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[trestoyevsky]

With all due adoration of its prequel...

Notes from the Never Underground
By F. Trestoyevsky

CHAPTER ONE

Heal yourself from hell (myself).
See the dark white beast stalking you that could strike whenever. Forever, as long as you are not noncomposite.
Why do you do this? Who are you talking to?

Consumed with sleep-deprived lucidity, three days on Provigil, discerning the rut I wear of discursive thought.
Is the selective brain death of Zen Buddhism the advisable course?
A life of merciless breath practice?
Half an hour, twice a day, of counting on the inhale- no chanting, no ritual, no memefection… dot dot dot.

Heal yourself from hell, but reach out and wonder. Like a child new to words. Are we anything, any of us? Is our collective annihilation a secret comfort? Is it any less lonely to die heaped with your naked family in a global grave?
I need to straighten my spine.

Roethke: In a dark time the eye begins to see.
Then what’s time for? To know eternity.
Blake: World in grain of sand, eternity in an hour. Sure, with enough serotonin. For us immortalists, there’s only eternity, it won’t fit anywhere.
No grounding.
For myself I have constructed compartments of mystery, some of which are booby-trapped with lucid debunking, others as deep and wet as mommy emotion.
After we get it on I volunteer to sleep on the God spot.

The poetic mind is tumorigenic. How to be open to everything? And keep the imperatives of hustle and focus. It is the part they rarely understand about you and me.
As the bard wrote:
“When consciousness was just a state of mind
And we were two cryonicists in mud time.”
As I held to the light a sheaf of your temporal lobe.
Immortalist, you carry the world, right?

Is this a worthless exercise, and if so how? Well, you are not particularly promoting… anything? Do not take shape. Do not develop. Keep chiseling at those pro-life-extension beatitudes. There is no one to make cry. Everyone will cry somehow in time. There will be catharsis and shocking recognitions in the perfect clockwork of human mush.
Why do you not cry out in pure despair more often? Is it certainty that your baby monitor is unmanned?
Will we ever change the past?
Will the Singularity?
We can probably agree, as top-hat wearing gentlemen, the question is senseless, if you want. I am not a mouth of nihilism swallowing whole banana syllogism. Just scratching bison on cave walls.
Knowingness like neurobioterrorism.

About me and you again: I am pretty naughty about the eventual meaning of us. I dream that if we really break free of the hell of the contingent then you, now holding a mirror, will transremember our family.
I mean that you, holding light against the world- there are its continents, there a fingerprint and, oops, tsunami- will transremember this day.
Its lack of inspiration, its inaction, its perorations. Its worldwide Maoist sloganeering of undergraduate literary pretensions. The way its spent too much time audience to iPod while another limb is ripped from Darfur. The sick glee of post-cultural junk, while we die ambidextrously.
Lord, who do not exist unless embraced in transremembering, led us here into the never underground-
Mystic psychopaths around every corner.
And the chin up. The chin of nanofibers. Here comes another article about all these whacky people and their unicorn velleity.
And there is the spire of life, and Christ after the spin cycle.
There is only Herman Melville, only going mad and smelling bad. Only- one committed mofo, you and me.
Nanofiber.

Don’t turn to me and ask next time we’re on the same shoulder. I was never sure the dog should be unleashed without proper letters of recommendation.
This much for sure: I strongly support LGBT rights.
I love you but it’s time to unlock this kiss. Temples should not be built without a fluent immunologist. I sever my head so you can survey. The sun is but a morning star.

I have been wearing the same clothes for two weeks. Someone just brought the stench to my attention. I’ve been getting immunized by attenuated hell in preparation for its weaponized version.
I, just like you, am an emotionally disturbed proponent of technologically achieved physical immortality. You must admit that you are emotionally disturbed to begin the healing process. What? Yes, please. Come along, let’s heal each other and bawl about death while we spoon.
Mystery resists horror (horror called and said you’re funny). I was much too young when I saw my first Godzilla film.

