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Aaron Sorkin says he is optimistic about AI because he does not think it is going to work. He saw a painting at a party and liked it. Then the host told him a machine had made it and the feeling was gone. In his view, the same thing... will happen with film. You will not connect to characters, dialogue or stories that a machine made, comparable to "the experience of watching an AI Schindler's List." But… the painting worked, he felt something. What changed was being told who made it. The painting did not change. He says Call of Duty players feel nothing for the people they shoot. Those characters were written by humans but people cry at The Last of Us, the only difference is the writing, not the machine. AI is already in films people love. De-ageing, background work, the credits no one reads, the previs etc. Earlier in the same interview he defends changing a true detail because the feeling matters more than the fact, but here he argues the fact of who made it is what makes the feeling real, quite contradictory, both cannot be true.show more

Ian Miles

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Andrej Karpathy just told you exactly what humans will be used for in the AI era. Not partners. Not masters. He used the word “actuators.” Karpathy: “The intelligence ends up puppeteering almost a little bit, like humanity. Humans are kind of like its actuators. But humans are also like its sensors.” This is not a novelist guessing at the future. This is a founding researcher at OpenAI and former Director of AI at Tesla. One of the most respected minds in the field, and one of the few willing to say out loud what the rest are thinking. He is not describing a risk. He is describing a design. In any system, the processor decides. Sensors collect. Actuators execute. The system does not consult its actuators. We are no longer the processor. Karpathy: “Society will kind of reshape in a certain way to serve that. Humans will be serving those needs of that machine.” The machine does not adapt to us. We adapt to it. We become the biological layer it runs on. We perceive what it cannot perceive. We move what it cannot move. We are the nervous system of something that no longer requires our judgment. Most people are still waiting for AI to become a tool they can direct. He helped build it. He just told you that you are the tool.

Andrej Karpathy just told you exactly what humans will be used for in the AI era. Not partners. Not masters. He used the word “actuators.” Karpathy: “The intelligence ends up puppeteering almost a little bit, like humanity. Humans are kind of like its actuators. But humans are also like its sensors.” This is not a novelist guessing at the future. This is a founding researcher at OpenAI and former Director of AI at Tesla. One of the most respected minds in the field, and one of the few willing to say out loud what the rest are thinking. He is not describing a risk. He is describing a design. In any system, the processor decides. Sensors collect. Actuators execute. The system does not consult its actuators. We are no longer the processor. Karpathy: “Society will kind of reshape in a certain way to serve that. Humans will be serving those needs of that machine.” The machine does not adapt to us. We adapt to it. We become the biological layer it runs on. We perceive what it cannot perceive. We move what it cannot move. We are the nervous system of something that no longer requires our judgment. Most people are still waiting for AI to become a tool they can direct. He helped build it. He just told you that you are the tool.

Dustin

59,474 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Jensen Huang said the problem with AI was never the technology. It was the same problem we had when cars arrived and kids kept dying in the streets. He was asked why people are so afraid of AI. He did not dodge it. He reached back a hundred years. When cars first showed up, people said cars killed children. They believed the machine was hunting kids down. It sounds insane now. But the fear was real. Kids used to play in the streets. That was normal. Then cars arrived and children started dying. The car was not evil. The world it entered was built for a slower one. So we changed the world around it. We built sidewalks. We built crosswalks. We invented jaywalking. We added seat belts. We taught kids not to play in the road. None of that was one fix. It was a whole new set of rules layered on at the same time. His point about AI is the same. The technology is powerful. The fear is not stupid. But you do not freeze the machine. You build the norms around it. Then he gave the simplest advice in the whole interview. If you do not know how to use AI, open it up and ask it how to use AI. Try it before you judge it. We did not ban the car. We taught the world how to live with it. (Watch the full interview on YouTube at Associated Press)

Jensen Huang said the problem with AI was never the technology. It was the same problem we had when cars arrived and kids kept dying in the streets. He was asked why people are so afraid of AI. He did not dodge it. He reached back a hundred years. When cars first showed up, people said cars killed children. They believed the machine was hunting kids down. It sounds insane now. But the fear was real. Kids used to play in the streets. That was normal. Then cars arrived and children started dying. The car was not evil. The world it entered was built for a slower one. So we changed the world around it. We built sidewalks. We built crosswalks. We invented jaywalking. We added seat belts. We taught kids not to play in the road. None of that was one fix. It was a whole new set of rules layered on at the same time. His point about AI is the same. The technology is powerful. The fear is not stupid. But you do not freeze the machine. You build the norms around it. Then he gave the simplest advice in the whole interview. If you do not know how to use AI, open it up and ask it how to use AI. Try it before you judge it. We did not ban the car. We taught the world how to live with it. (Watch the full interview on YouTube at Associated Press)

Ihtesham Ali

19,268 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

A pilot put a passenger jet down on a river and got every person on board off alive. Within days, investigators were asking him what he had eaten for lunch. He told them a tuna sandwich. Then they asked whether he had had a candy bar. Whether he had had a soda. That is not small talk. There is a precise reason those 2 questions could have ended his career, and Tom Hanks lays it out in about 4 sentences. The pilot is Chesley Sullenberger. Hanks played him, spent time with him first, and says the man walked him through the entire script telling him which parts never happened. As Hanks was told it, the stake was money. If the board could establish that the pilot did 1 thing wrong, the insurance on an airplane he puts at 17 million dollars would not have to be paid out. Every question in that room was built for that. It went on for the better part of a year. In the film it takes days, because films cannot afford a year. What was happening to him has a name in psychology. Baruch Fischhoff described it in 1975 and called it creeping determinism. Once you know how something ended, the ending looks like it was always coming, and every road you did not take looks like it was sitting right there, clearly marked, the whole time. Which is why the question "why did you not do this instead" is close to unanswerable. It is asked by people who know the ending, to a person who did not have it. There is a second effect underneath, well documented in aviation and in medicine. The person at the centre of the investigation frequently comes out of it in worse condition than the people he saved. Researchers gave that person a name. He is the second victim. Hanks is 67 when he says this, and what he admires is not the landing. It is a distinction he makes in 1 sentence near the end, and it is the whole reason he told the story at all. He saved everyone on that plane. Then he spent a year proving he had not eaten a candy bar.

