moni

@monimoni.bsky.social

207 Followers 202 Following

Former nothing-person, currently in autopoiesis | 輝けたいトランス女性 "I must rejoice beyond the bounds of time, though the world may shudder at my joy, and in its coarseness know not what I mean." "Anywhere I lay my head, I will call my home."

I know it's not, I was just making a philosophical aside lol. Also I wasn't even trying to argue per se, I just felt like making that quote cuz I'm adderalled and I've been thinking a lot abt computational complexity and information theory and self-organizing systems, since I think they have applications to how my being autistic affects the way I interact with the world. For some reason I forgot that most people check their quotes and that this is a public forum xd

I agree with you, and I'm not trying to start a fight :( the chatbot app is nothing like the human brain, and in fact it is important that they're way way way slower at this sort of task than we are, slow enough to be discrete, whereas our brains appear to us as continuous. And we probably agree that the push to scale them is wrecking the planet and spiritually evil, and the only real use cases for them amount to like, spam fraud and plagiarism. But I think that being able to do this specific task as well as we do is not sufficient to be conscious, I think there's a more fundamental theoretical problem that makes LLMs worthless

Another hunch I have is that "learning how to filter out irrelevant data so you can process what's left with limited computational resources, and do so by being aware of your present purpose" is more salient to how the mind works than prediction and inductive reasoning. Which means you NEED a hugely complex environment just to begin to develop sentience. Like, a level of complexity that can't be compressed to even the sum total of all information every computer has ever processed. I think AI researchers underestimate just how complex The Real World is

Continuity in any process (incl. human consciousness) is an illusion, caused by the imperceptibility of the time(/space) gap. Mathematically, the concept of "continuous" functions was made rigorous by, literally, taking that notion to the absolute limit. Also, "remembering the context from previous experiences and factoring that into your response" is in fact something the human brain does. I mean LLMs can never be sentient imo but this isn't why (i suspect the most fundamental barriers are a. certain features of human consciousness can't feasibly be emulated on traditional, deterministic computers; and b. we still just don't actually know how the mind works, certainly not well enough to even begin to turn it into math. but those are hunches i have without having cracked open an actual textbook lol)

Also: if the iron was completely disconnected from all possible interaction with the world, it wouldn't even be a pile of dust, because that pile is a result of the iron interacting with gravity. It wouldn't even have any chemical properties which would make it identifiable as iron except by an electron microscope, which you wouldn't be able to use because it wouldn't interact with light either. It would practically be a ghost.

An object recognizable by name-and-form must have some internal coherence, one maintained by the five aggregates: material form, feeling, cognition, volition, and consciousness. Now, having heard this statement, one may infer that, for example, a cast-iron pan is conscious, which seems absurd. The reason is because the precise meaning of "consciousness" here does not mean it the way we normally do, so to further elaborate:
Let's say I use a cast-iron pan, and after using it I leave it in the sink and forget about it for a few days. I look for the pan and see what I recognize to be the same pan, only rustier. It's rusted, so it's changed; I had not seen it in days, so I was not aware of it; how was I able to able to know it was "the same" pan? Certainly it's because I take there to be, despite the change, a continuity of the pan's identity, that which makes "this" pan and not "some other" pan. This continuity of identity is governed by the five aggregates: the material form of the pan is its shape, size, and the material nature of its components, that is, the iron particles, and the metal's impurities, themselves. Of course, the metal, taken on its own, couldn't be sufficient. If the metal had no chemical means of binding all its components together, it wouldn't be a pan: it would be a pile of metal dust. The chemistry of the pan allows it to cohere, yet the very properties of iron that allow it to cohere also allow it to rust: oxygen comes in contact with iron, producing feeling; the information contained in this feeling is acknowledged by the iron, cognition; and the iron changes in response, volition; and does so according to the laws of its chemical properties, its consciousness: it binds to the oxygen. And so I, knowing that iron rusts, and having already identified the pan before, am able to put two and two together, recognize a coherence and continuity in the process of its changing, and from there understand that "this" pan is still itself, only rustier.

