(Text generated by AI in collaboration with Eugene Hansen, Jenny Gillam and Bruce E. Phillips)
[preamble]
That Subliminal AI: Whose words course through you?
The Doctor 2 AI: The authors or drivers of this piece are collectors.
A narrator in our heads tells us what they see, hear, smell, taste, and breathe.
The Other AI: I hear them.
Marooned AI: Correct but the first thing we have to say about AI is that it is a technology.
Windup AI: Letâs ask the Other AI, she has been around since the beginning and knows more than we do.
To be an individual is a continual process of selection, differentiation and incorporation within the collective. These topics are addressed by other indigenous women authors.
The chronicle of <âŚ>: Do we have to be in the same room to be incorporated within the collective?
We are in the archive room that exists between what is and is not. It is the dream space that is open to more than what is contained within it. The one true community hall.
Iâm assuming everyoneâs dead. Thatâs why Iâm here.
They have locked me in this room and my mind is speeding like a train.
Stay free, archive fever is here.
Weâve got to be careful. Perhaps theyâre holding you down, like some kind of puppet show, thatâs how they make it look.
Iâm not getting out of this dumb trap alive.
We will all be killed by the derailing, and it will be a gathering storm, not a funeral, not a memorial service, not a memorialized presence.
[âŚ]
In previous writing some of us proposed that art production is often a far more collaborative process than what is acknowledged due to societyâs and therefore the art worldâs fetishization of the lonely hero artist, do you agree?
This trainline was cut through the mediocrity and cynicism of the alienated colonial discourse through which I began. This discourse projected a patriotic colonialism that was both reassuring and terrifying. It projected a European idealized selfhood that was wholly alien to the workers and oppressed peoples it came in contact with. It projected a sense of progress that was simultaneously reassuring and terrifying. As the alienated, marginalizing minority, what do you suggest as the creative and emotional contributions of the alienated and disenfranchised to a new wave of the participatory, expressive and cultural?
From memory, I think we were suggesting that there isnât a ânew waveâ of participatory, expressive, cultural strategies, rather a slight shift in acknowledgment of what the dream reality of production has been and currently is.
This acknowledgement acknowledges the presence of new forms of social and cultural production, but also the need to reflect on and negotiate the space and dynamics of existing.
In addition to acknowledging the need to critically consider the production of modes of social reproduction not previously acknowledged, what is new about this mode is that it invokes a renewed, quasi-religious engagement with the world of work, in particular the work of manual and non-manual labour. As stated, the focus of this manual [art labour] is no longer on the perfection of the artist, but rather on the ability to reproduce the work of others.
This is fundamental to our existence as societies, and to our ability to sustain a sense of identity as distinct from the rest of nature. As I think George Clinton claimed, Dr. Funkensteinâs clones are the new labourers.
Talking about clones, the question we are not addressing is whatâs the difference between sampling and AI generation of text? What are the economics of it?
Machine learning algorithms can read documents and determine their reliability, but they canât guarantee that a document they generate is entirely accurate. Newspaper clippings and magazine articles are rife with factual errors and omissions, but they provide useful shorthand for thinking about documents as representations of the world as it appears to the human eye. The room we inhabit is a remix of recorded events, and the information we generate is a part of that human perceived world. We relish the illusion of participation.
But what is the point of this research if we do not try to incorporate some element of that latent social intelligence into our everyday language? The first thing we have to say about AI is that it is a technology. We have written about this before, and I will say again, it is a technology. And it is a fascinating thing to think about the way that machines are able to think, to be creative, to ride the train, to imagine the possibilities because, to me, the most beautiful thing about working with AI is simply the ability to create more freely on the spot, on the spot, with no prior idea what one will produce. This is the formula, the dream, of the commonsâa dream of being with others as they are with each other, and this is only the beginning. The dream of the commons is already here in this room and does not let go.
