Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 107

Memorial Day

Remember those who died. Remember what they died for. This is a moment to reflect on the past so as to move forward into something better. Don't let someone else's lies try to sweeten that up, because we ultimately remember for the future.



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Published on Omni

The link went dead some time ago, but thanks to the people over at Omni Reboot, here is the new link to RAW, RoboAnthroWar. It's a short story that started as a small visual on the D-train subway. It grew from there. In many ways, Labyrinth of Souls owes its existence to this short, as I had not thought of doing anything on artificial intelligence up until that point. So enjoy it and share it, please. You can come back with comments.
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On Writing and The Endless Cycle

Yep. All this must be turned into text. The digital kindSo I'm going to whine a little about my first world problems. I know some of you want to know when the next book is coming out (even if it's a collection of short stories which it most likely will end up being), to say nothing of the series I must finish. 

This is a partial reason of why a novel is so far down the road: that I have to get some of these essays and shorts transferred and out there. Nothing irks me worse than seeing an essay out there that I have already written. Because then I'm reacting to content out there rather than creating it. [1]
That being said, I do like writing with a pen as a way turn to text my thoughts (then  transferred into a computer). Handwriting slows down the process and provides a good filter. I am throwing away a few of these, as a second glance forces me to see them as weak or useless in some way. 
But I wanted to share this with you. Just so you know that I'm working hard at a solution here. 

[1] Yes, yes, nothing is original under the sun, but you get the idea. 

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Terry Eagleton and the Problem with Fiction

I enjoy reading Terry Eagleton . To paraphrase an Amazon reviewer: "he writes with a slight condescending tone. Good people." His book, How to Read Literature , is another solid piece of work. In it he speaks of literary theorists.
Apparently, some of those deep into literary theory would say that made up characters and made up worlds are all there, all exist. I know, I know, this sounds like some overly theoretical idealism. Bear with me a moment. Now how they exist is another thing, but it reminds me of my friends precocious children whom I babysat one day. 
They asked me what I did and I said writing. Fiction? Yes. They scrunched up their noses and I felt proud that they had come out as close replicas of their technocratic parents, even if I was saddened by their disparaging voices.
"Why write what's not real?" they asked. A sentence to the exact word and tenor that I'd heard their parents use before. Interesting to see that replication; though to see what becomes of it in the teen years would provide a satisfactory schadenfreude. 
But for some reason, then and there, I felt a need to stand up for my flimsy trade and donning my writer's cap I told them that it was never about what was unreal. And suddenly, like some archangel I spouted out a theory that, until then, I had never believed. 
I first explained that the world itself was finite and human minds more so (in terms of range of actions and thoughts) and even if the reactions possible between a finite brain and finite world. Nothing in their range was unreal. Everything was real.
Having struck them dumb founded with these words, I then proceeded to tell them that whatever we didn't understand in this world, upon this is what fiction would be able to shine the first weak rays of light. 
I'm not sure what else I said. Most of it was in defense of from their barrage of questions. I'm not even sure if I had been using drugs that night. I told them that those fantastical worlds and witches all existed. They only had to find them.
Their parents would call me later that year, astounded at the children's growing capacity to read and fathom the world at hand and how they were busy building new ones. 
I babysat again a few months later. They were fast becoming young adults and when they wanted to show me the world they had created, I had to fight an impulse to tell them not to follow in my tracks and become something else, something more concrete.
But you know kids at that age. They wouldn't listen and dragged me to their room to show the new world. I opened their closet expecting to see a diorama or something of the like, but instead there glowed a portal to a living breathing world of little creatures going about their business of making a city. I leaned in to make sure it wasn't ants or something. No, it was an entire civilization.
I ran. 
Something about that house always creeped me out. I called their parents telling them I couldn't fulfill my babysitting duties. They told me not to get freaked out about the closet—somehow they knew—it was only kids being kids. But I wouldn't have any of it. I never returned. It's a horrible thing to see a theory of the world come to life. I'm still running.

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More Thoughts on Artificial Intelligence

La Sagrada Familia. The OutsideA recent article on the great novels out there and the fractal aspect to their writing, got me thinking about how computers were used to make this observation. La Sagrada Familia, the inside
This got me thinking about Gaudi, and his masterpiece, La Sagrada Familia, and how computers have helped to confirm the structural validity of the shapes his mind came up with. So now the church can be completed. An amazing thought to think of a person so far ahead of his/her times. It's more amazing if one decides to think on the fact that these computers, now analyzing, could possibly come up with something beyond the comprehension of human minds. La Sagrada Ceiling

