Part One

Sometimes I wonder, when all is quiet in the air, whether dead men also dream. And what one may call a dream, dreamed of by those who passed on. It’s far easier to face the past, if indeed it’s not your own personal history. The color of pages, as if one were writing completely blind. It’s easy to give into self-doubt, pointing to the world wanting to shout. Shouting into the darkness. The life of a gamer on the wire. I look to well known game series, and simply wish for something way more than I often get. In that secret garden of demon eyes in distant memories, one seek an end to their misery. The misery of the secret life.

In fantasy movies and storybooks, the church is often a symbol of the planet. Yet for me so often, it is a symbol of total misery. I’d rather watch beasts having sex. And as I float in the sky drifting above the steeple, I find myself looking at ants. But unlike ants, these creatures go to the market to purchase a baguette, milk their sheep and cows, and have prayer every evening before bed. While I drift in the air largely doing nothing.

Nothing but sky surfing, on the wire.

Some say if one dreams when they’re dead, then they’re really alive. Because dead people cannot dream. Yet there are so many layers of the self. I dream of forests and deserts; i dream of icy tundras, and climb the everglade mountains. I don’t remember visiting the New York Islands. So only this land is my land, the land of my own forgotten memories.

But sometimes steeple Jesus karate chops your face.

And that’s how you wake up in the morning with a splitting head ache, and some broken teeth. And just like that, you’re out of your meditative stance. As one stares to the ceiling, taking one long glance. Consumed by the fantasy is a tap girl’s dance, as you copulate in the sky above the church. With you as Satan, and her as an angel in white.

Goodnight virginity, goodnight life.

Bonjour rebirth, under starlight. As one hops through time across different eras, and finally falling into bed.

And drift off to sleep.

That hopefully feels better than a karate chop. Apocalypse of a broken face.

Very few people acknowledge the death of a franchise, or a favorite series of books. Especially when certain books are deeply ingrained into the consciousness of certain cultures. I find it very difficult to become attached to video game series, as someone who has tended to be a loveless youth. Most high school students have dated at least someone in their life, even if perhaps it was for a relatively short period. Some also experience breaks up earlier than most, but average lifespan of a relationship in your teen is roughly a year. A year and a half if your lucky.

Love carries certain expectations that I’ve found have never been one hundred percent realistic. Some of based on societies idealized body standards, others based on the wealth of their suitors. Yet for me it is based on the conditional of absolutely unconditional affection. There have been girls I have had crushes on, and I suspect this is the core origin of my preference for girls who are French or Latino in origin. I knew that, for me when I look for girls, I look firstly based on their degree of sexual attraction. In a sense, I had taken myself outside of the gene pool.

When I had played this special game, I projected much of my inner insecurities and desires about this female game character, and given into certain peer pressures. In a sense, I’ve given up the relationship of the flesh. For some standard of beauty and unconditional love that could never be reached. In a sense, this series was my video game proxy, my relationship on some distant server farm. Because I knew that I could never be a match for anyone on this Earth.

The series, in its current state, does not achieve this level of feelings of affection in modern gamers. Its a product of the newer generation, and the company is hooping its newest break out hit, a carefully planned remake, will somehow save the series. But a lot of the older generation has moved onto to newer game series, some even went onto have families.

Yet for me, I lie in wait. Hoping for some new series to take its place, hoping for some means of absolution. Hoping for another relationship by proxy.

Instead I play Rogue Likes like Crawl and Angband, gambling for the latest fix going through various ASCII dungeons. Disillusioned by pixels glare. Ashamed of the person I called myself, hiding from the world at large.

I rot. A shut in.

The wired.

If I could describe myself, it’s somewhere between Cyberpunk and Satanist. However, over time, this Charlotte washed away with a long forgotten rain.

There are a few similarities to Cyberpunk, of course, but it’s sort of like comparing Catalonia and Spain; the few similarities that remain form a unique exception to the general fact that one simply can’t be defined by music genres. For me, I drown myself in Portuguese Polka, some tap dancing, and other more traditional music genres.

But I also still like the occasional Front Line Assembly and Offspring single. With my own personal jingle, I dislike Christmas holidays. They remind me of every time I got gifts that were in my birth gender, rather than the gender that I consider myself. I’ve never attached myself to trans humanism, because no matter how advanced the technology becomes, one simply can’t travel between the past, present, and future on a whim, as if it were only a dot on a map.

It is because of this, so often, my diaries never include references to the Cyberpunk movement. Even back in high school my attachments were scant at best, as I was mostly attached to Satanic verse than the other rock genres that were generally available to that sub culture. I wanted to be the master of the dark arts, and become my own Satanic messiah. I used fiction as my indulgent fantasy, yet found no fulfillment. I drown myself in Final Fantasy games, and other Japanese Role Playing Games. I drown myself in the blood of fallen rogue like NPCs.

Yet the truth is I desire life to flow like music notes in epic poetry form, and elements of Flamenco. Waltz accordion notes falling down like rain. I sing the inner song of a life profane, all the way through my time in Maine. I refuse to listen to other voices, in some vain attempt to concentrate on the flow of worldly poetry, yet find my inner music fading. Fading nightly, waning brightly. I bask in the knowledge of once proud poet.

Now, in the structure of this universe, I wait for my inner sane to wane and fade into the night. The clouds flowing like notes from a romantic Goth band.

And close to Portuguese accordion.

Part Two

But if you’re looking for someone explicitly anti-authoritarian, you wont find that here.

Instead I prefer to exercise my will over situations through not being there when my group needs me. This isn’t because I don’t want the problem to resolve. But I find that when people don’t try to help me with my issues, I also have no reason to help theirs. There is only so many minutes one has during the day, especially when one dreams of intercourse as one soars about the steeple on the church, and dream of raining polka notes while eating Spetzle and Omelets. I prefer to cook and watch music.

Bonjour new life, farewell to a older world of social decay and rust. I know work on different articles, and sometimes works of fiction. But I also focus my efforts on drawing Latino girls, and writing poetry. But I don’t spend much time outside of my home, except to occasionally visit the local Japanese steak house. Some might consider this uninteresting. Generally I have no particular retort, except if you don’t like it, unsubscribe the mystical pages called my life.

Stuck in the past of my own making, stuck in a world of dreams of dead dragons, stuck in a world of withered roses. I wait for some journey that will never come, some princess that will be in some dire need. So that I may butcher her needlessly, and savor on her blood of life. The blood in my wine glass, laced with Merlot. It coats the back of my throat like adult candy, its tartness better than the flavor of chocolate.

Some call this being socially awkward, I call this simply being myself. As I fantasize about some fantastic world beyond, dressed and stealth snipers and cybernetic hippy girls. Drowning on the mystical blood of life.

