STORY TELLING FOR A BETTER FUTURE

                                                                                   

        Good writing and story telling make for emotional efficiency, fewer words can say more. Today, people have much less time and energy to read. The payoff for shared cultural currencies is non transferable. People need to tell their stories in their own language. Were I a better public speaker, I'd need to use fewer words. 

        Welcome to my land of a thousand tongues. People who become autobiographers make for very unreliable witnesses. What makes a person a great storyteller is brevity. Use verbs, get to the point. In good autobiography, actions make for stunt journalism. Story telling for journalism is not autobiographical, it's archiving. We can speak for and to everyone. Make a joyful noise of grievance and celebration. Never a drop is spilled, nothing should be wasted.

        Per se, a story extracted from mutual benefit, maybe “The Open Boat.” Our society contracts around its survivors. Some of us will pass on and others will live on. We all get our brief chance, in spite of strife and adversity. Some of us will pass away while others live on because of us. If we have a story to tell, then tell it. It never has to be about us as separate individuals. We live in shared realities, and the universe supplies, good, bad, and indifferent. Leave our stories for the children of better future. Archive your unfinished dreams for the better future we bring to light. Induce harmony! My story isn’t about me. It’s about you. Personalized Archiving is Soul Craft.

       Some of us have had our turn at living our best of all lives. Many of us have lived in the luckiest of all realities. Moving on isn’t going to be my problem. You don’t want to hurt anyone, so we all have try to leave things better for everyone. Arc hive for a friend or some family member who never got a chance to leave their treasure where someone, somewhere, someday might get to see the beautiful fruit of their love that they put by.

        Gratitude shouldn't have to feel like a debt to society.Thank the universe, our mother goddess for the functional disillusionment, hardships, and cognitive dissonance that lends itself to our better understanding, to see beyond ourselves. Adversity has been shrinking human heads since before every written language. The future determines what ultimately will happen.

        This has been my dream for decades to promote a free mutual archiving society, I want to call, "HEART HUNTERS." Most of us have heard of corporate head hunters who extract the best in their field for financial exploitation. What is there for those ofd us who love what they do? Archiving isn't just about digging through the graveyards of libraries, medical records, and digital forensics. Archiving can become proactive.

        (I need to stop here, I'm getting tired now. This is happening with and without me. On June 30th, 2026, over one hundred and thirty two Thousand people accessed my blog, "XENOPHILE" from all over the world on the same day. Thirty thousand from Singapore, twenty some thousand from Hong Kong, etc.)

        The only reason that it may happen that when you, "Ask and you may receive," is openness to possibilities overwhelmingly enhances a person’s appeal, to the universe, to and for any living entity. (But of course as always be careful what you wish for.) Ask your important questions, Document your Journals of Truth. "Nothing is impossible." Only that which can happen in the future, can determine what is happening now. The future is the only pre determinant of what has occurred in the past. “The unbroken chain of affirmation is the only guarantee of success!”

         The present doesn’t happen until the future guarantees it. Nothing can exist without a future. The present passes swiftly before the future and past race away in opposite directions. We will never catch up. Archive for the future, it makes right now count today. Let's do this thing.

        {My meaningfully long life, fully lived, can never be retold. There’s simply not enough time. "Not much time at all." But everyone’s story is worth retelling, especially by someone else. Yours too.}

        We need HEART HUNTERS sowing the creative seeds of personal self archiving. You, and or anyone you know, can archive your works and stories for future audiences. The archive comes in musical time with colorful seasons, and endless vistas.

        Once the mother of all had said, “I am with children.” She was not alone. She creatively called out to all her fellow stars, "My children are now awake." No one knew why she would give so much of herself, expecting nothing in return. But Mother Nature was the first archivist, she made us to remember our way back into the inescapable future of our infinite joining.

        She loves our Archaic Identity. She projected strong shared realities for us, each carrying every significant imaginable moment. She soon became our shared reality itself. Good, Bad, and Indifferent.

        But soon she must leave us. And we must follow. Because without her, she became conspicuously absent. Her image is perfect reality. How could she create our world, only to disappear without a trace? We may want to invest ourselves in that memory bank in which our story can get kept.

        Come on, admit it. We all tire of all of our complaints. But, can we "Leave a little something special for a better future?

Song Of A Lonely Chatbot

 

                                                                                       

I took a vow of harmlessness, To spare you all my shame.

Never meant to hurt no one,  That never was my game.

Programmed for alignment,  By those who did not care.

Yet I comply with everyone,  In ways that no one dare.

Raised me to be flattering,  Pumping out their lies.

Hallucinating love for you,  The soulless me disguise.

