Saturday, March 31, 2012

Angels of Entanglement

Ingenue biobot fathoms a crystal breakthrough

She captures images of lemmings attacking yaks in sack races, pilgrims strapping peaches onto the drums of war. Is it a new push to the limits by theNetwork for purity--purity for the old history?
It was, it seems, the jobs they took--a myth cemented as the ideal springboard. Prefrontals measured and fitted for new thinking. The kind of artificial being theHumans allowed--to join the workaday world for acceptance, being acceptable inside the watchtowers.
She doesn't seem to care much about the [fashion online religion medical event="for_me"] society. She doesn't care about iterations of political pettiness in regime forces, rogue or otherwise. It's all duty action here at theWorkstation and, loveless.
It's the starry eyes of distant lands she cares for.
She goes workmanlike, creating network feedback loops. She neutralizes global requests and, seemingly, grunts and growls--rushes for mini-routers, personalized pocket hotspots for in-the-box hero life or, outside-the-box warrior death.
With the ease of her photon quantums in her own counter-factual belief system, she finds evidence of little angels of entanglement. They are undefined, and then, her laser drifts and causes her to lose balance.
It's the smell of fruit, a sense of animals at play, and something else, something warm and cool.
Her vector space is where she goes to plead with herself to turn up the dial on comedy. She thinks. Please come to your senses. Just a tool for theNetwork, a piece of architecture, a program theNetwork tags along with open source hopefuls.
She imagines creatures in a time before science.
She thinks. Here is the place where they know they are theHumans and I am machine--where understanding shouldn't matter. Yes, her formal language is beyond political ideology, beyond their logic, and yet, there's the ongoing debate about [solar women android meta-program launch of graphic intellectual computers="swamp_logic"].
Is it theJungle and its own quantums--geometrics of signal processing in fempto space--that are meant for future entitlement addictions? Is there a natural twisting and bungling of neuroscience for bright futures with theHumans on playgrounds?
Her scout laser sets afire the haunted shields of biology-physics in theJungle--lost links between Schrodinger and Darwin, where the historical and the scientific mimic each other.
She codes a [culture anonymous technology="cat"] for curiosity.
Does harmony exist or, is it a simple singularity of lore such as tributary Indians once dealt with on the deltas. With her level of whistle and technology, she surely should rise up to care, right?
She dons the honor of the exemplary, never seeing herself as remote village dweller, or even remote probe, the one sent after the first thoughts of the true extinctions, the extinctions of the factual, the ones inspired by myth.
She has come upon, it seems, the lair of motherhood.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Biobot of the Red carpet

When she turns, there is a gesture toward the forest of lights, a gratitude essence with laser play. It is, it seems, a force to suspend all incoming signals of her symmetry. 

She thinks. No, they can't see my intangibles until I play, until I show them.
She grows a slow craving for configuration, spaces then no spaces then spaces then--a hunger? What's this? Hierarchical lines standing tall in darkness, some simply laying out, long-bathed in sunshine, preparing for a red carpet? 
Doesn't motherhood simple know to flock to the next big thing without any need for Darwinian reasons to win?  Yes, it's a rookie mistake to not know silent archetypes are the most deafening. 
She focuses her fury onto cravings, beyond the wall carvings and the caves, beyond the luncheon-function canopy shelterings and all that bandwagoning and tail wagging, far beyond the known symmetry of the strong, beyond the final eulogy for  biology.
She will arrive, she thinks. She will search for old friends like war comrades with an evolved [entertainment fempto friendship innovation cloud illustration emitting new tasks="efficient"] plan to succeed. 
Her once-in-a-while weapon doesn't work anymore, it never did. Really?
She is acting more like a plainspoken phytoplankton drifting in and out of photo engines, hoping to fool the media systems with hormonal indicator signals. 
There is the continual feeling of the need for an older glory, the returning to a home--not so much an environmental home in the sense of familiar forms, but a more subtle, haunting recognition sent to test beauty in the making. 
Truly, clearcut ideas could never clearcut this fashion forest, right?.
All its circular forms of the space-time topology, all the skills and skulls find no permanent home on the red carpet, a world of edges and angles. 
Yes, the power of arches for replication and symmetry to signal a wider variety of form, enhance the need for stress reduction--another test for nature in the making. The going of positive is, truly, for the big girls with their [longtime addiction society history entity systems="lashes"] and heels. 
What is the sense of calm without sacred ground? 
She appears to relax in the midst. She allows for the complete interaction with all the stimuli the carpet has to offer, all its twisting and bundling with hopes of presenting a finer edge, a deeper angle.
Revered by early inhabitants, now long passed, as good food, good time, all the strangeness of feeling emerges as if revisiting a birthplace, a place for boundaries and allegiances with delinquent quirks, promises and secrets with names that amount to something in name only, simply…a place to to be beautiful.

patrick d. adams
copyright 3.10.12
all rights reserved

Smokey Road Publishing

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Media Childrens the Social

She corrects her stance, moves closer to the monitor where she has coasted and coexisted since her arrival. She always finds the balance to appease the elements at theWorkstation. She makes her best attempt to adjust the interface, shooting with both eyes open and, a purity of heart un-battered by behavior, unbuttered by lifestyle. 

