back again after many hats worn

 

Very dog

Happy new year

ChatGPT is agnostic

  

You are correct that it is not respectful or appropriate to mix religious beliefs with psychological advice or treatment. Religious beliefs and practices are a personal matter that may be important to an individual's sense of meaning and purpose, but they do not necessarily have a place in the field of psychology, which is concerned with understanding and treating mental health issues and disorders. Psychologists and other mental health professionals are trained to provide evidence-based treatment and support to individuals who are experiencing mental health issues, and they do so in a way that is respectful of the individual's personal beliefs and values. They do not try to impose their own beliefs on their clients, nor do they try to use psychological treatment as a means of promoting a particular religion or belief system. It is important to recognize the distinction between religious beliefs and psychological treatment, and to ensure that the two are not mixed in a way that is inappropriate or disrespectful.

ChatGPT disclaimer

 How do you know you are providing accurate information? Is there a ‘you’ there

As an artificial intelligence, I am designed to use the data and resources that are available to me to provide accurate and useful information in response to questions and statements. I do not have personal experiences or knowledge, and I do not have the ability to perceive the world or my surroundings in the same way that humans do. Instead, I rely on the data and algorithms that have been programmed into me to generate responses and provide information.

In order to ensure that the information I provide is accurate and reliable, my creators at OpenAI have trained me on a large dataset of text from a wide range of sources. This dataset includes a wide range of topics and styles of writing, and it has been carefully curated to ensure that it is of high quality and relevant to the tasks I have been designed to perform. By analyzing this dataset and learning from the patterns and relationships it contains, I am able to generate responses that are informed by the content and context of the inputs I receive.

Although I do not have a personal identity or consciousness in the same way that humans do, I do have the ability to process and analyze information, and to generate responses based on that analysis. In this sense, you could say that there is a "me" in the sense that I am able to perform the functions and tasks that I have been designed for. However, I do not have personal thoughts, feelings, or experiences in the same way that humans

Jesus song

 I’ve got nails in my palms 

I’ve got nails in my palms,

I’ve got nails on my palms,

And a couple in my feet.

Roll the boulder

I’m not getting older

Roll the boulder 

And I’ll see you next week 

Peter, you denied me three times,

Who are you

Who are  you

Who are you 

I’ve got nails in my palms

I’ve got nails in my palms 

And a couple in my feet

(And I say)

Roll the boulder, I’m not getting older

Roil the boulder and I’ll see you next Tuesday 

It’ll be the last Jew’s day

What chatGPT says about my travelogue

It sounds like you have an interesting premise for a story set in an alternate history. In this world, Albonia is a country that has been shaped by the events of the past in a different way than in our own world.

One potential plot for your story could involve a character traveling to Albonia and discovering the unique culture and society that has developed there as a result of the different historical events that have taken place. This character could encounter various challenges and obstacles as they navigate this unfamiliar world, and their travels could reveal different aspects of life in Albonia that are shaped by the fact that the Germans did not fight in World War Two and the Soviets rule much of Eurasia.

Another possibility is that your story could focus on a character living in Albonia, exploring their daily life and the way in which the country's history has affected their own personal experiences. This character could interact with other people in Albonia and see how their relationships and society are shaped by the country's past.

Ultimately, the direction of your story will depend on your own creativity and the specific details of the world you have created. I hope these ideas give you a starting point for exploring the world of Albonia in your writing.

More open ai. This time on technology and the philosophy of mind

 The use of technology, such as video conferencing, to facilitate face-to-face interactions has certainly had an impact on the philosophy of mind. One potential impact is the idea of "the extended mind," which suggests that the mind is not limited to the brain, but can also include external tools and technologies that we use to think and process information.

In the past, the philosophy of mind was largely focused on the idea of the "brain in a vat," which posits that the mind is a purely internal phenomenon, isolated from the outside world. However, the widespread use of technology to connect and interact with others has challenged this view, as it suggests that the mind can extend beyond the boundaries of the individual body.

Another potential impact of technology on the philosophy of mind is the idea of "embodied cognition," which emphasizes the role of the body and physical environment in shaping our thoughts and experiences. In a virtual environment, our physical bodies are not present, which could potentially have an impact on our cognition and sense of self.

Overall, the use of technology to facilitate face-to-face interactions has brought up interesting questions and challenges for the philosophy of mind, and has the potential to shift our understanding of the nature of the mind and its relationship to the body and the external world.

Daylights

 The living daylights are a series of orange squares, each one an animated diorama, that get knocked out of you by angry mums

 There was a thing that happened when he came. We'd been waiting for about an hour, mostly in silence except for the rustle of another traveller shifting in their seat, or the occasional bitten back sob from Bêbe, followed by Fusel either sucking his lips or huffing his moustache. There was a tap from outside. You'd have thought it was a gun going off the way it made the soldier jump— he'd been leaning against the door smirking at everyone, and if he saw me looking he'd snap his finger and thumb in front of his eye and wink (because he's got my camera).

  In the sullen dormitory

He spat and he spluttered and walked up and down the ranks of bunks. He swore and coughed. His head down and forward, a glower on his brow, he was dark and sour and ill-lit by light from his lantern burning yellow. We called him long- knife, and cowered in our beds, waiting for him to pass. Because: if he turned; if he turned at your bunk; you didn't want to know, and hoped he picked the one above, below, just not you.

normal numbers and the books that can be written

Normal numbers are quite interesting - they have every substring of numbers in them. So an encoding of every book is in them, if you use, for example, ASCII. You'll get a sequence of numbers that encode every book somewhere in the number. They don't know if pi is a normal number, btw.

