Studio Eight is a Turing Test

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the mingo
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by the mingo » July 25th, 2017, 10:36 am

I'd like to use a bunch of ciphers for my password but no site I've ever joined allows that kind of humor.
That kind of shit pissess me off from time to time.

I been eating a lot of off-brand Raisin Bran and microwave burritos lately - maybe I should switch to Cheerios cause my recent dreams got all these mean ass people in them - two nights ago they took my car and thought it was a big joke - that left me stranded in a dream with no way out - I cheated them all by waking up -
Doll, you may have found a place of rest but I'm still on the trail.

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still.trucking
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by still.trucking » December 21st, 2017, 12:24 am

Who is Crazy Jack?
Is he just the photons bouncing off the sreen?

or another lonesome traveller?

Beats me. I just write this stuff, glad I don't have to read it. :D
"Natural selection, as it has operated in human history, favors not only the clever but the murderous." Barbara Ehrenreich

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Free Rice

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stilltrucking
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by stilltrucking » January 7th, 2018, 3:07 pm

Me and Mary Jane and Jim Beam, and a keyboard, and I am typing dots between the dots to connect the dots unfolding become enfolded. Yes I am.

PROVERBS 31:6 KJV "Give strong drink unto him that is ready to ...
https://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/Proverbs-31-6/
Give not thy strength unto women, nor thy ways to that which destroyeth kings.It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink:Lest they drink, and forget the law, and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted.Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be ...

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stilltrucking
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Re: “nothing really matters.”

Post by stilltrucking » February 25th, 2018, 2:37 am

Void: The Strange Physics of Nothing
By James Owen Weatherall

https://books.google.com/books?id=x6FTD ... &q&f=false

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mnaz
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by mnaz » March 10th, 2018, 8:51 pm

Thanks for this. David Byrne once said that heaven is a place where nothing happens. Probably not related to any of this, yet somehow strangely it is..

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silent woman
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by silent woman » March 18th, 2018, 12:53 pm

for me, heaven is an open text box on studio eight
hanging with my friends™
friends and Friends as in The Religous Society of Friends
and friends as my siblings

and also as all my brothers and sisters
joined a Quaker meeting in Tennessee back around 1975
do you remember the seventies when everybody and their brother was born again?

thanks for being a cyber pall, thanks for writing it helps me cope, watched the Concert for George the other night. sweet, heavenly music

“Music is, to me, proof of the existence of God. It is so extraordinarily full of magic, and in tough times of my life I can listen to music and it makes such a difference.”
. I never know how to take Vonnegut, same for Nietzsche — because I was raised on Crazy Mike's irony.

me and a big brother
our mother said I was honest to a fault, and I asked her about my big brother ans she said he is kind to a fault.

family so precious to me
where I learned what friendship is
kindness and honesty
I could always depend on my big brother to kick me when I was down and feeling sorry for myself.
band of brothers.jpg
band of brothers.jpg (9.71 KiB) Viewed 492 times
1444.jpg
If you can't give me love and peace, Then give me bitter fame. — Akhmatova.

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still.trucking
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by still.trucking » October 3rd, 2019, 4:53 pm

She is the keeper of the flame
my idea of heaven is to burn one with her
I A R Wylie.JPG
I A R Wylie.JPG (30.95 KiB) Viewed 165 times
Untroubled, scornful, outrageous - that is how wisdom wants us to be: she is a woman

[R. Nitzke] :wink:
"Natural selection, as it has operated in human history, favors not only the clever but the murderous." Barbara Ehrenreich

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stilltrucking
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by stilltrucking » October 17th, 2019, 11:08 pm

Maybe Zuihitsu is a Turing Device
I cheated death by waking up
Dino said you can't die in a dream.
At the time he wrote it I wasn't so sure that was true
now I think it is the rock and roll truth
When I die, won't you bury me in my high top Stetson hat
Put a twenty dollar gold piece on my watch hand
So the gang'll know I died standing pat
I want six crapshooters for pallbearers
Pretty gals sing me a song
I want a jazz band on my hearse wagon
To raise Hell as we roll 'long
viewtopic.php?f=51&t=16361&p=209215&hil ... ce#p209215

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jackofnightmares
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by jackofnightmares » November 27th, 2019, 6:59 pm

Old crone on her deathbed an ex-marine with an Italian rifle
My Rose of San Antone Johnny I hardly knew ya
Sixty years come and gone since November 22, 1962, I am still alive.
even though Ferlinghetti's train has left the station
I can live without romance but not without Friendship.
I am a rock but not an island
I am Special, not normal.
RE: Phillip K. Dick,


Is this it?
To leave something behind/after me on studio 8
A last will and testament, a legacy, like an artifact of my existence of my consciousness
"Skepticism is the chastity of the intellect" George Santayana, The Idea of Christ in the Gospels

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jackofnightmares
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I don't want to create, I just want to procreate.

