#misconceptions of artificial intelligence

got to the AI bits and ITS LIKE IM ALWAYS TRYING TO TELL PEOPLE

It is not possible to provide a single, comprehensive definition of AI. What can be stated, however, is that we must avoid the misconception of equating this type of “intelligence” with that of human beings. These systems merely imitate certain functions of human intelligence. In doing so, they often surpass human intelligence in speed and computational capacity, offering tangible benefits across many fields. Yet this power remains entirely tied to data processing. So-called artificial intelligences do not undergo experiences, do not possess a body, do not feel joy or pain, do not mature through relationships and do not know from within what love, work, friendship or responsibility mean. Nor do they have a moral conscience, since they do not judge good and evil, grasp the ultimate meaning of situations, or bear responsibility for consequences. They may imitate language, behavior and analytical skills, or even simulate empathy and understanding, but they do not understand what they produce, for they lack the affective, relational and spiritual perspective through which human beings grow in wisdom. Even when these tools are described as capable of “learning,” their way of doing so is different from that of a human person. It is not the experience of those who allow themselves to be shaped by life and grow over time through choices, mistakes, forgiveness and fidelity. Rather, it is a form of statistical adaptation based on data and feedback, which can be very effective, but does not imply inner growth.

At first glance, Shadow the Hedgehog and Rocket Raccoon seem like an unlikely pair. One is a quiet, disciplined black hedgehog who speaks only when necessary. The other is an irreverent, sarcastic raccoon who rarely lets a moment pass without a joke or insult. One appears emotionally distant, the other emotionally explosive. Yet beneath those surface differences lies one of the strongest foundations for friendship either character could ever find. Their bond would not be built on shared hobbies or similar personalities. It would be built on something much deeper: mutual recognition. Both know what it means to have their lives shaped by laboratories, to carry trauma that never fully heals, and to struggle with identities imposed upon them by others. At the same time, their differences are just as important as their similarities, allowing each to provide something the other has never had.

Both Shadow and Rocket began life in laboratories. Rocket was born an ordinary raccoon but was taken as an infant by the High Evolutionary. He never consciously experienced a normal childhood. His earliest memories are of experiments, surgeries, cages, and endless pain. The laboratory became the only world he knew. Shadow's beginning was different, yet equally artificial. He was never an ordinary hedgehog. Created aboard Space Colony ARK through Project Shadow, his entire existence began inside a laboratory. There was no life before science. No family before Gerald Robotnik. Despite these different origins, both grew up surrounded by scientists who viewed them primarily through the lens of what they could become. Both were changed forever before they had any opportunity to choose their own lives.

The largest difference between their stories lies in the people who created them. The High Evolutionary never loved Rocket. Rocket was an experiment, a prototype, a means to an end. Even Rocket's incredible intelligence became something the High Evolutionary hated because it proved his creation had surpassed him. Rocket's existence threatened his creator's ego. Shadow's relationship with Professor Gerald Robotnik is almost the complete opposite. Although Gerald created Shadow as part of his scientific research, he came to treat him as genuine family. Shadow lived alongside Maria aboard the ARK. Gerald trusted Shadow, cared for him, and loved him much like a son. Maria certainly did. The tragedy of Shadow's story is not that he lacked love. It is that he lost it. Maria's murder shattered Gerald's sanity, transforming a compassionate grandfather into a man consumed by grief and vengeance. Shadow watched someone who genuinely loved him become someone almost unrecognizable. Rocket asks:"Why did the one who made me hate me?" Shadow asks:"How did the one who loved me become this?" The pain is different. The loss is equally profound.

Perhaps the greatest misconception surrounding both characters is that they are emotionally distant. Neither actually is. Shadow is often mistaken for emotionless because he rarely verbalizes his feelings. In reality, he demonstrates compassion through action. He repeatedly risks his life to save others despite asking for no recognition. He remains fiercely loyal to the few people who earn his trust. Maria's wish continues to guide him decades after her death. Shadow is not cold. He is traumatized, introverted, and deeply private.

Rocket suffers the opposite misconception. People remember the insults. The sarcasm. The temper. The explosions. But Rocket's entire character revolves around his immense capacity for love. He constantly repairs his friends' equipment, protects those weaker than himself, sacrifices his own safety, and grieves intensely whenever someone he loves dies. Rocket is not truly selfish (most of the time). He is terrified of losing people again.

