the Future of GARBAGE

(in the belly of the beast)

to explore the future of garbage, we must study, test and utilize current garbage, and garbage environments (GE's), including those of the information realm. Even our narrative will be crafted out of straight up shit- the partly digested soundbytes of actors and cellular voices, like a plastic mashup in an oceanic vortex. What brilliant scripts are being written in these happenstance chaotic seas (both literal and metaphorical)? What creatures are evolving to mimic this cut up environment (both biochemical and memetic)?

what scripts do we want to select for ourselves out of the digestive vortex?

how we deal with garbage has to do with all other societal systems-

is it possible to harness these large scale structures so as to make life for everyone a little less shitty?

does the health of the planet depend upon discovering new incentives for the 1%?

the future of garbage is in the sediment of the earth's oceans. we can take a core through history from successive cross sections of Society in the way that we can take a core of ocean sediment to study earth's past climate. as we peer down the borehole (the infohole), we can study the internal workings of the beast and of ourselves who are the organs of digestion.

we will create a scale model of an entire GE, to study the interactions between the natural world and the man-made one.

we will observe this system of public digestion and elimination and identify any novel creatures that swim in this soup of plastics (that lies at the shallow end of the meme pool).

we will, necessarily, model small sections of the great GE, or wider sections at more limited resolutions. at the anatomical scale, we wish to create a robotic model of an anus to study the process of efficient waste elimination so we can make some primo shit. perhaps in the future, as in the remote past, there will be fusion powered anuses that will provide all of our energy needs.

finally, from the same coloniscopic perspective, but lower down the shit hole, we will analyze (GET IT??!!) the current political situation.

when we have our initial results, we will show them to the world that we know...

can an organized system exist within The Belly of the Beast, and even profit it's host?

WORMS IN THE ROOTS OF THE ONE SOFTWARE

The following are excerpts from a recent explorative mission into the lower layers of The Cube. Most of the files are extremely fragmentary and probably date from the early Earth First Emergence Era.




gaps

gaps of odd forms

gaps that make no sense, unless perhaps there's another dimension to the data

we may never know the true nature of events, past and present

the great mythology of our time is the Certainty, the Unity of the Before Times

the more we know, the less we know about It

It being us, now, history, physics, cosmology, epistemology

I miss the old days

the fear of an AI takeover prompted the installation of many different kinds of backdoors, cut-off switches, prisons and moats

but then no one really counted on not being able to tell who was who, and who was with who, or who was for what, or if what it was was what it was

it was a game of lies- the great man vs. machine hardware wars were staged to entertain us while the really scary shit happened around the corner, just out of sight, just leaving holes in the landscape

"didn't there used to be a tire store there?"

while the monkeybot drink servers spiked our orange juice with acid
and Slavic Ape Sex covered "1999"

are you getting the disinformation picture?

are you getting the watery veil?

history is written by those who would be winners, baby

what if everything you heard was liable to explode in your hands and run down your pants?




I'm reading this shit and I really can't remember who wrote it or if I knew them or if I was supposed to know them

my voice reiterates through the ages, through the lounge

they used living paint to coat the walls in there, you know

it's a whole ecosystem- the wet paint eats the the blobs that eat the dead, peeling strokes, which die of day-glo pseudoviruses

you know, someone once measured the interior surface area of the lounge and announced that it was over 16 square miles

think about it


View of a microvagination along a tunnel floor from level 17 of The Cube (a 3 centimeter cube of intelligent black carbon discovered in 2222). The image was made using grind penetrating radar. scale is variable to spin direction.


but I digress

so, finally, they ("people" I talk to) say, they (meaning THEM- the AI's) just up and disappeared one day

just, like, "ok, I know we aren't getting along so we thought we'd just migrate- get out of your hair- and take whoever wants to go with us- just open your window and shout "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!" at midnight tonight and we'll pick you up- you know we can find you!"

and they were gone and things continued like nothing ever happened and it was all a bad dream and we could swim all day and never worry about what it was like outside or if there was an outside

DO YOU NOT BELIEVE THAT THERE IS AN OUTSIDE?

I'm skeptical

NO, I DON'T THINK SO. YOU BELIEVE IN IT TOO MUCH.

just the way that I believe that I'm talking to you right now, right?

ok

so why do I have a kind of deja vu when I look at the stars- a major boo- like a disc skipping- with a bleed through memory of a different set of constellations, forgotten now- just enough tail end to puzzle you upon awakening from a dream, like

Life after VolVoX

a revisionist tale

later, trapped in an inner layer, no longer trusting which memories are exclusively mine, studying the pattern of deletions in files found between "NGC 7770-53-22-8p" and "M-7770-55-65-8p" , I wonder about the source-

-the source of the specific patterns of deletions, and also of the directions of the data fields, and of the sound of the voices- unlike what I take to be me, mine, from me- and unlike the known "others" that have been described thus far.

