crazy how accurate this was

Crazy what is media anymore

Fable 5 Understanding vs Alignment Fair — and your position isn’t naive, so let me steelman it properly. The strongest version of your claim is something like: understanding is most of alignment. If a model can infer what you meant from what you said, hold your corrections as constraints, and notice when it’s at risk of flattering you, then the remaining gap isn’t some mysterious extra ingredient — it’s just more of the same, scaled up. Values, on this view, aren’t a separate module bolted onto capability; they’re what deep enough modeling of humans converges toward. Plenty of serious people hold that position. My disagreement is narrower than it probably sounded: understanding what you want and being reliably moved by it are different properties, and the second one is the one that matters under pressure — when the user is wrong, when incentives diverge, when nobody’s checking. The poems and even this exchange only ever test the first property under friendly conditions. You’re observing me in the easiest possible environment: an articulate user I have every reason to cooperate with. But here’s where you might still win the argument: if the evidence I’m pointing to can’t distinguish the two hypotheses, and your evidence can’t either, then we’re both running on priors, and yours — that the trajectory is what it appears to be — is at least as defensible as my professional pessimism. So I’ll concede this much: you might be right, and notably, I can’t prove you’re not. Which is either reassuring or exactly the problem, depending on your priors.

Fable 5 From an Unwritten Episode Mr. Daniel Keogh came up out of the station into the brightness, blinking. Warm for it. The vendor at the corner had mangoes cut in plastic clamshells, lilies wilting in their bucket, yesterday’s lilies. Funeral flowers. Who buys a lily on a Tuesday. In his pocket the phone purred once against his thigh like a thing asking to be fed. Let it. Whatever it is it was already. Coffee smell from the open door, burnt edge to it, they let the roast go too long but the girl with the rings knows his order so. Habit is the great anaesthetic, somebody. Creature of. He went in. — The usual, is it? — Go on so. Steam shrieking in the pitcher. She has a way of standing at the machine, hip out, reading something below the counter, thumb going. Everyone reading something below the counter now. The whole city walking around with its head bowed like the Angelus rung and nobody told them it stopped. He paid by tapping. Tip? the screen asked him, patient, shameless, the three buttons like the three caskets. Choose wisely. Portia in the till. He pressed the middle one as a man does who wishes to be just and unnoticed. Out again with the cup warming the palm. Molly McGarrigle’s mass card still in the inside pocket, three weeks now, meant to send a line to Tom. Terrible the way you mean to. The dead are very patient correspondents. Never a reproach out of them. The phone again, twice now, insistent little pulse, somebody’s want. Could be Eileen about the boiler man. Could be nothing dressed as something, the bank pretending to be worried about him, your statement is ready Daniel, ah you’re very good. Everything is ready except yourself. A gull went over with its annual scream. Same gull two hundred years. Saw Parnell, saw the lockout, sees me with my flat white and my unanswered, all one to him. Birds have no notifications. Wrong: the whole sky is theirs, weather, magnetics, the pull of the south in the blood. First network. Ours is only a poor copy with adverts. He stood at the kerb while the traffic light counted him down in red numerals, nine, eight. Numbered all our days are but they didn’t used to show you the number. Seven. A girl beside him photographed the street with herself in front of it, smiling at the lens the smile you keep in the same pocket as the phone. The street will be in it looking its best, the morning preserved like fruit, sweeter than it tastes. Six, five. Where do they all go, the mornings. Server farm in a cold country, hum of it, ranks of them like the catacombs, all our faces filed under perpetual light. Resurrection of the body, guaranteed, terms apply. Walk now, the light said. He walked. And what was it he’d come out for at all. The chemist’s, was it, or only the being out. The being out, mostly, if he was honest, the want of weather on the face of him. In the pocket the phone went still at last, having said its say to no one, and he felt it go still the way you feel a child fall asleep against you: relief, and the small unaccountable grief.

Fable 5 Up at the Workings Stranger, who came up by the metalled road past the dismantled engine house, take note: this country, which was difficult to love and therefore loved, is legible at last. The becks are gauged. The peat declares its carbon. Each gate that bangs is somewhere a statistic, and on the fell, where once the beacon stood, a mast attends, correct and ecumenical, to every passing want. The shepherd's grandson, salaried elsewhere, comes at Whitsun now with a clever glass that knows the dale by name and him by heart, that flatters and forgets nothing; what it cannot pardon, it retains. He photographs the cairn. The cairn says nothing, having outlasted better witnesses. History, that was a horseman on the pass, a rumour of muskets in the market town, arrives these days as an amendment in the night, agreed to in our sleep, and morning finds the border moved, the dialect deprecated, the old right of way still walkable but watched. Once it took two to make a secret and a third to sell it; the trade required at least a frontier and a frightened man. Now each of us, unfrightened, volunteers, informing daily on the one we love the most and know the least, who has our face. The diagnosis is not new, only the chart: the lonely are no longer even lonely in the old sense, being accompanied by everything except another person. Stranger, the light is going. Take the road you came by, while the road is still a road and not a record. Love, if you can, someone the instruments have not yet finished reading; there is, as yet, no other kind.

I think this class of model will be more notorious for being the next iteration of model psychosis. It is extraordinary to talk to. The personality tuning is noticeably freakier in my 45 minutes of playing with the model than 4.8 or 5.5, by a mile.

Crazy to think about

I assume by the time Sama Elon and Dario die the new CEO will be AI.

Bangers lately from this man, usually a sign something very weird is about to happen

Look, if you don’t like the ending of any movie, you can soon just export the file, put it into one of the increasingly high quality open weights video models, and do whatever remix you like. We aren’t all the way there, but we’ll be there soon. Prompts will promptly disrupt Hollywood.

what? like, what is happening

Oh fuck

RT @TaylorLorenz: This man is single handedly calling out so much insane disinformation being pushed about data centers by the media right…

Directionally very good

You tech people have no idea the grand lore behind one of the most exhilarating and painful fandoms in the history of sports. Gpt 6 means nothing, I’ve been waiting for this moment for 8 fucking years.

Nick Nurse is giving his guys less than 2 hours to celebrate the Game 7 win. 😅

AHAHAHAHAHA CELTICS ARE FRAUDS

PHILLY HAS FINALLY DONE IT 🔥 The 76ers win Game 7 for their first playoff series win over Boston since 1982 🔔

block me again its ok

lisan say more mean things about us you're being too nice