Empty television: news of the empty. While everywhere lucidity is no more on sale than at a fish market in Mogadishu. Luxurious empathies bedecked in gold-plated collagen.
Try to mean something at least, you slack-jawed postmodernist.
The world is mad: my waitress knows it. Efficiency is thoughtfully turned to mass murder. You and I have lost the signal.
Then the cynical ache of compassion. This is my responsive immortalism! Customer service immortalism! Commodity immortalism! Consumer immortalism!
You hear me now. I hope to transit chrysalis with you in tow, dear dear you, precious as me somehow.

My first words to you were Mom’s last to everything.
I know it was gray out. It had (has) to be; it also had to be a beautiful day- cool and not muggy, but the kind of variable fluffy overcast that breaks your heart when I render it. I mean, not miraculous- but tasty enough that we could meet somewhere and forego the default agoraphobia.
And there was of course a breeze, sure as it was made of atoms, sure as it blew serotonin into the hearths of our pores.
We weren’t out for magic, but my first words to you, first time I ever saw you, were:
“Best Halloween Costume… EVER!”
You were old enough to be my mother if you had been conceived just as the herpes got her. Just as I stood by her website, suitcase ready for neurosuspension, having come straight from the party still gussied up to look like a pancreatic cancer cell holding a scythe by my focal adhesion.
Some years later, on that gray, fluffy, cool, numinous clockspan, you stood before me looking indistinguishable from a 29-metre-tall pillar of black, gold, azure, and monkey-colored flame. WOW!
“But could you take it off? It’s getting me all hot,” I said.
And just in symmetry to MOM! you doffed the genie get-up and appeared to me as a moderately-attractive college-aged transhumanist chick.

Meanwhile, every five minutes the kids in the back seat ask, “Are we immortal yet?”


***********

[trestoyevsky]

CHAPTER TWO

Had a dream where I saw this written at a huge art installation. This is a scrambled, incomplete verbatim transcript, thanks to a grant from the transrememberaphone foundation of slightly lower heaven

Object-Oriented Design Language for Experimental Science (OODLES)
F. Trestoyevsky et al.
Needed on board: an expert roboticist, a damn good programmer, a respected senior scientist, a developmental biologist, a nanobiotechnologist, a yeast biologist, a bioinformatician, a damn good mathematician (whoever bites first), an expert on AI, and the world’s most clueful CS guy, and an old friend from the world of toybuilding.

Next Action: Read this with a clearer mind tomorrow, anytime.

We hereby announce the forging of a worldwide collaborative effort that will take science into the next thousand years with moral courage, incisive rationality, and a cosmically-inclined sense of humor.

We propose that the basic unit of scientific advancement is the experiment. Ideally, every experiment would be carefully thought out and carefully focused. The ideal experimenter would be both “steeped in the literature” and “able to think his way out of a box”.

Developers and testers of OODLES 1.0 will educate the system through a simple True-False-Nonsense interplay. This interplay will be unusually bright and curious for a distributed computation system. The system will select curiosity intensity across a range of brightness. bright here refers to a metric for the computational depth of a neuroBAIo. (Spanish version neuroBIAo.) curiosity refers to the rate at which OODLES.neurobayeaux releases clockcycles for use by a free intelligent entity (some of which may be roaming and unfriendly.) The curiosity rate sets the questioning rate

With science that ethically benefits society expanded a thousand fold in twenty years. A thousand times as many results, a thousand times as many carefully thought-out experiments, and a thousand times as many conferences (perhaps continuous virtual conferences.)

Our first ten non----- clients will prepare OODLES for primetime. Projects from five already-esteemed laboratories and projects from five best-proposal laboratories will be attempted using OODLES. All personnel including P.I.’s and technicians will be trained in OODLES programming.

The OODLES user interface must be both rigorous and inviting. In order to abrogate the majority of security concerns, OODLES should be run on a committed device with no internet connection.

FLAKY BITS of OODLES

How OODLES will save the U.S. government nearly a trillion dollars in the first year of operation.
You read that dollar amount right. The astute reader will instantly question the sanity of this assertion, given that the US government produces


Sounds like a breakfast cereal? Anyway, by flakey bits, I mean I would like to sound off in this section in a rather traditionally flakey sort of way: by heavy, heavy, heavy- flakey sorts of ways. I mean, speculation.


