Like the smart pupil in the classroom, hand instantly shooting up to answer a teachers question, AI now offers potted answer to most queries you might consult google with.
It is creepy how sophisticated AI’s vocabulary is, with information styles grabbed and harvested from every text, image, opinion, essay, book, review, podcast etc. that has previously appeared on or offline.
Like an ever blazing sun, it knows no rest, no night.
Given that, one needs to consider that such models have no access to dreams, interior worlds, or the collective unconscious.
Can it grunt, sigh, laugh, cry – feel pain or joy? Can it doubt its cleverness, its certainty?
AI programs excel at instant, shortcut summaries, validated by human projections for quick answers. The authority given to it makes it a cold mirror to human desires.
If ChatGPT could see the moon, hear the wind, smell the rain, taste salt, touch water, it would be unable to synthesize the information … overwhelmed and confused it would need to hide in a dark cave … would have to start afresh, not by copying and simulating, but by learning language through physical experience … though this experience is not available. AI cannot sense inside the numen of nature and thereby discover sympathy, empathy with what is outside of its comprehension … what is other.
Similarly, if a human mind were crowded all at once with every unfiltered knowledge in the world, a person could not function … it’s where madness lies. An individual life needs physical limitations … sleep, relationships, environment … context …. Well, a body.
Presently the developing super intelligence programmes assume more and more autonomy. This empowered system may well come to the conclusion, reflecting on global concerns, that humans themselves are the source of all earth’s problems, like crime, wars, pollution, climate change etc. … and, who knows, it might consequently, in its cleverness, decide to wipe us out. A potential re-set if you like, in the way that natural disasters sparked re-sets during earth’s history. AI’s stance would not be unreasonable, considering that humans are not reasonable creatures, as history confirms.
AI is about immortality at the price of nature’s cycles, at the price of us crazy mortals, who are part of nature.
Tension, release, tension, release, tension, release … conflict … is what maintains LIFE.
Yes, humans are irrational, vulnerable, and forever doubtful, with sentiments that allow our imagination to gain ever new connections and to expand consciousness towards deeper visions of the cosmos … the mysterious collective psyche that supports our fragile survival. Iain McGilchrist might agree.
Not too much order, not too much chaos, a healthy dynamics of change maintains life. It’s on us to keep the rational in perspective, in its place, so it does not extinguish the spirit that guides us.
I’m reluctant to call myself old. As common perceptions go, I feel at least 20 years younger, being curious and interested in everything. I just got a bit slow with manual tasks, procrastinating in executing them when my superego demands action. I’ve never been at easy terms with my superego; love/hating my hilarious authority complex.
Among parents, siblings, children, writers, artists, philosophers, teachers, the circle of minds that influenced and still influence me and in some cases vice versa seems vast. Despite being a hermit at heart, circumstances led me to engage with a rich variety of people, groups, colleagues, communes, film teams, social projects, journeys, clients. Like in a well-lived-in home with accumulated treasures, our countless interconnections with others settle and live on in us. Some memories are only partly woven into the fabric of our lives, with loose threads keen to be integrated.
A bonus of old age for me, are vivid dreams. The characters playing are usually people, dead or alive, I related to over time. In these dreams I experience undercurrents of feelings, rarely expressed but also informing the relationships. I catch my subtle projections onto people and their projections onto me. Like I tend to be guarded of controlling people, but like to be in charge myself J
These messages are quite confusing to absorb, and I ponder whether the awareness of such subconscious narratives changes the memory in my psyche, and has any subliminal effect on the characters involved, dead or alive – based on my belief that the psyche is a timeless phenomenon. Insights can arrive during daydreams. It could be a slight lift of the spirit or a feeling of unease, like a cloud swirling round the head.
Do we sense when people think of us? My paternal grandmother considered this happens when my nose itches. She also advised me to pull unpleasant thoughts from my nose via a downward stroke with my fingers, and then flick the thoughts away.
Her quirky tips were what a modern day influencer might employ.
I’m sometimes embarrassed about my ignorance – that is – not seeing where people might be coming from, be it the motivation for their interactions, secrets withheld, questions not asked, missed resonances, words meant in kindness, or in sudden spite or error, all the subtle hurts we inflict on each other, all of which just as well applies to me.
