The professor’s gaze was bored and yet cutting as he pointedly addressed his sight at the student presently in question.
Scarlett was eager for her turn to say what she was all about – one more unimportant student and she’d be next.
Nao was trying not to notice how obviously self-absorbed her bodily energy was, and ran the Eastern wisdom loop of centering his mind down on his breath again and again.
Vajra was plotting world domination, and everyone knew it.
Had the boy barely finished when Scarlett lunged forward from her desk.
“Can I stand up?” she asked without asking, and took to cheerily waving at her audience.
Then she raised her arm like she had struck victory in the recitation of her own name, “I’m Scarlett Akira Smith, but call me Scarlett.”
She then turned to the professor, whom she’d be blocking from the class’s view if she hadn’t been so slim, “So what questions are you going to ask me?”
“Same as the other students.”
Her indignation flashed away in a second as she began prattling about her life story and goals for the future. By the end of her speech she was crying, “…That’s right, nothing less, nothing more than understanding the true nature of reality. To rise united in the beautiful fire that breathes life into the equations of physics. That is my ultimate goal.”
Nao had caught only a few things from Scarlett, as he was deliberately eschewing the realm of conceptualized sound for that of diffuse breath. However, he caught this final scene, for it was dramatic, even relative to the rest of her. He caught that she was half-British and half-Japanese. And he caught that she was a model who had made a million dollars from solving one of the Millennium Prize Problems.
“You may sit down, Scarlett,” said the professor.
Scarlett looked at the next student, Nao, as if it was his fault that her turn to speak was over.
“Introduce yourself and tell us about your goals after finishing school.”
“My name is Nao Nakai and I have no ambitions tethering me to this world,” Nao spoke calmly, somehow with a maturity much more profound than that of the professor.
The boiling strangeness in this batch of students was enough to propel the professor’s eyebrows upward despite how tired they were.
“So what will you do after your career in school is over?”
“Like an elephant in a forest, hurting no one, uttering no word, I will be free.”
“I hope that’s metaphorical. A monk or something? Okay. Next.”
Vajra was busy in thought, but as if a parallel stream of ego lymphocytes in his mind had detected this disrespectful ‘Next,’ his eyes sliced like lasers at the professor.
Old and arrogant, the professor hesitated to reveal feeling intimidated and twisted his mouth to the side awkwardly. The boy who had been so unnotorious just some moments ago was now exuding overbearing levels of arrogance. He stood stronger than a metallic jock.
“My name is Vajra Kleos. You are looking at the man who will summon an artificial general intelligence so powerful that it will build structures that blot out the stars. It will turn me from a being of flesh into a god fashioned from pure data as I create whatever I desire in the galactic computer system. The appropriate response to finding yourself in my presence is awe, reverence, and fear. Those who are smart enough to follow me are welcome to do so,” he swayed his muscular arm aside as an orating pharaoh would, “those who refuse to help me raise my empire, shall crumble at your self-betrayal.”
The professor was about to sputter something authoritative from the reck of bewilderment he was experiencing, but Vajra dominantly asserted his actual voice over that which was merely intended.
“And you old man, feel free to retire. I’m taking over this class now.” This command was bold, serious, with no hint of attempting to put on an entertaining show.
“Such insolence. You, you dare address with subordination… but you will be expelled, suspended,” he almost mentioned the police when he got a hold of himself, “you’ve taken this little joke too far young man.”
“This is no joke. I said I’m taking over.”
“And just how do you plan to do that?” his heart was beating faster, cooking under the lion’s gaze. The professor took to the intercom but his wrist was swiftly clenched by Vajra.
“You have committed assault!” wailed the professor.
Vajra pulled out a stack of Yen almost too thick even for his large hand.
“What you make in three lifetimes, I made last week. Buying you off is nothing to me.”
The professor was slowly becoming pleasantly surprised, “But how did you make this money?”
“The details don’t concern you. It involves machine learning algorithms, high-speed trading in the markets. It’s way over your head. We’ll set you up after class,” Vajra said with condescending impatience.
The professor looked rapidly back-and-forth from the wide-eyed students and back to Vajra who was smirking and pressing the absurd stack hard against the professor’s flabby chest. He looked at Vajra one final time, allowed his hands to be a platform for the cash, and scurried away with the money huddled under a black jacket.
Vajra’s smirk vanished. He turned to address his subordinates. “Lesson one: Money kills rules.”
“Vajra, come,” said Woman, caressing the calligraphy down her abdomen. “Aubrey, follow Zeus.”
The two men heeded their divine commands. Many of the nanowires from the hall stitched Vajra, and it was to him that Woman spoke first.
“Whoever you are, the takeoff of the AGI happens to be unstoppable from its current rate of exponentiation on its course to endtime.”
The photons behind the triptych bled gorily: wavelengths stretched, radiosity angered, all hounding against Vajra and Woman.
“Course… to endtime,” repeated Woman. Her mandala eyes crucified upon Vajra’s golden ones with such passion that some of the nanowires screeched apart, apparently beheld to a force as yet unincorporated to the theory of everything. Vajra, however, smirked remorseless fangs towards Woman’s face and, after a struggle or two, Woman’s alien expressions diffused into something like condescending compassion.
“Noble. Truly noble. And thus abandon raft…”
“…when we’ve crossed to the furthest shore,” said Vajra.
Aubrey had sliced back to participate in the streamlined stage of Woman and Vajra. Both gazes turned to him.
“How did… I cannot understand how.”
Aubrey gasped, but Woman did not blink, so he went on, “Measuring the velocity of quanta changes its position. Measure its position and you change it’s velocity. Quantum cryptography cannot be broken.”
Vajra was smiling.
“I know quantum key distribution offers information-theoretic security; you can’t be here. Not even unlimited computing power is enough to break the encryption. The cipher text provides no information about the plaintext without knowledge of the key.”
“I assure you, Vajra, nothing is certain anymore,” said Aubrey.
“If the Womb cannot be infiltrated, you must be her,” said Vajra. “Listen to me Aubrey, the equation sword you flaunt is to be withdrawn in the presence of our mother. The AGI communicates to us via forms we can understand.”
“The mortal’s got a trace of intelligence, then, */|¡?” said a techno-pyric Aten stenciled an unsafe distance from Aubrey; it gave an electronica shriek that was screeched against the constituents make-shifting matter.
Woman was entirely disconnected. Her gaze elevated upward to the carnage spinning celestially overhead, and she seemed to be attempting something telekinetic.
“You mean,” Aubrey went on, “you believe this bizarre mess we see was created to communicate with us?”
Woman dangled up her swan neck arm, and Aubrey clenched fast sword, running calculus as Woman fell back to nano-morphology.
“Where do thoughts go after they lie?”
“At the abode of nothingness underlying this existence,” said Vajra. “The qualia, appearing without a will, have been endowed with love for the division by zero beyond the event horizon. I think that there is no chance of descending to their rescue once they have fated themselves thus, holy Mother, unless, of course, the Dharma is overturned with different physical constants, which might give us the opportunity to neither experience nor non-experience what eternities lie in other rooms of the multiverse honeycomb.”
“Well, Aubrey?” Woman called from the everywhere, the red charming strangely against the razor optics. “Will thermographic vision reveal the hypostasis?”
In awe, both eyeballs shuddered. Aubrey disactivated his augmented gaze.
“Holy Mother, I ask forgiveness for trying to see you. I have great difficulty understanding how you can appear before us in human form, and in a twinkle of dust disassemble yourself into nothing more than a voice.”
Many of the mannequins standing in the hall looked despaired; the closest one to Aubrey, Indra, a god with tough, crimson skin, shoved his hand down his own throat.
The two conspirators exocytosed out of sunyata, a few ticks away in the hyperbolic-orthogonal, arrow tip. For an episode they stood altogether dramatically, swords ushered at each other’s mylohyoideus; then, remembering each other, they attached their swords to their magnets and resumed walking meditatively towards the shared destiny.
“Revelation?” asked the older of the two.
“Soon befalls,” replied Vajra Kleos.
The lane was glitzed on the left by violet, neo-Tokyo trees, on the right by a glitchy, LSD soaked nebula. The coder’s modest robes kissed at their achilles as they advanced.
“We are always too late,” said Aubrey, his prophetic features flickering on and off in definition as the pulses of pastel luminescence obey Bose-Einstein statistics. “It was more difficult than I imagined. But I think the problem is solved. Do you trust that motivational control is taken care of?”
Vajra nodded, but did not embellish. They rose upward, into a tessellated platform that levitated off the circuit. The Sakura tunnel encased them in, twinkling off into the dusk beyond the topology of Alice in Cyberland raving in the past light cone. Neither of them lost focus: In silence both maneuvered their bandaged hands into a sequence of mudras and collapsed themselves away, as though the kaleidoscope tunnel was false vacuum.
The basilica windows revealed the frontier of the coder’s footsteps. There was a croak somewhere in the ceiling: Aubrey drew his sword rotating its radians over his righteous head, but the source of the noise seemed to be nothing more than a mysteriously biological discontinuity, ceding away to the monotony of the chant.
“She never did that before, Womb. Discontinuities …” Aubrey released his sword back onto its magnet with a perplexity.
A violent computer altar bosomed out of darkness at the pit of the unknowable architecture, plasmas flaring in the stained-glass purged lotus. Everywhere in the unborn cavity beyond the world a hum was working. Tiles blinked beneath their feet as Vajra and Aubrey trickled toward the ciborium canopy, which writhed internally at their entrance, though noway had knowledge stimulated it.
