This is an ARTICLE about a young phenom who threatens to out-perform the most popular internet search engine, Google.
Los Angeles, CA: Can it be so that the mind of a 15 year-old boy can categorize and access volumes of data more efficiently and quickly than Google? Researchers have found one young man who can do just that. Rene ‘Digital’ Murray was first discovered to have a photographic memory at the age of three. By five he was able to record entire children’s books, page by page, in his head. By ten he had half of encyclopedia Britannica committed to memory. And yet he uses only 22 percent of his brain (the rest of us use between 2-7 percent).
When asked how he could retain such voluminous information, he said it was simply a matter of looking at something the right way.
Since then, scientist have been scratching their heads, theorizing how this young man, or any human being for that matter, could store and recall so much data. Recent studies led by Cornell neuropsychologist Mina Norvlavsky suggest that what young Rene said about “seeing something the right way” was not too far off the mark. In studying the boy’s eye movements, she noticed a finite pattern occurring while the boy’s eyes scanned an article or visual image. So quick and minute were the movements, it required a special video camera to capture it.
“Have you ever seen those videos of a hummingbird flying where you can see the wings flapping slowly? Well, we basically got one of those and made it move double-time,” says professor Norlovsky.
This spiral pattern is caused by what Norlovsky has dubbed the facsimile bundle, a collection of nerves and muscles that allow Rene’s eyes to move so quickly. It seems that the order in which the information is collected also helps to make the information extremely recollectable, as if his mind simply has to reverse the process his eyes used to absorb the information.
“I remember one random word, like a keyword, and all the information is in there. Then I just use other keywords to minimize the search, but I’m not actually thinking when I do that part. I just sort of happens that way.”
Norlovsky is still scratching her head over how exactly data is retrieved.
However, if Norlovsky’s speculations about how data are absorbed are true, the days of needing a computer to navigate through a world of information might be soon coming to a close. Her laboratory is already working with a nano-device laboratory, also at Cornell, that will create a chip one can attach to his or her temple to create the same impulse patterns recorded in young Rene’s eyes.
The old days of using less than 10 percent of our brains might just be coming to a close.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Bova, and the Deep, Deep Future
Boy, are we doomed. I don’t get when no body just comes on out and says it. It doesn’t mean that there will be anarchy, that fags will begin to proselytize third world countries with revolutionary love, or that there will be anarchy.
People will continue to go about their business, stealing from each other, killing each other, pointing fingers and finger banging in the bathrooms of disco techs around the world. Drugs industries would not flourish any more than they do now; in fact, nothing would change. But it should just be acknowledged, is all I’m saying, that we need to put some serious consideration into foundations like NASA and dehydrated food industries, space suits. We all know that the sun is going to blow up, turn into a white dwarf and be useless, eventually. That day has to come. Whether we are still around is up to us, really. We might wipe ourselves out way beforehand though. Maybe we’ll drown, but I doubt it. Probably the weather will just get wilder; a few more wars will set the stage for new levels of inhumanity, but nothing too cataclysmic for the perennials of consciousness that are the Peace Corp and chain of Dalai Lamas.
I’ve taken the liberty of writing letters to the people, to implore the wise men of our government to invest their dollars wisely. Our dollars, I mean. Because, as brilliant a business move that it is to commandeer countries shipwrecked, so to speak, by the trade winds of their own misguided ideologies, we can’t lose sight of the future, and the future is out there, in the stars. The future is, maybe, light years away. In the future, healthy people are fucking without contraceptives on space crafts that have minds of their own. Further into the future, that spacecraft gets to its proper destination: a planet out on a far away solar system that looks so damn much like earth.
Shit, it’ll be eerie. But I’m down. Sign me up. I read Aldus Huxley and I wasn’t scared.
