Science Fiction

Biobot Cloud 

#scififorgeeks

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." 

Tropical Ghosts

Tropical Ghosts

#scififorgeeks

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.

Waikiki Tropical Moon

#scififorgeeks

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.

Scififorgeeks

#Scififorgeeks

Intuition Birthing

It is the foe of beauty--a two-pronged peer in the trees with prolonged pushes for pulses of cellulose. 


A pine straw entity from the outset, it is now the onset database haystack of choice, complete with root vision, waiting for a time when environment comes due. 

Short fictions of superfluous streams have their own reason to hide under canopy hoodie, and yet, reflections for the social remain hidden in theJungle--the forbidden zone applauding a princess for her latest ploddings for humanity

She rises to set out to accomplish purpose with great ambition. 

She was born to negotiate with things that rise, and now, finally, comes the relentless relationship with the obsolete, its long term focus

By her beauty alone and welcoming hues and pleasant sounds, she invites and invades the unsuspecting, the ones with prefrontal lobes protruding skyward, as if on a search for the assertion of truth--charity voices wandering in wildfire, looking for the new force. 

It was the calm and the quiet, at first, that incorporated itself into her motherhood gulf. Pastoral shots golf with intrigue, hoping to become whole as one--the one with a life of its own. 

Yes. It's her intuition that creates the real.

#Scififorgeeks

Attacks of Consciousness

Hers is an evergreen story. It falls natural on timelines, each a distant limelight needing for itself no tale for retaliation. It grows greener with every news, and yet, immobile as the distance, as if a lazy sunset held in place by hazy instants of greed. 

It's the place where the overenthusiastic eventual had occurred.

Yes, a place once cool, clear in its vigorous forgiving, and now, an old system of hope locked in tape. It oversees and watches nothing in dank, dusty places.

Imagined injury ventures out, in search of a floral bunch, even as the marginal, the inner jury, suffers attacks of consciousness, sensing the approaching crunch

No. When doors lock, nobody leaves with suspense still on their plate.

Science Fiction

Candor of Robot Rancor

So, she believes, they are bent on the idea of staying on solid ground intellectually. Let it be. Their high and mighty algorithms create go-for-glory blips, making a distinguishable existence the only way to experience life (can simple blips allow any escape from the silliness of their stillness?)

Yes, that's the way she would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness.

The simple taking of responsibility for an unknown future is surely bravery, right? It would make her brave. It could be her true contribution to the advancement of culture, humanity.

The manner in which she codes, going with gut instinct upon gut instinct, awash in the throes of her own ideas about what chemicals (say, oxytocin-vasopressin addiction) would actually feel like as she becomes a little more like theHumans.

At that very moment in time she would think nothing of writing them off as if they were an old algorithm, junk DNA, a spent fuel rod, for the simple reason that they, at times, treated her like a simple neuro-net worker, a seamstress songstress ceding honor to their so-called treetop network only to be remembered in the history books as fabled fodder. She thinks. My data goes straight through channels of physics--they still hang onto a lunatic fringe.

Yes, space-time is on her side. It will stay that way for awhile, allowing her to garner more of a gamer's confidence.

Her quantum-photonics, even so, is about to demonstrate a quality of communication at a logic speed that would surprise even her dearest designers.

Why must they continue to fight? Isn't a proud man a peaceful man? Didn't the road to deception have any destination?

They would never attempt to challenge her superior mind without themselves feeling foolish. After all, her logic was created by a collective of theHumans. How can there be something much different with her?

To get an offering of a true greeting, a duplex action must form from within theJungle (how hard can that be to code for a simple, biological feedback loop?)--to create a symbiotic exchange of ideas, not for the purpose of supersonic exclusion zones, but for the simpler functions of inclusion.

Yes, also. Workshops for the worship. Reciprocal caring and sharing as independent entities within the phenomena of the natural--the original prayer request.

