Ancestor Simulation Theory, what I think on it...

Ancestor theory is occurring right now to prove an improvable theorem using the human soul or Will as a quantum state x 7 billion and the entire planet as the computer or infinity machine, which will continue running until the equation is proven or proven to be improvable.


That means that the human race was started, or chosen, out of all the other animals and we were fed an "ultimate" equation. Why are we here? Or maybe, is there a GOD?

Then we were set aside and have been running for the past billions of years, The Big Bang, while the Programmers went about their business.

But that means we have to come up with some new maths to be able to simulate emotions.  But that means that some of the theories (equations) will be improvable because emotion cannot be quantified.  It is a variable of genetics, environment and nurturing.

So here is a new math alreay.

Here is an example of Kurt Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem. “Gödel then points out that the following statement is a part of the system: a statement P which states "there is no proof of P". If P is true, there is no proof of it. If P is false, there is a proof that P is true, which is a contradiction. Therefore it cannot be determined within the system whether P is true.”

I remember a riddle that reminds me of this theorem. A missionary is captured by a tribe and sentenced to death. He is brought before the Chief and is told he has the chance to make one statement before he is put to death.
If he is telling the truth he will be mercifully thrown off a cliff.
If he lies, he will be fed alive to lions.
What did the missionary say that caused the Chief to release him?...

“I’m going to be fed to the lions.” And I’ll bet that was some quick thinking on the missionary’s part.

So, then Alan Turing adds to the Incompleteness Theorem by bringing a mechanical view to the problem. If a computer is fed an equation, it will either continue running, no matter how long it takes, until it finds the solution, and then stop. OR, it will continue running to infinity because the equation is improvable. BUT there is no way to determine beforehand if the equation is going to be provable or improvable. (I’m not sure improvable is a word since spell check keeps correcting me, but if it’s not, I’m taking credit for it. j/k.)

So what if the human brain is a super-computer and those in the astral plane are the consumers for this product. They shape it and develop it in the womb, to become the instrument which we, “the human”/program, will occupy and utilize to solve the complex problems we are given by the Programmers / GOD.

But that doesn’t feel right also, unless the Programmers have developed separate systems to solve separate problems. 

It's too much energy to spend for only 1 problem; but they have created sub-sets of these systems to work as a unit at solving a certain problem with a defined set of parameters. For example, you take the soul of an artist, the soul of a genius, the soul of a nurturer, the soul of a warrior and you provide them with different types of computers/bodies and parameters/environment. (Artistic soul / African body / wealthy) x (warriors soul / Chinese body / poverty) x (genius soul /Aryan body / nomadic) x (nurturer soul / Hispanic body / slutty)

And the amount of parameters boggles the mind, but not if you are able to break people down into Super Sets of Parameter then place them in different equations and add various variables, then you could use the planet and all the minds in it to run seperate parts of the equation in different parameters all at once. 

Sort of like breaking up the computation power of several computers to solve the same equation with millions of variables simultaneously.

OR

Like watching the Chinese "Idol", the Indian "Idol" and the British "Idol".  They're all the same, but just a tiny bit different to fit in their parameters/culture.  And they all work on the same problem, who can make the biggest ass out of themselves OR who is a diamond in the rough.

But here is why I don’t believe Ancestor Simulation is possible.

The SOUL.

No computer, no manufacturer, no programming can replicate the human soul. When you come down to it, that is the only variable the computer will NOT be able to simulate, and so I know that I am not living in Ancestor Simulation theory.

But I will get back to you on the 11th dimension.

The Fame Vampires

The trap is set
Tristan was running down the main aisle of a gigantic warehouse in complete darkness. His Aural Vision was working overdrive to keep him from bumping into boxes and crates laid haphazardly all over the place. He could hear them coming right behind him, about 3 of them, judging by the scrapes of claws on concrete.
At the rear exit bay of the warehouse 3 other Warriors stood waiting for Tristan to come running out and spring the trap on the Demons chasing him.
The background

Fame Demons are the most common level of demons and have been springing up like wildfire all over the world. They thrive off the fame and fortune of the rich and infamous. They are able to do this because the Idolatry of the masses is like a vapor of energy flowing from the fans into a superstar, who is a vessel to contain this energy. Then Fame Demons are able to sip from the star’s energy at their leisure.