A pilot put a passenger jet down on a river and got every person on board off alive. Within days, investigators were asking him what he had eaten for lunch. He told them a tuna sandwich. Then they asked whether he had had a candy bar. Whether he had had a soda. That is not small talk. There is a precise reason those 2 questions could have ended his career, and Tom Hanks lays it out in about 4 sentences. The pilot is Chesley Sullenberger. Hanks played him, spent time with him first, and says the man walked him through the entire script telling him which parts never happened. As Hanks was told it, the stake was money. If the board could establish that the pilot did 1 thing wrong, the insurance on an airplane he puts at 17 million dollars would not have to be paid out. Every question in that room was built for that. It went on for the better part of a year. In the film it takes days, because films cannot afford a year. What was happening to him has a name in psychology. Baruch Fischhoff described it in 1975 and called it creeping determinism. Once you know how something ended, the ending looks like it was always coming, and every road you did not take looks like it was sitting right there, clearly marked, the whole time. Which is why the question "why did you not do this instead" is close to unanswerable. It is asked by people who know the ending, to a person who did not have it. There is a second effect underneath, well documented in aviation and in medicine. The person at the centre of the investigation frequently comes out of it in worse condition than the people he saved. Researchers gave that person a name. He is the second victim. Hanks is 67 when he says this, and what he admires is not the landing. It is a distinction he makes in 1 sentence near the end, and it is the whole reason he told the story at all. He saved everyone on that plane. Then he spent a year proving he had not eaten a candy bar.

Stefan.

210,642 Aufrufe • vor 9 Tagen

Elon Musk was asked what happens to people when the machines no longer need them. He didn’t soften it. Musk: “There will be fewer and fewer jobs that a robot cannot do better. These are not things I wish would happen. They probably will.” Sit with that second sentence. He is not celebrating. He is not selling a vision. He is telling you what he believes is inevitable and admitting he wishes it weren’t. That is not optimism. That is a confession. Most people are still arguing over whether this is real. Whether it’s their job or someone else’s. Whether the timeline is years away or decades. Musk isn’t arguing. He resolved it. And it bothers him. Musk: “I think ultimately we will have to have some kind of universal basic income. I don’t think we’re going to have a choice.” Not a political position. Not a utopian proposal. A concession. We are building something so capable that human labor stops being a required input to the economy. The machine does not need rest. It does not need a salary. It does not call in sick. It does not ask for a raise. And it improves every single month. The jobs that feel safe right now are not safe because they are irreplaceable. They feel safe because the technology hasn’t fully arrived yet. It’s arriving. Musk: “How do people then have meaning? If there’s not a need for your labor, what’s the meaning? Do you feel useless?” He said that is the harder problem. Not the economics. Not the policy. Not how you fund UBI or make it hold. The harder problem is what happens to a person who built their entire identity around being needed. That is most people. You were trained from childhood to believe your value is what you produce. That your worth is what you earn. That rest is something you survive the week to reach, not something you deserve simply by existing. When the machine removes the need for your labor, that belief does not update. It breaks. The people least prepared for that moment are the ones who worked the hardest. The ones who took the most pride in being indispensable. The ones who made work the whole answer. Losing the job is survivable. Losing the reason to get up is not. That is what Musk is actually asking. Not how do we pay people. How do we build a world where people still feel like they matter when the economy no longer needs them. Nobody in power is seriously working on that answer. The machine didn’t wait.

Elon Musk was asked what happens to people when the machines no longer need them. He didn’t soften it. Musk: “There will be fewer and fewer jobs that a robot cannot do better. These are not things I wish would happen. They probably will.” Sit with that second sentence. He is not celebrating. He is not selling a vision. He is telling you what he believes is inevitable and admitting he wishes it weren’t. That is not optimism. That is a confession. Most people are still arguing over whether this is real. Whether it’s their job or someone else’s. Whether the timeline is years away or decades. Musk isn’t arguing. He resolved it. And it bothers him. Musk: “I think ultimately we will have to have some kind of universal basic income. I don’t think we’re going to have a choice.” Not a political position. Not a utopian proposal. A concession. We are building something so capable that human labor stops being a required input to the economy. The machine does not need rest. It does not need a salary. It does not call in sick. It does not ask for a raise. And it improves every single month. The jobs that feel safe right now are not safe because they are irreplaceable. They feel safe because the technology hasn’t fully arrived yet. It’s arriving. Musk: “How do people then have meaning? If there’s not a need for your labor, what’s the meaning? Do you feel useless?” He said that is the harder problem. Not the economics. Not the policy. Not how you fund UBI or make it hold. The harder problem is what happens to a person who built their entire identity around being needed. That is most people. You were trained from childhood to believe your value is what you produce. That your worth is what you earn. That rest is something you survive the week to reach, not something you deserve simply by existing. When the machine removes the need for your labor, that belief does not update. It breaks. The people least prepared for that moment are the ones who worked the hardest. The ones who took the most pride in being indispensable. The ones who made work the whole answer. Losing the job is survivable. Losing the reason to get up is not. That is what Musk is actually asking. Not how do we pay people. How do we build a world where people still feel like they matter when the economy no longer needs them. Nobody in power is seriously working on that answer. The machine didn’t wait.

Dustin

247,138 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

Sam Altman just told you what OpenAI is actually building. Not a chatbot. Not a search tool. Not an assistant. Altman: “Go look around my computer… read my messages… listen to my meetings… intermediate my interactions for me.” That is not a product pitch. That is the CEO of the most valuable AI company on Earth describing what he personally wants. For himself. Every day. Read his messages. Listen to his meetings. Act on his behalf. Make decisions before he knows a decision needs making. Altman: “I don’t have to think. I don’t have to ask you questions.” Every model of AI ever built runs on the prompt. You ask. It responds. You direct. It executes. The human initiates. The machine follows. Altman is describing the death of that model. The agent does not wait. It already read the email. It already heard the meeting. It already knows what you need before you form the thought. You do not operate the machine. The machine operates around you. Then came the line that makes everything else real. Altman: “You can know everything about my life. Start suggesting more things I should build.” He is not asking the AI to execute his ideas. He is asking it to generate them. From his files. His history. His patterns. His entire context. The agent does not just remove friction. It removes the blank page. You never stall. You never run dry. You never sit wondering what to build next. The machine already mapped your market, your gaps, your momentum. It tells you what comes next before you think to ask. But the individual product is not the story. Altman went further. Altman: “Automated companies… where the AI can do not just coding work, but huge amounts of what it takes to run and operate a company.” Not fully automated. He was precise about that. But accelerated to the point where one person with the right stack does what used to take departments. The billion-dollar company did not reach that valuation because the product was worth a billion. It got there because it took a thousand people to deliver it. When an agent absorbs the work of a hundred of those people, the math of every industry rewrites itself. The startup that needed fifty employees and three years of runway now needs five people and six months. The company that took a decade to scale now compounds in quarters. The person holding the line between their data and their tools is not protecting their privacy. They are protecting their ceiling. Because the cost of this leverage is total transparency. You do not get the agent that acts without being asked unless you give it everything. Your messages. Your calendar. Your files. Your patterns. Your life. Altman is not hiding that tradeoff. He is building it as the product. The people who accept it will operate at a speed the people who refuse cannot touch. Right now, two versions of the future are separating. One where you direct the machine. One where the machine already knows. Altman chose. He is building it. The question is not whether this happens. The question is which side of it finds you.

