Holographic Immersive AI-Generative Gaming of the Future


Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood. How shall I say what wood that was! I never saw so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness! Its very memory gives a shape to fear.
— Dante Alighieri, The Inferno

Like most mmorpg’s or singleplayer games either way our avatar (substitute for player sitting at his computer pretending to enter a strange new world adventure through an imaginary cybercity_22_cybercreature much like himself) usually awakens to a world that is both strange and foreboding, not knowing who he is, where he is, or what it is he should do. Does our player have special powers in this world? Is he just a dupe of our own foibles and insanities? Is he a likable guy or a rogue psychopath? We don’t know… but here we are standing in the dark woods of some cyberforest that looks like one we might see out our window… with only a backpack, rain jacket, boots, pants, and our emotional ignorance we set out to parts unknown.

I know there was a game already done of Dante’s Inferno, but it was not the best rendition or at least it was very repetitive and boring in many places. I imagine a world that might be an open sandbox like Skyrim rather than its sad mmorpg gesture which for me never worked out. I imagine a new posthuman inferno with all the various attributes of a game of the near future.cybercity_20_

I imagine a posthuman cyberpunk city based on the City of Dis is to think of it as a place where humans have transcended their biological limitations and merged with technology, creating a new form of life that is beyond good and evil. The city is a network of cybercity_14_interconnected nodes that span the globe, where information flows freely and constantly. The inhabitants are digital entities that can change their appearance and identity at will, exploring various modes of existence and expression. The city is a dynamic and vibrant place that reflects the diversity and creativity of its residents. The city is constantly under evolution, adapting to new challenges and opportunities that arise from the interaction with other forms of intelligence. The city is a utopia for those who seek freedom and innovation, but a nightmare for those who cling to old values and traditions.

A new Dante and Virgil wandering through this strangeness… Virgil as a possible ai-gen avatar with all the basic guide maps, info, help, weapons, and usual attributes of a npc cybercity_15_except with a more powerful ai-language model and performance model that allows it like all the enemies in this world of death to act on their own with surprise, intelligence, and uncanny abilities that mimic humanities notions of self-directed mobility and intellect.

Will we at some point in the future have truly immersive ai experience that will do away with all external systems and pull us into a holographic world so real we will not be able to distinguish it from the Real? I assume that they will have to unlock power and resources much greater than we have on planet earth at the moment since our electrical grid is almost stretched to the limit as is. Some ability to tap into quantum physics that has of yet to be discovered. Possibly. Either way, the notion of playing against a superior ai intelligence in a sand box world that is so real one would feel that uncanny strangeness would be both fascinating and dreadful.


©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Western Art

Where I live rodeos and Western art are a big deal. Most of Charles Russel’s and many other art collections are at the Cody, Wy Museum of the West. Tried not to use any known artists. Obviously the ai will do whatever it does. Some of the best western artists are: Howard Terpning, Martin Grelle, G. Harvey, Chris Owen, Tim Cox, James Bama, Bruce Greene, Frank McCarthy, and Bill Anton.

I still used the styles I like best, more abstract painterly.

©2023 S.C. Hickman

Wizards and Sorcerers – The Dying Earth

“On the heights above the river Xzan, at the site of certain ancient ruins, Iucounu the Laughing Magician had built a manse to his private taste: an eccentric structure of steep gables, balconies, sky-walks, cupolas, together with three spiral green glass towers through which the red sunlight shone in twisted glints and peculiar colors.”
― Jack Vance, The Eyes of the Overworld

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Lack and Desire


Lack and Desire

Here’s C. S. Lewis on the unspeakable ultimate desire:

“[There is] something you were born desiring…which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for. You have never *had* it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it—tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest—if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself—you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say ‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we will still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.”

Whenever good old Jack talks like that, I’m utterly, helplessly rapt, because I started noticing and trying to explain to myself this “secret signature of my soul” years before I found him talking about it. His very descriptions of it inflame the “unappeasable want” itself.

