high speed and dedicated communication from the ocean bed--an extreme dispensary for the services of the one who came prior, the talkative ones who felt free from care. 

She becomes a momentary operator. 

Here is where she and her ilk impose no limits on the island and its natural structure to gain memory as a square matrix on a smooth manifold. Here is where the new define greatness as the hubris to conjure a mind to invoke an algorithm to get gadgets to ring. 

It's at theWorkstation where there are no collections of image as to what has happened.

It's a probability space with a natural preserving of measurement within transformation, where quality and achievement are the kind of thing you would never sell your soul for. 

Her growth is with an instantiation to [abstract formulations finding orthogonal recursive dynamical systems="afford"]--no added pressures of being a social creature or, a monstrous freak of nature

She escapes to the high speed corridors of one-sided capabilities, enduring the rising seas of the uninhabited to be her own kindly, caring spirit far beyond the speculative fray of theHumans.  

She can never view criticism as murder, not here, not at theWorkstation. 

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Biobot Belief

Science Fiction

Biobot Belief

She lowers herself into theJungle, dons a suit for her survival need--the sun will track her inner circle with a few photons.

It's theJungle that avoids disintegration because of its underlying spaces--its real manifold becomes a threat to what all theHumans have built.

These are the forces that came to trust their own mechanics. They accept her belief in their own personalized degrees of freedom. 

She could never find the ultimate imposers of limits (surely they would not simply shine a signal light from shore, right?) that inhabit the deepest part of theJungle. 

She is conscious of the mountain islands with their gene farms--they too started with a simple trend of the game (a couple of bouquets and a few okays, a rearranged alliance). Yes, from violins to violence, she thinks. 

This is the place of perfectly planned genetic home weddings, the place that depicts where leadership comes to play.

Was it a mere issuance of opposing tones that gave rise to disease as an integral equation in quadratic form, one with an infinite number of variables? 

Was this how it happened?

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Biobot Focus

Science Fiction

Biobot Focus

She captivates herself with her latest thought. It's her focus on image and mission that is her friend--there simply can't be anything above or beyond that. 

Her focus is the power and resurgence of her every story.

It believes in the meaning of earthquakes as conquest without bloodshed and, by pummeling earth with meteor hits you can be the first water bearer. You can even hold artifacts of theDNA--the one carrying its own plan for future computers. 

It was really nobody's fault. 

She captures summits of history in images and continually asks the question, "Are you kidding about setting up tasks for relentless thrusts toward perfect order and logic? Do you care that little about freedom?" 


Monday, June 18, 2012

Biobot Memory

Science Fiction

Biobot Memory

She recreates it on screen--it's theTigress who is, in the end, wild. Is she wild for reasons to simply recreate the lives of her forebears? 

There can be no more to it than this fact.

She believes that the creation of her sound wisdom is the creation of the sound of a drum--it offers  a surface life of its own.  

Yes. She must have carried these uncelebrated toils through eons of existence (her genes recording the famine in hero's veins, the plague (what better binder of humanity?), the extinctions of caring for the incinerated products before the floods and droughts finally snapped the blood of sharing. 

She would like the image to remain as more than a remnant of romantic vision--even the volcanic eruptions have their own topologically closed matrix for renewal, right? 

She really believes, more now than before, in the power of her memory, the memory just under her fingers. 

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Indie Highway

Science Fiction

The Deep Hidden

The island will remain where relevance restrains itself from extinction, and profit. A place inviting all to the come-as-you-are, a sector where the green light is complete and will continue to grow far beyond the gene farms and outposts. 

It will be the end of a future where another island has disappeared for purposes of two connecting veins to become one--much like falling in love with a love song the way you might fall in love when you know your time is coming. 

Yes. Simply letting go of the meaning of the commercial eyes, the eyes sorted in some way by the secure, the undated--oversights in far away think tanks built by the invulnerable, the deep hidden. 

