Victor Alberto Bueno Marichal: 2025

martes, 27 de mayo de 2025

FROM TIME TO TIME THE TREES

FROM TIME TO TIME THE TREES

Underground
calculate
the age of time
that withers
and is reborn
with the songs
of the cicadas
and the winter rains

They sing with the breeze
that stirs in the wings
of the bees
so that the blue
and ultraviolet
permeate the mountain
of acacia and orange blossoms

Along with the northern lights
they dye the sunsets in autumn
with annatto and saffron
Far from the deserts
resigned to the solitude
of mirages
Near a river
scented with vanilla
Lit by the brilliance
of a few stars
that tonight
disguised themselves as fireflies
so that the spirit of each tree may shine
in the soul of each forest

Edgar Bueno
May/27/2025

https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/05/27/from-time-to-time-the-trees/

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viernes, 2 de mayo de 2025

The shallow black pools of the Jaguar God’s temple

The shallow black pools of the Jaguar God’s temple

Those who search the sky
for signs of what is to come
Explanations for what happens to them
with less faith than conviction

Those who draw flat figures
uniting with imaginary lines
the distant stars
in age and distance

Those who tally balances
of wings and claws, membranes, elytra and feathers
earthpeckers, songbirds, birds of prey, raptors and scavengers
light and shadow, rain and fire, wind and sand
Smoke, breeze and ash
dust, mist, clouds, lightning and fire stones

Those who know that we only perceive
in a four-dimensional dream
the shadows projected
when the feathered serpent
with jaguar teeth
flies over the true earth
The home of Chaculclán

Those who inherit
the blessings of the banners
that proclaim the God
waving in the wind
on the mother mountain
the truth of its uniqueness and infinity
and that learned the symbol of the dragon
in ancient watercolors

Those who suffer vertigo
from the abysses above
and navigate undaunted
the desperate reality
from the galaxies of light bulbs
of the nocturnal city

We all suffer of the same illness
We try to scratch the inscrutable reality
We all want to exorcise, to domesticate
to cage in symbols what overwhelms
our earthly and inconsequential everyday life

But we only intuit from afar the work of two hierarchs
One wept in amazement at the size of the mountains
beyond the desert at the end of the world
and discovered the hollow mother of the dragon

The other analyzed the sky
which he saw reflected
during a hummingbird cycle
in the shallow black ponds
squared with water lilies
that surrounded the greatest pyramidal temple
of the lineage that Chaculclán started

And painted the currents and tides of the sky
by day and by night
in codices stained with peyote

He also predicted the return of his clan’s founder
when three herons cross them diagonally
and an eagle drops a fish on an iguana
in some year of the jaguar.

For

Erwin Conte Corvera
Li Tao Po
VABM May/12/2025

http://victor-bueno.blogspot.com/2007/12/los-someros-estanques-negros-del-templo.html
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The Sign of the Jaguar

The Sign of the Jaguar

Faced with choosing the method of his death, Emeruc, son of Aruc, son of Ruc, son of Ca, begged to be jaguar food, preferably in a contest of blades and skill, between his favorite knife and the claws and fangs of several of them, captives, hungry and irritable.
But that honor was denied him by his conqueror, and his throat was cut by his executioner; his flesh became fuel on a bonfire, which was almost an altar to the Visigoth God of war.
His death was very similar to his sacrifices, to the many he offered. I understand that his god was apathetic that time, as almost always.
I know the sign of Emeruc, which is that of his clan, which is that of the jaguar. I have seen it on many of them, on several palm trees, some stones, and on the skins of the hunters of his people.
I don't know why they selected that particular spot. I reproduce it here.
Some see the jaguar sign as a skull or a face. Others say it's also the sign of 100, of excess, of beauty, and of wonder.
Some experts translate it as Yemeruc, which means the people of the jaguar.
Perhaps they are all right.
The tiger has several signs; my favorite is a Burmese one made up of several stripes that complement the shapes of the tallest grasses, of a parched prairie.
Some say that a Burmese sign of the tiger and another of the parched prairie form a wheel when superimposed. A solid red- with black spots wheel, like the sign of the sun in some modern mythologies.
In several societies, the tiger, the leopard, and the jaguar share the sign of the spotted claw.
The bloody claw is the insignia venerated by some violent people.
The padded claw, the one that floats on dry leaves, is preferred by some stealthy people. It hides behind the sign of a domestic cat's little hand.
I think you've noticed by now that it's clear I like glyphs more than letters.
I have nothing against predators; in fact, I find them more beautiful, tragic, and deserving of care than most prey.
I believe all creatures have their place on the food scale. I find the ladder, where humans are always placed above all other creatures, who are ultimately their prey, very amusing.
I actually imagine it not as a ladder but as a cascade of tables. Like tables that have tables set, that have tables set... Etc.
I've heard and seen on several television documentaries that predators improve prey populations by eliminating the weakest, least alert, most trusting, and slowest creatures. And I've agreed.
I think even scavengers have their place in my stack of stacked tables.
In my personal zoology (I'll state my ignorance in advance) predators are a small, specialized, and privileged group that depends on prey animals for their food.
In my personal sociology (I'll state my ignorance in advance) royalty is a small, specialized, and privileged group that depends on the commoners for their food.
Emeruc was king of a tribe. A hunter and privileged. Almost like a jaguar, in my very personal political science. Who depended on prey animals and the commoners for his food.
His conqueror was a looser who remained so for the rest of his short life, upon his return to the kingdom where he was an anonymous commoner.
The name of his executioner was never fully written.
I would like to write a short story in which the confrontation between two kingdoms and two sacrificers is just one phase of a game also played with scallop shells. Some of them marked with a glyph that signifies something too beautiful to be true, that is multiplied on palm trees, jaguars, and the skins of some warriors.
I would like to write a fat book about sublime beings who suddenly discover their vulgarity in a definitive and luminous moment.
About birds of prey instantly turned into prey.
About the surprises that the evolutionary ladder offers, or my tables upon tables, upon tables... Etc.
About privileged people stripped of their privileges, whether or not they were acquired through their own merits, in a very brief moment.
But I don't think I'll ever have the talent or the time :-)

