When Found
when
Abyssal Transmission 005
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On Abstraction
The GMV technique is predicated on anticipating synchronisicty in neurochemical transfer, as well as a form of rollback functionality to deal with sync latency. When the system detects changes in the state of the object construct, it impels a consonance in the host. To our understanding, however, the resonance between object and host is unidrectional. Nothing that the host does will affect the functioning of the object. Changes, therefore, can be detected and adapted to best when the data line is carying the smallest amount of information possible while still being a reflection of the whole. It is fundamentally impossible to capture all of what the object construct might have been in the past, and therefore the process hardly makes an attempt. There are inevitably inconsistencies, but the information that we are using the technique to look for often remains in tact…
–Excerpted from GMV In Detail, Problems and Pitfalls In Neurochemical Synchronic Operations (attributed to Research Group Two) presented at the 11th Computer/Human Interface Symposium
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M: Hey Cam? I can't sleep.
C: Because of tomorrow?
M: Yeah, I mean
M: You know.
C: I do. You'll most likely be fine. It's a pretty shallow dive
M: A lot riding on it though
C: I know
M: How are you feeling about it?
C: Hopeful. If the payload has what comms think it might, it'll be a big payout.
C: Know what you'll do then?
M: Will have to see if Erik will let me go
C: And if he does?
M: I'll probably go.
M: Hey Cam?
C: Jesus Bea, can you stop calling me that? But yeah, what?
M: Is this line...you know
M: Sorry
C: Are you alright? You don't sound like yourself
C: And no, it is not secure.
M: Ok. I'm going to call you soon.
C: Alright Bea. I'll be up.
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Welcome back. We were in a difficult place over the last months–mandatory server maintenece and requisite reset period. We’ve hoped that you have been making due, enjoying your autumn, imbibing cider & various pumpkin objects.
We have been busy with development among other things. Today we’d like to discuss forgetting and pruning. An issue I’ve encountered whilst building our current project is managing scope. This is always a problem, but our scope here is particularly small, so why then has it been so unmanageable? I’ve heard a kind of creative process analogized to gardening before, and I feel as if that’s fairly apt here. We start by planting a seed, and guide its growth. I like this metaphor; it removes a bit of the stress that comes with requiring answers to questions that you do not have at the start of the process. Planning is almost always important, it becomes more important the more moving parts you add.
We all know this.
But planning can only account for the parts that we know about at the outset, which is never the entire picture.
As we are making something, even if we’re matching our plan fairly closely, things change and shift around. Sometimes we solve problems that create more problems. Sometimes we try to fix those problems quickly, and using methods that are not sustainable in the long term.
Not to mention, it’s often easy to forget what we changed, what we fixed, how we fixed it, or what new problems it introduced.
So we fix it again; differently, possibly better, but laid atop the sediment of what came before. We are afraid of removing parts of what we’ve grown, fearing accidentally eliminating the cornerstone that will cause the entire tangled structure to collapse.
We fear.
We tell ourselves that we will do things differently next time, and maybe we do, but we continue to fall headlong into these problems.
I cannot offer a succinct solution to these problems, as the causes are multifaceted and recursively complex.
What I can offer is a sense of solidarity. The current object we’re building that is requiring a solid 55% of my processing capacity is not finished yet. It’s tiny. It should not be taking as long as it is to finish. I built and rebuilt the same piece several times, because…
I’m unsure why, to be honest.
I forget its structure, where the folds and edges of its form should be. Its skin stretches and contracts in ways that I don’t expect, and I ultimately rip it open and mold it anew. Each one of these surgeries leaves scars and sediment, misshapen stones chisled with past mistakes and false starts. I know it, intimately. It is my monster, and yet it feels so far away. It scares me deeply, being so far away from it.
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