The last thing I shared on this site was on June 9. I’ve attempted some form of writing at least 5 other times since then. Those attempts sit among the list of “drafts.” Looking at the months of May and June, I’ve shared 11 posts, and have another 15 that I never got around to finishing. When I re-read those drafts, the thought of cleaning them up and/or hitting publish churns my stomach and makes me squeamish. I’ve been feeling the same way about my poetry. I dislike everything I write and I’m uncomfortable with sharing.
In several of the drafts, I’m trying to articulate my discomfort with AI. That discomfort grows and changes almost every day. A certain billionaire whose last name rhymes with husk recently shared that he thinks his AI should re-write “the entire corpus of human knowledge.” Imagine how dangerous it would be if we came to rely on one source for all of human history and human knowledge. A day or two later an article headline read “ChatGPT has already polluted the internet so badly that it’s hobbling future AI development.” I can’t wrap my arms or my head around the AI thing and so I write a few paragraphs, and walk away.
Some of the other drafts are attempts to explore the sensation I don’t feel as sharp or as quick or as competent as I once was. I feel like my memory has gotten worse, especially when it comes to things I read. I struggle to recall when and where I’ve picked up certain pieces of information. Or maybe what I’m feeling is the sensation of being overwhelmed by current events. The only consolation I find, is that I read and hear a lot of people describing the same feeling of being overwhelmed. A friend of mine said he feels paralyzed in way that feels eerily like the beginning of the pandemic.
Other drafts, have been attempts at trying to determine if I’m becoming more cynical. I feel like humanity, and certainly America, is heading in the wrong direction (AI, toxic masculinity, climate crisis, a de-emphasis on the arts and humanities). This cynicism, if that’s what it is, stems from a sense of powerlessness. It becomes hard to see the value of doing my small part in one small corner of the world. Moreover, I begin to question if my small part is contributing to the bigger problems – perpetuating the unjust systems. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. Last night while having a beer and bite with two friends, both of whom write, we got into the conversation of where one could go to escape all of this… what places are affordable enough to hole up on the cheap and focus our time on the things we enjoy. We didn’t have any viable solutions. I suppose there was some comfort in commiseration.
I’d say there’s a 50/50 chance I revise some of the drafts and post them. There’s also a 50/50 chance I go in the other direction: re-evaluate the whole thing and start to dismantle or delete or take more time off. Meanwhile, there are still the everyday aspects of living and feeding myself, and looking for pockets of joy or moments of distraction.