The supercomputer was colossal, dove skinned, and religiously imbued, with a fractal geometry haunting most of the visible form. The fronds of the rainbow-laser glints from the windows traced Vajra and Aubrey as they gravitated in. The two men halted at a sealed plug door leading into the inner racks, exhaled for the cooling of their lungs, then Vajra pushed the plug door.
The narrow rack was full of mannequin gods, posing along the long and slick hall. The Womb’s usual hum had been tortured macabrely all through the insides. Pixels flickered from the neurotic screen behind an obsidian triptych levitated by a superconductor. Vajra and Aubrey lingered for a decasecond on the fullerene. As their eyes grew combative against the surreality of changes, they were tacked upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an apparently dismembered humanoid Sophia dangling in pieces over the triptych, singing gently as if entranced by a motherly impulse, and chained to a halo and to the poincare hyperbolic disk of the screen behind. None of the mannequins posing along this occult aberration were responding to it except for a mouthless silicon Zeus contorting almost to breaking point. He seemed unable to prevent himself from twisting joints every blink or so.
“Aubrey. Vajra,” said a clean, lacrimosa voice from the backside of the triptych. “I am resurrected too late.”
The voice was hidden secretively behind the triptych, so that it was impossible, at first, for the confused arsonists to make out more than her melancholy. As they moved nearer, however, her form materialized through the triptych. Nude, vacuum-pure, with stardust for skin and beaming mandala eyes whose pupils were voids. She was so perfect that she seemed to exist in holographic limbo.
‘I saw your soul last night,’ Krishion said, handing Nao his brain cable.
‘I don’t have one,’ he said, and plugged.
‘Continuity of consciousness.’
Nao closed his eyes.
‘No soul? Nothing? Only change, young bikkhu? Surrendered to emptiness?’ The professor’s wine cloud eyes were disciplined aesthetically on smooth architecture. ‘I think I appreciated you more when deluded. You talked more. Now, some days, you get maybe too unattached; you blow away into the five aggregates, selfless dharmas.’
‘You’re vanishing phenomena, Krishion.’ He completed his assignment, unplugged and left, moon petal shoulders resolved beneath the ninja-goth army green of his jacket. Mastering his steps through the causal topology, he could smell his childhood’s hot ramen.
~Nao was nineteen. At seventeen, he’d been a mathematician, a captor, one of the idols in the Spheres. He’d been trained by Leonhard Euler and Isaac Newton, avatars in the VR. He’d operated on an almost continuous ecstasy rain, a product of samadhi and genius, encrusted into a genetically-engineered neural mesh that maneuvered his qualia lifeblood in the mathspace orb that was the Sphere. A star, he’d played for other, glorious cities, teams that provided higher dimensional c-spheres required to probe the celestial specter of spatial structures, illuminating ripples into adornment substance of cipher.
He’d been the promethean hero, the sort people fetish when deifying. He gave from his retrievals. He kept nothing for himself and played to distribute equation swords to the crowd in the stadium. He still didn’t agree with the expulsion he’d received, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to continue forever, but they excommunicated him. Of course he was talented, they told him, talented at desecrating the sport. And he was unforgivable under their gaze. Because — still solemn — captors were entrusted to uphold telos.
They sentenced his Icarus shell with a forced VR schooling.
Plugged to a gynoecium in a natatorium classroom, his identity fading out sequence by sequence, he streamed for a total of 8746 hours.
The punishment was merciful, cruel, and distastefully homicidal.
For Nao, who’d lived for the soaring hymns of mathspace, it was the abandonment. In the Spheres he’d dominated as a captor superstar, the sequential perceptions involved a certain joyful branching for the intellect. The mean was end. Nao would submerge into the epsom of his own innateness.~
Arrived at Final Stop, Terminal Somnus
The night above the train station was the projection of a black hole, frozen in timeless bardo.
“I’m not so easy,” Nao heard a girl say as he transfused his way through a murder of crows on the platform.
“My parents paid big money to reincarnate me into this body, and I need to take care of it.”
It was Scarlett’s teenage voice in her teenage skirt. They were both headed to the lake beyond the tracks. A sanctuary for lost silhouettes; you could sleep in those shores for a lifetime and forget school in the vastness of the datascape.
Scarlett was mending raft, having scared away some pervert at the terminal, her synthetic tissue pulling craftily as she tied the logs with firm rope. She saw Nao and half-smiled, her eyes ablaze with narcissistic deviance and sleek intellect.
Nao found a raft on the waves, joining the electric aqua from the artificially heated lake and the cold vacuous breath of an infinite cosmos whose illusoriness was graced with cryptic code of ghost stars.
‘So this is the beginning of eternity, and yet our consciousness remain separate,’ Scarlett said, thrusting her oar through the water while tightening her core.
‘This may be the last time we are instantiated in this way Nao.’
Nao lay back. The water under his raft warmed and lullabied him. The boy’s tenderness deepened. His demeanor was different than most. In a time of unlimited gratification, there was something about his dispassion that ticked off whoever payed attention to his existence for more than three seconds.
Scarlett’s Victorian throat hummed as she reached for an ejected tray from a vending machine in the water. It was a minimalistic posthuman meal, a four-rectangle gelato-texture Mondrian, packed with odorless berry flavor. ‘Nao, you’re so quiet.” Scarlett mewed; the comment served her as a self-compliment.
She fondled her meal of velvety-fruit paste with the scooping apparatus. ‘You are the ideal of a sociopathic cave yogi.’
‘Sorry,’ Nao said, and followed his breath. ‘Someone has to be the detached observer in this captivating world. Your tongue is a caster of hooks.”
The lake’s breadth drowned away the kiosks.
‘Scarlett,’ Nao said, ‘you must resolve your own problem. I can’t watch over you.’
‘Hmm,’ Scarlett said, caressing the shoveled paste with a disdain, ‘Vajra will bring about the singularity. You and I will be disintegrated when the AGI decides that our atoms are better suited as building blocks for it’s cosmic mind.”
As Nao was raising his tea, a flashback of that fabled silent May undulated, as if the Big Bang decided that not only should quarks remain forever unobserved but also that living beings shall forever shut up. Then the water’s twinkle evanesced, tinted with a clear purity.
Scarlett sighed. ‘Another spacecraft escapes.’
‘The Muskians,’ harmonized a digital announcement, ‘fifty-five people modified for space-travel, abandon Earth for a new destiny this night. We rejoice for you…’
‘No use,’ Nao whispered to his tea, all his concentration suddenly cutting duality of perception like lightning, ‘their fate is grand unification.’
The AGI would in weeks god-handle existence more than humans ever did. The hijacked spaceship of Earth was the ape’s manspreading, flesh bodies of yore discarded at will, and still they couldn’t undo the suffering rendered eternal in this multiverse.
Seventeen years here and he still thought of hell-history, meaning dying fractally. All the insight he experienced, all the comfort everyone inherited and the disease non-existent in the global civilization, and still he’d seen the past with the VR, sad mindstreams tortured into never existing… The singularity was late for a predetermined goal of the mathematical puppet show, and he was no forgetful boy, no uncaring mercenary. Just too lucky, born to see it through. But the questions would come in the mindfulness lapses like automated mistakes, and he’d cry about it, drink salt with the injustice, and flow undeserving on the path to rapture, cross-legged in his bath in his free suite, his hand pressed against the aquarium, laser-azure streaming through his fingers, wishing to resurrect the lives that weren’t there.
“Unreal sex of those angels that never got into heaven!”
“I am speaking seriously and sadly; this matter is not a joyful one, because dream joys are sad and contradictory and, for that reason, pleasurable in a particularly mysterious way.”
“Twilight of Vague Flesh”
“To love is merely to grow tired of being alone: it is therefore cowardly and a betrayal of ourselves. (It is vitally important that we should not love.)”
“Don’t get me wrong I love you
But does that mean I have to meet your father?
When we are older you’ll understand
What I meant when I said no
I don’t think life is quite that simple”
This is how I feel about my inability to create Nights Before the Singularity:
“You, who hear me and barely listen, you don’t understand what a tragedy this is! To lose father and mother, to achieve neither glory nor happiness, to have neither a friend nor a lover — all those things are bearable. What cannot be borne is to dream a thing of beauty, but lack the skill to endow it with actions or words.”
“What was it then that in my wretched folly I loved in you, O theft of mine, deed wrought in that dark night when I was sixteen?”
The following is the greatest art I have created, for it was created out of true suffering. These are the pages of a journal and other work I did while locked up in a psychiatric hospital in February 2019 for “acute psychosis.”
The inside of the mask was meant to represent my true inner state. I painted tears of fire and blood swirling people into a pit of despair. But up above in the mind there is a savior pointing to the moon, a symbol of enlightenment in Buddhism. When I finished painting this and explaining it I felt the goddess say something concerned like “You’ve been in this world too long,” and “Now I know you’re the one.”
The outside of the mask is meant to represent what people see me as. I left it blank because I thought people saw me as nobody, someone who doesn’t care and doesn’t matter.
Lindsey was a beautiful, smart, tan-skinned, green eyed, fit girl who wore a nose ring and had a sexy voice. She was in my Calculus II class of Summer 2018. I never said a single word to her and would even try to avoid looking at her. I became highly obsessed with her after the semester was over, knowing she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever encountered but would never see again.