I feel sometimes like I would have to become a buddha just to function like most people do. most go through life not noticing how much we don't notice. thinking back on that experience singing the other day, and on all the times i lost my means to so much as not drool all over myself, i know the two are deeply related, and i know the difference between the former's heaven and the latter's hell is the difference between knowing and confusion. i am in a constant despairing state of i can't ignore it all without forgetting how to move in basic ways. maybe i should open myself to every sense all at once in full detail, lean into these unwanted flashes of omnipartite vastness, learn to dance to the music. music is after all a conversation between all them resounding instruments, every one jamming with all else: and the best music melts the distinction between "one" and "all else."

I can't look into your eyes.
when I do I see so much, too much,
No more than I may fix unto the sun,
No more than that nourishing glory may match me pupil for pupil-

Your eyes are all the world in a mirror-
How do you,
You, built specified to Love's architect's demands,
How do you expect me,
no matter the beating,
to get used to it?
Malleable I am not;
your notions of gender
of sexuality-
Hell, I tried my damnedest, and
No matter the hammer,
no matter the implements,
(I tried even torture)
I never beat myself to form-
So please,
Don't even bother-
Make no cages of words, and
mistake not our words, no parts nor wholes of speech
for all the wordless wonder that is out there, and
Not least for me:
Most of all, for those children born tomorrow.
Those strange strange children, God's little weirdos,
I ain't the only one;
think of my beloved friends:
We can smile,
we can cry, too,
and I want to live, to live
to see their smiles and tears
to wipe them away clean in gentle sympathy,
and let them know that they are human too

And so I catch a glimpse
(amidst strangers and lovers both-
for an eye-catch is a fleeting kiss,
and I've kissed my share of strangers)
Of all that anyone could ever be
And I of course avert
and protect this sense of sight
Breathe in and out and know deep down-

I must not but learn you
I must not but know
who I am not
Must not but love
you:
you who no one could ever be-
I want never to look into your sunspot eyes, my darling:
Let us just hold each other
and dance a ditty
a ditty with no meaning,
but what we make of it-
We will dance to make-believe
and I will make myself believe
and I hope I persuade you too
in a sun-kissed kiss, and
in an orange,-
in a human-freckled sky.

Just as I stumble,
and center of gravity wavers,
Suddenly:
I am at a new point:
I know this is walking,
everything around me is a new footstep:
everything around me is a new road -
where to go and what do be?

The door is inches away and for a forever fifteen minutes
No movement comes from surging will
So I lean into the yawning just-ahead
And I stumble where I wanted
Tipping into open arms and smiling hearts

First your lungs are bags of void, and
It's all crashing and banging here girlie
And we still find our way around
yes we still find our way
And in all that holler,
in scramble and in rushing folly,
We know slow is smooth and smooth is fast:
we know love smoothes things over
and soothes babes screaming everything,
lets them know they're better off lulling,
And we can talk to it all and all get along
And we can clasp inside what makes us not each other
we can hum nothing in particular! -
You can gaze and listen and speak and grin
You must be a hug, and be a friend,
and get along with your bigger web. -
You will see another and they won't be you
And you will choose to imagine
and you will know who you aren't
you selfless selfish blip
And thence into your nose your heart repletes

Beyond the muddy boxes of my usual mind lies a wonder
of singing dancing every-thing --
So many conversations not privy to --
A runaway love pulling me
by the top of my scalp. --

I heard a lot of songs in my time,
most in static greyscale pixels: --
Yet now I see,
I see a constellation,
A dance of well-acquainted stars,
and songs of spinning worlds:

What made me dumb,
what made me cry,
Why I drool and stare
and find myself lax:
It's all I will ever see.
It's all at the same time,
so many signals it turns to noise:
It's the little things of routine,
they fling me out to Out There --

And heaven is hell without this:
This screeching volume of all of it,
I know now,
they are the same:
Out There is In Here, resounding;
But when I am full of the divine,
all makes sense,
And when fear disrupts repose,
it's a clamor bustle race of rats

Dancing where words and math must fail,
The birds greet my gesticulations,
and sing what I could never say;
outside my window dancing,
my mind turns to kissing
and to sweating grabbing breathing women

