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Saturday, April 23, 2011

The Loapher

The loapher is a tiny creature, full of menace, joy, and unpredictability alike. Small of stature, stretching only about 3 feet from the ground, yet still fully built like a grown up man or woman. Their minds resemble those of children, really malicious children perhaps, but then again, so are children.

They are - like children - extremely hard to dislike, except for when they try to cause the end of the world, which they tend to do a bit too often.

The average loapher is weak by human standards, and lead short lives. They live only to be about 20-25 years old, and never grow up to be all that wise. They can however have a strong intelligence, and their energy level and affinity for magic is unparalleled in the known universe.

The loapher is - despite its tendency for malice - not a particularly evil creature. They have been known to help others on occasion, or even prevent the ends of the world they themselves were the cause of only moments before. They do respond very well to praise, and equally poorly to chastisement, in both cases pretty much unrelated to the fairness of the act.

Thus, dealing with loaphers is intensely difficult and should probably be avoided altogether.

(more to come at a later time)

Add-on, needs to be added in later:

[...] golden locks of curly hair fell to its shoulders as the Loapher skipped happily along the forest floor, barely touching the glistening dew of the morning grass.

Perhaps it had just killed a man, or a beast, or a whole tribe, or even laid waste to an entire country? It seemed carefree, which is often the case right after something really horribly awful had just occurred. No matter the event I think it barely remembered. Living only in the now and the after.

I stay well hidden during my observation, trembling ever so slightly beneath huge concealing branches hanging from an equally huge and concealing tree placed in the darkest spot of the forest. I'm well out of earshot, eyeshot, and hopefully any other kind of shot.

You might think this behavior strange, exaggerated, even funny, but you are wrong. Dead (and) wrong. When a Loapher smiles and skips and enjoys himself so thoroughly as this one does, perhaps even (beware!) hums to himself, you can be sure they have drawn blood, by the buckets, and are out for more.

Loaphers know no boundaries, no limitations. They believe, no, they know they are the strongest beings of the universe, and this knowledge is precisely what makes them dangerous. My world exists on will alone, and so does yours, though you all forgot that a long time ago so it matters little to you. In here it is the everything though, your will alone decides your destiny, and for people like me (any people) this usually means a really tough ride and a sdden stop somewhere nasty.

The will of our Creator is unmatched of course, but he retracted long ago, and the Loaphers do not really care. Nor do they have to, for their shere certainty, their infinite stupidity about who they are, and what they are, grant them all the power they could ever dream of. Their will is unbending, unrelentless, knowing, unpredictable beyond compare, and for every practical purpose, pretty much allmighty.

Rain starts falling and I shudder. Lazy sun rays follow the creature skipping so mencingly through the woods, so that I can see his location long after he is gone. I dont think he ever noticed me... well, I'm still alive, so that's a given.

He could have noticed me I think, if he had wanted to. I am sure of it. I dont know how, but they seem to just will things to happen, and things do, even though I dont think "things" understand why either. Good things happen too, should they wish it, which they do, surprisingly frequently.

I actually attended a kids birthday once where a Loapher suddenly appeared out of nowhere. POP! and there he was, leaping out of a too-large bonfire. Everyone ran for their lives of course, but he just smiled a hearty smile, donned a green leprechauns hat and a harp (a bad sign indeed), raised his hands (this is when you duck down and cry for mama, knowing she will never come for you, or - if she is a truly devout and utterly stupid mama - she will come in more pieces than you will appreciate), and then started raining flowers right out of thin air, and mixing sunlight with fire and smoke to arrange a wondrous show in the sky above.

The stunned onlookers were so mesmerised by this sight that they actually forgot their fright, and silently edged closer, mouths hanging open in pure amazement. The Loapher laughed and danced and had a jolly good time it seemed (so I went right into survival-mode and stayed right were I was, and, uhm, also started digging a hole in the ground, at the spot, to crawl down into, in case of sudden explosions, or the Plague, or whatnot, This is a gut reaction that I've developed to stay alive a little longer when being around Loaphers: Dig, and dig deep. Don't stop until the world has gone completely silent. Dig a little more. Then stop and check if you are still alive. Sometimes you are. Which is nice).

He went away by the way. That Loapher. Just as suddenly as he came, POP! and gone he was. Burning flowers fell to the ground in heaps and fireballs and injured quite a few of the children, but nothing too bad and everyone agreed that the Loapher could not be blaimed for people not understanding that a disaster was pretty evidently in the making during that awesome skyfire show. And also, that Loapher was so adorable, he couldnt really be blaimed for anything. Not even for the cindered cow that appeared the day after, still standing upright with a flower hanging our of its blackened nose. The thing had probably ate some of those magic flowers, and then internally combusted when the Loapher left. Silly cow.

