I need to revise my timeline for strong AI by several decades/orders of magnitude.
Also write a novel before writers become obsolete?
This song captures my mood tonight:
Goodbye to spring
“when you wake it’s gonna be a different world”
- Everything has changed. Go do Important research to mitigate existential risk.
- Nothing has changed. Do what you love, defined as what you would do, if an AI is doing it 1000x better than you. Are you not doing that? Why not?
And more song parts:
I don’t know my purpose in this but it’s obvious it’s miniscule at best.
– Time bending
I’m freaking out because we’re running out of time.
– Swingset chain
Starting’s always hard
Until the mind’s world unfurls
A silence teeming
The moon is full tomorrow. The full moon and the new moon are times for reflection. When the moon wanes, do the things you want to get rid of in your life. It’s also the time to make offerings to the ancestors, food and liquor and burning paper money, all the things that they loved in life. You don’t owe them anything – the people who brought you into this world without your permission – give your token of respect and then follow your own desires. When the moon waxes, do the things you want more of in your life. Do this, and you’ll be better off than the people who don’t believe. It’s in all the traditions, Christian, Buddhist, native everything.
A blank page is possibility
but also, memories forgotten.
We can only start afresh so many times
before we die.
Woke up on the edge of meaning. There’s a cliff by my bedside. The other is a wall. I want to sleep forever, but dreams desert me: like potions they demand raw ingredients, fresh kills under the sunlight. Taking a deep breath, I begin my daily fall.
The sky is cloudy. The wind calls. I don a jacket and head outside.
It starts to rain thoughts, big and small. I stand and soak. Others hurry by with large umbrellas. They don’t have time for stray thoughts. A guy grabs them as they come, filling bags and bags of them, but somehow they leak out of their bottoms; he tries grabbing them with his hands, his clothes, his hat, his mouth, like someone who has won 15 seconds in a money machine, his eyes wide and maniacal-veined.
Some thoughts glimmer as they fall, too far to catch. The guy makes a desperate rush for them but trips, and his gathered thoughts spill out and fade. It makes me sad, but I stay; there are enough where I stand.
I walk by the road the way back. There’s a traffic jam, punctuated by honks. The thoughts bounce off steel skeletons and die on the asphalt. Faces look out, distracted.
No one opens their window for the homeless man. He catches thoughts, but he has too many already.
As I arrive on my doorstep, the thought storm subsides. The man with the bags walks by, “nothing again,” he says, “those slippery thoughts, they always get away.”
I open the window, and let the wind whisper in. The thoughts are gone now, but a sticky residue remain on my fingers. They’ll carry me until the thoughts come again.