Like gigantic ticks, they leech off the “Ganas” of the masses. Literal translation; the Will of the People. They are all but invisible in their natural forms on the Astral Plane, but when they possess someone, all bets are off. Depending on the strength of the Demon, the person may look normal, or they may be twisted into deformed human-like versions of themselves. The stronger the Demon, the better they can control the possession and the more human they will appear. The weaker Demons will change the body of the possessed into a monstrosity. These are the usual enforcers and guardians of the stronger ones, but that did not make them physically weak.

Hell, he’d seen one of these monsters rip a door off a car like it was a toy and throw it across the street as an afterthought. They also could hit 35 mph in a dead sprint, but not while running through a maze like this warehouse, or he’d be done by now.

The trap is sprung

Finally he saw the lighter blackness of the open bay door and dared a look back over his shoulder. What he saw made him pull his two Bangkon, Phillipino blades, out of their sheaths on his thighs as he ran. His eyes widened as he saw with Aural Vision the disgusting, bloated shapes mimicking the motion of the human body on the Physical Plane. He gagged and felt that to be touched, even by accident, would poison his soul, though he knew it doesn’t work that way.

They were literally steps away from reaching him as he leapt through the small circular opening in the center of the net. His forward momentum carried him through just as the first beast ran head on into the net, arms outstretched to rip him limb from limb.

Landing awkwardly because of the blades he’d drawn, he rolled and tumbled to a stop at the feet of his group of enforcers.

Celestino, Javier & Bucho, the 3 brothers from Guanajuato he’d met while chasing down a particularly foul Succubus in Mexico. The beast had possessed their sister and only thru their quick action were they able to save her Soul from being dragged down to Hell with the Demon. Unfortunately they had not been able to save her Life as well.

Now they were an insatiable trio of Hunters fighting for the innocents that can’t defend themselves.

The net closed in on the beasts and trapped them in a strong metal bag. The 3 enforcers pulled up their custom-built water pistols and unloaded about 5 gallons of Holy Water on the swirling mass of hatred in front of them with instantaneous and devastating results. Then, when they were incapacitated, Tristan stepped forward and decapitated them one by one. His swords had been blessed by the Dalai Lama himself and instantly transported the Demons back to Hell.

Tracking Down The Capo

“Tristan, did you find out who these guys are working for,” asked Celestino. He was the oldest and smallest of the 3 brothers. He stood 5ft 8in and weighed about 155 soaking wet but could move like a whirlwind in a fight, making you feel like you were fighting 3 men instead of 1.

“Well, let’s see what their jackets say,” responded Tristan as he kicked one of the headless bodies over.

“Dios Mio, ‘El Rey’,” exclaimed Bucho. Second in age to Celestino, he was a little more hip and into Pop Culture than the other two. But still, anyone in Mexico could have told you who “El Rey” was.

“Who is El Rey,” asked Celestino after wiping the vomit off his mouth. Being the youngest, 18, and the most innocent, he’d been an altar boy for Christ’s sake, he still needed some seasoning, but he did not lack the courage.

“A singer/musician/actor that came out of nowhere to start sweeping everyone off their feet. He wrote and starred in his first movie about 2 years ago and it was a smash, then word came out that he’d written and sung all the original music on the movie as well and that just blew everyone’s mind because the soundtrack was incredible.” Cesar said all this from memory, because he’d just been reading about this guy in Rolling Stone magazine. “Now it appears he’s either being used by a Capo Demon or he is a Capo Demon.”

“How do you know there is a Capo Demon involved,” responded Celestino.

“Because the rise to fame is too sudden and too pronounced. The amount of energy needed to ensure this success cannot be summoned or controlled by your run-of-the-mill Demon,” responded Tristan. “Our only hope is that we can get to “El Rey” before he becomes unstoppable.”

“Like the Capo Demon controlling Britney. I wouldn’t face him with an ARMY of HUNTERS,” said Bucho, just to lighten the mood.

They spent the next half hour cleaning the sight and decontaminating their net. The bodies were dismembered, for easier transport, and taken to a pig farm for disposal. Burning them left too much evidence.

