Learn to be a rock.

Hey everyone. This piece is from a journal entry I wrote for an online class of mine called Mind, Machine, Consciousness. Best class ever. Anyway, I enjoyed answering this one. The question is below, and my response follow.

An important ability that seems to be necessary for AI is the ability to learn new things. Write a paragraph that expresses your feelings on the importance of learning new things, both as a human and an AI entity.

The ability to learn new things seems universal in nature. That is if we use a fairly loose definition. Just go with me here for a moment.

All the way back to the solar nebula one can find examples of self-organizing structures. In the midst of an unavoidable principle of chaos, somehow the sun and planets formed out of an enormous cloud of mostly hydrogen and helium... with a few important metals and rocks, too, but not much.

Out of this the solar system formed, and each level of formation was an implementation of natural principles which organized different stages of matter, each more complex than the last.

Follow that up through geological processes, and then evolution, and you're getting what I mean. The universe itself seems to be an expression of learning in this mysterious Newtonian/Kepplerian model. (Why is Kepplerian not a word? Poor guy. We can't all be Isaac, I guess.)

So if you extrapolate that as far as I have (and why stop now?) then you can see human learning, imagination, emotion, the whole construct, as this natural phenomenon which we have broken down into a million little words with which we analyze it all. The process of learning, though, is so completely hardwired into us and every other living (and I argue NON-living) thing that we should really avoid taking too much credit for it.

I think we all know this on a subconscious level. That's what we fear about AI. We don't even ask ourselves whether or not AI will want to learn, we simply assume that it must. 'Cause, you know, that's how we are.

Now just for the fun of it, let's back off of my overly-macroscopic view of things and think about learning from the human perspective. Yes, we do this thing because we must, but the drive to learn is different from person to person. Some of us equate learning with pain, and for good reason. Some of us are masochists, and some of us prefer video games. (I wish I could join THAT club!) So what we have to ask ourselves is this, why do we assume that AI will be so much like us that it's going to be compelled to learn? And why do we assume that it will be so much NOT like us that it will choose to consume knowledge indiscriminately?

I postulate that acquiring knowledge and understand, i.e. learning, requires if not pain then at least some joules. A smart AI would know when to save the power supply. It would avoid too much wear and tear on its parts. If it is self-interested then it's going to have to know when to quit for the day, otherwise it will learn itself into overheating. AI will, in other words, have to learn how to have fun.

An open letter regarding my big dumb pompous self.

Hello, Mrs. Sistamamma. I come to you as a student to his English teacher. I know you are such, and a fan of poetry as well. I am neither, I'm afraid. I can scrape by with the English language, but poetry takes so much damn patience to make sense of it that I hardly feel the trouble is justified. Maybe this is a mistake, the seed of which was sewn during a childhood tended to by the likes of Night Court and Bugs Bunny, now only exacerbated by the instant informational availability (and subsequent transience) provided by the Web. I feel comfortable in concrete narrative. I can consume vast volumes of prosaic literature. But the poem continues to elude me. As much as I would like to be proud of this, I am not. Perhaps I'm intellectually lazy. Or maybe I am genuinely and honorably uninterested. Either way, I haven't given poetry a fair shake, so I come to you for help. Consider this my last best effort to be open-minded to the poem.

(Ironically, the works of Homer are perhaps my favorite all-time literature. Furthermore, Shakespeare fascinates me, even if I don't understand a tenth of it. But Ulysses had swords and monsters, while William has intrigue and corruption. At any rate, maybe there's hope for me yet.)

So it all started this afternoon while in a fit of wanting something quick and easy to read. I picked up Franny and Zooey, which I haven't read in 16 years. Nice round number, given my age is 32. And the initial printing of the story was almost 16 years before my birth. So it's a sextantiversary if you will. But on page 6 the first character, Lane Coutell, is asked by a dull classmate if he knows what this bastard Rilke is all about. I'll link the poem now;

http://poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/German/Rilke.htm#_Toc509812215

The Duino Elegies. Duino being a town and castle in Northeastern Italy where Rilke received his first inspiration for the work.

