Elinor Nauen

The task that generative A.I. has been most successful at is lowering our expectations, both of the things we read and of ourselves when we write anything for others to read. It is a fundamentally dehumanizing technology because it treats us as less than what we are: creators and apprehenders of meaning. It reduces the amount of intention in the world.

~ Ted Chiang

I found this in Austin Kleon's essential substack. He goes on to say, "To be fair, I think we'd been doing a pretty good job at lowering our cultural expectations prior to the popularization of A.I.! In fact, I think one of the reasons the results of A.I. are so acceptable if not exciting to so many people is because they've been trained on the never-ending slop of online 'content' and the homogenous output of, say, mainstream Hollywood or reality television."

I have artist friends who love playing with AI to create images to accompany their words, & vice versa. The results look to me like adult coloring books, quite honestly, but I have my own time wasters so who am I to judge. 

One great thing about having visitors is seeing the city through their eyes. Even when I'm looking at the same things on our walks, I don't see what Steve sees. He's here frequently, knows the city well, & relishes its endless offerings: the heirloom tomatoes of the Union Square Greenmarket; the county-fair crush of the San Gennaro festival on Mulberry Street in Little Italy; the musicians, students, potheads, & old folks enjoying a late summer day in Washington Square Park. I feel like I did when I saw all for the first time, years ago: as full of excitement, wonder, pleasure & gratitude. There's a lot more country in the city than city in the country, isn't there? 

Today being Friday the 13th reminds me of my (late) sister Edie, who was born on March 13 (a Wednesday that year). She felt how special it was to be born on the 13th, & 13 was her lucky number. A favorite remark of hers: 

"I got married three times in Las Vegas. Vegas is lucky for me!"

We called it a play: We were ourselves, reading speeches & declaiming, with Rachel singing (which is worth the whole half hour). It was Public Access Poetry! We had guys playing Tree, Cloud, Stream: nonspeaking parts. I didn't rewatch the whole thing ~ hard to get past seeing yourself when she is no longer you. 

It wasn't a debate as much as a rout. She baited & he went for it every time. 

He claimed some states allow post-birth abortion, which is of course not true. (He lied, as he does.)

He never said her name or looked her way. 

She sliced him six ways to Sunday. Did he even know? 

But. 

Maggie & I are going on a trip in December to see the Northern Lights in Swedish Lapland, through my group the Cloud Appreciation Society. 

Yay. 

But. 

Then comes a million decisions, hotels, flights to Europe, flights within Europe, insurance, even meals on the plane. Why don't I have an assistant to figure all this out??

Every day I do a little & then I ask for help. My ignorance annoys me.  

There's a confidence in not hating or pitying the region that birthed you, a joy in maintaining the strong ties you choose, and a peace in not hierarchically ranking the cultures that compose your identity. It's possible to love a place from afar and never really leave it.

Ann Friedman on being a "joyfully displaced midwesterner" 

I agree and at the same time, I will say that I've noticed that midwesterners tend to love the midwest in inverse proportion to how long they've lived elsewhere & how far away from home they are. 

It's satisfying to have caught up with every single thing on my to-do list. 

The store & the laundry will be back, of course, but for now I am free of obligations. 

A small but gratifying pleasure. 

I had the middle section of a sectional couch, covered in nubby aqua-glitter cloth. It was wide in the back but narrow in front, so it barely fit two people yet took up a disproportionate amount of room in my small apartment. So I decided to get rid of it. 

I threw it out my window. Oh my, what a satisfying thunk when it landed in the courtyard. There's a picture, but I can't find it & I can't really tell which way it goes. 

This was shortly before I started going out with Johnny, the longtime super of his building. 

I mentioned it one day & he was so appalled he almost broke up with me. 

It was the backyard! No one was endangered! 

Since I complained so much all summer about the enervating heat, it's only fair to shout out the energizing autumn mild. Right this minute it's 75°. There's a spring in my step (as it were) - better than a fall in my future! Giddy, I think of this:

An American Poem

In New York in autumn
leaves don't change. They wither & tumble

or wilt & stay stuck. What's special
is Saturday night.
It's the night
brokers have off
from robbing people
to mug people.
Nature?
One birch after another.
Have a nice trip—
see you next fall!

Which in turn reminds me of a poem I wrote in maybe 8th grade. I praised New York City (where I'd never been): bright lights! big city! The poem ended with this line: 

Nature: green emptiness. 

My wonderful neighbor took this wonderful photo last month in Vermont. Should be the cover of an edition of Moby-Dick, doncha think? I remember the cold, sunny New England farm houses I lived in the years I spent in Maine. 

1) Sitting on my bench, a little boy came over to show me his acorn. What does an acorn turn into? I asked him. An oak tree! He was probably 4. He was with a younger brother & a baby, and his mom, whose hair was well past her knees ~ the longest hair I've ever seen. I thought of my mom, who also had 3 kids under the age of 4 at one point. This woman didn't look the least frazzled & maybe my mother didn't either. 

2) On the corner of 5th St, I overheard a man tell the woman with him that this was the block with the Hells Angels clubhouse. That was 3rd Street, I called to them. They stopped & we chatted about the neighborhood & how it's changed, & what businesses & people were still there or not. Chris & Virginia: old friends in a moment. 

I love my neighborhood, no matter how many beloved residents & restaurants & stores disappear, no matter how many killing e-bikes replace them. 

Poetry is what we do to break bread with the dead.
~ Seamus Heaney

This makes me think of a little anthology I have of troubador poetry by women (a book I can usually put my hand on but I can't spot it at the moment)(but I can look it up: Meg Bogin's The Female Troubadours) (damn, where is it??) & how sure I am that those poets & I would be laughing together in a couple of minutes (language aside). I know them, I am sure, & they would get me. Yes, poetry is the way they are alive with me. (Oh, there it is!)

East 3rd Street, the Two Boots corner. No matter how many times I walk on any given block, I almost always see something new, surprising, &/or enchanting. I will never not love New York City.