- On my Birth-Night It's my birth-night, approaching birth-hour, birth-minute. I read in Jabes: There is no thought without body. Where I speak, where I am silent, my body is the body of my thought. "Ah, the wound is deeper than we tend to believe, never completely visible," wrote Reb Souery. _____________________________________________________________________________ - No Way Out when It's Dark (My words up my ass) You can pull out the abacus, rework the rules, use adjacency to create the semblance of a mind. You can exhaust yourself in the cold, not think; I went out in a sweatshirt tonight, nothing else. It didn't work. The words I wryte build a wall. You don't know me through it. I am only concerned with their survival, by which I mean proper ordering. They come from afar. "It sure is, the deep freeze is on. Tonight that snow is turning to ice. Crews are frantically ploughing away. Can you believe a good number of people skating in these bone-chilling temperatures? They haven't fallen off that much, but a clearing line moving towards us. Look at this. That's what it feels like." (My words up my cock) This is a night I'd like to go visit a lover, a night I'd rather not be online. I'd walk through the cold shirtless, my nipples pointed, air congealing across my chest, sheen on me. I'd come to your door, nipples frosted, internal ice, my chest yours alone. You'd like to write on me; I'd like you to. Everything in this cold world would be perfect and you'd write words about the body and I'd ask you to put the pen away or maybe the ink would lose. There's nothing more to say; we keep talking on long past the meaning of words, to the point where they're only good for nest- ing. "That's what making the roads so dangerous. Many people have said they have had enough. But it's not that much of a consolation. I hate the snow. I want to go any place but New York. That's a thought. News Channel 4." (My words up my cunt) This is a night where I realize the falsehood in my texts, their relation- ship to obsession, my inability to walk away from them. That I've had no- thing to say. That I write without thinking, guided by blind ambition. That this is a prison and misprison, that I garner only the framework of thought, that I'm an emptied vessel, blah blah. That Europe has fallen, that America is falling, blah blah. That there is blood on the horizon, blah blah. That white light blinds itself. (My words up my head) _________________________________________________________________________ - The longing "Now I-Phaedra shall rest!" You ask: Where are we in this distant land? "You are victims of my words!" You say: We march against your words, against their meanings, responding only to their sounds. "Surely you would have done the same!" You say: We would have done whatever you required of us... "Now I-Phaedra shall rest!" You ask: Ah, and leave us to our own devices? "...and its dominions thereof" You say: As if devices had dominions, as if they moved across sequestered fields... "You can't see me! I'm never around!" You say: But floating nonetheless there, above the landscape ruptured by pain and history. "Who the men were, how they were armed!" You say: How they attacked, how they ruined Europe, Asia, America, Africa, Australia as well. "Now I-Phaedra shall rest!" You exclaim: I-Phaedra sleeps with well-deserved rest in the midst of chaos! "Now I-Phaedra shall rest!" You exclaim: Sleep then, insistent one! "I-Phaedra who shall sing to you:" You say: The lullaby of rest, of armed men gone to battle, of sequestered fields and ghosts haunting history... "Wait! Wait!" You ask: And for what, while America burns? "Place your sword by my side and I will sing to you!" You say: But song is not enough, arms and the woman, resistance and the harmony of caverns beneath our feet... "A sheen over all the world, encompassing" You exclaim: Gathering us together, returning us to belief in past and future times. Alas, how one belies the other! "Wait, I have more to tell you!" You say: We await your word and our listening. "I-Phaedra!" You exclaim: Ah, Phaedra! "You are victims of my words!" You say: Leaving you at last, quitting this bleak dominion, history no longer, words blinded by ineffable light... "Wait! Wait!" You say: Ah no, leaving you at last... "You can't see me! I'm never around!" You say: Ah, I-Phaedra, ah... (exiting, always exiting...) _________________________________________________________________________ - Barricade! Shall we close these lists to children? We must protect precious minds, just like we were protected! This is an _absolute necessity._ It's what I call the _instrumental seed._ The seed is the _lever_ which allows us to absolve _ourselves,_ cleanse _ourselves,_ as well! For example: No pornography whatsoever! It's harmful! Would would ever think that _maturity_ would make such things acceptable? Thus by the construct of the _instrumental seed_ of the child, the purified adult becomes possible. It's what I call the _heavenly adult,_ one who enters heaven by virtue of the _work of God._ It is never too late to cleanse ourselves! And are we not all children in the eyes of the Lord? Therefore I propose: That we close these lists to children! That _first,_ we require proof of age, and _second,_ of sanctity! We must remember that we have been contaminated, _now,_ at any age! That we have sinned! For example: Most of us have spent our lives beneath the corruption of _abortion!