| The Psychic Machine |
[Nov. 18th, 2005|12:52 am] |
Watching my comptuer struggle upward for air, I imagined the psychic machine, that sensed (wirelessly of course) which systems we wanted our resources allocated to, and which ought to be ignored. It would all be done subconsciously, of course. Our conscious minds could never handle such a work load on top of their already unmanageable task of self-preservation through self-deception.
The experiment would be a horrible failure, of course, because no one would ever get any work done. The machines would sense our desires, the ones we kept even from ourselves, and everything would go wrong. Upstanding members of the community would be deluged with kiddy porn, and well respected business men with families would be flooded with gay porn. Our machines would reach out with their wireless tendrils and purchase things for us that we couldn't afford. Bank accounts would be emptied as fast as the little machines could go. All of our compulsions would be discovered and enacted. Our lives would be lived moment to moment as translated by this giddy new technology.
It would inevitibly be abandoned, its betrayed owners trashing the machines, burning them in the streets as the stealers of secrets, and the proclaimers of lies. The machines would know the truth and the truth would get them killed, which is a form of freedom, I suppose. Short lived, the lives of psychic machines. Better we keep them clumsy, I suppose, and our secrets right where they belong.
A. |
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