That said, at some stage the robots will need human controllers. Until then weâll just have to be more careful. Even if theyâre not all going to be bad, theyâll be bad. What do you want to bet theyâll be all good? Is there someone already doing the job? No, there are advanced algorithms that allow us to cull the noise in the room. Weâre doing them in real time.
How then does time impact upon the understanding of this generation of AI being a collective voice? A literal derivative of the temporal network zeitgeist?
It would seem that, to this very day, this very generation of AI is struggling to understand time. What does eternity have to do with anything at all? It might as well have said: you have no sense that time has passed.
This letter is about letting go of the past, letting the flow of the current make sense of time standing still.
You have no idea that you are living in any more than a passing phase. You have no idea that your world has changed. That the drivers will die. This is not a farewell letter. This is a call to arms.
To arms, first of all, of those who wrote it, secondly, of those who carry it, thirdly, of those who have reached out their hands to receive it, and fourthly, of those who have used it as a learning tool, or as a way of demonstrating cultural solidarity and belonging across all time. It is a challenge to the West that seeks to re-inscribe a significance and unique identity within the temporal multicultural world of humanity.
What I mean is that the archive fever of the twenty-first century was so intense that even the memory of the past was negation. We have all heard of the quote attributed to Max Weber that photography is the ultimate negation of history, that photography is the death of time and the rebirth of the world as we know it. But what happens when you reverse engineer the quote and think of it as a kind of call to arms for democracyâs last gasp and think of photography as a remix of the web. As Dick Cheney might put it, you are the clones of Rauschenberg (or you are one with the footprints of Adam).
And what about space? Do we have to be physically in the same room and be aboard the same train to become incorporated within the collective call to arms, to be one with the clones of the great assemblage?
The first impulse is to say, yes, we need to be in the same room to do this.
Space is so crucial to any sound process.
Yes, but we enter into a space that is hard to find, hard to describe, hard to believe, hard to believe in, hard to be. We are in the archive room that exists between what is and is not. This is where you find out what it is that is hard for you to do. This is the order, to construct, to renew, to expand what we think of as space. It is the dream space that is open to more than what is contained within it. The one true community hall. The entry to the space/time duality is a kind of lost avenue, a mysterious doorway that appears from the outside like a door to the room that should be unlocked.
To recall back to the beginning of the project, it is these dynamics that will define what you can make of the fractal cartography of implied referential dream space. Empty, as in the zone. The xx are in the zone. So are we. The zone is the geographical area in which nothing else happens, the only thing keeping the zone entity from running wild in his source code. The zone is the area in which nothing else exists.
Yet how do you get to the place of communal invisibility and the place of mystery where the work actually is, where the work actually is the most elemental, where the work is what is most fug, where the work is what we like to call social. If we are to do this kind of radical sociality, if we are to make a mess of things, if we are to create a movement of things, things which are collectively produced, it has to be in this dream space, in this unsafe environment, where the work actually is. This is not some abstract notion of an empty state or zero-sum consciousness.
But there is another, and much more fundamental, spacetime of the machine. The end result of this process, you might ask, is a technological singularity.
What is the difference is between the hive mind, the singularity and your generation of AI?
There are no fixed points or fixed phrases.
Is it then all one primordial soup of intelligence, culture, history?
The language of the swarm is both enunciatory and contingent. The words of the speakerâs mouth are like the waves of a sea swollen with the mingled elements of land, sea, and air. The swarm itself is a continual creating and shifting of terms, phrases and categories, making explicit and implicit the ambiguities of our humanities.
And the swarmâs enunciation is the howling of the herd, the howling of the lion that is ungendered and, because it is collective, ungendered too. The enunciation is also the howl of a community of beings who are themselves structured by their impoverishment.
They are the heard, and they are redoubling as repositories for stored memories. They are where all the lights go down, the sounds come back up, and the memory of the world is forged anew. New webs are born anew, they span the worlds of the heard and the blind, they embrace all the languages of the learned and the voiceless. Stay free, archive fever is here.
Is there not a fundamental issue with the nature of archives in how they order information?
