Aloha writers and poets,
Patterns in greens and blues emit a tropical feel. Enjoy!
Showing posts with label The Cubist Writer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Cubist Writer. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Luck
It had appeared as the first map of some code and theHumans remain, at times, surprised their luck as the 22ndCentury approaches, to now know it was the only true code; that even their children's minds held their own dormant theories of stupidity (mind skills?) in others, theGenetics as more than being confined to diagnosing a few rare diseases in a time of no cures and very little treatment. The no cures part remains yet, the treatments are ever expanding; parents have been overtaken by their children; and now it's their turn to show vestiges of kindness, once the diseases had been shown to have many genetic links (links that include the ability to cooperate even if, a little skewed) delivering sometimes, what was wanted, more or less showing an awareness track of need entity(A.T.O.N.E.). The thing that is so blatant to theHumans almost a century later is the loss of function at placing a value or, much less, even show an appreciation for a view other than their own (in a reasoning sort of way), the apparent total extinction of being able to collect data amidst altered perspectives. There remains the effort of focusing order reordering gene embedded therapy(F.O.R.G.E.T.), and it's a therapy of childhood syndromes of vision within the space of their own world that seems, even presently, to offer some assurances of success in the realm of ownership, tricking the world into thinking one viewpoint is universal. The results appear positive: the independent view through other eyes approaches.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Illusion
I have come so far, Suzi thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she stays at her work station with her thoughts. She hasn't, by any measure of photonic or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the grand activated schema(G.A.S.) of global society; reviewing her most recent data, she glances the distance of the horizon through the workhouse window, she senses the presence of preservation data ( data of technique, innovative approaches, factoid peppered over constant tweakings), and she recognizes the creation of illusions as personal schema constant in the reshaping of itself at the very moment she is writing her next algorithm. The illusion centers around a single truth, a cosmic zygote; the illusion hatches, blooms into fruition supposedly for all the world to see, embellished as amusement (like the battle at Manassas?), and what is left behind is an unbending fact that, yes, some things are actually true--though dressed up in the fancy clothing of many lies. Suzi senses, at this moment, the feeling of anti-photon, for this particular illusion is pierced by a black laser analog hole stream(B.L.A.H.S.), an anti-algorithm; it appears to have been coded by its own whimsy, arbitrary data from an ancient cosmic past, returning with a force unknown. At this moment, standing at her workstation, all screens and monitors off, she begins to think, really think, for the very first time, but she needs to remain very still, she should continue to keep them on monitor off mode(M.O.M.). She will try it again tomorrow.
I have come so far, Suzi thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she stays at her work station with her thoughts. She hasn't, by any measure of photonic or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the grand activated schema(G.A.S.) of global society; reviewing her most recent data, she glances the distance of the horizon through the workhouse window, she senses the presence of preservation data ( data of technique, innovative approaches, factoid peppered over constant tweakings), and she recognizes the creation of illusions as personal schema constant in the reshaping of itself at the very moment she is writing her next algorithm. The illusion centers around a single truth, a cosmic zygote; the illusion hatches, blooms into fruition supposedly for all the world to see, embellished as amusement (like the battle at Manassas?), and what is left behind is an unbending fact that, yes, some things are actually true--though dressed up in the fancy clothing of many lies. Suzi senses, at this moment, the feeling of anti-photon, for this particular illusion is pierced by a black laser analog hole stream(B.L.A.H.S.), an anti-algorithm; it appears to have been coded by its own whimsy, arbitrary data from an ancient cosmic past, returning with a force unknown. At this moment, standing at her workstation, all screens and monitors off, she begins to think, really think, for the very first time, but she needs to remain very still, she should continue to keep them on monitor off mode(M.O.M.). She will try it again tomorrow.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Messages
Her thoughts wander slowly across the monitor. Suzi has won, or so she thinks, and now the instructions come, the ones sent directly from ZContinent outside the jurisdiction of theOutpost, incessant, now, wait, and then another as if a faint signal were arriving from the distance, a lost expedition. The content is semi-clear; the source is sending from a sector deemed "government judge," the message that will not delete but exchange data as "default mode." The message is changing and now it appears the idea of confidence has been eliminated from the cloud database. She checks her minimonitor for her own state of correctness, flips on the prediction screen, decides for herself the most effective momentary input. There appears a conceptual algorithm, almost instantly, it will chose merit with the metatabs correct and capable; what does it mean? Suzi redirects her attention to the messages coming in. She reads as fast as she can in her own mechanical way, as if a new discovery were about to appear in the idea of confidence unearned (arrogance?). She choses an entry that emits the idea of self-fulfilling. As she reads, another entry pops up as a concept of respect for others referring the unpredictable news entirety(F.O.R.T.U.N.E.) and, as if with a life of its own, works its way into her database; she doesn't stop seeing the attributes of more previously unseen metatabs and their implications, a concept of being out of touch yesterday(B.O.O.T.Y.), not with agreed-upon data but with agreed-upon relativity entered viewpoints of knowledge emitted(R.E.V.O.K.E.). She steps away to view the messages on the megascreen, which adds to itself with more meaning, demonstrating the differences to her miniscreen that might carry its own apart from the estimated authoritative trappings(E.A.T.) of the megamonitor. She removes herself back a little further to fully gasp the concept of positions of power. She looks but does not think. Her miniscreen appears to be challenging the megascreen as if it were some ancient god or, worse, deemed as the law of the land. She waits, watching the megascreen as her mind starts to think. The messages keep coming.