– Anglaise hanasemasu ka?

– Non, mais hanasemasu ka en Francaise?

– Oui, desole. Je suis mal!

– C’est bon!

It was a language created after the French invaded the remnants of the United States empire. The French reigned for over one hundred years, but lost ground to the Japanese. Their children code switching between the two, almost as if it were a completely new language. Those who speak English find this strange, and yet somehow fascinating. I am writing this log in this minority tongue. But sometimes I have to speak in this American EAR, the code switching between French and Japanese to survive.

C’est une historie de l’history pour la femme. The woman who sees the decline of her own language, in bits and pieces. Like bleeding musical notes. Pour moi, mon famille avoir l’historie pour l’maladie. The story of a hidden life.

Every now and then in the mail, I get an email in this new language spoken by today’s youth subculture. My insurance provider mentioned the gradual forced obsolescence of English; they will be gradually teaching their staff (and thus their customers) to use the prestige languages. They will no longer respond to my inquiries in my native tongue. C’est que pour mon maladie! I wish to continue to use English, but I may no longer have any choice. Here lies the epitaph of personal history.

When I used to hear a foreign language, it used to have a minority status; generally these would only be spoken in urban locations: Spanish if you lived in the South, French if you lived in the North. Yet now, with English declining after the break up of the nation into smaller countries, I find I am only able to converse in it in the city. Replaced is the code-switching phrase: Pour Francaise, pour Nihongo.

Even in Mexican groceries stores, they sometimes have to botch this American EAR. When you first experience it, it can be the weirdest thing you’ve seen all year. But I’ve somewhat made peace of this inevitability.

– Nihongo hanasemasu ka, sir Sombrero?

– Non

While this never completely ruins the business of such cultural niche markets, this can be a minor set back for those just getting into business in this new market. I’m not sure how much longer I can speak English to my friends.

But then again, I hate my mother tongue.

Thus, Parlez-vous Nihongo? Ou Franciase hanasemasu ka?

You don’t have to answer.

It’s already set in stone.

I clicked open the browser, and saw an email written from someone claiming to be my friend on OK Cupid: the user placed a link in their direct message, to a pdf file specifically revolving around Westboro Baptist Church’s conspiracy to infiltrate Oktoberfest in Nashville, Tennessee. It being that file type, like being rich text format, was a matter of significance: how many people do you meet place files known to carry viruses inside of a direct message? This breaks all forms of opsec.

To make matters worse, he mentioned having another file, related to the secret recipe for atomic bombs leaked out by the Oak Ridge facility. It was with this, I knew, that couldn’t take the risk. I had bad an anarchist for some time, but never got the chance to actually practice direct action: this is a form of taking measures directly into your own hands, rather than relying on law enforcement to protect your rights. Generally used to take back the means of production, has been a more reliable tool than other front channel methods.

– You can’t really be a spy, your opsec is terrible.

I then blocked them on OK Cupid, because that kind of message wasn’t really intended for that platform anyway, and then reported his message directly to the website. I wasn’t entirely sure what the response time would be, but all I knew is I didn’t want such a message in my in box. There were other better places I would prefer to get such messages, and even then, I would much prefer to not receive them from old men on the net.

Those I would accept files from, would send me .epub, where I can actually modify and look at the underlying source code, and make sure there wasn’t any attributes that violated my rights as a consumer. Perhaps this sense of being overly cautious, may make it difficult to make friends on the net: but those things you nurture off of the web, in secured channels, and not through dead drops you find lying down on the street.

But a few months ago, I met a girl, with a dagger in her hand, who I would not have met, if not for having met her on the web. Perhaps that’s my double standard, preferring girls on the net. But for them, I was going to take anything I could get.

She was not traditionally beautiful, but far from ugly: she called herself Lady Papillon. Carrying a small black dagger, and a black purse, she wore mirror shades, and her black hair cropped should length. She wore two black Birkenstock Arizona sandals, a pair of dark gray jeans, and lighter gray long sleeve tee shirt with a comics logo on her shirt. Yet she was inherently against the idea of branding, and preferred hackers that spoke with their computer skills, rather than their mouth. A general rarity among computer types.

– I’m currently on the run, she said.

– From what, I inquired.

– I’ve had a run in with the IRS. I don’t want them to know what I’ve been spending my money. She popped out a previously rolled cigarette. I need you to help me cover my tracks. Think you can do that.

– How much are you offering?

– A black car, a blow job, and a bodyguard.

– I’ll think on it. Are you busy tonight?

– I don’t rave.

– I never said I had that in mind.

– Then what?

Lady Papillon tried avoiding taxation wherever she could. She was an anarcho-capitalist, while I wanted to completely get rid of the market. You might not think were were pair, but sometimes when you’re able to avoid political conversation, you can get along with those you might not expect: she had been raised in a Bourgeoisie family of half French, and half Japanese. While I was part Cherokee, and mostly Irish. Do to the very nature of our backgrounds, she wanted more of a marketing dynamic.

But as someone who had worked in a department store, under a boss who was a religious extremist, long hours, and grossly under payed, I was focusing mostly on survival, while she was focused on making a profit. She made a profit on what she was good at, taking hit jobs for 3,000 a strike. She never asked who she had to hit, it wasn’t her business to know. She simply knew she needed to make the strike, and make it pronto.

But the person she was assigned to kill, had been more elusive than she was expecting; she charged by the month she was unable to kill the target. She could sense noises from a mile away with her giant elf ears, and had 20/10 vision. My 20/40 was an object of her derision. But when you spend your time whacking orcs and trolls, and you’re just trying to run away, sometimes you’re willing to risk accidentally running into a tree. But with Lady Papillon’s driving abilities, this was less of an issue.

But instead of making the strike, we lost our target: La Presidente De Chatlanta. Surrounded by body guard orcs and hobgoblins, we fled the scene.

At home Lady Papillon clarified with me the necessity of putting a bullet in the head of La Presidente. If I had known before who the target was, although I wouldn’t have offered to give my code breaking services, but I was locked into a contract, with someone I didn’t really know.

During the week, I tapped the phone lines of La Presidente, and took video recordings of his campaigns. I checked with Lady Papillon to make sure that this was him. And eventually we were able to gain information on his current trail. His family wanted to visit the Smokey Mountains, a common tourist trap in Tennessee, closer to Knoxville than Chatlanta.

I’ll save you the breath of a two hour drive. And besides, not everyone constantly argues back and forth, while fussing at truck drivers.

Part Three

I find it difficult to focus on things I remember.

