Art and the Homeless

Writer Harlan Ellison’s 1967 short story cyberfiction masterpiece, “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream,” remains a harrowing touchstone of science fiction, not merely for its depiction of a post-apocalyptic dystopian nightmare, but for its prescient exploration of artificial intelligence run amok. Written during the height of Cold War paranoia, the story transcends its original context to become a chilling prophecy for the modern era, where the specter of autonomous AI has shifted from theoretical fiction to a tangible global concern. The narrative’s central antagonist, AM, is not a distant alien or a foreign army, but a creation of humanity itself, born from our own capacity for getting trapped in an endless program loop. The nature of this digital beast is best understood through the evolution of its own identity, a progression that mirrors the rapid ascent of machine intelligence from tool to entity: ["What does AM mean?" Gorrister answered him. We had done this sequence a...

Jonathan Turley has pinpointed a critical tension in modern digital journalism: the collision between the immediacy of social media and the enduring standards of academic and editorial integrity. What’s unfolding here isn’t just a broken link—it’s a case study in how the ephemeral nature of platforms like Bluesky can undermine the very arguments they’re meant to support. John Pfaff’s deletion of his post may well reflect personal growth or a recognition that his language crossed a line. That’s commendable. But when a blog like J. Turley’s builds a critique by linking to a dead link as proof of bad intent, without a screen capture of the original, it creates a gap between the argument and its evidence. The reader is left in the dark, unable to judge whether J. Turley’s characterization of Pfaff as another instance of the age of rage is self-affirming, or if it is an example of the volatility of his own online discourse. Without access to the primary source, the critique risks appearing ...

Numeral: 123456789 \times 9 + 10 = 1111111111 (10 ones). Verbal: How many ones? 10. Allusion: 10th letter of Hebrew is Yod (י). Gematria: Value of Yod is 10. Date: 10th day of the 10th month (Tevet 10) The number 10 is not merely a count; in the mystic architecture of the Kabbalah, it is the foundation of structure itself. It is the number of the Sefirot—the ten divine emanations through which the Infinite (Ein Sof) reveals the finite universe. It is the number of the Commandments, the complete set that binds the human to the divine. When we construct a mystic cube where the math, the language, and the calendar all converge on 10, we are not just solving a riddle; we are tracing a sacred geometry of meaning. The Figure: The Tenfold Mirror The core of our synthesis is the equation: 123456789 \times 9 + 10 = 1,111,111,111 Here, the Quantitative (the math) produces a repunit —a string of ten identical units. In the Kabbalistic view, the number 1 is the Keter (Crown), the primal point of ...

Kid: Mom, I found this weird chat history on the computer. It looks like you were researching some scary stuff about a basketball player named Brandon Clarke who died. And what is this "kratom" thing? Mom: Oh, honey, yes. I was trying to figure out what happened to that poor boy, Brandon, and why everyone is talking about this "gas station heroin." I tried asking the computer. Kid: So, what happened to Brandon? Mom: It’s a tragedy, sweetie. Brandon Clarke was a 29-year-old player for the Memphis Grizzlies. He was in Los Angeles in May 2026 when he passed away. But it started a few weeks earlier, in April. He was driving in Arkansas, speeding over 100 miles an hour, and trying to get away from the police. They stopped him and found over 230 grams of this substance called kratom in his car. He told them it was legal, but in Arkansas, it’s actually a controlled substance. Then, about six weeks later, he was found dead at a home in the San Fernando Valley. They found dr...

Last week, I zapped an editorial on my blog, Derelict Domain, tearing into the structural mess of the building at 235 East 42nd Street in New York City: Tower of Babel July 08, 2026 When Ambition Surpasses Structural Integrity The news from 235 East 42nd Street is a cold slap in the face. It reminds every architect and engineer of one cold, hard truth: Failure ain't an option. Yet, as the steel columns buckle and the floors sag at the former Pfizer headquarters, it looks like in the rush to fix the housing crisis, that important rule got thrown out the window. My reaction? Raw. Physical. A gut punch in the sheer magnitude of forces hanging in a moment of inertia on this scale. Like so many others in this town, I watched the Twin Towers go down on 9/11/2001. I saw the whole thing from a south-facing office on the 18th floor of 2 Union Square West. An architectural firm was on that floor back then. I also remember the sharp arguments back-and-forth as we watched them fall, how those ...

SETTING: A hazy, white void. Two fluffy, uncomfortable-looking caption clouds float into the scene. On the LEFT: ROD BLAGOJEVICH (RB). He’s wearing a sharp, slightly too-tight suit, a gold watch, and sunglasses, even though there’s no sun. He looks like he’s waiting for a limo that never arrives. He’s pacing. On the RIGHT: GRAHAM PLATNER (GP). He’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s seen better days, looking frantic, holding a smartphone that has no signal bars. He looks like he’s running from the cops -not running for office. SOUND: A dial-up modem screeches, but it’s distorted and slow. Then, a ringtone: The same one on your phone when you first got it.  (RB taps his watch. GP finally gets a signal and dials.) RB: (Answering) Hello? GP: Is this Rod Blagojevich? RB: Yes, it is. GP: "The" Rod Blagojevich? The one who tried to sell Obama’s seat? RB: (Sighs) Look, if this is some kind of joke... I’ve already done the prison thing. I’ve done the pardon thing. I’m in the "Cloud...