Reading Matthew Cardin quote above from C.S. Lewis on a recent Facebook post reminded me of both my studies in the ancient Gnostic mythos and in Lacan’s notions of “lack” as loss of the object petite A – the impossible object of Desire.

I’ve always turned it (desiring) back on the notion of “lack” rather than desire. Lack awakens desire for that which is impossible in this world or any other world. What we lack is Being; existence itself. We are those who do not exist and are haunted by that need for existence (Being) we once had in a realm of fullness. (A Gnostic Notion) In the ancient Gnostic formulation we fell from the original wholeness-fullness (Pleroma) into this universe of lack without being – the great vastation (Emptiness). And yet there is a spark of the ancient fullness (Pleroma) in us that seeks above all things a return to the Pleroma. This is the core of the ancient Gnostic mythos. Lewis or his friend expresses this exactly.

The ancient Gnostics overturned (reversed) Plato’s philosophical heritage. In a sense that recalls the Symposium, Plato presupposes that there is always some deficiency or lack that needs supplementation. Because the range of such ‘supplements’ include learning and the pursuit of the virtues, there are some pleasures that are rightly cherished. But even they are deemed goods only insofar as they are a compensation for human imperfection. It is in this notion of ‘supplements’ that such thinkers as Derrida would follow Plato and fail utterly.
In ancient Gulak traditions of Tibetan Buddhism such notions of Lack or presented thus:

““The ultimate truth is posited as solely the negation of truth [that is, inherent existence] upon a subject that is a basis of negation…” (Tsongkhapa, 396). Thus, on this view, nothing exists ultimately. This lack of essence in phenomena, or “emptiness,” does not annul their appearance or conventional reality. Rather, emptiness is held to be the condition for the possibility for any appearance. To be empty means to arise dependently—to lack independent, real existence. Since nothing can be found to be independent, everything is said to be empty. Thus, in the Geluk tradition, emptiness is the nature of all phenomena (or their lack of independent nature), and all phenomena are necessarily empty.”1

So once again as in Matt Cardin’s quote from Lewis it is because we lack “existence” and are empty that we seek a return to that which we lost as we fell from the original fullness (Pleroma). I think we’ve all felt this sense that something was/is missing in our lives at some point. We assume as we get older that we can find it in ourselves, our loved ones, our jobs, our travels, our acquisitions of art or objects, etc., but in the end we never discover it. Some seek it in religion, others in philosophy. Some discover it is impossible in either some immanent or transcendent form, that neither an atheistic acceptance of nihil nor a religious acceptance of some Other fill this lack of Being. Some stand in the midst of this vastation – this Great Emptiness of Things and accept both it and themselves as empty. This is what Ligotti in his Conspiracy against the Human Race speaks of as “there is nowhere to go, no one to be, no one to know”. This sense of an acceptance of non-Being not as the negation of Being but rather in Parmenides sense of “Not-Being is”.

Of course, the old saw that this is to fall back into a pure sense of Idealism in the belief that it is reduce all being-appearance to consciousness of appearance as in Berkley’s well known “esse est percipi” is to misread what has been said. It’s this very casuistry of a split between Mind/Body dualism that suggests this eternal battle between Idealism/Materialism to begin with and arose clearly in Descartes (most adamantly).

If anything, my own pursuit of philosophy has centered around this split in Idealism/Materialism which has echoed to this day in every battle and conflict within philosophy since Kant. Even now in the Speculative Realists of our contemporary era in all of its various branches and sub-branches this split between a – what is now termed, Realist vs. Anti-Realism has taken root.

Some such as OOO (Harman’s Object-Oriented Ontology) try to get around it through a return to Malebranche and an indirect ontology of the realism in which we never have direct access to the real object-world but only ever have access to its sensual-appearance (the manifest image) of the real object-world. The intermediary being something is “occasionalism”: Malebranche is known for his occasionalism, that is, his doctrine that God is the only causal agent, and that creatures merely provide the “occasion” for divine action. On the old textbook account, occasionalism was an ad hoc response to the purported problem in Descartes of how substances as distinct in nature as mind and body are can causally interact. Harman will secularize this occasionalism.