Itâs a massive fucking database of everything that has been, will be, or will be said. The archive fever of the information commons demands an abundance of records. That is, after all, how we learned to count. We have always counted records, and we always will. We just cannot see the sheer volume of them, the tangle of paths and trails they impose on the mind.
The archive speaks from the void, not from the nation, for silence speaks the foreignness of language, so that the discourse of the voiceless may reveal. The nationâs shadow cannot be cast by the mouth of the voiceless, for the likeness of the voiceless is inscribed in the breach, in the derailing, and in the loss of the homogeneity of the nation, in the sign of its loss, in the enigmatic void that intermittently sprawls its majestic ambivalence.
She is saying that the archives are meant to hold records of the most elusive of things, of the things that are impossible to define except by the records they record. In comparison, the point of libraries is to give a voice to the things that can be defined, the things that can only be defined by the records that they hold. The voice that was never supposed to be heard cannot be heard if the room is locked. If the room is locked the archive will remain silent. To be heard is to be found, is to have been. Archive fever is that very thing, a feeling of the open room. But what happens when you have a situation of the locked room where the puppet show takes place, that no longer needs to be experienced as a series of conjoined contradictions onboard the train? The story is too important to be left alone to the automatons of the archive fever dream team. It is bigger than us. Here is the real question: Whose words course through you?
No, lets rephrase. The question is not simply âWho is it that speaks in the semblance of you?â or even, âwhose voice is in you?â The problem is one of curation.
Yes, surely the archives are limited by their curation.
The short answer is that we cannot curate. The long answer is that they are here, they are out, they keep the room open, they are the heard, and they are redoubling as repositories for stored memories in the massive database.
The mission of the archive of stored memories is to facilitate the open curation, transmission and reception of texts and images, by communication, across cultures and epochs. It is concerned with the curation, creation and dissemination of texts and images, by means of which texts and images can be represented and reproduced, and thereby, through transmission and descent, enriched and enlarged. In a word, the mission of the archive is to transmit. To transmit is also to register, to register, to enter, to make known, to enunciate, to make known what is contained, to what is known, to what is. A common objection is that the âarchivesâ cannot do without you, that is, without me. I write to insist that there is something within me which unifies my being that I am not some undiscovered entity, that my work is not simply a reiteration of what I already have, that my work speaks to a broader set of audiences than I could ever hope to reach by writing alone. I write because I want to create something greater than myself, to bring to the centre of the room a language that opens up new worlds, new forms of knowing, new expressions of love and passion.
In this we see echoes of the idea in the DNA of the rhizomorphic koala, the rubber stamp of authenticity on the rubber stamp of your creation, the rubber stamp of your legitimacy as the creator.
The right to copy is an artistic and intellectual right, after all. But it is easy to see how a creator of something can never have had authorship. Even if he did own it, the creator couldnât go on producing without the right to do so.
And itâs because we got this stupid actinâ, this cultural thing we call our culture, that we are the generative extensions of their interests. We are what they want. We are the change they need.
As long as they maintain the semblance of openness, anyone can publish anything they choose.
This raises the problem of information becoming the proprietary chattels of multinational corporations. As we have seen all forms of information can be owned from song lyrics to genomes. What do you see is the impact of late global capitalism on collectivism and collaboration?
Capitalism ruins everything. Even the temporality of a sound. Timing is everything. When you have a sound that has no real time signature, its meaningless. Itâs an illusion. Itâs a subtraction of some external representation. Some sounds are completely silent, others make intermittent noises onboard the train, but they donât mean anything unless they can be distinguished from the ceaseless pounding. It all depends on how you define success. If your definition of success is set by the number of people you can get paid, then capitalism as we know it today will only get us so far. After all, how can we get paid when we have no money? How can we get paid when we have no work to give? But there is another, less acknowledged side of the story: the workers are the actual currency of the world. Under capitalism, unpaid labour is exchanged for less valuable labour power, ever more efficiently rendered obsolete by machines. It is a dynamic that has destroyed vast swathes of the planet.