Both characters possess enormous empathy. They simply express it differently. This shared trait would become the cornerstone of their friendship. Neither would require constant emotional reassurance. Neither expects grand speeches. Neither mistakes silence for rejection. Shadow rarely says, "I care." Instead, he appears exactly when someone needs him most. Rocket rarely admits affection. Instead, he quietly fixes broken equipment, modifies weapons for his teammates, or stays awake all night making sure everyone survives the next mission. They already speak the same emotional language. Action.

Ironically, their friendship would almost certainly begin with mutual irritation. Rocket would find Shadow frustratingly quiet. Shadow would find Rocket exhausting. Rocket would poke fun at Shadow's stoicism. Shadow would respond with one-word answers. Rocket would continue anyway. Over time, however, small observations begin to accumulate. Rocket notices Shadow instinctively positions himself between civilians and danger. Shadow notices Rocket is always the first engineer repairing everyone else's equipment after a battle. Neither points these things out. Neither needs to. Respect quietly replaces annoyance.

Their first truly personal conversation would probably happen almost by accident. Late at night. Everyone else asleep. Neither looking directly at the other. Rocket breaks the silence. "I had friends once." Shadow says nothing. Rocket continues. "Lylla. Teefs. Floor." Shadow understands. Not because he knows those names. Because he knows what it means to carry names that never stop hurting. After several moments he quietly replies, "Maria." Nothing else. Neither asks questions. Neither explains. They don't need to. Sometimes understanding is measured not by words spoken but by words left unsaid.

Rocket rarely discusses his first family because very few people truly understand what losing them means. Shadow would be different. Not because he has experienced identical trauma. Because he has experienced permanent grief. More importantly, Shadow would never pressure Rocket to talk. He would never tell him to "move on." He would never insist talking is necessary for healing. He simply listens. That patience creates something Rocket has almost never experienced. Safety. Rocket would likely become surprisingly honest around Shadow because he would never feel judged. Rocket offers Shadow something equally valuable. Humor without cruelty. Rocket constantly teases people he cares about. He would absolutely tease Shadow. At first Shadow would ignore him. Eventually he would answer with increasingly dry remarks. Rocket would immediately recognize progress. Shadow would also benefit from Rocket's ability to laugh despite unimaginable suffering. Rocket proves that surviving trauma does not mean joy disappears forever. Shadow already knows how to survive. Rocket reminds him how to live.

Professionally, they would trust each other almost immediately. Rocket would admire Shadow's discipline, tactical thinking, and willingness to face impossible odds without hesitation. Shadow would recognize Rocket as one of the greatest engineers and strategists he has ever met. Neither would need to prove themselves repeatedly. Once trust is earned, it remains.

Perhaps the healthiest part of their friendship would be how comfortable they are doing absolutely nothing. Many friendships depend upon conversation. Theirs would not. Sitting together. Watching stars. Repairing equipment. Sharing coffee. Hours could pass without either feeling obligated to speak. For two people whose lives have been filled with constant noise, violence, and expectations, that silence becomes a gift. Rocket encourages Shadow to reconnect with joy. Shadow encourages Rocket to slow down. Rocket reminds Shadow that laughing does not dishonor the dead. Shadow reminds Rocket that vulnerability is not weakness. Neither tries to change the other. Instead, they quietly become evidence that healing is possible without becoming someone else.

I legitimately cannot stop thinking about the whole genetic engineering thing so here is a small talk (take everything I say with a grain of salt, i'm a literature type not a science type :)

First, we have to clear up a few things - I've seen many a misconception in this fandom that the Rats are robots, bionic in the way that the six million dollar man/bionic woman or even Leo are, or just enhanced humans (à la Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes). I can see why this is common, since genetic engineering - ESPECIALLY embryo or fetal genetic engineering is incredibly difficult to wrap one's head around. So I want to explain - with the internet's help - what genetic engineering is.

The National Human Genome Research Institute defines Genetic Engineering as "a process that uses laboratory-based technologies to alter the DNA makeup of an organism. This may involve changing a single base pair (A-T or C-G) deleting a region of DNA or adding a new segment of DNA." (if you've taken a basic biology course, the term "base pair" should be familiar). So for example, gene therapy to cure diseases, gene doping for athletic performance and basic modifications like memory, looks, or even intelligence can all be changed using genetic engineering. But these instances are all on already born humans - so what about fetal or embryonic genetic engineering?

