I still don’t know what or how to write on this blog. I prefer the letters free hand. Watching my hands push buttons and not create a letter is strange and makes for a disconnect between my mind and what I want to put on to this screen. I wonder if that was the beginning of A.I? stop reading from a paper, stop writing on paper. Just type and scroll. Detaching our connection to what’s in our mind and what is put in front of us. There is no aid or helper telling you what’s correct or how to say something, adjusting who you are to what it wants you to be. With a pen and paper there is magic, something beautiful about the way the letters move and connect in the word L-E-T-T-E-R. You don’t get that by pushing keys, you never will, but it’s happened, penmanship is gone, letter structure on a page is gone, for the most part handwriting is gone.
I am learning the process of writing, of the structure of a sentence or the placement of a comma, (I’m sure I overuse them) a single word can change the entire feel. I’m learning that the dialogue is to something else. I have no readers so its not for them. Is it God?TBD. The letters on a page are alive. The way they flow and arch and swing and dance. This is nothing, this is simply pressing down on something and trying to get a rhythm started so that I can move things around a bit more, not feel as if I’m an ape jabbing at a keyboard, there is no connection or passion to this, its symbols, defined by marks on plastic. There is no life, just clicks and thuds.
My older sons both write, they both create things via ink to surface. I believe they need to; I think everyone should, and that they know they should. They don’t because its easier to be a critic, an excuser of why they have slipped into a life of comfort and routine, finding purpose in things others created or assembled. Its an abyss when you look inside, when the material world that has been curated by those that create for the consumers, starts to fade away, all around us the dead keep living, they keep posting, they keep projecting, but the soul has been muted. My hope is they never stop, that when the world is convinced that this new way can create it faster, cheaper and at scale, so it must be better, they take the approach of “This is what I do.” The “ I ” in A.I. The imperfect yet beautifully perfect human that sits, that wants to do the work, that needs to be by himself and get lost for a little while. That person is invaluable to our existence as a species. That person is what makes us human, the ones who are working on putting what’s inside, outside. I love you boys.
Seattle 2024