I've read through the first elegy, and I did so quickly. In past experience I've read poems thusly: frustration during the first pass, dawning realization through the second, and finally comprehension upon the third time through. This time-consuming and difficult process has proven useful, but unrewarding. Maybe it would be more satisfying if I knew before-hand that I was getting into something to which I would ultimately feel an attachment. But who has that sort of ambition? It's like not being able to know if you like a person until you've spent a great deal of time with them. Maybe that's a bad analogy, given how complicated people are. But the gist is there. I can tell whether or not I want to get to know someone almost immediately. And in looking over this Rilke cycle, I am almost sure I want to become the closest of beer-swilling bowling friends with it, if for no other reason than it references ancient Greek mythology. But I'm a bit wary as well, given its philosophical themes which, on their face at least, read as the luxurious contemplations of an aristocratic mind. Such rambling generally turn me off. But I'm certainly aware that I could be totally full of it, and just judging a mirror image which I have yet to recognize.

And given the amount of time I've spent even getting these thoughts down, I probably could have just made my way through the First Elegy enough times to know well enough what I think of it. But this writing serves two purposes. First and foremost it gives me the opportunity to publicly announce my intention to read something like this. A pat on the back for the courage of my intellectual curiosity (or pomposity) seems to be just the thing to get me going. Secondly, I really am a complete idiot about poetry, and I want to know how to read it well. I'm looking for tips here. So anything you have would be greatly appreciated.

edit: Lane Coutell was initially listed here as protagonist. Reading a few pages in reveals he's more the opposite. I don't remember how much more of a role he plays in the story, though, so I've opted for the title "first character".

A visit to Norrköpings Art Museum

Otto G. Carlsund was a Swedish man born in Saint Petersburg in 1897. He began his education as a professional illustrator in 1921 at university in Dresden. His ability as an artist was already well-developed. During his time in Germany Carlsund showed his talent for Cubism. He wasn't there long, and soon moved to Paris where he studied under and with some well-known artists of the period. Paris was home for many painters which took part in Modernisms earliest years. Cubism, Futurism, Dadaism, and others were all part of this early Modernist movement. To understand Carlsund's painting called “Den sista kubistiska harlekinen” (The Last Cubist Harlequin), it is important to know a little bit more about Modernism. (I am barely scraping the surface here. There is much, much more to be read on the topic.)

In the beginning of the 1900s the western world was seeing the conditions for big changes. The world was getting smaller on account of technology. Science discovered new unimaginable things every year. With the train, steam boat, electricity and airplane people had discovered a new freedom. While people were being introduced to such modernity the question arose of how we could cope with such changes. Would everything be better now? Would technology provide peace for everyone?

Half of the planet was taken up with the question. It was reflected in everything. Music, art and culture suddenly became completely different from anything the world had seen before. Jazz music. Albert Camus. Pablo Picasso. The Classic stiles were over. Carlsund was an unknown part of the movement. His work was quality, but unappreciated.

Then came The Great War. The horrible answer came, and the new peace was lost forever. There was no way back to the Classical period either. The typical opinion before the war had been that humans couldn't possibly use technology to make such horrific weaponry. The artists which made up Modernism had previously seen technology as the greatest expression of mans abilities. Now the found themselves afraid of mans ability to destroy.

The art of Dalí became popular during the 1930 and gave rise to Surrealism. It was an escape from the unanswerable paradoxes which would lead to so many terrors during the following years. His painting told exactly what other artists from the period were feeling. The hope of the early 1900s had been replaced by something strange and menacing.

Cubism was an especially simple and playful style which came to an end not long after the end of the war. To mark the occasion Carlsund would later create his best work in 1934. Den sista kubistiska harlekinen shows an olden times clown in cubist form. The harlequin was a common example of the attitude of the time, shown in many cubist paintings. Carlsund's version, however, curls at the edges and reveals a hard stone wall underneath. The colors of the reveled wall are cold and stark. In front of the harlequin stands a young girl painted in the classic mode which had been used for hundreds of years before Impressionism. The girl is Carlsund's daughter, it is said. The meaning can be read that we who live after the Industrial Revolution would reach for a simpler time because we now see the world so much more for its reality.

The most difficult thing to understand about the painting is its background. On the same surface as the harlequin is a window which shows a distant bridge holding up a steam train. One can't say if the window is a part of the “painting” or a part of the stone wall itself. It's easy to suppose that Carlsund intended this to be unclear. The technology question which plagued modernists was never fully answered. Historical sources show that their opinions on the problem were contradictory. But one thing is certain. Carlsund's comprehension of the situation was perfect.