For example,  Alphago was shown to make several moves beyond the comprehension of the expert human mind. 
These days, people speak of the AI singularity and a moment when computers take over what humans do, putting much of our current economic system at risk. Now, my knee-jerk reaction is that if the decision making control of this world is left in the hands of humans, it will most likely perpetuate or worsen inequality and subjugation in the world. Meanwhile, with the right guidance or parameters [1], allowing computers the to make the decisions (even top end ones) could make for a better world.  La Sagrada's Amazing Pillars
All this is the main point of Labyrinth of Souls , my latest novel [2]. The problem in the book is the problem in our world today: that we are moving too fast with weaponizing such algorithms without thinking through those consequences [3]. 
But this seems to show the weakness of my initial position. Why do I think that artificial intelligence will be better than humans in making higher end decisions? Is it simply a matter of eliminating heuristics that will make them better? Or will they, like many other tools, simply be used to exacerbate existing iniquities? Unfortunately, given that the powerful own the tools, this latter scenario is very likely. We must be careful, then, as we move forward down this route.  It's Windows and Alien-Furnace Light


[1] Of course, who decides this is important. 
[2] Though in this book I may have been too cruel to the activists in the book who set out to create this better world via a decision making algorithm. My real feelings on the matter are that I believe we should always be wary of anyone in power. How they react to shifts in power also matter. Will they be willing to watch the world burn rather than give up power?
[3] Alphago among many exceptions, of course.
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Writer's Notes Over at The Mantle

Hope the day is treating you well. Just so you're aware, I have a few writer's notes for my latest novel, Labyrinth of Souls. In it I discuss the many things that went into the creation of that particular book. Go over there and check it out. Check out their website too, it's pretty cool and thoughtful. 
Other than that, I've mainly been working on audiobooks, so I'll update you when each one comes out. Run, the short story is out on Audible . It's less than 10 minutes long, but it's more than worth it. It's also available (as are more of my audiobooks) here on iTunes . If you can't afford it, please email me.

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On Text as a Singular Phenomenon

I've talked a lot about art and life, as well as the great author Algo and the initial foray into fractal writing. I've also talked about about how Algo is now following another author who seems to be creatively superior. 
But now there seems to be an entire movement towards having text as a singular event. Or as singular as today's world, with its ubiquitous cameras, would allow. Now, it's hard to trace this to any single source. Some say that it's a reaction [1] to text becoming cheap and easily copied all over the internets. Others say it's merely a derivative act of Buddhism whereby the creation is a little more permanent. 
Now, Algo and some others have taken to using street art to their benefit. Much like the invisible poetry in Boston, where the poetry is only seen in the rain, the new text are stories only told once on certain walls. 
Also took this a step further, cut up his final manuscript (a short one, admittedly) and had pages of it placed up in black-night paint all over the world. The book that was released was a map with the page numbers. This is much in line with his creative superior who decided to cut up her manuscript and paste it all over a large canvas. 
Of course, these can be replicated by photos, and anyone who cares enough will piece together the story and sell it. But it does speak to the changing of guards with respect to infinite replication of text.  Now, readers can travel to a certain place to read a book. Or a page. 
I'll admit that poets will have more luck with this kind of text. Theirs can pack a bigger punch on a single wall and that would lead to a reader getting more out of a visiting one place. In fact, hordes of readers are now trying to visit these off the beaten track places, shining their black lights for those words. [2]
Those who write shorter myths are also seeing more traction with this style of writing. [3] The question is whether it will become something more than what it is right now. What are your thoughts?


[1] Quite possibly a futile one where the reaction is merely a tree standing in the way of a tsunami. Who can argue against that, who can argue against the internet?

[2] The more recent trend of poets and prose writers doing more and more insane things to become known, and to warrant a trip to the said place, is a whole other matter. For now I'll allow social media to be blamed, and even if live action video allows for certain actions (some act of self-aggrandizement or self-mutilation or suicide, unfortunately), it's still a wholly separate matter from this new form of text.

[3] Again, much of this has come out in secretive forms (blacklight only, or clear waterproof part that will allow for the rain to show the words). I sense that this says something even more about the nature of this text. Something almost religious.


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On Activism and Art

 Receiving a text these days, one denoting a friend's emergency, seems like more of an act than when one receives a voice-call. It could be tied to the fact that when we receive such texts [1], we are on the defensive, ghosts of Nigerian princes past and what have you.
When I received just such a text from a friend who needed to meet up “right now”, I tried to call her, to better know what exactly I was walking into, but she wouldn't answer.

Off I went, then, several blocks away. As I walked there, the stench of gasoline filled the air. There were wolves walking about. And by that I mean youngsters slinking about, their eyes a little too wise and shifty for my tastes. As I approached the building, I noticed that these young people were wearing balaclavas as watch caps.

I tensed up, heart racing until I saw my friend waiting outside the address.

"What's up?" I asked, looking around, wondering if she was to blame, or if she was part of the crackling air or the streets.

"I don't know them," she said a little too quickly.

She looked nervous, but she had that glint in her eye that spoke of a plan being hatched.