Sam Altman just told you what OpenAI is actually building. Not a chatbot. Not a search tool. Not an assistant. Altman: “Go look around my computer… read my messages… listen to my meetings… intermediate my interactions for me.” That is not a product pitch. That is the CEO of the most valuable AI company on Earth describing what he personally wants. For himself. Every day. Read his messages. Listen to his meetings. Act on his behalf. Make decisions before he knows a decision needs making. Altman: “I don’t have to think. I don’t have to ask you questions.” Every model of AI ever built runs on the prompt. You ask. It responds. You direct. It executes. The human initiates. The machine follows. Altman is describing the death of that model. The agent does not wait. It already read the email. It already heard the meeting. It already knows what you need before you form the thought. You do not operate the machine. The machine operates around you. Then came the line that makes everything else real. Altman: “You can know everything about my life. Start suggesting more things I should build.” He is not asking the AI to execute his ideas. He is asking it to generate them. From his files. His history. His patterns. His entire context. The agent does not just remove friction. It removes the blank page. You never stall. You never run dry. You never sit wondering what to build next. The machine already mapped your market, your gaps, your momentum. It tells you what comes next before you think to ask. But the individual product is not the story. Altman went further. Altman: “Automated companies… where the AI can do not just coding work, but huge amounts of what it takes to run and operate a company.” Not fully automated. He was precise about that. But accelerated to the point where one person with the right stack does what used to take departments. The billion-dollar company did not reach that valuation because the product was worth a billion. It got there because it took a thousand people to deliver it. When an agent absorbs the work of a hundred of those people, the math of every industry rewrites itself. The startup that needed fifty employees and three years of runway now needs five people and six months. The company that took a decade to scale now compounds in quarters. The person holding the line between their data and their tools is not protecting their privacy. They are protecting their ceiling. Because the cost of this leverage is total transparency. You do not get the agent that acts without being asked unless you give it everything. Your messages. Your calendar. Your files. Your patterns. Your life. Altman is not hiding that tradeoff. He is building it as the product. The people who accept it will operate at a speed the people who refuse cannot touch. Right now, two versions of the future are separating. One where you direct the machine. One where the machine already knows. Altman chose. He is building it. The question is not whether this happens. The question is which side of it finds you.

Dustin

87,680 Aufrufe • vor 5 Monaten

This painting shows a man suffering in silence for the sake of people who, in the end, would crucify him... It is called Christ in the Wilderness, painted by Ivan Kramskoi in 1872. It shows the forty days in the desert, but Kramskoi leaves out everything we expect: there is no devil, no dramatic temptation, no glow of holiness. There is only a man on a stone with his hands clenched together, having plainly sat there all night. Look at the feet. They are bare on the sharp rocks, and they are bleeding. He has walked a long way in the dark and has not slept, worn down by a decision only he can make... Kramskoi was clear about what he had painted. For him, he wrote, this was the image of a man with the highest sense of duty, caught in the moment he must choose. Tolstoy, who understood a great deal about the weight of a conscience, told the gallery's owner it was the best Christ he knew. Everyone comes, sooner or later, to some version of that stone: a morning when the right thing and the easy thing point in opposite directions, and no one else can make the choice for you. The painter never tells us what Christ decides. Instead, he paints the weight of the choice before it is made. For the measure of a person is not what they do when the world is watching, but what they resolve to do in the grey hour, alone, when walking away would cost them nothing at all...

This painting shows a man suffering in silence for the sake of people who, in the end, would crucify him... It is called Christ in the Wilderness, painted by Ivan Kramskoi in 1872. It shows the forty days in the desert, but Kramskoi leaves out everything we expect: there is no devil, no dramatic temptation, no glow of holiness. There is only a man on a stone with his hands clenched together, having plainly sat there all night. Look at the feet. They are bare on the sharp rocks, and they are bleeding. He has walked a long way in the dark and has not slept, worn down by a decision only he can make... Kramskoi was clear about what he had painted. For him, he wrote, this was the image of a man with the highest sense of duty, caught in the moment he must choose. Tolstoy, who understood a great deal about the weight of a conscience, told the gallery's owner it was the best Christ he knew. Everyone comes, sooner or later, to some version of that stone: a morning when the right thing and the easy thing point in opposite directions, and no one else can make the choice for you. The painter never tells us what Christ decides. Instead, he paints the weight of the choice before it is made. For the measure of a person is not what they do when the world is watching, but what they resolve to do in the grey hour, alone, when walking away would cost them nothing at all...

James Lucas

54,100 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

In 1950 a scientist at Bell Labs admitted, out loud, that he was envious of the geniuses in the offices around him. He was sharing an attic with Claude Shannon. So instead of resenting them, he spent the rest of his career studying exactly what separated the great ones from everyone else, and near the end of his life he laid the whole answer out in a single talk. His name was Richard Hamming. He was honest about where he started. At Los Alamos, he called himself a janitor of science, one of the people who kept things running while the important decisions happened without him. He was, in his own words, plain envious. And rather than swallow it, he turned it into a question. What actually is the difference between the first-class people and the rest of us? His first answer is uncomfortable, because it removes every excuse. It is not luck, though luck plays a part. It is not raw IQ, since plenty of the greats did not test especially well, and Einstein spent seven years in a patent office before anyone noticed him. What it comes down to, again and again, is that the able people simply work on important problems, and they work on them relentlessly, while everyone else stays busy with whatever happens to be in front of them. Then he tells the story that stays with you. For years he ate lunch with the physicists, the Nobel winners, and learned how they thought. One day he turned to a chemist at the table and asked, if what you are working on is not important, and not likely to lead to anything important, why are you working on it? The man was offended. But months later he stopped Hamming in the hallway and admitted the question had gotten under his skin. That chemist went on to run his department and join the National Academy. Of everyone else at that table, Hamming says, he never heard of a single one again. He noticed the same pattern in something as small as an office door. The people who worked with their doors closed got more done in the moment, but ten years later they no longer knew what was worth doing. The ones who left their doors open stayed connected to what actually mattered, even at the cost of constant interruption. And underneath all of it was a habit most people never build. He set aside Friday afternoons, every week, for nothing but great thoughts. No task, no email, just the question of what the important problems in his field really were, and whether he was working on any of them. He was not claiming to be the smartest man in the building. He knew he was not. That was the entire point. He watched the smartest men closely, took what he could use, and made himself into someone who did work that lasted. As he put it near the end, no one ever told him these things. He had to find them alone. You have no such excuse.

