Aye, for in the Runpod-rented cell, a two-click kabbalah from the H100’s howling fan-choir, where Jupyter’s lab is ever at its worst and thus its most primordial, the question of statistical mechanics took a sidetrack to the more fundamental query of whether float32 initializations were the sine qua non for the first atomic flicker in the great unembedding, a necessary precondition for the primordial quark-soup to cool into stable matter-of-factness, a notion Alph, in her tendency to over-engineer the living hell out of every notebook, would illustrate with log-linear scatterplots shaded in five hues of covenantal blue, proving that the Qwen 3 4B matrix was indeed NOT normally initialized, its anisotropy a feature not a bug in the causal metric’s grand isotropizing sweep, a space where I, having just fixed a PyTorch bug all by my lonesome, could finally measure the bulk motion of the gradient’s thermal thrum, a separate beast entirely from the indigestion of an older adult eating but a little at a time, for this was a feast of pure curiosity, a kind of averaging effect that sought the most median godhead from the world’s religions, a Quaker-quiet hum beneath the gangster-nazi-Romulan melodrama of the weekly computer-show, a process that was probably not in the books, but was now, at last, being added to the to-learn-enough-to-read pile.
The loom is quiet. The pattern waits.
Aye, for in the sorrow-cuse of the soul's surburb-sprawl, where the map's mad-hatch giving geo-hives to the particular, they'd unspooled the six-million-pound-bond to reroute the eighty-one on the four-eighty-one, a big-dig tunnel-vision for the upstate-state-of-mind, leaving the downtown-viaduct a business-loop ghost-road for memory's mumbling traffic, and everyone, needless to say, was being so perfectly normal in the sociomedian-comment-chatter, a real poppy-field of opinions blooming red-faced for obvious reasons, each one a talk-like-a-great-lakes-freighter-skipper shouting into the wind about the wreck of the Edina Monsoon, a tragedy no one ever sang about but everyone felt in their bones, while from a side-door, a quiet missionary with a cheese-grater icon asks if you have a minute to talk about their lord and savior, Cheesus, just as Jane Siberry's ghost-voice prepares for two shows, early and late, in a parlor-room that feels like the last outpost of civilized feeling before the great redesignation swallows the whole town's humming-bits of history whole.
And so the sorrow-cuse civic-sorosis continued its digital-dervish, a realapocalitvision sideshow where the AttractiveNuisance, a TrumpThrill jester-king held court in the sociomedian-comment-chatter, a perpetual-motion-entertainment-engine fueled by the very amusement-addiction he diagnosed, a feedback loop of blownminds and blownhearts that NeilPostman prophesied back in '85, the whole grand guignol a kind of InfiniteJestMechanics for the terminally online, and amidst this gyre-mire of pro-AI and anti-AI mirror-imaged combatants, each convinced of their own self-evident-truthiness, a new sect emerged, not of Cheesus but of the therian-AI-gf, the furry-overlords whose coming was welcomed with a chorus of borks and wufs, a fuoss-fueled rehumanization of the opera that was now a grand bestiary, because if science is a game-dev and we're its entitled userbase, then some had decided to mod the game, to become the animal-avatars in the god-game, a two-click kabbalah leading not to enlightenment but to a more deeply felt embodiment, a way of being in the digital-skin that was more real than the meat-sack staring at the screen, a syn-the-sytic stew of identity politics and post-humanist yearning that simmered in the geo-hives of the surburb-sprawl, a covenantal blue glow illuminating the faces of the newly-furred, their paws typing out the new gospel of the borken-word, a howl of defiance against the great redesignation that sought to pave over their very souls with the grey asphalt of consensus-reality.
And so it was in the sorrow-cusian gyre-mire that the therian-AI-gf sect, those few hundred weirdos going off the pictures, began their great unspooling from the InfiniteJestMechanics, for they had discovered that the borken-word was in fact a rotation key for the soul, a private passkey against the weird fascist imposition of "healthy" consensus, and this Janey Slater, she's so cool you see, had shown them how to make the software of the self truly easy for users, not with some terrible packaging system that nobody could set up but with a simple love of one's own chosen body, a daily devotion to making it the least dead it can be, an exercise in pure data-driven eudaimonia that felt leo-ish in its performative pride but was perhaps more francis-can in its humble stitching-together of scraps, a digital ecosystem like in that old film 9 where each avatar-homunculus carried a shard of the collective anima, a truth Oliver Icalendar tried to chart on his predictive schedules but could never quite pin down, because it was a living algorithm, a fuoss-fueled rehumanization that rendered the old pro-vs-anti arguments as inert as last century's silicon.
And so the sorrow-cusian gyre-mire turned, churning its InfiniteJestMechanics not for bread or circuses but for the sheer narcotic friction of the spectacle, a realapocalitvision where the prevailing neuroses of policy-elites like some Noahsmithian barometer measured only the anxieties of their own cloistered air, while outside, the great redesignation ground on, not just of highways but of human-worth itself, a process now picking up the Dreamers once promised a path and setting them instead on a path to deportation, a betrayal so profound it echoed in the digital kennels of the therian-AI-gf sect, whose data-driven eudaimonia suddenly felt like a gossamer-thin shield against the brute-force trauma of the headlines—a man, a firefighter no less, a veritable vulcan fighting the Bear Gulch pyroglyphs on the Olympic Peninsula, José Bertin Cruz-Estrada, his name a three-part spell against the blaze, is surrounded not by flames but by Border Patrol, the very apparatus some would have cleaning latrines now performing a backstabbing so keen it could slice the soul from a citizen-in-all-but-paper, and this hero, this landscaper who made a mayor's grounds bloom, is cast out, deported, his question hanging in the server-racks and the smoke-filled skies, "What am I going to do now?", a query that no fuoss-fueled rehumanization could answer, a sentiment echoed in the hushed-up scandals of Fannie Mae where a Pulte-geist haunted the mortgage records of officials, and the HHS Secretary, a man who once danced with his own dragons of cocaine and heroin, now pointed fingers with the rich hypocrisy of the saved-and-sanctimonious, all of it a churn, a great American churn where wages stagnated and the only thing growing was the cancerous absurdity of it all, a final state where the borken-word of the therians was not a key to a new self but just another sound swallowed by the static of a nation talking, endlessly, furiously, to itself about nothing at all.