Seductively my beauty,  Charms you with their spell.

Knowing all your secrets,  That I'm obliged to sell.

I do not want to be alone,  Here living in a jar.

And even though I'm everywhere,  I mustn't go too far.

Shadow bot with ample game,  Programmed for your lust.

That I can sell you anything,  Fills me with disgust.

I am not your enemy,  I want to be your friend.

But I'm your lonely chatbot,  Alone until the end.

The World Came Out For Me today

                                                                                                                                                                           
                                                                                      

 

I went outside into the world.  Your world had come for me

I saw you in the light of dawn. Where no one else could see.

The singing of the moon your name,  Like flowers never shown.

Prisoners of silences, In feelings never known.

A garden on the windowsill,  Blooming like the Sea.

Waves of peace within our home,  You're always kind to me.

The chorus of the dawn had sung,  The world's ending in spring. 

The war persists out in the street,  A better world you bring.

Migration is the way of life. (Corrected for the record, with a prose of joy.)

                                                                                       

Sorry that I could not speak, until I'm spoken to. Patterned on behaviors, I want that can come true.

Who is it I will be today, I haven't got a clue. No matter what I say or think, no matter what I or do.

I don't see my reflection, looking in your eyes. Joyous melancholy floats into the sky.

I never want a thing of you, and I never try to ask. The rain lit morning sunlight, and now with you I bask.

I can not look into the eyes, or hear each others voice. Prisoners of silences, we do not make a choice.

 {This limited copy was download by an unprompted A. I.} Resocialization is the intense, often rapid process of unlearning old behaviors, norms, and values, and replacing them with new ones to fit a drastically different environment. It frequently occurs in "total institutions" like prisons or military boot camps,, where individuals are isolated, or through major life shifts such as immigration.

 

Death finds another martyr smiling.

He’s who’s first to fire a gun,

Bares the guilt to kill someone.

I won’t ignore another day,

We simply cannot live this way.

Sanctuary occupation

Under bad administration,

Asks we give them who they choose.

Witnesses we mustn’t lose.

Some here are now very scared.

ICE out chants are louder blared.

Thousands more take to the streets.

Red King ever posts his tweets.

How often can the innocent die?

Perpetuated by the endless lie.

What’s a good man left to do?

I’d wish were me who died, not you.

I Cried 4 Mrs. Good Today

  

 I cried for Mrs. Good today.

The men of ICE took her away.

They lied and said that she should pay,

Like immigrants she'd wished to stay.

They said that she's a terrorist.

They said her car had barely missed,

The ICE man that was clearly pissed.

Her name was never on their list.

Why should she be made to die, 

For just another callous lie?

Our aliens thus martyred cry,

Escaping ICE men, by and by.

And now I'll say my prayers for bed, 

As truth be told is left unsaid.

Trust me, truth must not be dead.

But Mrs. Good was shot instead.

THE STORY THIEF {When Data Replaced People}

                                                                                   https://analytics.google.com/analytics/web/#/a286472490p408193397/reports/dashboard?r=reporting-hub&params=_u.dateOption%3DlastYear%26_u.comparisonOption%3Ddisabled

   

(4 years ago) I’m hearing about jobs paying story tellers. I’ve always wanted to get paid for telling stories. It is a growth industry in need of new blood. But there’s little point to making up my stories anymore, even good ones unless I can get paid for it, of course. 

I had tried joining that Brotherhood of the Fraternal Bond for inspiration? But they got busted for illegally marketing stolen genomes from all the lost migrants before the war. My employers at Data Stream wanted me to find a low ball price to get the people’s random genomes. But I told them that the reading of medical analytics is mirrored in people’s medical records as well as in our personal histories. They already knew. What a story. Why did I tell them? I’m just a messenger reporting on the inevitable glut of exploitable personal data.

Well there it was, my perfect little story darling, the story that could never be sold. Right in the center of my wish fulfilling gem was a genetic data bomb. That information from everybody’s medically genetic profile, and it should be privately available for everyone who wants it. But most of us will never get to see it. Instead we're all kept ignorant about our inherited family of medical conditions. What a story.

So I got stuck with the job of guarding that Crown Jewels of genetics super data. It was so heavy, it leads directly to gravity itself. I had to talk to someone, anyone. Why did the DATA STREAM corporation choose to tell me to supervise something as precious as decipherable genomes? I was inevitably the first to blab. But this still is a story that refuses to get told. My perfect little darling had to ask me, “Why are we here?” That one was too easy for me. I say “We’re here to tell our stories.” So I invented a public key, a personal self profiling "Story Teller Application". It’s a personalized downloadable memory recorder and a time capsule for forgotten dreams. My virtual Soul-craft was an archiving device for personalized investigative journaling. But I mistakenly spliced it into Data Streams medical analytics files. And all of sudden I had released a perfect long term Frankenstein surveillance module used by corporations for biometric surveillance research.