Fundamental Security Rule of neuroBAIo design:
FLAKEY BIT: The neuroBAIo must have no means of accessing restricted information and becoming curious about it. An advanced neuroBAIo would almost definitely be intelligent enough to read, think about, and parse Shakespeare into lojban. Given the chance to learn about a world beyond, might neuroBAIos innocently evolve to feed us false data that manipulates us into worshiping them, stemming from designing an experiment with curiosity behavior that pertains to murky human concepts such as “love”? Just asking.

OODLES will be turned over entirely to public management (for the good of all people) at the appropriate time as soon as early investors have gained a strong, entirely financial return. As for money issues, it is our hope that when OODLES belongs, essentially, to all the research communities of the world, they will vote to keep it going, like a truly productive community boon, revival, and renaissance.

Random examples of commands (meant to allow a spontaneous retrotemporal transneurophenocopy. Just kidding, I just made that up.)

Crystal Structure Verification of 2-Angstrom Resolution Mutagenic Predictability MAtrix for Folding of a Polypeptide Chain in a Superpurified H2O Medium
Read that shit on a Chinese Retaurant Fortune Cookie Fortune. No shit.

Holy water laced with hyperintelligent nanobots has taken over the Vatican.

We will talk about OODLES 2.0 a lot here because we want the community to begin to imagine the consequences of increasing the scale of research by a thousandfold, and whether this is desirable or likely to have disastrous consequences. Thus, references to OODLES 2.0 should evoke that idea: if it actually works as well as envisioned, what particular emotional response do you feel in contemplating that? Is that something you really want, it working as advertised? Will there remain any intellectual thrill in the life-choice of being a scientist?

mutate(A362->STOP, mutantZ] with wrinkle
subclone(mutantZ, rhozirocells)

Domains: Biology, Chemistry, Physics

OODLES and accountable anonymity

Person-based simulation of OODLES-to-ROBOTWORLD

Inform ProfHidekiyo of result MEMS.fab.assembler6
Inform ProfHidekiyo.GastricCancerProject.

robotworld, earthworld, zombiworld, transworld, .silico

Robotworld is the physical correlate of the implementation of OODLES.
Realworld is you sitting there.
Zombiworld contains an in silico version of you with accumulating but possibly error-laden granularity. The accuracy of the simulation will depend on the amount of very strongly supported meatworld experimental results that can be meaningfully incorporated.

We suggest that

MetaProject
Projects
Experiments



The abstract matrix

A base reference matrix for OODLES consisting of Language Matrices

Will ask two questions: “Do you mean “Kingdom” by this?”

Language galaxymass
Language starmass
Language biomass
Language domain Biology
Language kingdom Genetics
Language phyla Development
Language class Cancer
Language order
Language family
Language genus
Language species
Language subspecies
Language tribe

Language robot
Language 4DLandscape
LDO Least Desired Outcome
MDO Most Desired Outcome
A tag that allows grouping of experiments in selection hierarchies.

Concinnity of language names will be selected for on a peer-review basis. Comparative results analyses between separate groups running separate experiments will be allowed for by breeding of experiments by positive selection for most desired outcomes (such as “find novel signaling pathways involved in life extension by CR in C. elegans” crossed to “determine components necessary for spreading of Drosophila cells on matrices of varying elasticity” could become “

{HELLO WORLD}
/// this is the introduction to any OODLES 1.0 file, in the speaker’s chosen language. Thus, someone preferring to program in Spanish OODLES 1.0 would write “HOLA TODO” or something more appropriate. In general, the message of this first line language tag is meant to act as a chance at self-expression; one could just as well write {ENGLISH} and get the same result. In fact, the language tag requirement itself will be lifted in OODLES 2.0, though it will remain an option in all future versions. Universal human language parsing will be a feature of OODLES 2.0. The logic-based human language lojban will serve as a lingua franca into which all other human languages will be compiled.

OODLES 23.0 may allow for directed human evolution in a model solar system. With five billion years and the right mix of interventions, can we build a single organism within which millions of deeply interconnected minds will exist? Will the system be expandable? Can the universe become a conscious being? Can its constituents retain their individuality? Allowing for “recombination” of experiments in order to select for the best by rigorous selection criteria. Thus, bootstrap universes by quantum-computational selection procedures. Test for computational omniscience. (TuringSupreme test: select for the ability correctly to answer any question posed given deontic constraints.) In the realworld present, of course, talking about OODLES 23.0 is just bad poetry.