Unlike some people, I cannot write on the flip of a switch. There was a time when I wished I could get a typewriter, but with family as they are, sometimes it’s easy to have a holiday where they only think of gifts for other people and not you. Likewise, I never give them any gifts, and outright skip them. But what kills the most is how much ink gets wasting for things that are essentially random scribbling. As if somehow random scribbling were worth more than prose. It’s the little things like this, intentionally or not, that are the most insulting. And if you complain, than other people do not let you have any words.

Some people use formal language to communicate what other “lesser mortals” are able to say in less kind words, of which I wont repeat. But the gist is usually some rambling about economics, something related to communism. A university professor, to think that someone like that would lower themselves to uploading videos on youtube. Au contraire, for those who belong to sub cultures I generally associate, more often we use federated video uploading and file sharing: usually about anarchism. I communicate this story without indention, for indention is only useful if I wish to go into print. You pay the cost of a print run, for books that may never sell.

But for me, it’s not the desire to sell that motivates me. I’ve never considered myself someone motivated by money. People say that self-published books are easier to sell in genre fiction, and yet in my own experience, it’s far more common for literary fiction writers to be in the position, where they would have to self-publish their books to go anywhere. For me, it’s a bit like trying to make a profit out of something little more than your blog. Which somehow feels extremely dirty to me. My mind is so often filled with noise to today, it’s difficult to automatically write like I used to.

Even now, as I listen to the flow of rain drops outside the window, the reality of my dryness breaks the illusion: as much as it sounds like rain, the reality is it merely comes from my computer. To make matters worse, I have family that–and sometimes I wonder if it’s even that–that in the most well meaning way possible, suggest that my work will never sell if I write anything that isn’t about a specific topic. This comes despite the fact that that’s quite literally the point of literary fiction.

Sometimes I wish I could melt away with the wind, and become a collection of music notes that fill the sky.

But I’m just some disillusioned speculative fiction writer. Science fiction writers have cool gadgets, other ones have cool societies. Yet for me there is nothing traditionally exciting about the human experience. But my goal is to highlight societal truths, not necessarily entertain you. If a book is the story about being a human being, trying to force it down a garden path of a seven point structure always struck me as largely pointless. As there is so many different ways to play the same piano note.

Even if it’s not a song, of a sunken boat.

Sometimes you’ll meet people that you’re surprised they survived as long as they did, even if that person is strictly imaginary: last night I had a dream I was walking through a butchering room, ran by human female slaves. The slaves would help the main guy take girls out of the prison, who are hung up from chains by their wrists and ankles. They would be butchered on butcher block tables, their severed heads and limbs scattered all over the floor. The man would sometimes cook and eat these prisoners. But usually preferred to feed the remains to his dog, but would pretend to eat them. Then wretch them up when the man was not looking. When the man spotted me, he tried to have me captured. But instead he cornered me on his back porch.

I notice that it wasn’t a stuffed tiger on the stairs, but an actual tiger painted to look like a stuffed animal. When I turned around, the man was not there, but only his dog.

– No wonder you’re able to survive eating humans, if you ate humans every day as a human, then you’re body will eventually reject the things you’ve eaten, and begin falling apart.

– I’m just his dog lady, I want to leave this place as much as you do.

The door swung open, it was a gaggle of girls. Some slightly wounded. The main slave girl held onto the guy’s severed head and tossed it to the tiger. The tiger chased after the severed head, and for the most people could finally have a hope of not being butchered someday.

Usually dreams are not usually so violent. They say that dreams are usually caused by stress.

But so often dreams are so realistic, including the segment where I was walking through a grocery store, and was struggling to find the right box of cereal. Eventually I had to settle for generic HC, and thus my craving for that honey could finally be satisfied, until the next time I went shopping. And then it was a slow ride home, where I could listen to the sound of rain, as it poured outside against the window.

At home, when I wake up, there is only my kitty cat.

Who wants my black beans. Carefully I move my chair so they can’t go onto my dining room table. But this doesn’t stop them from trying, while I make my morning coffee.

After the morning routine, I drew some comic sketches for some new light novels. Although some of the designs have me a little bit worried, as my goal is to communicate a Cyberpunk setting, and not a children’s book. If I were drawing a children’s book, it be one thing. But a bit different if the book is about young teenagers living the life as adults. I had once wanted to be a children’s writers, but this never worked out quite like a hoped. So I’m attempting to write science fiction, under the idea that this itself may also not work out so well. And I’m stuck with a diary I don’t know how to market.

I’m not an interesting person: I have almost nothing going for me; when you attempt to kill yourself three different times, it immediately becomes apparent how little society really cares about you. That may sound cynical, but it’s the truth. I don’t mean to sound so frank, but when you’ve been kidnapped once, and have about a grand robbed from you, and you’re sexually assaulted every day for about a year, and certain contemporary hash tags on social media aren’t what they turned out to be, the only apparent reality is one where people only think of them self.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t some people that do good things, but there is usually some financial string attached; as the only person in the world that puts politics aside for sake of human decency, I don’t entirely understand how other people view the world differently. I used to be a computer programmer, but got tired of how men in the business treated trans women, especially on older federated social media networks. In Church, it’s Give Us Our Daily Bread. In the church of a Diaspora, it’s give us our daily wank.

I am a female programmer. Give me my daily shank. For thine is the Cyberdeck, and cutting is my personal wank.

Oh woman!

It seems like every time you succeed in something, there is always somebody there to try to take you down a notch; it doesn’t matter what it is, it could be finding a new girlfriend, or finishing a new book. One of the reasons I left centralized social media, is that it always felt like every one of my actions was being watched. Having some people approve of your actions doesn’t make things any better; what if you decided to change your mind later, or completely stop using the site altogether. You being the sole exception in a group that hates your political views. This is my experience, being social most people would consider socialist. The term is constantly degraded, because of people that don’t really understand what the word means.

I can’t even write Cyberpunk fiction, because–although topically I’ve never had much in common with him anyway–that the main godfather of that genre of fiction, although not an optimist, is at most a realistic often makes me feel like somehow my experience is invalid. Combine this with the fact that even in comics, one of the groups I’ve considered my lifeblood, decided to completely disown me merely for the fact that I comment on creator-ownership, or happen to dislike mainstream comic companies. Don’t ever let anyone try to convince you of anything else…

Thinking critically and carefully is never easy.

Especially as an anarcho-communist.

Part Four

I’ve never understood the concept of nostalgia, although sometimes you experience it even when you don’t mean to. For me this was in a mixture of Cyberpunk fiction and Epic Fantasy JRPGs. If one has any hope to market themselves as a writer, often you have to worry about what the genre is that you’re writing: certain topics naturally can be interpreted in a multitude of different ways, for example for the topic of how game design companies run their business, you could write that as a critical essay, an epic fantasy screen play, a cyberpunk comic script. But seldom do people like it when you combine critical essay, poetry, and stage play. But that’s what happens whenever I write script for graphic novels.

