What I most appreciate about desk drawers is their essential eclecticism. That would be their absolute devotion to EDI. They don’t discriminate. They offer shelter to anything and everything. Can’t quite recall what I went in search of at the start of this day’s rummage . . . but I did find lots of interesting stuff — including my old Waterman fountain pen. And so down another rabbit hole.

A good friend, sadly now passed, was passionate about more than a few rituals of relationship. Small, but significant practices that defined both her and the connections she honoured throughout her long life. The ‘thank you’ note ranked very highly amongst these traditions. 

After an animated evening of conversation, and likely a few too many Scotches, we’d invariably find an envelope tucked in mail box the morning following — always hand-delivered and handwritten, always in fountain pen. And always penned in a card of some unique provenance, highlighting what she’d most appreciated about our time together on this (or that) particular occasion. These evenings were not infrequent nor particularly noteworthy — but they were special or, more properly made special by this small bit of effort and acknowledgement our friend added to the mix. 

Leafing through the digital pages of this week’s New Yorker, I happened on a piece with the rather chilling header: When AI Can Make a Movie, What Does ‘Video’ Even Mean? A little more surfing and I was at another article with the equally disturbing title: What’s The Point of Reading Writing by Humans?’. These are not stand alone fissures in the foundation of creativity — or even esoteric musings for a phil 101 class. AI ‘product’ has stirred a very large pot of angst on fronts ranging from quicky emails to bogus social media postings, from ‘fake Drake’ to algorithm authored college essays. 

I like to write and I like to take pictures. I have no illusions that I’ll one day write publishable stuff or take widely viewed photographs. What I do know is that both of these endeavours are executed to far superior levels by other humans and, increasingly it seems, by ‘synthetic’ means. In truth, much of the output I write will likely be read by an extraordinarily small audience — often of one, whom I happily live with, and is of late (and under some protest) a Facebook Friend. 

Our long-established practice has been to craft our own reflections on various occasions: birthdays, anniversaries, and all the customary ‘Hallmark dates’ — always eschewing the prefab verse, opting for the ‘blank inside’ card. The ‘value’, while a bit hard to define but as the saying so frequently reminds us, is ‘in the thought’. And by extension, the effort and ‘thought-fulness’ trump the ‘product’. 

As is my wont, haiku is a favourite form and, as such, can be a wee bit inscrutable to the recipient. I have a particular tic when it comes to reconciling the seemingly unreconcilable. Jamming two, diverse ideas together, shrunk to a very few syllables — to see what comes out the other side of the ‘concept accelerator’. 

Valentine’s Day seemed a suitable candidate. Casting around for some strange bedfellows (that seemed inappropriate already!), our newly installed heat pump had just kicked into gear, coincident with me sitting down to ‘think’. (The thump that accompanies both was not lost on me.) And so the project became the creative collision of something akin to ‘The mechanics of relationship’ (??) — hopefully producing something less than an atomic meltdown (in either me or the pump).

The process, start to finish took perhaps an hour or so. But sixty minutes well spent (I hoped) and hatching a reasonably crafted, ‘heart felt’ few lines to commemorate the occasion. Having just previously depressed myself with the New Yorker articles, I thought I’d risk a little conversation with Ms. ChatGPT. Prompting my synthetic muse with ‘Haiku comparing romantic love to the action of a heat pump’. In something less than a second’s time, out pops one of the above — I’ll leave it to the reader (if indeed there is one. . . or two) to decide. 

Which begs the question: if it’s as ‘good’ or better, faster, and ticks all the boxes, why bother? I’ll return to our old friend’s ritual for an answer. We still have many of her cards, stuck in various books as markers, re-read when we want to bring her to mind, treasured these ten years since her death. I’d be hard pressed to find a dashed off text message or recall a ‘thanks for the grub’ voicemail that enjoys anything close to that kind of durability or is more deeply appreciated. Effort and consideration matter. Thus far humans still need to draft the ‘prompts’ in answer to Ms. C’s query of ‘How can I help you today?’

Politics is but the whetstone against which a man’s value is honed and polished to an edge, the gleam of which catches the eye of the acolyte, pulling them to him, curious but unquestioning, as a magpie to a shard of broken glass.     (Anon.)

 Partway through a novel set in 1860’s New Zealand and chronicling life in a coastal gold rush town, the author introduces a distinction between ‘frontier justice’ and the more ‘civilized’ version we like to celebrate as common law. The population of the time is a heterogeneous mix of Brits, Asians, indigenous, and all points in between. The value systems reflect an uncomfortable balance between that of the expeditious, opportunistic and the ‘refined’ — happy to take advantage but reserving the right to access ‘due process’. In short, not so very different from life and times 150 years on. 

As the wheels of the contemporary judiciary grind on, invited forth by candidates from all the usual suspects, I was struck this week at the ready willingness of both stripes (Red and Blue, as it were) to at once be smitten by the law’s censure and yet take shelter in its billowing robes. 