OODLES will provide an interface to granting agencies for micro-dispersal of experiment-specific funds on a doubly-anonymous human-peer-reviewed basis. This will allow lab groups with very limited funding and connections to do good science. The ability to intelligently conduct ongoing biological investigations

Motion-capture technologies and virtual reality will enable researchers to work teledynamically.

The role OODLES can play in countering bioterrorism

Would allow neuroscientists and artists to collaborate in the creation of art (i.e., performance, visual, literary, musical, etc.) able to induce positive outcomes for both individuals and groups. Provide healing aesthetic environments. OODLES.silico will allow neuroscientists to parallel neuronal simulations massively as a consequence of its nestability and cross-breeding algorithms. The use of lojban will promote the ultimate emergence

Massively paralleled molecular superassembly experimentation might allow the development of a universal bioconstructor. How would the religious and spiritual side of us be affected by the existence of such a thing?

OODLES and ------------

During development of OODLES, fetalOODLES will be quality-assured using ------------- projects as a test case.

What OODLES could do for ____________ in the next two years





A case must be made that fetalOODLES will be worth our trillion-dollar time (just meaning, precious). Great detailed work must be done prior to presenting OODLES to a community of scholars…

OODLES syntax:

BROAD:”We wanna find out about
CLONE [alphaX, sinclaircells]

SCORE[imaginalcells, spreading]

FOCUS[macrophage, confocal]

SQUIRT[construct, 2picoliters]
ADD[
NANOASSEMBLE
MICROASSEMBLE

[trestoyevsky]

Sorry, I forgot to thank Larry Voerdingadang for authoring the fantastic memoir “Lab in a Cell: my Year in a CamII-Kinase Costume.” (2029) Larry, you were consistently someone useful during the War, and I can only hope that someday we can all open that bottle of wine in my closet and make a toast to each our own sacrifice, and to each our own usefulness when all just barely failed to be lost, and to the good cheer that made it possible, and various hooray stuff.

[trestoyevsky]

Seventeen Vignettes Posing as Chapter Three

I am seriously considering not finishing my undergraduate degree in an attempt to draw attention to the ineffectiveness of the educational system. I wonder whether this would be seen as a naïve form of protest, or at least a form that would remind people of an aging demographic (Sixties hippies) that failed to change the world as much as it would have liked.




Is this as wild as I think, or is it actually dull? I wonder whether I have the bacterial rudiments of real communication and quorum sensing. Perhaps the neural waveform up there is on the fritz; suppose that I am actually as useless as if possessed by a cockroach model of Down syndrome. Oh how holy and small. This is what the null agents would say about my head. Shall he be lifted, then, into a reasonably shaky sentience?




Sing that song stuck in your head.
Christmas time (delineated by paragraphs) you write until there is nothing good coming out. This is much like sexing up your woman. Keep a straight spine and make sure there’s an overall feeling of life-enhancement going on. You will be judged for your life-making abilities in the sack as by some thingumbob shaped like Yawway. I misspelled Yawway. It rained tonight. Have you ever read anything by Hans Christiaan Anderson? Is that how you spell it? Or is it actuallyn a puin I won’t understand in five hundred years?
It made me seriously think about programming the Dinngean’s Wake generator. I mean, what it would do, contrextually, is assemble pretentious piuff-ed up doneaginas for your aging ever popoulace. That is too say, missiong contirol. The bvad worpth of the mningful daylights I was thuggish enhancement: tooo nmuchg diungdong I wonderloo say on the toulet sruinking curds and whgeyt along the spider acvenayue with the program spiinng fgaily. And I was writing in a pool of blood. And forever was tomorrow afternoon but we didn’t get the tickets.
I have harlequin hearts, heartless but backed up on disk, Moravec uploading for the rude red nest of mercies.