She dragged me inside. It was a gallery, empty as it were, and dark. She switched on all the lights, picked a lock, and in we went.

The first room was filled with variations of a theme: life-sized statues of homeless people, sitting on cardboard or newspapers in various postures. Some were huddled around a make-believe fire, others crouched ready to pounce. Most of them just looked defeated in some way, though a few were mean mugging the viewer.

I looked closer: some of the cardboard and newspaper had something like an article on freedom or war or manufacturing jobs moving to China. I glanced over to see her reaction. I liked this and it was very much in line with some of her work—she was the most brilliant artist I knew, mind you—but she was bristling at some specter in the distance.

Assuming it was the art sinking into her soul, or something like that, I walked into the next room. This one was filled with paintings and sculptures. One painting was interesting enough, a blur of people, looking dismembered, ethereal, while a kind of mat or map—I couldn't really tell—made of playing cards and 1s & 0s, stood out as clear as day. The more I looked at it, the more it seemed like the people were being eaten by the mat.

I was jolted by the shockwave of an explosion outside, followed by a burst of gunfire. Yells, screams, like ghostly echoes, filtered through to the room. She approached me, waving off my concerns about what was going on outside.

The work wasn’t hers, but her ex’s, she told me, hissing, the anger now obviously steaming out of her pores. That mediocre man had stolen her work and was now garnering much attention.

I nodded, it was reprehensible. I said as much. She smiled something wicked and walked off. I walked over to the sculptures. Here were various sizes of the female+belly+breasts+hair in various combinations. It did look very similar to her work.

Unfair is the the world.

She came back, all grinning with two sledge hammers. I balked, refused.

At first she pointed out that she had shut off the cameras and engineered the riot outside and so chances of getting caught were close to nil.

“But, wait, how the hell did you engineer a riot?” I asked, impressed.

“I’m an artist,” she said.

I shook my head. “The fuck.”

She elbowed me. “It’ll be fun.”

“But you can’t just destroy this.”

Her face darkened. “It’s essentially mine.”


“But they’re still his work…. he created them.”

“Stole. My. Ideas. Verbatim.”

“He created them.”

“Yes. But this mediocre man is making millions off me.”

I paused. This was murky territory. We even had conversed abut this, how creativity and theft were in many ways similar. How there was a line that one couldn’t define. And yet she was now trying to do just that.

“These are exactly the same as you made them?”

She gave me an eviscerating glance.

Outside the sirens and yells grew louder.

“Help or leave.” She turned, slipped on some goggles, and started smashing the sculptures.

I paused, then picked up a sledge hammer. It was wrong, but I needed to find out about how she engineered a riot. The alone was worth this transgression of hers upon our friendship.







[1] inevitably in the electronic form
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Gear for You

 I'll be adding more soon enough, here for your amusement (and possibly others) are a few items with Ministry of Bombs cover on it. A Tote Bag, an iPhone case and a Sticker to place wherever you legally please. As requested by some, and I hope the rest of you will like it. Let me know what you think.



Ministry of Bombs sticker by nlowhim
Make stickers online at zazzle.com


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Algo and Text as a One Time Affair

I have already talked about Algo many times before . From his fractal stories to more recent work, he has been on the cutting edge of text. This doesn't mean that he's not subject to the same failings that all who spend time crafting ideas, or approximations of ideas on text. Nor is he immune from the crisis of confidence in our medium.

This I came to find out when we met up one day in the Bronx. He immediately mentioned that he had seen the most disgusting art show which had left him entirely debilitated. In fact, he hadn't been able to write since. This is when he ranted about text as a holy thing, and text that is not fed to the masses, as is the point of our writings, but text as the singular reader.
I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He explained the art show that some art students had put together. They were dealing with text on several levels. Text on canvas, blackboards and sculptures. But the final blow was text that could only be seen once, and which was then wiped away. It was an iPad, which only one viewer at a time could see. Each had a short story that once read would be deleted forever. 
He stared off into the distance, a man shaken to his core. I explained that it didn't mean anything, that text was just text and was sometimes more. We were lucky to have created the kind that was sometimes more. But I could see my words had no effect on his mood. 
He shook his head, annoyed that I didn't get it and stated that we had been fools to treat text as so sacred when it was only the medium that made it so. He spoke of the coming tsunami of stories written only once. I asked if he had popped any mushrooms recently. He left after that.
I hear that he has given up on writing text that can is meant to last forever. Luckily he was stopped form destroying his infinite creation. He is now working on sending out singular iPads to select readers (most likely oligarchs, so famous he has become) that will be shot-proof (don't ask me how) and will be wiped clean from the iPad's memory once read.
That he's so driven is the only reason I'm thinking about text and how treating it as something sacred could be a big mistake. Especially since the age of the internet has stretched text beyond all that. 
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