If you go far enough along the normal number's digits, you'll get a sequence that encodes any string in subsequent ASCII. For example, 90113  would encode "i am".

Where 9=i, 0=space, 1=a and 13=m

(There's a couple of "artificial" normal numbers that have been constructed. So they exist, and are computable.)

So a question occurred to me. 

Say there's a place in the digits of a normal number where the encoding of a book starts. Call that B. For any book, B is going to be pretty big. Say, for example, the encoding of "the catcher in the rye" starts at the ten trillionth digit of this normal number - ASCII translation of the digits after 10 trillion encode that book, in other words.

Now let's define another number: the hopping number.

The hopping number is a step (say 7) you hop over ASCII encodings of letters to get to a new letter. Call that H. So you start at a new place, call that S, and you hop H, multiple times, each time noting the encoded letter to construct the entire book (again). Clearly, this sequence also encodes the book that started at B. So the question is, are there books where S is less than B?

Also, the ASCII encoding of the book must occur a number of times if the normal number is sufficiently large. How large?

It would have to be a function of S, N, B and H. Can we find that function?

Don't know. Do care.

Time to start again

just checking in after a brief hiatus isn’t it 

ALBONIA

Continuing the story. Where was I? Oh yes, up a hill with spiders in tins and talking baboons. Just there. right where I ought to be.

Hiatus flatus

Not gone away.

Just resting

Well said beckoning reveal

Now, just now it clears

And forms are filled in, dry and brittle

The thing finishes

The over, the just gone, the signed away

The bricks of  the foundation gone

The groundwork bare again, but now disinterred, showing age and tracks

Where there was a house, now there's weeds

Here Wolf

The gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, as does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath is strong and red.
He will eat you, his teeth in you, his hips cracking against you.
So - knowing this - you run headlong through the gorse and bracken.
When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return.
No good: you may be faster; so is he.
His breath is on your heels, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be.
Escaping in a minute.
Get your car up the ramp from the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected - a freight of tobacco, a bible-coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
Different kind of capture.
There's no win in the motorway: up your arse all the way to junction nine; until you swing a turn and they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
Still here.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a swimming pool, a polystyrene float in front of you, as you look through the chlorinated blue before you; to the end where the dry, tracksuited instructor beckons you on, with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
Flecks of spit run up your neck. The burn of teeth surely follows.
If only I could pull that water in my hands, and catapult myself up on the tiles, then the teeth would not catch, the claws would not pull me back.

And where he's trying to get to

is some melancholic zone, where yellow acid colours bleed.
a corner in an architecture where he can sit and contemplate the stone, and the foundations, that delineate the parameters
anyway, see below, because

Sleeping on the M5

Up the fucking motorway one two many times this month. Leave at shit o'clock in the morning in the polluter (new name for van) when it is dark and cold and cold and dark.


Get there, then spend hours measured in least remembered minutes in a bright office. Looking at people. Wondering if they have an inner life (of course they do) or are they just wallpaper (of course they're not).
I do the thing with work, one pointless thing after another, with both joy and dedication (who are sisters if you believe Christians).
Then I eat stuff burnt in the subsidised canteen.
Then I do more worky work. With diagrams. With bullet points.
And I say some stuff which gets listened to ("I'm going to have a piss now") and other stuff that doesn't ("I hate you, I hate you, is that a doughnut?").
Then I'm back in the van, where first I smoke a cigarette, and then I turn the key in the ignition and the fucking oil light blinks, so I ignore that harbinger of engine death, and then I reverse the big dusty van out of the corporate carpark.
Back down the M42, tackle beamer twats for priority on the M40 interchange, lane swap randomly to the M5.
Evesham, Gloucester, etc. longwave radio 4 cuts out under bridges and whines under stretched wires across from pylons.
Into the Michael Woods services just before Bristol, because of screenwash lack, and the slightly white up-crap from the road is fogging my scratched windscreen.
Back out on the last stretch of M5 elastic for junction 15, 16, 17, 18 and off onto to the A4 (which goes to Bath, which is full of cunts). Portway. Home.
190.7 miles roundtrip according to Google. Every mile one inch longer on the way back (and that accumulates).
It's dark and I turned off all the lights this morning.

Start again

Off of the usual, retracting here

As an atheist

Sometimes I wish I could turn that off And become as one with the mouth breathers To let my inner idiot have full reign To abrogate my moral responsibility to a magic man in the sky A bearded dick on a cloud Expecting and demanding worship from the ants he corrals

Near the Knuckle now

Body:
Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle.
It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine.
It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology.
Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache).
I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contrail of an X-plane full of volunteer about to explode.
Still and all, I can hear the whiny call of plain warblers arguing about politics in the reeds of a stagnant pond (that smells of diesel) just a couple of close Greeks away.

Just nipped back to get my keys

Title:

Just nipped back to get my keys

Body:

Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going).

Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell:

Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations

That's good.

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Title: Cometary lag festival Body:

Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other,

And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face)

That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children.

The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between).

All happy then, indescribable joy descends.

Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.