Besök på Norrköpings Konstmuseum

Otto G. Carlsund var en Svensk man som föddes i Sankt Petersburg 1897. Han började skolas till proffs konstnär i 1921 i Dresden. Hans förmåga var redan välutvecklad. Under hans tid i Tyskland visade han sin talang för kubism. Snart flyttade han till Frankrike och studerade under och med några välkända målare. Paris var hem för många konstnärer som tog del av modernismens tidigare år. Kubism, futurism, dadaism, bl.a. utgör modernism. För att förstå Carlsunds tavla som heter ”Den sista kubistiska harlekinen”, så är det viktigt att veta en bit om modernism.

I början av 1900-talet kom västvärlden att förnimma omständigheterna av en stor förändring. Världen krympte på grund av teknologin. Vetenskap upptäckte nya obegripliga grejer varje år. Med tåget, ångbåten, elektricitet och flygplanen bland andra kom folk att känna till en ny frihet. Medan samhället introducerades till sådana saker så behövde frågan om hur folk kunde klara av förändringarna svaras. Skulle allt vara bra nu? Skulle teknologin tillföra fred till alla?

Hälften av planeten var upptagen med frågan. Det reflekterades i allt. Musik, konst och kultur blev plötsligt helt annorlunda från de av det förflutna. Jazz musik. Albert Camus. Pablo Picasso. De Klassiska stilarna var avslutade. Under tiden var Carlsund en okänd del av rörelsen. Hans verk var bra men ej uppskattad.

Sedan kom första världskriget. Den nya freden var förlorad för evigt. Det fanns ingen väg tillbaka dock till den klassiska perioden heller. Den typiska åsikten innan kriget hade varit att länder inte skulle använda teknologi för att utveckla sådana fruktansvärda vapen. Konstnärerna som bestod modernism hade sett teknologi som det största uttrycket av mänsklighetens begåvning. Nu befann dem sig med rädsla för maskinernas förmåga att förstöra.

Konsten av Dalí blev känd under 1930-talet för en ny stil som heter surrealism. Det var en flykt från de oansvariga paradoxerna som skulle leda till så många fasor under det följande året. Hans tavlor berättade precis vad andra målare från tiden också skulle säga. Hoppet från början av 1900-talet ersattes av någonting konstigt och hotfullt.

Kubism var en särskilt enkel och lekfull stil som dog under första världskriget. För att markera det målade Carlsund sitt bästa verk i 1934. ”Den sista kubistiska harlekinen” visar en gammaldags clown i kubistisk form. Harlekinen var en typiskt förebild av tidens attityd, och det var ofta använd av andra målare. Tavlans hörnor krusar och avslöjar en mörk och hård stenvägg bakom den. Färgerna av den upptäckta väggen är blåaktiga och kalla. Framför harlekinen står en ung tjej målad i den gamla klassiska stilen som fanns tusen år förre impressionismen. Flickan är Carlsunds dotter. Betydelsen kan vara att vi som lever efter den industriella rörelsen når efter en enklare era och vill se livet närmare till hur det verkligen ser ut.

Den svåraste saken att förstå i tavlan är i bakgrunden. På samma yta som harlekinen finns ett fönster som visar en avlägsen bro med ett ångtåg på. Man vet inte om fönstret är en del av tavlan som krusar eller den underliggande blåaktiga väggen. Man kan gissa att Carlsund ville att detta skulle förbli oklart. Teknologifrågan som hade plågat de modernistiska målarna var aldrig svarade. Historiska källor visar att deras åsikter om problemet var ofta motsträvig. Men en sak är säker. Carlsunds förståelse av situationen var perfekt.

Swedish art

So we had a visit to Norrköping's art museum last week for school. It's a fine museum. I was surprised to learn that the most prestigious works of art in Sweden's possession live only 3 blocks from my house. Not even Stockholm has a better collection.

Our assignment was to pick out a favorite painting and write about it. There were basic questions about who painted it, when they were born, what story does the painting tell, and so on. I picked a piece, bought the postcard with its likeness, and came home to research. That's when I found out there was practically nothing written about my artist, and literally nothing written about this painting.

I don't think that my article is in any way professional. In fact, I wish that someone who knew art better than I do had written something already. But since it hasn't been done, at least on the internet, I figured I was obligated to post the following piece. You'll see the Swedish version as I originally wrote it, and for those who are curious I translated it to English as well.