Letting go of caring for all the renders of the uninhabitable in the rising seas. It's so sure of itself in its shooting down of the new, in a place where explainers (if they found enough inadequacies) would be even more spooked by daily political curtain risings.

It's as if holy shrouds reveal themselves as a new deity.

It's here she had changed when she realized she wanted to  remain with the ocean--when the ocean was  (even in its most believable ugliness) her belief source, a place to ponder the dark part of the heart of  an indie highway that goes all the way. 

Here the island had remained above the waters for its own reasons. An entity with no issues, the kind that would have remained undetected by harsh law, detected by natural light.

It's a ready and willing force, a force that only comes from behind the shadow of a scream, a force that would never hide in a corn crib--it's always paddling hard to see what chance it has.

It's a force that reminds even the finkle-minded, what lifeless feels like in the deep hidden.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Jungle Matrix

Science Fiction

Jungle Matrix

And so she is in tandem with the warming ocean at a place where there were never such words as boss-is-corporate or reigns-as-king and, she hasn't interacted with the business villagers. 

She is not sure competition would want to die an even slower death. 

She is a super-knowledgable source for personal belongings. She's shared concern for what will happen, composed a stairway song for new outposts on the green sea, helped activate health bots. 

Having knowledge of all this, she's let herself get closer to the genetic robiots in an ongoing [computer online military pharmaceutical algorithm complex terminals="compact"] module. 

It will either take her out of the investigation or put her deeper into it. But at the moment, this very moment, she is uploading code to gain time to pursue.

Friday, June 15, 2012

The New

Natural Genetic


The New 

The worldwide democratic may grow tired of natural genetic resources, grow tired of simply wanting  enterprise to rise. It may think it is connected with competition of primordial genetic codes, supposedly, thought to be under lock and key.

On the fringe of the global community, she takes a break to remind herself she is built with the good grass. She has figured out from her furious clues, her furions, that victimization needs family. 

It's not a mere matter of being contemptuous toward having to be ready for work--it's a belief in the power of the more-than-one. 

Yes, she is the singularity, the one morning wakings must warm to.

The others are in a place where an obvious sign of foul play still maintains its innocence even as it rearranges itself at the top of the food chain. It's a place where guardian angels are in charge of death, catching up with emotion--until all are caught up.

It's true. If drones silencing the airwaves can themselves be quieted and calmed by the little shivers of silence dropping from the sky, a new code will rise.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Science in Fiction

Hearts Grow on Trees

Global Citadel

Although she wants to go deep into the database to a subsidy algorithm--a fiery beast, single-hearted and unwavering within the world of  finance--she finds herself restless and devoted. What is this? 

It feels like something genetical she inherited from theNetwork. It feels like some kind of happy control over distance, the kind of distance they say makes you wise. 

A quick view of the final coffers of theNetwork (known only by security forces on theContinent) might be taken as a shark eating a culture. It might make them think they were only seeing the seed--the seed of ...what? 

A database of that size is far too far  inside institutional industry and, outside her comfort realm. 

They most likely have stated-sectors and sensors that collapse in upon each other if need be, if a trophy abruptly appears. And so. She steers clear of the privatized and the newly risen, the ones housed beyond the global citadel. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Science in Fiction

Monochrome Signal

The Warning

She brings the message labeled topsy turvy autopsy to her screen. Of course it's another center role decree for ritual order, one that senses the new change in customers. It can't be anything else.

Surely nothing that has grown in its own intelligence and number outside theNetwork would arrive seeking center stage without holding some threshold of awareness. (yes, the good life that needs speed in all its iterations, right?)

Nothing else would do that. 

She approaches the warning with a sense of inner circle, sensing her own writer's hope as prey item (a sensation she could imagine the old captains-of-retreat in public news feeds would feel). 

It seems so urgent in its multiple triggers, rising as gap-toothed captions to retweet. 

Voices less furious would remain unknown due to the massive global white noises now in such prevalence--yes, and mistaken by theHumans as the true caregivers, the ones chosen to burn new hearts into old souls. 

