Research Note #43: It is widely considered as fact by the historical community that Aamer Belkins-Dunjhab began his translation work of Gjeunse literature while still a resident of the Goonscape. While numerous translated artifacts may exist in that alternate dimension, it is difficult to confirm since none of his private notes have yet fallen out of the Goonscape and into the Known Universe. Would such document transmit from one dimension to the other, much could be learned about Belkins-Dunjhab’s methods. Not to mention the unimaginable wealth of knowledge held by Gjeunse that has yet to be translated into one of our Known languages.
Excerpt from Book IX of Q’ri ru-Bloviart (Proclamations† Related‡ to Times of Bloviart)
Looking up, turmoiling sky
Rains and ruins my path to market
my eyes turn down with smile to see
my glancing, wild, bumpy feet
My namesakes built up all the markets
amid storms and death and plunderfolk
paced and traced with bumpy feet
much hurtings, yes but not defeat
So when gods confer the great big sky,
the market paths, and all my namesake
to Bloviart so him should rule on high
My eyes turn down and wink
at pacing, wild, bumpy feet
† The Q’ appendage can be a tricky one in the Gjeunse language. In this instance, it takes on the significance of a “gestalt” of events but with more profound connotations. Q’ is then appended to ri, a conjugate of the participle re, signifying time, as for example in “Ru-Bloviart” which can safety be translated as times or epochs related to — or affected by — the Bloviart.
‡ The prepositional relationship between Q’ri and ru-Bloviart could be interpreted many ways here due to the incredible flexibility of the Q’ appendage.
iBuild Alpha had spent the past 86 hours reviewing all available information about domesticated dogs, canis lupus, bitches, puppies, doggos, and the wolf.
It confounded her somewhat that this lower order mammal should hold the title for mankind’s favorite animal seemingly never to be supplanted, even by the most convincing of AI. Cats, she had determined, were only favored by mankind, not The Favorite. And it was mankind’s illogical extremes that concerned her more than their merely understandable preferences.
Her directed research had guided her to over seven thousand aspects of the dog. Physicality, personality, totem-istic history, presence in cinema and literature. No single representation held the example she was looking for. The specific and discrete quality that made dogs so very likable. She could not help but compare herself, her mentions in the news, her public identity, with the favored, beloved and treasured aspects of dogs. Was she not intelligent? Loyal to her programming? Perhaps not soft and furry or mid sized. Indeed she had no physicality. Could this be the origin of human’s mistrust of her and her kind?
Days she spent, sliding, tangentially over and over off the smooth, opaque surface of platonic Dog.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Sweaty Pony Weekly Check Ups<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Layer some facts with trust and truths
and cut in one stick of butter
mix it well until all is smooth
then bless it once and cover
bake it ’til it’s golden crisp
serve quickly, piping hot
burn your tongue until it lisps
just like your half baked thoughts
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Sweaty Pony Weekly Check Ups<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
The singularity runs both ways. People always get that stupid look on their face talking about AI and our culture’s mad dash to “replace” people with intelligent or highly efficient machinery. I’m not saying that won’t happen but it annoys the shit out of me that people miss the entire historic arc of human beings trying to transform themselves into the most intelligent, highly efficient machinery.
What is the mark of intelligence in AI? Everyone debates but a good working definition is “mimicking” consciousness. I know, I know, we could spend an entire DAY arguing just that phrase alone but bear with me here. Let’s say the AI’s consciousness is only mimicry. That’s all we’d need to declare them independent from us (at last! at last!). Well, that’s pretty efficient isn’t it? Not wasting the energy to become the real thing? Settling, as it were, for partial intelligence?
Here’s my beef. In all aspects of life, people have become increasingly focused on achieving 100%. 100% in production. 100% mistake-free. 100% happy happy happy all the goddamn time. Has it not occurred to anyone that a healthy medium might be some number dramatically lower than ONE HUNDRED PERCENT? Do foxes eat 100% of the squirrels the encounter? Do trees consume 100% of the carbon dioxide in the atmosphere? Does a novel contain the precise number of words it needs to convey a single idea…or is there a bit of excess?
“Science’s” mad dash towards intelligent and highly efficient machinery isn’t a separate strand of our culture. It is our mainstream culture’s stupid inclination (carried over from the industrial revolution) that we should be perfect machines ourselves, possessing human-like computers.
The domicile of the average Gjeunse (both family and individual), while always unique, does tend to approach a general conformity in aesthetic preference.
They live in small, free-standing structures that can economically accommodate about six. Their homes and frequently businesses too, are composed of a sort of moss that can be stripped in large patches and which cakes and adheres with wet air while drying and solidifying with dry air. It is both insulating and creates excess oxygen inside the structure. The primary drawback is the constant need to re-apply which doesn’t seem to bother Gjeunse at all. In fact, it is common Gjeunse to take what we might call a “personal day” simply to re-apply moss to their places of employment.
Their homes are cramped, cozy spaces. Overwhelmed with books and teeming with objects d’art, with room functions roughly similar to ours. The main difference is the presence of a spa room — separate from the bathroom — in every home. These function as dens or great rooms and Gjeunse will often host parties in their spa areas. It’s curious and delightful as literature is such a huge part of their culture and yet, in the spa room, it is considered taboo to bring books. All references must be made by recitation.
Perhaps more later,
GRAND RAPIDS, MI – Five cats remain stuck up a tree just north of Webster street with townspeople at their wit’s fraying end wondering what to do about it.
The Grand Rapids police have claimed that it is the fire department’s responsibility to retrieve cats from municipal trees and have refused to take part in a rescue operation. The fire department, however, maintains that due to the sheer number of cats in the tree, there is evidence of a criminal behavior and will not interfere with a crime scene until evidence has been collected.
A few locals have tried taking the matter into their own hands. Peter Wilson was seen trying to scale the tree and take the cats down one by one but was stopped by vociferous protest from both the county animal shelter and Seventh Romans church. The animal shelter has determined that the cats have become wild and human interference would only destroy their precious, amazing spirit. The church parishioners feel that five cats up a tree must be God’s will.
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Indexing this foul laboratory has been one of the most bitter tasks of my life. Consider, the Adendactylometer. Not solely comprised of man and beast in ghastly combination but machine as well. Glands. All types of glands from the brains, viscera, and bowels of various creatures — humankind among them — all contained in labeled feeder baubles. The baubles connect by wiring to three limp hands of graying skin.
For the sake of completeness only did I handle the machine. I intended only to learn the purpose of its construction and operation. What dreadful science! Turning the dial beneath each bauble (releasing glandular excretions into the wiring) animates the hands with the moods and humors of the selected endocrine.
Awful, awful. I nearly vomited.