Her thoughts wander slowly across the monitor. Suzi has won, or so she thinks, and now the instructions come, the ones sent directly from ZContinent outside the jurisdiction of theOutpost, incessant, now, wait, and then another as if a faint signal were arriving from the distance, a lost expedition. The content is semi-clear; the source is sending from a sector deemed "government judge," the message that will not delete but exchange data as "default mode." The message is changing and now it appears the idea of confidence has been eliminated from the cloud database. She checks her minimonitor for her own state of correctness, flips on the prediction screen, decides for herself the most effective momentary input. There appears a conceptual algorithm, almost instantly, it will chose merit with the metatabs correct and capable; what does it mean? Suzi redirects her attention to the messages coming in. She reads as fast as she can in her own mechanical way, as if a new discovery were about to appear in the idea of confidence unearned (arrogance?). She choses an entry that emits the idea of self-fulfilling. As she reads, another entry pops up as a concept of respect for others referring the unpredictable news entirety(F.O.R.T.U.N.E.) and, as if with a life of its own, works its way into her database; she doesn't stop seeing the attributes of more previously unseen metatabs and their implications, a concept of being out of touch yesterday(B.O.O.T.Y.), not with agreed-upon data but with agreed-upon relativity entered viewpoints of knowledge emitted(R.E.V.O.K.E.). She steps away to view the messages on the megascreen, which adds to itself with more meaning, demonstrating the differences to her miniscreen that might carry its own apart from the estimated authoritative trappings(E.A.T.) of the megamonitor. She removes herself back a little further to fully gasp the concept of positions of power. She looks but does not think. Her miniscreen appears to be challenging the megascreen as if it were some ancient god or, worse, deemed as the law of the land. She waits, watching the megascreen as her mind starts to think. The messages keep coming.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Origin
The island had faced what was once thought to be a long-term hardship; a delay of some sort; a zone in the ocean where the feeling of provocation seemed inevitable and the silence of endurance aspirates hope for eons--between electromagnetic rock and its jungle; the silence of how 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, the first instance of family power, a kind of voluntary exchange (as a gift?) during a time of perseverance so pervasive, never needing immediate action or response on its journey to adulthood; a state of existence that, impossible as it sounds, made its own components without the urge to dominate, without asking (and with the help of certain photonic streams), it could create its own supply chain; when it would get involved in the business of decision-making, choosing between reward size and spans of time, it would make the choice: not so much a decision between peacemakers and powerbrokers, but a clear distinction, a knowledge of the value of future reward, a trophy with meaning, something truly won, wanted.
This is the place time had invented DNA when DNA was pure--when DNA was the brainchild of a more stable RNA, a molecule with more ease of invention as if from earth's earlier toys, the building blocks, erector sets of so many billions of years ago; the sugars, the amino acids--the place they mixed with certain acids brought into the ancient seas by comet, the same ones on which water arrived and was sent by ...who?
Was RNA the first animal? Had RNA landed here for the single-minded purpose of an origin of life? Yes, on this island it had arrived in pieces and formed (or not formed), the pieces surely must have met somewhere and found each other, each component with its own need coming together (by gravity?) as the origin of love?
RNA didn't seem to want anything. It found itself with new abilities over time: sturdy and stable, a self-replicator, some kind of enzymatic activity (to catalyze?), a storage bin of heritable information the birth of heritage?). Why would it want to evolve and progress (how on earth could it survive?) over time as a mere single stranded entity? The forces made it sturdier, chemically speaking, and turned it into a full-fledged DNA molecule worthy of support for heavy lifting as the evolutionary trail lay ahead. Surely DNA would be strong enough to be up for the fight.