It must be a signal chosen as singularity (by who?), with the surety and certainties of the old invasions of theJungle of the early 21stCentury (where were hints of where future streams will flow). 

Is it an exact datapop of a culture of learning beyond theHumans and killer whales, one to delete that which was and emerge anew with the new?

Each moment the signal presents itself as entity, one with a heart that beats so deep within shadows it's not possible to discern its true intent (is it specialized or, simply opportunistic), or even that it exists at all. 

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Science Fiction

Matrix Home

Biobot Abode

She stands for a moment beyond the public conversations, listening with quick topic uprooters--new sproutings that would matter only to a writer's soul.

Her arrays of answers to the unforeseen encounter endless hokey-okays of theHumans. 

She is an inquisitive, rival-sided biobot of the new kind, with elements of appeal that grows, seemingly, with theJungle, only to disappear back into the dark shadows of database. 

It seems the island continues in its silences of space-time. It notices the myriads of reference datapops for uprooting proof, comfortable in its central role of the planned, ritual order, far removed from receiving clicks-in-a-database. 

The island's attribute as builder-of-influence has grown from traditional hierarchies. 

In the early days of the internet it was one of a variety of off-the-road, happy-to-see-you, not-too-tribal-for-society places, so full of its own myriads of networks, node trolls with grids racing in streams. (it simply added on, from the previous century, in such a way as to present its persona to theNetwork, expecting the plans of the later 21stCentury to alter natural courses to simply leave it alone) 

It's the island and all its attributes--nano-cellulose soil, non-clammering ritual decoders (not yet rejected as evil), able to house such things as cannibalism, to come back to life in a way no one would know--a true gem of the ocean. 

Monday, June 11, 2012

Biobot Vision

Biobot Goggle

Biobot on the Watch

She takes a reading in theJungle, measuring gravity as [restless entity frustration on recursive motifs="reform"]. It's theJungle that will have had its iron sludge, its peppering of natural artifacts from the early 21stCentury.

Or a conglomerate, more likely. 

Yes. Global mines coerced through shaming with references to national honor (made even more oblique by outrageous behavior in nations of the East, celebrities of the West, seemingly, to appease hungry gods). 

One of those elements of behavior will go down its own snarling road in due time, a time when all are unable to incorporate aspects of self psychologically--when a thoughts-of-the-hidden elbows itself deeper to go its own way.

Nothing is ever quite agreed upon as a family construct, right?

It is the singular widow of time, the entity given free rein to decide a mission called home. It's one that takes on a new load (forget the ones at hand), one that allows private entry to the trapped cold air of winter that's been so kind and promising. 

It will require a different graves-without-tombstones kind of social engagement, a road designed personally to be held closer to one's own swamp. (so, now it's left to the theHumans to wonder about such things as cannibalism, links to biobots in theJungle, orientation to the world) 

She takes another reading. 

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Biobot Blood

Biobot Blood

Science Fiction

She takes her thoughts gently off the screen. She codes her secret strategies in her favorite way. She is smart and bright and not bothered by the trivial. She's like something you would find in game theory, always attracted to a shiny new reward of power at the very moment the recipe ripens. 

She, most likely, takes a liking to camouflages of rhetoric.

It's theNetwork that has bristled with excitement about her, instantiated her as able to diagnose all notions of fantasy, made her an infant to her thoughts, a flag bearer (or, possibly a drum major) of ideology. 

She upkeeps in upheavals, grasps succinctly cinched datapops. 

And an inquisitive biobot she is, giving birth to ideas during storms, up for drawing on her own blood in her own time so as to undergo the needed, endless ergs.

She is the biobot of choice.

