moni

@monimoni

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."

202 Siguiendo207 Seguidores2863 Publicaciones

Bluesky

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¿Es tu perfil?Reclámalo y monimoni.dirty.social es tuyo.Reclamar perfil

moni@monimoni· 23d

Also I just started reading a textbook on Kolmogorov complexity today :D I think I have a new special interest yay (the second screenshot is an infodump abt how I think my sensory issues and catatonia work)

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

basically I can't filter out the world as well as neurotypical people. Being exposed to so much information means I have to develop more efficient compression algorithms in order to process it in time. This makes me really smart and observant in certain environments, but profoundly dysfunctional in others
For example, since the least filtered sense I have is sound, I have a lot of (untapped) musical talent, since music is designed to be simple enough for us to compress them in their entirety. But also I can't go outside without earmuffs and IEMs without having an episode where I stand in a scarecrow-like posture and drool all over myself for half an hour (since most sources of sound in the real world are totally unrelated to each other, so the sum total of all the sounds you hear in public have very high kolmogorov complexity)

moni@monimoni· 23d

I'm sorry to have made you so upset, that wasn't my intention. I'll stop talking since I don't wanna argue and make your day worse, I hope you enjoy your afternoon

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

moni@monimoni· 23d

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

moni@monimoni· 23d

(ofc the other important thing is that the human brain does the whole "take current input, process it using memories of context and past experience, output, repeat" loop at much smaller timescales with ludicrous amounts of information, and more importantly can change itself upon self-reflection)

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)

moni@monimoni· 26d

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.

moni@monimoni· 26d

On the ancient Indian philosophical notion of "the five aggregates," or what it means to have identity: or, "how I accidentally found a communist answer to the Ship of Theseus problem"

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.

To put it another way, the Ship of Theseus is the same ship, provided there is a recognized continuity of its being the same ship. It's the crew, the repairmen, the pilgrims aboard: they are the stewards of its identity, and their attachment to producing this identity is what makes it "the same ship." They are, in a very real, material sense, "the ship," for without their work in the continuous production of the ship's identity, the Ship of Theseus is just a bunch of wood.

moni@monimoni· Jul 10

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."

moni@monimoni· Jun 27

give me money and i will write for you. i happen to be a genius writer whose cashapp is $imthemoni

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.

moni@monimoni· Jun 26

another xd

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

moni@monimoni· Jun 26

more :):)

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

moni@monimoni· Jun 26

moni writing :D

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

moni@monimoni· Jun 21

this has gotta be an incredibly stressful thing to read if ur schizophrenic and sitting in a cafe

moni@monimoni· Jun 19

also note that in my solution the mapping from X to Y is denoted as m, not f, and the letter f is instead used to denote a mapping from Y to A. this doesn't actually change anything tho

moni@monimoni· Jun 19

(some definitions if you wanna follow along; my proof hinges on how commutative diagrams can be combined with another commutative diagram to form larger commutative diagrams; it can be replicated and combined with itself indefinitely; and parts of it can be extracted to isolate structures embedded)

moni@monimoni· Jun 19

oh waow i feel so proud of myself for this solution it's so elegance. took me like 2 hours to work out tho lol

moni@monimoni· Jun 18

(for my part i still havent been able to hold down a job since my sensory/functional needs have so far been impossible to accommodate without making me unable to do the job, but my thresholds are also extremely low and most managers and supervisors were making a good faith effort to work things out)

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

moni@monimoni· Jun 15

Did some writing (this is the longest writing I've done lol). It's about who has the power to decide what people are not allowed to do, and when that power lets them decide which people aren't allowed to be. It's too long for alt text, I'm sorry

moni@monimoni· Jun 1

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

moni@monimoni· May 30

did some more writing

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@monimoni· May 29

did some hair care today

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

moni@monimoni· May 18

Marques Brownlee? The professional ultimate frisbee player?

moni@monimoni· May 13

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@monimoni· May 13

Given that I expect to go the next five days without food or phone service or cigs: if you give me money I will write a poem (or prose piece) of your choice in theme/topic. DM me on discord (__moni) and expect a late response since I gotta steal wifi outside (as you can see). Cashapp is $imthemoni

moni@monimoni· May 10

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

moni@monimoni· May 9

The gay town where the male color dwells

moni@monimoni· May 1

Went back to revise this and it's much much better now. Formatting improved, some wordings changed to sound better, and expanded on the central theme of my (i think rather freeing) anti-essentialist philosophy of the self

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@monimoni· Apr 30

Counterpoint: you look at her and tell me she isn't fellow fujotrash

moni@monimoni· Apr 28

just shaved

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

moni@monimoni· Apr 23

Come to think of it, Cayce Pollard is a tgirl fashion icon

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.

moni@monimoni· Apr 18

Haven't written any poetry in a while so I banged one out right quick