“Destructive power. That’s what he called me. Me, not an ability of mine; myself. I am a power of destruction that’s what he means.”
Destruction is not a power. It is a result.
“What is the cause?”
There may be many.
“Is power the cause?”
Some sort of power is required. Power is required for action.
“Is action required for destruction?”
It is a good question. Action is needed for a result.
“Then destruction requires action?”
Probably so. Unless I am wrong and destruction is more than a result.
“Lexicon would say, ‘I do not have an answer?’”
Yes.
“Could destruction be a means?”
A means must have an accomplishment.
“What does destruction accomplish?”
That would depend on what has been destroyed.
“But, Tōka, is a means and a power the same?”
I say “no.” But I have the ability to speak according to assumptions that may be false.
“Are you saying destruction is not a power to make me feel better?”
Maybe.
(Kokonoka speaks first, then Tōka.)
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Story of a Brain
An explanation: Erika Weaver, the character in whose mind are these masks, created the dialogue system for a humanoid robot. Lexicon is the OfficeCom belonging to her college friend, a man known as the Poet who Buys Words. Lexicon is used to store the words he has bought.
“Tell me a story.”
You want me to tell you a story?
“I want to see if you can do it.”
I can. What kind of story do you want to hear?
“Any story.”
Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to hear a story.
“Actually, I wonder if Lexicon or any of the other ‘Artifacts’ can tell stories.”
She was airheaded and never listened.
“Do you think they can?”
No, of course not.
“They only store words, but have no stories to tell.”
She already knew the answers to her questions.
“No stories can they write.”
That’s why she always asked herself.
“What would it take to make it so they could?”
You could put a hundred of them in a room, typing on typewriters for an infinite period and see what happens.
“A human brain. Do you remember that story by Ronald Dahl: ‘The Great Automatic Grammatizator?’ The man creates a machine that can write a prize-winning novel in 15 minutes. If only Erika could create a miniature one.”
That way, the girl could go on magnifying her own thoughts to the point that they became their own stories.
“The Great Automatic Grammatizator would be a great brain for Lexicon.”
Because, after all, it was in her own stories she was most interested.
(Yokka speaks first, then Jūyokka.)
“Tell me a story.”
You want me to tell you a story?
“I want to see if you can do it.”
I can. What kind of story do you want to hear?
“Any story.”
Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to hear a story.
“Actually, I wonder if Lexicon or any of the other ‘Artifacts’ can tell stories.”
She was airheaded and never listened.
“Do you think they can?”
No, of course not.
“They only store words, but have no stories to tell.”
She already knew the answers to her questions.
“No stories can they write.”
That’s why she always asked herself.
“What would it take to make it so they could?”
You could put a hundred of them in a room, typing on typewriters for an infinite period and see what happens.
“A human brain. Do you remember that story by Ronald Dahl: ‘The Great Automatic Grammatizator?’ The man creates a machine that can write a prize-winning novel in 15 minutes. If only Erika could create a miniature one.”
That way, the girl could go on magnifying her own thoughts to the point that they became their own stories.
“The Great Automatic Grammatizator would be a great brain for Lexicon.”
Because, after all, it was in her own stories she was most interested.
(Yokka speaks first, then Jūyokka.)
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Smell of Watermelon
Watermelon.
“What?”
It smells like watermelon.
“Oh. Yeah.”
Rain and tulip blossoms. Cut grass. That must be the equation for watermelon.
“It does smell like watermelon, doesn’t it?”
A character from a book might say this is a smell of childhood.
“Nostalgia.”
But I cannot.
“I hardly remember any smells from childhood.”
Expect the smell of a stopped up nose. Nasally smell.
“Oil, too. Oil from my nose.”
Together, a familiar smell.
“I still smell that. I like it now. Sometimes I hope for that smell. I rub my nose to create it.”
A familiar smell.
“Futsuka, is this called a childhood memory?”
“What?”
It smells like watermelon.
“Oh. Yeah.”
Rain and tulip blossoms. Cut grass. That must be the equation for watermelon.
“It does smell like watermelon, doesn’t it?”
A character from a book might say this is a smell of childhood.
“Nostalgia.”
But I cannot.
“I hardly remember any smells from childhood.”
Expect the smell of a stopped up nose. Nasally smell.
“Oil, too. Oil from my nose.”
Together, a familiar smell.
“I still smell that. I like it now. Sometimes I hope for that smell. I rub my nose to create it.”
A familiar smell.
“Futsuka, is this called a childhood memory?”
the Mask Experiment
Based on a character I'm inventing.
Erika Weaver.
She created these masks as confidants to bounce her own thoughts back and forth to discover what she believed. Over time, the masks became characters in her mind.
Like the Muses, or the Talents. Faces for discussing her thoughts.
Later, the young philosopher used them as the basis for her library's computer system.
These are the masks:
Tsuitachi
Futsuka
Mikka
Yokka
Itsuka
Muika
Nanoka
Yōka
Kokonoka
Tōka
Jūyokka
and,
Hatsuka
This experiment is to help me develop Erika's character.
Erika Weaver.
She created these masks as confidants to bounce her own thoughts back and forth to discover what she believed. Over time, the masks became characters in her mind.
Like the Muses, or the Talents. Faces for discussing her thoughts.
Later, the young philosopher used them as the basis for her library's computer system.
These are the masks:
Tsuitachi
Futsuka
Mikka
Yokka
Itsuka
Muika
Nanoka
Yōka
Kokonoka
Tōka
Jūyokka
and,
Hatsuka
This experiment is to help me develop Erika's character.
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