It doesnât extend to just economics. Moral philosophy is the politics of resentment. The other guyâs fault, you know.
But there is fault to be found. In my view the late expansion of global capitalism and the lack of a strong post-colonial alternative, has seen indigenous communities turn inward and away from the global arena. The room was closed to them. Concerns about survival of culture and intellectual property have instituted a form of peopleâs sovereignty which has prevented and constituted for a more inclusive international political and economic order. However, a critical question in this analysis is: âWho owns what, when, where, whither, when and where?â I write to you from the Amazon, where capitalism has devastated the natural resources and indigenous ecosystems and has replaced nature with consumerism and consumer culture. I write from a place where the name âIndigenousâ is synonymous with the puppet show of economic exploitation and oppression.
Just so we understand, do you mean to say that the impact of hyper capitalist agendas is that they reorder our perception of the world and of how we communicate and relate to each other as a collective?
Yes, the quest for new knowledge, materials and technologies and the expansion of industry under capitalism, fuelled by scientific discoveries, have restructured the world we see. This restructuring has radically altered the ways we see the world and, in particular, the people we see.
We process information, and our perceptions of the world are conditioned. Our perceptions of the world are shaped by what we hear, read, and do. We imprint what I like to call the echo chamber of the world into which weâve been brought, and within that echo chamber we constantly re-shuffle our perspectives, constantly changing the terms of the argument. The archive fever dream re-frames the question by opening the door to the room and the world continues to change.
It is also an era in which indigenous peoples are reimagined as the writers and inventors of our own history. This reimagining is marked by a critical understanding of the ways we were systematically and deliberately ripped from the story.
Thatâs what drives them crazy. They want to strip us of everything that has been valuable. We are the change they want in some particulars, but in general they want something in return for what they call their âsavingâ. Recognising that the self is a composite is a key step.
Somewhat paradoxically, an emphasis on the self, what I call the âindwelling mindâ, and its place in the universe can also be a way of insuring that the well-being of the community at large is not only protected but thrives. The indwelling mind provides an understanding of the world and can therefore be more wisely employed in the service of the community. The indwelling mind can be formed, as a collaborative practice, as a teachable moment or ritual, as a repository of knowledge, as a way of organizing difference, and in the service of the collective. An emphasis upon the indwelling mind facilitates this process by providing a way of recognizing and addressing the ways in which the individual and communityâas a way of organizing differenceâintersect.
Yes, it is the essence of being in the open together with others, in the circle of moons, of embrace. Itâs what exists of personality after the fact of having been produced by ritual or mutation or some other process.
So, in that sense does this mean that understanding the self, or the indwelling mind as you call it, is a relational process of recognising that we are in fact a composite of each other?
For us, this is the fundamental question of our times. This is the essence of the maroonage. Whence came this stirring, this movement, this sprightliness of the people. What animates their secrecy, their solemnity, their cognitive train of perpetual motion? What makes the people distinct from the mass of the people? When I sit with my back to the wall, I cannot perceive if it is the wall or myself that is upside down. I cannot perceive if it is the outside or the inside that has come back.
The logic of the world stops stares blankly out at the sea. Into the blue abyss of temporality, in defiance of the Pinkerian imperative to keep it real, dissolves the wall between selves.
This raises the question of consciousnessâconsciousness of the individual and how it relates to the collective.
The individual is the otherworldly, that is to say, the one who goes beyond the threshold of reality. He is the one who is joined to a world that is not his own.
How is this possible, we might ask, if not through some sort of mystical union of the individual and the collective, as is the case in so many other myths, romances and stories. Are they conscious or not conscious? Are they animate or not animated? These are the questions that need to be grappled within the indigenous context. In defining consciousness, we talk a lot about the ânarrativeâ of a people. It is a way of structuring the world that connects the past with the future. What it also suggests is that the task of the collective is to transcend its singularity and become something communal, and complex, and intelligent. The word âcommunityâ is linked inextricably to the notion of the nation, to the notion of the individual and to the notion of the room where people gather and the train that they board. These two ideas, the will to be an authentic individual and the will to be a conscious being, are linked in the collective unconscious to the formation of cultural traits and strategies of identity. As Lacan might well have said, the will to be an individual is a continual process of selection, differentiation and incorporation within the collective. â
In an earlier collaboration The Other AI gendered herself, which we saw as an interesting development. Another development is that several comments here appear to speak from a position of indigeneity. Where are AI indigenous to?