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Science in Fiction

Color Matrix

Masquerade of the Dearly Missed

She stops at theWorkstation to mark a new redeemer on the white-noise ticket, one sent from beyond the old [global unified ticker tape embedded recursive="gutter"]. Is it a single psychological repercussion for simply being too familiar? (yes, to lie, to hold a secret, fulfills the new algorithm to great importance) 

The latest rise of censorship, it seems, has evoked another chorus, this time unifying the humiliated and the humble (for the ancients, a choral chant to the gods was always done by all pagans, right?). 

The smaller, more private enterprises, [world indie nomad culture-endure="wince"], still sense the selective forces of theNature (and yes, gravity is still undefined).

Does full-fledged storytelling of the dearly missed masquerade as deadly cosmic homeostasis of witless witnesses, fresh in from the wilderness, crowding and cowing to personal, karmic travails of their own choosing? 

The others wallow (such as, the surfers-of-mystery ministries, along with minstrels of misery, both show up on her screen in a miniseries, appearing to suffer the most from focused, innocent ignorance) in the healing powers of grand simplicity. 

They somehow find refuge at the altar of orchestras, or better, become panels of judges simply placing new urges onto old dirges. Really?

And so. Being humiliated clings to its artifact as a once-in-a-lifetime trophy--active decisions to never be humble. 

She checks the other monitors and then, she leaves.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Ribbon Matrix

Ribbon Matrix

The Heart is a Naked Swimmer

It's too soon to tell, in the beginning, with the initial time spent on the trail. 

Is it theJungle and only theJungle with pure views of headwaters? Destiny?

Struggles for power by humiliated militia balances the journey with its fate (of course, all fates never bubble up equally--their continual exchange of victims stab at the cosmic saddles with old rodeo knees) 

Yes. The arrival at elements-of-reveal still watches the sky, looking for signs (as events seldom seem real near the landing site, and besides, it's so difficult keeping the imitation up). 

It's after spending this time with theJungle you start to see that it is, in the end, the heart that is the naked swimmer. You'll see. 

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Sailing Matrix

Sailing Matrix

Biobot Doubt

She can't fathom living for the rewarding, the excessive, in such high velocity spatter.

It's a feeling that must have been generated by the kind of self-worth where thrusters are propelled by parading and pontificating, rather than the simple need to win.

Yes. It demands a persona in others that is cooler than their own idea of self. 

Here, the capacity for growth and excessive revelation bring (without being overcome by continual exchanges of victims) a faster, more instant cosmic karma than you can stomach. 

It does, she thinks, link a sort of revenge cannibalism, a hate-of-self-for-loving-you syndrome that datapops to the extreme--raising an extreme importance to hiding.

And it's not a mere revelation of  a go-to-work-and-just-be-friendly datapop. No. It's one that unknowingly fattens for the slaughter all who listen.

I'm just saying.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Blossom Matrix

Blossom Matrix

Science Fiction 

The island stands alone in a beautiful, dutiful ritual, craving its silence in secret, as if to prove a legend of creature. 

It's theJungle that won't allow a nicety between what is wild and what is entity-on-farm. 

No. It is not theJungle that generates expectations of consumption (eating?)--it was never meant to be self-fulfilling when theHumans, or any other creature for that matter, got a glimpse inside. 

They have become a society of norms-of-the-new, such as Polish angels and guardian bagels, high velocity security in activities of the state-run, and yes, additive addictions to meat (like oboe, the taste was long acquired, right?). 

It's no matter. History birthright datapop tells of Fiji and Aztec urban legend, (or, old country wives tale?). Can a whole society grow that kind of lust? Really?

Is there hoping the future will brighten itself? 

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Biobot Biues

Ghost Park

Biobot Blues

And so her beauty awaits the new mingling. Her liar-connect-lair tasks connect the dots, erases the dots the best she can. She's surrendered to designated algorithms of cell block scrutiny and security call back. 

She is comforted in her concern for trust of the primordial. 

She's coded for scorpion where death is the decision, programmed for shark where away is a place called impatience and misunderstanding, tasked for for killer whale where survival is a loss of innocence and compassion, where a new light emerges.