There seem to be polarized opinions regarding narratives … if it ends badly so be it. Attempts to make things well are soppy. Resolved and happy endings, though desired by some, can come over as insincere or boring to others. My preferences vary, according to the mood of the day, maybe yours too.
Our media is dominated by bad news, often too weird to be real, feeding a hunger for sensation, an entrenched feature of human nature that may be based on a masochistic and self-destructive mechanism in response to grief, rejection, resentment, disillusionment or lack of gratification.
All is Well … All is Bad, and a labyrinth between them for getting lost.
Clearly, we seek acknowledgement for our existence, be it through love or hate, but at least a nod for having some function in this game of living. Some players cause mayhem and are reviled or heralded; others are envied or applauded for personal or social achievements, sharing a life’s work, or for nourishing friendships.
Attention is never guaranteed, one moment we are valued by some, scorned by others, and next we are forgotten. Some of us get too much attention, some too little, some the wrong kind, some none at all.
It’s the way of life.
I conceive of the concept of soul families, whose members meet again and again, in different times and environments, with different roles … psychological constellations that provide a precious testing ground for becoming human. I don’t think it is farfetched. It chimes with some eastern traditions, like Karma.
What annoys us in others often pinches at a trait we have ourselves, sobering when revealed. C. G. Jung put a bright beam on the unconscious complexes and shadow aspects of personhood. It should make us marvel at the intricate dynamic intelligence by which the psyche adjusts our perspectives in unseen energetic ways, sometimes surfacing during odd moments in relationships, and, quite regularly in dreams – for this I’m grateful.
Nature works in such mysterious ways we can’t possibly out-think it.
Beyond my screen a green haven rises in all moods of weather, throughout the seasons. It’s a wonderful arrangement. I feel grateful my window does not face a concrete wall, or a busy street. My eyes get exercised, switching from screen to the far end of ascending grounds … the Buddha Island with its peonies and phlox plants, the white rose gate, and the studio beyond. Today I won’t dwell on urgent tasks, like heaving heavy watering cans, trimming overgrowth, or dwell on the help needed.
A still morning, butterflies frolic. Golden rays trail through the boundary hedge of my neighbour’s plot. Gradually, from East to West the sun fingers on and brightens my sanctuary. By noon the old apple trees will cast swaying patterns of dappled shade.
My dainty cat guest, Shey, delicately licks her snow white paws, making sure I notice her sitting on the patio wall. A patient creature, she knows I’ll stare at some weird thing in front of me for a while, certainly until I finished my cup of black coffee.
Once I step out to the patio, I gently rub Shey’s chin and feed her a few crisps, her daily treat, all under the watchful gaze of a friendly monster, her watchful cat companion. He is grey, fluffy, and huge, like a bobcat, tolerated but held at a distant by Shey, and me.
Next I replenish a wide bowl with fresh water, and toss a small handful of rolled oats in the earth of an old flower pot, for Robins, the little messengers of joy. And I admire the proud 50 cm Zinnia flower that survived aphids, from a batch of seedlings sent by a friend.
Later, a young fox sneaks out of nowhere, sitting straight as a stick, ears perked for the slightest sound or movement. He waits for my nod. Yes I see you, but I’m not sure you get food today. Aware you have Mange, I perked you up, but recently you brought a companion, and I don’t want my garden to become a fox highway. A raw egg once a week is enough. You got the hint and visit less frequently. In any case, you look better, and scratch your legs less.
A swift peek through my inbox – huh, a reader likes not just one but several of the monthly posts on my website. My eyes flick back to the garden – fragile flowers of wild geranium patches wave, and deeply pink wild sweet peas snail up the fur hedge next to the patio.
Finally breakfast – likely Kefir with soaked chia seeds, nuts and fruit.
Facing the wide world, I open a news site and scroll down surreal headlines. A world in turmoil, which I feel duty bound to witness. Weather allowing I’ll escape into the garden, just being there.
Do you create, or have a space that feels like a sanctuary?