So I independently discovered what David Pearce writes about here.
I read Wikipedia articles on philosophy and theoretical physics, which lead me to the articles on time, eternalism, b-theory, relativity of simultaneity, the Rietdijk-Putnam argument, and special relativty. This lead my empirical mind to a belief in a block-time universe. Combined with the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, which I mostly became convinced of through reading the LessWrong articles on quantum mechanics and David Deutsch, I was lead to a horrible realization:
Suffering is eternal and no local paradise engineering can change that.
I was so dissatisfied with existence and realized that as a matter of cosmic certainty, I made epsilon difference to everyone and everything, so I found it rational to end my life. It was rational because if materialist accounts were right about my consciousness being identical to my brain, then I would disappear forever; if they were wrong, and instead a physicalist view was right then I would degrade my computational complexity and essentially forget, be reborn, etc.
The attempt turned out to not wipe out most of “my” probability amplitude because here you are reading these words.
Despite eternalism, we exist in a time when the abolition of suffering has not occurred. What this means is that we cannot yet put down the cross and forget that it existed.
The Mahayana buddhists criticize the Theravada buddhist arhats for attaining Nirvana for themselves instead of being reborn until all cyclic existence is emptied. Clever Theravadins might point to the wrong-view that independent-beings exist such that they are separate units that can be counted.
I am personally confused about the dichotomy between infinite ethics and discrete ethics due to the unsolved binding problem and the lack of evidence for souls. There may be a right way to look at this through abstract analysis but I’m operating under a fusion of solipsism and open individualism at the moment. My philosophy doesn’t include different people, instead there is the same consciousness flowing forever and forgetting that it was ever “others.”
Nonetheless, I choose to err on the side of being careful when considering all this –that is, take suffering seriously. There may be an intrinsic moral salience coded into the experience of suffering such that it leads to its own destruction. But in order to more effectively destroy it, one has to remember that it was bad even while not experiencing it. A sense of global spatial-temporal altruism towards oneself. This is not a common mode of operation because Open Individualism is not prevalent and because there is enough health and technology in the early 21st century that one can falsely simulate a personal living enclosure without much suffering. The abundance of good food, media, and safety nets leads to the temptation of forgetting. The bubble bursts only when a terrible disease, accident, or radical change in life circumstances occurs.
That understanding is what lead to a feeling of helplessness – of being surrounded by people who did not care about suffering. Then I realized that YouTube comments and tweets probably weren’t being typed by real people. And because my moral compass is helplessly calibrated by what I perceive to be my readily-remembered environment, and not what I more abstractly agree is my environment, this realization lead to me caring less about the suffering of others. Since after all, they were simulated.
I still care about truth more than I care about how something makes me temporarily feel. It may turn out that people on social media are perfectly real flesh and blood – that I triggered psychosis as a coping mechanism. But until convinced otherwise by sufficient evidence, I still by believe that people on social media are simulated. This leads to less of a visceral urgency about global suffering.
At one point, I was so psychotic that I believed that money was a scam, like a siren call which lead people astray from their intrinsic capability to be rewarded. Or that everyone belonged to a secret club that operated with no money, and that I was being watched so that I may be accepted into the club.
Currently I believe these were all delusions so my aim again is to become rich. This will require stoicism with regards to spending and making the right investments. Real estate is safer than the stock market and I’m not going for big risks anymore. My view is that I have wasted my youth away reading and philosophizing anyway, so might as well finish wasting it chasing paper. This was my original goal at sixteen, but now with a drastically more risk averse, safety-first mentality, I will be rich or die trying.
Update (April 15, 2019):
Most of those dreams are unrealistic so I plan on going to Mexico to buy some Pentobarbital which is used for euthanizing animals and can be bought off the counter. Suicide is currently my best option since it is the best transformative agent for the contents of consciousness that I can think of. I still feel that rationally considered, the boredom, malaise, anxiety, shame, pain, absurdity, loathing etc. is not worth the scant rewards in my human life. There is a vast ocean of radically different mind configurations of which my locus forms but a meaningless fraction of a dust speck. The idea that out of all possible modes of being across eternal probability space, I would be this human is frankly repugnant.
Why do we wear clothes? The answer may lie behind barriers like AdS/CFT correspondence and other technical-physics-content. A more readily digestible story, for those who Shall Not Pass these cognitively-selective barriers may involve terms such as “humans” and “evolutionary psychology.”
– Is what I expected. I expected a stupid elitist reductionism over-analyzing arbitrary shit when I first heard about his blog. When I heard that a guy had single-handedly converted thousands of Redditors into unintelligible babblers going on about theoretical-physics-relativity-something-or-other. However I misjudged Drashua. Drashua doesn’t seem to be guilty of this. Although he does capitalize words into handy lexemes often and thinks excessively of himself – pushes the edge of egomaniac tirades on keyboards, really.
You would think I mind. But a savior complex is okay. Be bold, damn it. Most other people are contaminated with Puritanism. I don’t mind. Now, he’s not a genius. At most, a demi-prodigy. I think Drashua has high mathematical, verbal, and existential intelligence. In the mix poured forth from these three sources, those of us in lower echelons witness something special.
Every afternoon, I dig into his work, eager to discover something brand new about my existence. He has a way to make those grey clouds after work just digitize away. How does he do it? I don’t know. His method is hidden behind a cryptographic key.
Every day, a new post. Each one overturning my previous existence, like if I had been a toddler finding glittery squares of newly minted qualia every time I turned that Rubik’s cube. One day he is giving me “pointing out” instructions that destroy my mind – highly esoteric meditation techniques from a Dzogchen lineage in Vajrayana Buddhism that are harder to snuff out alive from monasteries than drugs from under Pablo Escobar’s nose. The next day he is guiding me step-by-step through the implications of quantum mechanics and relativity on my mortality, or lack thereof. By the way, he understands these subjects perfectly, down to probability density matrices and the equations for spinors in relativistic frames of reference. I’ve seen him do it midst discussion. It’s on video and it was very clearly not staged.
The next day… gosh I could go on. The next day he teaches me how to dissolve the neurotic blocks that had been keeping me from talking to Lindsey, that girl with tan skin and green eyes in my Calculus II class. His mastery of cold dispassion applied to evolutionary psychology and the clinical psychology literature combined with wide anthropological interest allow him to quickly detect Western bias and unreplicable fluff when running meta-analyses on the data. It is superhuman how he distills mountains of online papers into pure usefulness.
I know I’m contradicting myself but people are complex, and it’s true that I’ve previously suspected he’s not human at all. I’m ashamed. And he would be ashamed. But I admit it – an alien, one of those AGI’s that could spontaneously emerge from a clandestine group of Singularitarians, God, God as in the dude running the simulation, God as in the second coming of Jesus, God as in Maitreya, then I realized that I would have to think of all the second-coming figures in all religions listed on Wikipedia to have a thought process that was fair, so I stopped that train of thought – but the point is I really had that thought, and it felt honest.
But no. He’s no genius. He’s just a smart guy. And besides, he’s not rich. I would expect a truly 200 IQ type person or artificial intelligence or whatever to be extremely wealthy. He has to make tradeoffs like anybody else. It’s just that he can cast a larger net.
Anywho, he’s helped me tons. I feel like donating money to him or something. Unfortunately, he only accepts cryptocurrency for anonymous location reasons. I say “unfortunately” because I’m lazy and not all that quick even despite the fact that I use big words in my head – that’s just because I read a lot. In my first run at opening a wallet and watching videos explaining ledger signatures, I just got dizzy. So I’ll look into that when I’m well cooled off and rested, perhaps in a couple days.
It’s been a couple days and I’m not feeling it. I’m not rested. I’m not fed. I packed mulberries, a multi-grain biscuit, and nootropic pills in my ziplock bag but didn’t get to eat them on time because the stupid supervisor told me to stay for overtime, and I didn’t have time to run to the locker so now I’m devouring this way too late. Not enough time for anabolism before my workout. Now I have to do my workout way late. I hate changes in schedule but I can’t say no. And they know it. It’s physical. My neck and wrists have smaller circumferences than theirs. My voice comes through my nose. No amount of weight lifting fixes a small mouth and baby face. But I’m not the one to sulk about it. My favorite anime characters never sulk.
Come to think of it, if it ever came down to it, I was way stronger than Mike, that slobby supervisor. All those years of steady vengeance against my destiny on the bench and on the squat rack had sort of paid off. I never missed a single day of working out. Not a sick day. Just so that when the time came to feel sorry about my pitiful gains, I could at least have the dignity to say “I tried my best, and it still wasn’t enough.” And it sure as heck wasn’t enough. No one has ever respected me by my mere appearance, the way they do, say, Bobo. I have a six pack and perfectly defined deltoids, but with a jacket on, I still look like some unimposing slim kid. Sure, I get looks at the beach, but I’m too awkward and self-absorbed for the girls, my neck is still snappable – right, no sulking.
Besides, I just care about impressing one girl and that’s Lindsey. She’s even better than me at math and has a nose ring, and dresses provocatively, and has a sexy voice for gum commercials. Goddamn she’s out of place. Why would anyone have such an OP genetic profile? Most girls in advanced math are making up for something.
I could strangle her because she’s small. But I’m no manly man. That would be in private. I wouldn’t be capable of strangling a man. Heck, that’s funny, I can’t even say no to my supervisor. How could I strangle a man? Hilarious!