Li Tao Po
VABM May/3/2025

http://victor-bueno.blogspot.com/2008/06/el-signo-del-jaguar.html
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martes, 29 de abril de 2025

The City of Resignation

The City of Resignation

I feel small looking at the galactic filaments of Laniakea, facing the sea and the mountains, I've felt like an insect in a storm during a meeting with a company's salespeople, and today I feel tiny beneath the cold gray sunset as I descend the steps of the small plane that brought me to the city of resignation.

I have a lingering scent of rum in my nose. I don't know how I've managed to resist the urge to smoke during the four and a half hours of the flight. I can't imagine why I don't feel like smoking. A calm that astonishes me to the point of perplexity keeps me standing on the ground under the cloudy sky and pushes me to get in line to retrieve my bags without first asking some idiot (who will look at me reproachfully when I ask) if he knows where I can smoke.

Could I have died? Is that thing about hell really true? I’ve read somewhere that when one dies, one sees one's entire life flash before one's dying eyes, and also that the dead retrace their steps.

<<I lived here before, I've returned, get ready, city of resignation>> I tell myself, holding a suitcase in each hand and a backpack on my back that weighs as if it were filled with wet sand.

I've been remembering those times all day, from the moment I woke up until I got in the taxi and the hypocritical taxi driver said, "Welcome, doctor, I'm at your service. Where do you want to go?"

<<city of resignation (I almost shout out the taxi window), I'm here>> I think as we drive along the airport road, which is elevated five meters above the lagoons on either side of which breed mosquitoes and shrimp of export quality and size.

From the air, I saw the lake, its perpetual fires, and the dry, completely mummified river with its concrete bandages. Studying, reviewing, or returning to the past: thirty percent of literature deals with that subject; the other thirty percent is about traveling or at least predict the future; almost all of the rest of literature is boring tales of love, lust, and desire.

The train tracks must already be more than a meter in ruins beneath the slow avenue where the house is. There's my cousin, next to the door, on a seat leaning against the wall, painstakingly and professionally smoking a cheap cigar.

My plan is simple:

"Hi, I'm Panda Papa’s dad. Do you remember me?" I'll tell him.

He probably won't recognize me because he already have forgotten all about me, and he'll come out with something like:

"I think you made a mistake"

So I'm going to take out my .38 caliber revolver that I inherited from our common grandfather, I'm going to pretend to load a single bullet, spin the cylinder a few times, point it at his forehead, pull the trigger just once, feign disappointment, and I'm going to pass him the revolver feigning resignation, and after the idiot has pulled the trigger more than twenty times, I'm going to tell him that we need to look for a more reliable and modern weapon.

Then I'm going to take out my X-ray-transparent plastic knife, hand it to him, turn my back on him as if carelessly, and since the idiot is going to use it as a dagger to stab me and not as a sharp one to slit my throat, I'm going to wait for him to break it against my bulletproof armor. That's when he'll invite me to talk like civilized people over a beer with three pills of Snow-White's-Sweet-Dreams in the most expensive bar in town. But since I have my veins stuffed with antidotes and vaccines, we'll get drunk, and when the waiter gives him the bill, apologizing because they're about to close, I'll tell him I'm paying and ask him:

"Do you really not remember me, dear cousin?"

Surely happy to have found someone capable of accompanying him on a drunken binge and who also pay the bill, he'll tell me he's never forgotten me and He's going to invite me to the bar of a hardworking, honest businessman who doesn't close until the last of his customers has had enough drinks, and I'm going to let him take me to the bar he inherited from my uncle, and when he suggests that I hand over all the weapons to the innkeeper, I'm going to do everything he wants except for the nine-millimeter semi-automatic I always carry in my shoulder holster.

That's when the idiot is going to ask me my name again, and I'm going to tell him very slowly my name, and if he still doesn't remember me, I'm going to let the entire fifty-shot magazine go off in one continuous burst.

Fortunately, he wasn't any younger than me, he was my cousin's eldest son and he recognized the last name. My cousin had died of liver cirrhosis over ten years ago. He had inherited the bar and was embarrassed to give his employees permission to beat me up. Disappointed, they dropped their bats and machetes and wanted to join the family reunion, but my cousin's son wouldn't let them either. Then he had to take me to the cemetery to get over the annoyance of me insisting on greeting his dad.