Post by jackofnightmares » December 24th, 2019, 10:03 pm

montana wildhack.PNG
Image Source
Kerouac wanted to write lots of short stories and have them grow up, get married. and have novels
I'm just trying to amuse Montana Wildhack™

Ferlinghetti's choo choo waits for no man
Why do I want a cigarette after I post to studio eight?
More people “know” Turing’s foundational text than have actually read it. This is unfortunate because the text is marvelous, strange and surprising. Turing introduces his test as a variation on a popular parlor game in which two hidden contestants, a woman (player A) and a man (player B) try to convince a third that he or she is a woman by their written responses to leading questions. To win, one of the players must convincingly be who they really are, whereas the other must try to pass as another gender. Turing describes his own variation as one where “a computer takes the place of player A,” and so a literal reading would suggest that in his version the computer is not just pretending to be a human, but pretending to be a woman. It must pass as a she.

Outing A.I.: Beyond the Turing Test
BY BENJAMIN H. BRATTON FEBRUARY 23, 2015 3:27 AM February 23, 2015 3:27 am 220

NY Times Opiionater FEBRUARY 23, 2015
"Skepticism is the chastity of the intellect" George Santayana, The Idea of Christ in the Gospels

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jackofnightmares
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Re: Studio Eight is a Turing Test

Post by jackofnightmares » March 23rd, 2020, 11:57 am

by Zlatko Waterman » Sat Aug 13, 2005 11:26 am

The Moose Zlatko Waterman for judih


(paste)


The Moose

For Grace Bulmer Bowers


From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,

where if the river
enters or retreats
in a wall of brown foam
depends on if it meets
the bay coming in,
the bay not at home;

where, silted red,
sometimes the sun sets
facing a red sea,
and others, veins the flats'
lavender, rich mud
in burning rivulets;

on red, gravelly roads,
down rows of sugar maples,
past clapboard farmhouses
and neat, clapboard churches,
bleached, ridged as clamshells,
past twin silver birches,

through late afternoon
a bus journeys west,
the windshield flashing pink,
pink glancing off of metal,
brushing the dented flank
of blue, beat-up enamel;

down hollows, up rises,
and waits, patient, while
a lone traveller gives
kisses and embraces
to seven relatives
and a collie supervises.

Goodbye to the elms,
to the farm, to the dog.
The bus starts. The light
grows richer; the fog,
shifting, salty, thin,
comes closing in.

Its cold, round crystals
form and slide and settle
in the white hens' feathers,
in gray glazed cabbages,
on the cabbage roses
and lupins like apostles;

the sweet peas cling
to their wet white string
on the whitewashed fences;
bumblebees creep
inside the foxgloves,
and evening commences.

One stop at Bass River.
Then the Economies
Lower, Middle, Upper;
Five Islands, Five Houses,
where a woman shakes a tablecloth
out after supper.

A pale flickering. Gone.
The Tantramar marshes
and the smell of salt hay.
An iron bridge trembles
and a loose plank rattles
but doesn't give way.

On the left, a red light
swims through the dark:
a ship's port lantern.
Two rubber boots show,
illuminated, solemn.
A dog gives one bark.

A woman climbs in
with two market bags,
brisk, freckled, elderly.
"A grand night. Yes, sir,
all the way to Boston."
She regards us amicably.

Moonlight as we enter
the New Brunswick woods,
hairy, scratchy, splintery;
moonlight and mist
caught in them like lamb's wool
on bushes in a pasture.

The passengers lie back.
Snores. Some long sighs.
A dreamy divagation
begins in the night,
a gentle, auditory,
slow hallucination. . . .

In the creakings and noises,
an old conversation
--not concerning us,
but recognizable, somewhere,
back in the bus:
Grandparents' voices
uninterruptedly
talking, in Eternity:
names being mentioned,
things cleared up finally;
what he said, what she said,
who got pensioned;

deaths, deaths and sicknesses;
the year he remarried;
the year (something) happened.
She died in childbirth.
That was the son lost
when the schooner foundered.

He took to drink. Yes.
She went to the bad.
When Amos began to pray
even in the store and
finally the family had
to put him away.

"Yes . . ." that peculiar
affirmative. "Yes . . ."
A sharp, indrawn breath,
half groan, half acceptance,
that means "Life's like that.
We know it (also death)."

Talking the way they talked
in the old featherbed,
peacefully, on and on,
dim lamplight in the hall,
down in the kitchen, the dog
tucked in her shawl.

Now, it's all right now
even to fall asleep
just as on all those nights.
--Suddenly the bus driver
stops with a jolt,
turns off his lights.

A moose has come out of
the impenetrable wood
and stands there, looms, rather,
in the middle of the road.
It approaches; it sniffs at
the bus's hot hood.

Towering, antlerless,
high as a church,
homely as a house
(or, safe as houses).
A man's voice assures us
"Perfectly harmless. . . ."

Some of the passengers
exclaim in whispers,
childishly, softly,
"Sure are big creatures."
"It's awful plain."
"Look! It's a she!"

Taking her time,
she looks the bus over,
grand, otherworldly.
Why, why do we feel
(we all feel) this sweet
sensation of joy?

"Curious creatures,"
says our quiet driver,
rolling his r's.
"Look at that, would you."
Then he shifts gears.
For a moment longer,

by craning backward,
the moose can be seen
on the moonlit macadam;
then there's a dim
smell of moose, an acrid
smell of gasoline.

--Elizabeth Bishop
"Skepticism is the chastity of the intellect" George Santayana, The Idea of Christ in the Gospels

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