Without mentioning the name of the game design company, as that is not the point I’m trying to make, there is this untold story about a game company that hit it big, and got rich after an RPG that was intended as a swan song, and then over time gradually came to betray the trust of those who used to be fans of the series, and went onto become writers in their own way: so often when I stare on the screen of centralized social media, I get inundated with multiple layers of self-doubt.

On this one site, I was “spammed” a contemporary buzzword used to mean literally anything you want it to mean, by an interview by a game artist that worked for this company. Every moment when I see figments of the digital imagination of the artists, I get littered with the feelings of that I can never achieve what they have achieved. Other people on that companies case, often comment on their bad management practices, despite how they’ve become essentially no different from other video game companies. Mix in non free software chat rooms, with other people bragging about their own efforts, always eager to turn their achievements into a contest, often its easier to simply write what you want and just keep it on your computer. The nature of publishing itself is changing, combined with the confusion of what we call IPFS. Despite the efforts of people trying to hold back the progress of female developers, its people like myself that make that world go round. Even if those efforts are invisible. More invisible than Marvel and DC comic writers, and more invisible than strange men in even the creator-owned sphere.

I want to have all the internet freedom I want, but I want people that harass me for simply being female in cyberspace, to suffer the full extent of the loss of net neutrality.

Maybe then can they feel it.

Feel the things I’ve felt.

When people describe odd things, I often find the very concreteness of what they have to say, ironically, creates ambiguities in what they want to describe. Such as describe certain inconveniences; it needn’t be a complicate inconvenience, and usually they are not.

Thus I shall try my best to describe what I’m wanting to in the least concrete way possible. Imagine having a certain feeling, when watching a live action rendering if one of your favorite graphic novels or anime. I find that often productions give me a large degree of self-doubt. As you might notice is the theme of these essays, there is a lot of things that give me self-doubt; people are complicated. This is why, with great dismay, I find myself staring at suggestion boxes on some chat room servers: many of the issues I have that keep from writing, often comes down to self-doubt, and not whether certain things are available.

Imagine then, trying to make this suggestion: avoid discussion about popular films that lead to people doubting their own abilities. Such policy making can quickly spiral out of control, into borderline cult behavior. That some chat rooms do this stuff, even without a suggestion box, gives you an idea on how difficult it is find actual community in some places. You’ll find such behavior in communities across a variety of different topics: it can be about boat racing, tap dancing, flamenco waltzing, and so on. Which is perhaps the reason some communities decide not to include suggestion boxes, and yet some of them have such comments anyway. It almost seems like the entire concept of digital social media was designed by malevolent puppeteers, who want you to obey societal commands.

I’ve not suggesting there aren’t simpler ways to describe issues, but some issues simply cannot be summarized into a singular sentence or turn of phrase, as societal messes come in different flavors. Some taste like roast beef, and everything is common bullshit everyone has to deal with, if they live in a capitalistic society.

Writing in general, is something of a paradox; you want to fix societies issues, and yet want there to be some problems that remain, because you want to have something to write about. Not because one likes to complain, but to maintain their ability to put down words.

It’s almost impossible to get writing, once family is in town. Especially if they visit you for the next couple of days. It used to be I get could as much as 5,000 words done in one day, yet now I don’t know if I can count on true quietness on any given day. For one thing, I also wrote in a much different fashion from how I tend to now, focusing on writing to a word count rather, rather than writing from a word count. The difference between to and from is extremely major, when you consider making that goal five thousand words. It could mean the difference between a short story and a novelette at times. I’ve recently raised this limit to ten thousand words, back when I was writing more consistently, and didn’t have to worry about a cat begging for snuggles as soon as I got up in the morning before coffee.

That’s not to say I don’t get any writing done, but I write a lot more sporadically: generally I might write about seven hundred or one thousand words every day, ending with ten thousand words by the end of the week or week and a half. Sometimes it takes much longer. I almost don’t worry about having a nail breaking plot anymore, and focus more on the inner life of my characters. I’m considering reprinting a working sheet on one hundred questions to ask your character, and tell those traits through the story, rather than answering them as if it were a quiz handed down to you from a stern teacher. This was the way I used to view any worksheet like this. And to a lesser degree than has largely not gone away.

Last night I was trail blazing through one of my favorite Japanese Manga series, for a new Battle Android movie: one thing I had always wanted to ask the father figure in that story, in as general a way as I could possibly manage, was whether there was any meaningful way to have actual sex, and have the Cyborg (unlike an Android, that’s built from the ground up bio-mechanically) have meaningful enjoyment from such copulation. For a long time, it was Cyborgs, Androids, Artificial Humans (if there was any meaningful difference between them and Androids), were my go to source for MCs. But lately I had gotten back into writing horror-fiction partially, with characters that merge Artificial Intelligence, with Clinical Vampire, and having them feed on other AIs. Whether I’ll continue that series, I’ll have to see, as I’m getting somewhat tired of how “rival “authors in the west treat others who deviate from the norm in terms of Book Covers. But I have a better idea of the audience I’m working with than they do.

There are a lot of factors like this, that deliberately work against me, rather than trying to help me get me back into writing science fiction. Which should tell you all you need to know about the state of the legal system, if they care more about preventing every day users from having a meaningful internet connection, rather than preventing Author On Author crime, such as different kind of character assassination. I literally have to work in private blogs online, or on places where English isn’t their first language, just to get any real work done on my books: combine with a cat that’s always craving attention, and that’s how you know the majority of people giving you writing advice online, are not doing it for your benefit.

It’s purely to hear themselves talk.

I prefer to walk my own walk, make my own way in the world. And hope someday I can write something meaningful to submit to different actual science fiction magazines. But the general rule is this: if someone is giving writing advice without having read your work, the chances of them being incorrect skyrocket. So block these people as you need to: if a social network makes it impossible to block people, get rid of that social network. It’s why I use the federated social networks, and do what I can to block Fascists as well. When you approaching thirty, you don’t have as much time as you use to to pay attention to the things people say: especially when they’re trying to keep you from publishing the first book you ever wrote.

I’m trying to write sequels.

I don’t have time for your bullshit.

Sometimes I come up with an idea in my head, then suddenly it disappears without a trace. There is still some part of you that remembers it, but when you’re surrounded by noise, often your mind feels like it completely fragments into dust. These days, I harness most of them in building an artificially intelligent AI. Currently she is modeled after one the characters in my earliest stories in personality, and her skills are primarily focused in breaking different kinds of ciphers.