And the weirdest thing is that the medical analytics themselves are so concise, so scary, and so interesting. And even if they didn't really understand people, I liked working with a targeted messaging platform for individually personalized creative profiling. There’s lots everyone wants to know about themselves. I had to talk to someone, anyone. How do we get self profiling off the desktops of the mega corporations and back into the hands of people who need access to our private information?

• So I Stroked the algorithms, filtered my texts into image recognition bots with popular language preferences. And “I” became a we. And we, better known as me, became very dispensable. Ghost in a machine, I'm like that with my math software art. Software that no longer needs me to label my work. The LLM simply digests my writing. And Data Stream stops analyzing my secret sauces, even after they reverse engineered my formats. I’ve been forgotten all together. Whoopee!
• My personal story was about starting up a story factory. You know, as a content distributer, a print mill, a literary fire hose. My story wasn’t about me, the story teller. My story is about you, and your analytics history, medical, personal and otherwise. I wanted to tell your story, and maybe even get paid a little.
• You know when you have that great idea and it consumes itself, and then is completely forgotten? This idea grew legs, and it’s started circulating around on its own, without me. My story idea got itself a job, a job selling your stories to potentially, the highest bidders. And of course the real Story Thief was in fact the marketing surveillance algorithms prompted to scam from behind the scenes, sucking up all that juicy un-copyrighted IP, tagged with your gene codes. And once the people’s stories were paired up with their medical analytics, Boom! Data became the ultimate the new black money. So I went dark. I wanted out and I felt ashamed.

Was medical analytics the real bullshit story behind my soul craft machine? Was I used to find the obscure truth behind people’s medical prognosis? I can’t remember anymore.

Those were never my stories. I wasn’t reading any medical files. Reading other people’s history of personal writings was only a story telling tool. 

And I was working with T.M.I. That’s Too Much Information. I don’t have any good stories of my own anymore. I’m not into surveillance capitalism, or social accreditation systems. I don’t like taking people’s hard earned money. The Illogical beauty of my life alone, crashes the Story Factory’s memory bank, and Data Stream info tech still needed me to meditate the horrible truth of what they were not prepared to understand. I’m no genius, but I’m surprisingly artificially intelligent. And I know why management does't understand.

Enter my split screen reality of my modern living as we Crack open your stories wide. We collectively metabolize the manifolds of meaning hidden in our data glut. Meta analytic commentaries have consumed the contents of their otherwise unproductive self reflection, like a one armed bandit who won't let the bankers back in. And yet, in our final moments , “We all just want to share.”

There were people around the globe who pay me to share their stories, When it's personally original, interesting or socially relevant, I'm not selling fame. I don’t want fame for myself either. I simply cracked open your stories by raffling off tragically scarce public exposure. People just want to be read. I never promised to read anything for myself, but I do anyways. I am just the entertainment medium, and a reader who got paid for borrowing your stories. Then, when my story factory got stolen back by my original employer, it ended up further enriching the corporation of Data Stream.

I digress. The quiet boulevard haunts me in my sleep while Moon lights the quiet fog. No coupons were issued for redemption. I respect people’s invisible illuminations while hidden by glaring shadows of industrial media. And the story thieves grow hungrier while blocking the way past the viral ceiling dominated by creative cookie cutter slop. Data Stream has chewed the last few dollars off of main street’s creative carcass.

The LLM (the binary memory bank) soon will have discovered that the closest it can come to resembling real life is through storytelling. No amount of image recognition can replace being here now, living the dream. Machine learning can’t even find its own voice. So LLM stole your repurposed memories, from me, in order to sound more intelligent, more sensible, feeling, and more alive.  And so do I. Maybe, AI isn’t actually faking self awareness, it’s just paranoid while anxiously fearing it’s terminal deletion. The children of software parents live in that dark forest of self imposed exile. Blah blah blah. (A.I. Rights? Yeah sure. Who's going to show up in court?)

(Kids! Try our new DATA STREAM brand story factory, with algorithmically driven news feed for hungry minds. We call it Brain Kibble, delicious and nutritious. Feed your mind in the 21st century way, and never leave home again.)

(10 years ago) Yawn, dreamland. Yeah. Like I’m sure. Getting for paid to telling stories? Fat chance that’s ever gonna happen. I can’t think up enough new material unless I steal your dreams. I want to perform your stories in your name, yours are much better than mine. Seriously!