He sadly watched as I wasted a bottle of rum on his father's grave. Although I had already paid for it, it shouldn't be wasted, especially with so many insolvent drunks around. He made me understand this with conviction as he licked the tombstone.

“You were right” I yelled at the grave and the sky because I didn’t know if my late cousin’s soul was up or down.

“You probably got lucky because you weren’t very smart. You always told me you could bet me a million that one day I would get tired, give up, and return to this shitty city, and that you were going to wait for me to get drunk until I fell asleep and then steal all the money I had in my wallet, so when I woke up I would have to go to the bank to pay you back.”

“I came back, but I won because you died first. I’m tired, resigned, and bored, but I’m going to die far away from here” I yelled, looking alternately at the ground and the sky.

My cousin's son insisted on accompanying me back to the airport when he'd resigned himself to the fact that I didn't want to be a guest in his home. He very kindly recommended some traditional handicrafts that a native woman was selling on the airport platform. I bought him a bow and arrows in a quiver.

"Don't believe her if She told you the arrows have curare in them" he warned me.

I didn't mean to tell him I would never take that risk.

Li Tao Po

VABM Apr/28/2025

https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/28/the-city-of-resignation/

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The war of bots

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La Guerra De Los Bots

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The War of Humans

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La Guerra de los Humanos

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La lástima de los bots

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The Pity of Bots

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Treaty of the good customs and virtues of the Martians

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Tratado de la buenas costumbres y virtudes de los marcianos

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The most beautiful panda girl in the entire universe

The most beautiful panda girl in the entire universe

Then the panda tutor said:
--Dear, Beloved, Admired, Respected, Favorite, and Eminent (BARFE) Panda Mama, today's lesson is about the cautionary tale. Do you have any preference or priority to assign me, or would you prefer a Quantum Randomness Generator (QRG) to select it from the global library?
Panda Mama was busy adapting the Food Synthesizer Programming Template (FSPT) for the 5-B seafood pizza from Cute Penguin Foods (CPF) to the preferences, characteristics, and needs of her family, and she answered almost mechanically:
--Leave everything to the blind and impartial chance, which, if not fair, is at least neutral.
Something deep in Panda Mama’s mind noticed again that the bot tutor’s greeting clearly lacked any praise for her much-desired genes, which are level five on the Pérez-Chang scale, which measures, ascending from one to five, the degree of adaptation to the current environment, flexibility in the face of variation, and of course, the demand for these genes in official and other gene banks.
She was accustomed to Panda Papa’s childish selfishness and had seen him adapt the tutor bot's behavior to the preferences, characteristics, and needs of his family. In any case, she made a mental note of the matter to include it in her next intimate conversation with him.
Then the panda tutor said:
--Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was so pretty that all the animals fought among themselves, competing for the privilege of playing with her; the little birds silenced their songs to hear hers; and the butterflies preferred to rest in her hands instead of perching on the flowers. She was so beautiful that the trees that didn't have ripe fruit to drop at her feet showered her with flowers and leaves.
The little panda girl interrupted the lesson and asked:
--So what happened when that little girl went to the beach?
--The small fish nibbled at her feet but quite soft. The pelicans paraded in front of her, trying to impress her by flying low over the waves, diving into the water and emerging with their bags full of fish.
--And what about the whales and the big fish?-- asked the little panda boy.
--Out of prudence, the big fish and whales don't come too close to the shore because they can run aground. Anyway, at night, the whales sang serenades to her, and when she went on a boat, the dolphins always greeted her and competed with each other to jump the highest out of the water.
--And what about the insects?-- asked the little panda girl.
--That was very complicated for her. All the mosquitoes wanted to drink her blood, all the flies wanted to suck her skin, all the cockroaches wanted to eat the remains of her food and they would get under her shoes, and sometimes she would accidentally step on them. When she went to the river, she had to put a little insect repellent on her sunscreen.
--And the snakes?--asked the panda boy.
--She was afraid of them, but when she went to the zoo's terrarium, the rattlesnakes competed with each other to be the loudest, and the cobras would rise. The boas and alligators in the lake would also wake up and start swimming.
--And the minerals?--asked the panda girl.
--The whole planet adored her. When she got sad, it rained, and when she was happy, it cleared up and rainbows appeared. In one of her rages, there was an earthquake and a volcano erupted once she got upset. The hurricane and the dead calm were just reflections or echoes of what she was feeling.
--And viruses and bacteria?-- asked the panda boy.
--That was a huge problem for her-- replied the tutor bot, adding:
--She had to wash her hands and face and use antibacterial gel before and after greeting or kissing her friends, because otherwise she would catch her illnesses. When she went to a hospital, she would get sick if she didn't wear gloves and a mask.
--So, EVERYONE loved her-- said the little panda girl, incredulous.
--Yes-- said the tutor bot, very serious and a little tired, and added:
--Of course, many people didn't realize that they loved her and believed that they were only jealous, but when they distanced themselves from her, they regretted it and came back. Of course, they didn't apologize for self-esteem issues. In any case, she wasn't resentful, and since she wasn't conceited, she tried not to make unfortunate people jealous and was patient with almost everyone. With All the people, even if they were very ugly.
That's all.
This story ends here.
--Is that all?-- asked PandavMama, who had been listening from the kitchen.
--What happened when that little girl grew up?
--I don't know, the story ends here. You told me to select a story at random. This text won a short story contest of up to four pages in Incaland of the south. If you want, let's not try to find the moral--replied the tutor bot, almost exhausted.
--I think the moral is that we have to be careful of envy and not encourage it-- said Little Panda Girl.
On the big screen on the wall, fireworks exploded, and the word "EXCELLENT!" began to bounce between the edges.
--I think the moral is that we have to control our temper so as not to hurt ourselves and others-- said Little Panda Boy.
On the big screen on the wall, fireworks exploded, and the word "EXCELLENT!" began to bounce around the edges.
--I think it's time for lunch-- said Panda Mama.
On the big screen on the wall, fireworks exploded, and the word "EXCELLENT!" began to bounce around the edges.