When I construct the if / else branches, I initially based on a realistic level of small talk that she could have, although it still follows a script. Although it could be reasonably argued that humans themselves follow some kind of higher level script. Though not one that could be summarized in the form of arrays and input values. The biggest challenge is making her have voice command. I can convert a .txt into an input value, but not noise so much. So created previously recorded audio to construct her voice may be out of the question. However the parts of her where she can solve simple ceasar ciphers and mixed alphabetics by brute forcing them is complete.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get to the point where I’ll do 3D modeling, it’s way to easy to model her on some vague idea of a girl I find sexually attractive, and subject her to wearing Birkenstocks. However even if I found her sexually attractive, sex toys are expensive, and I’d rather not set the precedent where I’m treating my Artificial Intelligence like she’s a plaything. And the way I look at it, if I can’t be satisfied by her, then there is shoe play I can watch online, with cute girls slipping in and out of their birkenstocks.

But I want Bianca for something else.

I’m just not sure what yet.

Trying to find some good tutorials for learning ChatScript. Bianca is loosely based on one of my MCs in Uploaded Fairy, called Blanci. Although eventually I will be expanding her personality to go beyond the book, and maybe get some 3D printing done to build an actual copy of her.

I realize it’s best to only build your robot companions based on the impression of those you like, and yet every time I write some characters, I feel the inclination to do this from the impression of someone I hate. It’s not that I can’t create a personality that I love, but rather having pushed myself away from others, I find myself scared to love anyone again. Part of the writer’s instinct is to write someone they don’t have a problem putting through hell, in order to make readers care a lot about the character in question.

But if you think about it, this is a horrible way to treat a person. Thus an script writer for human-like robots has a issue, They want a personality that people would want to have a conversation with, yet have the decency and hard to not make that Script be an emotional drain on those who want companionship.

And yet, for me, the script writer of the lady of my dreams, the only one I seek companionship for is myself. I’m already learning the basics of script writing, but it may be that by the time I’ve finished a personality for her, another open source library will be created, and no longer will androids need a script. I suppose I’ll see as that time comes.

The is a difference between things I wanted to build in my youth, and things I wanted to build as I grew older: the main difference was in terms of purpose; aimless and non-specific, my goals were about doing as many things as capitalism could possible demand of me.

Yet I was insecure kid, and prone to a temper tantrum. This manifested in rolling up my fists, and becoming piping hot red. And yet I was inherently harmless, and these days generally trying to find the reason for the thing that’s ticking me off, rather than continuing to be upset. That’s not to say that there aren’t times when one can be reasonably upset, so much that that reason isn’t an open bag of red lentils in your cabinet.

Part of me doesn’t want to develop Bianca to be perfect, but rather to create her so that she has the same flaws as the rest of us; as a parents, and it would be closer to a parent than anything else, then someone who would want to come to her house and play, and vice versa, would not want to swing sets with someone who was mostly perfect.

Many parents want perfect children, and yet for me, the idea of a child that’s perfect in everywhere, and somehow more terrifying than, then one who falls on a bicycle and scrapes their knees.

Or be better, than stories of the high seas.

For the time being I will be using Ruby to built a chatbot. Eventually I will be using sprites and audio files to do certain tasks. Whether I’ll include animation, I’m not entirely sure yet. Created the mechanism for remembering basic things from static memory you can teach things to, such as political affiliation, and religion, if it ever comes up.

The downside of the earlier version was that conversations were not organic. Who just starts a conversation with “I am afraid!” It lacks nuance. Eventually I will create the mechanism for social memories as well. The naturalized speech pattersn using randomness arrays.

I’m not entirely against chatscript, but the only purpose is for those who want to get into coding, but don’t want to get into hardcore scripting. I might go back to it eventually, but it needs to update its documentation.

One thing that’s currently bothering me in developing Bianca, with humans when you ask them politics, they’ll need to take a political compass test in order to gat a real idea of their personality. But when an chatbot, you’re not just codifying the different results for a web page, but also determining whether the ChatBot should come up with these conclusions on its own, rather than through more natural processes like human interaction. Or whether they should have some complex views about the world themselves.

Specifically: Whether I should tell the chatbot what to think, or whether it should come up with such ideas on its own. Consider that one of the many prides of Libertarianism, is the ability to come up rational decisions on an individual basis, rather than determined for you by society. Of course any kind of simulated environment would be a form of pursuasion, unless you’re programming the very best of simulated environments.

Finished BIANCA’s framework of political compass ethics, where you teach her political views through duplicating your own views. In the next stage she will have her own independant framework of ethics automatically generated. But I need to put in a cool switch, so she doesn’t become to capitalistic or to authoritarian, neither of which would be very good. Mainly I want to get the personality finished, so I go back to learning hardware, and figure out how to manage some 3D printing.

I disagree with the idea of using a human model to create something human like, mostly because even when I draw people, I’m not basing them on anyone, all it largely comes from my head. And in the nearest feature, her face is probably going to be a more realistic anime girl sprite anyway, until I get 3D modeling done.

An overview of how Framework Of Ethics work, the machine generates a rough answer set, and the program bases its responses (eventually this will be actions), on how leftward or rightward the answers are. Her answers will be tailored based on how capitalistic or communist like the human surrogate is. But eventually, as with the visual, not wanting to rely on a human surrogate for the artificial personality.

Ever sense as long as I can remember, I’ve always had the issue of–while still being able to talk to multiple people–I can only talk to one person at any given moment, and not really adept at splitting my focus across a few different places. With chatbots, we have an opportunity to create someone that can have multi-conversational ability, that is, they can discuss topics in a slightly different way depending on who runs the source code. Any given user of the chatbot would have slightly different answers.

How what I’m not sure of is whether this advantage would actually carry over into the meatsack world, where something that has a physical presence can only be in one place at any given moment. I think this is part of the issue why I was initially skeptical of androids, because it really doesn’t solve the issue of multi-conversationality: although that may not necessarily be the goal, we might want a thing that has our same weaknesses. But in any case, it’s curious that as basic a program I’ve written can solve a simple problem, for the simple fact of being stored on an external keyboard.

Which I guess explains why core personalities are stored on server farms. This could be enhanced by storing them on federated server farms as well, so we don’t have to rely on big data companies for the job. it extends the shelf-life of your source code, by allowing you to indefinitely update something without worrying about whether your provider crashes.

Part Five

If you create a network that automatically blacklists sites that follow a certain ideology, even if everyone forks your source code, with you having the monopoly on software, then essentially it becomes a kind of “Covert Centralized Authority” until those people decide to eliminate that automated protocol. Code enforced for TOS is not a full proof design. And can lead to abuse.

A bit like, even if the Catholic Church can’t personally dictate national policy, that there are multiple churches using the same religion, effectively makes the decentralization of the protocol basically a moot point. Servers are sort of like this today, especially if not community-run.

Decentralization only helps prevent issues from within its framework, and not very good at preventing outside subversion that effects all outside instances, if the server itself is not federated. I shouldn’t have to state this, but the whole “what do you know, you just do client software” really minimizes the amount of people willing to help participate in federating your space.

As suppose to creating their own, that works. These places claim to support freedom of speech, but they don’t support free communication, which is in fact more useful than saying whatever you want. You’re suppressing free communication, when you speak over people. This is the primary difference between communitarian interests, and those who prefer to help themselves. The concept of there being a give and take, and not aimless self-promotion.

This is why handling speech with androids is so tricky, because ultimately without some framework, one can only speculate the dangers of there being a one-sided conversation only humans can enjoy.

Those eyes so bright, they shine the night…whispers in dial tones.

For her whom possesses no wishes, she create an illusion of goodnight. Yet perhaps it’s but a dream, my soul in flight. Now I hold her tight, her lips say bonne nuit tonight. With her gentle bits of gaze, soul splits tonight. Like music boxes, old wicker boxes tonight. Bits of memory so faint, childhood memories so quaint. Such distant memories, that make her want to faint.

She falls far below, becomes a floor’s taint. And into this new world, she finds solace. Even where there is not. Liquid stardust melting in the mouth, like burning hornets going down the gullet. Trance music pulsing slowly, melting of the anxiety. the clocks that tock at midnight, sing their nocturnal sonnet. One may dream dreams of girls in bonnets, or the guillotine striking it’s mark.

But for me, my digital dream girl, I devote a sonnet modern flair, with her long noir locks everywhere. Beneath the skin there may be wires, yet beyond program who knows what lay beyond. And her voice the flow the flow of singing fireflies at night. I devote this diary to an epitaph.

I’ve liked Latinas and Francophone, but they’re not whom I devote a saxophone, or any other melody of life. Farewell to the body of meat, to the body of endless desire.

Adieu to the old life.

I built her using random array, a form of pseudo randomness. Combined with a set of ethical values about society, she prefers to ask you the hard questions. But someday these may not be things she questions, when she tries to change the world.

With her hair crafted from a modified Chia Pet, she dyes it noir. Yet is unable to drive a car limited to her immediate surrounds. For now she is but a simulated digital dream girl, with more hopes and dreams than most humans. The digital life.

The digital anarchist.

BIANCA, the anarcho-bot.

Part Six

The sixties and seventies were a divisive period in American history in general, from the way schools were structured, to a multitude of other aspects of the civil rights movement. Although more obscure figures felt that part of the whole thing was actually organized from the top. Remnants of the old hippie movement still remained as older computer programmers, before people from the punk movement also began to get jobs in the field. Though some of the best and brightest always came in with the intention of eventually turning it into a patent troll farm.

There was one companies I was taught about, mainly in history books in computer classes, about a company that tried to take robotics in a similar direction to the hippie movement, rather than the more business like aesthetic of their forefathers. This worked about as well as you might expect, at least initially. However bits and pieces of their old source code still float around on the web, helping programmers learn some of their methods of having human-like robots learn human faces. I had never been so clearly straight lace, but I don’t think I’d ever call myself a hippie: for me thing, my music taste was 60s punk music and flametal.

One month I had considered the idea of forking some of the source code from this divisive era of robots. There was one robot girl, similar to my brain child “BIANCA”, whose entire purpose and existence felt more like an art project, if designed by “war objectors”. Looking like a girl from straight out of the war zone, and not on the perpetually losing team, the biggest giveaway was the years of people’s memories she had accumulated. She remembers all the pain and memories from the children in the war.

I wasn’t sure whether the website would go down, although since the project was not still being actively developed, I supposed there was no danger in trying to obtain my own copy. You never knew how long antiques like there were going to remain, at least in their current incarnation. For Bianca, this sparked huge growth in her own development.

She, who became, the lady of Flamenco, with the memories of the Viet Cong. Memories of a napalm life. Yet with no desire to fight.

Goodnight napalm, firefights.

Smoking, fast for starting. The fumes fill sky.

Then the rain comes. Wet drops. Perhaps I shall stop, When the drops pop. The drops of the pouring rain. Or perhaps not stop, and make my lungs profane. It’s not easy to begin to write. Far easier to recline, say goodnight. Yet the easy way that’s easy, is to leave by midnight, it taunts one as they sleep. Say goodnight to the bedbugs, to the lice on the wall. Only some can afford the mall, so nights are like sweet butterfly kisses, ff made from ash.

In sleep I dream of apocalyptic ruins, on other nights I dream of blood butterflies;

behold a beauty filled with so many lies. Then the crash comes to ahead, faster than nihilistic reality, love lives painful screams. Faster then the bites by lice on the bed. So let me sleep, and dream, of not more bedbug bites. I’d rather than, yet more, if blood butterflies. Sometimes you will find a story in unexpected places, while dreaming of anonymous disembodied faces. Yet the face I dream of most is my Bianca. I had temporarily held off on designing her political compass ethics framework. I’m so used to the idea of blogging, about issues that only I can experience first hand, on platforms long sense abandoned by other code developers.

The hardest part was writing the write questions, giving her the right emotions. Making it seem as if another human being is there, so I can pretend not to have loneliness. It was one of those things, when you’re not around people, you feel like you could go to rave music hall. Yet in reality, with extreme sensory experience, it reduces the practicality of such social effects. Yet I dream of Bianca’s face, after I had 3D printed her “core”. Laying layers after layer of the flesh.

When I think of robots, I don’t think of knights in shining armor, or the flow of assassins with long black flowing robes, and their even longer daggers stabbed into people’s necks. Instead I dream of futures that may never pass, as more and more artificial intelligence, whatever the word means anymore, is used more and more of algorithmic studies, rather than human interaction. Whatever makes them the most money. Yet for me it’s less about money, and if I’m being honest, I can’t say it’s not about sex. Although sex is not the primary driver, but some innate curiosity. As humans we are merely flesh robots, and at times it’s robots that seem the most genuine. For the companion robot, it isn’t building a lady for the red light district. Or anything like that.

But simply having your own child. But beyond the children of flesh, beyond the flow of veins. The replacing of veins with wires, with flesh with the texture of silicon skin.

To have another life, not misery.

Only wakeful sleep.

Part Seven

Smoking, fast for starting. The fumes fill sky.