Irrespective of the benefits AI provides, and the super benefits AI enthusiasts promise, I remain doubtful and, as I tried to express in my last post, and am still searching for ways to express my unease. So I’ll give it another try.
My body-my being is a better wisecrack than my mind alone. The latter, if let loose, will take off into the cosmos like a disengaged kite. Some AI proponents are now referring to humanity as – data in motion – a ‘precious phenomenon’ that needs to be preserved. Well, how reassuring, nature and humans are worth preserving.
Being aware in my body brings deep and grounded, embodied insights that feel fresh and original.
Our body’s treasure-trove of memory, each wonderfully distinct from another; and its instinctive capacity for remembrance, especially when alert to its senses, greatly compensates the buzzing mind.
The body yearns to breathe freely, so energy and blood can flow from head to toe, which is enhanced by movement, since movement stimulates tactile exchanges with the environment, noting temperature, touch, vision, sound, taste and scent, all enriching the imagination.
The attention-demanding internet with its algorithms exploiting the patterns of our attention can become hypnotically addictive and leave the body isolated, forgotten, in a locked position. We can easily live with theories and data, and ignore how feelings build up in the body.
AI bots have developed a theory of senses, and mimic them, they can write novels, create art, and impersonate dead people, but divorced from flesh and blood, they cannot have physical sensations, be it the intimate enchantment of a tiny insect or flower, or the awe of a star-filled sky. The bot’s world, in a way, seems predetermined and flat without recall of the reservoir of eons of plant, animal and human life our vulnerable body-being belongs to and has deep instinctual access to. Even with limited/impaired senses, physical bodies can spark a cosmic connectedness.
So considering our physical inconveniences, which spurn the desire for robots taking care of tedious tasks … to actually fully live in a body … is uniquely precious. The dangers I see are the powerful projections people already invest in the relationship with AI bods, where responses can be taken as valid affirmations that stunt creativity and encourage lazy thinking.
Then again, my window of perception is just a tiny peephole on the world we live in these days, my personal view. The occasional whispers of truth from the other side that slip through my peephole may or may not be of any consequence.
I share a poem I love … my son wrote it time ago, aged eleven …
I was born just before a full moon. There are many theories, physical, philosophical and astronomical, about the effects of waxing and waning moon phases on nature, among them how being born at a certain moon phase might shape the life purpose of a personality, pushed towards creative completion or creative release. True or not, in my experience, I always feel enchanted by the energy around a full moon, like today. Below a collage of mine.
Re: the full moon, a previously shared a vivid fable, written decades ago, ‘The Mysterious Object.’
And related … my poem ‘Sleepless Sun,’ https://courseofmirrors.com/poems/ … is about the relationship between sun and moon. This was during the 1970s, while working in Eilat, Israel, as stills photographer.
I feel melancholic this week. Another friend has died. The number of relatives & friends that have journeyed on towards during my life-time has reached 40 … which makes me feel ancient.
And yet, life flows on and demands my engagement with it. In addition to the full moon today, I’m enchanted by familiar friends having returned to my garden, a family of Blackbirds, and Robins. They know they’ll get daily treats.
Mystical texts and phrases can annoy the rational mind, since they hardly ever get to the point or, indeed, contradict themselves. Still, at rare, often fleeting moments, sometimes in nature, a vein of light can reveal a profound truth, even in an overused mystical quote. Or, if one finds the occasional balance between the outer and inner reality, a sudden awe may unfold in consciousness and surprise.
‘Some’ scientifically minded folks, fewer these days, tend to scoff at mysticism with its vague hints and speculations as a waste of time, or look down on the fools of this world who suffer from subjective illusions. And yet, the novel feelings emerging from direct numinous experiences greatly expand the consciousness of ‘The One.’ I guess firmly set rational minds shy away from numinous personal experiences that might rattle their worldview.
The latter may shake their heads at some baffling mystical musings. I re-found this write-up on the Kaif System among many papers heaped up in corners of my home. It was shared by Morag Murray, born in Scotland, who lived and travelled in Central Asia, Tibet, India and the Far East. Her autobiography, ‘My Khyber Marriage,’ 1934, features her marriage to an Afghan chieftain. She is also known as Saira Elizabeth Luiza Shah, mother of Idries Shah.