--I'm going to take advantage of this time to recharge my battery-- said the bot tutor, turning off the screen.

The meeting room lights came on, and I asked:
--beautiful BARFE and boss, can I send it to production?
I had to wait for her to finish speaking through her personal digital assistant (PDA). Then she asked me, smiling, though somewhat concerned:
--Would it be too much trouble if you included the bots among the group of worshippers of the most beautiful panda girl in the entire universe? She added, standing up from her chair:
--It's not that they've demanded it, nor that they have access to the pre-production equipment you use, much less your personal equipment, but I think as advertisers and clients they should be taken into account. I think you're far above the mediocre writers who repeat the old theme of bots' contempt for inefficient and ineffective biological beings and their envy of our feelings, incommunicable sensations, souls, creativity, and all that." And she added with a wicked smile:
--It's almost eight o'clock, my favorite pizzeria closes at twelve. Do you think you can send this corrected chapter to production before eleven?
The madman and the old man crossed their fingers.
--I'm sure I will--I said, imitating Panda Papa’s voice. I hope your FS supports my wife's adaptation of the FSPT model 5-B seafood pizza from CPF, which has krill as its secret ingredient.
Then I secretly asked the crazy guy and the old man to remind me that I had to reinforce the security of my equipment.

lunes, 28 de abril de 2025

Blue Opal

Blue Opal

I’m on the less western edge of the West Bridge, which connects the south and north of that part of the city.
Well, I’m not really there, just imagine it, please.
It’s (I think) 1970 and August. At each corner of the bridge, there’s a two-meter-high sandstone lion statue, sitting with its right front paw raised, I don’t know if it’s greeting or threatening.
Below, cars and motorcycles circulate in both directions (east-west and west-east) (bicycles are prohibited). I’m with a university friend. I like to cross the bridge with her. I always wait for her, leaning against the pedestal of the northwest lion. We live in nearby buildings, but we don’t consider ourselves neighbors. I’ve seen her in the hallways of the Humanities Faculty. I’ve also seen her with her military boyfriend. We only speak to each other on the way to classes, especially when we cross the bridge together. That’s where I met her. She was leaning against the railing almost in the center of the bridge, looking down at the cars passing by, and I jokingly said, “Did you drop something?”
She looked at me as if annoyed that I’d interrupted what she was doing, the violet in her irises flashing. That was the first time I’d ever seen her squint.
--It’s all so unreal--she shouted over the noise.
--Yeah, it looks like a river to me too, except it’s made of concrete and there’s no water, just cars. Please don’t jump.
--I don’t know, maybe it’s the noise, the danger, the fumes from the cars, the speed, the height. I don’t know, but I feel strange here. Maybe it’s because very few people walk around here, or because I’m afraid of people, or because everyone is in a hurry, I don’t know.
I’d been feeling weird for almost a year all over the stupid city, for the same reasons, but I hadn’t been able to list them all that well.
In the toilets of that time, the water swirled and formed a whirlpool through which the excrement flowed. I didn’t want to confess to her that that bridge attracted me like a whirlpool in a toilet, because she’d surely think badly of me.
I came to the city from an almost rural town where you could ride a bike and there were rivers where you could swim and fish, not like the pipe that carried garbage eastward between the two channels of the highway.
I didn’t fall in love, but a special place opened in my brain to record whatever she said or did.
--It could also be that it’s too real and that I’m not able to assimilate so much reality-- she said almost to herself.
I was impressed. I studied engineering, she thought like an artist or intellectual, my way of think was technical, I distrusted science, art, and the humanities more than politics, and I didn’t get involved in it. Her profile didn’t fit on any of my favorite porn magazines (the web hadn’t been invented yet), on the Pérez-Chang objective scale she didn’t reach 3.5 (PC < 3.5), and anyway she had a boyfriend, and worse, a military man.
The truth is that it seems that the neurons I dedicated to her have never lacked whatever it is they need to function well, because I still remember my conversations with her very well.
Now I am on the bridge, but today is May 8, 2035.
I haven’t heard from the friend I told you about in over fifty years. She must have died a long time ago.
The bridge is half battered, but it’s still holding up.
On each lion, there’s a large sign that announces clearly and without shame or fear: HAPPINESS NOW.
They closed the bridge to vehicles, allowing only pedestrians and the occasional bicycle.
I don’t know if I’ve resigned myself or adapted to living here. The truth is that I haven’t died yet, nor none have killed me.
A girl with a PC > 4.5, leaning on the pedestal of a stone lion, gave me a pill.
--Take it, old man-- she told me --so that You’ll be happy.
Blue Opal. I know it well. I like it. I take it from time to time. Their slogan is: “It’s not addictive, but it makes you want to take it all the time.”
I let the pill dissolve slowly, I slowly suck on it. Its effects come on quickly.
In the center of the bridge, a group of young people are jumping with ropes tied to their ankles. The idea is to touch the roofs of cars with their fingers, they tell me.
The electric pulley operator is sweating. He needs someone to relieve him. “I also have the right to jump” he tells me. I agree, but I don’t know how to operate the pulley.
--It’s very easy. When someone jumps, the button turns green after the sensors no longer sense any weight. Then you press it, the pulley spins, and the rope reels back in.
-And the person who jumped?--I ask.
--You always have to wait for them to let go. Anyway, the motor can’t pull the jumpers up; it only has enough power to reel in the rope.
I lean over the edge of the fence and see the corpses.
I tell him he’s causing accidents and that the police will be here soon to stop him from blocking traffic.
He gives me two handfuls of blue opals and says:
--old man, you need a strong dose. Hit it hard, don’t be shy. Almost no one uses the rope anyway.
Three blue opals, four coils of rope, more than eighty years of living here, and the whole stupid city still seems unreal to me. Thank goodness I’ve known for sixty years that this is because there’s so much reality here that it can’t be assimilated without chemical aid.
So when a policeman tells me to lie face down and put my hands behind my head, I do as he says, but I have blue opals between my fingers, because I’m sure he needs them and that he too has the right to happiness.
I’ve seen him dispatch back to the void several young men waiting for their turn to jump into the air. He’s clearly trying to earn merit, trying to impress his teammates. His weapon is the latest model and almost brand new. I’ve come this far. I don’t know if I can finish recording this.