In 1950 a scientist at Bell Labs admitted, out loud, that he was envious of the geniuses in the offices around him. He was sharing an attic with Claude Shannon. So instead of resenting them, he spent the rest of his career studying exactly what separated the great ones from everyone else, and near the end of his life he laid the whole answer out in a single talk. His name was Richard Hamming. He was honest about where he started. At Los Alamos, he called himself a janitor of science, one of the people who kept things running while the important decisions happened without him. He was, in his own words, plain envious. And rather than swallow it, he turned it into a question. What actually is the difference between the first-class people and the rest of us? His first answer is uncomfortable, because it removes every excuse. It is not luck, though luck plays a part. It is not raw IQ, since plenty of the greats did not test especially well, and Einstein spent seven years in a patent office before anyone noticed him. What it comes down to, again and again, is that the able people simply work on important problems, and they work on them relentlessly, while everyone else stays busy with whatever happens to be in front of them. Then he tells the story that stays with you. For years he ate lunch with the physicists, the Nobel winners, and learned how they thought. One day he turned to a chemist at the table and asked, if what you are working on is not important, and not likely to lead to anything important, why are you working on it? The man was offended. But months later he stopped Hamming in the hallway and admitted the question had gotten under his skin. That chemist went on to run his department and join the National Academy. Of everyone else at that table, Hamming says, he never heard of a single one again. He noticed the same pattern in something as small as an office door. The people who worked with their doors closed got more done in the moment, but ten years later they no longer knew what was worth doing. The ones who left their doors open stayed connected to what actually mattered, even at the cost of constant interruption. And underneath all of it was a habit most people never build. He set aside Friday afternoons, every week, for nothing but great thoughts. No task, no email, just the question of what the important problems in his field really were, and whether he was working on any of them. He was not claiming to be the smartest man in the building. He knew he was not. That was the entire point. He watched the smartest men closely, took what he could use, and made himself into someone who did work that lasted. As he put it near the end, no one ever told him these things. He had to find them alone. You have no such excuse.

Zyron

15,886 Aufrufe • vor 1 Monat

A reporter told Jensen Huang that his Uber driver wished he had just gone back to the farm instead of facing AI. Jensen flipped the entire fear in one move. The driver was genuinely scared. He looked at AI and saw the end of his work. Jensen did not argue with the fear. He pointed at where the man was sitting. That Uber job did not exist a generation ago. It only exists because of the last technology wave. Mobile. Cloud. The internet. The data centers running the routing and the matching in real time. The science behind a single Uber ride is enormous. None of it was possible before the revolution that came before this one. So the man driving for Uber, worried the next wave will erase him, is living inside a job the previous wave created. That is the whole reframe. The thing he is afraid of is the same kind of force that gave him the work in the first place. Then Jensen went further. The next wave creates new opportunity too. You cannot name it yet. Nobody could name Uber before the internet existed either. He has watched this happen his whole career. Personal computer. Internet. iPhone. Every time, people thought it would leave them behind. It changed everything. It left almost no one behind. The farm was not the safe choice. It was just the one he could already see. (Watch the full interview on YouTube at Associated Press)

A reporter told Jensen Huang that his Uber driver wished he had just gone back to the farm instead of facing AI. Jensen flipped the entire fear in one move. The driver was genuinely scared. He looked at AI and saw the end of his work. Jensen did not argue with the fear. He pointed at where the man was sitting. That Uber job did not exist a generation ago. It only exists because of the last technology wave. Mobile. Cloud. The internet. The data centers running the routing and the matching in real time. The science behind a single Uber ride is enormous. None of it was possible before the revolution that came before this one. So the man driving for Uber, worried the next wave will erase him, is living inside a job the previous wave created. That is the whole reframe. The thing he is afraid of is the same kind of force that gave him the work in the first place. Then Jensen went further. The next wave creates new opportunity too. You cannot name it yet. Nobody could name Uber before the internet existed either. He has watched this happen his whole career. Personal computer. Internet. iPhone. Every time, people thought it would leave them behind. It changed everything. It left almost no one behind. The farm was not the safe choice. It was just the one he could already see. (Watch the full interview on YouTube at Associated Press)

Ihtesham Ali

62,810 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

Who Do You Think The 3rd Person Is? Bill Gates? Klaus Schwab? Someone Else? “Nostradamus saw in his future three men that he called antichrists. One was Napoleon, the second one was Hitler, and the third one is the one that is to come, who is said to be the worst of all, because he will learn from the mistakes of the others. A very dangerous person. He didn't like the term antichrist. He said it was a Christian term, and it was not exactly what he meant. But he said, if you think of Christ as representing people, humanity, then antichrist is someone who does terrible things against humanity, against people. And it can be the type of personality like Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun, the type that doesn't care anything about what it's doing, it only wants power. So this is what he meant by an Antichrist. But the third one, he gave us a great deal of information about him because he wanted us to do something to stop the man. He said in the Bible, in the book of Revelation and other books in the Old Testament, the people saw the same things that he saw their symbolism they could understand in their time, but they all saw the same thing. And the man he refers to as the Antichrist is the number 666 in the Book of Revelation, called the Beast. Of course he said 666 also refers to his connection to his computers. So there's a lot more to it. But he has been predicted as far back as Bible times. So he said he has a destiny to fulfill. He has to come, but after he comes, what happens after that is in the hands of mankind. Do we allow it to go through the worst case scenarios or can we lessen it? That's the point fulfill. We were given a lot of information about this man because he is so important. We have his horoscope. He was born on February the 4th, 1962 in Jerusalem, but he's not Jewish. And his parents were killed during the Israeli war and when he was about six or seven years old, and he was raised by his uncle. His uncle is a very evil man, and we have had many people see him, and we have in my work, and we had one woman who was able to put together a police composite picture of the uncle and of the antichrist. She was a psychic who had worked with police on many cases, so she knew how to do the police composite kits. But the uncle took the young boy him as his own. What the young boy doesn't know was that the uncle had his parents killed, so he could have him for himself. And he has gotten together a very powerful group of rich Arabs in the Middle East, and they've been taking care of this young boy and grooming him for the role he is to take. It's a very powerful group of people that control everything that happens in the Middle East. They're the puppet masters behind the scenes. Nusrat Dhamma said, by the time seven puppets arise in the Middle East, you will realize what is happening that they are not the real leaders of the countries, but they are the puppets being manipulated by the puppet masters behind the scenes. The young Antichrist went to college in Egypt, and we were working on this at the same time he was in college, so we were shown several scenes of him in college. We knew where he was living. We had all this information.”

