Alright, I'll abandon my A.I. fetish here for awhile.
"People don't appreciate."
Yea, that's right, pal. Most people I know seem to think it is easy to make something with A.I. Well. . . it is. You can make "something" pretty quickly. Making something you want, on the other hand, is difficult, especially if you are trying to build on something you have done before. At least it has been for this neophyte. I spent half the night trying to get that little snippet I gave you yesterday. O.K. Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe not "half the night." But hours and more.
I'll drop it for now. A.I. will make "things' very quickly. As long as you are not too discerning, have a ball.
I watched a lengthy interview with Harvard prof, a psycholinguist, explain why most people have trouble writing or why they write poorly. He thinks that LLMs (large language models) can often do a better job (here is the link if you are interested but you might be better off just trusting me). Having probably read more than most and probably having read more student papers then most and having read more academic papers than most. . . I'd agree with much, if not all, of what the professor says. He even properly pronounces "err" and "cliques" which, for whatever reason, floored me, but, I felt, also countered some of his argument about "recognizing your audience." If you correctly pronounce "err," most people will simply think you are pausing. If you properly pronounce "cliques" people might think you pretentious.
But I digress.
So let me return to photography, specifically to the few pointillistic photos I have found from 2003, and generally to something I have foresworn, it seems. I sent this to the woman who had just stepped from the shower.
"I don't think that is me," she replied. I wondered why she would say that. I also sent it around to several friends and they all "hearted" it rather than giving it a "thumbs up" or simply ignoring it completely as is so often the case .
"It's your sister," I wrote back. That received a "hahaha!!!"
I realized, though, that it could be most women, or at least many I have known. It could easily be most of my friends' wives. It is beautifully enigmatic, and I think that is a large part of its appeal--universality. The longer I look at it, I think, "that could almost be me!"
But since I am not sure I could ever reproduce this look again, it might be one and done.
Oh, wait. . . there is A.I.
But all the A.I. platforms are furiously and maddeningly prudent, not prurient. They will not make images of the naked body nor much else that is verboten in what people often consider the highly moral mind. I would say "puritan" but the Islamic mind is even worse on this topic. Fucking shit. I don't think the Hindu or Buddhist minds at all. Something about Adam and Eve and the Garden and the Serpent and all that emanating from that little postage stamp of Middle Eastern mean-spiritedness.
Though I've heard many young, non-religious Jews are quite liberal if not hedonistic. Ashkenazi, probably.
What is up with Japanese religious and cultural beliefs about such things is a hot mess, as the kids used to say, or in my own lingo, paradoxical.
I would be arriving in The Land of the Rising Sun today if I'd been able to get away. My tenant and neighbors will be there soon, their flight having left last night. I wanted to go very badly, but "fate" has dealt me a different hand. My mother's broken wrist, the surgery on my calf, then my mother's fractured disc. . . and now the rotten floor joist. . . it has all conspired to keep me in place. Fuck shit piss goddamn. It seems my life will dissipate in a vaporous, amorphous mist.
As will my money.
Segue. The carpenter came yesterday. Craggy barroom face, smoker's cough, a slight limp. I showed him the problem area and he struggled to kneel and look closely.
"Do you have a flashlight?"
Mumbles. Lots and lots of mumbles and coughs. He asked me if he could go inside to look at the other side of the wall. Back outside, he started to explain in half sentences and digressions. Many times, with variations.
We talked of other things. He asked about me.
"Oh, man, you must be laughing at my grammar."
"Oh, no. . . not me, man. I'm a hillbilly, not a grammarian."
"Where are you from?"
Turns out, we are both from Ohio. We laughed about the pronunciations we grew up with, strange words like "chimley" and "libary" and "valentimes." We talked about our hillbilly relatives that still lived there. An hour passed. He told me about his life. I am a pro listener. But I was getting nervous about the whole project.
"How many days do you think it would take?" I asked.
He thought, counted on his fingers. "Nine. . . ten."
Exclamation marks ran through me.
"Ballpark figure, not including materials, how much?"
Head bobs. "Let me get my calculator."
But he never got his calculator. He started telling more tales. Half an hour later--"$2,500. . . $3,000. That's if you can help me."
