Not AI

I'd like you to believe I'm real person typing these words but can't think how to convince you. It's more likely this was bot-produced by some corporation or government with a profit motive. I aim to engage your mind and heart, but I'll forgive you thinking it's more misleading distraction. Such is the AI age.

My argument that this is a human creation: I don't stand to benefit from you reading it. No corporation could benefit from you agreeing with anything I say.

I considered handwriting this and posting photos, so you'd see my uneven penmanship, crossouts, misspellings, and misused commas. But AI can probably fake all that. I read a piece (maybe written by a human) suggesting keeping drafts to prove human creation. Not the worst idea and easy in MS Word or Google Docs which track versions. But I'm using a plain-text editor. I'll hit ctrl-shift-S at the end of each draft and save Not AI-1, -2, -3, and so on.

Still, there's no proof for you, and that leaves me feeling a great loss.

I'm a happy curmudgeon about AI. I opted out of social media years ago because it made me mean and small. I'm leaving Google, because that company is mean, small, and follows the whims of the orange maggot. I don't even feel good about being online let alone having AI do my creative work.

So why post this online?

I still want to share with others though I'm probably whispering into the void. I want to connect with other humans but can't prove anything online is human.

Sure, I know I'm typing this, re-reading it, and revising to make something of which I'm pleased if not proud. But you can't be sure.

That sucks. That's sad.

Which is why I don't invest in AI companies. It's why I disable AI where I can. It what motivates me to leave Google and get offline. I want human contact disconnected from the network, the corporations, the governments.

I have bad feelings about AI. It may not be the end of the world, but it sure feels like it. I don't trust the monstrous humans running corporations that race ahead with no thought to the dangers or price we'll pay for their greed.

Turns out I may be trying to persuade you after all.

But don't worry. Bots will clean this up, erase it, and/or produce some cogent counterpoint proving I'm the bot, my argument is poppycock, AI is fine, and you should really buy what they're selling. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Bozo Comes To Town

Bozo the awful clown came to town. Streets were shut down. A corridor was cleared from the airport where his gaudy plane had touched down to the old War Memorial coliseum. It has been renamed since. But the old names stick. Like memories of the way things used to be. My grandfather's name is carved a wall near a beer stand. He was a drunk, Grandpa, and Mom kept him an arm's length from us. Grandpa called me Bub. He may not have remembered my name. Or just liking the sound of Bub for a chubby kid who reminded him too much of his daughter. And his suffering wife. A decade gone before I was born. In place of her, he showed me to eat pie out of a bowl with milk poured over. One piece, he said, isn't enough. And another would go into my bowl. Sinking into clouded milk and floating crust. A glutton, Grandpa was. With a strange smell. I can still conjure that smell, but can't describe it, even a little. I imagine Bozo and his entourage walking past Grandpa's carved name, the beer stand. Bozo in an ill-fitting suit, ridiculous hair, terrible orange makeup. A joyless soul wondering about the smell. Finding himself wishing for a whole pie. A glass or bowl of milk. Choking on a fake laugh he's rehearing for the crowd he knows he'll depsise. This awful town. This ridiculous memorial to suckers. He walks on in awful, too-big shoes. His frown painted on like a tattoo. A scowl really. And there's the crowd. So small these days. Losers from this backwater town chanting his name. Because they've forgotten all the others.

Not Crashing Through Life

I went for a jog this morning. Wasn't sure I wanted to go, but I wanted to have run, wanted to feel like a runner again. The only way to do that is to get out on the street. Buying running stuff won't do it. Only moving my body and raising my heartrate will have me feeling like a runner.

I jogged to the corner where a four-way stop didn't slow a young driver doing forty miles an hour. I was young too once and drove at least as recklessly, but now I know there's not enough joy in rushing. Slow down, I wished at them. Don't get hurt.

I jogged on and, two blocks later, an older couple sped past me. Again I wished, slow down, and then heard them crash into another car.