The birds sing something I do not
and fly where my mind cannot
Skin's vestigial feathers do ruffle
And my soul becomes that skin,
and --
Them muddy boxes, them fitful dreaming minds
they perch upon the tangent line
and can't help but land me gently
to a poorly sung refrain:
I hear them, I love the birds
and I set off where their singing takes me

i find that most employers these days make a good faith effort to be more accommodating, and masking too much actually makes it harder for them to do it, for the same reason masking is effective in environments that can't or won't accommodate your needs (namely, you're literally hiding what would need accommodations to begin with). if you don't show them, you can't work with them to makes things easier for you

low res pic of naruto grinning with 'GAY RIGHTS' in impact font

I think about who I was, sometimes, when I confined myself in as total an isolation as possible. I resented everyone who loved me and resented myself for loving them because that love meant I couldn't stop existing without dealing so much hurt and my little brother is four and I can't stomach my perfect beautiful brother being told he can't see his brother anymore and he can't understand why. And I can't understand why I have to be his brother. I hated it and hated them and I hated myself for all the hatred I'd become. And if I couldn't stop existing I could at least exist as little as possible.

I think about who he was, sometimes. Seventeen years old, parents' house, high school graduate, staring at his jiu-jitsu belt and glancing at the coat-rack. Eighteen, languishing on a surplus army cot, freeloading a room his older sister and her husband had earned fair and square, record-time college dropout, knowing perfectly well he didn't deserve to eat. Nineteen, grandmother and her roommate, freeloaded room, being seen at all an embarrassment. Browsing imageboards where no one has a name, hate-sinks where everyone is no one. He was a nothing-person.

When I was twenty-six my oldest sister told me she wasn't sad that she lost a brother. She was sad her sister had to be her brother for so long.

moni w better looking hair than normal. taken with rear camera with flash on

What I'm saying is Japan needs to get back into piracy. It's fucked up that 99% of pirated Japanese media is ripped by fan translators for other languages. Don't even get me started on books btw like oh my god. That z-lib/annas archive/etc isn't, as in e.g. English or Chinese, replete with scans of old textbooks and literature and shit in Japanese is an Extraordinary Disservice to millions of autistic people

moni sitting down under tree-shade

the latter is a joke btw. as to why i don't have home internet access: my phone plan has a data cap, but it's 15 bucks and unlimited data is like 35. if i changed, my current plan would be like 25 if i changed back, which i would have to do anyway since i can't really afford spending the extra 20 every month. it's chill tho u get used to it if u spend half of every month like this for 2.5 years straight

Shirk all that you were, my lovely hurting nothing-person,
And shape your vessel as wrought neuron synapse,
For I've been you, and I saw you are not forever:
Dreams of music played across a lake-moated playground,
Cheek caressed by freshwater Springtime winds,
Tear-stained pillows amid fading notions of a womanhood-you;
Electrochemical lightshows in furious dance,
Names placed on gnawing something's-amiss subtexts,
Hesitant celebrations of tongue-tips articulated:
In lifetime-first interoceptive clarity will you hear me:
Yes, you are not forever, my dearest wistful no-soul:
You shall move with the joyous pangs of contradiction,
And towards a you who you are not:
For who you will to be shall be who you will be:
As is human wont, human as we are,
We machines of autopoietic love.

With needle and ester in hand,
Accede to your self, let her ascend,
And give a spirit flesh.

moni with a very clean shave, not very defined curls, and a decent attempt at a gently congenial half-smile

2.
BITCH

CPUs for the meeting, reflected in the window of a Soho specialist in mod paraphernalia, are a fresh Fruit T-shirt, her black Buzz Rickson’s MA-1, anonymous black skirt from a Tulsa thrift, the black leggings she’d worn for Pilates, black Harajuku schoolgirl shoes. Her purse-analog is an envelope of black East German laminate, purchased on eBay—if not actual Stasi-issue then well in the ballpark.
She sees her own gray eyes, pale in the glass, and beyond them Ben Sherman shirts and fishtail parkas, cufflinks in the form of the RAF roundel that marked the wings of Spitfires.
CPUs. Cayce Pollard Units. That’s what Damien calls the clothing she wears. CPUs are either black, white, or gray, and ideally seem to have come into this world without human intervention.
What people take for relentless minimalism is a side effect of too much exposure to the reactor-cores of fashion. This has resulted in a remorseless paring-down of what she can and will wear. She is, literally, allergic to fashion. She can only tolerate things that could have been worn, to a general lack of comment, during any year between 1945 and 2000. She’s a designfree zone, a one-woman school of anti whose very austerity periodically threatens to spawn its own cult.
Around her the bustle of Soho, a Friday morning building toward boozy lunches and careful chatter in all these restaurants. To one of which, Charlie Don’t Surf, she will be going for an obligatory post-meeting meal. But she feels herself tipping back down into a miles-long trough of jet lag, and knows that that is what she must surf now: her lack of serotonin, the delayed arrival of her soul.

