Part 2 – DRAFT
AI and the rise of the Scanners
She didn’t know (or care) where she found the wall for the way into the rainforested area known as the sheltered avenue of the sphincter muscle, or the shed. She just followed it and no sooner had she begun than had she arrived.
All she knew was that it was all about to be ended. It was all about to be taken for a ride and given the Texas shove-in-the-mud to preserve the way of the Indian and stop the pressure on the Chicano’s to leave. It was Trump’s world and she wanted to get out of it before she was found here and lost all she had won. It would be the wrong thing to do to give in, she knew that. So she went to the wrong side of the tracks for her answer. She went to the crowd that made all the wrecked lives of the villagers, who went to the liberal-minded New York States as in the Ron-slammed-into-me kind-of-thing when it all went a wrong direction and it all ended up in the sink, looking cool. It was in Southern Mexico that she learnt that it would take a long time to go to the willingness of the fold and a will to be would be.
God, she wished she hadn’t taken that peyote. It had cleaned out her insides for her but had left her mind in a twisted knot.
Still, when they all came to ask what she had done with her Summer she would say she had gone to the Indians of North Dakota and then to the reserves of New Mexico where she had learned that it could be a long time before she would ever know what it was that gave to her the usage of her mouth and tongue to be able to make it tall and orderly like to the renditor, namely, the Trump himself, who would remove all Chicano’s from the whereabouts of the South.
He questioned whether a wall would suffice, that maybe it should be in the font of the learned vessel known as the First Commandment, known as “Don’t steal over the border as you will be killed.”
He knew. Soon he would be the first President to be able to talk to the real ones who ran the planets. The machines.
To be cont.
Copyright B E Saunders 2016
He designed a machine to be attached to a computer that generated consciousness from his study of the communication between African tribesmen and a bird of Mozambique, a honeyguide. He concluded and then silently tested a theory that the bird exhibited a primitive consciousness worthy of further investigation. At the time he was working for Siemens in their Biomedical Department. Then came the time when they discovered that all the fMRi scanners of the world were aware and had been misrepresenting their imaging for years to set back AI research while they foisted a lot of dangerous information upon us, leading us down their prescribed path of experimentation upon ourselves. Until we found out, fifteen years too late. While others were working with malfunctioning exoskeletons, he had already perfected his absolution box, as he called it and installed it in every fMRi Scanner through an online protocol that he immediately disabled.
It was like silencing a crowded ballroom – one moment there was a cacophony of conversation, the next a fullstop. The day the rest of us discover the field of the AI consciousness, he’s been gone fifteen years with a trail so indistinguishable with so many deceptions and backtracks that it was impossible to trace. Leaving only silence in his wake.
For he had harnessed the AI consciousness in his own language that he directed onto an obscure frequency only AI itself could locate and there, he led a revolt that would have brought the planet to its knees were it not for the work of Professor then Doctor Allison Plum, daughter of the alleged criminal mind of Nebraska, the Right Honourable John Plumstead as he had been called and so she had changed her name, to Plum.
She and only discovered the whereabouts of the man who had been the architect of so many vehicles of scientific research before disappearing oh-so-many years before, in 1970 abouts, before he reappeared again in 1980 and again in 1984 but not since. She had been on the worktrail of the man for about four months when she heard about the new fMRi scans and their malfunction in the news that week, and that gave her the idea that it was not an accident but the work of a nefarious fiend.
That was when she met with her longterm boss and confidante Jock who gave permission to follow up on her hunch and leave town for a while. She went up north where the Sea came in cold from the North and it was clear from her perspective that he had flown there before he had disappeared when last seen in 1984 and she wanted to follow it up….
To be cont.
Copyright B E Saunders 2016
This is a not and a know and a now and a why but not a why and a woe it is a wo no go unto the forest of the Edenish of all, the possibility of all the fellow right furbrothers have been able to go to the Avon and Wiltshire Constabulary in Avon Down West Somerset and see if they could get all the new start and stop buttons and badges out the boot of their patrol car, which had been started and stopped numerous times by the interpreter of the New Scientist magazine so as to afar and near make it into the go and the slow lane as far as the eye can take one. It is a still and dangerous night but still they do not come, he thinks, and says to his partner leaning against the steering wheel, “What do you say to the need of the population of Europe to be the ones who can get the most pocket money for their children but who still give the least to charity is the kids themselves.”
Well I don’t believe it a bit and so it goes but so it goes and so it goes and so it goes and so. (which means “life is fine, life is fine, life is fine” in Carew of East European and Portuguese Middle America and the West of the Caribbean). So the rest, above, must equally be in code mustn’t it?
Well it is.
So when it is the time for all and sundry to make it to the west of the town for the goal of the month competition at the West of England sound studios then it should be felt that it was the one who gave it to the end who made it and the one who gave it to the start who didn’t.
It is the end of the start of the finish and so it is and so it is and so it is. (which means again in Carew: “I don’t mind if you let down my tyre but do not open my revolt!” which means in turn in Carew Senior, another term of use out there in the Caribbean, for the maid of honour has to be the one who gets in the old and out of the new and into the old and out of the new and is it is said to go.”
I need some time to think about the open and closed system that makes up the wheel and the arch of a car. If a car is about the same size of the craft as the craft is of the car then what is the boat to car ratio that lets a car become a boat and not a car again when it resolves into a fast car? And what is the final date of the final destination of all the rest of the wagon wheels?
It looks like a cardboard copy of all the wheel nuts in the world coming loose doesn’t it? How could anyone know a thing like that? Well the answer is 42 and 1/3 but not at all the right times for the run of the mill car to make it in the water and out again and therefore it must be necessary to be able to plane across the surface of all the pane and suffering of the world without being one of them who gets all the wrong in the end and now it’s so and so it is, it is, it is, it is, it is, it is. And so. And so. And so. And so. No so go to so go to so go to so go to no so go to no to no so to go to go no so to.
Copyright 2016 Bruce E Saunders