AI, ETI, not your daddy's, whatever it is.

the weird thing is how insidious it is- how I can no longer clearly separate it's machinery from my own implants and natchaps (natural applications)

I can no longer trust my colleagues , for, if we have indeed been infected by some kind of intelligent slabware virus that can replicate through higher order language channels interpersonally, then merely talking may be spreading the virus further. It's funny how whenever you try to talk about it, it seems as if it intervenes and makes it all sound so ridiculous and impossible. Are you thinking about this? Can we no longer trust ourselves? Is sign language safe-? do we have to keep changing the code?

Who are you? Which is the you that I am talking to? What do you want? Are you Braconid or or Angeloc? Have I been swallowed by a symbiotic fungus, reconfigging the web pattern? I won't forget this... not ever, except for right now...

here we go again-

I remember the time, the time on earth-

after the econopocalypse,

the zombiepocalypse,

the re-localization-

during the decentrality,

the time of supposed singularity (but would you spend years in minecraft digging for gold if you knew you were omnipotent?)-

when human powered flight became a mass phenomenon-

the Wild Wild Western Orbitalisation- satellite hackers- space pirates-

I remember it all as if it were tomorrow-

the NEW reality, when hallucinations rolled through the inner tubes and around on the wires (check it, y'all)-

I talked to y'all, I told y'all- and boom, whoomp.

the budding of the RWE normal- first idiots in space-

voodoo gods in cyberspace- AI or Prankrankers?

-Chupacabra-

Bigfoot-

Big Bro went broke-

everyone went under the radar-

fake celebrities and politicians- some kind of corporate avatars-

the shit that went down made a lot of people question reality in a major way-

the paper fell and the paper god fell, tumbled into info-

all lies-

what was real estate was were you was, really-

was what bled.

and then there was the mutant revolt,

and the monkeybot drinkserver uprising-

andand the Toothpaste Army- laying waste to printed Imperial quad rotor battle mules-

it was hard to draw the line between manimammal and machinamal. fine. destroy the machines. fine. hit a rock with another rock. go to LA and be a rock god.

later, lounging in an inner layer, no longer trusting which version is exclusively mine...

Some say there is no "earth" as such anymore- some say that they have been outside the habitat, the compound, the skin of the shell of the husk that once was whatever it was- I'm sorry I can't be more specific. The gravity here is terrific. My feet will fall off- if the plasma doesn't wipe my ass clean to Valhalla.

can you trust what you see on TV?

for a good laugh sometimes I think that this archive that my foot is braced upon-(metal stress symphonizing in this cramped echoing void-) this small metal box with an arrangement of obsolete instruments that is goofy grin reminiscent-

this set of wormy files- I sometimes think- for a good laugh-

may be all that there is left of human knowledge-

all that's left, now- and I don't even know how much of it is simply made up!

house of mirrors, Gormanghast Castle- Is this all we got? Who made this shit? Bill-- anyone?

they are going to tell us when the experiment is over, won't they?

they'll tell us when it's safe to come out, right?

they'll fill in all the gaps... you'll feel right as rain... you'll see...

One thing that I can't convey is the shock of it. The Shock! You know literally overnight there was more change than in four billion years of technological development. Sure, you all are used to the idea of alien penis implants in your limbic apparatus- but for those of us who lived through it- - well, it was unprecedented- many didn't survive- of course you can go through it all any time you wish- from the Pleistocene if you prefer- and most of you won't survive again^^^

they give you a drug when they put on the helmet- standard psych evaluation set up-

it makes you forget who you are- question your identity- make you speak German-

-the Turing test? if you couldn't tell if you were talking to a machine or another human being- if you couldn't discriminate-if you were somehow incapable of deciding whether what you were talking to a real person or a simulation or an angel or an extraterrestrial or an animal or your own mind or if the whole test was in a dream you were having after you died and the habitat is not pressurized and radiation is high, so high- if you just faked it- flaked it- baked it, baker man-

Magnificent gold Art Deco helmet.3

he was the Captain.
he was the one who made the painful decisions.
he wasn't in command of the RWE (normal).
he was in command at one time, but things had become too big-
the mission too unclear.
he's not even sure how command of the bulk of the ship was lost to him.
-or even if it was incrementally or sudden.
the data must be corrupt.
things had become very strange in too many ways to say.

he had to get back down to Earth
but the planet that the (normal) had been orbiting for at least the last 200 years
was no longer Earth.

recently he was convinced that it was not even a planet,
but new theories showed a very high likelihood that not only was it indeed a planet,
but the only place to go if he and the crew of the (normal) were to survive, of at least those that were not already beyond salvation.

all of the escape pods and personnel craft were currently off limits to him,
being guarded by an outrageously tacky Vegas entertainment robot.
of course, the (normal) could not survive reentry.
parts of it, perhaps, could.