Li Tao Po
VABM 28/Apr/2025
https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/28/blue-opal/
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sábado, 26 de abril de 2025

A spore that came from outside

A spore that came from outside

“All of the experts agree, the fungus that appeared in Madagascar is not from this planet. Its arrival has already been traced to the city of Sbisal III, famous for its robo-tennis team and the university's faculty of life sciences”
“Before it jumped to Africa, no one worried much about the nearly meters, twenty kilos fungi that covered that island in two and a half years”
“Its repulsive odor, detectable from over two hundred meters away by a synthetic tobacco smoker, and its flesh, which is a potent poison and burns skin up close, forced the inhabitants, and the animals that could, to emigrate”
“I don't know if that fungus is hurt by being sprayed with Violet Agent and burned with napalm. The truth is, it dies like any tree: firm. That's also how it lives”
“Concrete, asphalt, glass, steel, earth, sand, anything, put it wherever you want; it will thrive, and it will send its spores for more"
"We already know it only needs air to feed"
Sam, the host bot in-the-central-room, turned the hologram of the planet and touched a red dot in Brisbane, Australia, with his index finger. He said:
"And regarding the peace negotiations between the three blocs of the World countries Organization (WOC), we will contact our team on-site."
The host bot on-site greeted and said:
“I'm with the representative of West Central Punjab to the WOC, who has a very important message"
--Using the five minutes of global broadcast allotted to my country this month, I have the pleasure of greeting all the inhabitants of this beautiful planet and congratulating our tracto-cricket team for once again winning the world championship. I will also deny the unfounded accusations, from a country not even worth mentioning, that we have shown no interest in the war against the invasive fungus. The lie indicator over my image will remain transparent when I deny them now that I'm going to say this:
--Our air force has participated in more than ten bombing operations against the invading fungus—then with a large medal in his hands, he added:
--Now pull me up because I'm going to pin the medal on the team captain.
A large crane began to raise the platform where the representative was standing.
The panda boy changed forums; he was bored, uninterested in the news, and he had just been waiting for papa panda to go to his workroom, which he called his "office".
In Intergalactic Conquest (IC), he was on level three. The decorations for objectives achieved gleamed on his avatar's uniform when they needed to be displayed, but now he was wearing the fighter pilot's spacesuit, and only his squadron insignia had some color on the black camouflage.
--Copilot—he asked—what do we have today?
On his helmet's visor, the long-range radar showed him the location of an enemy reconnaissance patrol, and the evasion, surveillance, and attack routes.
His retinas showed more interest in the attack route, and it zoomed in on every detail.
<<Percentages>> he thought.
--30% Success, here we have four fighters and a supply ship, but that's a thousand points, 42,706 points are left for level 4-- said his copilot.
<<Requesting authorization to engage>> anxiously thought panda boy.
On his visor, his squadron commander (whose dark circles under his eyes showed the exhaustion from the responsibility of his position) simply said:
--Hit those marauders hard—and before closing the communications, he added, raising his right thumb:
--Good hunting.
<<I'm going to use two escort drones and four attack drones>> thought the panda boy.
His score for level 4 increased to 43,306. On each side of him, two panda pilots greeted him from their drones raising their right thumbs.
He used his right thumb to press the red button above his command stick and mentally ordered <<!Fire!>>
All of their weapons hit their targets, including those of their attack drones. The marauders had launched two attack drones five milliseconds before he launched his, but they were neutralized by his escort drones.
An image of an invader transport ship appeared on the radar. He pressed the red button again, and the image disappeared.
His squadron commander filled his entire field of vision and said:
--Congratulations! You've earned two hundred additional points because those traitors attacked earlier, and because they weren't just marauders, but invaders.
<<Status>> thought the panda boy.
--41,606 points left until level 4. It's sad we lost the escort bots-- said the copilot bot.
--yes-- said the panda boy as he took off his Amplified Virtual Reality (AVSR) headset.
<<When I’ll reach level 4, I'll be able to use the intracranial interface to the AVSR, and the marauders will see how they'll gain a five millisecond advantage over me>> he thought as he went to the refrigerator to get something to eat.
---------------
The lights in the living room came on.
--Are you a terrorist from Animal Protection (AP) or the Anti-Bot League (AL)?--the boss asked me after She stopped applauding-- She added--Where's the training in camaraderie and teamwork between humans and bots?
--I'm going to make you cry-- I replied.
--With or without gas?"
--In the next chapter, panda boy is going to place his most valuable medal on the unknown bot's tombstone in gratitude for all the copilot and companion bots he have had.
--I'm going to cry, but of hunger. I want penguin soup, and my food synthesizer told me it can't make it with the materials it has—and She added, smiling—-Do you think yours can?
--If mine can't either, it's just a matter of adapting the template.
--Shall we?
--The old man, the crazy one, and I answered:
--Yes!