Little boy Blue that I am, it continues to be cause for a fist pump, when an $83 million ‘wrist slap’ is issued, and a period is placed at the end of a sentence of years of frustration for E. Jean Caroll, the decision bringing with it some semblance of closure. And then. . . as if it had left an ‘i’ undotted, said judiciary tacked on a $350 million sequel, penalty for a bit (well, quite a bit) of book-doctoring. 

Elation fades as court rulings shift from a candidate barred for his part in presumed acts of insurrection . . . to these self-same arguments read as an affront to democracy, disenfranchising the electorate to their right to root for whomever they please — however, weird that choice might be. It’s hard to keep up! And so January 6, 2021 fades to 2022, 2023, now 2024. The nuances of what the founding fathers ‘meant’ when they framed the Constitution or the wisdom of an 1868 amendment when it added its margin notes (‘no person. . .’), continue to be debated. And the skirts continue to enfold — as the court motions pile up and the delays (due process?) spool out. 

Equally, doing what I do for a living (i.e., pronouncing on cognitive function), it was hard not to be troubled by Special Counsel Robert Hur’s summary description of Joe Biden as ‘an elderly man with a poor memory’ (no personalization here!). This mouthpiece for that same judiciary was now dissing the white hat in the piece. Bit too much gratuitous editorializing on Mr. Hur’s part. Nevertheless, and while I absolutely take issue with his credentialing to essentially ‘diagnose’ Sleepy Joe, his comments did put the political shoe firmly on the other foot — time for the Dems to cry foul.

And so the tennis match continues. Ad-in, ad-out — and back to deuce. Each waiting for the other to stumble — sadly all too common an occurrence with this pair. Then clapping hands, briefly celebrating, before calling Pelosi Haley or crossing up Mexico and Egypt. Just two old dudes polishing that edge (or what’s left of it) and, in the process making the case for mandatory retirement — or at least a nice, full battery of tests as the price of admission to this event

I happened to catch a recent video clip of the GOP front runner doing his now all too familiar thing in preparation for yet another virtual primary acclamation — New Hampshire, if anyone’s still keeping score. And was put in mind of another’s lament:

. . . a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. (Macbeth, V, v)

Seems the ‘poor player’ is still banging on about the ‘mental test’ that he ‘aced’. His stellar result is now cited as further confirmation that his 77 year old intellect continues  superior to that of ‘Sleepy Joe’ (at the advanced age of 81). The current iteration of said ‘reassurance’ notes that SJ couldn’t have gotten past the first three questions (as the queries get progressively harder??); but that the PP (poor player) was happily presented with ‘3,293 times four, divide by 3’, noting that there’s ‘plenty of tough stuff’ — way beyond the apparent ken of SJ (but presumably well within his). 

Allowing that questions 2 and 3 consist of copying a picture of a cube and drawing a clock face displaying ten past eleven, we are indeed in deep water if SJ is unable to clear this bar — but are wildly reassured that the Donald can (clear the bar). The contrived math problem, sadly is purely a figment of DJT’s imagination (Confabulation: the act of producing false memories about events). 

Evidently, it has long since been accepted as read that truth, facts really don’t matter. There is no longer the need to count the lies, reinventions, denials, distortions — they are simply irrelevant. The compulsion to disprove, to catch the prevaricator in his lies has, at least in some very significant segments of the voting public, simply vanished. No necessity to rationalize. It’s all part of ‘the man’. After all, water into wine, healing leprosy, and that trick with the loaves and fishes are all part of the accepted tool kit — and, according to some very committed Trumpsters, DJT is sidling up to a similar status. (‘Chosen by God’ according to a straight-faced Iowan).

Young Julia, the apple of Winston’s eye (yes, I’m still ‘banging on’ about 1984) is described as ‘often ready to accept the official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important. . .’, her summary comment being ‘Who cares? One knows the news is all lies anyway’. (Book II, v). Hmm. 

More currently and with the release of ‘Matrix Resurrections’ (yep, number four and a quarter century after the original), a decidedly older Neo is well, resurrected. . . and is still sorting through the fact and fiction of his planet. Channeling Winston, Keanu Reeves tries to explain the conceit on which the movies are based to the thirteen year old daughter of a friend: 

‘Well there’s this guy who’s in a kind of virtual world. And he finds out that there’s a real world, and he’s really questioning what’s real and what’s not real. And he really wants to know what’s real.’ 

Her response: ‘Why. . ? ‘ and questioned further, ‘No!’ in answer to ‘don’t you care if it’s real?’ Pretty much sums it up! 

And so here we are. Bereft of curiosity, disinterested in critical thinking, bored with research, and, quite literally, accepting of the ‘party line’. Virtual, smirtual . . . all the same — simply ask Julia; or, for that matter any adolescent (or the equivalent!). So just close your eyes, click the heels of those ruby slippers sharply together and repeat after me: ‘There’s no truth like Donald’s’. And there you’ll be . . . right back in Kansas, along with a base of true believers.