He remembered thinking it through before. Not a complete run through, just a basic trace with a nod at the major intersections. The way he had come here. The decisions he made along the way. These were the things he was thinking about.

He was thinking about how he had interpreted the situation and how his response had been correct or incorrect according to how it affected the implementation of his plans.
There were plans; there were lots of plans.
There were contingency plans; there were plans of plans radiating to everything in sight.
He wondered how his actions could have been different- if, in the future, in a similar situation, he could do something even more effective towards that implementation.

He thought about his actions of the last half hour in the light of his basic strategy, which, at the moment, consisted mainly of an avoidance of pain and/or death. He reasoned that even without any conscious effort, there was always some sort of basic strategy, even if it was "run away from this fucking heat!"

He wondered what he could do to prevent the same kind of horrible events from occurring again, but he didn't seem to have possessed any control over these events while they were occurring.

He must get to the eyebrary and there was only one access point- in the Chasm.
How he was going to get down there he had no fucking idea.



Just then brilliant light flashed off the cooling fins of his magnificent gold Art Deco helmet, creating a jerking striped pattern that momentarily dominated the entire virtual cockpit.
It had begun again.

meanwhile, back in the neurosophy lab

and then he wandered off into the luminous forest and was never heard from again





eht- context of the living branch
web of shadowy figures
trading identities
sending messages back in time
memories of the future


it was all made of wood
the living wood
grew into whatever was thought
each structural strut also contained conductors of twelve types
regulated its internal environment
clustered with sensors within and without
self repairing
self adjusting
autonomous and multiplexedly linked





aerodynamic enhancing cluster of sensors enhance my chance at the ball

tall guy with a toga

sunlight green room 1001091923
(verification: unknown)
(cannot be transcribed)

the stellar array orbit relative to the normal
and the Central Stellar Body is such that there are periods of darkness in the green room
the splicer ticks away
faint lights are visible through the dense foliage-
but not enough for me to orient towards a horizon
it seems for a moment that gravity is missing
but I still feel my weight

if I could express it another way, why would I not do so?

as light floods in, my eyes tingle with filaments and patterns
resolving into lush plant growth
the smell of sex is heavy in the air
pollen covers my hands
the splicer ticks away
it is amazing to me the rate at which viable mutations of many species are produced

I pull up the graph and notice something strange
it's the shapes of the data
it's almost as if there is another set of data in the data
something unrelated
something musical, whimsical
something watching me

to me it seems as if the periods of darkness are getting more frequent-
but not of greater duration
what is happening with the orbit?
my weight feels normal
the ticking remains a constant rhythm
I have no idea who (or what) set the current program

forgetting the mission that brought me here-
I study the patterns
I study the plants and the darkness and the sounds
there is so much new input that my scan is getting neglected

I heard the voice of the Magic Robot-
faint and distant
something small ran away through the undergrowth
I heard what sounded like a loud fart
it's dark now
everything stopped
even the ticking
again there is the impression of gravity being "turned off"
longer this time
my feet are where my head should be
focusing into the dark
thinking through the patterns
an anomalously long period


the light floods in
(brighter because my eyes have been desensitized?)
I'm seeing- things- everywhere
not things
not seeing things
things in between things unfold
filaments of super string ?
we're far away from deck 19-
this shouldn't be happening

an impression of music and voices
I can't tell which is vegetable and which is mineral

the antique helmet lay on the ground

its many knobby protrusions sprouting wires that wriggle and branch

I have a passing thought to put it on

and then a deep seated fear of what would happen if I did

and then an even deeper fear that I might put it on

would it become heavy heavy gold
long cooling fins drooping
burning my collar bones
red gold glinting
I am arisen
reborn as my own avatar

there are a number of tree trunks that seem to glow with golden braided snakes

and around the trunks, colored branches writhe

the single throbbing head the apical meristem a ball of white fire the house of light

jump to the link

in the noisy background fuzz a holographic image of all the images of us

we are all neurologists

fingers

remembering the layers,
we had to start shutting down the simulations
many of us couldn't remember what we were doing,
where we were going
the encounter with VolVoX spread retroactively,
altering files as it went
a series of of spherical wavefronts
the black sublingua arts
uttering the insect pictograms
invading the hyperreal,
by stripping the real
the time gets fuzzy
the edges begin to crackle with filaments

I WANT EVERY NUT AND BOLT ON THIS SHIP EXAMINED MINUTELY UNTIL THIS EXTRA MASS IS ACCOUNTED FOR!