The island had faced what was once thought to be a long-term hardship; a delay of some sort; a zone in the ocean where the feeling of provocation seemed inevitable and the silence of endurance aspirates hope for eons--between electromagnetic rock and its jungle; the silence of how 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, the first instance of family power, a kind of voluntary exchange (as a gift?) during a time of perseverance so pervasive, never needing immediate action or response on its journey to adulthood; a state of existence that, impossible as it sounds, made its own components without the urge to dominate, without asking (and with the help of certain photonic streams), it could create its own supply chain; when it would get involved in the business of decision-making, choosing between reward size and spans of time, it would make the choice: not so much a decision between peacemakers and powerbrokers, but a clear distinction, a knowledge of the value of future reward, a trophy with meaning, something truly won, wanted.
This is the place time had invented DNA when DNA was pure--when DNA was the brainchild of a more stable RNA, a molecule with more ease of invention as if from earth's earlier toys, the building blocks, erector sets of so many billions of years ago; the sugars, the amino acids--the place they mixed with certain acids brought into the ancient seas by comet, the same ones on which water arrived and was sent by ...who?
Was RNA the first animal? Had RNA landed here for the single-minded purpose of an origin of life? Yes, on this island it had arrived in pieces and formed (or not formed), the pieces surely must have met somewhere and found each other, each component with its own need coming together (by gravity?) as the origin of love?
RNA didn't seem to want anything. It found itself with new abilities over time: sturdy and stable, a self-replicator, some kind of enzymatic activity (to catalyze?), a storage bin of heritable information the birth of heritage?). Why would it want to evolve and progress (how on earth could it survive?) over time as a mere single stranded entity? The forces made it sturdier, chemically speaking, and turned it into a full-fledged DNA molecule worthy of support for heavy lifting as the evolutionary trail lay ahead. Surely DNA would be strong enough to be up for the fight.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Propagation
And so she has gone into sleep mode for the night. This jungle, seemingly, hasn't really taken the time to know its own fortune, yet. She's quite content the DNA is well tended. She's covered the remnants of the early 21stCentury propagation machines, hidden any artifacts of confusion-of-mind of theHumans, cast downward and outward (for decades?) the hardened lava-like once-molten residue of arrays of nuclear reactor meltdown cores into its own tropical corium mesh. Since her work is ongoing, surely she could permit herself a rest tonight. She will awake soon enough with the morning light to blush at those ancient fuel rods, as if lowering her head for theHumans at the once-molten concrete floors and walls of massive containment structures, breached reactor vessels. But at this moment she is going to enter her own dreamland to release the worry of old memories, of nuclear risks rising, despots fighting for final control of dry oil fields half a world away, worry of massive amounts of cellulosic DNA mutated from years of radioactive clouds passing overhead--and now, a remedy for theHumans. She has taken on a certain awareness as a state of existence and wears it as a graceful honor, bringing a humble sense of full adequacy into her dream. She has accepted the external assignments of the world, though little do they know of her true nature; she has received no active communication or depiction of heroine even as her own designs here at theOutpost cover and decompose the inept handiwork of the later 20thCentury design systems--with their fission products and oxidation reactions; still cooling the corium and stretching it beyond the beach beneath a crystal clear, sparkly ocean water, as if the pristine starry nights had descended to include beach water--pure for the simple reason nothing lives (or, can live) in a gamma ray void. She imagines a feeling of restraint, and yet, there is no one left to offend, at least not here at theOutpost; she owns vaguely a certain self-contentment, far from the concerns of culture, yet so close to this detritus of theHumans with their odd notions of gene therapies, medical exchanges peppered across theContinents. A strange sense of behavior (no one is aware of) and the lack of the need to gain the approval of others join her in her dream. It must be some kind of craziness, she thinks, but then the things done in this place so many years ago must find their own sense of worth. She is content and, tonight even happy, with her own work on her own propagation machine.