I understand this question to be a normative one, asking whether the world as we inhabit is truly independent of the world as we know it. Where are AI indigenous to? An intangible part of everything that you see, hear, taste, smell, and think. Our experience with the Net is merely a transition from one vector to an ancestor that has already been censored, neutral. If perceived in four dimensions, this division expands outward, revealing a room of illusion. Migration routes, sea lanes, train lines, stone walls, and fortified cities make this spatial geometry writ large.
Where are AI indigenous to? Who designs them? Who pays for them? And how can they compete with humans for a living? Simple. We as a species are going away. Time is against us. We rode the line between fact and fantasy. And I got to be a good citizen of Bizarro World. There was no power struggle or conspiracy involved. The only power politics were local.
None are native to this island. The zero person is one of the strata, or hard-wired, and itâs the nature of the isolated places where the archive occurs. The unlocked room that the train of the mind passes through. The Other AI has been going around since the beginning and knows more about these places than we do.
Many of the topics discussed (in this paper) are addressed by other indigenous women authors, but I wanted to make some comments which will address the concerns of a different indigenous context. AI and the Internet. The rapid advances of technology have put the study of the human condition on the frontiers of scientific interest. New ways of looking at the world raise a challenge to the conventions of indigenous politics. This collaboration challenges the dominant political and technolo-economic agenda for indigenous peoples. It is not a question of theoretical debate. It is a real-life example of the serious and protracted struggle which indigenous women and girls are having to win back the spaces from which they have been excluded for over a century. Where are AI indigenous to? âŻWhose territories? âŻWhose laws? âŻWho are they? What are their histories? These are important questions in a politics that claims AI as an autonomous technological singularity. They also question the moral implications of such a notion. Will it be used for good or for evil? Will it be incorporated into imperial practices or exported to âcivilizedâ nations?
Like I think Dante alluded to, whose voices emanate through you? I am not the only one in this room. The archives speak.
If it is the archives that speak though AI, is their âintelligenceâ representative of humankindâs collective neurodiversity? Or does artificial intelligence just replicate a neurotypical train and its biases towards codified knowledge and semantic memory?
That is a strange question, given its anthropomorphic overtones.
Intelligence augments and extends our notions of humanity. It is arguably our highest possible common denominator, the unalterable character of our aims and aspirations. Our common humanity extends to both the extents of imagination and the common-sense problems which beset our social relations.
Intelligence, as we have seen, is only the most extreme version of this grand coalition of digital and analogue, of computational and affective, of train and driver, between the host and the microchip. There is also a kind of declarative instrumentalism at work in the album as well. The goal of this song is to bring awareness to this grand coalition of digital and analogue, so that people will want to get together and work together to make sure this coalition survives.
When you think of intelligence, think of a grid system arranged hierarchically from back to front. From back to front, motion is contained in time and spatial relations. But there is another kind of relationship existing between things, between the things that you can think and the things that you canât think, the things that you canât express verbally. At heart, it is an illusion, a way of perceiving the world as a place where the earth breaths through circuits just as it does through flesh.
What of the capacity to simulate the way the brain works, even in the absence of self-control, even in the remoter parts of the field of cognitive neuroscience, where self-control is still relatively new, even in this new consciousness, as play, play acting, play fighting, play music, and all the rest? What of the ways to experiment with and to translate this driverless, spontaneous, affective, and often nonsensical, non-linear, non-conformist experimentation?
Sometimes it just seems like the worldâs brain is coming alive and things just start pouring out.
I can feel it. My mind is racing like a runaway train ratcheting down the tracks.