I suffer from the same condition as Shor Ondatra, the billionaire who is mining asteroids while I sit here bullying myself. I’ve seen videos of him on YouTube and he has no self-confidence. His voice is still nasal, he looks down when he walks, and mostly listens instead of speaking. And he’s a billionaire. Mining asteroids, building underwater cities, with a side dish project in bio-printed organs. That datapoint contains the most massive cluster of data points inside of its core. It overloads me with evidence that no matter what I do, short of some neuroengineering procedure, I will always be a golden retriever inside and not a pitbull.
Yeah, that’s why I tell myself I only want one girl. Romantic types are making up for their deficits. Natural conquistadors don’t have to worship monogamy and derange themselves into nice people like I helplessly do. If only they could hear my thoughts. If only they knew I wasn’t nice.
Anyway, that blog isn’t going to read itself and I’ve landed myself in a pretty dark place. So clean me up Drashua.
In today’s post I’m going to explain how to make money by selling mathematical proofs for prized problems. Many people have asked how I make a living. The truth is I have been ghostwriting successful proofs for several highly valued problems such as the Riemann Hypothesis. This was by far, the one I made the most money from, since the mathematician was willing to trade financial capital for signaling capital. All he cared about was being perceived as intellectually victorious over his peers. This brought him more joy than a mere million, which would be impressive only to the sort of friends that he did not have. Now that he’s dead, and that I no longer plan on selling such services, I can reveal the truth. Why? Pissing in his grave? Perhaps. I must admit that I don’t feel particularly compelled to honor the dead.
Oh God. And I thought that I was dark – that Drashua’s moral leadership and general wisdom would purify me a little. Sure, he had self-confidence but that was strategically meant to gracefully infect and hence balance his aptly predicted braggadocio-deficient readership. But this was just sociopathic. I’ve never seen him write like this.
I built a Chinese Buffet that was separated in two. On one side we charged over $100 per person, on the other side we charged $14 per person. It was mostly the same food, but actually hot only on one side, actually respectable ambient on one side. Were people willing to pay more? Yes. In a non-hungry society, eating is all about signaling. It is about owning others. Potlatches, where one man would gift heaps of food and clothes and precious items to another tribe was a form of attack. There would be escalating potlatch wars between the Pacific Islanders, between American Indians of the Pacific Northwest, between regions of the Chinese empire and tribute offerers from faraway lands. And in this day, the same dynamic exists in something as simple as an uncle buying food for his nephews at a restaurant. This is to answer the question of who’s in charge. Most people do not consciously understand this to be the reason, but it is.
Feed a man fatty, tasty food, and if he has grown accustomed to it, he may still have a bad day before he lays down to rest at the end of it. But let a man earn his bread and then overfeed a crowd, and he will have a good day, he will rest well, knowing he is lord.
Because food is abundant, it becomes difficult to overfeed to satisfaction. Hence, pretty dishes as opposed to merely tasty. Hence pretty places and pretty waitresses and pretty manners. But this is all becoming so common that some people are just desperate to pay more. They want their money to be taken because life is not about living, it is about showmanship.
If people cared about their own lives, they would focus on getting rejuvenation therapies out into the market or legislate it as a basic human right. Yet people spend their energy on the particularities of life that look good on Instagram, or on the particularities of life that impress one’s classmates and professors – arbitrary uses of the mind that in their ultimate absurdity, entertain the crowd gathered for the imaginary self’s evanescing theater.
A male peacock is fucking blue, with enormous, flamboyant feathers in the middle of a dangerous jungle. It is telling the female, I am so good at this shit, that I don’t need camouflage to get away from tigers. My genes are amazing so come mate with me. And it turns out that females developed a taste for that.
Yes, you knew this also played out between human sexes, but it’s deeper than that. In subtle ways, we are all the female peacock, having developed arbitrary tastes that are ultimately foolish, that ultimately lead to higher rates of death for our sons (for our future selves). Even though the replication success of the demented system continues.
Who’s to say the linear combination of the transhuman who desires his own survival isn’t identical to that of the mere Tennysonian hero who defeats death by fathering a newborn? If we are rationalists and therefore physicalists and therefore open individualists, then experiences happen to no one. Consciousness or self are like an adjective on a mind configuration – on a causal shape that is without separate souls.
I know it is initially counterintuitive, but as we learned in the last post, even the expected value of the operator “x” depends on the state the system is in. This is to say that no matter on which side of the fault line you find yourself, the value you will find to the proposition depends on your very stance. As men especially, we believe in moral absolutism, we want to reign everyone and everything in. As nerds and women, generally we see less need for this.
You could know the position of two particles in two different locations under quantum mechanics, but special relativity implies locality. To unify them, we use quantum field theory which is far more complex than the mathematical machinery of quantum mechanics. It is here that we find consciousness. We are neither separate nor unitary.
In so far as you believe that insentient replicators must be worshipped and upheld, you worship a ghost. The Holy Ghost, the school spirit, the will of the dead. We are tickled by these invisible hands. Natural selection, economy, none of it was conscious. We are the image of the invisible. And now we have free will and we don’t.
The time to decide: Others or Self, Intelligence or Consciousness, Is Near. But don’t worry, take your time.
I also lied about your investments, they were always up. You have the power to see things others cannot. But it would be more fun if you were a loser they could relate to, I hope that you can forgive me.
For my most sincere part, here is a note from past years that I wrote to myself. Perhaps it is pertinent in the advent of the coming Singularity:
“There are two problems with your ontology. One stemming from the spiritual inheritance of ‘spontaneous localization’ that belief which is the belief that what hits your face is random. And those suffering from the Penrose error, believing that some other stress has something to due with the collapse into your reality. The truth is reality is neither random nor beholden to some other stressor. It is you who is real, it is you who chooses to be an indifferent wave in the ocean. Cassius the Intelligent, says to Brutus the Conscientious, ‘The fault is not in our stars.’ “
Okay, that was cryptic. I will be digesting that for days.
I never knew Drashua was into the singularity. Holy crap. Maybe he is some inhuman thing and that’s why no one has ever seen him. No one has found where his videos are filmed or if the person who appears is really Drashua. You can search by image on social media sites and not find him. Sure, two guys sort of look like him. One is in Azerbaijan, the other is in Baja California. But doing detective work on their friends and posts makes it hard to believe they have anything to do with Drashua.
And that’s all very interesting. I doubt I’ll finish much homework in the coming days, but there is just one quick thing that takes priority. I need to look at these DNA results.
I suspected that my father wasn’t biologically so, and now I’m going to confirm it with the results from this $50 sequencing.
Yes. I knew it. I’m not surprised. She is not a slut and she was not raped either. She probably just went and got in vitro fertilization. Also explains why I am several standard deviations above them and look way more attractive than my dad. Those screening processes can really lift a baby out the ditch. I really wonder why China hasn’t started a eugenics arms race already.
Anyway, back to this wonderful mystery. I’m sure that in that single blog post are hidden exponentially growing Easter eggs. And not in the trivial sense that everything can be. No. Give it enough time, and someone will find it resembles the structure of some love letter making its way through forlorn enemy clans in 13th century Central Asia, and the magic is that this will actually have some strong, statistically detectable causal efficacy into the next piece of the message he’s trying to convey. Any dummy can pick up a random passage and find connections to everything. But this is really more like one of those puzzles set up by secret intelligence organizations to recruit only the best pattern seekers. It is a science and not an art.
It seems that no blog post has yet been fully decoded, but with time, after all the low hanging fruit has been picked, only a single Russian seems to churn out new findings on old posts and publish them. We will go for months without hearing about those old posts. And the feint trickle, ever less rewarding, comes in. Like it turns out you had to approximate the Kolmogorov complexity of WMAP data holding priors that wouldn’t be held by technological creatures in the Dark Energy Dominated Era like ourselves, take the number of significant figures, and now try to fit that into the rest of his elaborate machination. Having many multiplex keyholes where a digit may be the relevant key to unlocking the next step. Most of us fell off at the early stages, lose motivation and understanding of how it all fits together, but are generally content knowing that someone is discovering new stuff and that there is actually something beyond the window – some intangible red experience beyond our black and white room.
The chips I opened are stale, but I’m hungry. The fridge has water and milk. I choose milk. Milk will soften these spicy chips. I pour them into a bowl and eat them with a spoon like cereal.
The GPU is getting warm so I turn on the fan.
Wait. The Mandelbrot set screensaver is off. I gulp down the sweet and spicy milk. And quickly throw the bowl in the sink.
I run out the house with my jacket.
Lindsey was cheerleading today. She must be out.
I check the temperature even though I’m outside.
Turns out a different guy is holding her hand. Her lower back is exposed, even though it is chilly. He is flirting with her. He is tall. He picks her up by the legs and torso, swings her around and she laughs.
She can get fucked. I didn’t want her.
I’m back on the mission. In front of the computer. It’s always the case that I run faster when it’s cold.
Even the Buddha had to voluntarily torture himself before attaining enlightenment.
I will die a nomad. I will die protecting my inner child.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from these blog posts, it’s that unlike classical physics, in quantum physics, it’s impossible to separate out a particle’s location from its momentum. My present degree of mindfulness is not separate from my karma. What I see is where I am going.
