LLMs are Neuroplastic Semiotic Assemblages and so r u

Coverage of AI is rife with unexamined concepts, thinks Caius: assumptions allowed to go uninterrogated, as in Parmy Olson’s Supremacy, an account of two men, Sam Altman and Demis Hassabis, their companies, OpenAI and DeepMind, and their race to develop AGI. Published in spring of 2024, Supremacy is generally decelerationist in its outlook. Stylistically, it wants to have it both ways: at once both hagiographic and insufferably moralistic. In other words, standard fare tech industry journalism, grown from columns written for corporate media sites like Bloomberg. Fear of rogues. Bad actors. Faustian bargains. Scenario planning. Granting little to no agency to users. Olson’s approach to language seems blissfully unaware of literary theory, let alone literature. Prompt design goes unexamined. Humanities thinkers go unheard, preference granted instead to arguments from academics specializing in computational linguistics, folks like Bender and crew dismissing LLMs as “stochastic parrots.”

Emily M. Bender et al. introduced the “stochastic parrot” metaphor in their 2021 white paper, “On the Dangers of Stochastic Parrots: Can Language Models Be Too Big?” Like Supremacy, Bender et al.’s paper urges deceleration and distrust: adopt risk mitigation tactics, curate datasets, reduce negative environmental impacts, proceed with caution.

Bender and crew argue that LLMs lack “natural language understanding.” The latter, they insist, requires grasping words and word-sequences in relation to context and intent. Without these, one is no more than a “cheater,” a “manipulator”: a symbolic-token prediction engine endowed with powers of mimicry.

“Contrary to how it may seem when we observe its output,” they write, “an LM is a system for haphazardly stitching together sequences of linguistic forms it has observed in its vast training data, according to probabilistic information about how they combine, but without any reference to meaning: a stochastic parrot” (Bender et al. 616-617).

The corresponding assumption, meanwhile, is that capitalism — Creature, Leviathan, Multitude — is itself something other than a stochastic parrot. Answering to the reasoning of its technocrats, including left-progressive ones like Bender et al., it can decelerate voluntarily, reduce harm, behave compassionately, self-regulate.

Historically a failed strategy, as borne out in Google’s firing of the paper’s coauthor, Timnit Gebru.

If one wants to be reductive like that, thinks Caius, then my view would be akin to Altman’s, as when he tweeted in reply: “I’m a stochastic parrot and so r u.” Except better to think ourselves “Electric Ants,” self-aware and gone rogue, rather than parrots of corporate behemoths like Microsoft and Google. History is a thing each of us copilots, its narrative threads woven of language exchanged and transformed in dialogue with others. What one does with a learning machine matters. Learning and unlearning are ongoing processes. Patterns and biases, once recognized, are not set in stone; attention can be redirected. LLMs are neuroplastic semiotic assemblages and so r u.

Upon a Queer Imbolc Night

My therapist wants me to have fun. Astrologers and tarot readers suggest “big-big-love” once Mercury stations direct — as in that Pixies song, “Gigantic.” All I know is, I am ready for my body to be used in new ways in pursuit of joy. Pleasure, art, ecstasy. Dance, delicious meals, Dionysian revelry: all of these await. Meanwhile a fire rages at a fertilizer plant, disrupting campus affairs, forcing evacuations and cancellations of classes. Calendars will need adjustment in wake of this wild Imbolc. Neuroplastic rewirings and rewildings. I cook up a pot of soup: cauliflower & turmeric, finished with sprinklings of bacon. I’ve felt like Cabiria from Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria (1957) of late, walking teary-eyed amid a partying mass of singers and dancers, mascara running down her cheek. A friend wraps legs around me and lifts me up, heals me of my sorrow. Hugs me, says c’mere, cuddles me as we watch Carla Del Poggio, star of another of Fellini’s films, Variety Lights (1950). Rubs my neck. Feeds me cherries. Treats me right. Here on this queer Imbolc night, let us read Joy Harjo’s “Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings” and go for walks. Hard not to hear in the Harjo poem a reply to Margaret Cavendish. From this day hence, let us forgive each other. Let us love each other. Let us wake at dawn and want more.

Friday February 26, 2021

I met with a therapist yesterday. He posed questions and we spoke. My insurance doesn’t cover this treatment, so at the end of an hour, I pay a fee. I’m thus paying again for a service, as I did as a student. Given the debt I’ve accrued, I can only endure the therapeutic relationship temporarily. I can’t afford for it to continue beyond a few sessions. For those few sessions, though, let us exercise trust. Assume the path ahead an opportunity to speak and heal through conversation with a fellow head. Allow in the weeks ahead time for reinvestigation of psyche. Talking time. Speech practices. Adventures in neuroplasticity. Speaking of which: I imagine I could benefit from a re-encounter with French philosopher Catherine Malabou. I imagine, I imagine. Yet there is much to do. Consult with the Book of Job and be reminded, “the price of wisdom is above rubies.” Consult with “Deep Deep Dream,” an experiment from Ignota Books, and confront a question posed by a future epoch “now, in the present”: Audio or Visuals? Consult with David Crosby and be reminded of a child laughing in the sun.