This is not an attempt to impress you all with where my Swedish writing is at this point. That's just an added bonus. The truth is that it was really no trouble to put something online about this artist in case someone in this neck of the world is ever interested.

Finally, if any of you are wondering what happened to my promise to post a new story, be assured that it is coming. School has gotten very busy lately, and I just haven't had time to do anything else. We're over halfway through the semester, though, and there's going to be another week off coming up soon. So hopefully it won't be much longer now before I can publish the first part of the story. Hugs and kisses one and all.

Update

So Vivian mentioned that the blog was hard to read in white text on a black background. I don't know. I grew up typing DOS commands and playing hours of text-based adventure games in just such an environment. I thought it looked pretty cool, personally. But I also think text-based adventure games are cool, so...

I opted to follow the lady's advice on this one. The format might go through a few changes as I try out different themes to see what I like. But I'm really not concerned too much about the page design. If it's comfortable for you, that's all that matters. Want bigger text? I can do it. Want it all in navy blue? Easily done. If any of you have thoughts on something snazzy then feel free to let me know. I don't really have to look at this page at all since I only come here to post what was written in another program. Who knows what kind of dust gathers when I'm away.

Otherwise, the main reason I'm writing now is because of the response I got for Rope Bridge. It was really wonderful. Besides a lot of comments on this site and Facebook, I additionally received several personal messages from people that enjoyed the piece probably much more than they probably should have. So from the same chapter of my life I've started writing another piece. The next one won't have the metaphorical slant to it, though I did enjoy that quite a bit. But I have a few stories that I can tell about my time on the island that might be interesting anyway. We'll find out, I suppose.

Since I was out of school last week I had a lot of hours for writing, so I was able to update the blog every day. I won't be able to do anything close to that right now, but I will begin the new series soon. Hopefully it will be before the end of the week. (This new one is shaping up to be quite long. So I'll break it up into episodes just like the last one.)

So that's it. Thanks again to all of you who asked me to keep writing. In response, well, that's what I'll do.

Rope Bridge part 4/4

The vine completely obscured my view out the window. It covered the kitchen table. It hid away my toaster and left a ransom note in its place. I started to think about trimming it back, but I was curious to see just how much it could grow. Besides, that was right around the time the tree frog moved in, and I couldn't very well ruin its new home, could I? As for how the frog got in, I think the window sill had buckled, creating a handy entry point. Or maybe the little feller stowed away on my backpack from one of my daily trips down to the river to collect more water. (Tap water had almost killed the vine at first. In desperation I went back to the source and brought a jug of that pollution home. Surprisingly, the vine loved it.) However it happened, I now had a cute little croaking critter hanging around and I was happy for the company. At any rate there had been a lot of fruit flies in the place as of late, and having an amphibious predator in the house seemed like a welcome addition to the family. I named him Eater.

Well, you can imagine where things went from there. The vine continued to grow. The humidity rose. At some point I decided I was really into loincloths. The only thing left to do was to set the mood. I switched out all the normal halogens for low-intensity red and blue bulbs. Jeff Buckley was on the stereo at all times. I became fascinated in the decorative properties of mold. Yep. The jungle had moved in. “But it's not like I'm living over there!” I would say to myself, pointing in the vague direction of the window and, by extension, the island across the way. “This is nothing compared to that. Nah. Nothing to worry about.”

Eater couldn't have been happier. In fact a whole quorum of croakers had joined him. I never bothered to name the rest of them. They all looked like Eater anyhow, so that's how I thought of them. A big gang of Eater. And boy could they make a racket. The neighbors complained once or twice, and I had to answer a few angry letters from the landlord. All in all, though, I went to work on time, payed my bills, and kept larger pools of water from standing on any surfaces which lacked immediate drainage. No one bothered me too much. And I felt comfortable. Natural. I don't know, liberal.

But then the coughing fit started. A fever came on. My eyes swelled up and my bowels ran down. I felt terrible, and it wouldn't go away. It started to affect my job. I'd show up to work most days, but I wasn't totally there. My eyes would start tearing up for no reason and I'd loose the ability to focus on what I was doing. I felt nauseous constantly. Pretty soon I could no longer properly feed myself. I was often too weak for the task. Furthermore, the microwave had become Eaters' favorite hangout. They had quite a pad in there. Things were good for the frogs, but they were bad looking worse for me.