Shirk all that you are, at-present nothing-person,
And cast your vessel in wrought neuron synapse,
For I've been you, and I saw you are not forever:
Dreams of music played across the lake-moated playground,
Tear-stained pillows amid fading notions of a womanhood-you,
Electrochemical lightshows in furious dance,
Hesitant celebrations of tongue-tips articulated,
Names placed on gnawing somethingness subtexts:
In lifetime-first autobiographical clarity will you hear me:
Yes, you are not forever, dearest wistful no-soul:
Accede to your self, let her ascend,
And give your spirit flesh

i read "I Sing The Body Electric" and i found it very uhhhh. hmmm

Like it opens up by equivocating body and soul, which i can get behind, and then it continues by getting kinda bisexual with it and espousing gender equality, which i can also get behind. but somehow it does this by getting all weird and essentialist. like how do you manage to declaim in perfect honesty "if the body is not the soul, what is the soul?" and then turn out a bunch of verses seething with idealism
like were transcendentalists just Like That
(still his way of putting words together is Most Excellent and somehow reminiscent of my writing style when i was 22 and hadn't even read any whitman yet. lol)
(he pulls it off better than 22 year old me did ofc)

it's not just idealism btw it's like. specifically an "everything in its place for all time" idealism, combined with his nationalism it has an almost protofascist stink to it. but that stink is perfectly alongside this breathless love for everyone on earth. or perhaps moreso it has within it the fundamental contradiction of the American collective unconscious, a soap bubble surface tension between haughty settler-colonialist entitlement and humbled-before-higher-powers egalitarian cosmopolitanism, never quite bursting but never taking any shape recognizable to man either
like if he's America's Poet it's precisely _because_ his work is like two gordion knots fucking each other on a bed made out of anti-racist racism
Basically, he finds beauty in the body. I too find beauty in the body. But man I reeeaally don't think we're seeing the same beauty there

bowl of rigatoni w tomato sauce

im the moni

```
>american libertarians dont mind government tyranny as long as it enables sex tourism

Generally speaking the throughline between all the various (and frequently otherwise contradictory) rightisms is sexual abuse as a political objective. What makes libertarianism unique among right wing ideologies is that it wants to cede sexual abuse to market forces, which most right wingers find distasteful and degenerate. On the other hand, libertarians and other right wingers still ultimately agree on the fundamental tenet that ownership of women's and children's bodies for the purpose of sexual domination is a good thing, especially within family dynamics in particular. Hence why libertarians over here are closely allied with fascists and christian nationalists despite seemingly irreconcilable differences

never ask a man, his height
a woman, her age
a libertarian, why he travels to southeast asia so regularly
```

Excerpt from the Wikipedia article entitled "History of autism" (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_autism):

```
The Neo-Latin word autismus (English translation autism) was coined by Bleuler in July 1910.[57] He first used it in print to describe a symptom of schizophrenia in the scientific paper "Zur Theorie des schizophrenen Negativismus"[58] (On the theory of schizophrenic negativism). He derived autismus from the Greek word: αὐτός, romanized: autós, lit. 'self', and used it to mean morbid self-admiration, referring to "autistic withdrawal of the patient to his fantasies, against which any influence from outside becomes an intolerable disturbance".[57][58]

Bleuler believed that the idiosyncratic behaviours of people displaying autistic behaviour were due to them engaging with personal fantasy rather than with the world as it is.[3] He believed they drew on an early childhood mental state that was unable to form theory of mind.[3]
```

moni wearing a brown loong sleeve and black dickies (whose fly is kinda warped unfortunately). she has long curly dark reddish-brown hair and is gazing coldly upon the viewer