And so she has gone into sleep mode for the night. This jungle, seemingly, hasn't really taken the time to know its own fortune, yet. She's quite content the DNA is well tended. She's covered the remnants of the early 21stCentury propagation machines, hidden any artifacts of confusion-of-mind of theHumans, cast downward and outward (for decades?) the hardened lava-like once-molten residue of arrays of nuclear reactor meltdown cores into its own tropical corium mesh. Since her work is ongoing, surely she could permit herself a rest tonight. She will awake soon enough with the morning light to blush at those ancient fuel rods, as if lowering her head for theHumans at the once-molten concrete floors and walls of massive containment structures, breached reactor vessels. But at this moment she is going to enter her own dreamland to release the worry of old memories, of nuclear risks rising, despots fighting for final control of dry oil fields half a world away, worry of massive amounts of cellulosic DNA mutated from years of radioactive clouds passing overhead--and now, a remedy for theHumans. She has taken on a certain awareness as a state of existence and wears it as a graceful honor, bringing a humble sense of full adequacy into her dream. She has accepted the external assignments of the world, though little do they know of her true nature; she has received no active communication or depiction of heroine even as her own designs here at theOutpost cover and decompose the inept handiwork of the later 20thCentury design systems--with their fission products and oxidation reactions; still cooling the corium and stretching it beyond the beach beneath a crystal clear, sparkly ocean water, as if the pristine starry nights had descended to include beach water--pure for the simple reason nothing lives (or, can live) in a gamma ray void. She imagines a feeling of restraint, and yet, there is no one left to offend, at least not here at theOutpost; she owns vaguely a certain self-contentment, far from the concerns of culture, yet so close to this detritus of theHumans with their odd notions of gene therapies, medical exchanges peppered across theContinents. A strange sense of behavior (no one is aware of) and the lack of the need to gain the approval of others join her in her dream. It must be some kind of craziness, she thinks, but then the things done in this place so many years ago must find their own sense of worth. She is content and, tonight even happy, with her own work on her own propagation machine.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Ice Cream Aloha
The Plan
As she goes into the workhouse, Suzi tries to make a decision about the feelings she is beginning to have toward Cooper--what are these, really?--ongoing for about a week now. This is the exact time the first such algorithm has entered her processing unit nexus(P.U.N.), this night on this evening in what otherwise had felt like a warming season--a deep, underground corridor of steel-framed lab station, seemingly, has become a vortex inner-built extreme(V.I.B.E.) of pure energy, leading her to a precise destination of ...where, or what? Her inner cohesion remains well in place and the various arrays of deficiency need (default?) linger low in her programming, encased as survival mode (but to her, this is seen as relationship mode), the faded coding of self-estemm remains constant on its search mode. Yes, a form of pure energy, of sorts; there is another aspect of this corridor online vortex entry(C.O.V.E.), and its attempt to offer her data. There is the urge it brings, service-filled, with an absurdism that just simply gives and gives--never ending its water board pulses and drum beats as a partly obscure memory that will serve--until some urge for action actually does emerge, as a masquerading guise of futile servings and greedy squander, the true beginnings of confabulation. Cooper, her last bastion to the biologics of life, her (only?) target for these feelings is, as we speak, being captured by her most recent algorithms, her newfound strangeness in motivation (a funny one, as if communism were capitalism's little helper), to make at least some faint-hearted difference in more than simply one other person's life. Cooper has no clue of this form of service by her and, totally oblivious, the ensuing plan.
As she goes into the workhouse, Suzi tries to make a decision about the feelings she is beginning to have toward Cooper--what are these, really?--ongoing for about a week now. This is the exact time the first such algorithm has entered her processing unit nexus(P.U.N.), this night on this evening in what otherwise had felt like a warming season--a deep, underground corridor of steel-framed lab station, seemingly, has become a vortex inner-built extreme(V.I.B.E.) of pure energy, leading her to a precise destination of ...where, or what? Her inner cohesion remains well in place and the various arrays of deficiency need (default?) linger low in her programming, encased as survival mode (but to her, this is seen as relationship mode), the faded coding of self-estemm remains constant on its search mode. Yes, a form of pure energy, of sorts; there is another aspect of this corridor online vortex entry(C.O.V.E.), and its attempt to offer her data. There is the urge it brings, service-filled, with an absurdism that just simply gives and gives--never ending its water board pulses and drum beats as a partly obscure memory that will serve--until some urge for action actually does emerge, as a masquerading guise of futile servings and greedy squander, the true beginnings of confabulation. Cooper, her last bastion to the biologics of life, her (only?) target for these feelings is, as we speak, being captured by her most recent algorithms, her newfound strangeness in motivation (a funny one, as if communism were capitalism's little helper), to make at least some faint-hearted difference in more than simply one other person's life. Cooper has no clue of this form of service by her and, totally oblivious, the ensuing plan.
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