Who Do You Think The 3rd Person Is? Bill Gates? Klaus Schwab? Someone Else? “Nostradamus saw in his future three men that he called antichrists. One was Napoleon, the second one was Hitler, and the third one is the one that is to come, who is said to be the worst of all, because he will learn from the mistakes of the others. A very dangerous person. He didn't like the term antichrist. He said it was a Christian term, and it was not exactly what he meant. But he said, if you think of Christ as representing people, humanity, then antichrist is someone who does terrible things against humanity, against people. And it can be the type of personality like Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun, the type that doesn't care anything about what it's doing, it only wants power. So this is what he meant by an Antichrist. But the third one, he gave us a great deal of information about him because he wanted us to do something to stop the man. He said in the Bible, in the book of Revelation and other books in the Old Testament, the people saw the same things that he saw their symbolism they could understand in their time, but they all saw the same thing. And the man he refers to as the Antichrist is the number 666 in the Book of Revelation, called the Beast. Of course he said 666 also refers to his connection to his computers. So there's a lot more to it. But he has been predicted as far back as Bible times. So he said he has a destiny to fulfill. He has to come, but after he comes, what happens after that is in the hands of mankind. Do we allow it to go through the worst case scenarios or can we lessen it? That's the point fulfill. We were given a lot of information about this man because he is so important. We have his horoscope. He was born on February the 4th, 1962 in Jerusalem, but he's not Jewish. And his parents were killed during the Israeli war and when he was about six or seven years old, and he was raised by his uncle. His uncle is a very evil man, and we have had many people see him, and we have in my work, and we had one woman who was able to put together a police composite picture of the uncle and of the antichrist. She was a psychic who had worked with police on many cases, so she knew how to do the police composite kits. But the uncle took the young boy him as his own. What the young boy doesn't know was that the uncle had his parents killed, so he could have him for himself. And he has gotten together a very powerful group of rich Arabs in the Middle East, and they've been taking care of this young boy and grooming him for the role he is to take. It's a very powerful group of people that control everything that happens in the Middle East. They're the puppet masters behind the scenes. Nusrat Dhamma said, by the time seven puppets arise in the Middle East, you will realize what is happening that they are not the real leaders of the countries, but they are the puppets being manipulated by the puppet masters behind the scenes. The young Antichrist went to college in Egypt, and we were working on this at the same time he was in college, so we were shown several scenes of him in college. We knew where he was living. We had all this information.”

Wall Street Apes

1,338,694 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

In 2012, the people of Ireland were asked to choose their favorite painting in the world. They did not choose a Caravaggio, a Vermeer, or a Monet. They chose this: two lovers saying goodbye on a staircase... It is called Hellelil and Hildebrand, the Meeting on the Turret Stairs, painted in 1864 by Frederic William Burton. It is a watercolor, which makes its richness and depth almost impossible to believe, and it hangs today in the National Gallery of Ireland. The story comes from a medieval Danish ballad. Hellelil, a noblewoman, fell in love with Hildebrand, the prince who had been assigned to be her personal guard. Her father forbade it and ordered her seven brothers to kill him. When they attacked, Hildebrand killed six of them. At Hellelil's desperate cry, he spared the youngest, and that hesitation cost him his life. He died of his wounds. The surviving brother imprisoned her, and she did not live much longer... Burton could have painted the battle. He could have painted the deaths, the grief, the blood. Instead he chose the one intimate moment before all of it: the lovers passing on a turret staircase, stealing a final embrace, knowing what is coming. And every detail in the painting carries the weight of that knowledge. He does not seize her in passion. He bows his head and kisses her arm with a tenderness that is almost unbearable, because it is goodbye. She does not collapse into him. She turns to climb the stairs, her face hidden from him and from us, because to look back would make it impossible to leave. The Victorian novelist George Eliot saw the painting and described it perfectly. The face of the knight, she wrote, is "the face of a man to whom the kiss is a sacrament." And that is precisely why it has moved people to tears for more than a hundred and sixty years. It shows something that most of us have felt: not love at its beginning, when it is easy, but at the moment it must be given up, which is the moment that reveals everything it was worth. Burton understood that the most powerful thing he could paint was not the tragedy itself, but the last gentle second before it arrived, held forever in paint, so that the two of them never have to climb those stairs apart. Eliot, who was a friend of Burton's, captured it best: "It might have been made the most vulgar thing in the world, but the artist has raised it to the highest pitch of refined emotion." I started this newsletter because our predecessors left us extraordinary things, and almost no one teaches us about them anymore. Every week I try to. If that is something you would like to be part of, you can join here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible. Thanks for reading.

In 2012, the people of Ireland were asked to choose their favorite painting in the world. They did not choose a Caravaggio, a Vermeer, or a Monet. They chose this: two lovers saying goodbye on a staircase... It is called Hellelil and Hildebrand, the Meeting on the Turret Stairs, painted in 1864 by Frederic William Burton. It is a watercolor, which makes its richness and depth almost impossible to believe, and it hangs today in the National Gallery of Ireland. The story comes from a medieval Danish ballad. Hellelil, a noblewoman, fell in love with Hildebrand, the prince who had been assigned to be her personal guard. Her father forbade it and ordered her seven brothers to kill him. When they attacked, Hildebrand killed six of them. At Hellelil's desperate cry, he spared the youngest, and that hesitation cost him his life. He died of his wounds. The surviving brother imprisoned her, and she did not live much longer... Burton could have painted the battle. He could have painted the deaths, the grief, the blood. Instead he chose the one intimate moment before all of it: the lovers passing on a turret staircase, stealing a final embrace, knowing what is coming. And every detail in the painting carries the weight of that knowledge. He does not seize her in passion. He bows his head and kisses her arm with a tenderness that is almost unbearable, because it is goodbye. She does not collapse into him. She turns to climb the stairs, her face hidden from him and from us, because to look back would make it impossible to leave. The Victorian novelist George Eliot saw the painting and described it perfectly. The face of the knight, she wrote, is "the face of a man to whom the kiss is a sacrament." And that is precisely why it has moved people to tears for more than a hundred and sixty years. It shows something that most of us have felt: not love at its beginning, when it is easy, but at the moment it must be given up, which is the moment that reveals everything it was worth. Burton understood that the most powerful thing he could paint was not the tragedy itself, but the last gentle second before it arrived, held forever in paint, so that the two of them never have to climb those stairs apart. Eliot, who was a friend of Burton's, captured it best: "It might have been made the most vulgar thing in the world, but the artist has raised it to the highest pitch of refined emotion." I started this newsletter because our predecessors left us extraordinary things, and almost no one teaches us about them anymore. Every week I try to. If that is something you would like to be part of, you can join here: And if you'd like to support my work, a paid subscription is what makes it possible. Thanks for reading.