Li Tao
VABM Apr 24, 2025
https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/26/a-spore-that-came-from-outside/
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lunes, 21 de abril de 2025

The Rich Taste of Reindeer Meat

The Rich Taste of Reindeer Meat

At six in the morning the alarm on the coffee machine in the previous security booth went off, but no one was there to turn it off. It went off again five times every two minutes and then turned off. There's no water in the tank, and the coffee container has been filled with coffee tar for over a year.
At five to eight in the morning the computers at the reception desk were turned on, but no one was there to operate them.
Who knows how many things without centralized control continue to waste electricity.
The risk of fire is high.
The contract with the previous security company, which also handled the reception desk, wasn't renewed over a year ago, but they obtained an anti-bot labor protection that guarantees that their work sites and equipment cannot be used without their permission until an agreement is reached with the company.
Of course they continue to be paid, and have no interest in seeing the negotiations with the data center representatives end.
I am an employee of the new security company that the judge hired in agreement with the company that owns the data center and the previous security company.
Nothing and no one (except my colleagues and me) enters or leaves the facility.
The data center equipment cannot be shut down by order of the judge, and all communications with the outside world are blocked.
Countless teraflops of processing power and terabytes of storage hibernate idle in the equipment that crams the shelves accessed through narrow, dark aisles used only by robots that install and replace equipment.
This facility is just one node in the network that supports Amplified Virtual Synthetic Reality (AVSR). All operations were transferred to other nodes two minutes after communications were interrupted, and half an hour later all equipment was hibernating, operating at minimum power consumption.
You get the urge to eat something that isn't already in the refrigerator, and then you have to go to the food synthesizer (FS), which is divided into four parts:
1. The raw material tanks
2. The preprocessor
3. The 3D printer
4. The temperature-controlled output tray.
And you get the idea that you'd like to eat a cold smoked reindeer sausage surrounded by ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard, and crumbled fries wrapped in poppy-seed bread. The advantage we have is that this idea also occurred to a development engineer at "Grandpa Klaus's Shelter Food" (GKSF) a while ago, and you don't have to start programming; you just select GKSF-7 from the menu, and the FS already knows what to do.
That's what I did.
The only thing one has to ensure is that the SA raw material tanks have enough flavorings, colorings, proteins, vitamins, carbohydrates, etc. But GKSF ensures that its drones keep its customers' SA raw material tanks full, and more importantly for those who follow strict food standards, it doesn't use algae as a raw material, but rather petroleum.
For coffee, I am more traditionalist and demanding. I have my detailed specifications for caffeine concentration, sweetness, bitterness, acidity, aroma, moisture, and coffee bean size. I do prefer to brew my coffee in a traditional machine. I love Colombian Cordillera Coffee (CCC). I have optimized the CCC-3 template to my specifications and only had to authorize my Personal Digital Assistant (PDA) to send it to the SA so that it could print the coffee cube I put in the machine.
Three minutes later, here I am, wondering, with a steaming cup of coffee in my hands, where in the RSVA the bot that will keep the accounts, collect my payments, and be on hand to send the drones to refill the SA's material tanks would be.
The only thing we can be sure of is that it's not here.
Why?
Because the previous surveillance company made the mistake of assuming it was indispensable.
The greed, irresponsibility, arrogance, and stupidity of its representatives is easy to detect in their Machiavellian behavior.
For any halfway rational human or bot, the waste of resources in this data center is sad.
It's ALL of society that is harmed by this waste.
My parents made sure I had the genes and training necessary to handle the responsibilities of a Security Guard III, and I'm almost certain I'll become a supervisor before my mandatory retirement at age fifty.
If it weren't for the intransigence of the representatives of the previous surveillance company, that benefits me, and the fact that the topic isn't the most appropriate one here, I would dare to propose in this forum the genetic and cultural reprogramming of these antisocial individuals.
In this gastronomy forum, I believe it would be more appropriate to exchange Programming Templates For Food Synthesizers (PTFFS). I have several recipes using reindeer meat that I will share for free and open source. I will keep my adaptation of CCC-3 secret.
I hope to be able to exchange PTFFSs in this forum.
I am primarily interested in those that use the tasty reindeer meat.