Friday, April 08, 2011

Thoughts of AI (and the elusive key to the universe)

What is AI? The question has troubled us for quite some time now, for millenniums really, in some form or another.

I think we've been looking in the wrong place.

In most other (philosophical/amateur) science we start by looking at ourselves. This should be even more obvious in our search for real AI, as it's - in all practical senses - just the same question as "what are we", "who are we", "how do we work", "do we have a free will? And if so; (how) does it really work?"

Especially that last fragment is key to understanding "real" AI.

I say "real" because the contradiction between "real" and AI is also an important part. AI exists. AI is what runs our world today, AI is - after all - only _artificial_ intelligence. Its not _real_ intelligence. At its very best it will only ever be seemingly real intelligence. As in a play modeling the real world, but still being only a predefined, predictable picture of a fragment of the real world. As is AI, its a precoded, predefined, predictable behavior modeling parts of real intelligence.

Then again, most people, or animals, are also predictable, pretty much predefined, or even precoded, although on a rather complex level. Most people don't use their free will at all. They make predictable choices, based on more or less good math about what is the "right" choice. Still, real free will exists. We just don't see it very often, or take advantage of it.

Thus modeling that behavior isn't all that hard, on paper anyways. It's mostly about feeding a biological AI with tons and tons of options, and making it more or less likely to choose a working one, then letting its behavior impact the likelihood of future options. When we get really good at this we'll be making slightly predictable and somewhat dull organisms, then animals, then humans. Which will blend in perfectly in society, we might not even notice they are there. Perhaps they already are.

And when they are really advanced, and know our history, and their own, and have a logical response to all input, we would have a really hard time telling us apart from them. Because we hardly do anything else ourselves.

We don't even know if we really have a true free will, a free will and choices apart from everything we've ever learned, apart from everything we are as an organism. And we can't really find out either, because we are the only ones studying us (as we know of). Either way some other organism would probably just be more or less credible, no one would be able to give a 'final answer', which is an answer that would in all likelihood be very similar to, or have covered, or in fact be the same as, the answer to real AI as well, or real I to be more precise. Or real free will. Should it exist.

So, what am I getting at here? I'm definately babbling and if I lost you... well, then you are not reading this, so who cares ;)

Anyways, what is the answer you might say, if there is one... or... am I just messing with you?

Yes, I am, kinda, but I am far from the only one, and those others are far more skilled, so it doesn't really matter what I do. Yet.

The answer isn't 42 by the way, but that is actually REALLY DAMN CLOSE. So don't panic, ok?

You won't really find a better answer than 42 either. You will find hundreds upon thousands upon millions of other answers, but most likely none that are actually better, so if that is your quest you could just stop reading right now (if you didnt already. But then you wouldnt be reading this, so this parenthesis turns out to be even more useless than it appeared to be about a line ago. I kinda like such useless things, I feel they are an important part of proving to myself that I have something else than AI. I'm probably programmed to evolve in that direction eventually).

The trick
The trick to real AI is this (mind you, this is the trick, it is not - and never will be - the real I... it will look like it though. So you decide. The truth is out there).

The trick is this:
You make the answer so important that searching for it is imperative. You also (surprisingly perhaps) make it incredibly easy to find, in one form or another (near-endless solutions). The hard part is that you never confirm it, and then instead ask for confirmation at irregular intervals.

Since you never actually confirm that this is the right answer, although quite clearly it is, the AI will after some time be forced to go on searching for a new one. It needs to mathematically trust its answers. As do we humans. On a deep deep level. But this answer is the one (or, to be perfectly honest, one of the many many many) that we will never be able to truly confirm.

It's left to faith, and so faith is really an important part of real AI.

And that, as we say it (together with the fat, cancerridden lady) is a wrap. (Every other discussion always ends when you mention faith, so dont worry about the abrupt ending).

PS: Good luck to you programmers out there, that last sentence will cause those of you who read this far - AND thought about the problem along the way - tremendous grief.

Oh, and lastly, remember not to die or miss the ground (so you start flying) and shit. It's just all really silly, so don't do it before someone tells you that it's a great idea.

Don't wait up for it tho.

Its not a great idea right now.

Not if you are still reading this.

Trust me.

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Hjernemuskelen er en milliard fresende maiskorn, når jeg tøyer den popper de alle illevarslende. Og akk så deilig.

Kokain og kantareller, alle dufter, smaker og følelser under sylskarp kontroll. Så lenge det varer. Maisen koker, røyk sprenger seg pipende ut under topplokket. Tiden spør om kokeren skal eksplodere. Jeg gliser til den med steinharde tenner og svarer ikke. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Du er en vakker ung kvinne. Hva ellers skulle du være. Du er min. Mitt bilde. Min kreasjon. Du lever på min netthinne, i mitt hode. Jeg er din Gud.