For a moment, I considered going on, but ran back to the scene. The couple were getting shakily out of the car, both airbags having gone off, the engine smoking. The driver asked, did you see her pull out in front of us? I suggested he sit, but he said he was alright. Not wanting to get into who was at fault, I checked on the other driver as she tried to call someone.

She was crying but seemed uninjured. Her mother wasn't answering. It's okay, I told her. She called her father and, when he answered, she broke down. I named the intersection for her, then others there to help and a fire truck arriving, I proceeded on my jog.

I couldn't keep my heartrate down. That had nothing to do with the accident but had me thinking slow down, be thoughtful. My heartrate was up because I've been eating carelessly, drinking too much alcohol, not moving my body. Slow down, think things through.

I've now jogged two miles, shaved, showered, typed and edited these words. I tried to help people in distress, myself included. I feel like a runner and like a writer. I'm not blindly flying through stop signs, speeding through life, turning carelessly, crashing into others.

I'm grateful for the speeding drivers. They've helped me slow down and be just that much more present to my life, who I am, and who I want to be.

Morning Pages, Twelfth Anniversary

It's Fourth of July. Given the decline of our democratic republic, I'm not celebrating that. Instead, I have an anniversary to consider and maybe celebrate.

Years ago, I read about of Morning Pages, Julia Cameron's practice of writing three pages by hand first thing each morning. It appealed to me, but I didn't begin. I've long had dreams of filling pages, creating a mountain of work. Each notebook I bought, stole, or received as a kid filled me with dreams of writing every day, becoming a writer. Those plans fell apart as obligation overwhelmed desire.

Late June, early July 2014, I was trying to remake my life. I'd barely survived my mid-life crisis and was stuck in the fourth year of a job that was dragging me down. Looking for ways to change, I signed on to co-lead a two-week writing workshop beginning July 5. That morning, I arrived early, made coffee, and put fountain pen to the first of three Morning Pages.

The next day I did three more. I kept expectations low: just fill this page,. I tried not to think of the next page or the next day's, let alone the rest of the month and year. I wrote the page in front of me.

This morning I woke, set the kettle to boil, and emptied the dishwasher. I made coffee and carried it to the desk. I pulled clipboard, fountain pen, and reading glasses from the shelf, and started writing. It wasn't until page three that I realized I was finishing my twelfth year of Morning Pages.

I've kept going. I have a daily practice, but I don't want to make too much of it.

Well, I want to make a little bit out of it. I'm pleased and comforted by the numbers: twelve years, 4,383 days, 13,149 pages. Almost three cases of paper, all of it reused (I print lines on the backs of used pages).

Beyond that small celebration, I don't want to make a big deal about what I've done any more than I do about brewing coffee or emptying the dishwasher. These are just my daily practices.

What I celebrate is how Morning Pages has changed my mind. Habits wear grooves in the brain. Morning Pages are groovy in the extreme. I often write of how I'm thinking, how I want to think. Lately, I'm writing about how I feel, a tougher thing for me, one I'm learning a tiny bit each day.

I've been changed by this practice. Morning Pages are a kind of meditation that is a tool for my change and growth. I'm calmer than twelve years ago, a bit more thoughtful and accepting. I feel how much more there is to learn and that keeps me going.

Do I recommend Morning Pages? Not really. I mean, you do you. I've had good experiences with the practice. There are good mornings and bad, but it's not about that. I'm still learning what it is about.

Rather than recommend, I'll say again what I do. I wake, empty the dishwasher, make a decaf and carry it to the desk where fountain pen, pages, and reading glasses wait. I note the date and label page one then begin writing the first thought in my head. Content pales in comparison with practice. As Natalie Goldberg recommends, I just keep the pen moving through three pages, file them away, and go wash my cup. The next day, I do it again.

Make of it what you will. Rather than celebrate what I've done, I take comfort in knowing the pen waits for tomorrow's Morning Pages and my continued slow walk down a path that feels as though it's moving me into the light.