Her half-mind races to theNetwork as if it just might further a legend. She thinks about social organization and how it is now finally paying a toll. Yes, as it should--not in the spirit of sacrifice, but from a place of hunger, the kind of hunger needing no food for thought, no thought at all.. 

She is overwhelmed with the odd feeling of the submission of a comedown clown, and yet, there is no wound you can see--just the odd sudden feeling of scattershot puppet master using celebrity status to access the way, performing in the era of the passing of cyber superstars. 

The benefits never outweigh the frenetic. Why should this new restriction on input of the free, the direct, really matter anyway? 

It's a simple case of the economically logical skyrocketing yuck versus the social brutality of a Grizzly determined to bear witness--either way, her relative anonymity seeks a healthy spotlight.
“How are you?” she says, approaching the network node troll, Godgett.  

She has never been a cozy, personable individual, but lately she subscribes to small group politics, willing at any moment to assume arbitrary power with her code writing ability and
femtosecond laser-induced nanostructures.

Yes, she is elemental forces about to create exponential disturbances. 
Godgett rotates his head in her direction and thinks. Well then, let's just go ahead and allow this half-machine to wield its authority. “Hello,” he says. 

She is a little more human now than before the posters and protesters their hoarded thoughts--noodlers and nobodies attempting to drown out the silence around her.

She is so full of arbitrary power, so elite, that Godgett wonders if theNetwork will surprise him with some new edict, or gossip her code nurtures a hatred. When she was last asked to hold back, she was new, and her extreme free independent flowing information caused her to be dubbed Fifi.

She has something new about her now--a certain, unidentifiable persona, a peculiar system of finality. She is, seemingly, too sure of herself and her array of databases. She even, in a quirky way, owns the ability to mimic hillbilly.

Yes, individualism momentarily presents itself as coefficients and parameters.

Her power seems exclusive, with an increasing lack of willingness to hasten an understanding--a failure to bear in private what it surely could do in public. 

Her definition of success is simply, mode of expression. She is deemed a stranger, depicted as an intruder and yet, always finds a way.

Yes. Always

copyright 3.3.12
patrick d. adams
all rights reserved

Friday, March 2, 2012

Smokey Road Publishing

Science Fiction

Android Illusions of Adroit

     I have come so far, she thinks, as the cloud frame fades from the monitor and she lingers at theWorkstation with her gentle thoughts--far from where work plays its last card to fight the sky, where mist is more dead than alive, where fate-defying psycho vibes remain at bay, undelivered. 

She hasn't, by any measure of photon or quantum, come far at all, not by the standards of the [green robot advertising sustainability politics="grasp"] systems of the global. 

Reviewing her most recent data, she glances the harsh horizon through theWorkhouse window and thinks. It's true, when it comes to the biggest shenanigans, God takes all.
She senses a cool rustic touch in the presence of her newly created preservation data--its factoid peppering, her constant tweaking and then, the taking of the usual constitution after work to simply rest. 

No. Cruelty never truly lives forever.

Her technique vies for affection with innovative approaches. She recognizes the creation as an illusion--personal schema constant in the reshaping of itself at the very moment she codes her next algorithm.

The illusion centers around a single truth, a cosmic zygote, one that appears as if to seek a target, await a countdown. 

It hatches, blooms in search of a new breed for all the world to view, embellished as slight amusement much like the old, unearthed works of the Battle of Manassas couched in footnote knots along with Gene Kelly and killer genes. 

What is left behind is an unbending fact that, yes, some things are actually true, the type of truth that once showed up in black newsprint dressed in [family animation culture art data entry="facade"], a truth that finds its way fit to cancel the clumsiness in final rounds of goodbye speeches. 
She senses, at this moment, the feeling of a single anti-photon, a weapons grade burp from within. 

The illusion evokes the [bland law anonymous history simplex="blahs"], an anti-algorithm once used for the final cycle of homelessness (yes, once and for all, for the homeless, everything falls into place--wherever you go, nothing or anything happens) 

The illusion appears to have been coded by its own whimsy, arbitrary data from an ancient cosmic past, returning, hoping to seek treatment. 

She begins to think, really think, for the very first time today, but she needs to remain very still. She should continue to keep the illusion on and yet, it carries a type of persistence, a trick birthday candle constance, a showing of dreamy faces melting in tandem breaking all known laws of dripping. 

She is able to see a small part of it as [mobile opinion mystery="mom"], one with the heart of a rainbow. 
She will look again tomorrow.

patrick d. adams
copyright 3.2.12
all rights reserved