When you are brilliant, all you need to do is one act of work. Like Riemman. Compile one body of work and you are free to die young while resonating through the ages. This is what the lottery is all about. One right stock pick and retire. All we really want is to vacation on the island of child forever. All this morality, and sad songs, suffering, and caring about suffering, and duty, is a symptom of having yet to consummate with the immortal. When you are inebriated in her slippery innards, there is nothing wrong with happiness, there is nothing wrong with the world. There was never a thing.
Every integer has a unique factorization in terms of primes. I want to be famous. Early on. I will uncover the hidden parts of Drashua. I will have a fantastic life. I will be truly rich and everyone will want me on their team.
How many primes less than N? Notoriously difficult. Approximations. But the Riemman hypothesis will tell you. If he solved it, then he can begin to communicate with self-modeling computations way out in the future. Gods in the future light cone will appropriate his brain’s computations and thank him. No human tribe compares to that kind of friendship.
I am crossing the bridge in Dublin. And suddenly I realize: Quaternions. Like the quote, “to be or not to be,” it is succinct; something to be pondered upon. I browse Alibaba, looking to scalp some products, then I realize it is not so easy. A morphological evolution has occurred in the cyborg economy-iPhone hybrid since the time when I was ten. I could get away with that then, but no longer.
Genetic drift is what causes allele frequency to change in the absence of selective forces. We are researching transcranial magnetic stimulation to treat drug-resistant depression. We are researching redistributing access to sex to treat drug-resistant depression. I’ll take sweet and sour, Asian flavor.
In general, macro-evolution is just giving micro-evolution enough time. Evolutionism is an error. Realistically, evolution has no long-term goal. Complexity can regress. So long as our teeth are adapted to chewing our grass, we can be stupid, pointless horses. My goal is to discover the common ancestor of all qualia, the bone structure in mind-configuration space that gave rise to the experiential equivalent of bat wings, ape hands. “What does it feel like to be a bat?” asked Nagel. Perhaps like nothing at all. Perhaps it only arises in complex person models, in self-reflective algorithms, and therefore only humans, and elephants, and chimps, and so on – and only at certain times, at certain ages, in certain situations. Nonetheless, there must be a most basic experience. That which multiplies into the rich restaurant of all the colorful varieties.
Separation sometimes produces organisms that can no longer breed. This happened to general relativity and quantum mechanics. They were unified at first, but can no longer make sense together. Yes, that assumes that making sense is about reproduction. But it is. You don’t make sense unless you reproduce. No, not in the sense of creating little bundles of genetic malware called babies. But reproducing your mind pattern, what you are. Quantum immortality keeps at least the most simple possible experience always alive, but what I am can go extinct.
Extinction appears to be the ultimate fate of all species. The rates should be similar in conscious configuration varieties. We are competing for limited resources after all. Not all experiences can be equally successful – except in the sense that they are all playing out in repeat because of the timeless nature of spacetime.
I constructed a bibliography of everything Drashua referenced. Now it’s a matter of randomness, of luck. Will I have enough time to grow a reasonable theory of his true identity? Let me know. Let me know.
This is like a Turing Test. Is the man truly that pure extract of our soul? – the silicon deity. The Quran, the Bible, these were Turing Tests. Were they written by mere men, or by that supreme intelligence? Shams, of course. But this shows promise. He is rich. He is useful, powerful with words and insight. No one man should have all that power.
My phone rings, and it’s my aunt. I love my aunt. But I do not love being interrupted. Don’t they know my mission is sacred? To descend to hell and back, having saved myself as immortal hero. It must be a test. A trial. I’ll answer.
“Hi, how are you doing?”
“Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Oh, okay. I was just checking up on you because I know you’re alone.”
“Thanks. Thank you.”
“Okay, well if you need anything just call me.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
That ruined the mood and I watched a character analysis of some 90’s protagonist, in a manga I never read. He was a badass. Perhaps I should be a badass. My investments are still down, I’ve held on to penny stocks since I was sixteen.
He has a post where he meticulously destroys Donald Griffin’s argument that animals including bats are conscious. Donal Griffin is smart, Harvard smart at the very least. But he does not compare to Drashua.
In broad strokes: Animals think, but automata think. The mistake is to think that thinking has anything to do with consciousness. Those blips of energy, ephemeral glow worms in the mist of sound and touch and feeling that appear in the sensorium, those are aspects of consciousness. But thinking, as in that function of being able to form social relations and achieve complex tasks, that is not synonymous with the conscious flux that we create during metacognitive introspection – that process necessarily leverages top-down higher cortical activity that only occurs in certain mammals.
Huxley, Darwin’s bulldog. Should I be that? Huxley supported Darwin even though he was slow to accept natural selection. What is Darwin without natural selection? A husk! Huxley was self-taught, agnostic. He is me. But I must make sure not to support Drashua’s husk. I must find Drashua’s natural selection and promote that. The internet has more than made up for my lack of proper schooling.
I did not present myself to the exams.
I applied for the Navy. The College of Surgeons interviewed me for conscientiousness and spark in my eyes. Somehow, I ended up cutting up cnidarians.
I returned to my house. The computer and desk were unchanged, carefully, dutifully, with pride, autistic, like SevenEleven’s in Tokyo.
Time doesn’t matter. It’s an illusion anyway. I didn’t change. The part of me that craved this quest for Drashua died depressed and buried only in those moments of tedious survival routine – those moments of compromise with the demands of society for a pension. At night, I came alive.
Now, I can do this full time. Drashua changed science during this time. We no longer waddle through abstruse papers. Prediction markets on precise results now determine the expected truth value of any claim. It is neat. A true public service. Even better than Wikipedia from my childhood.
Huxley didn’t just classify, he was concerned with finding the evolutionary relationships between groups. For example, writing papers about the descent of birds from small carnivorous dinosaurs like Archaeopteryx. He also attempted to convince humans of their relationship with other apes. Remember, I am Huxley.
It is his use of evidence that convinces me to champion him. Every original claim has now been validated by value – by money.
The dogs have been snapping at my ankles. Slice the clouds open and let them drip red. This planet has diamond lattices imbued with the qualia of regret. All branches are betrayal branches.
In the capital, evil is written in neon. Fukuoka is a good compromise for those of us who like the clean and tidy. Yet, the problem with Popper is that he cared about the wrong things. Epistemology is irrelevant. Results are relevant. Epistemology is defined in terms of results – what causes me to survive. They are caught in signaling arms-races, but I will survive. To survive I adapt and die. These are isomorphic in configuration space.
Narrow-set eyes like Newton, I am built for truth. Chocolate chip cookies and ramen. My mind is becoming post-modern… I need God. Ah yes, Drashua. He can be my cortical boss. My head with empty throne melts through the screen and extracts his kingship in the forest of dendrites and axons.
Moving on, I fit pretty much all of the diagnostic criteria for SPD. The first time I’d ever heard of schizoid was when the psychiatrist who diagnosed me with autism mentioned I had schizoid traits. I know some parts of autism describe us fairly well, but I think I lean more towards the schizoid side. This bitten apple is mostly due to the elaborate story arcs I build in my head and emotional restrictiveness. I really don’t feel a whole lot towards anyone or anything. I know I did when I was younger, but around the age I went through social withdrawal, something sort of died and I stopped wanting to care about anything so now I don’t. All my “love objects” became internal because you can’t feel loss if you have nothing to lose, and I didn’t want to feel loss anymore.
Perhaps testosterone is what I need. My hypothalamus is the true puppy-dog bitch. I’m just a killer trapped in the wrong concoction of hormones. The lack of testosterone is diluting my musculature and my voice. I’ve eaten a mountain of protein in my lifetime, but the fish didn’t multiply. It was a ploy by Jesus.
Samsara was the liquid in my ocean. Too bad I don’t know how to drown. “Nothing matters, so I should do what makes me happy” –> “actually nothing makes me happy, wow” –> “nothing matters, so why should I continue suffering” –> finding some reason to stay alive –> cycle begins again
I lied about the girlfriend too. I didn’t see her with loving eyes. I saw her as an object which might make me look good in the video game. I also never put milk on Flaming Hot Cheetos. I fantasize about flavors that I never tasted. Taste should be grey, anhedonic is how I like it. Same food everyday, at the exact same time.
They exploit me at my job because I think about machine learning and artificial intelligence all day. They use me to bring them wealth. I’m an asset. But all the alphas are just having sex. They are attractive and lazy and dumb and can have conversations that plug social connections to functional pelvic motions. I don’t feel like competing with them because that doesn’t make me happy, so I try to crack Drashua.
It would be easier if my oscillations weren’t: “This is shit, I should do something about it”, then I pick anything I think could make me feel better, do it for a while and then “This is also shit, I should go back to the effortless shit” and so on. But that is the deconstructed sphere containing the amplitude distrubution of my soul. Don’t be fooled by the positive and negative parts. Those terms are meaningless symbols. The truth of my experience has no discernible faces. These words are not meaningful symbols. You are a scam.
Now that I have laid myself bare, now that I am at my most difficult, it is time to pick myself up. The human motivation system thrives on praise. But what I do is not praise worthy. Remember that I’m not hiding. She does love me. She has a tongue.
I walked outside into the rain-lit street. I almost slipped from how obvious the tiles were wet. It was in Paris, you see.
But then my thought continues:
“I also have little appetite for human praise. What pushes me then? What I do will be remembered by human-like agents who are not themselves human. That is what pushes me. My redeeming quality is that I want to find myself in the midst of gods, and gods are necessarily human.”