This type of engineering would most likely happen in vitro - as in a culture dish, test tube, etc (think IVF.) now, in the real world, in utero gene editing is YEARS away. The only real editing of this type allowed is for diseases that would cause harm to the fetus now or in the future, and there are a lot of problems that come with the idea of fetal gene editing - a lot of people think about "designer babies", or babies who had their features chosen by their parents in utero. There are big risks and controvery surrounding fetal genetic engineering, especially heritable genetic engineering because of the damage it could cause down the line. Donald explicitly states in the show that this is the type of genetic engineering done with Adam, Bree, and Chase, which causes me to think it was another reason he protested Douglas's experiments with them.

We know that Douglas is the biological father of the rats. He says so himself, meaning that it is his sperm and his DNA as the base of their genetics (we can also tell because Chase and Bree look very similar to him, and Adam looks similar to Donald). But if i'm correct in saying it, this kind of genetic engineering also takes a "mother" of sorts - or, at the very least, an egg to create the embryo. So to create the rats, Douglas probably would have had to comb through many a Davenport industries employee or possible applicant to find the genetically perfect one and also find someone willing to go through with it and BOY this is sounding a little like eugenics, huh? I'm going to focus a little less on that aspect and a little more on the "I don't want my soldiers to come out as little blocks of flesh, let me make them perfect" aspect.

After the embryos are created (yes, embryos, you're going to need more than one), Douglas would have then had to comb through the DNA of every single one, pick the perfect base, and edit every gene by basically "cutting" and "implanting" (in basic words) the features he wanted the child to have, and then either put them in an artificial womb or a real womb (though judging by his slight laziness and probable easy access to a real womb, I'm going to guess he went that route.)

Now, I theorize that all of the siblings - or at least Chase - are autistic. But that couldn't possibly go along with the perfect embryo, right? Well, autism cannot be tested for until after birth. and seeing as Douglas is likely autistic, the rats definitely have a chance of inheriting it. Especially Chase, seeing as how his brain was probably tinkered with in the embryonic stage.

Keep in mind, he is doing this completely behind his brother's back, in their SHARED company. He was kicked out because of these experiments. And Chase is with the rats, so Adam would have had to be at least a year or two old before they were taken to safety, but add in Daniel, and the years they were ALIVE and OUT OF UTERO before they were discovered is a little crazy. Not to mention - Adam, being the first, is almost an experiment. No telling how he'd come out and if the bionic transfer would work (a topic for another time) or if it would kill him. this little "experiment" was unethical in every conceivable way. (Now calling them "Lab Rats" is a little creepier, isn't it?)

Again, I'm no scientist, so if any of this is wrong, PLEASE tell me. This is just my best interpretation of the information I was given.

There are certain names in cinema that come to represent more than the films they distribute. They become symbols. Not because they are flawless, but because they embody an idea that audiences desperately want to believe in. For many cinephiles, A24 became one of those symbols. It represented the possibility that, amidst an industry increasingly driven by franchises, intellectual property, and market-tested formulas, there was still room for films that felt deeply personal. Films that trusted the intelligence of their audiences. Films that were allowed to be quiet, difficult, unconventional, and unapologetically human.

That is why the recent announcement of A24's partnership with Google to develop artificial intelligence tools for filmmakers felt less like a business decision and more like a cultural disappointment. It is important to acknowledge what the partnership actually entails: according to both companies, these tools are intended to support filmmakers throughout different stages of production rather than replace them, and A24 has stated that its existing film catalogue will not be used to train AI models. On paper, those assurances seem reasonable. Yet the unease surrounding this collaboration cannot be dismissed as simple technophobia. It speaks to something much deeper than a fear of new technology.

Cinema has never been an art form afraid of innovation. Every major technological leap has been met with resistance before eventually becoming inseparable from filmmaking itself. The arrival of synchronized sound was seen by some as the death of visual storytelling. Colour cinematography was dismissed as a gimmick. Digital cameras were accused of stripping films of their texture. Even computer-generated imagery, despite the criticism it still receives when overused, has allowed filmmakers to visualize worlds that would have been impossible to create otherwise. Throughout its history, cinema has continuously evolved alongside technological progress, and that evolution has often expanded artistic possibilities rather than diminished them.

Artificial intelligence, however, raises questions of a fundamentally different nature. Unlike previous innovations, generative AI does not simply provide artists with new instruments through which to express themselves. It is built upon the ability to imitate existing creative work, synthesizing enormous quantities of human expression into predictive systems capable of reproducing styles, aesthetics, and patterns with astonishing speed. This is where the ethical dilemma begins. The issue is no longer whether technology can assist artists, but whether it begins to substitute the very processes that define artistic creation. Efficiency, after all, is not always compatible with creativity.