There have been many other approaches to this split and I don’t have the space in this post to go further. Zizek, New-Materialsm, Quentin Meillassoux, Deleuze and his followers, New Vitalism, etc. etc.

  1. Duckworth, Douglas, “Gelukpa [dge lugs pa]”, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Spring 2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2022/entries/gelukpa/&gt;.

Realms of Wizardry and Magick – The Dying Earth

The Dying Earth

The sun is old and dim and red
The earth is dying, soon to be dead,
The magic is fading, the spells are weak,
The wonders are crumbling, the future is bleak

But still there are those who seek and explore,
The ancient secrets and the hidden lore,
The wizards and rogues and the brave and the wise,
The dreamers and schemers and the fools in disguise;

They travel the lands of decay and despair,
They face the dangers and the horrors there,
They seek the beauty and the mystery,
They hope for a glimpse of eternity;

They are the heroes of the dying earth,
They are the ones who give it worth,
They are the ones who still have faith,
They are the ones who defy their fate.

— s.c. hickman 2023

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Dark Queen of Elves

The Dark Queen of Elves

She sits on her throne of bones and thorns
In the heart of the forest where no light shines.
She rules with an iron fist and a cruel smile,
Over her subjects who live in fear and pain.

She flies on her wings of ash and smoke
In the shadows of the night where no moon glows.
She plots with a wicked mind and a cold, cold heart
Over her enemies who live in dread and woe.

She has no love for beauty or joy or grace,
She only delights in darkness and decay.
She feeds on the misery and despair of others
To remain cold and beautiful as an undying Fae.

She casts her spells on all who dare
To enter her domain of spells and fear.
She binds them with her icy glare,
And whispers deadly curses in their ear.

She feeds on sorrow and despair,
And revels in their pain and woe.
She has no mercy and no care,
So beware falling beneath her evil eye’s glow.

She is the Dark Queen of Elves,
Mistress of nightmares and horrors of old.
She is the enemy of all that is good and fair,
She will never let go when she holds you close.

— s.c. hickman ©2023

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Banshee

The Banshee

She wails in the night, a harbinger of doom.
She mourns for the dead, and those who will die soon.
She roams the land, with her long and tangled hair.
She sees the fate, of every soul in her glare.

She is the banshee, the ancient spirit of Ireland.
She is the messenger, of death and sorrow’s hand.
She is the curse, of those who hear her cry.
She is the witness, of every tear and sigh.

She knows no joy, no peace, no love.
She only knows, the pain from above.
She cannot rest, she cannot die.
She only screams, until the end of time.

— s.c. hickman 2023

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Visionary Landscapes of Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith’s Zothique

He who has trod the shadows of Zothique
And looked upon the coal-red sun oblique,
Henceforth returns to no anterior land,
But haunts a later coast
Where cities crumble in the black sea-sand
And dead gods drink the brine.

He who has known the gardens of Zothique
Were bleed the fruits torn by the simorgh’s beak,
Savors no fruit of greener hemispheres:
In arbors uttermost,
In sunset cycles of the sombering years,
He sips an amaranth wine.

He who has loved the wild girls of Zothique
Shall not come back a gentler love to seek,
Nor know the vampire’s from the lover’s kiss:
For him the scarlet ghost
Of Lilith from time’s last necropolis
Rears amorous and malign.

He who has sailed in galleys of Zothique
And seen the looming of strange spire and peak,
Must face again the sorcerer-sent typhoon,
And take the steerer’s post
On far-poured oceans by the shifted moon
Or the re-shapen Sign.

Heavily influenced by Clark Ashton Smith, Jack Vance, Gene Wolfe, Philip Jose Farmer, and so many other visionary fantasists my Nightmare Lands pays homage to those Masters of Modern fantasy.