The Fame Vampires

The trap is set
Tristan was running down the main aisle of a gigantic warehouse in complete darkness. His Aural Vision was working overdrive to keep him from bumping into boxes and crates laid haphazardly all over the place. He could hear them coming right behind him, about 3 of them, judging by the scrapes of claws on concrete.
At the rear exit bay of the warehouse 3 other Warriors stood waiting for Tristan to come running out and spring the trap on the Demons chasing him.
The background
Fame Demons are the most common level of demons and have been springing up like wildfire all over the world. They thrive off the fame and fortune of the rich and infamous. They are able to do this because the Idolatry of the masses is like a vapor of energy flowing from the fans into a superstar, who is a vessel to contain this energy. Then Fame Demons are able to sip from the star’s energy at their leisure.
Like gigantic ticks, they leech off the “Ganas” of the masses. Literal translation; the Will of the People. They are all but invisible in their natural forms on the Astral Plane, but when they possess someone, all bets are off. Depending on the strength of the Demon, the person may look normal, or they may be twisted into deformed human-like versions of themselves. The stronger the Demon, the better they can control the possession and the more human they will appear. The weaker Demons will change the body of the possessed into a monstrosity. These are the usual enforcers and guardians of the stronger ones, but that did not make them physically weak.
Hell, he’d seen one of these monsters rip a door off a car like it was a toy and throw it across the street as an afterthought. They also could hit 35 mph in a dead sprint, but not while running through a maze like this warehouse, or he’d be done by now.
The trap is sprung
Finally he saw the lighter blackness of the open bay door and dared a look back over his shoulder. What he saw made him pull his two Bangkon, Phillipino blades, out of their sheaths on his thighs as he ran. His eyes widened as he saw with Aural Vision the disgusting, bloated shapes mimicking the motion of the human body on the Physical Plane. He gagged and felt that to be touched, even by accident, would poison his soul, though he knew it doesn’t work that way.
They were literally steps away from reaching him as he leapt through the small circular opening in the center of the net. His forward momentum carried him through just as the first beast ran head on into the net, arms outstretched to rip him limb from limb.
Landing awkwardly because of the blades he’d drawn, he rolled and tumbled to a stop at the feet of his group of enforcers.
Celestino, Javier & Bucho, the 3 brothers from Guanajuato he’d met while chasing down a particularly foul Succubus in Mexico. The beast had possessed their sister and only thru their quick action were they able to save her Soul from being dragged down to Hell with the Demon. Unfortunately they had not been able to save her Life as well.
Now they were an insatiable trio of Hunters fighting for the innocents that can’t defend themselves.
The net closed in on the beasts and trapped them in a strong metal bag. The 3 enforcers pulled up their custom-built water pistols and unloaded about 5 gallons of Holy Water on the swirling mass of hatred in front of them with instantaneous and devastating results. Then, when they were incapacitated, Tristan stepped forward and decapitated them one by one. His swords had been blessed by the Dalai Lama himself and instantly transported the Demons back to Hell.
Tracking Down The Capo
“Tristan, did you find out who these guys are working for,” asked Celestino. He was the oldest and smallest of the 3 brothers. He stood 5ft 8in and weighed about 155 soaking wet but could move like a whirlwind in a fight, making you feel like you were fighting 3 men instead of 1.
“Well, let’s see what their jackets say,” responded Tristan as he kicked one of the headless bodies over.
“Dios Mio, ‘El Rey’,” exclaimed Bucho. Second in age to Celestino, he was a little more hip and into Pop Culture than the other two. But still, anyone in Mexico could have told you who “El Rey” was.
“Who is El Rey,” asked Celestino after wiping the vomit off his mouth. Being the youngest, 18, and the most innocent, he’d been an altar boy for Christ’s sake, he still needed some seasoning, but he did not lack the courage.
“A singer/musician/actor that came out of nowhere to start sweeping everyone off their feet. He wrote and starred in his first movie about 2 years ago and it was a smash, then word came out that he’d written and sung all the original music on the movie as well and that just blew everyone’s mind because the soundtrack was incredible.” Cesar said all this from memory, because he’d just been reading about this guy in Rolling Stone magazine. “Now it appears he’s either being used by a Capo Demon or he is a Capo Demon.”
“How do you know there is a Capo Demon involved,” responded Celestino.
“Because the rise to fame is too sudden and too pronounced. The amount of energy needed to ensure this success cannot be summoned or controlled by your run-of-the-mill Demon,” responded Tristan. “Our only hope is that we can get to “El Rey” before he becomes unstoppable.”
“Like the Capo Demon controlling Britney. I wouldn’t face him with an ARMY of HUNTERS,” said Bucho, just to lighten the mood.
They spent the next half hour cleaning the sight and decontaminating their net. The bodies were dismembered, for easier transport, and taken to a pig farm for disposal. Burning them left too much evidence.