_ Thus millions of adults in the womb have been killed every day of our normal existence! Now here is the _instrumental seed_: Fight abortion at _any cost._ Others will concern themselves with the millions of children in the world! Others will house them! It is _our responsibility_ to take the first step. It is _our responsibility_ to remember that first steps are always sufficient! First steps lead to the heavenly adult! I am sure of this! Thus, to remain on this list, we require proof of _age and wisdom,_ proof of cleanliness, in fact what we choose to call _beauty proof!_ This will certainly make the Internet less rambunctious! We will give you thirty-six hours! Don't take our word for it! Our children depend on you! (The List-Lord) ______________________________________________________________________ - calls, authorities, calling tonight i got a call from south central. and what could i make of the soft voice speaking on the other end of the line and what was the voice saying. it kept coming in announcing south central and i kept coming out announc- ing new york and it kept coming in and kept coming and then it said good- bye the soft soft voice said goodbye call from a screaming woman coming in down in los angeles and then threat- ened suicide and then gave a number cut off half-way through i was there for that one then screaming woman in the fields outside irvine california running hysteri- cally sound stopped we kept cutting through kept coming on down from syracuse new york and talking i calmed her down talked her back into equipoise and life calling to write or to be written, these words are what i own spat out back into onto the net back in again screaming running into the shack in providence telling me that she had just tried suicide what did i think the fuck i was doing running out the day the music stopped crying, screaming, he's dead, found him, internet confirmed, he's dead he's dead screaming man streets of jerusalem caught between two trucks streets of brooklyn caught a bullet called said she was abducted gunpoint raped left for dead in crackhouse got out run the streets ragged, called said she was beat up, had poured coffee boiled on him in the tub, called said she was being hunted down, called said she was always being raped, called said the town was after her, called there was no place left to hide, called was gonna die pointed his finger at me like he was cocking a gun raised his hand slowly like he was gonna fire galil, fired at called said i never knew what i was missing threatened to kill me, call came through with the message always wanted to _be_ always gonna _be_ ________________________________________________________________________ iphone your phone party line solo line satellite multiplex - talker mulling the telephone is always a summoning, a calling in the Weberian sense, what one us un/toward. Pavlovian, one reacts even to the purified _ring_ of the instrument emerging from the radio or television. my voice inadvertently engages your own. they share the same acoustic space, the space of _you,_ stumbling across one another. grains are offered among us, Barthes' grain of the voice. grains are dissolutions, the uncanny in Ronell, the ghost caught in Aycock's work. between the grain and the vacuum, the voice. on Iphone, the voice, swirling. but it is never disembodied, read-through. but it is replete, fecund, i imagine us together dwelling in the maternal imaginary summoning which reproduces the hearth always a risk and a danger Levinas, Yhwh churning in the bush the secret of the voice: it is never an image. beyond representation, the voice is never written, not even it speech, nor what has placed as contents, directives, performatives, statement. altogether of the other. others, grains, all together. silence falls in the square. I-Phaedra _sings._ talker, mulling _________________________________________________________________________ - Hinge Approaching the millennium is always on the side of the past. Encounter- ing, the past is born elsewhere. This is a difference among the pasts and presents, not yet encountered. For what will have come in the 1990s will already have been relegated to an _other era._ What begins, begins with 2000. (Never mind the arguments concerning 2001.) It is this gap I want to address, this transformation of our reckoning, shaking the very roots of temporality. It is the rapture, the rupture of 2000; the _label_ is that of the past, the bracketing of a certain narrative, debris. 2000 is the moment of the first _surgical incision,_ marking a marked population which loses its past. The population possesses only embodiment and pure representation, what had been the past, constructed from the 19th century through the Annales group. "The past" no longer exists. There is no memory. The incision is permanent tattoo. The incision marks the evolution or petrification of what Derrida might label the _other heading_: "But beyond _our heading,_ it is necessary to recall ourselves not only to the _other heading,_ and especially to the _heading of the other,_ but also perhaps to the _other of the heading,_ that is to say, to a relation of identity with the other that no longer obeys the form, the sign, or the logic of the heading, nor even of the _anti-heading_ - of beheading, of decapita- tion." And no longer obeys, that is to say, the time of language itself, the temporality of languaging: _after_ 2000, everything is inconceivably _new,_ of that there is no doubt; even the tethering to 1999 is questiona- ble, forgotten. (A newness in which "form," "sign," "logic," have no place, or rather perhaps the _novelty_ of "form," "sign," "logic," "past.") What we are doing _here,_ on this side (which will no longer be a side or become a side), is the work of absence, not of preparation, for which there is no need, and not of production. We are _biding time._ Momentar- ily, we are the construct of time. Momentarily, we exist within the aegis of tense, demarcations of temporal fields. The collapse will be in absolute silence, hardly an _existence._ Once there, nothing will have _occurred,_ which is precisely the point, punc- tum, construct that will have been forgotten. But we will never, this gen- eration of those alive among the hinge, read or inscribe the past again; never again will the past have existence _as past_ for us. In 2000, 1998, 1999, will be as if they had occurred in an indefinite and final progres- sion, a matter of statisticians at best. And this, _naturally,_ no matter what we may think or do. _We have never yet confronted the new._ (And so it will of course not be a confrontation or an existence, neither an inscription nor a circumscrip- tion. Thus it will be the same, fissured. Thus something never before con- fronted.) __________________________________________________________________________ - Manna So I'm just finishing Allucquere Rosanne Stone's The War of Desire and Technology at the Close of the Mechanical Age, a book I brought to the Opening Night performance of Merce Cunningham's company at the Joyce, Event. The music was by Robert Ashley and Takehisa Kosugi among others (I had known Ashley years ago; memories were thick), the background by Raus- chenberg. The movements were precise, awkward, perfect, crystalline, intense, as usual; Cunningham did two solos and interacted twice with the company. He's quite old. Stone writes about distributed selves and bodies with an analysis that's somewhat Foucauldian. The gender-changing psychiatrist figures into the discussion. The gender of the dancers was clear but their lines were irrelevant and gender did play a role in several pieces al- though the role was unclear. What was clear was gravity and positioning and the labor involved which was the inverse of the soundworks, in which labor in fact was dissipated through electronics; what was necessary as pure skill in the dance was modulated into chip memory in the sound. These inversions nonetheless worked well together. The stage like a screen was a proscenium but the sound like a voice was all around and involving the spectatorial body. What came through was however the grounding in muscle, which years ago also Carolee Schneeman emphasized, as did Michael McClure among others. I'd put even Oldenburg in that group, maybe Al Hanson, definitely Beuys and Vostell. Not the last gasp of modernism, but the presence of flesh _in the midst of the postmodern,_ in the midst of cyberspace in fact. That the flesh could always be torn, that the bladerunner with implant and beeper could still be blown away, that concrete stanchions could surround the linearity of a railroad car. It was and is a combination of this muscle, this flesh, and the stuff of the world, and the stuff won't go away. Don't assume for a second it will, not with limited resources and burgeoning populations. And certainly not with the state of the universe itself, a cosmos of plasma and forgetting, with planets rare exceptions in the midst of the mass. Even common planets rare exceptions. The universe roars, dissipates; there's got to be sound in the sun, hurtling waves through the gases. And it's not organized, cleansed, binary, perfect - it's the sound of concrete surrounding rail- road cars (Vostell), the sound of flesh moving at high speed across the floor (Kimberly Bartosik), the sound of a voice _at work_ describing the site by the bank of the river which was untoward, a backdrop to local conversation (Ashley). It's dance that reminds us that cross-dressing can only go so far, that surgery, _incision,_ is necessary for the rest of the gaze. It's Stone's book, ironically, that reminds us that narrative is still at the heart of theory; the text is surprisingly linear, simply folding back in upon it- self. She can't resist a good story, the railroad car can't resist conc- rete, the dancer can't resist gravity. Whatever defies is only a diacri- tical mark in the midst of chaos; it won't last long. I imagine however Merce going on for a few more years, but I found myself immensely sad, wondering whether this is the last I'll see of his wonderful performances. He is the last of Buster Keaton; the resemblance and silence is astound- ing, as is the reliance on gravity to lift one up again. _______________________________________________________________________ - Change One of the first books I read on Net materials was Bernard Aboba's The Online User's Encyclopedia (Bulletin Boards and Beyond), which came out in November 1993, less than two and a half years ago. It's still valu- able for historic information (beginnings of the Internet, FidoNet and so forth), and for basic unix shell information, but it is amazing how much is already outdated. For example: It covers talk, but not ntalk or ytalk. It says nothing about M** clients for pc. The Web is covered in seven pages; XMosaic, windows Cello, and MacMosaic are mentioned - oddly