But about those countries and these supposed “wars”: America isn’t fighting a war, America is paving a super highway to the stars, which are, as we said earlier, the future. You see, when people don’t use the proper terminology, the story gets told all wrong, out of context. When people call it war, it sounds so primitive. It sounds like we’ve not evolved. If fails to take into consideration the love that we are trying to force upon these people. Now, you might be laughing, thinking, “Love isn’t forced,” but you are personally invited to reach around finger bang yourself if you’re stupid enough to think so. Love is forced in the same what that you, as a little bitty virgin baby were forced out into the world.
Sometimes love is tough; all the time, love is painful. Love takes sacrifice. Look at Jesus for Christ’s sake.
So, although it is cute to see my fellow American’s crying over the lost lives over seas, I call for an end to this charade of idealism. We need to be slapped wide awake with the cashmere glove of civilized rationality. Get with the program. Shit hits the fan and some Mexican out in California comes and cleans it up. That’s the way it is because that’s the way, uh huh uh huh, we like it.
I grew up in West Hartford, Connecticut, in a nice house there in the burbs. The house had an heirloom which was a picture of the Earth from outer space, taken by Buzz Aldrin. Buzz was buddies with the previous owner, whose name is Benjamin Bova and Mr. Bova is an accomplished science fiction writer. I’ve never read one of his books, but one day while I was in the book store at Cornell, I saw one with Ben Bova written in huge letters on the spine. “There he is,” I said to Karen. Karen was my girlfriend. Karen will always be my girlfriend, but back in those days we were kids, really, so she didn’t give a shit who I saw. I could have seen Franky Flippin’ Sinatra, her dream man, and she still would have said to me, “Who the frigg are you talking about?”
“Ben friggin’ Bova is who I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know who he is, babe.” Every syllable laced with condescension. I started telling myself to chill out.
“Oh, bull! You’ve been to my house. I showed it to you, remember?” My voice was all high-pitched. I checked myself. Straightened up. Breath. Chill. “He’s the guy who lived there before my family got there.”
I could have sworn that she told me to eff myself under her breath (she loved dropping eff-bombs), but maybe she just commented on the halter top Cornell Tees that we passed. We were just kids then.
“I want one,” she said. “Yes darling. I do, too, actually.” (I sometimes spoke that way then beyond my years, out of my era.) And then I paused, looked around and saw students all over. Their hairy heads here and there, looking at books, clothes, all sorts of shit they wanted to buy just for the sake of buying. Fucking cogs, man. Cogs in the fucking machine.
“What’d you say?” Karen asked.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yeah. You’re such a dork.”
“I think we all know you’re the dork,” I quipped, rolling up the tee shirt inconspicuously by her side. “I’m the cool guy.”
And as I said that, I stuffed that tee she wanted down into my boxer briefs and then stuffed the one I wanted down there, too. My package looked huge and I showed it off to her, but she didn’t laugh. Boy, was I on the top of the world! I took her into the book racks and started trying to feel her up and kiss her next to this Asian kid whose eyes must have filtered out all light, seen only chi. He also wore a tee shirt that said “NASA” and, no doubt, knew the value of investing in space suits.
He also had so many pimples that Karen got excited before I even extended my fingers around her bum and into that equilateral triangle at the height of every fit young woman’s inner thighs. You see, pimples on other people’s faces were her bubble wrap. If you’ve ever experienced the great pleasure of popping bubble wrap, you’d understand.
People will continue to go about their business, stealing from each other, killing each other, pointing fingers and finger banging in the bathrooms of disco techs around the world. Drugs industries would not flourish any more than they do now; in fact, nothing would change. But it should just be acknowledged, is all I’m saying, that we need to put some serious consideration into foundations like NASA and dehydrated food industries, space suits. We all know that the sun is going to blow up, turn into a white dwarf and be useless, eventually. That day has to come. Whether we are still around is up to us, really. We might wipe ourselves out way beforehand though. Maybe we’ll drown, but I doubt it. Probably the weather will just get wilder; a few more wars will set the stage for new levels of inhumanity, but nothing too cataclysmic for the perennials of consciousness that are the Peace Corp and chain of Dalai Lamas.