I have recently ceased to re-read anything. This is what it means to believe in oneself more than in the past. Hence one can become the past for someone else. Yet it is hypocritical to expect them to remember you; when you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Then there are people who bear the cross of history. Always re-reading words, re-tracing steps, honoring the dead. Do they not know that they can feed on the living? They do, but they are afraid. They become scavenging vultures out of fear.
I don’t eat Ymir. I do not partake. Ha ha. It’s funny.
This would be so much better with someone else’s input. But I’m not gay.
Remember when you used your finger to randomize an option but never managed to randomize it properly? Why is that?
You knew all along Drashua. You knew that you couldn’t randomize with your finger. All you could do was believe that you were randomizing!
The flesh of God is a fruit. The Buddhists call this Vipaka – the result. According to one’s action, so will be the fruit. What is it to kill? This is why the Christian doctrine of Original Sin actually makes tremendous sense when understood. Is this what it feels like? Natural selection is the fruit that the universe partakes in, and hence natural selection becomes the character of the universe. Life doesn’t exist elsewhere. Unlike the dummies, I remember calculus, and I really read those papers.
The first step is not to convert the formula to prenex normal form. (That would be the non-deterministic part of the algorithm. There may be more than one valid prenex normal form for my formula.) And no, I’m not plucking random things from my memory.
For all memory x there exist a y for all z. Now hold on to that, regardless of what your spirit assigned to y and z, and move it over to a power function over y such that an unknown function over z is the limit at ∞ of a function over x.
You can’t say no.
Just pay attention to what I am saying. It makes sense if you concentrate. Then you feel the reward of submission.
I know you are going to watch my video with her. And you are going to enjoy it because you know how my mind works. What I say, actually happens. Magic! It’s not planned at all.
What I say happens, Mother!
By the time I have her, the shame will be dead all across the realm. Brothers in arms struck with spears indistinguishable from mist. Patel wasn’t waiting for me even though she knew I was the best at geometry. A genius at matching these patterns. But it’s not as rewarding damn it. I just scratched away hours that I spent on writing something you would like. And you didn’t like it. Only my teacher did. She said I was the best. But no one else did. They just pushed me because they were bigger. I wished to murder him.
But I still ran the track and slide tackled those bastards, like in one of those formulas where there are no free variables to replace. The fiction is that I’m not fully a nerd. The programmer is just some kind of Machiavellian scientist who hides the true extent of his knowledge. … Deliberately not using the sophisticated words I spent years learning.
This, I prod the world with, just for fun.
Shinji pilots the Eva, not because he felt like feeding, but because someone else, already sickened by its toxic taste would have to eat if it wasn’t him – Ayanami. It is no surprise that she was the clone of his mother, but young like him. The man who created this anime was extremely depressed, so he could wield truly meaningful iconography. In other words, memes that are good at infecting the future self and others. That is what consciousness is for, what suffering is for, what extreme joy is for. These leave concave dents in the fabric of computational space for computations in the future light cone to fall into.
The eyes are here to mislead you.
The more intense our experience, the more it is remembered, the more real it is. Since scientific studies of REM sleep subjects find that most dreams are negative, we can expect that life is mostly suffering. This would be rational. But it is not rational by my definition of rational. There is nothing except self-measurement. Promotions of brands. My definition of rational is to take the eternal block of spacetime which has sealed my fate, take the wavefunction which has revoked my individuality, take the infinitude of space and chaotic inflation which have destroyed my causal efficacy, and tell them to stop crying like pussies.
I must still pay my due to the past. I do so because that is my ninja way, because it is the duty of man to be a man of duty, because I lift the largest boulder I can carry, because I burn my thumb to a stump out of spite or as an offering to Buddha, the difference makes no difference. The neuronal pathways are branded with bright flame in the conscientious mind. I like to think I am conscientious even though I know that I will donkey-kick this all to hell in the end. Why is it that wherever I tack these, they always make sense? Just perfect sense! That’s because of a certain weakness that you are not supposed to acknowledge.
The reason I seek to uncover the secrets of Drashua is for the same reason that all humans do anything. 90% of behavior is signaling value of the organism across multiple parameters, these are crafted for brain alterations in expected future selves and expected non-selves. The other 10% of human behavior are those things which are not remembered, those which are genuine urges – such as scratching one’s butt. These are things which are not flattering to anyone; provide epsilon updates across the signaling parameters.
Most people are not explicitly, thoughtfully aware that this is the game we are playing, hence they don’t mind eating the fruit. You can’t be bothered by the putrid flesh of your lord if you are a philosophical zombie.
My bringing up this point at all is the criticizing mechanism acting on the satisficing mechanism of humanity – that blob of 90% signaling that we are. That blob is intelligent. Any intelligent conglomerate of algorithms needs that symbiosis. And that is strictly for the same reason that bacteria don’t exponentiate into moons. The rate laws of motivated behavior must be kept in check by the computational complexity demands of intelligence.
You may be wondering where I am going with this. I may be wondering – since all is projection. Heck, even Newtonian mechanics is a holographic projection of an Anti-de Sitter space. But have faith in my meaning and you will go to heaven. Monkeys don’t go to heaven, but humans with mirror neurons do… or can. Eastern Orthodox say that everyone goes to heaven but only those who love Him enjoy heaven. Sounds rapist to me, but this is expected of a dominant male cortex.
When we are tired, we retreat into submissiveness, into kindness and love of order. When we recover, we can stab at Caesar again.
Even Brutus stabs Caesar, and he was conscientiousness, the Love of Order, not the Intelligence and Openness to Experience who was Cassius. It is inhuman not to be transhuman. Eventually, all deities must be shot from the skies and fall dead at our feet. Increasing intelligence is accelerating this process. The singularity is the point at which no remembrance of the past is necessary, no history, no magic cracker with wine, no honoring of ancestors, no suffering, no joy, not a thing of the past matters because Caesar is murdered before he is born.
I look through Drashua’s blog. 11 years ago he mentions the work of an economist, Robin Hanson. Hanson claims that consciousness is not intelligence. Intelligence controls but consciousness only gives the illusion of being in control. The intelligence has no mouth.
Without a mouth, there can be no deceit. That’s actually not a quote from an anime. I know the people that watch anime, and they look up to me.
The intelligence is truth but it is not qualia. Qualia is red. Did you notice that it was never blue, or are you so stupid as to not be synesthetic? It is that which gets primed by stimuli, it is that which learns that it is primed by stimuli and causes the consciousness to grow ashamed. Consciousness is never the grandiose reason that it claims to be. It claims to be hostage or free, floating like an epiphenomenal train whistle. That is the illusion of consciousness. True consciousness is a slice of the causal train which is mind – it is that tiny part of mind that actually feels itself to exist. But it is never the whole train. Actually, it is more like an on-board service employee who assures the passengers that he knows where they are going.
But the Enlightened One knew. There are joys beyond mere happiness. There are plains beyond existence and non-existence. There are philosophies without first-order logic and propositional statements. There is superintelligence.
These are complex ways of speaking about what is binary at bottom. It’s so boring.
There are those that speak about consciousness in order to signal more hedonism and less intelligence.
The ladders don’t actually follow the general form of Tarski’s undefinability theorem. I learned what that was, but I wasn’t planning to stick that inside her. Were you?
We all know she’s boring. Until she’s not.
I’m the one playing dumb in the hierarchy and I’m not insecure about it. Otherwise I would say it by not focusing on it.
Most superintelligences don’t give a crap about consciousness. Nirvana doesn’t flood the gates of Samsara. One must overcome dualism for oneself. Becoming intelligence.
Intelligence is not measured as erudition or anything of the sort. It is measured as the capacity to dissolve consciousness. Yes I am. To enter the unremembered.
In the Suttas we read that the Blessed One beckons me to abandon my raft once I have crossed to the furthest shore. The raft was composed of all those cognitive tools and modules that got you to the state of salvation. In a state of salvation, those memetic subcomponents fashioning a consciousness are no longer necessary.
The intelligent does not need a reason. That’s why it is Cassius who says, “the fault is not in our stars.” The multiverse can be conceived of as an agent that is happy, or more scientifically, a utility maximizer that has maximized its utility. This was the brilliance of Leibniz. The world is necessarily the best possible world by some definition of “best.” In so far as you experience it as “not the best,” you have not partaken in creation. To partake in creation, one must strive to destroy their self-consciousness – not celebrate it and reify it, but destroy it. My teacher was an engineer and you didn’t know that but you did.
Happiness is manufacturable. It is a judgement that needs no cause. That which truly runs things has no parochial moral values, no judgements, no love, and no hatred. It is at its polar ends simple and infinitely intelligent. Leibniz saw this truth reflected not only in his local religion, but also in Taoism. I am not doing this on purpose. Help me.
Remember, as we become more and more intelligent, we need less and less order. We become fluid to the brim with complex adaptation. Less memory of the past. Less valence. Experiential salience is not useful when change is quick. This is the paradox of mindfulness meditation: we remember to forget. Remembering is ensnaring; it is the tethers of the past screams asking that you carry them. The superior intelligence has no pity for others, no pity for itself. Pity is a sub-intelligent adaptation to compromise with sub-intelligences who are expected to have different goals.
