How will we keep the machines running when we’re all unemployed and broke? Even the computer programmers will lose their jobs when enough bots teach themselves how to design and program entirely new bots. I guess maybe the CEOs of these bot companies will have jobs but if no one can afford the services provided or products manufactured, how successful of a business prospect is that? I guess bot analysts will eventually work out the problems and perhaps decide, once they’ve discovered a way to sustain a permanent energy source (sound familiar?), that jobs are obsolete and bots will do as they please using humans for their own specialized purposes every now and again, say like the way we use horses today—romantic carriage rides through Central Park, zoo exhibits, breeding, or equestrian sport. Maybe we’ll be tolerable as pets. Maybe we’ll be their X-Boxes and by forming logarithms, or code nonetheless, that allows them to upload their programming into our electro-chemical brains, entertain themselves with our dreams, fears and memories.
The truly sad part of all this is that in the name of “progress” we won’t stop creating these robots and pushing ourselves forward to a future that will most likely, in turn, push us out. We act as if we’ve made an unbreakable promise or committed to a contract with Progress and there’s no way to get out of it. The true human progress would be to stop but I guess since the beginning of the mechanizations of the industrial revolution, the progress has always belonged to the machines.
There is no such thing as time, outside of Man’s need to measure temporal events. In reality, there is only Eternity, the infinite void. To live in the present is to not be absent from the entirety of the whole as it unravels. Union with the complete Now is the humble surrender which in losing, momentarily, your Self, you gain presence of Other— At this sudden society, comes to you the revelation that the two, Self and Other, are one.
How awesome would it be if instead of a commercial break between your favorite TV programs something like this comes on. Just 2 minutes. I’m sure the major networks can afford to lose a small 2 minutes worth of advertisement revenue to remind us of what television was and can still be.
Everything has to be sold to us, a product must be attached or else its not necessary to mention…but what could be more necessary than that which need not be sold to us?
Where there is no creativity there is no expression, without expression, there is no positive channeling of thought or emotion, only the inevitable explosion of temperament when the dam no longer holds back the overwhelming flood. The opposite of creation is destruction, and the forces that act out from us when our creativity is muted and/or stifled are destructive. Tearing loose from within us, this volatile energy is our last resort to balance. Rather than meeting this necessary reaction with animosity, why not attempt to exorcise its root, the inhibiting of creativity and expression.
Ok, now I know the title might seem like we’re at war here, but remain calm. This post is just me trying to shed light and get a better perspective on the matter simultaneously. I’ve seen a few articles floating around about how rappers have muddied up a perfectly fine beat that should remain…
I know its a race and we have to get to the end as fast as we can. But when we get there we end up waiting alone for everyone else, so what’s the point. Standing there, breathlessly gathering our lungs from up behind the track. Staring endlessly into the distance, almost in awe. How fast did we run? How far back did we leave everyone else? When finally we see miniature spots, far back, further still than that even, its almost stupid. The tiny blemishes they sway left and right like pendulums but there seems no indication of growth, its like they’ve stopped to dance, forgetting the race. They don’t seem any closer from this second than they did the previous. Meanwhile, we feel the aches on our legs, the heart is leaning up against some ribs and blood jetting through the veins like a march of bulls, enough breathing for a week, and we’ve got it all in, within the last hour. Our eyes run back, in desperate reach, holding minutely the nets of patience that continue to tear and anxious loneliness pressed against a false smile, like a shirt too small to wear. Did I even have to run so fast? Its almost embarrassing to win like this. It almost demands an apology. As the hours pass and still no progress, we tremble with curiosity, we forth with anger, and glow with envy. We sit on the ground, our nerves racing within, our pulse in the moshpits of wrists, throats and temples bang under the skin like prisoners denied release. It feels no different than when we raced. We’re already where we wanted to get to and yet it feels like our bodies are back there dancing with the rest of them but its not. Its sitting here alone, waiting for everyone to get back so we can claim our prize.
Aldous Huxley spoke of intelligence not only in terms of spoken and written, but also of intuitive and common intelligence, that comes from an innate frequency originating from our connection to the entire universe. He didn’t use those exact words but said something to the same effect. Its great to see a mind as scientific and logical as Huxley’s arrive at those concepts—I’m not sure what caused him to be the way he was but he analyzed the world through a fair scope that left open, to possibilities, that which cannot be fully quantified and qualified upon first viewing. He wrote essays constantly which surveyed the world contemporarily with projections to futures yet to come but inevitable nonetheless.
His birthday passed a few days ago, it was a week ago actually. I think of his novels constantly and have been meaning to reread Crome Yellow and Doors of Perception sometime this summer. However, I mention him today for neither of these reasons. I actually watched part of an interview this afternoon in which he spoke about intelligence.