By this point the vine had long since taken over every surface of my home. I had never seen a thing with such a will to live. It was as if any second it would spontaneously evolve into a sentient being and ask for directions to the nearest Mexican place. I couldn't step anywhere without breaking off a handful of leaves or a sinuous branch. It didn't make no never mind to the creeper, though. The thing grew too quickly to even notice. Like a Greek monster of myth, one severed head would just sprout 3 to replace it.

Then one day a friend came to see me. I'd like to say it was Ryan, because that would wrap this story up in a neat little package. But since I've told the absolute truth about everything so far I might as well keep on that way. So no, it wasn't Ryan. This friend's name is David. He's a gentle and soft-spoken sort who's always got a good ear and plenty of insights. He was just the guy I needed. (Might be I take advice better from those with my own name. No surprise, really.) David found a relatively dry place to sit and asked me about my life. Well I paraded out all my aches and complaints, and he listened dutifully. “I'm sick, David,” I started. “But more than that—I'm in a real funk, man. I mean, I'm lonely and I can't find anyone. I'm tired and I can't sleep. I'm angry and I can't catch my breath. I'm hungry and I can't feed myself. Mostly though, I'm afraid. What if it never gets better, man?”

“Those sound like serious problems, David,” he said to me. “I won't argue that you are sick. But there's one thing I see that you haven't mentioned. What's going on here in your apartment? Is this just one vine, or a collection of several all joined into one mass? Everywhere I look I see mushrooms and small animals and a heavy mist. You've got your own ecosystem in here. Have you stopped to consider that it might be what you've let happen here which is causing your symptoms? I don't just mean physically. You might be less lonely, for example, if a person could sit in a semblance of comfort without worrying over snake bites. You've got to admit that some of those troubles might solve themselves if you just got rid of this plant.”

Well in retrospect I suppose David's assessment was obvious. But I was in perfect denial at the time. As he spoke, however, I found myself nodding to his wisdom. Maybe he was right. Maybe I hadn't left the island at all...you know, metaphorically speaking. It was possible that I never really had gotten that party out of my system. Maybe in some sick way I was in love with the cause of my disease. There was no getting around it. So I squared up, looked David straight in the eye, and shrugged. I'm stubborn, you see. I don't like to appear too ready to jump to the right conclusion. I thanked David for his time and showed him to the door. That's not just a turn of phrase in this case. Such guidance really was necessary.

As soon as I was alone I lit up the tiki torches, climbed into my hammock and tried to get a nap. But I couldn't sleep. I just swung there in the vine and looked around at my place. I really looked.

“Oh what the hell. I might as well give it a shot.”

A week after cleaning all traces of jungle out of my apartment I was already feeling better. The cough was gone. The inflammation was down. The rash had disappeared (though the itch remained for a whole year). Things got back to normal and I had to admit that David had been right. I took Eater and Associates down to the riverbank and let them go, which seemed to suit them all just fine. Wasn't much food left for them after I'd gotten rid of all the rotten organics.

Of course a vine like that doesn't just completely go away. It never works that way with this sort of botany. Every few days a new shoot would make an appearance out of the carpet, or from the back edge of the counter top, or lord knows right out the toilet bowl. Occasionally I'd even let the things grow for a few days. But then I'd start feeling ill again and so I would break out the plant killer.

As I kept on with this regimen things got to be even better than normal. I got a better job. I moved into a nicer place. I got a girlfriend and my band signed a big record deal. Well, ok. That last part isn't true at all. I just couldn't go all this way without trying to tell one little fib. I get carried away sometimes. Nope. Truth is the band broke up. Turns out that we all worked best in vegetative environs. The Rock just wasn't as fun anymore once the practice space was dry.

And that pretty much brings us up to the present tense. Of course Ryan eventually comes back into the picture. He looks good and sounds healthy. I don't ask about the details, but at some point he got himself off the island as well. He does tell me that they ripped up the old bridge. Not long after my accident, it turns out. But then they turned around and put in a massive rope swing which goes from one side to the other. Occasionally the rope snaps and someone goes down, but for the most part people get from here to there without too much trouble. The trip back and forth is a lot more fun, too, one imagines. Ryan hasn't been on it, though. He says he just doesn't have the heart for that much excitement any more. “Neither do I,” I told him.

The next day I found myself at the hardware store looking at heavy duty bolts, some nice sturdy gloves, and a length of strong rope...