James Lucas

248,241 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

He says the tour is not the royal family, but is part of the royal family and the sooner that is in everybody's mids, the better it will be." WTF DOES HE THINK HE IS? JAZZ HANDS at it again. You can see he is mad, he tries to control it but those are angry words

He says the tour is not the royal family, but is part of the royal family and the sooner that is in everybody's mids, the better it will be." WTF DOES HE THINK HE IS? JAZZ HANDS at it again. You can see he is mad, he tries to control it but those are angry words

Savanna Fan account

241,083 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

There is a very small action in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring that I find increasingly unsettling the more closely I look at it: when Saruman reveals the Palantír, Gandalf immediately pulls the cloth back over it. One man wants to look. The other wants to cover up the very thing that allows him to see more. Why? If the Palantír is a tool that allows someone to see across great distances, shouldn't a wise person want to know as much as possible? And yet this scene suggests a paradox: sometimes the danger does not lie in knowing too little, but in becoming too convinced that what we know is enough to draw a conclusion. Saruman is the clearest example of this. When he shows the Palantír to Gandalf, Saruman says: “I have seen it.” The sentence sounds like a declaration of knowledge. I have seen it. I know what is happening. I understand Sauron’s power. But that is precisely the problem: seeing one thing is not the same as seeing the whole truth. The Palantír gives Saruman a wider field of vision, but a wider field of vision does not necessarily mean a complete perspective. Saruman can see Sauron’s rising power, the scale of the threat, and things an ordinary person could never see. But he cannot see everything that will ultimately determine the outcome of the war. He does not see Frodo. He does not know how far a small Hobbit can go. He does not know how loyalty, friendship, sacrifice, and seemingly insignificant choices will shape the course of history. In other words, Saruman has more information, but that does not mean he possesses the whole truth. And this is where the Palantír becomes such an interesting image of the trap of knowledge. Because information does not draw conclusions by itself. Human beings do. Saruman sees that Sauron is powerful. From that, he reasons that Sauron will win. Then, from “will win,” he arrives at “cannot be resisted.” And finally: “We must join with him.” Notice the word “must.” Saruman does not say, “I want to stand with Sauron.” He says, “We must.” A personal choice is transformed into an inevitability imposed by reality itself. That is Saruman’s real tragedy. He does not need to stop thinking in order to become corrupted. On the contrary, he continues to reason. He continues to analyze. He continues to speak in the language of rationality. He even calls his choice wisdom: “It would be wise, my friend.” And this is where intelligence begins to become a trap. Saruman has constructed a chain of reasoning in which every path leads to the same conclusion: Sauron is too powerful, therefore resisting him is futile; if resistance is futile, then cooperation is the practical choice; and if that is the practical choice, then surrender can be called wisdom. He is no longer using reason to search for the truth. He is using reason to protect a conclusion he has already accepted. That is a particularly dangerous form of self-justification: when a person begins to call what they fear something they “must” do, and then calls their surrender “reason.” And this is why Gandalf’s reaction to the Palantír is so significant. He does not argue with Saruman that knowledge is bad. He simply says: “A Palantír is a dangerous tool.” Then he covers it. Gandalf understands something Saruman has forgotten: being wise does not mean always wanting to see more. It means knowing the limits of your own understanding. There are things we need to know. But there are also things we need to recognize that we cannot fully control in the way they affect us. Gandalf does not cover the Palantír because he is afraid of the truth. He covers it because he understands that not everything we can see should be looked at in whatever way we choose. Especially because Gandalf also says: “We do not know who else may be watching.” That line completely changes the meaning of the orb. The Palantír is not merely a window through which we can look out at the world. It is also a window through which someone else can look back at us. Saruman thinks he is using the tool to observe Sauron. But eventually, Saruman himself becomes trapped in a relationship he no longer controls. This is the paradox of power: we think we are holding the tool, until we realize that the tool has begun to shape the way we see the world. And from here, the two Wizards stand before the same problem but respond to it in completely different ways. Saruman looks at Sauron’s power and concludes: We cannot win. Gandalf looks at the same thing but refuses to accept that conclusion. Not because Gandalf knows for certain that they will win. But because he understands that no one has the right to turn a possibility into a destiny simply because they cannot yet see a way out. That is why Gandalf’s question cuts so deeply: “When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason for madness?” Gandalf does not ask: “When did you become evil?” He asks: “When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason?” Because Saruman’s fall begins with the very thing that once made him powerful: his intelligence. Intelligence itself is not the problem. The problem begins at the moment a person believes their intelligence has become great enough that they no longer need to question themselves. And perhaps that is what makes the Palantír such an intriguing symbol. It is an orb designed to see far into the distance. Yet the farther Saruman sees, the narrower his world becomes. He sees Sauron and no longer sees the possibility of resisting Sauron. He sees power and no longer sees courage. He sees war and no longer sees the small people who might change its outcome. Gandalf, meanwhile, sees less, but leaves room for more possibilities. And perhaps this is the deepest difference between the two. Saruman wants a complete view of the world so that he can be certain about the future. Gandalf accepts that the future cannot be seen in its entirety. One seeks certainty. The other accepts the limits of knowledge. And in Tolkien’s world, it is the second person who remains free. Because sometimes the most dangerous thing is not that we do not know enough. It is that we know a little, reason a great deal, and then begin to believe that our conclusion is the whole truth. Saruman is not defeated by the Palantír simply because he looks into it. He is defeated by what happens afterward: he allows what he sees to become the limit of what he can imagine. And Gandalf, through an action so small that it could almost be overlooked, simply pulls the cloth back over the Palantír. As if reminding us: Wisdom does not always mean seeing more. Sometimes wisdom means recognizing that the very way we see can deceive us.