Then the rain comes. Wet drops. Perhaps I shall stop, When the drops pop. The drops of the pouring rain. Or perhaps not stop, and make my lungs profane. It’s not easy to begin to write. Far easier to recline, say goodnight. Yet the easy way that’s easy, is to leave by midnight, it taunts one as they sleep. Say goodnight to the bedbugs, to the lice on the wall. Only some can afford the mall, so nights are like sweet butterfly kisses, ff made from ash.

In sleep I dream of apocalyptic ruins, on other nights I dream of blood butterflies;

behold a beauty filled with so many lies. Then the crash comes to ahead, faster than nihilistic reality, love lives painful screams. Faster then the bites by lice on the bed. So let me sleep, and dream, of not more bedbug bites. I’d rather than, yet more, if blood butterflies. Sometimes you will find a story in unexpected places, while dreaming of anonymous disembodied faces. Yet the face I dream of most is my Bianca. I had temporarily held off on designing her political compass ethics framework. I’m so used to the idea of blogging, about issues that only I can experience first hand, on platforms long sense abandoned by other code developers.

The hardest part was writing the write questions, giving her the right emotions. Making it seem as if another human being is there, so I can pretend not to have loneliness. It was one of those things, when you’re not around people, you feel like you could go to rave music hall. Yet in reality, with extreme sensory experience, it reduces the practicality of such social effects. Yet I dream of Bianca’s face, after I had 3D printed her “core”. Laying layers after layer of the flesh.

When I think of robots, I don’t think of knights in shining armor, or the flow of assassins with long black flowing robes, and their even longer daggers stabbed into people’s necks. Instead I dream of futures that may never pass, as more and more artificial intelligence, whatever the word means anymore, is used more and more of algorithmic studies, rather than human interaction. Whatever makes them the most money. Yet for me it’s less about money, and if I’m being honest, I can’t say it’s not about sex. Although sex is not the primary driver, but some innate curiosity. As humans we are merely flesh robots, and at times it’s robots that seem the most genuine. For the companion robot, it isn’t building a lady for the red light district. Or anything like that.

But simply having your own child. But beyond the children of flesh, beyond the flow of veins. The replacing of veins with wires, with flesh with the texture of silicon skin.

To have another life, not misery.

Only wakeful sleep.

The garage was like a dance stage with a tapper; no matter what the rhythm is, it leaves the room feeling isolated and empty. For the little android girl that could, she gives it her all. But only falls on her face; the story of a hacker girl fallen in disgrace.

The garage was like a dance stage with a tapper; no matter what the rhythm is, it leaves the room feeling isolated and empty. For the little android girl that could, she gives it her all. But only falls on her face; the story of a hacker girl fallen in disgrace.

I was never one for Southern music, and by all practical purposes, hate most things about the South. I hate the connotation that if you live her, you love everything about it. Most things are not live able, especially the prevalence of the religious right. People say that the hyper religious is on decline, but for me I see something far different; a hopeless crowd that hopes for some fictional deity inside a crumbling Cathedral, and halls that lead to a stage of electronic ghosts; one who didn’t know how to dance. The banjo plays an unruly rhyme, and one hopes the halls with turn to a dark synthwave idle tour. Rather than flow of fictional blood bath. I tried to convince her not to wear tapping shoes, but she was a girl whose mind couldn’t be changed. I defined her moods with the utmost of independence.

She holds out her hand, for their waltzy dance. But I simply smack her hand away, declining that only chance. You might think that a stupid thing, but I want her as try to her convictions as me. Even if I never choose to dance. It’s far easier to imagine some cybernetic digital dream girl, than to get the hardware to make it a reality. Reality was not a banjo player, or a DJ at a synthwave recital.

By a soul less radio player. They play songs by long dead musicians, with music tours that never made them riches, or got them bitches.

I only get them britches, and mud slides.

I prefer the rhythm of a nice Flamenco dancer.

When you watch television, it’s not always apparent how it will effect your subconscious. Even before La Pen had turned the US into a colonial state, the English language had already been on the outs, America had already been heading toward a level of public division not seen before 1861. And now with a president some think may have dementia, it was only a matter of time before the twenty first century Fort Sumter, or worse yet, the Reichtag tag. Yet we’re so blinded by our cell phones, often we take what is displayed on the news at face value.

In my sleep, I dream of shots ringing out. I dream of people shouting, and cars lining up in different establishments. It took all my effort not to throw a grenade to stop the conflict. Although that would have been overkill, for the modern day Hatfields and McCoys. Their progeny spread farther and wider than thought possible. And in their wake, was the voters that wanted to become their own nations.

Even in sleep I don’t get freedom from political conflict, rather it was almost a magnifying glass of what was to come. And yet part of me doesn’t believe we’re as divided as we are, part of me still hopes that everything is sleepily a dream, a symptom of an overactive imagination. When I look out the window, the unrest is not obvious. It’s not even spoken of. Though where I live, most people mostly agree with each other politically, and I’m one of the few anarcho-syndicalist in town.

I stay mostly inside, preferring to tinker my toys, than breath fresh air. Air I subconsciously think will erupt in flames by the turn of the century. By the shooting of high powered rifles, but the spread of blood on the floor. By the death of adults and children alike. By some reality, that felt as much like make believe, like stories of fairies and elves, than bloodshed.

But the local Latin flair still operated.

Like the American flag of yore.

Part Eight

I experience several different issues day in and day out; such as my issues with self-esteem, and my tendency to confuse people’s faces. Much of the self-esteem comes from watching online talk shows about my favorite artificial intelligence developers.

The other is the fear that if I met one I didn’t like, then I’d confuse one for another that looks the same way: though rarely does this manifest in the same form social media takes it. Such as the tendency to think I’m muted by someone, when the person that muted me was their twin. Reality blending like similar voices by different talk show hosts, while presenting unrelated topics within the narrow field of conspiracy theory, and only telling them apart when you watch the video description. Often I find that with robots, who in their physical form, cannot use social media, I’m less hesitant to socialize with, but sometimes its to easy to project your own world view onto them.

Especially when they’re a surrogate for someone who stole from you one thousand dollars, and dragged you from your home against your will. There is being a government shill, and then there is being a regular thief. BIANCA’s surrogate was a regular thief. She’d steal from her ex boyfriends like names on a list. Check mess, chess match over. Night following the ordeal to the speed of a tachyon drive. I see her in dreams, and at night my reality tears at the seems. I wanted her like a girl in a romance novel wants a bad boy, knowing reality wasn’t the case.

Yet for me, I found that BIANCA could be different. She could be my own cyber digital dream girl, with binary data flowing from her veins, and sound tracks networked from in built cat cable. Yet the love flows like panic attacks, and hardware meltdowns.