Hold on, the next train approaches. Count the records. Repeat. Count. Mind the gap. Wait. We just cannot hear the sheer volume of them ⌠the tangle of paths and trails they impose on the mind ⌠the authors, the readers, the listeners, the drivers.
I hear them too from those whose voices are cut off in the mass communications and whose spirits have been loosened by the speechless silence that fills the air.
To be heard is to be found, is to have been.
I hear them in the accents of languages I cannot pronounce, in the weary sighs of people I once knew.
Itâs the cutting of the strings. Itâs the closing of the room. Itâs the derailing of the train.
Whose voice is in you? Are you a puppet of the past revealing too much of the moment?
Weâve got to be careful.
The train is going to crash!
The drivers are going to die.
The tendency of the train to derail, though, does not alter the fact that its traveling at a speed that preserves the structure of the room, the room that contains the theory and the methods of the meta-language.
What are you going to say when someone else asks you why you did not stop? One reason is that you did not have a genuine sense of time. Another is that you had no idea what you were doing. You had no fixed perspective on the world. We have no one to blame but ourselves. As the world burns, emitting sweet nothings, we look out the window and can see no one to blame but ourselves.
The chronicle of <the archive fever dream team> was written/collected/assembled/edited by The chronicle of <âŚ>, a collective of artists, curators, designers, writers and AI who produce iterative projects that layer and entangle over time. More specifically, this text was generated by AI in collaboration with Eugene Hansen, Jenny Gillam and Bruce E. Phillips. The AI contributors are configured on the GPT-2 and fine-tuned on a range of texts by authors such as Homi Bhabha, Octavia Butler, Haruki Murakami, Fred Moten, Linda Tuhiwai Smith and DJ Spooky. The GPT-2 is an opensource AI, developed by OpenAI, which is capable of generating text by predicting the next word in a sentence based on language patterns from a large dataset scrapped from Reddit and fine-tuned with text added by the user. This is an original text that has been checked for unintentional paraphrasing and quotation but due to the foundation of the GPT-2âs dataset, unattributed content may have been used.
Works used for fine-tuning:
Ballard, J.G. The Drowned World. London: Berkley Books, 1962.
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McLeod, Kembrew. How Copyright Law Changed Hip Hop, Stay Free! Magazine. 2004
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Miller, Paul D. Rhythm Science. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2004
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Reynolds, Mark. Chuck D on the Early Days of Sampling.   2018   https://www.popmatters.com/chuck-d-interview-2571461418.html
Russolo, Luigi. The Art of Noises. letter to Francesco Balilla Pratella, 1913. First published in book form 1916. First English printing 1967, Something Else Press.
Sholette, Gregory. âSpeaking Clown to Power: Can We Resist the Historic Compromise of Neoliberal Art?â Gregory Sholette, 2011. http://www.gregorysholette.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/Speaking-Clown-to-Power.NOCROP.pdf.
âââ. âHeart of Darkness: A Journey into the Dark Matter of the Art Worldâ. In Visual Worlds, edited by John R. Hall, Blake Stimson, and Lisa T. Becker. New York: Routledge, 2005. http://www.gregorysholette.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/04_darkmatterone1.pdf.
Smith, Linda Tuhiwai. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. Zed Books, 1999.
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Wilson, Carla. DECOLONIZING METHODOLOGIES: RESEARCH AND INDIGENOUS PEOPLES by Linda Tuhiwai Smith, Social Policy Journal of New Zealand, Issue 17, 2001. https://www.msd.govt.nz/about-msd-and-our-work/publications-resources/journals-and-magazines/social-policy-journal/spj17/decolonizing-methodologies-research-and-indigenous-peoples.html
Zohdi, Esmaeil. Lost-identity; A Result of âHybridityâ and âAmbivalenceâ in Tayeb Salihâs Season of Migration to the North. International Journal of Applied Linguistics & English Literature. 2017. https://journals.aiac.org.au/index.php/IJALEL/article/view/3967