hyper*threading
(or dystopian poetry from the future)
Multiple lines in inquiry are running inside my human large language model. Hyper, multi, uber threading my thoughts and hopes toward a better future than what is heading our way here at the dawn of Project 2025 and the Retribution Administration.
Billionaires are paying to win elections, paying to control more platforms of communication and influence. In this bleak world, a work of hopeful art is emerging in hyper-soul, my sci-fi world-building experiment. The dystopian world seems upon us. As if Json and his Resistance are broadcasting the entire book back in time to me here.
The first poem “overnight bliss” came without prompt. A ping inside the inbox of my mind and a transmission of sorts. In the sci-fi novel (or is it a transmission from the future Resistance) Json is my code-savvy son who was prepped and ready when darkness fell and the planet went dark. Json from the future might be transcribing these poems, maybe even the novel.
The story needs to get out. The bleak options we’re heading toward could be fatal for any human making less than a billion dollars a year. The rich are as scared as we are about climate change, but rather than trying to survive and mitigate our human impact, they are building rocketships to escape. A planet that’s being overheated by data centers cranked up on AI and LLM developments. Faster faster, kill kill, damn the torpedoes.
Suckers survive in submarines and caves. The Tiny Prince and his X-it Crew, are funding, subsidizing, and lying about their plans. He doesn’t want to do anything to help you or me. He wants to increase his wealth and influence. Perhaps he imagines he is the smartest humanitarian on the planet. The one who’s companies have a terrible environmental record in Texas, where his construction sites are fined weekly for environmental hazards and lack of basic health protection measures for the workers or the environment.
Fuck the peasants. They can ‘eat cake’ after we’ve left the planet.
Here’s the thing. I don’t want to live on Mars. I don’t want to be mesmerized by money, fame, influence, and greed. I won’t ever qualify for my Earth Escape Passage, which will be mostly billionaire class and a few lucky and well-connected millionaires. That’s it. The rich are leaving the planet and they don’t care if we melt down quantum data centers as long as they get their way.
Json, my son, and his team under the mountain have kept our dreams alive. The X-it Crew has made progress, but science is still a long way off from developing hypersleep or faster-than-light travel.
These poems from my son-in-the-future are meant to help us. Help me, right now, in 2024 nearing the 0.0, double-naught moment of 2025 and the maelstrom of hate and white white white rich power.
Maybe art is all we have. Fighting to remain human in the flood of ai-generated pablum. The Tiks and Tocs are numbing us through thousand-dollar phones, while “Chromebooks have dropped to $150 during this black friday sale.”
Join the human resistance now. Celebrate human art. Make human art. Give human art as gifts. Learn how ai-art is not art, it’s mimicry, stealing, reswizzling. Find you own voice. Give yourself time away from tech and breathe, meditate, dream, read Walt Whitman, Virginia Woolf, Kerouac. Find your own road forward.
Things are about to get weird.
11-25-24
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