Mar Y Arena, Capitulo Uno

Tristan was sitting at the corner booth staring indifferently at the karaoke singer belting out her version of “My Humps” by Fergilicious. A woman so sexy her name rhymes with delicious.
But what he was watching here was just a bunch of sweating and gyrating with giggles and pauses as the poor girl tries to remember the lyrics and shake what her Mama gave her. In the end, its just one more homicide of an alright song.

His shift had just ended and he was nursing an Irish Coffee, waiting for that one special moment when someone would really take a song and run with it.

His heart was too heavy to just head home and stare at the four walls in his bedroom.

All night long he’d borne witness to the misery and loneliness of the soul. It was too much to witness night after night. And to think there was a time when he enjoyed all of this.

He’d had his fair share of one-night stands and secret rendezvous. The husbands banging on his door looking for their wives. The slashed tires and broken windshields after he’d get out of work.

Then there were the innocents he’d corrupted or misused. The ones who’d learned the hard lessons of life at his hands. They haunted his mind to this very day.

Now, 10 years later and 35 years old, he was the dayshift bartender in a ½ star Hotel on the beach of Puerto Vallarta. It had been buried and battered by the hurricanes of 2002, but was now carving out a unique niche with the tourists of the cruise ships.

Tristan had convinced the hotel owner to make a place of rest for the Huichol Indians and be allowed to serve Peyote tea to the guests as a religious ceremony.

They were pushing the limits of the law, but so far no one had complained and everyone was rushing to get on the bandwagon, offering everything from mushroom tea to an extract of the poisonous frogs of South America.

Yet something was missing from his soul. He felt despair all the time. The people around him had begun to change. They now resembled animalistic versions of themselves;

The gold-diggers on their last legs, running everyday to try and keep age and gravity at bay, then using plastic surgery to hide their “flaws”. Feathers seemed to sprout from their hair and their eyes took on the predatory look of a hawk. They seemed to not just move through a crowd, but to observe and perch and flock. Then they’d find a more interesting branch and move on, but their eyes constantly on the look out for the next best thing.

The desperate men looking to fulfill some type of fantasy in a foreign land, so it wouldn’t count. They resembled dirty piglets, turning in unison when the feeding trough is filled with slop. The audacity they showed never failed to amaze Tristan. It bordered on ludicrous, but there was a weird dance going on here.

A pattern existed, a never ending parade of waves crashing over and over with the same results. The cruise ships arrive and then everyone heads to the beach to shed their inhibitions with liquid courage.

Here at Mar Y Arena Hotel the beach is semi-private since they are the very last hotel on the beach and around a bend in the shore. It really was a mini-paradise, run very efficiently by the Argentinean couple who’d bought it cold-cash to do something during retirement. They’d recognized the need for a youthful theme and hired Tristan straight out of a nightclub in San Antonio he’d been managing.

That was 2 years ago and the place was booming enough to have renovations going non-stop. The beach was made more hospitable by placing huge slabs of stones around a fire-pit to make benches and guests were kept from falling in the fire by a ringed stone wall.

And believe me they needed that after a religious ceremony with Peyote tea. People would forget their surroundings and experience transcendence, led by an elder shaman, to another realm. It was not uncommon for mass nudity to erupt for no reason and then they’d have to make sure that no one was having sex in public. If they were, the staff would kindly ask them to go to their room.

But it was all getting old for Tristan. The joy had left him.

And the most ridiculous thought of all was that he was constantly giving advice on Love. He’d hear women cry out all their anguish over a couple of shots (on the house of course). Men would complain that their mistresses were getting too demanding.