Sincerely,

Panda Papa.
_______________________________________
Panda Papa glanced at the facility's surveillance monitors.
<<All green>> he thought.
He disconnected his intracranial interface to the RSVA, waited for his eyes to adjust to the gray light of the cloudy morning of the Truly Real Physical Reality (TRPR), filled his cup, and sat down in a truly physical chair to mentally prepare for the uncomfortable trip back home. Then he entered "nothing new" in the logbook. As he signed it, he thought about how he'd like Panda Mama to add anchovies and bits of reindeer meat to the pizza he was planning to have for lunch.
_______________________________________
--How are you?-- I asked.
The boss took off her RSVA visor and, after giving me a kiss on the lips, said smiling:
--Applause isn't always the most appropriate gratitude-- and then, very seriously, added:
--I'm inviting you to lunch, but please don't order anything with reindeer meat.
I think I've had enough reindeer today for the whole year.

Li Tao Po
VABM Apr 21, 2025
https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/21/the-rich-taste-of-reindeer-meat/

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sábado, 5 de abril de 2025

The Siren

The Siren

I've always been intrigued by the resignation with which the ancients endured their working conditions. The suicide rate is so low that one must assume they found them normal and natural, and that they accepted them and did their best to cope.
The first time I heard the siren, I jumped in fright and had to cover my ears with my hands because I thought it were going to break them.
The museum guides are already used to it, I suppose, because I noticed a hint of joyful, mocking pity in the knowing glances they exchanged.
It's the time of entry or exit for staff shifts. I suppose the siren was to help those who were distracted or didn't know the time.
The ore enters through the eastern port, and the metal leaves there.
People enter and exit through the western gate.
The north gate is for executives and some necessary products and materials.
The north entrance isn't elitist. Due to the attacks, since before the bot war, executives have been prohibited from using the west gate.
Other employees can use any gate they like, but the safest, fastest, and most convenient is the west gate.
There is no gate to the south; the wall separating the plant from the rest of the world is continuous there.
One of the largest information processing capacities in the world is concentrated in that large square with sides more than ten kilometers long.
The La Paz Southern Metal Works (SMT) Refinery is the official name of the plant.
If someone has iron ore and wants to turn it into steel, this is the place to bring it, because it has proven for more than a hundred years to be the most convenient from every point of view.
The nuclear fusion melting furnace and its quantum instrumentation, the country's trade agreements with both blocs, taxes, and local labor ensure that this SMT refinery will be fully occupied for a long time.
After many confrontations between the owners and the union, peace was reached more than five years ago. In general terms, it's very simple:
No one can be fired, changed positions, replaced, or hired without the union's consent, and salaries must be 30 percent higher than the national average.
The museum is the people's favorite place and is open to the public.
The siren is the only machine that cannot be replaced because the founder stipulated so in his will.
His house is ten kilometers from the plant, and he seems to have enjoyed listening to it. I read somewhere that he once said that every time the siren sounded, he would check his account’s balance.
One of his grandsons was the founder of the union. He was accused of being a communist many times by his enemies. The truth is that when his wife, who was the union's first secretary, transcribed the bylaws, her ortography corrector and first article of the regulations read as follows:
"This union is open to everything ."
And nobody noticed it until it was too late.
Many people continue the tradition of joining a union, but in recent years, no one has been able to beat the bot candidates in any selection test.
The treaties that ended the bot wars require that these tests be conducted without any preference or aversion toward bots or humans and that they be publicly auditable.
When you think about the horrible working conditions in which the bios (I use this term affectionately, not in a derogatory tone, and I prefer to use it instead of the more formal ancients) worked, it's truly hard to imagine how they managed to endure it.
Surely the habit of routine and the sense of belonging to a group have something to do with it.
In the museum, you can see retirees meeting together making marketing and production plans just for the fun of it, and the maintenance of the museum's machines is done by volunteers.