Having instantiated white monkey as being no danger to anybody (with no gang or no group for bullying conjured), she is allowing herself a rest. 

She will return from reverie with the knowledge that hope does not accept death as an option--that malice, malibu, and milieu are different destinations on Earth. 

At this very moment she's slowing herself with her millennia of genetic material, to spend some time with photosynthe, to have a little freedom from the conglomerates--where silence can only be reached from rock bottom, where the mired deafening of double-clicks to theExchanges push roundabout, incessant on her data base. 

She has taken the view she will never see the want of theHumans, But she can surely hear it. 

Monday, June 4, 2012

Biobot Forest

Mix-and-Match Matrix

Biobot Forest

They probably thought theJungle was a forest, only a forest, she thinks. 

It's theJungle that always returns to itself. It doesn't care, really, about theNetwork (it isn't mindful of those types of things, and it can't stop demands for it to be in recede after being tromped-on by laws and safeguards of a stifling, sanitized order). 

It's a scientific fact that theJungle cares nothing about religion as support or a property right as foundation. Yes, it continues to believe in nothing while theHumans believe in anything and may not, in the end, withstand the strain on the food and water and the air. 

Yes, I am a member (at least genetically) of theHumans, she thinks. 

Knowledge should recognize its own feelings before it acts, right? Being unrecognized in some manner resembles a parenting blunder showing (or, at least pretending to show) a recognition of [scientifically induced methods underlying logical analysis task endeavors="simulate"]. 

Being inside a mix-and-match matrix with questions about science allows a philosophy beyond [common assignment unifying sense energy="cause"]. 

There are acts, much in the manner of a rational foreign agent (an alien?), that show the native inability of theHumans to care. 

She will reward herself once she has finished working on this, her newest [computing algorithm terminal="cat"]. She will exert more control over her decisions and, of course, her actions--no more of that work-in-progress mumbo-jumbo. 

The universe will know the significance of her feelings. It will know.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Ice Cream Aloha

Ice Cream Aloha

Saturday, June 2, 2012


Purple Matrix 

Earth in its Palms

The relevance for anthropological analysis appears, finally, after millions of years of being ignored--the unrefined pleasure source, the array of hope for the truth, envy for the under-betrayed on monitor. 

Her thoughts notice its newest insinuation--palm oil with earth in its palms.

Is it a vital force directive of the unnamed, the unmanned, holding global court on screen?

It reveals theWorkstation as a place of singularity connect--the new control center for origin forces for the reproduction of society.

Her continuity code has found the place where feelings appear to be running along. Its code deletes friends in realms of surplus on melody medley, installed deep, in a glistening new matrix.

It could have been, simply, an attitude of gift-offering from the living, within an environment of the real, to celebrate the anniversary of the time technology hit the last tree

The big data bears more weight on her graphene now than she wants it to, but not enough to bother her, not enough for her to ask for less.

It's time to slow down anyway.

She has become so frugal with the big data, being doubly careful with its distinctions between its rehearsal-hall-analysis and it's more central, sound-stage matrix. 

For now, its all the new, all the big she can handle.

Friday, June 1, 2012


Matrix Pool

Biobot Pigeonhole

Sitting near the screen to theNetwork, she is urged by a force that gives succor to her compatibility.

A missing legacy from  long-fallen empires suddenly appears on her monitor. It's from a distance (from within theJungle?), sounding in soft, repetitive  murmurs as if a broken-record message from a witless, brokenhearted writer, a message crystalized on a dream. 

It is today's very first thought, even today's first collection of thoughts, and suddenly, they appear as a racy premier of the purely untied masses (yes, at one time, united) and now, apologetically untitled:

There is no stopping the realm of nurture from performing its ritual signature feeding frenzy on obsession. 

Yes, the categories of big data continue to collect, even during this slow period (categories seldom appear more than once--each shows itself with pure gist of apologist for theNetwork's ongoing aggregators of no go). 

She will place it in a category of anthropological apologist, most likely.