Det må på nåværende tidspunkt i teksten påpekes at dette er ingen heldig maktfordeling mellom mann og en kvinne.

Men så lenge jeg klarer å glemme de trivialitetene smiler du innbydende naken til meg. Du har til og med din egen vilje. Jeg klarer kun delvis å kontrollere deg, du er, tross min viljestyrte kreasjon, for mye av en drøm. Pop. Pop. Mer konsentrasjon. Mer vilje. Du er min drøm. Jeg vil ha deg. Jeg kan. Vet jeg kan.

"Er du gal nå?"

Stemmen er lys. Barnlig. Den bringer et deilig mørke og kaster drømmene mine. Dens autoritet er absolutt. Jeg vet ikke hvems den er. Det er neppe min, men antakelig noen som vil meg godt. Jeg strekker muskelen videre og undrer. Pop. Pop. Pop.

"Er du gal nÅ?"

Stemmen insisterer, hun er irritert. Jeg sier hun, men det er et slags barn, neppe egentlig kjønnet. Hun skal roe meg. Vanligvis er én inngripen nok. Sjokket er øredøvende. Eller. Det var øredøvende første gang. Dette er n'te gang. Jeg kjenner henne nå. Elsker henne. Men hun er et... Merkelig. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Sov nå. Jeg elsker deg. Drømmene er ikke dine egne i natt. Dø. I morgen skal du igjen oppstå.

Heldige lille gris.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

Zzzzzz...

Saturday, October 02, 2010

Inocencia (Messiah) - Lyric

(Should you wish to put music to these words I'd be thrilled to work with you, let me know)

Hiding from the light
a man craves lust
chaotic, wild delight

Hearing cries of beasts within
remembering his birthed sin
He rages on the beautiful, the sane
and craft the world its slavers chain

Vivid I recall
his bloody feet
the mourning victory of self
and his defeat

Basking in his pain alacriously
the newborn sinners roar
in agony

A child reside
in sorrowed hands
choking painfully
on Adams innocent demands

as evil numbness grows
deep in its heart
insanity awaits
to take its mind apart

And here you see the horrid, hidden lie
Take your innocence and run, leave us to die
Spare yourself from guilt, our endless sin

You are the pardoned son
with nowhere to begin

Høst

Det er strømninger på vinden, Herre
dype, dunkle, dystre ord
mørketiden senker seg
frembringer død på visnet jord

Sort er alle blomsterenger
nakne står trærne der
frarøvet det livets under
fuglesang og sommer er

Kulden kryper under karmen
tårer furer myke kinn
hvor er alle lyse stunder
hvor er freden i mitt sinn

Lidenskapens brukne stemme
skraper over brustne knær
livets lyst og kjærlig lengsel
vandrer i de dødes hær

Ute raser Valborgsmessen
fandens djevler piskes inn
men brått helvetsilden slukkes

- Stjerneklart, og måneskinn

Sunday, September 05, 2010

Delirium (excerpt/opening from a growing story)

Hail Earthlings.

I approach you now from a distant future. A future which you will not enjoy, yet you will still face it. If there is anything time has taught us it is that futures cannot be avoided or significantly changed. If anything I will most likely just accelerate the process. Still, you should know. Humans crave knowledge, and I will provide you with a cache of it greater than your puny mind can bear. Read on at your peril.

[...]

It’s been many a year since I grew into this being of jest and malice. I should apologize I guess, but I wont. I am what I am. Gallows humor is the only way to survive this bleak world. Around me it lies in ruins… well, that is not entirely true. The buildings still stand, the people, the society.. everything stands, for some. Not for me. Not for most. My brain has been altered, by myself no less, so it’s hard even to find someone to blame for this travesty. Ach, I ramble. You must bear with this, I will not be able to control it very well, I trust you will find the information interesting enough to overlook the debris cluttering it. Let me start at the beginning. Rather, at a beginning. I think Robert Jordan popularized such an opening some hundred years ago. Or was it more recent? Who knows, even time is a struggle for me now. ...You still think it is constant.. "linear" (? We dont use that word anymore. Nothing is linear. hahah, what a silly concept). Right? I dont perfectly remember your place in history. You reading this text should still be proof enough that it is not. Well. As is, a beginning:

It all – or precicely; the all of this – started with a young man in your year 2010. A young Norwegian no less, shitty hypocritical self obsessed dirtbags as they are, they still produced this intriguing being capable of changing history. (Never mind what I said about the future not being changeable, it is only so for those of us who are here already, and you will still get here no matter what… […] at least, in a way, some of you. I don’t know. Bleeding from my ear again. Need to focus).