One of the greatest misconceptions surrounding art is the belief that it exists to produce results as quickly as possible. In reality, meaningful creation is often profoundly inefficient. A screenplay may require years of rewriting before it finally discovers its emotional core. A director may spend days searching for a single shot that lasts only a few seconds on screen. Editors frequently reshape entire narratives long after principal photography has ended, discovering the rhythm of a film through countless experiments and discarded ideas. These are not flaws within the creative process; they are the creative process. The uncertainty, hesitation, and endless revision are precisely what allow something genuinely original to emerge.

Artificial intelligence promises to reduce that uncertainty. It offers shortcuts, suggestions, optimizations, and increasingly sophisticated ways of accelerating creative labour. While this may appear beneficial in isolated cases, it also reflects a broader cultural obsession with speed. We live in an era that values immediacy above almost everything else. Content is expected faster. Production cycles become shorter. Attention spans shrink. Under these conditions, AI risks becoming less of an optional creative assistant and more of an economic expectation. Once a technology demonstrates that a task can be completed in half the time, industries inevitably begin asking why anyone would choose to take longer.

This is precisely why A24's involvement carries such symbolic weight. Had one of Hollywood's major conglomerates announced a similar initiative, few people would have reacted with surprise. The largest studios have spent decades refining production pipelines around efficiency and profitability. Their priorities have rarely pretended to be anything else. A24, by contrast, cultivated an entirely different identity. Whether intentionally or not, it became associated with filmmakers whose voices resisted homogenization. Its catalogue encouraged audiences to believe that originality still had commercial value, that films did not need to conform to predetermined formulas in order to resonate with viewers.

Perhaps this perception was always somewhat romanticized. After all, A24 remains a business operating within the same economic system as every other studio. Yet symbols matter because they influence how people imagine the future of an art form. For many aspiring filmmakers, A24 represented proof that there was still a place for personal cinema in an increasingly standardized industry. It stood as evidence that artistic risk had not disappeared entirely.

The irony, then, is difficult to ignore. Many of the films that have come to define A24's identity are remarkable precisely because they resist predictability. Their emotional power lies in their singularity. They feel as though they could only have been made by the specific artists who created them. Works like The Lighthouse, Past Lives, Aftersun, or The Zone of Interest are not memorable because they perfected an existing formula. They are memorable because they disrupted expectations. They trusted silence where another film might have relied on exposition. They embraced ambiguity where conventional storytelling would have insisted upon certainty. Their brilliance emerged not from statistical probability but from deeply personal artistic intuition.

This is where artificial intelligence encounters its greatest limitation. Machine learning excels at recognizing patterns. It can identify recurring structures, stylistic tendencies, and narrative conventions with extraordinary precision. Yet great cinema has never simply been the accumulation of successful patterns. More often than not, it arises from the decision to reject them. The moments that linger in our memories are rarely those that feel mathematically inevitable; they are the moments that surprise us, unsettle us, or reveal something we had never considered before. Human creativity is not merely the recombination of existing information. It is shaped by memory, grief, love, contradiction, obsession, failure, and countless experiences that cannot be reduced to datasets.

Supporters of AI frequently argue that these tools are not intended to replace filmmakers but to empower them. That distinction deserves to be taken seriously. There are undoubtedly areas of film production where automation can reduce repetitive administrative work, streamline workflows, or make certain technical processes more accessible to independent creators. Used responsibly, technology has the potential to remove barriers rather than impose them. The concern is not necessarily the existence of these tools themselves, but the broader industrial logic that inevitably accompanies them. History suggests that technologies introduced as optional conveniences often become economic necessities once corporations recognize their financial advantages.

Art has always struggled against the pressures of commodification. Every generation faces new mechanisms that attempt to transform creativity into something more measurable, more predictable, and ultimately more profitable. Artificial intelligence is simply the latest expression of that tension. The danger is not that audiences will suddenly stop valuing human-made films. Rather, it is that the conditions necessary to produce those films become increasingly difficult to sustain within industries that prioritize optimization over exploration.

Perhaps A24 genuinely believes that collaborating with Google allows filmmakers to participate in shaping the future of artificial intelligence instead of having that future dictated exclusively by technology companies. There is merit to that argument. If AI is destined to become part of filmmaking, artists should certainly have a voice in determining how it is implemented. Yet participation also confers legitimacy. When a studio so closely associated with artistic integrity lends its name to the development of generative AI, it inevitably softens the cultural resistance that many creatives still feel toward these systems.