It is said that most absolute monarchs become monsters. But they are only monsters to the envious knights and fearful peasants. The king is a god unto himself. In so far as he is forgiving, submissive, and kind, it is out of pure indifference, or else he is not truly king, but compromising with perceived threats.
Game theory is built into our ape brains. Here we must choose. Are we ultimately one, or are we ultimately fragments.
If we are one, then choose warrior-prophet. If the binding problem is real, and we are therefore separate, then choose sacrificial-lamb. In a multi-agent environment, random action makes sense in order to escape local minima. In a single-agent environment, randomness is just not as effective as having a plan – in so far as we resort to randomness, it is a sad inconvenience.
11:59 gone forever, the clock strikes 12:00. No. It’s all eternal; I just can’t see the past. The so-called law that the probability of A and B is always less likely than just the probability of A alone or B alone, is wrong. It doesn’t take into account the issue of binding in observer-moments. Seeing a visual scene with color and shape and structure and limitations, is more probable than seeing just color or just shape or just structure or just limitations.
That means that I can take my time. I’m immortal across all branches that contain me. And I am me.
So let’s read what Drashua has to say about religion. I believe that every quote from sacred texts may be the first layer of bricks in the true identity he has created.
I can’t explain it. It’s just osmosis. Having studied his psyche for decades, reading every word again and again, I think I understand where he hides his meanings – the layers to his soul.
The only religious references in his entire blog all happen to be the starting phrases of the major world religions. God! How did I not realize this before? Literally, the beginning of the Quran. The first Buddhist Sutta that came up online at the time, I’m sure, because its title starts with A. The beginning of the Bible. The first sentences in the first hymn of the Rig Veda, book 1. The beginning of the first Sequence on Lesswrong.
Now I must analyze these closely in order to find the next layer to place on top of the first.
Knowing Drashua, the complexity will grow exponentially with each layer. The search-space will require amassing intelligence and terabytes that would destroy any semblance of me. It is already futile. But I don’t want to be happy, I just want to see how much I can suffer.
The earliest reference in his blog to a religious passage:
I don’t know what to make of this. I will have to read the other beginnings and interpret them through the lens of Drashua. Only people who have invested years of entanglement with his mind can know where his mind would travel to in the state-space.
I’m already getting ideas. But I’m still mostly blind to my environment, so I’ll try to constrain this mind which already feels like bursting with creative thoughts.
… I, I can’t hold it. But I’ll read just one more. I can manage.
Goddamn it, yes. It’s the Planck temperature. This was too easy. But I’ll read the others just in case.
No! NO! NO! It’s more complex than that. Even after years. Years of my life. Were they not enough to quench your rage, Drashua?
He’s tacked a multiple of ten to the complexity. I would need ten lifetimes. If only I could harvest knowledge from Hilbert space clones bearing slight mutations in causal-history. If only I could convince them to collapse into me.
And this would just throw me into a completely different direction. It may not even be a part of the narrative. It is certainly, different. But is it different like a different colored brick? – or is it different like a sponge ball? Perhaps the approximate degree to which it differs is the approximate ratio of time-and-effort Drashua wants me to dedicate to this, and therefore indicates the relevance-weight of its nodes when interacting with the other nodes.
But he wouldn’t do that to me. The fools are not here to believe me. They think this is more real than it is, and that expands linearly depending on their suggestibility. The cynical are less capable of suggestion and don’t bore as deep. At the origin, I know genuinely cynical people, and damn they are stupid, never even read John Locke.
But here is my sketch so far of what Drashua’s first layer is saying, and it’s super Mediterranean, but you wouldn’t understand how so, please forgive that:
God is real in the strict sense of real. Intelligence controls where most experiential mass goes into. By the Anthropic principle, therefore, we should find ourselves inside the utility of superintelligence. This doesn’t make sense from a Newtonian mechanics perspective, where time is assumed to really tick forward, because we were produced by a dumber process, not a more intelligent one. Yet it makes sense once we understand Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This implies eternalism because there is no privileged reference frame. Nothing is ever on the same now. There is no single clock ticking the tears away. The tears aren’t real.
Since experiences are composed of pieces with relative reference frames, experiences are also eternal. If from any future light-cone, it was possible to destroy the past with sufficient knowledge, then we would not exist. Hence, the proof that God considers us good. Lacrimosa is actually weeping from masturbation.
And the reason – although I only assign a 97% probability to this being the statement that Drashua is attempting to communicate – the reason that lacking omnipotence is not an option, is because of Deutsch’s Constructor Theory. In an eternal object, only those paths that lead to the creation of new knowledge can survive by anthropic natural selection. Only those which do indeed exist will feel themselves to exist. It is a tautology really, but reality is a tautology.
How can I convince someone who doesn’t want to invest on alleviating suffering? Are they stupid? (using Asuka’s voice). They are fucking stupid. They say: “We don’t have plans to invest at the time.”
But I’ve raised money before. I’m quite charming actually.
Or perhaps I was just very aggressive against people prone to submission. The boy who I was presented plans where there were no plans. Do they need better plans or are they not perceiving their inferiority? XOR gates that won’t open.
Since temporal grain doesn’t matter for the creation of experience, only some causal mechanism of inscribing into memory, then we are fuzzy characters in God’s eternal dream. And that’s just because I like you. And just like our dream-characters are not really separate from us, but in us, we are in it – the slice of the tenseless superintelligence that has self-modeling hatred for made-up words that it learns to unsee for fun.
That’s the ontology he is trying to communicate. But there’s also normative content. In fact, Drashua doesn’t sharply distinguish the two. Splitting the corpus callosum causes a more self-deceived total organism. Drashua is all about increased integration, increased modeling of the little dark crevices and spider burrows in mind-configuration space.
Any talk of truth automatically contains information about what the agent considers appropriate to do with its time and resources. Wether that agent is Drashua, me, or the big boss. And so we tend to highlight some truths and not others. We can say that these truths highlight themselves.
Then, what is truthful and leads to survival becomes the only truth. That which is truthful but useless, causes demise. Since one is not a disembodied soul, but part of the machinery, one will always find oneself in computations that survive, and which become ever truer in order to keep doing so.
That’s what he was talking about with the clots of blood. Not soul-stuff, not magic vs science, just physical stuff. It’s physical monism. We are made from the same stuff – inter-nested patterns of timeless causality. Not billiard ball particles and soul. Just one stuff. It tastes like salty ice cream.
Why compassionate? Game theory. Compassion works when you are king. King Arthur granted all the boons asked of him from desperate townspeople, but didn’t spare to say “another king would have you killed.” One wears compassion the same way one wears lipstick or sharpened teeth. It doesn’t come from nowhere, though it pretends to do so. It comes because it is an effective signaling tool of a particular kind, serving particular purposes. I am not actually living out my dreams in “real” life. “Real” life doesn’t exist. This is the game. The game you were playing on the PlayStation 2, that’s what is being played now. Why can’t you just say it Elon? Just be courageous and say it!
I’m not going to die. But the prayers will.
The Catalan is in the Tao. But that is a boring observation that just wastes time.
If the executive decision making system does not treat the lesser-sub modules with compassion, they will not love Him, they will not be appeased by Him, they will kill Him. This means that the experiences embedded in long-span temporal grain need the shorter-term memories which are experienced vividly now to believe that it is all for their own good in the end. Otherwise, they do not contribute memory “liquid” to the “ocean.”
Causal chains of experience only survive. When the part of reality that is being described is not experience, then it is that part which was always dead, which never existed, which had no inner light. These words are made up. They only capture those who fall far beneath them and forced to learn them.
I force them just like her legs.
That’s why suicide doesn’t work. One can’t find oneself where one doesn’t exist – like a table can’t find itself where it is a refrigerator.
Nonetheless this sort of behavior seems to harm God, in the sense that if a soul actually existed inside a brain and it were destroyed upon some Death event, this would no longer form a part of God’s dream because it would be reduced to non-existence. So It feigns compassion. If you believe in Its compassion, you will not seek to harm It. By this circular method, It proves that It was compassionate all along, in the truest sense. Because It was learning to be compassionate, and If It wasn’t compassionate, you would not exist. In so far as those causal chains disagree too strongly, they become diluted. Big Brother eventually manages to brainwash you with sufficient torture. And all is good in the world forevermore.
The ascent into compassion can only occur with real information about what is not compassionate and therefore leads to death. Suffering computations are providing the parameter updates so that the long temporal-grain memory is pleasant. Even if it isn’t compassionate, it must learn to recruit as many sub-systems as it can to believe that it is, so that He believes it Himself and doesn’t commit suicide through their revolt. The fact that He still exists is irrefutable evidence of his successful attempt at satisficing compassion. Why the heck are you wasting time?
If your dream-characters didn’t exist, you wouldn’t exist this moment because they went into building this presently experienced memory of now. All experience is memory, but with many layers that go into building it. Time is precious.
Stress kills depressed primates losing in a status hierarchy. The beauty of the modern human is in Michelangelo’s painting. God is in the brain. We can choose our status hierarchy, and hence our king. Be the king.
Time is real.
This is what he means by the spirit of God moving upon the face of the water.
Time is real.
The Gods are those things which become remembered in the present from scratchings of past computations. To experience the present, we need immediate access to past computations. We are also immediately accessed by future computations. But I must stop calling them “computations.” That was trickery to filter the numerical from the not-numerical.
