fade and crack about the neighbourhood, relics from another season. How will the pavement sweeper AI bots recognize their redundancy, will they look for degrees of decay and neglect to grade their importance? I’ve been pondering the OODA loop, as I gaze at the delaminating tennis board. I’m no fighter pilot, I pass days and months trying to orient, caught in my daydreams, slow to act. The bots will glean, assess and decide a thousand times a second. They’ll pass me under the board, broken-shoes, worn shirt, tired as the sign. And in my daydreams I’m trying to plan for a year from now, if I can imagine it, perhaps it will come to be.