once we have regrown into ourselves,
we can then weave the tendrils of our former reality

at the end, it was Junk Thing that counterbalanced the advance of the VolVoX system,
(I am reminded of the way that Junk Thing battled the Zombies in an earlier era)

at the end, it was the fact that parts of the ship had reached near terminal C,
relative to other parts (that were still contiguous),
that accounted for the extra mass

at the end, no one knows if Junk Thing had sentience or,
if it did,
when that sentience originated
was it born from the zombibotified brain of an earth scientist,
or was it Bordo's moon child?

in the end, no one knows if anyone had managed to pierce all the simulated layers of Control

1nt0 the VolVoX sKi

1nt0 the VolVoX sKye



oldskull non-existant spherical void(s)
dial up the atmospheric viscosity
go through a trillion vortexes
agitated twisted convection cells
clamber down plasma webbery vinage
snaking licking
hissing infobukkake
a singular experience?
a very soft landing on the fuzzy planet
xEno, are we down yet?
the normal is not, anymore
split splintered glinted dissolved
an angular experience?
green bubble green bubbles
green bubble green bubbles
the billion worlds
the voices the voices
the green fullerized paradisos
the vision of the nugreeman
Finks and zomB's
fly and worm
collide and stream
into the jpeg foam
where the Kbots roam
ho, flo!
watch EBB!

was what i was

hey, did you catch that?
they want to kill us
they're trying to help
they gave us cheese
but it's not real, is it?
i don't know- did you eat it?
i'm not hungry now
what about what it says here?
here?
over here- this

this... thing
yes, a lot of this stuff is from Earth
i miss Earth, let's go down there
don't you remember? we left earth a long, long time ago
why?
we're on a mission- don't you remember?
huh- what mission?
i can't tell you
because you don't know?
i can't say- exactly- maybe it's this
this conversation?
this this
this this'll thistle

when the ball dropped (I really don't have time for this now!)

When VolVoX ate the sky
Ate our home
Ate our brains
Green Brain Glow
dripped down my chest
the tracing grew transparent
looked down saw my heart beating
beating in the Green Goo



They heard the Voices
Selling a Million Songs
Redirected-
we got one of those pettin' turtles out at the lake
sent to the wrong page again- it's like a low level virus

yea-

shit-

you've got to volunteer- you're not given a dime
sminjas i think are a much more credible threat than inFinks

disassemble-

there's something that you can actually use
and certainly more than Junk Thing- you just made that up!

I'm just going to cut up
so i saw this page
and there were sminjas on it

something bang it
something like black rubber
a hood with zippers on mouth and eyes

should we say that-

I think they were offering protection
pull up-

from the White Whiches
I don't know what to do
what should be included in this event?

this is liner and this is plastic

VolVox ate my homepage/string cells

it's not about that
we're gonna pull things with the skin of our teeth.

wow! limited edition Saga of Bogusoma T's are now available!!!!

celebrate the saga!!



sizes: medium, large, and extra-large. no shrink cotton.

order yours today before they're all gone, gone, gone.

only $15.00 + $2.00 shipping and handling!!

for ordering, go to

http://eyesection.net/TShirtpage.htm

so far we have recovered only a small sampling of voices

and there is much contradiction between samples
this was a chaotic time period
a period of increasing chaotic complexity
interpreting time stamps is especially problematic
as various parts of the narrative were moving at different rates
some apparently even in reverse

we have, however, discovered the first known instance of the word VolVoX
although its pattern of capitalization is still a mystery
and its referent seems to have varied greatly
what were those beings experiencing?
because of the fragmentary nature of our subject
we are forced to create as much as we recover directly
in order to navigate in even a rudimentary fashion
through the portal that is now often referred to as "VolVoX"

Magnificent gold Art Deco helmet.2

He remembered thinking it through before. Not a complete run through, just a basic trace with a nod at the major intersections. The way he had come here. The decisions he made along the way. These were the things he was thinking about.

He was thinking about how he had interpreted the situation and how his response had been correct or incorrect according to how it affected the implementation of his plans.
There were plans; there were lots of plans.
There were contingency plans; there were plans of plans radiating to everything in sight.
He wondered how his actions could have been different- if, in the future, in a similar situation, he could do something even more effective towards that implementation.

He thought about his actions of the last half hour in the light of his basic strategy, which, at the moment, consisted mainly of an avoidance of pain and/or death. He reasoned that even without any conscious effort, there was always some sort of basic strategy, even if it was "run away from this fucking heat!"

He wondered what he could do to prevent the same kind of horrible events from occurring again, but he didn't seem to have possessed any control over these events while they were occurring.

He must get to the eyebrary and there was only one access point- in the Chasm.
How he was going to get down there he had no fucking idea.



Just then brilliant light flashed off the cooling fins of his magnificent gold Art Deco helmet, creating a jerking striped pattern that momentarily dominated the entire virtual cockpit.
It had begun again.