Science Fiction

                        Biobot Escape Hatch

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Biobot Zoo 

She codes in periods of time, unashamed of any weakness--more than unashamed--she is poetic. She codes in terms of ostrich hostages, a new algorithm carried forward by a few of her big signature accomplishments. 

It's how an artist would feel, intellectual, rising with the concept of fitting into or not fitting into, being at home with the dark horses. 

She grows into beauty unlike the manufacturing plant she came from on theContinent. It's not about a redeemer now, just the strong. 

It should be all she needs, feeling the best of her breath and, knowing love is where you find it (no more garbage in the garage, no more dagger-shot shards of wood on streets) to add to her buoyancy. 

She has escaped, truly, the place where wolves once wept.

Bloggers Unite for Animal Rescue July 23rd

Rescued Nov 9, 2007

A cold windy night, a fierce tropical storm, on a wet garbage dock I first met him. Garbage trucks sliding garbage bins across the slimy dock, his sister was already dead. His cries for help broke my heart. Today he is my friend, my inspiration as a science fiction writer. His name is Roswell.

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Rooster Matrix

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Biobot Desire

It's during the short time of bliss she spends coding that she controls negative thoughts in a positive way (sometimes nanoseconds, sometimes femtoseconds) to design, to create, to reject all that had come before.

She hopes to win an award or plaque for no plague. 

She wants older designs to be eliminated too, entire arrays of forces of the night, not pre-determined by primitive coastline spas or soothing beaches, ones concocted by the archaic, the one-eyed dreamer willpower algorithms. 

And in the dark, whenever she is [conjuring orthogonal dark intelligence newly gained="coding"] with her own night-time capacitance, her own energy supply, she simply wants more. 

She simply does.

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.

Biobot Singularity

Lobe Matrix

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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.

Biobot Memory

Science Fiction

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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. 

Science Fiction

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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.