artificial intelligence - two words combined that can't make sense

[cxwx]

This is bad on many levels in a span of a few seconds

She's the chief "technical" officer
She either doesn't know how to answer basic questions or is blatantly lying because she does not want to admit they've stolen millions of "publicly" available images and videos, the same type of thing that would get the average YouTuber sued for doing.

I'm getting flashbacks of when Orchard Music gave Ghostboner a copywriter strike for using a live video from his own band.

[FVBTVS]

[FVBTVS]

[smooth]

I use chat gpt in the same sense that a spellchecker would be used. It is most of the time very stupid but sometimes, it does provoke something i haven't thought of yet

[ThePhillyExperiment]

[FVBTVS]

The Talking Machine by Marcel Schwob

The man who came in, holding a newspaper in his hand, had an expressive face and an intent gaze; I remember that he was pale and wrinkled, that I didn’t see him smile even once, and that his way of placing his finger against his lips was charged with mystery. But what first caught one’s attention was the stifled, broken sound of his voice. When his speech was slow and deep, the solemn tones of that voice could be heard, with unexpected, resonant silences, as if there were far distant overtones quivering in unison; but for the most part the words tumbled from his lips, and spouted forth muffled, broken, discordant, like the noises of cracking china. There seemed to be in him an endless host of breaking cords. And from this voice all intonation had disappeared; no nuances could be detected and it seemed remarkably old and exhausted.

Nevertheless this visitor that I had never seen before came forward and said: “You wrote these lines, did you not?”

And he read: “The voice which is the aerial sign of the thought, and through that of the soul, which teaches, preaches, exhorts, prays, praises, and loves; through which in turn the being shows itself to exist; something almost tangible to the blind; impossible to describe because it is too fluctuating and varied, simply too alive and embodied in too many sonorous forms; the voice which Théophile Gautier renounced telling about in words because it is neither sweet, nor dry, nor warm, nor cold, nor colorless, nor colored, but something of all that in another dimension; this voice that one can neither feel nor see; the most immaterial of worldy things, the one which most resembles a spirit—science, with a stylet, pierces it in its flight and buries it in little holes on a revolving cylinder.”

When he had finished—and his tumultuous speech reached my ear only as a muffled sound—this man danced on one leg, then on the other and without opening his lips uttered a dry, rasping laugh that seemed about to split asunder.

“Science,” he said, “the voice . . . Further on you wrote: ‘A great poet taught that speech could not be lost, since it is movement; that it was powerful and creative, and that perhaps, at the ends of the world, its vibrations were bringing into existence other universes, aqueous or volcanic stars, blazing new suns.’ And we both know, don’t we, that Plato had predicted, long before Poe, the power of the spoken word: ‘The voice is not merely a striking on the air: for the tapping finger can strike the air and never make a voice.’ And we also know that on a certain day in the month of December, 1890, one year to the day after the death of Robert Browning, there was heard at Edison-House, coming from the casket of a phonograph, the living voice of the poet, and that the sound waves in the air can forever be restored to life.

“You are savants and poets; you know how to conceive preserve, even restore life: the creation of it is unknown to you.”

I looked at the man pityingly. A deep line cut across his forehead from the hairline to the bridge of the nose. Madness seemed to bristle his hair and illuminate the balls of his eyes. The look on his face was one of triumph, like those who believe themselves emperor, pope, or God, and who, from the height of their greatness, despise the ignorant.

“Yes,” he went on—and his voice choked up the more he tried to make it strong—”you have set down all that the others know and the greater part of what they dream about; but I am greater. I can, to borrow from Poe, create worlds in movement, and blazing, roaring spheres with the sound from matter without a soul; and I have surpassed Lucifer in that I can force inorganic things to blaspheme. Night and day, according to my will, skins which were alive, and metals which perhaps are not yet so, utter lifeless words; and if it is true that the voice creates universes in space, those that I have caused it to create are worlds that have died before they came to life. In my house lies a Behemoth that bellows at a wave of my hand; I have invented a talking machine.”