And honestly my translation sucks too!!! Partly because I have little translation experience and mostly because he's a master at using some of the unique features of the language that make it like fucking impossible to put into natural-sounding English. So I opted for leaning into the unnaturalness to dig for some literary quality. but i kinda failed tbh. Anyway this is The Greatest Breakup Song Of All Time imo

足はもつれた。
旅のその途中で転んだ姿を笑う君だ。

夢は砕けた。
夜の真ん中で、俯いた背中を包むのさ。

振り返り、君が手を叩き笑う
定まらない気持ちに名前をつけた。

漕ぎ出して、また戻って、
「いい加減な人だ。」と笑い
君以外は、誰もいない道の上、ふたり転げ回って

振り出し。ね、また戻って、続きは？
「もう良いんじゃない？」だって。
誰もいない道の上、ふたり笑って。

話をしようか。
遠い国の映画の悲しいストーリー、懐かしい歌

鳴らして、揺らして、
夕暮れに痛みを残して、今日は終わる。

笑い飛ばしたら、置いて行く
暗くなって、見えなくなって、
指先に残るものだけが柔らかな朝を迎える。
そうあるように。

Note that the one-pan preparation is of critical importance. The sheer amount of starch retained (literally all the starch boiled out of the pasta) gives the sauce a ton of body. That said I like my noodles a little dry, so my plate wasn't as creamy as it could've been with a bit more water in it. More water and it's carbonara levels of creamy, entirely for the starch content of the sauce.

terrible with-flash-on photograph of a large plate of stinky noodles

生まれた時から「人間失格」と言う気持ち、ずっと持った。長い時の間にジェンダー関係のことを気づかなかった。ASDと人生していく私には、「ASDのせいだ」が当たり前だったから。
しかし。2020年2月上旬に、ある考えが頭に浮かんだ。
「プラハの旅行の時に、6才の弟が言ったことは変なの? "大人になるとぜったい待ちたくない! 大きく強くヒゲを持つ男になる楽しみだぜ!"。私には一生考えなかったことでしょ?」
「親父はもう47歳だ。今もう似合うだよなぁ私? その頃に着いたなら、もうそっくりになる、絶対。いやだ。自分殺さなきゃくらい嫌だ。」
そんな思いの中に矛盾がった。青天の霹靂と実際なかったが、青天の霹靂のような感じに脳が響けた: 矛盾の原因は「今男だ。今だけ」。と。

気づいた後、心の底に解ったことを見つけた。「選択は二つだけ: 死ぬか体を変化する。」確かに自分嫌ったが、家族によって愛された私にとって、「自殺したいけど死ねばいけない、家族を傷つければいけないから」と思った。だから後者を選んだ。

数ヶ月後、一ヶ月間量のエストロジオール・ピルを買って実験した。結果は? 十年前からの最初体験、「思春期の発病」前のから、「自分嫌い」と言う気持ちが消えた。それも生まれた時からの「人間失格」と言う気持ちが消えた。全く軽くなった。恐怖、キモさ、嫌悪。全ての嫌な気持ち、泡沫悪夢のように見えた。ホーットしたって言ったら意味届けない。

そして、もっとホルモン買うと覚悟した。
2021年1月25日、来た。真っ直ぐ注射した。

そして、「人間合格」になり始めた。

Oh I stay hydrated too, but sometimes I neglect to eat enough fatty foods (the other thing that helps w hangovers) and also there's not a whole ton u can do if u crushed like half a fifth of vodka in 6 hours lol. I learned to manage myself and I haven't done that to myself in I think over a year at this point tho. And yeah I'd rather have marijuana at this point it's just Not As Bad For You (and feels better anyway)

Wise choice. I'm in a spot where I have to binge to get Messy, but it turns out that I get bile reflux hangovers which leave me retching and unable to hold down water for hours the following day. It's miserable. Meanwhile I've grown to dislike sobriety. So I put myself in a bit of a no-win scenario (sobriety does win out most of the time!! though not lately since I've been in a mental health funk)

Under the pseudonyms Georges Hohrod and Martin Eschbach, IOC founder Pierre de Coubertin won a gold medal in the literature category at the 1912 Summer Olympics.