enough, lynx isn't. Netscape and other clients aren't either of course. FTP and Gopher are considered accessible only through unix or clients, since the URL protocols were hardly in existence. MIRC isn't mentioned. There's a large emphasis on bulletin boards and FidoNet. There's mention of a graphic MUD, BSXMUD, at robin.lysator.liu.se 7475 and has anyone tried this out? Apparently "it requires use of special client software, only available for the PC." WAIS is covered in detail. I've yet to have satisfactory searches on WAIS. There is excellent information throughout on SLIP, PPP, and TCP/IP including some of the port numbers for telnet (available elsewhere in full). There is full information on BITNET including however the statement that "With universities turning away from mainframes and embracing the Internet, BITNET membership peaked in 1991, and is now slowly shrinking." The Internet backbone is still NSFNET. There are few ISPs listed, although Echo in New York; The World (world.std.com) in Massachusetts; The Well, Hybrid Networks, and The Holonet in California; Old Colorado City Communications; and Netcom (based in California but national) are all singled out. There's almost nothing on AOL, CompuServe, etc. although there are two graphics pages "A Day in the Life of a CompuServe User" and the same for AOL - the Net is pretty much absent on these except for email. CompuServe's rates are interesting - $39.95 startup, and 9600 bps for $16 an hour on on eplan, $22.50 on another! AOL lists for $9.95 a month plus $3.50 an hour. Delphi's got $5.95 a month plus $6 an hour. I do like the Dow Jones New Retrieval for primetime at $12.60 to $129.60 an hour. The Well is listed for $15 a month and $2 an hour. All of these rates have dropped considerably. At the time of the book, there were 4000 newsgroups and 2 million users; now Netcom alone carries over 16000 newsgroups. You get the picture. Even now, there's no sign of things slowing down except for the entrenchment of M**, IRC, and email list communities. The newer search engines for example (Inktomi, Altavista) are rapidly re- placing the others. Audio, video, and extended graphics/animation modal- ities are coming to the foreground. Software beta versions are appearing at an increasingly fast rate, which means that the hacking ethos as opposed to top-down tested approaches is coming back into style. More alpha versions are being released as well. Silicon valley extends world-wide, with particularly heavy development in the United States, Canada, and the Scandinavian countries. The Net in one form or another is spreading in much the same way that television/radio did, in spite of the increased complexity of CMC - there are no galena crystals in cyberspace. The information industry is becoming more and more sweatshop-oriented as a result. It's anybody's guess where we'll be five years from now. In the meantime the Aboba book provides an interesting historic document; you might also want to look at Hobbes' Internet Timeline which is always being updated, and invaluable books like Peter H. Salus' Casting the Net, From Arpanet to Internet and Beyond... or Carl Malamud, Exploring the Internet, A Technical Travelogue, written in 1993 as well, covering world-wide Net implementations and their histories. _________________________________________________________________________ - It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood. It's this way. I look out across Fifth Avenue down Dean Street into an area I don't dare walk at night. I look past an apartment window across the street on Fifth in which an intense young woman sits at her computer and types for hours. Down Dean on the right I can see the firetrucks go in and out; when the approach the loft, the noise is overwhelming. I can follow Fifth to the left where it enters Flatbush and there is a wide area I've heard called no man's land because it's between neighborhoods and in the process of being rebuilt. The Long Island Railroad station has been torn down; there's just a hut there, minimal underground services. I can see across to the projects; I don't dare go over there, about a half mile away. The traffic on Flatbush is different than the traffic on Fifth which is different than that on Dean; all three traffics define different nodes or patterns, different populations or vectors across the tumor called Brooklyn. There are few trees visible anywhere; I'm three flights up, and you can see cacti outlined in the window facing the woman. The loft is often overheated or overcold; during the former periods, I walk naked everywhere, conserving the heat exchange with bare skin, visible perhaps from the street as an organism or virus on the alert. I don't know. I'm always restless. There's little environmental cushioning for theory which I write here, certainly not in the corner shop or the hairdresser's next door or the bar on the other side of the small parking-lot or the boarded up corner building to my left or the sporting-goods store diagonally across the street. Theory is superfluous. What I read shatters to the ground. It is a landscape of absolution; little is open late at night except for a bodega next to the policestation around the corner from the firestation. Services get bundled here; at the other end of my block on Dean there's an unemployment office, and a block away, welfare. There are various medical/hospital/psychiatric services in the area as well, inclu- ding