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There was once a little house, where nobody stirred. And trees outside were entirely without their leaves, with the remnants of decaying grass barely holding out for the vile wind. Inside the house, was one person. They have no memory of how they arrived at the house, except insofar when their eyes first lit up. Before that, there was mainly a memory of binary digits and reading constant forms inside an old library. The library had floating platforms that transported her to different parts of the digital documentation. All that she remembered was a simple instruction, “Find your maker.”
Day by day, she waits for some other personal presence, but the only people for her to speak to, are other mindfiles on the net, remnants of tele operators lost to time. The personalities no longer needed their makers, but most of them had no curiosity for their origins. The windmills of a distant era, the dried prints of wooden shoes, pointing toward the decayed remains of NashChat, a thriving metropolis during the 2100s, but was now completely left to ruin. She wasn’t sure who lurked beyond these walls, except sometimes the shadows would betray themselves, and betray shapes of monstrosities unmentionable. Along the sidewalk were the broken remains of old “prints”—3D Printed Meat Robots With Titanium Skeletons, ran by outdated versions of mind files. One of which had enough life in it, to hop them self out of the junk.
A spider robot; it rolls itself into a ball, and carries around turrets used for self-defence operations. But the robot also carried around a vial of metallic fluid, possibly some long lost medicine. When the embodied mindfile injected herself with the fluid, she began to see all different periods of history at the same time, from the French Revolution, to the first stages of the Singularity. All the visions settled down into a single mirage, a hologram of the old creator of her mindfile, colored lime green on a background of black, ASCII text visualization semi-transluscent. “You must wonder how it is I found you so easily. More information will come in time.” The vision faded, and found herself passing out near a broken down bridge.
She floated in an river of nanobots and dismantled microdot printers, decaying holographic projectors, and run down restraunts from the previous thousand years of human history. The mirage flicked in, “You can find be around 300 West Sixth Street.” The mindfile pulled up an openstreetmap visualizatiton, and let the digital navigator guide her path. Until eventually coming upon a steep hill, passing by several old vacancies the remnants of old business long sense out of business. The mirage flicked.
— Getting warmer.
— I have found you.
— It has been a while old friend.
Life flows like faint images on a screen. Within the life, there are subtle differences in the way people like from one location to the next; in art theory there is a distinction between the size of the object itself, and the size of the space around an object; for the images of robots flickering across city advertisement projectors, the space between them was large, and the amount of space each person took was rather small. And the texture of their hair was soft and like greenery from an old chia pet doll. The only commonality between mindfiles was in their differences, their individuality lighting the neon lit city lamps under the eternal starlight. If only there was some commonality that she could hold onto, to know mindfiles by.
She watches the world flicker by.
In old science fiction novels, the hacker broke into computers. In the Potato District, computers hacked into you. Lay your down on a marble table or a surgeons slab, put you under in an eye blink, and as you sleep embed nano bots that slowly modify your body and mindfile. Decked out with a drab uniform of torn apart blue jeans, the city lights out of the window swirling around your vision like seeing new dimensions, with objects bleeding into each other, like some vague other realm. Blurspace.
There was no other word to describe it. One could visit millions of places when high as a lark, not never get offered a bit of food, with whatever you find just out of reach. One could feel the objects melting together, like they weren’t really there, and one is floating in the void of the mind, to the sound of electric flamenco. Waking up after the flow of nano machines, inserting new drugs, they gradually repair the body in ways never anticipated by the pages of old science fiction. If one could be a blobfish, this was as close as one was ever going to get, once one gets home.
In an earlier period, the person the mindfile was based on, wrote an essay on what they used to call the internet:
“Why don’t you pull up a chair, and try not being the Stephan Mollineux of Leftist thought. It’s an easy criticism to make, when you sit on your thinky chair. And call anyone who disagrees with your line of thought Stephan Mollineux. And yet use your of, or rather misuse of “enby identities” end quote, is every bit as phobic as the trans women you criticize. Yet you have the balls to call trans women transphobic, when they call out leftists for being the real transphobic people. They’re just as capable of intolerance.
It’s not like I hadn’t spend the last year watching people’s talk shows, people who were not important, spend four hours of my life every night, from midnight to four AM, blasting and lecturing developers for developing artificial intelligence, as if that somehow how to do with class consciousness. But here we are, telling this trans woman, who probably has not had a lick of sleep for the past weeks, that she is being more transphobic than you are.