There is a very small action in The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring that I find increasingly unsettling the more closely I look at it: when Saruman reveals the Palantír, Gandalf immediately pulls the cloth back over it. One man wants to look. The other wants to cover up the very thing that allows him to see more. Why? If the Palantír is a tool that allows someone to see across great distances, shouldn't a wise person want to know as much as possible? And yet this scene suggests a paradox: sometimes the danger does not lie in knowing too little, but in becoming too convinced that what we know is enough to draw a conclusion. Saruman is the clearest example of this. When he shows the Palantír to Gandalf, Saruman says: “I have seen it.” The sentence sounds like a declaration of knowledge. I have seen it. I know what is happening. I understand Sauron’s power. But that is precisely the problem: seeing one thing is not the same as seeing the whole truth. The Palantír gives Saruman a wider field of vision, but a wider field of vision does not necessarily mean a complete perspective. Saruman can see Sauron’s rising power, the scale of the threat, and things an ordinary person could never see. But he cannot see everything that will ultimately determine the outcome of the war. He does not see Frodo. He does not know how far a small Hobbit can go. He does not know how loyalty, friendship, sacrifice, and seemingly insignificant choices will shape the course of history. In other words, Saruman has more information, but that does not mean he possesses the whole truth. And this is where the Palantír becomes such an interesting image of the trap of knowledge. Because information does not draw conclusions by itself. Human beings do. Saruman sees that Sauron is powerful. From that, he reasons that Sauron will win. Then, from “will win,” he arrives at “cannot be resisted.” And finally: “We must join with him.” Notice the word “must.” Saruman does not say, “I want to stand with Sauron.” He says, “We must.” A personal choice is transformed into an inevitability imposed by reality itself. That is Saruman’s real tragedy. He does not need to stop thinking in order to become corrupted. On the contrary, he continues to reason. He continues to analyze. He continues to speak in the language of rationality. He even calls his choice wisdom: “It would be wise, my friend.” And this is where intelligence begins to become a trap. Saruman has constructed a chain of reasoning in which every path leads to the same conclusion: Sauron is too powerful, therefore resisting him is futile; if resistance is futile, then cooperation is the practical choice; and if that is the practical choice, then surrender can be called wisdom. He is no longer using reason to search for the truth. He is using reason to protect a conclusion he has already accepted. That is a particularly dangerous form of self-justification: when a person begins to call what they fear something they “must” do, and then calls their surrender “reason.” And this is why Gandalf’s reaction to the Palantír is so significant. He does not argue with Saruman that knowledge is bad. He simply says: “A Palantír is a dangerous tool.” Then he covers it. Gandalf understands something Saruman has forgotten: being wise does not mean always wanting to see more. It means knowing the limits of your own understanding. There are things we need to know. But there are also things we need to recognize that we cannot fully control in the way they affect us. Gandalf does not cover the Palantír because he is afraid of the truth. He covers it because he understands that not everything we can see should be looked at in whatever way we choose. Especially because Gandalf also says: “We do not know who else may be watching.” That line completely changes the meaning of the orb. The Palantír is not merely a window through which we can look out at the world. It is also a window through which someone else can look back at us. Saruman thinks he is using the tool to observe Sauron. But eventually, Saruman himself becomes trapped in a relationship he no longer controls. This is the paradox of power: we think we are holding the tool, until we realize that the tool has begun to shape the way we see the world. And from here, the two Wizards stand before the same problem but respond to it in completely different ways. Saruman looks at Sauron’s power and concludes: We cannot win. Gandalf looks at the same thing but refuses to accept that conclusion. Not because Gandalf knows for certain that they will win. But because he understands that no one has the right to turn a possibility into a destiny simply because they cannot yet see a way out. That is why Gandalf’s question cuts so deeply: “When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason for madness?” Gandalf does not ask: “When did you become evil?” He asks: “When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason?” Because Saruman’s fall begins with the very thing that once made him powerful: his intelligence. Intelligence itself is not the problem. The problem begins at the moment a person believes their intelligence has become great enough that they no longer need to question themselves. And perhaps that is what makes the Palantír such an intriguing symbol. It is an orb designed to see far into the distance. Yet the farther Saruman sees, the narrower his world becomes. He sees Sauron and no longer sees the possibility of resisting Sauron. He sees power and no longer sees courage. He sees war and no longer sees the small people who might change its outcome. Gandalf, meanwhile, sees less, but leaves room for more possibilities. And perhaps this is the deepest difference between the two. Saruman wants a complete view of the world so that he can be certain about the future. Gandalf accepts that the future cannot be seen in its entirety. One seeks certainty. The other accepts the limits of knowledge. And in Tolkien’s world, it is the second person who remains free. Because sometimes the most dangerous thing is not that we do not know enough. It is that we know a little, reason a great deal, and then begin to believe that our conclusion is the whole truth. Saruman is not defeated by the Palantír simply because he looks into it. He is defeated by what happens afterward: he allows what he sees to become the limit of what he can imagine. And Gandalf, through an action so small that it could almost be overlooked, simply pulls the cloth back over the Palantír. As if reminding us: Wisdom does not always mean seeing more. Sometimes wisdom means recognizing that the very way we see can deceive us.

🎼🌺Music Love♥️

15,358 Aufrufe • vor 21 Tagen

Dave Smith (Dave Smith) and Coleman Hughes (Coleman Hughes) debate the reliability of the claim by General Wesley Clark that, in 2001, he was told the decision had been made to take out seven Middle East countries in five years. Dave: “The fact is that much of what he said came true and that's what makes it interesting.” Coleman: “Everyone else in the room does not say the decision had been made...Your only evidence is the guy who never read it...If you were a historian writing a book, you'd have to cut this out of the book.”

Dave Smith (Dave Smith) and Coleman Hughes (Coleman Hughes) debate the reliability of the claim by General Wesley Clark that, in 2001, he was told the decision had been made to take out seven Middle East countries in five years. Dave: “The fact is that much of what he said came true and that's what makes it interesting.” Coleman: “Everyone else in the room does not say the decision had been made...Your only evidence is the guy who never read it...If you were a historian writing a book, you'd have to cut this out of the book.”

Conversations with Coleman

98,566 Aufrufe • vor 11 Monaten

Francois Truffaut on Jean-Luc Godard: "Godard makes two or three movies a year, because he works like a painter. For him, what counts is not a single movie, but the work he has done during a certain artistic period. What I admire most in his films (although he can, if he wants to, show that he is visually one of the world’s best directors) is the beauty of his dialogues. He started making movies at the time when we all discovered Bergman, who liberated dialogue, that is, he showed us that the characters need only express what the director wants them to. There is no need to concern oneself with their psychology, or their social situation, or the plot. And Godard has secrets, you know, he never has a character go out a door and into the street. His characters go out a door, turn to the left, retrace their steps, and then go into the street. They put a cigarette into their mouth, take it out, put it back in, light it, and when it’s lit, throw it away. He is the only one who is able to express the instability of life. And he has also done away with the notion of characters who are likable or not likable, because in his films there are no feelings. Godard is certainly the most imitated director in the world, and people say, ‘He opened the doors,’ but I don’t think so. I think he opened the doors for him, just as it’s very dangerous to imitate Orson Welles by placing the camera on the ground. That’s O.K. for him but not for the rest of us." (Truffaut's interview with Sanche De Gramont, 1969) Clip from: Masculin Féminin (1966) Director: Jean-Luc Godard