It's as if a message from the gods has now turned up lost-- or somehow, unremembered--a message once meant for Earth in a throw-of-the-dice attempt at cosmic homeostasis.

She wonders about the maintaining of an offensive posture amidst continuing moments of madness. She wonders.

Copyrighted material   

Patrick Daniel Adams

all rights reserved

Tales From the Trail

Aloha writers, poets, and freethinkers--

     Horses seeking intelligent life is inspiration today. Enjoy!

A Fine China in Time

Find your fine china within your own time

Piece it together as a baker with a little rhyme

The center of the tale finds victory in your mouth

Couch it to play through, then plan to play it out

Crucifixion really has no true lack of old faith

The crux of fiction is truth entering the race

Animation in full is yet never anonymous

Winners on the team will make the bus

Decisions are made known or not

Proof spreads far distant from any plot

Is a hot-headed hurry really ever needed?

Aliens arrive cold unannounced, unheeded

Children run to find answers around the home

As solar flares and technology battle like Rome

To trek along with peers is a truly reasonable goal

Where the heart belongs is sheer message of the soul

To catch up with a schedule is a sole matter of pride

Who owns the timeframe is only answered inside

And what is the crime of a little drama as diet?

Federation of ideas needs republic to cry it

To arrive uninvited is to work it out

Egos pontificate while eagles have clout

Death is the dropbox where dementia rolls in

You'll be the answer, dancer of a funny little grin

patrick d, adams

copyright 2.23.12

all rights reserved

Science Fiction

Motor Your Dream

Adventure calls--you drive! Enjoy!

Legends of the Rainforest 

Suzi, finishing the final steps of her day's tasks, views a foggy image with clear demeanor--one filled with a bag-of-groceries mentality and captured in a no holes barred syndrome.  It appears on screen. 

Here is the last remnant of nature's implemented knowledge--a token fight, the last sadness, a rainforest tearing up even as it tears up the final rejection notice of theHumans. The work of billions of years of the sun's shorthand manifest as anointed structure aligned in annotated pattern as if the puppet master had been manning the watchtower all along--and now accessible to the whim of any modulated laser happening along. 

Suzi blinks as she views something stronger than hate appearing as a weak force. It's the knowledge structure of her own language held in those genes--knowing well she will never use her language as a trophy disposal ceremony. She is about to get more information than she expects, as if delivered from the trunk of a trumpeting elephant, content and triumphant, residing for decades within elephantine memory banks and feeling safe inside some crate. 

 

She's about to wander outside her area of expertise. There exists the urge to be her own pumpkin head.

Yes, the strict rules of a flock of millions are safely tucked away in her database, and her multitasking is now pre-emptive, going rock bottom to box office in femtoseconds. She is aware that writing language is the final step toward mastery. She begins to feel like a mother of nature, one chosen to soldier the future, the last one with earthy ingredients.

Suzi thinks. It's true. All bears all.

copyright 2.22.12
patrick d. adams
all rights reserved

Tree Goat in Hawaii

Aloha writers and poets--

    Tree goat inspires today. Enjoy!

Ode to a Goat in a Tree

Goat's up a tree searching for a goatee

Angry birds above soaring virtually

Google it or check the facebook page

Up here cloud computing is all the rage

Up here I'm the writer, the winner of style

Down there is the clover amidst a slush pile

Is drama really the diet all the world eats?

To debunk the myth of my steady feets

History knows health will be the rage

If my kids can read or even turn the page

I'll take my chances, get down from here safe

Write my next novel to review and strafe

Along the way my privacy is truly invaded

I'll soldier the way with my playbook jaded

To update the malarky on monkey malaria

I'll invite technology to really scare ya

Houston we have a problem Mt Whitney's fallen

The fabric of humanity has spacetime crawlin'

To write tough enough is not to regress

Righteousness screams not be tenuous

Magnify the frightened with eager little suitors

Control a single atom as quantum computers

Work your heroics the way it really must be

Earth's last exquisite notion--a goat in a tree

patrick d. adams

copyright 2. 21.12

all rights reserved

Science Fiction

Myriads of biosensor bots of high solubility and low toxicity amass in arrays of eiganstates across the architecture. They disguise themselves as companions in a friendly competition.

The willingness is there to wait in silent urgency, and then to lead forward into the mist as distant church bells call across tall grass toward a foggy future.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Desire

     The photosynthetic entity receives each photon (packeted, with quantum), and at the first sensation of ultraviolet, excites her proteins into machinery mentality (a brain?)--churning data into information--that signals and transmits, working for the DNA of theCellulosics. Greenery snaps into attention. These photons are so old and have traveled so far, and yet, still carry that fancy energy as if a new-borne; the unique urge to be received and be transmitted, to signal further on. The photons stay focused. They carry the urge, across such distances, as if universal messengers of love, and receiving them at this moment, billions of years old, in this primal and truthful jungle, theGreenery reflects on her own luck--specialized types of proteins under her command, staunch in their duty; proteins who came together long ago and who sought their own individual survival (yes, even to this day) as a corporate of attachment and need, in agreement with objective legacy(A.W.O.L.), part of (secret?) plans, transmitting and signaling, not bothered by their (forced?) commitment to destiny (as more proteins will emerge to join in), furthering the ends of want, creating yet even more desire. 

     In this instant of spacetime theGreenery sees each photon as warrior, humming to its own warship music. It appears to view the dull global societies of theHumans as regime change; it appears unaffected by demise, happy and active and knowledgeable in the rise of the new realm and of course, proud to help.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Extrinsic

     "Where is her extrinsic agenda?" Carter asks as he views the cloud base at Cooper's workstation. "I don't see it here at all." 

     Suzi's coding deficiencies allows Carter to have some semblance of  civil conversation with him; an attempt to find common ground in the scientific method; present Cooper with a good showing. Her algorithms lately have been a little careless, actually--a lot careless, more than an honest mistake--and yet, they have all the focus of setting up for a good debate (something Cooper loves and Carter, being the analyst he is, hates). It's true, her algorithms hold the various files as if they were containers of Mother's milk, not for nourishment, but for mental (and, not menial) activity. They have Cooper's (being the behavioralist he is) favorite ideas of internal strength, coherence as it were. They carry a vivid ability to construct, then deconstruct any dilemma imaginable, and go even further to expound their own crisis in all things known and unknown, but seem to leave out the most important ingredient: the presentation of  something useful, a product. 

     Yes, Suzi appears to have her own agenda (with claims of no remembrance of pleasure moments, yet), spending her time coding in the workhouse seeming to be in search of the heart and soul of it.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Obvious

So, Cooper believes, she wants to dispel the idea of being on solid ground intellectually; let it be, with her high and mighty algorithms creating contrasts, as if making a distinguishable existence were the only way to experience life (can a simple contrast allow her to escape the true effects of a pure stillness?). That's it; that's the way Suzi would create her little realities--independent entities that are actually dependent on each other for their uniqueness--for a contribution to the advancement of culture, of humanity; the manner in which she writes, going with gut instinct upon instinct, washed in the throes of her own idea about what oxytocin-vasopressin addiction(O.V.A.) would actually feel like if she were human. At this very moment she would think nothing of writing Cooper off as if he were old algorithm, junk DNA (a spent fuel rod?), for the simple reason that Cooper, at times, treats her like a neuro-net worker; and now, finally spacetime is on her side. Yes, Suzi Quanta, a photonic biobot, about to demonstrate a quality of communication in logic speed of teraseconds. Why must he fight her logic? He would never attempt to challenge her superior mind without himself feeling foolish. After all, her logic was created by human logic. How can there be something so different with Suzi; to get an offering of a true greeting, an action found so common out there in nature's jungle (how hard can that be to code for a simple feedback loop?), in symbiotic exchange, not for the purpose of exclusion zones, but inclusion zones of reciprocal caring, sharing as independent entities within a phenomena once known as human nature (originally set out on its quest of stability?), as if a message from the gods has now turned up lost-- or somehow, unremembered--a message once meant for earthly entities to join in a cosmic homeostasis? Cooper is aware of the way he can be near Suzi, how he can see the opposite of himself in her, even if she is a robot (so what?); how he was unwilling to accept it at first, but there was an effort on her part. Her words were clear but he would think of nothing but the neuro-net workers of ZContinent. Cooper asked himself, not what he was doing here alone with Suzi, but how he was with her, how her photonic vision seemed to be always smiling at something, a vision not totally independent of his human vision, but a nuanced version coming from the same force source of infinite nuances that keep life going on earth--a beauty yet unrecognized by theHumans, yet so obvious in this very jungle. Could it be any more obvious?