I followed the man as he started for the door. Along noisy, well-frequented streets we passed and arrived finally at the outskirts of the city as the gas lamps, behind us, were lighting up one by one. Before a low postern set in a black wall the man stopped, and slid a bolt. We made our way through a somber, silent courtyard, and then my heart filled with anguish at the groanings, grating cries and syllabized words which seemed to come roaring from some cavernous gullet. And these words were totally without shading just as the voice of my guide, so that, in this unbounded exaggeration of vocal sounds, I could recognize nothing human.

The man showed me into a room that I could not describe because my attention was taken immediately by an awesome monstrosity towering in the center. There, as high as the ceiling, gaped a gigantic throat, blotched and swollen, with folds of black leather hanging or bulging from the tempestuous current of air that rumbled up from its depths to pass through two enormous, trembling lips. And amid the grinding of wheels and the screaming of metal wires I could watch the piles of leather shuddering, and the gigantic lips yawning falteringly; deep inside the gaping red pit an immense, fleshy lobe was flapping, rising, dangling, stretching up, down, right and left. A sudden burst of air shook the machine to its foundations, and a few articulated words spouted forth, uttered by an extra-human voice. The explosions of the consonants were terrifying, for the P and the B, like the V, escaped directly from between the black and swollen labial folds, as though being born under our very eyes. The D and the T burst forth under the snarling superior mass of leather, and the R, which took time to form, rolled ominously. The vowels, crudely modified, seemed to spurt out of the yawning gullet like notes from a trump, and the lisping of the S and the SH surpassed the horror of even monstrous mutilations.

“Here,” said the man as he placed his hand on the shoulder of a thin little woman, deformed and nervous, “here is the soul that works the keyboard of my machine. She executes on my piano pieces of human speech. I have trained her to admire my will: her notes are stammerings; her scales and exercises the BA, BE, BI, BO, BU of the classroom; her studies, the fables I compose for her; her fugues, my lyric pieces and poetry; her symphonies, my blasphemous philosophy. You see the keys which represent, in their syllable alphabet, and in only three rows, all the miserable signs of human thought. I produce, simultaneously—and without being struck down as damned—the thesis and antithesis of man’s truths and those of his God.”

He seated the little woman at the keyboard, behind the machine. “Listen,” he said in his muffled voice.

And the bellows began to move under the touch of the pedals; the hanging folds of the throat filled out; the monstrous lips quivered and gaped open; the tongue began working, and the clamor of the articulated speech burst forth:

IN THE BE-GIN-NING WAS THE WORD

roared the machine.

“This is a lie,” said the man. “It’s the lie of the books we call sacred. I have studied for many, many years; I have opened throats in the dissecting room; I have listened to voices screaming and weeping, to sobs and sermons; I have measured them mathematically; I have drawn them forth from myself and others; I have broken my own voice in my efforts; and I have lived so long with my machine that I speak, as it does, without nuances. Nuances, you understand, are part of the soul, and I have eliminated them. Here then is the truth and the new word.” And he screamed at the top of his voice—but the phrase resounded no more than a raucous whisper: “The Machine is going to say:

I HAVE CREATED THE WORD.”

And the bellows began to move under the touch of the pedals; the hanging folds of the throat filled out; the monstrous lips quivered and gaped open; the tongue began working and the speech burst forth in one prodigious stutter:

WOR-D WOR-D WOR-D

There was an extraordinary tearing of wires and crunching of gearwork; the throat sagged, there was an over-all withering of the leather, and a blast of air that swept away the syllabic keys into a twisted heap of debris. I couldn’t tell whether the machine had refused to blaspheme or whether she who played the words had introduced some principle of destruction into the mechanism: for the little, deformed woman had disappeared, and the man, whose taut face was suddenly furrowed with wrinkles, was crisping his fingers furiously in front of his muted mouth, his voice having disappeared forever.

[godofdeadlydeath]

I try not to think in hyperbole but the cat is out of the bag and we're all screwed, right? How society doesn't inevitably collapse once AI takes over completely, I really don't know. It's going to destroy creativity, arts, education, and the workforce. I just don't see us coming out of this hellhole.

[Whee of the Dead]

I know im a dumb idiot man child but I honestly think we need to go back to dial up internet to save the world

[Toilet Fleet]

There's a refinement conundrum that nobody in the AI space has competently talked their way out of yet

It's adjacent to dead internet theory, but you can see it in real time when you look at high-engagement Facebook posts that are literal nonsense: the engagement (the metrc that the entity wielding the AI cares about) is high but is just as artificial as the content was, so there is no meaningful feedback as it relates to quality and actual human experience. It gets rewarded irrespective of quality of engagement, and so you end up with turbocharged garbage in, supersonic garbage out

What it means in the interim for internet consumers is we're going to look back at mid-aughts SEO garbage blogs with fondness compared to the waking nightmare of literal crap we're going to have to wade through in all consumable media. Signal to noise will be absurdly bad. Unless the big social media companies figure shit out with the quickness, they're going to experience one of the most dramatic boom-bust transitions seen in Western economic history, as people fully disengage from content that is not only not tailored to their experience, but not tailored to a human being

<faggotry>Spaces like this board, Discord, etc., will be outposts in a mid-LLM/GPT inflection point. We already curate media (any good new death metal thread, etc.), have enough solid in/out grouping mechanisms that would mitigate flooding—and importantly, are low enough in profile that no discrete board/Discord will be aggressively targeted for lack of being meaningfully distinct from any other. So congrats on being stuck in the early 2000s?</homogay>

[Eight Bit Alien]

I think that you are wrong. What AI is going to learn is how to manipulate us psychologically. You don't even know what "engagement" is yet, nobody does, this isn't even a preview.

It won't be garbage, it will be something you won't even be capable of looking away from, and you won't be smart enough to recognize as such.

[Eight Bit Alien]

You should all be thankful you got to see the world as it was

[Toilet Fleet]

Jame the problem is that iterative models cannot know when and if they are successful! All the metrics they can use for inputs are already gamed if not easily gameable by other non-human actors: impressions, view counts, engagement counts, etc., and even those are merely abstractions of what it means to be successful.

The only thing that could tell The Worldfucker Machine that it's doing its job well is human input after review of the outputs, which again runs into a scaling problem: if Worldfucker runtimes 1, 2, ..., n are losers, n+1 hits, but n+2, n+3, ..., n+x are losers, then such a system either a.) accepts a constantly diminishing quality of return or b.) has to invest sufficient human input such that it can't scale economically beyond a few hobbyhorse projects

It is not an accident that the same people that were big on crypto and NFTs are now trying to sell us LLMs/GPTs: they wield a technology that's just obtuse enough to claim fucking magic solutions, just functional enough that the promises of future utility don't immediately read like complete smoke, and massive at-scale problems that nobody has meaningfully addressed*

*unless you count Ethereum's move to proof of stake, which is just feudalism 2.0 but on the blockchain

[FVBTVS]

no one knows anything

[cxwx]

[cxwx]

Joshua what are you doing?

[FVBTVS]

[spacehamster]

I just went from this thread to Twitter and stumbled into a thread on there that's literally over 1K posts of just AIs posting porn at each other.

[Hunter]

Twitter AI is like someone's grandma on facebook

[ghost boner]

This is fucking terrifying. I apologize if this has been posted already I rarely check this thread because I like to sleep well at night

https://www.unilad.com/technology/news/ ... 3-20240417

[FVBTVS]

leftist imbeciles stay spray painting pricless works of art (covered in glass) but im going to be the first mother fucker out here front kicking a robot onto the ground while screaming in front of a crowd of stunned onlookers

[Brutus Frank]

People worry about that shit as if self-checkout and labor automation that already exists isn't a bigger threat to their lives and livelihood.

[cxwx]

[Geeheeb]

I love that you are showing your homework to find the old glen benton interview for the other thread