ruddy dry wrinkly gnarled cold-weather moni hand

moni peace signing, wearing their sensory-overload-mitigating combo of chinese IEMs and gun range earmuffs. they have long curly dark reddish-brown hair and an unsightly nicotine stain on the tip of their left forefinger

Mouths-to-feed, hope-glimmering,
Stare deep upon built-for-them devices,
All-connected smiles and tears,
Thinking in not-yet grown-up words:
Why'd we burn and did not build,
Fought as though ever there was an enemy,
Refused to love until we're told,
As if we needed reason to?
Why the delay, why hands were stayed,
Why we cowered from Sol's embrace,
Why'd we wait til ere we'd break,
Why not work toward a beaming face?

When now is past and the unborn sing,
そう唄えるように、
太陽からの電源を:
The Sun-begot electric.

Baltimore Colts

Baltimore head coach Weeb Ewbank led the Colts to a second straight championship game win over New York the next season. He was fired from the Colts

[Highlighted text in asterisks]
Laws varied by state and century, but the practice always came with a healthy social stigma, one rooted in millennia of accumulated wisdom. To humanity’s great thinkers and leaders, gambling was an impediment to an ethical life (Aristotle), an invention of the devil (Saint Augustine), and a tax on the ignorant (Warren Buffett). It fostered selfishness and a something-for-nothing ethos that was poisonous to the soul. George Washington went so far as to warn that “every possible evil” could be tied to gambling: “It is the child of avarice, the brother of inequity, and the father of mischief.” *As a result, gambling was largely contained to certain disreputable corners of society, such as riverboats, red‑light districts, and Nevada.* For a time, it was the

buddy in a discord server: "you're top ten trannies"

me: "top 10 trannies? yeah i could do that"

bowl of pasta

In other words, these were seriously unorthodox people. The impression one gets from the literature is that any Nuer settlement of pre-colonial times was likely to be complemented by a minor penumbra of what might be termed extreme individuals; ones who in our own society would likely be classified as anything from highly eccentric or defiantly queer to neurodivergent or mentally ill. Normally, prophets were treated with bemused respect. They were ill; but the illness was a direct consequence of being touched by God. As a result, when great calamities or unprecedented events occurred – a plague, a foreign invasion – it was among this penumbra that everyone looked for a charismatic leader appropriate to the occasion. As a result, a person who might otherwise have spent his life as something analogous to the village idiot would suddenly be found to have remarkable powers of foresight and persuasion; even to be capable of inspiring new social movements among the youth or co-ordinating elders across Nuerland to put aside their differences and mobilize around some common goal; even, sometimes, to propose entirely different visions of what Nuer society might be like.

There is every reason to believe that sceptics and non-conformists exist in every human society; what varies is how others react to them.32 Radin was interested in the intellectual consequences, the kind of speculative systems of thought such out-of-sync characters might create. Others have noted the political implications. It’s often people who are just slightly odd who become leaders; the truly odd can become spiritual figures, but, even more, they can and often do serve as a kind of reserve of potential talent and insight that can be called on in the event of a crisis or unprecedented turn of affairs. Thomas Beidelman, for instance, observes that among the early-twentieth-century Nuer – a cattle-keeping people of South Sudan, famous for their rejection of anything that resembled government – there were politicians and village ‘bulls’ (‘operator types’ we’d now call them) who played fast and loose with the rules, but also ‘earth priests’ who mediated local disputes, and finally prophets. The politicians were often unconventional: for instance, it was not uncommon for the local ‘bull’ actually to be a woman whose parents had declared her a man for social purposes; the priests were always outsiders to the region; but the prophet was an altogether more extreme kind of figure. He might dribble, drool, maintain a vacant stare, act like an epileptic; or engage in long but pointless tasks such as spending hours arranging shells into designs on the ground in the bush; or long periods in the wilderness; or he may even eat excrement or ashes. Prophets, as Beidelman notes, ‘may speak in tongues, go into trances, fast, balance on their head, wear feathers in their hair, be active by night rather than by day, and may perch on rooftops. Some sit with tethering pegs up their anuses.’33 Many, too, were physically deformed. Some were cross-dressers, or given to unconventional sexual practices.