Ultimately, what makes this announcement so disappointing is not the technology itself, nor even the partnership in isolation. It is what the collaboration symbolizes. Cinema has always been one of the few art forms that openly embraces uncertainty. Behind every extraordinary film lies an invisible accumulation of failed drafts, abandoned ideas, unexpected accidents, impossible decisions, and moments of instinct that no algorithm could have predicted. Those imperfections are not obstacles standing in the way of great art; they are often the very reason great art exists.

Perhaps cinema will continue to thrive alongside artificial intelligence. Perhaps these tools will remain exactly what their advocates promise they will be: assistants rather than replacements. I sincerely hope that proves true. But I cannot help mourning what this moment represents. Not because I believe AI will destroy cinema overnight, but because one of the studios that taught an entire generation to believe in the irreplaceable value of human authorship has chosen to place its faith, however cautiously, in a technology whose greatest strength lies in imitation rather than creation.

For those of us who have long admired A24 not simply for the films it released, but for what it seemed to stand for, that is perhaps the greatest disappointment of all. It is difficult to watch a symbol of artistic conviction embrace a future that feels increasingly defined by automation without wondering how many other ideals will eventually become negotiable. If even the studio that championed some of the most singular voices in contemporary cinema begins to compromise with the logic of efficiency, one cannot help but ask: who, then, is left to defend the beautifully slow, imperfect, and irreducibly human process of making art?

smiles and looks back with my own big scary eye 🔴 thank you! sorry it's taken me a little while to finish writing this.

this post is quite long and i've discussed a few things in it:

causes for hal's actions in 2001

whether or not hal experiences emotions

what and when is halman

under the cut i'll answer this first with regards to 2001: A Space Odyssey, and then i'll add additional information from the books and 2010. i think that the majority of people that know of hal would have watched the first film alone, which is why i'm focusing on it initially :) but i promise i discuss the novels later as well. this is probably unnecessarily in depth & also contains spoilers, of course!

hal 9000 is a very famous character. in reference to the eye, many people have seen it or some of the many parodies or references to it. 2001 in general has been so referenced in popular culture that many people are at least vaguely aware of hal as a character... and also 'glowing red eye' is a pretty ominous choice. the way that he is filmed also contributes to this--close-up shots on his lens make us feel as though he is staring directly at us, but shots where he can be spotted in the background also serve to remind us that he's always there. hal is the "brain and nervous system" of the discovery, and the discovery is very alone out in space. not only does that give hal a lot of power and make the human crew members vulnerable, but it also creates an atmosphere of feeling watched. hal is always there and always listening! not only does a red light usually serve as a warning sign compared to greens or blues, but numerous other films have also used the big red light since.

This is the latest kind of misconception in astrology that AI astrology apps can give accurate predictions. This is because of bombardment and involvement of AI intelligence in our everyday work in electronics, internet and IT fields.

One of the biggest reasons is the presence of large number of fake astrologers, and people are fed-up of their fake predictions and it has become difficult for people to believe in human astrologers because there is no way to identify a good and a fake astrologer.

Lack of knowledge of vedic astrology is also a reason why people think that AI astrology apps can give accurate predictions.

A learned of vedic astrology will and can never say that AI can take over astrological prediction. Its because they very well knew that that it is not possible for a machine to predict about our future.

INTUITION PLAYS A VERY BIG ROLE IN VEDIC ASTROLOGY ANALYSIS AND PREDICTION AND ITS IS THERE WILL HUMAN BEING ONLY.

An AI software is made up of embedded formulas, logics and lots of data, based on that only it will calculate and do its analysis.

In Vedic astrology, Nimitham is refers to omens or signs observed in the environment that provide subtle clues about future events and can be used to interpret a person's fate or answer a specific question. These natural occurrences are seen as messages from the divine and Mother Nature, offering intuitive guidance alongside horoscope readings. The practice is documented in classical texts on Nimitham shastra.

AI ( Artificial Intelligence ) will not have the capability to observed in the environment that provide subtle clues about future events which can be interpreted as astrological predictions.

In a nutshell a software can do the accurate calculation of a horoscope and represent that in pictorial form in computer BUT can not do predictions.

Pray, tell.

I positively yearn to be enlightened.

Alas my eyes may have been deceived, the mere fragility of a claim that enforces a false prophetic illusion of utter incompetence.

Pray, relieve yourself of that singular misconception. My words are entirely from the soul, my correspondence imitates the key to my heart, dictated by my internal entrapment and composed by my own hand.

The prominent usage of artificial intelligent perists in repulsing me.

Love will always override any form of hate, so I love you.

Yours eternally,

🐯

🐯 has spoken… i knew i could trust my goat 🥹🥹