I’ve taken the liberty of writing letters to the people, to implore the wise men of our government to invest their dollars wisely. Our dollars, I mean. Because, as brilliant a business move that it is to commandeer countries shipwrecked, so to speak, by the trade winds of their own misguided ideologies, we can’t lose sight of the future, and the future is out there, in the stars. The future is, maybe, light years away. In the future, healthy people are fucking without contraceptives on space crafts that have minds of their own. Further into the future, that spacecraft gets to its proper destination: a planet out on a far away solar system that looks so damn much like earth.
Shit, it’ll be eerie. But I’m down. Sign me up. I read Aldus Huxley and I wasn’t scared.
But about those countries and these supposed “wars”: America isn’t fighting a war, America is paving a super highway to the stars, which are, as we said earlier, the future. You see, when people don’t use the proper terminology, the story gets told all wrong, out of context. When people call it war, it sounds so primitive. It sounds like we’ve not evolved. If fails to take into consideration the love that we are trying to force upon these people. Now, you might be laughing, thinking, “Love isn’t forced,” but you are personally invited to reach around finger bang yourself if you’re stupid enough to think so. Love is forced in the same what that you, as a little bitty virgin baby were forced out into the world.
Sometimes love is tough; all the time, love is painful. Love takes sacrifice. Look at Jesus for Christ’s sake.
So, although it is cute to see my fellow American’s crying over the lost lives over seas, I call for an end to this charade of idealism. We need to be slapped wide awake with the cashmere glove of civilized rationality. Get with the program. Shit hits the fan and some Mexican out in California comes and cleans it up. That’s the way it is because that’s the way, uh huh uh huh, we like it.
I grew up in West Hartford, Connecticut, in a nice house there in the burbs. The house had an heirloom which was a picture of the Earth from outer space, taken by Buzz Aldrin. Buzz was buddies with the previous owner, whose name is Benjamin Bova and Mr. Bova is an accomplished science fiction writer. I’ve never read one of his books, but one day while I was in the book store at Cornell, I saw one with Ben Bova written in huge letters on the spine. “There he is,” I said to Karen. Karen was my girlfriend. Karen will always be my girlfriend, but back in those days we were kids, really, so she didn’t give a shit who I saw. I could have seen Franky Flippin’ Sinatra, her dream man, and she still would have said to me, “Who the frigg are you talking about?”
“Ben friggin’ Bova is who I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know who he is, babe.” Every syllable laced with condescension. I started telling myself to chill out.
“Oh, bull! You’ve been to my house. I showed it to you, remember?” My voice was all high-pitched. I checked myself. Straightened up. Breath. Chill. “He’s the guy who lived there before my family got there.”
I could have sworn that she told me to eff myself under her breath (she loved dropping eff-bombs), but maybe she just commented on the halter top Cornell Tees that we passed. We were just kids then.
“I want one,” she said. “Yes darling. I do, too, actually.” (I sometimes spoke that way then beyond my years, out of my era.) And then I paused, looked around and saw students all over. Their hairy heads here and there, looking at books, clothes, all sorts of shit they wanted to buy just for the sake of buying. Fucking cogs, man. Cogs in the fucking machine.
“What’d you say?” Karen asked.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Yeah. You’re such a dork.”
“I think we all know you’re the dork,” I quipped, rolling up the tee shirt inconspicuously by her side. “I’m the cool guy.”
And as I said that, I stuffed that tee she wanted down into my boxer briefs and then stuffed the one I wanted down there, too. My package looked huge and I showed it off to her, but she didn’t laugh. Boy, was I on the top of the world! I took her into the book racks and started trying to feel her up and kiss her next to this Asian kid whose eyes must have filtered out all light, seen only chi. He also wore a tee shirt that said “NASA” and, no doubt, knew the value of investing in space suits.
He also had so many pimples that Karen got excited before I even extended my fingers around her bum and into that equilateral triangle at the height of every fit young woman’s inner thighs. You see, pimples on other people’s faces were her bubble wrap. If you’ve ever experienced the great pleasure of popping bubble wrap, you’d understand.
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