Everyone went around with too much enthusiasm and too forced laughter. Yet inside they felt rotten to the core. Like a dark cancer that he could see only through the corner of his eye. Masks would slip and true emotions would show and they were terrible to behold.

This was too much for tonight. Pushing himself out of the chair he decided it was time to visit El Viejo. Perhaps a Peyote tea and a hammock on the beach would clear his head. It was a full moon and it would be setting soon, there was no better time to lie out on the beach with the fire crackling and the salty air coming in from the Ocean. And besides, this would be the fifth time he’d be hearing “Margaritaville” in the last 4 hours, and that was too much.

As he turned the corner in the path that led to the front door of El Viejo’s Cabana he heard a laughter that tickled his ear. It was infectious and genuine.

Coming up the path was El Viejo, carrying his medicine bag and guiding by the hand a woman that made Tristan feel as though he had to go to the restroom. His palms were sweaty and his skin felt tight on him.

She was about his height but had a body that he’d often fantasized about. The kind of body that makes you wonder why God could be so cruel to the rest of us and yet so good to her. Yet there was a slight flaw, he just couldn’t place it.

Perhaps it was her Egyptian cat eyes over strong cheekbones. A full mouth, yet miniature, not overdone.

“Ah, Tristan, I was just going to look for you, this is Montserrat de la Vega,” said El Viejo, indicating the beauty on his arm. “We are about to perform a private ceremony and I thought you’d like to join us, since you’ve shown such a great interest in our ways.”

“My friends call me Monsi, short for Monsoon, they say,” she said as her left hand extended itself. Her right stayed firmly clasped in El Viejo’s grasp. Her face lit up in a smile that caused an involuntary reaction to Tristan’s face and he smiled too.

All that had been bothering him was gone as he sensed the beginning of another adventure…

To be continued;...

There's no single specific person out there for you...

Voices in the fan

So, the other night I was sitting in my new apartment by myself and I began hearing my sister talking into her cell phone. No big deal, but I could barely hear her over the AC fan. I called out to her 2 or 3 times, but figured she was just waiting to finish up her phone call.

After about 5 minutes I began to hear the person she was talking also. But the words weren't audible. Still, nothing registered on my mind as wrong.

I was in the middle of a good writing session, which means a do not disturb sign on my bedroom, but after 10 minutes I began to dwell on how long she had been talking without at least knocking on the door or yelling out hello.

Deciding to hear what she was saying, I reached over and switched off the AC Vent...Nothing. No noise, no conversation, no footsteps.

I walked around the apartment, but of course no one but my dog, Zavi was there. And she had been napping at my feet the whole time.

So what happened, did my imagination get away from me? Did my mind make up the noises? What was going on I asked myself, am I nuts. I mean, I feel pretty far from schizophrenic, but real crazy people don't know they're crazy.

Sitting back down I laughed it off. Had to be imagining things. Right?

"Right." answered the voice in the fan.

Welcome to my world.

This has been one of those weeks when it took me 2 novels to get through it. I read alot to get me thru the week. Everything from Anne Rice to Tom Clancy. I just like to read to forget how monotonous the days can be.

Of Course, reading leads to writing and so here I am. Putting my vents and frustrations on paper.

What really bothered me this week was the realization that most people truly feel they are entitled to non-stop satisfaction. They will complain if the line at the supermarket is too long. They will complain if the elevator doors don't wait for them. They seem to think the whole world is conspiring against their happiness.

And all I can think is why aren't you complaining about the starving children of the world. Why can't you complain about the lack of healthcare available to most Texans. Why don't you complain about the Hutto Prison where children are being housed with their parents like prisoners.

No, instead it's easier to complain about how long it took to get your Extra Value Meal in the Drive Thru since you're in a rush. Why not complain about all those people languishing in prison for selling/smoking a plant that grows in the ground? Instead of being out in the world, working and contributing to society, they prefer to house them in prison and ruin any future chances of a well adjusted life within these borders.

No, instead it's easier to complain about that b%$#@ that took your boyfriend's picture at the club. Who does she think she is? But why not complain about the lack of interest and resources being used to solve the massacre of women across the border in Juarez. More women have been murdered there in one city than in all of Texas for the same time period, but no, better to complain about that bitch wearing the same dress you are.

So, welcome to my world.