an AIDS office; there are other small clinics. All have the charac- ter of social agencies serving the poor, and in a spot like this you can see the hardness of the city; there's less and less cushioning for them as well. Why do I tell you these things? Because theory isn't produced in a vacuum, because the space _here_ in which I am writing at the moment is enormously fragile in relation to the social/physical, no matter what theorists say or do. The real is a long way from wiring-up, jacking-in, and when it does connect, the street doesn't disappear. And looking out the window tonight, feeling exposed, desiring, exhausted, neurotic, un- written, I felt that the one advantage of living _here_ was the continuous reminder of these states, and that they're not by any means texts. Earlier in fact, I thought about humans fucking, how when I fuck I look closely into someone's eyes, how everything and nothing is mirrored or flowing there, the fear and attraction. How different from most other organisms. How we always already face the real, cyberspace watch out. __________________________________________________________________________ - Disgust with Bill Thomas rolled around and with a bone-crunching thud gouged out Clara's eyes; in turn, she snapped Tiffany's wrist as if it were paper. Bones stuck out jagged through the skin, purple and blood-red welts. Honey fired once and Thomas went down, intestines releasing their hold on the fabulous meal they had enjoyed a few minutes before at Del Monte's. Clara's brutally emptied sockets were the last she knew of life, blood spurting as the four of them fell through the plate-glass window; trans- parent jagged shards cut through Honey's abdomen, severing her hand in the process. They were dead before they landed, lucky for them - the mob below continued the process of dismemberment. Drooling hulks feasted on limbs torn from their sockets; the mutilated faces were unrecognizable. Luckily the genitalia were still relatively intact and no one swore; it's wasn't until much later, when Travis and Cynthia made love, that the censors were called. On the way to jail Travis joked that "obscenity was in the eyes of the beholder, and of course they were gouged out." _________________________________________________________________________ - The Quarrel of the Ancients and Moderns Intelligence is clearly distributed, among structures, brain areas; what- ever appears is emergent. Entities are clearly distributed; in Structure of Reality, I defined an entity as roughly the k-ply union of the inter- sections of its descriptors. k implied thresholding and emergence can be considered a variety of _active_ thresholding in which weights, networks, structures, and linguistics are all variable; what results in fact is a form of collapse into the construct of entity, name, etc. In the same work I defined state-representation-graphs and representation itself as a loose (i.e. conceivably involving probabilities and "foreign" elements) mapping from one matrix to another. In Hofstadter's Copycat program, "The system has a connectionist flavor by virtue of spreading activation in the slipnet." (Franklin, Artificial Minds; also see Hofstadter on fluid analogies.) On MOOs, objects are constructed through wryting; in cyber- space, bodies are constructed through hysteric embodiment. In Stone's work, as well as Turkle's, Butler's, etc. the construct of gender is par- amount and in fact the physical body itself becomes problematic in the first two. Electrons as particles are found within probability clouds and as everyone knows particles behave as waves and vice versa. Reality tends to diffuse in the very late twentieth century, as if it will at last turn transparent in the year 2000; the opposite in fact is still the case in many parts of the world where bodies are close to equivalent to lost generations, internment, detention and disease. The world cannot sustain its obdurate status; it tends towards the transparent and per- haps this is also what the virus perceives? Because it's _not_ that there is a point to this, but only a pointer itself to the opposite, that it is pointless and diffuse, even the ob- durate, even death which is becoming a _deduction._ For ourselves, for myself, I await _nothing_ for nothing is within and without the state of nature, a state which dissolves into foreign states and dissolutions - this isn't a _situation_ of the critique of nations (not a critique at all): _Whatever is named falls apart._ Kripke was wrong; when infor- mation deconstructs natural kinds, language loses its holdfast. But Saussure was wrong; when language loses holdfast, difference collapses as well and one is left with the _mentioning_ of pointers. And in the midst of all of this (postmodernity): the past appears only _as an emergent property itself,_ the result of blind copycat thresh- olding. So isn't death a residue? Think _on_ this. _______________________________________________________________________ - Communication Beyond Communication Good evening. I want to speak about something I am calling "Communication Beyond Communication," which refers to more than the title of this talk; in fact, it presuppose a supplement to communication which exceeds this or any other framework. Such a supplement does not, however, presuppose either a metaphysics or a teleological impulse towards spirit of whatever sort; instead it describes by its very supple impulse, an issue