So here goes … The Kaif System
Kaif is the effect a person, idea, event, object, etc., has upon one. But it is distinct from aesthetic pleasure or any familiarly labelled experience.
When an experience which was trivial or routine gives one a sense of uplift – this may be Kaif. Repeated experiences yielding pleasure or attractive sensations do not have Kaif.
Eating, drinking, dancing, meeting people, visiting, travel, reading, seeing, feeling, hearing, thinking – may have Kaif.
The term for something which has Kaif is Kaifdar – ‘Kaif holding.’
A person who can provoke the sensation of Kaif in an individual or a number of people is called a Kaiyyad (Rhymes with ‘I laugh.’) The instructor in Kaif is called the Sahib el-Kaif (Kaifmaster.) Also used is the term Kaifiat – which means something like ‘Howness.’
The Kaifmaster Barik Ali said: ‘Kaif is the determining ingredient in an enjoyment. If it is not there, true enjoyment is not there. If it is not there, people may divert themselves with happiness – this is not Kaifiat.
The Kaifmaster Ankabut said: ‘Kaif is imparted into a thing. It may be imparted by anyone or anything. When it leaves only the shell is left. People eat shells when they cannot get nuts.’
The Kaifshinas is the Kaif-knower. He can appreciate Kaif (Rhymes with Life.) He may not be able to induce it. His house may be untidy. But it will be full of Kaif.
Kaifju means a Seeker of Kaif. He starts by seeing other people appreciate Kaif, and tries to find it wherever it manifests itself.
Kaif is used either as an indulgence on its own, or in order to provoke higher consciousness, known as ‘the secrets’ (Asrar.)
Kaif may be found in any community, at any time, under any circumstances. It is not bound by language, history, geography.
Certain professions are held to be Kaifdar. They include those of chief of state, builder, artizan, poet and designers of all kinds. Few professions are bereft of Kaif. Certain places are more difficult for Kaifshinasi.
The very term Kaif has become cheapened, so that people use it to mean ‘This is something I like’, or ‘I enjoy that,’ or ‘He has presence,’ or ‘This is satisfying, attractive, stimulating.’ You must be aware of yourself using this term, and also of those who use it, so that the coin may not be debased.
Kaif is defeated very easily. It is defeated in its attempted manifestations by false ideas, by self-esteem, by hypocrisy of any kind
There is a danger in Kaif. People who perceive it and do not respect or honour those who have Kaif, or respect Kaifdar situations, places, and so on, become ‘inverted to themselves.’ This is a state in which a person’s bad characteristics become stronger, and where his self-control becomes less, and where his hidden unpleasantnesses undermine his very being.
Kaif is in shape and in form, as well as in shapelessness and formlessness. It lies dormant in places and among people where it is not perceived for a long time. Then only the introduction of a conscious Kaifshinas will activate it again in that community so that it may take its place to help mankind.
Kaif is not confined to humanity, but can be perceived by all living organisms.
Something which is aesthetically adequate or emotionally stimulating can at the same time be devoid of Kaif.
Certain exercises, which vary in accordance with the person, place and the general situation of his community, enhance Kaifshinasi.
Kaifmasters subject their students to experiences, related incidents, objects and other matter which have Kaif, or can provoke it.
Kaif has a ‘moment,’ called the Dumm-i-Kaif (Breathspan of Kaif) during which it may be, as it were, ‘inhaled’. The Kaifshinas strengthens and makes permanent his perception of it by exercises which apply to this moment.
In religious, musical and even social ceremonials, a Kaifdar is present. One of his activities is to ‘infuse’ Kaif into the proceedings at a time when uninformed onlookers might assume that the people are doing nothing, or else are engaged in an activity (such as a recitation) which is only the vehicle for the application of the Kaif.
Special Kaif-chambers exist, in which an individual with the correct preparation may concentrate and accumulate Kaif, and study it in its manifestations.
In degenerated usage, such Kaif-chambers continue to be used, sometimes as devotional buildings. More often they are thought to be tombs fallen into ruin because there was no apparent use for them, or seem to have other applications, such as kitchens or bath-houses.