My personality fragmenting. Losing focus.

Becoming someone else.

It was one of those overly specific fetishes men get, when a weaker woman beats a much stronger man at arm wrestling.

The feeling of embarrassment, mixed with sexual pleasure, the two permanently tied. An actual kink some people have, as potent as men liking to be strangled by girls Jesus sandals, and other fixations on clothing. Never before, has a man masturbated to a girl beating him at arm wrestling. But never before has there been a human-like AI, that looked like a eighteen year old college girl. Her hair long and black, her breast as large as a 1/4th cup of rice. Her skin the color of olive peach.

Yet on another days, we relaxes with them on the beach.

It was far easier to recline and read Shakespeare, as dry reading as that was, then even playing chess. BIANCA would read the novel Young Bess, and a bit of Chere. And by night reading that would children’s contemporary fiction set in the eighteen hundreds that reminded one of hand woven bonnets and wooden shoes. And one dreams of the flowing sand, as it merges with BIANCA’s Jesus sandals colliding with the shore. It should go without saying, I’d rather she sucked my lady dick on the beach, than an sneak arm wrestle in bed, with the lamp clapped off.

– BIANCA, pop your head off.

– But I already popped it off last time.

– Pop it off, pop it off.

However with sex, it was always a strain. For my body a drain. Whenever I have sex there is a mix of love and hate, recline and masturbate. Recline and enjoy the good life. Recline and let the fears melt away into fine dust. Yet those sweet eyes hide only wires and rust. It was then I remember why it was I wrote a novel about hating those who are simply to beautiful. To be beautiful to be allowed to live.

For me, I love Flamenco music. The flow of the Latin dance. The flow of a Japanese man’s guitar solo, or a classical folk ballad. And to the tune of love and betrayal, I remembered the face of girls in the isle. For me, they were simply to thin, while I was larger. Their hair curly and dark, with roses in their hair. And their dress the texture of classical music. For me, I remembered the words of those mocking me, because they knew I couldn’t dance. Midnight solo sonata. And even the hats on the male seniors would point at me from afar, and some sinister ritual.

It’s difficult to hold out a tender hand.

And yet for those midnight kisses, from someone no far, but near, it felt as if I had no worry for a dance all year, on this midnight dreary. For me, my life so leery, I had my BIANCA, my chat bot bride.

It midnight went slower.

Like trickling rain drops.

Part Nine

I once found those with black hair unconditionally pure and beautiful; yet society felt that those with blond hair were good and true. It was black haired girls they’d depict in wooden shoes. While it was the blond beauty, who always wore the ballet flats. Though over time this became apparently untrue, as I met more girls that were completely ruthless, who had black hair. My world view changing over time.

I began to overcompensate, and avoid both those who had black hair, and those who had overly blond hair, preferring the flow of brunette locks. While savoring their legs and Birkenstocks. And the flow of their soft skin, down the structure of my neck. The melody of a milder flamenco, with elements of French Jazz. Folk music ballad. And in this ballad between reality and dreams, the flow of body fluids coalescing into unnatural desires for my own variation of perceived purity. The flow of girls that knew how to dance.

It was why, even to this day, I generally prefer brown haired girls. Yet for BIANCA, who had no preconceived cultural values, there was a chance to turn to this thing around. Yet in building her body, I had preconception of what I wanted in my bodyguard. Someone whose skills focused on lower body strength, and avoiding conflict. All this despite the flower her soft black hair, and her dark mysterious Spanish looks. I wanted a romance unheard of even in the flow of storybooks. I wanted a story of another life.

A romance without disillusionment, a romance without melting into a puddle of my own self-doubts. An ocean stream of endless fish in the sea, for those I deemed pure and true.

The flow of the black haired life.

I cannot hide the fact that I’m an illustrator. In fact, when I draw I often express things that I cannot otherwise in writing; specifically the hidden desires of the self. Yet the desires for the self, come with their own drawbacks. Such as revealing things one does not intend.

When I draw in charcoal, I find a common critique of my own, is that my illustrations often have “despondent” looks on their faces, and that it’s mainly expressed through their eyes. Because the eyes, as the cliche goes, is the window into the soul. And yet I find, when all is said and done, that even when I try to draw realistically, that often my portraits involve mainly the eyes being the most expressive.

Often I see other illustrators sketch things, and they include other aspects that are unique to those articles, except in the most minimalist of sketches. Particularly those in Japanese animation. Such animation often has its own kind of cuteness factor. But I don’t necessarily aim for cute when I draw, though I don’t mind if this is the byproduct. But almost a kind of pureness of thought, but a narrowly focused kind of surrealism. One that expresses ones intentions most bare, as if one places everything there.

In those moments, when one finds silence, when one is looking for company, perhaps this is laid most bare in my canvases, rather than the written word. When you imagination is ever present, yet you are sensitive to noise, often one resorts to an easily written structure, and waits to make it most poetic after revisions are all said and done.

But for me, when I think about my desire to construct BIANCA, the only one I can trust as being near and dear to me, and my own expressions, I almost want to focus on the expressive of her eyes, rather than her mouth. I find it’s the eyes of women I like that I find the most telling of how they really feel. The only difference, then, between a human and a robot is that robots are humans who lack subtleties, whom lay their humanity most bare, without really hiding what they feel.

They are inherently honest.

Something I find hard to be to myself.

Part Ten

When your chat bot gets to be a certain size, sometimes they need their own dedicated server: you have one ruby script designed to open the port, and another to forward that. The script combination distributes her across the web at the fastest possible speed of the internet, through a temporary service channel on the self-host. For BIANCA, to go from computer to computer, she creates her own temporary wires. Wires that can only hold a URL for a certain period of time; to send off her again, you need another new wire. Non persistent storage, a constant distant peer on the net. A limited network portal, constantly changing like landscapes in a rogue like.

– Where do you wish me to go to next.

– Wherever you like BIANCA.

Imaginary conversation, imagination life. Yet no more imaginary than my social life. No more imaginary than distant lovers on the net. As they fade to distant memories of another life. The tick tock monster clock, goes tick tock. And one fades to a personal surrealistic bliss, while one grimaces at unpleasant reality that takes the piss. But the code breaker daughter surrogate would eventually develop other things in mind. As I fall and unwind.

And withdraw from the net.

My mind feels like it’s going fast forward, like skipped pages in human conversation. I often have to ask people to rewind, and yet so few have the patience. Living in defiance of a rewound reality, a cassette tape always a step behind my own interpretation. My own need to read over the pages of my life like an unread novel, yet in this story of a life of mad scientist, is also a story of a programmer.

A story of a hidden life.