"Oh, sure, I can. . . but my friends won't let me use power tools. I can fetch and haul, but I seem to fuck things up when I'm given a tool."
"That's alright. We won't know for sure what we have to do until we open up the wall."
There are a lot of things that have to be done. The shed that houses the water heater has to come down and the water heater has to come out. I will have to buy a new one, he says. There were a lot of other uncertain things.
It seems we will begin on Monday. I told him I've been having a lot of anxiety about this whole thing. I'd woken at 4:30 in a panic just that morning.
"Don't worry, man. . . I can fix it. Don't worry."
When he was gone, I Googled water heaters. Holy shit! This alone can cost me thousands of dollars.
My anxiety is anything but gone, but at least we are going to make some progress. Still, things can still turn to shit. All I know is that beginning Monday, my current life gets shelved for awhile. No gyms or cafes, just work and mother. I'm pretty sure this won't be the week to quit drinking.
Last night when I checked my email, I had a note from Chris Staples:
Yea, that's right, pal. Most people I know seem to think it is easy to make something with A.I. Well. . . it is. You can make "something" pretty quickly. Making something you want, on the other hand, is difficult, especially if you are trying to build on something you have done before. At least it has been for this neophyte. I spent half the night trying to get that little snippet I gave you yesterday. O.K. Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe not "half the night." But hours and more.
I'll drop it for now. A.I. will make "things' very quickly. As long as you are not too discerning, have a ball.
I watched a lengthy interview with Harvard prof, a psycholinguist, explain why most people have trouble writing or why they write poorly. He thinks that LLMs (large language models) can often do a better job (here is the link if you are interested but you might be better off just trusting me). Having probably read more than most and probably having read more student papers then most and having read more academic papers than most. . . I'd agree with much, if not all, of what the professor says. He even properly pronounces "err" and "cliques" which, for whatever reason, floored me, but, I felt, also countered some of his argument about "recognizing your audience." If you correctly pronounce "err," most people will simply think you are pausing. If you properly pronounce "cliques" people might think you pretentious.
But I digress.
So let me return to photography, specifically to the few pointillistic photos I have found from 2003, and generally to something I have foresworn, it seems. I sent this to the woman who had just stepped from the shower.
"I don't think that is me," she replied. I wondered why she would say that. I also sent it around to several friends and they all "hearted" it rather than giving it a "thumbs up" or simply ignoring it completely as is so often the case .
"It's your sister," I wrote back. That received a "hahaha!!!"
I realized, though, that it could be most women, or at least many I have known. It could easily be most of my friends' wives. It is beautifully enigmatic, and I think that is a large part of its appeal--universality. The longer I look at it, I think, "that could almost be me!"
But since I am not sure I could ever reproduce this look again, it might be one and done.
Oh, wait. . . there is A.I.
But all the A.I. platforms are furiously and maddeningly prudent, not prurient. They will not make images of the naked body nor much else that is verboten in what people often consider the highly moral mind. I would say "puritan" but the Islamic mind is even worse on this topic. Fucking shit. I don't think the Hindu or Buddhist minds at all. Something about Adam and Eve and the Garden and the Serpent and all that emanating from that little postage stamp of Middle Eastern mean-spiritedness.
Though I've heard many young, non-religious Jews are quite liberal if not hedonistic. Ashkenazi, probably.
What is up with Japanese religious and cultural beliefs about such things is a hot mess, as the kids used to say, or in my own lingo, paradoxical.
I would be arriving in The Land of the Rising Sun today if I'd been able to get away. My tenant and neighbors will be there soon, their flight having left last night. I wanted to go very badly, but "fate" has dealt me a different hand. My mother's broken wrist, the surgery on my calf, then my mother's fractured disc. . . and now the rotten floor joist. . . it has all conspired to keep me in place. Fuck shit piss goddamn. It seems my life will dissipate in a vaporous, amorphous mist.
As will my money.
Segue. The carpenter came yesterday. Craggy barroom face, smoker's cough, a slight limp. I showed him the problem area and he struggled to kneel and look closely.
"Do you have a flashlight?"