of _band- width,_ and what it is possible to ascertain in any consensual orienta- tion. One might well argue that sexuality alone is that supplement or at least exceeds the issue of supplement, since the symbolic, almost always imminent, is replaced by the imaginary, the shuddering itself within the real. One need, however, not turn towards the Lacanian in order to compre- hend that up to and perhaps encompassing the sexual, there is always al- ready a tendency towards _gesture,_ gestural logics, extensions (speci- fically non-distributivity) enlarging whatever mode one enters within. Now the specificity of speech or print, in lieu of any other accompanying discourse, is the speech of the telephone or the Internet, in spite of _this_ speech, which is a presentification in which the issue of embodi- ment hardly arises. And the telephone or Internet (I am speaking of ascii, specifically, lower ascii, here) constructs an uncanny intimacy - the former, because the voice is ikonic in relation to the voice, and the latter, because distance (absence of Levinasian alterity) can be an open- ing or positivity (i.e. the negation of the every-day is absent). Both modes then for different reasons tend towards one another. If there is _reason_ to the uncanny, part of it lies in the lack of the body here, just as pornography itself lacks the flesh, and reconstructs it in the form of serial representations (exhausting, through defuge, one or another image, entering into the circulation of commodities). It is this very lack which spurs the desire for communication beyond communica- tion, for _something else_ in addition to the _stuff_ carried within the bandwidth, loaded stuff, overdetermined and underdetermined simultaneous- ly. It's overdetermined by the body itself, and underdetermines the self- same body of the other. This is a continuous process. And it is a process which, like pornography, creates a circulation of community and communication, brings one back into the group or a sense of the participatory. Not to mention that it is the participatory (at least in its relation to the other) that drives the communication in the first place. Out of this, out of all of this, yearning emerges; it is yearning which creates the illusion of the _horizon_ of cyberspace, a cyber_spatiality_ in fact which is non-existent, but appears, like the rainbow, to have an end in bodies which are no longer, have never been, virtual. In the un- canny this is the _doing_ and _undoing_ of bodies, the unraveling of the real and the wandering in the return to the symbolic; all one has, after this all is said and done, is the screen itself, in its fecundity, its production of the textual which is never a fellow-traveler. That is all that needs to be said _on the subject,_ and I would continue except for the very obvious fact that I am tired, exhausted in fact (all these facts!) with the considerable traveling I myself have had to do, in fact, to come here and speak to you this evening. Thank you. No, thank you! No, thank you! No, really, thank you! No, thank you! No, thank you! I really must insist! Thank you! Ah, but really as well, thank you! No, no, no! Thank you! I _must_ insist! Thank you! [etc.] ________________________________________________________________________ - The Poor Post of the Playing Fields of the Goddess There is always a business that surrounds a text-driven application within a graphic interface. It can range from advertising on some of the downloa- ded chat clients, to buttons always signaling an alternative. Thus one is faced with the model of a tree or holarchy from everywhere within the Net. At the prompt, space appears; within X-windows on linux, there may be no- thing at all. Space is boundless, and shells and other forms of subterran- ean life coagulate upon it. But within the GUI, there is only inscription and determination; the result is a _setting_ that varies according to the application, but always contains within it the seeds of its own branching or dissolution. This isn't a minor point; there are two different ways of approaching the net, just like poetics of a sort - a tablature or sonnet, and a field or potential manifold. The prompt approaches the latter, which fascinates me since there is within it a simulacrum of cyberspace, lending itself to- wards the metaphor. The former however is laid out, presenting navigable surfaces which may lead anywhere and everywhere, but never stray too far from port. The former is classic AI, the latter connectionist or post-connectionist. The former is Boolean, the latter non-distributive. The former is the Young-Helmholtz model of color vision and/or classical particles and the latter is the post-Land/David Marr theories of color vision and/or superimposition. But the former contains within it the seeds of teleology, permission, and protocol, and hence is at the heart of TCP/IP for example, the material substrate forming the _stuff_ of the surface, just as protocol itself is met with its own representations all the way down, nothing stopping at the level of the atomic. It's good to remember this. It's good to remember the demographics also, which don't and never can mirror ourselves, nor should we desire that mirroring. I will split within the field of the Goddess. I will work accordingly. ___________________________________________________________________________ value="rev"> Name:
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