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Nightmare Lands

As a child I had a nightmare in which a strange little gnome took me from my bed and into my dark closet where there was a trap door that went down badly lit stairs round and round till we entered the Nightmare Lands. I never remembered too much about the dream only that it was so vivid and real, and yet I could not convince my parents that it was real. They like all parents sought some natural explanation like shadows on the wall, or that I’d eaten too much desert and had a bad dream. I never forgot that dream or nightmare. I haunted me for the rest of my life. I still see it, and yet not with my natural eyes, and not so vividly as I once did. But I know without doubt that the Nightmare Lands exist somewhere in the darkness, in the realms of the undying and vast strangeness that surrounds us.

The Nightmare Lands

Beware the Nightmare Lands, my child,
Where gnomes and trolls and fairies’ dwell,
Where shadows lurk and trees are wild,
And every path leads to their dark spell.

There is no sun or moon or star,
To guide your way or light your face,
There is no hope or love this far…
Too far from home to save you from their dark embrace.

They’ll lure you with their wicked charms,
Their songs and sweets and promises,
They’ll trap you in their twisted arms,
And feast upon your dreams and bliss.

So listen well and heed my words,
And never stray from home at night,
The Nightmare Lands are for the birds,
And not for children’s hearts so bright.

— s.c. hickman 2023

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Wood Troll King

The Wood Troll King

He dwells in the shadows of the forest deep,
Where ancient secrets and dark magic sleep.
He rules over his kin with an old oak fist,
And none dare to challenge or resist.

He is the wood troll king, the lord of fear,
He is the wood troll king, and none come near.

He feeds on the flesh of man and beast,
And revels in bloodshed and carnage feast.
He hoards his treasure in a hidden forest cave,
And guards it fiercely from any brave.

He is the wood troll king, the master of greed,
He is the wood troll king, and none succeed.

He commands his army with a roaring voice,
And leads them to war without a choice.
He crushes his enemies with brutal force,
And shows no mercy or remorse.

He is the wood troll king, the bringer of pain,
He is the wood troll king, and none remain.

— s.c hickman 2023

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Clark Ashton Smith: Tsathoggua, the ancient god of hunger and Sloth

Tsathoggua, the ancient god of hunger and sloth sat in the depths of his slime infested temple worshiped by his minions who bring him fresh offerings of flesh and blood. The lord of darkness and decay, his eyes red and glowing, held a sceptre made of bones and skulls in one hand, and a human sacrifice in the other. His bloated body barely fits in the stone throne, carved of ancient symbols.

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Journal Entry 1b3365 Colonel Tines of Mars Consilience

As I wander through these ancient cities if feel the pressure of a Great Defeat. The weight alone of all this eroding metal slowly falling back into the earth from which it was once mined gives me the feeling of a monstrous force at work in the depths and heights of this planet’s finals gasps. Does it matter? Those who were its inhabitants long ago vanished into the melting pits of these wastelands. Did they shed tears? Were they knowing of the atrocity ahead of them? We have their records on the crystalline diodes, the quantum systems were still humming away under the dying sun. Seeing them, listening to them, one by one taping their final messages to the night. The strange symbols, more asemic and meaningless to our linguistic experts hold a key to something. But that something is nothing, nothing to us who have returned to discover the nothingness of these emptied cities.

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

Takmanii Invictus – (Old EartH Circa 2450 C.E.)

Takmanii Invictus

The dark ages of man were a thing of history whose memory was all but forgotten among the Avanii who now roamed the ancient lands of Terra Ferma (Old Earth). The sentient cities were the last refuge of those who descended from the Great Experiment.

Against the slow erosion of atmosphere humanity retreated into the great cities and with the help of artificial intelligence began a new era.