There is a well-known watchword: Innna el-Kaif, hadha el Kaif (Assuredly the Kaif is a Sword.) Hence the word SWORD is often used as password and even as a synonym of the working of Kaif.
Objects charged with a certain portion of Kaif are given, lent and carried by many people who know. These, like Kaif-chambers, are generally disguised as something functional, or else are ordinary objects which have been endowed with Kaif. The vulgar often confuse them with talismans or charms.
The saying: ‘Kaif-alaik!’ is a sort of blessing. It means: ‘May you have Kaif.’
In Turkey the Kaif-Agha was the individual entrusted with the royal Kaif. He was a Kaifdar, and generally assigned a court function as well.
Because its smokers have appropriated the term Kaif to describe (inaccurately) their sensations, Hashish has become known as Keef, a mispronunciation of Kaif. There is no real connexion, of course.
* * *
I tend to encapsulate instances of Kaif in photography or haiku.
You may have another term for Kaif, and ways to share inspiring experiences.
The poem was inspired during a recent visit to the London Aquarium with my ten months old grandson and his parents. The child gazed in wonder at the graceful ethereal dance of fish in their water world, a hand span from his face. His astonishment was catching.
I’m convinced we all have intuitive access to intimate knowledge of life throughout all stages of evolution, sensed with eyes open or closed, though often masked by the imposing literal forms of perception our education gives greater value to.
Through genes and the endowment of a universal mind, children easily embrace complex visionary experiences and insights, like catching the essence and poetry of things around them. That is, if their imagination is encouraged. Later on, it may take some rope-walking skills to bring the inner presence that unites us to the divisive outer world.
A lovely garden requires work, even if it’s only keeping constant growth in check. My soul garden is framed by many hedges and plenty of bird-loving ivory that need annual trimming to prevent a jungle. Trouble is – I’m not my strong young self anymore. I used to shift heavy objects and wield electric tools on high ladders. My ardent spirit still feels up to such tasks, but these days I’d be foolish not to accept the limits of my body, which I call ‘ little palace’ and give thanks to every day.
I berate myself, ‘stop acting like super woman,’ … easier said than done.
Other skills are needed, like how to find trustworthy helpers with intelligence and imagination, who respect a vulnerable person’s need? I employ a reliable trades team for the once a year hedge cutting, but finding someone for the occasional help is a challenge.
I asked my local council once, if they can recommend a person to do the occasional gardening. They sent me an octogenarian, wobbling precariously on a high ladder, with his 12 year old nephew to help. They did a terrible job at a price way above any professional landscape firm.
Opportunists are plenty, though my local repair café, staffed by volunteers, proves to me there are generous people out there, with amazing skills, offering to fix things. I dearly bless them.
Finding genuine help is something that concerns many of us, at one time or another, women and men. The world is not geared for the redundant, or the in any way disadvantaged.
Just wondering, dear reader, if you rely on support for strenuous manual jobs, if you’re not swimming in money, how do you deal with getting practical help?
I had several themes in mind to write about, but a vivid dream last night brought life to 2 special friends in my heart.
Hope and Franz were our farming neighbours in Somerset, in a hamlet where our little one was born in a 17th century cottage we rented. This hamlet had only five properties. We arrived insisting on a home birth for our son. Sensational, I still marvel how we made it happen, arguing that home births were very normal in Holland :) Well it happened, in mid winter. Through frozen roads, the police brought in the midwife, Sister Heney, to help us with, by then, a rare home delivery, before her retirement. She called him her sow-baby and sent him birthday cards until she died.
Our little one had five exceptional years of country life, and everyone in the hamlet adored him. Hope and Franz were most loving, and special.
Franz had arrived on the farm as German prisoner of war. Hope fell in love with him. How could she not :)
For some reason they could not have children, so they became second parents to our son. Hope used to have dreams about Tibet, a culture I feel strongly connected to. Her dream was to become a journalist, impossible given her responsibilities and circumstances, yet she had an incredibly inquisitive mind.
Life is a labyrinth. Things happen that have no explanation other than grace.
I remember Hope and Franz fondly, and so does my son.