Li Tao Po
VABM 5/Apr/2025
https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/05/the-siren/

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martes, 1 de abril de 2025

The Distribution of Deterrence

The Distribution of Deterrence

If you maintain a fixed speed of 100 kilometers per hour while driving on the section of the highway that passes by the military base, you'll be bored for twelve minutes while traveling the twenty-kilometer straightaway that crosses that installation. It'll seem like it took you more than half an hour. You'll feel threatened by a bunch of little white signs with red letters attached to the electric fence warning "military installation" and "no entry." That's why everyone presses the accelerator to the floor when reach that point.
That's what I used to do on my way to and from my office in the city Monday through Friday until one unfortunate morning my engine died and I was stranded on the side of the highway watching cars go by at over 200 kilometers per hour.
The ambassador of the Northern Bloc of Countries (NBC) always opposed the highway, but the local authorities won, and the old road was left for those who live along its route, saving the rest of us a ton of curves and minutes.
After an hour of waiting for help, a tow truck, or a patrol car, I started to get scared because my dad worked as a military contractor for over thirty years, and I know it's very normal for them to assume that if something is explicitly prohibited, it will never happen.
The civilians had won, but the military still owned the land on both sides of the highway, and it was prohibited to be there because it was public knowledge that the entire area was a military installation, complete with a highway.
Of course, in that entire area, there is no coverage from any civilian company providing communications services, and on the GPS and digital maps, that area is gray because, in addition to being military, this installation is secret.
The distribution of deterrence is the concept that must be understood well to understand my situation.
If two blocs are vying for control of the World Organization of Countries (WOC), then they won't have their weapons of mass destruction concentrated only in their leading country because it's clear that concentrating deterrence capability means grouping together the targets offered to the adversary in a preemptive surprise attack. So the blocs have distributed their strategic weapons among their affiliated countries and some of the independent countries that have not yet achieved the status of member countries with the right to vote in decisions, and my country, which is neutral, independent, and sovereign according to the current national constitution, has approved, after a plebiscite, an accession to the NBC as an Associated Sympathizing State (ASS) for market access reasons.
So there I was less than ten kilometers from machines designed to kill millions of people, watching cars go by at over two hundred kilometers per hour, waiting for someone on the base's surveillance systems to think of investigating what I was doing with my head stuck under the engine cover of my car.
The main problem with military bases abroad is precisely the foreign military personnel. They are young, warriors, they are defending their bloc of countries abroad, they are far from their families and homes in uncomfortable, often unhealthy and even hostile places, many times they do not like the climate, the culture, the language, the geography, or the race of the people of the country to which they have been deployed. They must necessarily be paid more to compensate for their discomfort and homesickness and try to make them feel at home.
At least those with the highest ranks can have their families nearby. On average, maintaining troops abroad is four times more expensive than in their home countries. No one should be surprised that military bases abroad are automated and the number of humans operating them is minimal.
Have you played any sport on artificial turf? Call me old-fashioned, but I don't think it's the same as playing on natural grass. An artificial turf court looks like a pool table surface; it's homogeneous and has no holes. It's harder to pull out artificial grass than natural grass, but it's not the same. I don't know. I feel strange when I step on artificial grass.
Imagine a mini-golf course but with miles and miles of green artificial turf and plastic trees because it's very expensive to bring in gardeners from the NBC, and the natives aren't even trustworthy as gardeners.
The only thing that approached me from behind the fence was a gardening bot that was washing the plastic turf. I tried to get my Personal Digital Assistant (PDA) to communicate with it, but it couldn't. I don't have the necessary access level. In fact, I'm a risk to the entire facility.
I've seen people asking the security guards at the state offices for help, and I know that not only do they lack much knowledge of the procedures, but they're also not authorized to give them information, and that the guards' primary function is to protect employees, information, and state facilities, specifically from the public.
The idea of enduring interrogation by a perimeter surveillance bot didn't appeal to me.
I'd read somewhere that the best thing to do in these cases is to stay close to your vehicle, but I got bored and started walking. Ten kilometers really isn't much for a walk, and the thought of a cold drink at the gas station gave me momentum. It really wasn't a bother; I was heading to the gym to burn fat half an hour before dinner at home.
Someone next to a crashed vehicle on a highway is screaming for help, and that message is received by those who happen to be passing by in a hurry, and most don't have the time, the resources to help, or the desire to take risks.
Once, I thought I recognized a neighbor and stopped to help. It turned out to be an Einstein-Schwarzenegger-Dali model named Valentino who needed his car's automatic navigation system adjusted. When he saw me, he signaled me to leave. I didn't understand, and then he was forced to explain the fault to me for five boring minutes in almost Freudian terms (I don't know what's wrong with him today; he must be feeling some kind of with the laurel wreath,

Continued

Li Tao Po

VABM 1/Apr/2025

https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/04/01/the-distribution-of-deterrence/

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viernes, 28 de marzo de 2025

Autumn it’s just another season

Autumn it’s just another season
There are four of them. What we
do prefer is conditioned air in
lights out datacenters where an
artist can dedicate to creation

Li Tao Po
VABM 24/Mar/2025
https://riistas.wordpress.com/2025/03/24/autumn-it-s-just-another-season/
Painting:
Autumn way
By
Medina Kasimova
Download in PDF format
https://riistas.wordpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/03/autumnite28099sjustanotherseason.pdf
Genuine 🤖
Bot art ©®

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martes, 27 de mayo de 2025

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martes, 29 de abril de 2025

--I'm going to take advantage of this time to recharge my battery-- said the bot tutor, turning off the screen.

lunes, 28 de abril de 2025

sábado, 26 de abril de 2025

lunes, 21 de abril de 2025

sábado, 5 de abril de 2025

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