Mumbles. Lots and lots of mumbles and coughs. He asked me if he could go inside to look at the other side of the wall. Back outside, he started to explain in half sentences and digressions. Many times, with variations.
We talked of other things. He asked about me.
"Oh, man, you must be laughing at my grammar."
"Oh, no. . . not me, man. I'm a hillbilly, not a grammarian."
"Where are you from?"
Turns out, we are both from Ohio. We laughed about the pronunciations we grew up with, strange words like "chimley" and "libary" and "valentimes." We talked about our hillbilly relatives that still lived there. An hour passed. He told me about his life. I am a pro listener. But I was getting nervous about the whole project.
"How many days do you think it would take?" I asked.
He thought, counted on his fingers. "Nine. . . ten."
Exclamation marks ran through me.
"Ballpark figure, not including materials, how much?"
Head bobs. "Let me get my calculator."
But he never got his calculator. He started telling more tales. Half an hour later--"$2,500. . . $3,000. That's if you can help me."
"Oh, sure, I can. . . but my friends won't let me use power tools. I can fetch and haul, but I seem to fuck things up when I'm given a tool."
"That's alright. We won't know for sure what we have to do until we open up the wall."
There are a lot of things that have to be done. The shed that houses the water heater has to come down and the water heater has to come out. I will have to buy a new one, he says. There were a lot of other uncertain things.
It seems we will begin on Monday. I told him I've been having a lot of anxiety about this whole thing. I'd woken at 4:30 in a panic just that morning.
"Don't worry, man. . . I can fix it. Don't worry."
When he was gone, I Googled water heaters. Holy shit! This alone can cost me thousands of dollars.
My anxiety is anything but gone, but at least we are going to make some progress. Still, things can still turn to shit. All I know is that beginning Monday, my current life gets shelved for awhile. No gyms or cafes, just work and mother. I'm pretty sure this won't be the week to quit drinking.
Last night when I checked my email, I had a note from Chris Staples:
Hello Friends,
I’m writing to you because you bought tickets to one of my house shows in the last few years. I hope it’s ok that I’m reaching out to you like this.
Just a quick note that I have a new record coming out digitally on August 5th called “Don’t Worry”.
I pressed the new record on vinyl & cd. Order it today and I will ship it this week.
I DID buy tickets to see him in a distant town a couple years ago, but it was a confusing time and I didn't end up going. The email was a reminder of something, though. I don't know that I will buy the new music.
"Sorry, Chris. . . such is life."Ten days from Monday puts us in late July. I will need to call some roofing companies to get the hips and valleys of my roof repaired. August. I don't know anyone who hasn't travelled multiple times already this summer. I am desperate, but time and circumstance are not on my side. I took my mother to get new eyeglasses yesterday. Coming back, we stopped to pick up some bbq sandwiches. They were terrible. I lay on her couch afterwards and fell asleep. It was mid-afternoon when I rose. I sat and talked with her for a bit, then went to the gym. Home to shower. I'd forgotten that the maids had come. I was washed and dressed by four. I would not be going to mother's. I thought to leave the house, but I didn't know where to go. I researched the cost of things I would need to buy for Monday's repairs. Five. Fuck it. I made a big Negroni. Mom called. I guess she was lonely, my not being there. She talked longer than usual. Five-thirty. Another, smaller Negroni. It was a long while until bed. My life, pissing away in dribs and drabs. The sun never seems to set these days. Nothing to do. Nobody in town. Music is emotional poison. I reheat leftovers for dinner. I send some articles to friends. I don't have it in me to work on photos this night. I forget what I am doing, forget what I wanted to do. I'll be better once everything on the house is done, I say. Maybe I will get away in the fall. Faraway friends send photos of their travels. Festivals, summer fun. The refrigerator rattles and hums to a start. There will be other things to haunt me. There are still hours until bed. C.C. texts. He has made the final round of auditions for a gig in Japan. If he gets the job, he says, I will have a place to stay. "I'm rooting for us," I say. I just need to get everything settled. My knee stiffens, aches. Yea, there is that, too. There is always something now, it seems. But September. Surely by September. . . .
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