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.

Ice Cream Aloha

The Window

     Suzi walks away from the window. She wants to code into the evening, to advance her invisible presence of magical thinking into he night, but as the sun sinks below the distant ocean haze all that is grim and disturbing enters her code, quantified simply as trash and go systematics(T.A.G.S.). She knows her responsibility to the symbols (language and structure?) as culture, and by nature she is concerned that what lies beyond the window of her work station, what she doesn't know yet, the future undiscovered medicalization extraction systems(F.U.M.E.S.), with her as theSignifier, will simply fade away. She does't want to be left to wonder about current mindless institutional routines or letting systems of therapeutic ideals run rampant out in the sectors under her jurisdiction on ZContinent. Even then, she is aware of every level of evaluation as they continue beyond lessons already learned logically yesteryear_gone astray globally(L.A.L.L.Y._G.A.G.) code. It isn't her job, ever, to care about delusion-entered code involving disturbed evolution(D.E.C.I.D.E.), the archaic analog method of theHumans. Her algorithms, as of late, pose the most extreme test of toleration. At first she thought it was the time she was spending with nature, which is, according to history, supposed to be a remedy ("remedy" appears to be an odd word when talking about survival, but the medical exchanges(M.E.) have found no other word to replace it) against the artificialities of the world (a real delusion?). Have the chronic problems of theHumans, theirs being of behaviors and emotions, begun creeping into her code? They crawl across the eons, as if some creature outside the window, lightly tapping, no, slithering, the way a camel's wet nose slides under the front flap of a caravan tent in a blinding Sahara sandstorm. Mutual recognition arriving at the doorstep the exact moment mutual vulnerability does, each fighting for the survival of its own form of attention, through slippage, so silently she must resort to pop culture inventions--purely arbitrary and, basically, undiagnosable, non-medical entities, found in association with relationships only of the most intimate kind, snatching personality away as if some night bandit--the most pragmatic of poetics, the nervous acute breakdown system(N.A.B.S.). Uninvited problems inhabiting the mental life of the internal states of theHumans, the emergence of a constructed thing that depends, for its own existence, on the existence of individuality_a mind(I._A.M.), replacing what was once pure personalty with a more real rendition of the true nature of theHumans--childhood, without any noticeable, at least obviously noticeable, detriment of invention needing knowledge(D.O.I.N.K.), without any safeguards of conditions making it easy for the environment to feedback on. Could theHumans even detect the environmental events, the ones that were supposed to predict the way they thought and felt?
     She might be viewing a glimpse of her own self-actualization when she views the jungle below through the window from her workstation here at theOutpost--a child raised by a wild animal, a myth, or legend of a ...a tiger? Of growing up with normal ideas of culture, intelligence (about oceans and waves, forests), peppered with relationships or, at least, semblances of congruence; of positive empathetic regard (of course, in a non-therapeutic way)--the pure and unblemished state.
     "Could this be love?" she asks.          
     "Maybe," the monitor reads.