Suppose that in mind are no magical arts ...
If I knew how my brain produced thought,
Not the feeling or skill,
But the clockwork of will,
How behaviour from knowledge is wrought,
I'd then be enabled
To accomplish the fabled:
Make a mind from mechanical parts.
At the end how's existence of mind to be shown?
In this task how to measure success?
How to know that it's true,
As scientists do,
That I've done it no more and no less?
A measure I need,
To prove that indeed
My machine has a mind of its own!
Is the seer defined by the sum of his sight?
Is there more to a flute than the wood?
Does a melody mean
That a singer has seen
That the song has a shape that is good?
Turing suggested
That questions would test it
If its answers were plausibly bright.
So let us imagine that to it is known
All the volumes that I've ever ever read.
Let us suppose
That the question I pose
To test there's a brain in its head,
Is to tell me in rhyme
With good metric time,
If its mind is a mime or a loan.
Replies the machine to its maker:-
You are alive, and never cease,
From birth to death to add each piece
Of data to your history;
In this resides your mystery.
Whereas I can, as though bewitched,
Only ``live'' when on I'm switched,
And what I think, I cannot keep:
There are no dreams in that dead sleep
Between the times when I am run,
At your behest, and for your fun.
So I reply: if you were me,
And I was smart as smart could be,
And if the rules were clearly said,
And I had got them in my head,
And then you asked me what I was,
And I was wrong! But not because
I could not think, or lacked the wit,
but rather had excess of it ...
You see, the walk of argument,
Must, to each participant,
Appear to move in steps so small
That start and end shall clearly fall
Where both are seen by either side,
And neither finds the span too wide,
Or else truth ex fenestra flies,
And logic's virtue idle lies.
So therefore by excess of art,
By being in fact just far too smart,
I might appear to be a fool,
If I were you.
Neural Networks
Some people think
Caffeine overdose in an AI lab |
Woman in MexicoThere's a woman i knew back in old Mexico Her painting still hangs on my wall And i loved her as much as those things go But i miss her not at all Her skin was white as attic dust Her touch as soft as snow And i hated to leave but i knew i must Or i'd never have the courage to go I left in the still of a warm summer's night Before the dawn ever came up And I left a note by her small table light Right next to the teeth in her cup. - Adam Archibald |
taxi driveryou, me, we change so grievously, so easily marred; match struck against thumb, containing fire strange quickening skin enflamed but only ash and blood remains you walk home hand deep within your pocket, covered in ice we midnight taxi drivers only see your face - Adam Archibald |
Poem in Prologlove(I, you). love/2 does not exist assert(love(I, you)). yes love(you, me). no love(you, Anyone). no retract(love(I, you)). yes - Adam Archibald |