Francois Truffaut on Jean-Luc Godard: "Godard makes two or three movies a year, because he works like a painter. For him, what counts is not a single movie, but the work he has done during a certain artistic period. What I admire most in his films (although he can, if he wants to, show that he is visually one of the world’s best directors) is the beauty of his dialogues. He started making movies at the time when we all discovered Bergman, who liberated dialogue, that is, he showed us that the characters need only express what the director wants them to. There is no need to concern oneself with their psychology, or their social situation, or the plot. And Godard has secrets, you know, he never has a character go out a door and into the street. His characters go out a door, turn to the left, retrace their steps, and then go into the street. They put a cigarette into their mouth, take it out, put it back in, light it, and when it’s lit, throw it away. He is the only one who is able to express the instability of life. And he has also done away with the notion of characters who are likable or not likable, because in his films there are no feelings. Godard is certainly the most imitated director in the world, and people say, ‘He opened the doors,’ but I don’t think so. I think he opened the doors for him, just as it’s very dangerous to imitate Orson Welles by placing the camera on the ground. That’s O.K. for him but not for the rest of us." (Truffaut's interview with Sanche De Gramont, 1969) Clip from: Masculin Féminin (1966) Director: Jean-Luc Godard

DepressedBergman

143,754 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Mark Zuckerberg just described the obsolescence of every institution on Earth and delivered it like a product update. Zuckerberg: “I just think in the future almost everyone is gonna have the power of a 10,000-person organization.” He did not say better tools. He did not say smarter apps. He said the full cognitive output of ten thousand human beings. Packaged into a product. Handed to one person. That is not an upgrade. That is the end of the reason human beings organize at all. Companies exist because one brain is not enough. Governments exist because coordination requires hierarchy. Universities exist because knowledge demands infrastructure. Every institution ever built was a workaround for the same limitation. No single person could do it alone. Zuckerberg is telling you that limitation is about to disappear. The 500-person startup becomes one founder and an AI stack. The law firm becomes one attorney and a system that never sleeps. The hospital becomes one doctor carrying every specialist in their pocket. That is not speculation. That is a deployment schedule. And the man writing it runs a 70,000-person company. He employs 70,000 people and just told the world one person will soon need none of them. That is not a prediction. That is a confession from the man who will be first to act on it. But the part nobody is discussing matters more. This technology does not land on everyone equally. It lands first on the people who already command 10,000-person organizations. Zuckerberg does not get the power of 10,000 people. He already has that. He gets the power of 10,000 organizations. Every revolution in history was sold as liberation. The printing press was supposed to democratize knowledge. It built media empires. The internet was supposed to democratize commerce. It built trillion-dollar platforms. The tool always arrives as liberation. It always settles as leverage. And leverage always consolidates upward. Zuckerberg is not wrong about the capability. One person will do what ten thousand once did. But the question nobody is asking is the only one that matters. If everyone wields the output of 10,000 people, what is a single person actually worth? And then Zuckerberg answered his own question without realizing it. Zuckerberg: “If the intelligence of a 10,000-person company is not greater than the intelligence of a single person, then what are we doing here?” He meant it as a case for AI. That is the most brutal thing a CEO has ever said about the people who work for him.

Mark Zuckerberg just described the obsolescence of every institution on Earth and delivered it like a product update. Zuckerberg: “I just think in the future almost everyone is gonna have the power of a 10,000-person organization.” He did not say better tools. He did not say smarter apps. He said the full cognitive output of ten thousand human beings. Packaged into a product. Handed to one person. That is not an upgrade. That is the end of the reason human beings organize at all. Companies exist because one brain is not enough. Governments exist because coordination requires hierarchy. Universities exist because knowledge demands infrastructure. Every institution ever built was a workaround for the same limitation. No single person could do it alone. Zuckerberg is telling you that limitation is about to disappear. The 500-person startup becomes one founder and an AI stack. The law firm becomes one attorney and a system that never sleeps. The hospital becomes one doctor carrying every specialist in their pocket. That is not speculation. That is a deployment schedule. And the man writing it runs a 70,000-person company. He employs 70,000 people and just told the world one person will soon need none of them. That is not a prediction. That is a confession from the man who will be first to act on it. But the part nobody is discussing matters more. This technology does not land on everyone equally. It lands first on the people who already command 10,000-person organizations. Zuckerberg does not get the power of 10,000 people. He already has that. He gets the power of 10,000 organizations. Every revolution in history was sold as liberation. The printing press was supposed to democratize knowledge. It built media empires. The internet was supposed to democratize commerce. It built trillion-dollar platforms. The tool always arrives as liberation. It always settles as leverage. And leverage always consolidates upward. Zuckerberg is not wrong about the capability. One person will do what ten thousand once did. But the question nobody is asking is the only one that matters. If everyone wields the output of 10,000 people, what is a single person actually worth? And then Zuckerberg answered his own question without realizing it. Zuckerberg: “If the intelligence of a 10,000-person company is not greater than the intelligence of a single person, then what are we doing here?” He meant it as a case for AI. That is the most brutal thing a CEO has ever said about the people who work for him.

Dustin

54,061 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

Maria Popova on the soul, the self, and what AI will never have: "AI will never have feeling. AI will have the simulacrum of feeling. AI will never write the great American poem, the great French poem, because it hasn't suffered. AI doesn't have the capacity to suffer. Even if you try to make it suffer, meaning write a command that is to execute failure, it'll already be succeeding at executing failure. AI can only ever succeed. And without suffering, what kind of true art can there be? All writing that is truly moving is born of feeling and time. AI has neither; it's an instantaneous, unfeeling delivery of pure information. The function of what we call the soul is real. Whatever it's made of, where it is. And the part that I worry about is that today, most people live on the level of the self and not the level of the soul. Just the costume of personality over the soul." The value of persons does not rest on our "costume of personality," but on the soul beneath it.

Maria Popova on the soul, the self, and what AI will never have: "AI will never have feeling. AI will have the simulacrum of feeling. AI will never write the great American poem, the great French poem, because it hasn't suffered. AI doesn't have the capacity to suffer. Even if you try to make it suffer, meaning write a command that is to execute failure, it'll already be succeeding at executing failure. AI can only ever succeed. And without suffering, what kind of true art can there be? All writing that is truly moving is born of feeling and time. AI has neither; it's an instantaneous, unfeeling delivery of pure information. The function of what we call the soul is real. Whatever it's made of, where it is. And the part that I worry about is that today, most people live on the level of the self and not the level of the soul. Just the costume of personality over the soul." The value of persons does not rest on our "costume of personality," but on the soul beneath it.

David Perell Clips

12,220 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten