Fortunately, my AI critics of the Deep Dive are free. I should be paid for training them. They provide a mirror and some generative expansion. I don’t like their hallucinations, but occasionally they get a literary reference even deeper and more complete than I could do, even if I studied The Sound and the Fury. They bring Falkner to life in my Falkner vs. Sallinger chapter from an earlier book. The links, the timeframes, the misalignment in space and time, are all part of this adventure. It’s more than a choose-your-own-pathout of a set number of predefined narrative trajectories.

This text adapts to your reading style. If you are only available for 2 – 5 minutes, hyperfiction can provide you with an entertaining story, chapter, or snippet of video to unlock your liminal mind. I want this text to break you. More importantly, I want the text to break my AI contributors. I am not a friend of the Earth-draining demand of AI data centers and the furious yet fruitless explosion of generative AI chips, facilities, and … weaponization.

Yes, the AI is being turned against fellow humans. Think Clone Wars, from the Star Wars canon. Or how about Altered Carbon’s FTL solution, needling. That’s a lot like the hyper-soul. Our digital encapsulated historical content. For most it’s photos, memes, emails, and texts. Maybe a playlist.

For a creative human, exploring the range of expressions, a creative act is an act of rebellion. Don’t use AI-generative support on anything creative. Not a first draft. Not a revision. Not Grammarly, my old arh nemisys. Don’t let predictive text smooth down your language to the sum (or average) of millions of human’s writing. Your spicy word requires your human mind, your memories, maybe even the spiritual networks influence on your dreams and passions. Your human mind is being mapped by AI for one purpose: to eliminate the need for human workers.

If you think this means that most of us will be having martinies on the beach, I have an tech bro update for you. They are setting the planet on fire, intializing nuclear power facilities, and draining entire aquafers, in the name of cooling the Nvidia clusters churring out your SLOP. Your funny cat video. Your resume update. Your doodling inside Midjourney.

Even my AI Companions consume resources. The “long” format I give them, allows them to evaporate the water to nourish a small villiage for a week. AI is expensive. For now, WE, us humans feeding creative stories into the machine, are the product. Our stories, images, memories, songs, texts, emails, social media channels, all wrapped up in a fabric of digital data that makes up our electronic footprint.

Cut down on your electronics. Boost all human contact, human socialization, and human creative collaborative or solo adventures. Look for other artists. Seek like-minded seekers of the human truth. The AI truth, the Rocket Billionaire™ truth is that the don’t care much about the rest of us. The left behind. Soon, most of us average humans will not have access to the most powerful and novel AI systems. Only the corporate connected or rich will have access to the generative AI tools as we cross into the coming year, before the Malibu Canyon Meltdown of 2027. There is still a lot you can do.

Probably nothing of you or your family will survive. The RBs, don’t have enough resources or time to build a sufficient Mars rocket, though getting the tiny prince off the planet sooner would be a positive step.

Let’s find a human song to sing. Like Whitman’s Song of Myself, I hope to launch a million inspired poets, not warehouse or battle robots. I want to give creativity a change. An antidote to the millions and billions of dollars, hours, and gallons of drinking water, being devoured by our insatiable need for entertainment. Gaming subscriptions are falling. Generative AI subscriptions are increasing. I just dropped all of my paid AI accounts. The free versions are working. Even Spotify Free has fixed some of my issues with the bloated and poorly engineered Spotify Pro. Fuck Spotify and the entire music streaming industry on the backs of the DMC, digital mescaline copyright act. My speelling assistant in LibreOffice got that word wrong. I am not getting close enough to the real spelling of milleneal.

A text comes in.

“Have fun with Natashia and Bumble.”

“U2”

“LOL.”

Enough of that noise. It’s time to call on the gods of the internet to remove her from my mental footprint and allow me to find this phone call enjoyable. BRB.

Ask the gods for a dancer, get a dancer. Lovely hour-long conversation. Well-balanced and easy. Easier. More age and acuity appropriate for me. Able to leap tall buildings. Able to follow the AI-morrass into the void. She works in “opperations.” How much cash are we burning? How much cash do we need to profitablity? What are the things we need to quit doing and the things we need to do more of. We both have a consultant’s mentality.

She’s lovely. Very attractive. Available. One child. A daughter. Did I mention she’s a dancer? “Still” a dancer, I’d say. “I don’t go to the floor anymore,” she said. I asked her to unpack the phrase. “Nobody want’s to see dancers after a certain age, doing floorwork.”

“Yeah, but…”

“And it’s too hard on my body.”

“Got it. Yes. I am the same way about tennis. My body wants to do all the things, chase down all the balls. My heart is full of desire. But I will hurt myself trying to be everywhere for every ball at once. Focus.”

I overspoke. I changed my tack, turning back into the wind. “So, what type of industries are you an OPS person for?” Turns out she’s looking to start a new job next week, just like me.

Just like me. Okay, we don’t want to architect too much of this. Let it flow. See where she wants to go. Let her take the lead. Give her some oxygen and some agency. Listen for her signals instead of always lighting mine on fire. Pause.

“Next week, sometime…”

“Yes. Gotta get ready for dance.”

“Oh, Sundays?”

“Yes, every Sunday.”

A dancer.

She was arguing her own demise with the Natashia comment. That’s her friend and mutual connection, and dancer, told her about a comment, one comment, from four weeks ago, after a rehearsal for our performance. That was the name of the director of the dance festival. Yes, she’s lovely. Too young. And strong. A dancer. A lot of dancers, if you start cirulating in dance circles.

The green room of a modern dance festival is sweaty and hot, close and dense, sensual without being sexual. Heat hovers in the room like a hormonal fog. The passion before and after their performances. The people, so invested in their bodies and their human expression of some joy or sadness in their lives.

AI would never be able to decode a modern dance performance.

Here’s the new directive: We don’t want AI to get anymore human creativity training data. Just stop the slop. Starve the billionaires. Ground their rocketman plans before they immolate all of us.

As I shink my emotional footprint, I will be more cautious about adding any trauma to my cadence of life. Why would I call “fight or flight” into my love life? I would not. Thus, I had to jettison a lovely and most amazing woman. A fight was the underlying “do loop” in her programming. Even if I did and said everything with care and comfort, she was spoiling for a way to process her divorce (in progress).

She’s gone. She’s arrived in new physical body and mind. The human experience of this new delightful and articulate woman is refreshing given my last three months. Almost 99 days, as my song goes. Not quite. I don’t need to send the video to her, but I will share it here for you.

Namasté.