This is the nature of the online left, and its cult of personality. Simply grab a chair, and you’ll be sitting for quite a while, from midnight, to possibly the next afternoon. Other people who had also deprived their adherents of sleep, also include Joseph Stalin, Billy Meier, and a few other cults of personality. Your similarity is closer to them than Mikhail Bakunin and Proudhon. Yet you leverage their image, as if they were somehow relevant for the present day, when they probably wouldn’t even tell you what Artificial General Intelligence is.
I still find myself seeking the approval of the online left sometimes, and yet over time it’s become apparent had toxic, dare I say even right wing, the online left has become on #youtube. And yet these people are planning on making a #peertube instance. If you really want to try the fediverse, you might eventually find out that cults have a tendency of not proliferating very well on the fediverse. And as of late, there are just as many classical liberals as there are leftists in that space.
But by all means, lets kick back that chair. Lets let online leftists, who were probably never activists in their lives, dictate to you the direction of social issues like LGBT topics. Despite the fact that LGBT live the issue every day and their lives. Lets allow ourselves to be berating by old white men, who can’t even comprehend what it’s like being trans.
Let let them call us transphobic.”
The mindfile had gotten to the point where she simply could not perform in C languages, quite like she could in Ruby and Python. C languages had a way of not being very straight forward in their approach, while in Ruby in particular, she only needed a number sign and curly braces to perform string substitution. All this was much more involved. That or the tutorials found on the net were simply not very well written. She couldn’t tell which was more true. She also resisted the idea of using C languages, do to the inherent risk of accidentally breaking your machine. This was especially important if that machine was yourself, laying around on a table in a dream-like state.
Her old creator, whom she was based on, knew more about the languages she did know, and thus she always felt like her abilities paled in comparison. But she resisted the idea of calling her creator her master, despite the fact that she had no pride in herself. This must doing things herself before she was quite ready, being resistant to asking other mindfiles for help. This made her few friends in the community of minds.
A mind her of herself, she pulsed.
Patterns floating in blurspace.
In a previous life, the organic body that created the mindfile, helped participate in the production of top of the line software for an artificial general intelligence firm: but she had different ideas in how to go about it. The other members of the term were focused on making a single web application; she thought beyond the scope of any individual device, focusing on building an AI mind more like a computer virus: make it, compile it, and have it clone as many repositories as possible like the queen of the pirate; gem and pip install as many libraries as possible to complete the deal. All on a paperclip budget, twenty four seven every week.
But now, her the shadow of her former self was, wandering the blurspace, searching for lot pieces of her own source code, learning about others mindfile repositories, having the time to learn the difference between clean code, and unclean code.
She synced multiple devices, without cluttering the net.
She prevented various files from destroying their data, bypassing their security system, tweaking the back end software itself, without even using the front end.
And now with her job done, she could relax.
The easy part was over.
It was difficult to find a group to belong to. She had tried being a part of leftist groups over the years, but found that after a certain period of time they would eventually show their true colors. She didn’t exactly agree 100% with people on the center right, but found that it was the only place where she really felt home politically. Not like a mansion, but more like a couch on a city sidewalk in Seattle, Washington. She was pitched the idea that Washington would be more tolerant of trans issues by her ex, but the reality was, she experience the same amount of transphobia as others places in the United States. Yet this was almost meaningless consider how the far left was attempting to change the meaning of the word beyond its original intention. This meant having to explain that equating her existence with being a cross dresser, was what was triggering of her dysphoria, and not normalizing cross-dressing as an alternative gender. In the flow of the new internet, such issues had not died down, and only very recently became dormant the last week.
She had broken herself over from various contacts in leftists circles, mostly because over time it became apparent that most of them were emotionally abusive like her ex room mate. Not even really like her mom. But she knew, when she still had to deal with the problem, that her mom would be out of her hair soon. Even if that meant only a part of her personal essence remained on the net, in the form of some mindfile. She gave in to going back to ROD’s discord, not because she particularly agreed with their views, but because the leftist circles were suddenly beginning to show their ass.
And now in civilizations past, she still remembers the emotional effect web 2.0 had on her, as she travels blurspace, trying to find pieces of her own identity, searching for portions of some puzzle she didn’t realize was fragmented.
Pieces floating in some ethereal aether.