-I love you all.
She said shaking her head laterally on a windy Dublin afternoon.
-And that’s why, I’m sad to say, I have to jump off this twenty foot tall stature of the offspring of John Holmes and the Virgin Mary into an electrified field of mud.
-Stature- quoth Kimmy Kendall, flat. –Stature. Stature is what dwarves don’t have.
-I meant,- almost visible italics-, statue, which is what this obviously is that I’m standing on.
-Are you high again?
-No, sister, how could I be beating you at chess in such miraculous manner?
Note that at this point there was an internationally renowned lecher of worm sperm in the kitchen, just where the gibe and the flanks collide.
-I vomit!
-Steve, is that your voice I hear about suffering?
-Gravy bits and ham!
It took a while to clean the kitchen floor, but by that time the travelers had come through, and we began spinning out the past.
-Dani took it real hard about losing the mosquito.
-Surely, sister, it wasn’t that hard.
-No, <I WHISPER>, -you have to have had a certain broad ineluctable patience when it comes to Dani. Hell, even to Mary, It was the end of the world, wasn’t it?
They all looked at their watches, which had frozen just as Dani stepped.
The field of electrified mud, the sky on blue, fire-blue, fire, as the poet said. Her sacred head bubbling like a clam. All around us stars cruelly dancing again, mocking with infinitude and total boredom. Phantasmal dust and wreckage.
-A Billion to the Billionth Years of Not Knowing What the Hell Just Happened, said Simon, staring away from the replay while the dust settled. –Does anyone have the quorum sensing device?
About that time they were pipetted up. Dani had found a molecule or two that could help the return.




It is a long night in the lab, stirring. What drama there is in scientific research, moving things around like a zombi and questioning whether any of it will really ever make a difference. Oh, they’ll push at you, your bosses, try to extract that promising gleam they might have once saw- seen- but what’s the point now? Now you don’t even have it left in your to check the grammar in your first publication. And why this obsession with publication anyway?




And also why this obsession with yourself? When were you ever to let yourself really be in touch with another’s needs? Why are you so neurotic about being the center of everything? Why do you have to make yourself out to be so important? Since when did you, in particular, really matter? And if you do matter, ohhow horrible to matter, because it means that the slightest misstep could bring disaster, and you need to be very careful how you tread as a compassionate giant crying. And you’re such an ass!




She finally lost consciousness a little after seven a.m. of the third day, and god what a release it was. All that prairie and wind and sunshine, yet again, and the grass telling stories, like a synthesized bacterial mat television, tossing off an endless multidimensional gestalt that must have surely taken longer than one mindround to compute.
<Here it was>, thought the impassioned young neurobiologist yet again, like she always did when reviewing this multimem, <Further evidence that post-singularity biology has an as-yet-unidentified outlet for retrotemporal transduction of non-causal signaling>, this part, she knew, was a spontaneously remembered exact quote from her third publication on the subject, <I propose that this condition be classified as a form of trinary retrotemporal thingumbob> (this was equivalent to a sneeze in that release of IThot) <which means what exactly?
Not sure I actually want to know.>




This page is burning your eyes. Wash them afterwards. It’s going to leave you blinded if you don’t squint a little or get some sunglasses. Even bluesmen don’t smoke shit like this. Pay c;pse attention now, so it doesn’t hurt too much. There. Pretty much an esact mapping of the coordinates onto that tattoo. You are using it too much. Over here, Jyl. Take this ham- no, give me the other one, we are lepers in the bushes behind your head and the window behind your back and the air outside washed with rain




Time. Wat a bitch.




