> I haven't a clue what this story has to do
> with extropianism, but my neighbors think Im some
> kind of kook, outside with a flashlight watching ants
> walk up and down my garbage can. spike
Here's what it has to do with extropianism: I spent the last five hours
fighting a forty acre wildland fire between Manton and Shingletown. I did two
hose lays and watched while someone operated the pump. When I got back to my
car, the battery was too low to crank the engine, and I had to call the
station to get someone to come out and jump start it. While we're watching
ants and fighting fires (and Brian Phillips is going on about his Dinner with
Aztlan or whatever), Kurzweil, Hawking, and Minsky are trying to decide
whether to build intelligent robots or cyborgs to take our places. Who cares
what the neighbors think...We're all bozos on this bus. If extropy could talk,
it would whisper in song like a morning breeze. If extropy could touch it
would splash sweet lotion on my aching muscles, and the stream of it would
soothe, refresh and delight. If extropy could see it would observe immense and
timeless reveries of moonlit silence within each heartbeat, sturdy as earth
and sea, and delicate as starlight reflected in a child's eyes. September's
moon remembers shadows of the would-be-nows in feather-years of stillness and
dismay. September's moon knows the stillness of the will-be-thens in vaulted
unknown spaces of the bending land. September's moon knows the suchness of
stretching fibers in a body singing the quiet ecstasy of its tired endless
fullness. OK, I lied. It hasn't anything to do with extropianism, but maybe
Minsky can work his sphexish emotion machine with it somehow. Don't tell the
neighbors. >yawn<
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