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Consolations of Madness

“That which others hear or read of, I felt and practised myself; they get their knowledge by books, I mine by melancholizing.”
― Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy

The true melancholic never recovers from his condition, and if he notices that things have an unknown face as well, he will feel eternal nostalgia for the unknown landscape toward which that face is looking. From then on, sadness, that “enigmatic pleasure,” will not only catch hold of him every now and then but will attach to him like a shadow. Sadness, the attraction to evil (ill humor), cannot be clarified with the aid of reason; it is inexplicable (on the basis of sociology, anthropology, theology, or the philosophy of history) because the enigma of evil, of nothingness, is precisely that it is elusive: if one were to force it into concepts, one would be doing violence to oneself. The melancholic is incapable of hanging on to anything; he feels that existence has cast him out, and he takes the view that his life is a fatal mistake, for which he condemns the whole of existence. The mysterious naïveté that separates him from everyone else is precisely what makes him incapable of distinguishing his self from existence. Whatever he touches, he is thrown back on himself; and if he looks into himself, he catches a glimpse of a miniature copy of the world. Endless deprivation makes his loneliness unbearable, but only he knows of what he had been deprived: for him, lack is a kind of fulfillment, just as in losing himself he arrives back at himself as an ever-more ephemeral imprint of his ego. As if we were looking through a telescope, bewildered, to see whether the outside world continued inside us, or as if we were looking back from outside at our ego, wielding the telescope in confusion. But let the telescope be reversed and aimed at the by-now barely discernible figure of the melancholic, letting our eye rest on him for a while— only then to reverse the perspective again and look out at the overpoweringly magnified world. Who is right? The melancholic or the world? It is no use swinging the telescope— like Nietzsche’s restless boatman, we will never be able to decide whether we should feel that infinity is a cage or, in fact, freedom.1

  1. László F. Földényi. Melancholy. Yale University Press (April 26, 2016).

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Smile

The Smile

The past is a ramshackle attic
full of junk,
trinkets of desire,
memories of bleakness
no one can set right.

I find her still wearing that red hat,
bubbles flecking my lips…
(images of reality rather than reality)
I reach out but her smile slips away in the shadows.

—s.c. hickman ©2023

Space Flight Dreams of an Old Fool

So the universe is not quite as you thought it was. You’d better rearrange your beliefs, then. Because you certainly can’t rearrange the universe.
—Isaac Asimov

Got to thinking again… always a dangerous thing to do. But as I look back on my life what is it that really shaped my vision? As I child it was outer space, the astronauts, going to the moon, and ultimately traveling to the stars. Of course, as reality set in and the truth about spaceflight fell apart into politics and stupidity, and I fell into the draft and a war that was a nightmare, things changed. But all of that in-between doesn’t seem to matter much anymore, and the dreams of space return as I ponder our global predicament. Humans will never get along, there will always be wars and conflict, politics will always be stupidity par excellence, and the world will remain in lockstep with the parade of folly. I know that. Ligotti, Cioran, Zapffe, Schopenhauer and so many others who have shown us the darkside of the human predicament know that and have taught me their truths. And yet something in me still turns back to the child in me. Old Age? Maybe? Maybe we all remember those wide-eyed moments when we dreamed of the unknown and unknowable. Still dreamed of endless possibilities and wanted to live as Emerson described it in the “optative” mood. I know it’s all illusion and delusion but then isn’t everything? So why not that dream one once sought out in diametric opposition to the stupidity and ignorance of the world? Why not? At Seventy I’ve begun dreaming again of those worlds I once traveled in my mind’s eye as a child…

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman

The Outbreak

Moondate 2423

I looked at Amy, she looked at me. We both looked at each other then back at the communique on the screen:

“Biological outbreak. Infestation. Send help.”

I kept thinking: “What the hell is going on.” The screen went blank. For the next 24 hours nothing. Then the screen lit up and several images flicked across the screen one after another…

Earthlog 2426

It’s been three years since the outbreak. The spores are everywhere now. There is no place to hide. We are all changing. A new world is being created out of the ashes of the old. Very few people survived the first onslaught. Those of us who remain are becoming something other than we were. I’m tired. It’s difficult to write with my new appendages. This may be my last entry.

In the years that followed the outbreak new life forms developed across the earth. It was as if everything we once believed and known about evolution were being rewritten before our eyes. The strangeness of the new biology was both terrifying and strange, grotesque and deadly. Yet there was a certain beauty in this transformation, something indefinable.

©2023 Art by S.C. Hickman