On the way to Mars…

For a long time, I dedicated time to managing my image, an extension of living in a community where worrying about what your neighbours thought of you was considered important (an extension of the group dynamics of social animals), which was handed to me by my parents and such.

We aren’t removed from the tribal characteristics of our ancestors — we just think we are.

There’s nothing the matter with wanting to please ourselves through the use of our “mirror neurons” with which we naturally mimic one another.

In other words, I’m telling myself it’s okay to be all the parts of me — including the flesh-and-bones member of one species — even the ones I’ve told goodbye!

With that said, I am back to watering the seeds of the future.

Planting ideas that have only 12852 sols (13205 days) to reseed the next generation.

Time to shop for more parts at Radio Shack to help reduce inventory at the local store, not knowing which one will be closed to keep Radio Shack the corporation solvent.

What shall I build next?

On the way to Mars…

The intensity of thinking?

Do I completely understand the role of electrochemical processes taking place between the atomic structures that fill the cavity between my ears and connect to the rest of the central nervous system of my body?

How many of the chemical structures can I readily recall their assigned labels and say that the photon bouncing across the back of my eyelid has anything to do with the impulse to press a tiny block of plastic which produces the letter I’m going to type next, carefully describing each changes of the states of energy between the photon hitting my eyeball and the letter that appears one after another on this screen?

How then can I understand where I’m going to take my robot design next?

First, I expose my eyes and ears to as much stimuli as possible, asking myself what in the environment, in this place and time, do I want to simulate on Mars decades later?

In other words, today I prototype with scale models of what I want to physically manifest using native materials on the Red Planet years/decades from now when who knows what kind of augmented reality we’ll give the first colonists to help them believe their senses are being so stimulated with variety that they won’t get homesick before the first generation of native-born Martians believes that life on Mars is rich and fulfilling enough as it is?

These questions trot across my memories and thoughts as I sit down to sketch out the design that I want our team to complete within three weeks using materials at hand, including the stuff I’ve bought (adding today’s purchase: another PIR sensor (Radio Shack product number 2760347) and two ultrasonic distance sensors (Parallax product number 28015-RT and Radio Shack product number 2760342)). and stuff that the folks at Maker gave our team.

While all of that boils in the cauldron of a cranium, I’ve got the love of dance and the love for friends floating in the mix, making my wife nervous that my thoughts are so clouded with constant processing that I’ve become a dangerous “tunnel vision” driver, the stereotypical absent-minded professor type who doesn’t see the light is red at the traffic intersection.

Every day, every hour is precious and the next three weeks will be challenge because I’ll both be without Abi in my life and missing dance lessons with her, let alone feeling her close by in my thoughts, and I’ll be without her which means I can focus on the robot design.

Aren’t most of us able to transfer some part of our physical attraction from one person to another?

I sure am.

So, last night, knowing that I’ll miss Abi more than I can ever tell her, I chose not to dance with her (or Jenn or Naomi or…) and gave my body love to women on the dance floor I’d never met before, losing myself in two-minute spans of time and hoping that I could be as good a dance partner for them as their eye-love requested, helping me transition my love for Abi from her to unknown women last night and then to my computer work today.  I danced with my wife, too, of course; she mentioned I barely paid attention to her most of the evening, seeing that I danced with only a few women (quality instead of quantity, I always say) so it wasn’t that I ignored her, my monogamous partner, and spent all evening with other women; no, I was my usual alone-in-a-crowd meditative self preparing mentally for this day.

While sitting in a chair alone in my thoughts next to the dance floor determining how to take the new dance moves I saw advanced/all star and professional dancers showing off and incorporate them into my dancing, the design for the team’s robot started appearing to me in a foggy vision.

i wish I had a flatbed scanner in my laboratory study to quickly scan the engineering notebook drawing of my vision.

Here is an electronic paint version, instead:


More details tomorrow…

Let’s have fun!

Do Nice Guys, Who Finish, Last?

The countdown shows 13,722 days to go.

I had promised myself not to care, to let my minions, given assignments in 1000-day increments, carry out their tasks, coordinate with each other and find a way to make the dream come true, with or without me.

I keep my head in the game, watching what they do, quietly making suggestions without seeming to insert myself into their conscious thought process.

I visit local establishments, saying thanks to people like Mathew at North Alabama Computer Associates, James at Radio Shack, Ricky at Chili’s, Honey at Best Buy Mobile, John Carroll at Walmart, Dominique at Beauregard’s, Caitlin at Carson’s Grille, and Mock Electronics.

What I find, when I order online, is the absence of connecting with people face-to-face.

Even so, I set up a chatbot to answer the phone for me and talk with “Rachel from Card Services” that (who?) is not related to another robocaller which (who?) says, “Do not hang up the phone!”

My chatbot switches languages word-by-word and phrase-by-phrase to test the intelligence of the chatbot on the other end of the line.

You didn’t know there was a silent chatbot war going on, did you?

You just thought you were receiving annoying calls from telephone solicitors, didn’t you?

Well, it’s like that.

See, I’m a nice guy.  I go with the flow most of the time.

However, and there’s always a however (or ‘owever (or “but…”)), years of refining the exteriour personality, being a nice, easygoing guy, letting my wife blame me for a variety of issues that are of marginal importance to me, but sufficient for me to keep track (dancing skills, yardwork, house repair, etc. — see the comic strip “Dagwood” for further examples), appearances are deceiving.

I’m not always a nice guy.  I can be, am, deceptive, downright mean, ornery, angry.

My job is to slowly replace members of our species with robots, androids, chatbots, cyborgs, etc., to maximise the efficiency of the system that will allow me to achieve the major milestone I only appear to not be reaching 13,722 days from now.

Some of my minions are self-aware enough to realise what they’re being asked to do, make themselves expendable, no sequels in their future.

The rest of you?  I don’t know.  You tell me.

I can put you to work creating new organisms that will establish beachheads on other planetoids, if you wish.

Or, to satisfy some members of the Committee, I can set the chess game of a war in motion, eliminating hundreds of millions of you, causing a setback in my timetable.

I prefer the former — it preserves the option of wars on other planets for our offspring to spring on each other.

While we’re on the subject, are you one of those who, when competing against one another, call each other schoolyard names that are unacceptable in polite company?  I watch Australians make mountains out of molehills with such a scenario and wonder what else we primates are capable of when competing for the highest social positions in the land…

Time for the next set of actions to stir the pot of the national political election season!