I’m not an anti-AI individual. I test out the main services every so often, buy my own API credits to use through third-party configurations, and enjoy AI use in Kagi, my preferred search engine. I don’t use AI to generate writing; I just like to see how it’s progressing and have never found a good use for it. However, I still yearn for a simpler human experience on the web.
I’ve had all sorts of blogging iterations online over the years but never kept to one in particular. I like moving around and trying new things a little too much, but I am also inspired by those who have stuck with one or two platforms online for the majority of their writing. I’ve had too many online homes for my writing to maintain any serious sense of consistency in output.
“That years of love have been forgot; In the hatred of a minute”
— Edgar Allan Poe, To —
She lay there sleeping, the sun shining bright on her face, glistening through her hair. She wore her favorite dress with her plastic toy ponies scattered around her as if they were waiting for her to wake up. They needed her so that they could run and play once more. The cool autumn wind blowing through her hair moved a few strands around, but for the most part they all stayed put in her ponytail. Her father stood there, watching her sleep.
“Do you guys know that my husband is an Indian?” my wife, a non-Native from Vermont, asked her Kindergarten class in East Texas at the beginning of a week studying about American Indians.
Each child looked at one another with the same level of fear and surprise on their faces. With jaws gaping open, the children screamed, “Ahhh, is he gonna get us?” The bravest boys of the bunch quickly stood up and displayed their ninja punches and kicks, learned from Kung Fu Panda which was the big movie at the time, while stating that they would protect the class from the “Indian.” This is a surprising reaction in general, but even more so since all of those kids had already met me and had gotten to know me.
Soon after the initial shock died down, questions flooded the classroom: “Does he live in a teepee?” “How many buffalos has he killed?” “Can he teach me to shoot a bow and arrow?” “Can he ride a horse?” “Where does he live?” “How many Indian wives does he have?” “Does he speak Indian?” With each child sitting on the floor with their legs crossed (unceremoniously called sitting “Indian style”), my wife addressed each question as accurately as possible.
“No, he does not live in a teepee. He lives in an apartment with me. He has not killed any buffalos, and he does not know how to use a bow and arrow. He cannot ride a horse. He does not have any Indian wives because he’s my husband so he’s married only to me.”
“Well,” one boy though out loud, “then he’s not a very good Indian.”