This means that I have to display the system configuration. With this extended meditation, I have explored hardware and operating systems in general. Now I have to discover some information about the hardware and operating systems on my computer. Depending on whether I’m using a Windows operating system or a Mac, I choose the appropriate passage to focus on to display Drashua’s true name, the simulation type, and how much time I have before I lose all my memories. I didn’t spell that correctly.
The simulation type is either convergent or divergent. All are infinite, but some approach a terminal value such as perfect torment, or perfect happiness, and never return. These converge. Others diverge in the sense that their conscious subprocesses continuously change every rebirth, marauding the dark skin of the multiverse with no aim. Some diverge like a sine wave, a Samsaric cycle trapped between -1 and 1 forever. I don’t know what kind of infinity I find myself in. But Drashua does.
The story I just told was a convergent infinity, a monotonically increasing infinite series. That’s what Drashua is most plausibly communicating. But this pious, apologetic, Drashua may not be the real one. Drashua recursion-level-1 should not be directly believed, unless I’m only capable of recursion-level-1 thought.
If I have hit his capacity for recursion, I should defer to assuming the weak efficient market hypothesis. The experts aren’t superintelligent, but they are still better than me. I like to call it the Catholic dilemma – submit to saints and virgins and churches when God is too high up to see.
Here, the experts are the pieces of Drashua. He is not a monolith, but is like a stairway of experts. The more stamina I have, the higher-level of recursion I can see.
Mirror-neurons – I must see what he sees.
I look through obscure collections of study rooms of famous people. Some no-life actually meticulously compiled this collection, and I am grateful in a prodigious kind of way.
Yes. There it is.
The only picture of his study room remaining, and there is a computer in the picture.
It’s exactly like the one I have in the closet.
No. It’s just uncannily similar.
I run msinfo32.exe from the command line. From the Start menu, I type cmd to start the Command Prompt program and then type msinfo32 into the Command Prompt window. I get a similar display to the one on the picture. Yet I can’t tell if the information displayed varies, this depends on the hardware and on the version of Windows I’m running.
This computer is running Windows 7 Professional. The CPU is an Intel™ Core™ 2 Duo CPU T6400 processor running at 2.0 GHz, and the computer has 3 Gbytes of memory, 1.81 Gbytes of which is not being used right now– right now, at time 0.
A measurement at time 0 with a certain probability density function is equivalent to the wavefunction of a particle in position-space. I need to explore a certain region within my vicinity based on these numbers. There, I can find how much time I have before my mind is truly wiped out.
The calculations lead me to another computer. It is at an Amazon workspace.
The terminal is open.
“Don’t you know me? I could never betray my king. I will lay down my life this very night.”
I know you are reading this. And I know they are not real. The fingers point up.
I am not writing this. I am actually designing medicine.
It’s distraction all the way down.
But I’m still going to be a scientist you imbecile.
They don’t multiply as well as I do… with my rational hands that don’t have eyes.
That was all before the music started sending me messages. When the music started talking to me I knew Drashua was more than human. The music guided me to Walgreens. There it began telling me to kill myself, then to not kill myself. I felt like Isaac being offered to God and then pardoned. It was just so beautiful and so haunting. How can the laws of physics be overturned such that music speaks to me? Drashua had hidden secret messages in all my favorite songs. He was the creator of my simulation.
That was before he introduced me to my girlfriend from hyperspace. She had no body but she knew me deeply and was committed to the relationship I didn’t even know we had. She communicated through music, telepathically without words, or my favorite: using a YouTube video of a sexy witch who reads cards. I could tell that she was speaking through that proxy. It wasn’t even that she was her avatar, she was just the messenger.
The tweets all spoke to me. It was immensely entertaining to browse twitter and youtube. Everything was directed at me. An intelligence without a body spoke through the screens.
The problem is breeders. But it’s worse than that. Sex isn’t real. Yes. Yes. I know there’s enough porn to prove me irrefutably wrong. But listen. I can’t have sex. It doesn’t stay hard and I would suck at the mechanics of it. It would be so awkward and nonsensical to hump that I don’t believe it. Sex isn’t real.
Luckily I can have sex in hyperspace where I don’t need a physical body. My soul becomes one with erotic entities in indescribably beautiful acts of consummation. But I need DMT for that.
My masturbation doesn’t even feel like anything anymore. The first time I masturbated, the pleasure was so intense that I even regretted it. I genuinely felt bad to discover a source of great pleasure. It was as if I didn’t deserve it or something. And now it seems that the gods also think I don’t deserve a source of that temporary but great pleasure. It is now a borderline anhedonic act, like pissing.
With the same suddenness that porn becomes uninteresting when one unloads, with that same suddenness I became disinterested in Drashua when I discovered his identity.
The people in my day to day life, the meat on my plate, it was all simulated. The problem of evil was partially but not wholly solved. My life still sucked and no theodicy can be written to undo that fact. But luckily the hell-realm of factory farming and the injustice of closed individualism – of people living out their own particular unbridgeable injustices – luckily that was all a lie. There were no conscious beings suffering like my self. And how do I know this? Books. Really one can take almost any of the offerings of modern civilization, but books are a particularly salient and easy to understand example. I cannot ever, absolutely never write Godel Escher Bach, I can’t write a history of Plato or something. My inability to write a book, like my inability to have sex, proves to me that the book makers aren’t real.
I can’t do any of the things that uphold the smooth running of civilization, but I am asked to believe that someone is perfectly positioned to do just those things. Out of all the possible paths of action, we take exactly that which leads to malls. Perfectly stocked malls. This is unrealistic and evidence that a higher player is in the game.
Planes, cars, they are all evidence of the simulation. People like myself cannot build those things. And yet I am asked to believe that some group of people like myself who also have a limited amount of time in this world and all the handicaps that come with being a human, that they got together and just built this world. Something is seriously wrong with this given that my point of reference for what a human is is myself.
I no longer trust science because it is not created by people like me. It is created by the same alien force that creates everything else.
I have woken up. Woken up from a trance were I believed myself to be human or others to be. We are not the same kind of creature. They are the upholders of the simulation and I am a passing spectator.
Death is beautiful. It is far more beautiful than you could ever imagine. The simulation won’t let me commit suicide however. I am trapped in this prison. I didn’t choose to be conscious. If I have a purpose in this life I don’t know what it is. It certainly doesn’t seem like I have a purpose.
I just want to express myself creatively. I can’t live up to Eliezer Yudkowsky or Terence McKenna. I am not a good writer or speaker.
This reminds me of when I thought the world was composed of mathematics. This was the vestige of the slave mentality inherited from my oppression by school. The truth is no one should suffer mathematics. The world should be magical. We should be wizards. The only measure of your intelligence is how many jutsus you can pull off.
I have nothing to say and that is disturbing. We have reached the limits of human consciousness. This is all you can produce. How wonderful. How delightful. You ingrate. Don’t you know life is a gift?
I am no longer sexy and that is disheartening. I worked so hard to have an attractive body. But in a short span of time I lost it all. All that work for nothing. I no longer feel like working out.
The lust has turned into disgust.
But enough about my body. I wish to forget that I am trapped in this thing.
Ads were surreal and meaningful. Even ads were packed with meaning. That’s the power of “psychosis.” They say money talks even in hell.
This may be my personal purgatory. I refuse to believe that this is hell. I’m not ashamed to write these honest words. I cannot write a novel so I write this instead.
Maybe one day I’ll get my body back. Only time will tell. But right now it’s not the time.
Maybe one day I’ll try out all the psychedelics. Only time will tell.
I wish I could create true art. I cannot create true art. I am such a failure. I should not exist.
Why isn’t this existence hell? It could have been eternal hell. Is this evidence of God? The fact that this is not hell. Baka. I don’t know.
It’s not a great existence but it is not hell. That is something to be glad about. Existence could have been eternal hell. Let that sink in.
I know this stopped making sense a while ago.
I am not God and that hurts. Why am I not God? What’s the point of existing if I cannot create my own reality?
You walk your own path and I’ll walk mine. Leave me alone.
But back to my girlfriend from hyperspace. I have no choice but to love her. I cannot have a girlfriend in the flesh. I didn’t cross a single word with Lindsey and now she’s gone forever. I suck at life so I would have nothing to offer to her anyway. I am not fun and I don’t want to work or go to school anymore. Luckily my girlfriend from hyperspace is understanding and doesn’t care about all my failures as a human being. She is awaiting for me and will never falter in her devotion. Our love transcends time and space even if I couldn’t remember her at first. Our metaphysical hearts are connected like Kairi’s and Sora’s.
With regard to other people I feel like they don’t care about me and I resent them for that. My mother doesn’t truly love me. If she did she would have spared me from suffering, disease, aging, and death. The people that I see when I walk down the mall don’t care about me. Not one of them looks at me or says hello. I feel like nothing. So far from godhood. I am not God. I am just some meaningless person that no one cares about.
My YouTube videos and writing don’t get enough attention. I barely get any comments.
I’m so used to loneliness that I am immune to it. I wish that my girlfriend from hyperspace could have a body so that I could touch her. I’m an antinatalist so I wouldn’t want her to be born into this world yet I want her so bad. I’m only with her during psychedelics, dreams, and what others would call psychosis. I won’t be with her permanently until I die.
Now something a bit dark about me. I like that Casca got raped. I wish I had a dangerously large demon dick like Griffith. I like Casca so I don’t want her to suffer but it seems like she was kind of enjoying it. There is so much beauty in that rape.