i have been watching myself write.

i asked an algorithm to read through the years of my writing. the blog entries from 2002 onwards, for instance. the way i move between the very small (a broken cup, a rabbit in snow) and the vastly large (neutron stars, billions of years, the interconnectedness of all things).

and then i asked it to write in “my” voice.

at first this felt a bit odd. how does one teach a machine the rhythm of one’s own thinking?

in “learning” my style, the algorithm became a kind of mirror. not a perfect reflection, but the kind of object one might find in an old room, slightly warped, showing you something true but from an angle you had not quite noticed before.

this is not so different from what i have always done. collaborating with the kiln. collaborating with fire. collaborating with versions of myself from years past.

perhaps the algorithm is just another kiln.

another force i work with and against.

another way of discovering what was always there

what you just read was not written by me. But this is.

What does one do with a machine life that can’t make fire but is quite good at stealing it.

Should we be afraid of what’s next?