the blog
a best heaven
Which one of us will die first?
In the process of me writing this, and of you reading this, we’ve entered into a strange contract. You’ve committed to reading a string of ideas that will never end, and I’ve committed to writing until I can’t anymore. It’s a strange contract because it, by nature, guarantees that one of us will break it. Not by choice, but by death.
what does ChatGPT dream of?
This is a follow-up to my previous essay Does God Trust Us?
What happens when you psychoanalyze something that has no psyche?
does God trust us?
To shape reality as a God might is a uniquely human ambition. We try to make sense of our world as if it were a theater: we author purpose, rehearse all that is godly, and replay acts of creation. From painting, to sculpture, to robotics and genetic editing, nowhere is our divine impulse less quaint than in the development of AI.
the marble and the chisel (5)
Night fell quickly on the sea, the waters toying with the little vessel like a falling leaf against the wind. Salt spray stung the sculptor’s eyes while thunder growled overhead as jagged forks of lightning ate the clouds. The boat’s battered timbers creaked beneath each surge…
the burden of being awake (4)
The dusty plain gradually gave way to softer soils. What had been a dead, stale flatness became a salty tang that tangled hair and provoked nostrils. A cool breeze came in erratic gusts, gathering force at once before slipping into sudden silence, echoing the sculptor’s own heartbeat…
the burden of being asleep (3)
Dawn broke over a landscape devoid of warmth or welcome. The sculptor and companion emerged from those last fringes of foreboding forest and stood on the edge of a barren plain…
shadows and repressed truths (2)
The storm had just passed, having shattered the world into a million confused pieces. It took with it the blue sky, coloring the heavens a burgundy red and then a pitch black…
the flawed self-narrative (1)
In his empty, uninspired prison cell—a cramped space where an unwelcome cold clashed with the stifling heat outside—the sculptor sat cross-legged…
the man in the snorkel
“are you going?” the sea asked softly.
the man with the snorkel looked down. his wore a white shirt and big baggy beige trousers and clean airforces. he had looked at the forecast this morning and he picked clothes that would be comfortable but he forgot to pack diving gear. he always forgot the diving gear.