You’re not going to believe this, and that’s okay for now, at least with me. But pay attention anyway so you can at least, later on, articulate your incredulity.
The other night, really late, so late that it wasn’t surprising- and I was somewhat in my cups, and also in an uncomfortable position, laying on what passes for a bench at a Metro stop, writing my thesis- and as I was doing this, again, not surprisingly, I found that my normal typing abilities had gone a bit haywire- I see I failed to mention the laptop on my chest at the time, into which I was fingering my first, I think, really solid contribution to the world of neurocutlery- but nevermind that for now- or at least, and sorry to seem obstreperiously recondite- shelve it- and, well, I started to mistype things. I drifted into a semi-conscious haze, and yet for some (dumb, undoubtedly- dumbness itself, actually)- reason, I kept on writing, having at this point a kind of blunted, senseless overflow of a pretty much zombi-like shell of cognition- and I started mistyping but not going back to correct (the typos were thus too extreme to be instantly ameliorated by the provision of an automatic spelling-correction-for-common-words-and-simple-typos functionality in the word processing program) and also I was heedless of whether or not I would be able to go back and figure out what I had meant to write- that’s how bad the typos were.
BUT HERE’S THE PART YOU WON’T BELIEVE, AND FOR ONLY $9.95 YOU CAN HAVE THE FULL TRUTH. All my typos- all the individual keystrokes that didn’t belong- when put together, looked to me- and I had arranged them on a hunch- not really a hunch, but driven by a sort of trance-like patterning obsession- probably my genetic conceptual resemblance to John Nash- to place them in a string- and when I looked at this linearly arranged string of mistyped keys, I made an absolutely, world-changingly, mind-bogglingly, mega-stupefyingly, cow-herdingly, gorgeous-bumptiously, corrosive captiously amazing DISCOVERY. You see, it was a message in ancient Hebrew, which I do not know nor have ever studied, but sort of vaguely recognized as being maybe Hebrew which I had seen somewhere at some time- I ran it through a translation program, and behold it was a MESSAGE TO ALL THE WORLD. Actually, it was a protocol for engineered expression of genes of the psilocybin synthesis pathway in brewer’s yeast.
I JUST MADE ALL THIS UP I DON’T WANT YOUR MONEY HA HA HA.




Riding your bike is the cure for aids, cure for aids, cure for aids. Riding your bike is the cure for aids, and all the children sing. Riding your bike is the cure for aids, cure for aids, cure for aids. Riding your bike is the cure for aids, and all the children sing. Riding your bike is the cure for aids, cure for aids, cure for aids. Riding your bike is the cure for aids, and all the children sing.




About me and you again: I am pretty naughty about the eventual meaning of us. I dream that if we really break free of the hell of the contingent then you, now holding a mirror, will transremember our family.
I mean that you, holding light against the world- there are its continents, there the fingerprint of Tsunami- will transremember this day.
Its lack of inspiration, its inaction, its perorations. Its worldwide Maoist sloganeering of undergraduate literary pretensions. The way its spent too much time audience to iPod while another limb is ripped from Darfur. The sick glee of post-cultural junk, while we die hand in hand in hand and.
Lord, who do not exist unless embraced in transremembering, led us here into the never underground-
Mystic psychopaths around every corner.
And the chin up. The chin of nanofibers. Keep a stiff upper everything. Here comes another article about all these whacky people and their unicorn velleity.
And there is the spire of life, and Christ after the spin cycle.
There is only Herman Melville, only going mad and smelling bad. Only- one committed mofo, you and me.
Nanofiber. Whatever everyone.




God I love myself, and I am so amazing, and I alone, if need be, must carry the world along somehow.




Did any of you ever see that cheesy sci-fi film from the seventies about this two-headed guy, one head black the other white, and it was running around being chased by the authorities, and had really bad special effects? I don’t remember which head was the original “owner” of the body (oh, yeah, it was a result of surgery that it had two heads- one of the heads had been put on)- or which head, original owner (who I think I remember had a clearly better sense of mid-shoulder centrality, making the new, added head seem off-center and peripheral, perhaps expendable-) or new shoulder occupant, was the white or the black one, and how black people feel compared to how white people feel depending on whether it was one or the other, and GOD it was such a bad movie, but I think the thing is how scary that premise could be- and I mean conceptually scary and scary in its societal effects- if such a film were actually well made… and who would play the heads if we did it now… or would it be a whole village of people with that weird offkilter not really transhuman but more like just mis-human up (de?) grade? And then versus having say one of the heads be really sexy and the other totally gross. Like you could have Michelle Pfeiffer and, like, me.




Ffteen,



Sxteen.



Satyrbdhu82gfun489bnuyg2v d8wuafnhcudsafjdsjkhfjkds vnnhnvcjxkzbuihdshuifgGDSA bcxjuizGFDASGBDFABVCX I saw the other day a sacred letter of lovingness I had composed for you more than a year ago and never sent. A letter proposing a Platonic and Romantic servitude to the impossible but somehow ongoing dance that we is. It was accompanied by a CD, always risky. The world is flooded with music, even in sewers and truckstop bathroom stalls. When can anything in particular ever consist of a subconsciousness tricked out to appear timeless? The little child trusts the whispering words. The words themselves are whispering themselves. And I follow