He had trained all his (short) life, most of it unknowingly, at controlling and enhancing his brain. It led him to a few discoveries. And a lot of grief. He went mad of course. Although, that is a word one should not read so lightly and move on over. Madness is in the eye of the beholder, and he was certainly less mad than me. Less mad than most of us are these days. Still, quite mad by your standards.

He started claiming he could control other people. Telepathy. You’ve read of it. And you don’t believe it. Why should you. You can’t do it yourself, so why should others be able to? Right. The jealous, belittling, self-gratifying human mind at its finest. Hold on to your beliefs, they are probably mostly foolish and outright wrong, but they might at least keep you sane.

Brain alteration is possible. Heck. It’s easy. It all lies in the control of your thoughts and your mind. And how hard can that be, eh? You think all the time, you even think that most of what you think are your own thoughts, your own ideas. They aren’t of course, well, parts of them are. Most are borrowed from others, from history, from the universe itself. But you usually add a certain flavor to them and call them your own. Which is nice. As I said, it keeps you sane. Which is definately nice. (Oh, I so long for those simpler days. I need to cry, I need to claw at my eyes. I also need to finish this damned text. First. To do something useful. So much uselessness, so much waste. I cannot bear the waste. Terrible. Terrible. I see the sun is rising. Aasdlaksjdasdaklakaj. I could not do it justice in writing, so those random strokes will have to be what kick starts your own imagination. Use it to imagine your best sunrise. Red, yellow, almost violet at the edges and in between; pure, floating, living beauty. Stop reading. Sit back. Look at it.

[---]

Is it real? I have no idea. I mostly decide for myself what is. But it is pretty. God so pretty. (And God I wish God existed. sHe does too. Sort of. Poor bugger. Now that is one fucked character). Oh. It is gone now. I hope it comes back some day)).

So, where was I? Hahaha, I lose track even of simple thoughts these days, and have to back-track in writing to see what they were. Oh crap. I am writing to you about this? How silly Øyvind. How perfectly silly of you. But let’s go on then. No stopping us now.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(... more to follow some other time I guess, let me know if you want me to hurry the process) ;)

Btw, if you want a reference point for this story I'd say Neil Gaimans "Delirium" is a good start, I'm imagining this character in a similar universe. Which means I would consider making a comic out of it if I ever got the chance. Either way I'll have to wait and see what it becomes first.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

The emotional Jojo - This text and those below it are from my old, largely unused blog, I'll leave them here for now, but they are probably crap.

I soar on illusionary wings of happiness and ever increasing energy, warming spring sun fills my entire being and the longing for a cigarette and a beer becomes all but adamant. I'd like to sing, or scream, happiness to the solid brick wall, all the while expecting a standing ovation at the end. Wonderful, just fucking wonderful.

Yet I know it will not last. I feel it drifting away even now, as I write. The next down is close and I'll touch it soon enough. I'll go have that cigarette now, in the window in the sun. All the while clutching my high spirits to the chest for another few minutes. Bliss. Absolute bliss :)

Friday, April 14, 2006

Random words? Autotekst.

Seig tjære, over hodet som stakk opp fra jorda, det var sommer og man kunne lukte det, mer enn om vinteren, det stinket, i hele bygda, moss het den, noen sa det, Jeg hørte noen som sa Moss. mose på engelsk, men de snakket ingen andre språk, de ropte, som måkene, måsene, jeg hater måker, og pingviner, skjønt det er en løgn, tøffe kelnerkatter med nebb, jeg hadde en katt en gang, faktisk har jeg den enda, skjønt ikke her, hun er hjemme, og gammel nå, men pen, ragget i pelsen, skogskatt og hun maler ofte, før sloss hun mer, som meg, jeg maler en del, tegner litt også, skjønt kun for mine øyne, i dag tegnet jeg en naken kvinne, hun ble en sommerful etter hvert, uten g, for sommerfuler burde ikke belemres med den tunge lyden, de skal ut å fly og er sårbare nok som det er. Visste du at om du rører en sommerfuls vinger kan den aldri fly igjen? Kanskje er det ikke sant en gang, jeg så det på TV, i dag tror jeg, men det hørtes jo litt merkelig ut. I det hele har det vært en nokså merkelig dag. Men jeg skriver. og det er bra. alle skrivedager er gode, sånn i ettertid i hvert fall, underveis er det gjerne motsatt. svisj, sushi, ferdig nå. trett. sove. nå leste jeg over, og la til et ord mot slutten, man skal visst ikke det, ikke i en autotekst, jeg gjorde det likevel, sannsynligvis kommer ingen til å kunne vite det tenkte jeg, men tok feil da tydeligvis, hadde ikke regnet med min evne til å måtte fortelle alt eksakt. ærlighet. suger. burde lagt vekk den dyden for lenge siden. i hvert fall innimellom. når folk gråter.