How Odd. I read (part of) the first one, and thought That doesnt sound like Frank.
Then the Cormac one: yucky like a supermarket tabloid (not that bad, but). It’s all unbelievably impressive, of course. But we have people saying they can’t stand the mass-produced quality of essentially all music today, and comparably, that is art (or some of it maybe). For Nick: There is an argument that John Searle makes, not especially elegantly, but I think along the right line. He is arguing against the computation framing of consciousness. Searle’s device is to say that my brain is like my stomach, and that the computation framing doesn’t do its complexity justice. It took me a while to decide I understood his point, but were I arguing it in my words, I would say it thus: We experience a collection of things to which we have conventionally attached words like consciousness, awareness, mind, and a few others. Then there is some theory about a class of computable functions and the machines that, equivalently, compute them. Lets be generous and extend that to concurrent systems, pi calculus, associational retreival, and some other formal systems if you like. To say that there can be patterns in mental activity that admit labels from these computational worlds would be unproblematic. Almost surely that must be the case, because we can do mental arithmetic following rules. But to turn around and say that the computational model _contains_ all we wanted from the word consciousness seems absurd. Hence Searle but with a few more words: I have my stomach and it does things for me but in no sense do I “comprehend” it, meaning have at my command everything that it is and all that is about it. So too with whatever my brain is doing. To suppose that the computational metaphor — now I can safely use the word — contains this thing and all it does, that I don’t even comprehend, is too bold. God the Cormac priming is really bad. Can’t write in ones own voice afterward, nor of course in his. Eric > On Jan 26, 2025, at 7:54 PM, Frank Wimberly <wimber...@gmail.com> wrote: > > Cormac's going to be out of work at this rate. You should work as a prompt > engineer. > > --- > Frank C. Wimberly > 140 Calle Ojo Feliz, > Santa Fe, NM 87505 > > 505 670-9918 > Santa Fe, NM > > On Sun, Jan 26, 2025, 5:43 PM Stephen Guerin <stephen.gue...@simtable.com> > wrote: > Frank, > > Playing a little bit about what it is to kill small animals as a young boy - > which I experienced too with air rifles, 22's and 20-gauge > > In Cormac's voice writing about the old man Frank writing his memory of the > rabbit kill. :-) > > ---------------- > > The boy dismounted, the rifle slung low, its barrel still warm where it > kissed the air. The horse snorted and turned its head, uneasy. The rabbit lay > where it had fallen, a mound of fur and meat half-swallowed by the dust. It > was not yet still. The legs twitched in faint, convulsive rhythm, the body > gripped by some remnant machinery of life that had not yet conceded its end. > A bubbling came from the hole in its side, sharp and wet, as though the > creature itself were astonished by the sudden vacancy within. > > The boy stood over it, the rifle loose in his hand. He crouched. He had been > told the kill should be quick, clean, a matter of precision and respect. But > there was nothing clean in this. The blood came too freely, glistening in the > sun before pooling black in the dust, and the rabbit’s dark eyes caught the > light like polished glass. It kicked once more, a great spasm that sent its > broken body jerking forward, then fell back in on itself, its chest rising > faintly, and then no more. The earth drank deep, and the boy knelt there and > watched, not knowing why he could not look away. > > His hand reached for the fur at its nape. He expected it to feel different > now, transformed by death, but it was still soft, still warm. He lifted the > rabbit by its hind legs, its head flopping sideways to reveal the tear in its > throat where the bullet had exited. The meat was ruined. He had ruined it. He > knew this but felt no shame. He stared at the bloodied wound, at the jagged > wreckage of what had once been whole, and he thought of nothing but how easy > it had been. > > The old man watched from the casita. His face, gaunt and unreadable, seemed > carved from the same plastered walls that surrounded him. The boy was not > real, not anymore. He was a specter, a revenant born of memory and time, > riding loose in the currents of the old man’s mind. The rabbit’s death was > his death, the boy’s life his own, and he could not tell one from the other. > They had bled into each other like the crimson stain in the dirt. > > At his desk, the man sat before the screen, its glow feeble against the > dimming light of the kiva fire. The screen showed graphs and nodes, lines > that spidered out and tangled back into themselves, searching for order in > the chaos. He could not read it now. He looked past it to the window, to the > land where the boy knelt with his kill. The land was indifferent. It did not > weep for the rabbit or the boy or the man who had carried them both into this > moment. The land was what it had always been, and it would outlast them all. > > The boy tied the rabbit to the saddle, the blood dripping in slow, deliberate > beats to the earth below. He mounted and turned the horse, its hooves > clopping dull and soft against the dust. The shadow of the horse and rider > stretched long across the desert, a ghostly thing that moved ahead of them, > unclaimed and free. The boy rode back toward the casita, the rabbit swaying > with the rhythm of the animal’s gait. He did not look back. > > The old man’s eyes followed the boy as he disappeared into the sun’s low > embrace. The kiva fire crackled, spitting out a single ember that drifted > upward and was gone. The man turned back to the screen, his hands resting on > the desk, their veins ridged and blue like dry riverbeds. He thought of the > boy’s hands, bloodied and bright in the dust, and the quiet machinery of his > own heart working ever slower. Outside, the land moved toward night, vast and > empty and full of things waiting to die. > > > > > On Sun, Jan 26, 2025 at 5:19 PM Frank Wimberly <wimber...@gmail.com> wrote: > Very good, Stephen. More feelingful and poetic than my writing. What I > wrote is more factual and specific. I wish mine could have been a bit more > "romantic" but it was me. (Grammar requires "I" but...) > > Frank > > --- > Frank C. Wimberly > 140 Calle Ojo Feliz, > Santa Fe, NM 87505 > > 505 670-9918 > Santa Fe, NM > > On Sun, Jan 26, 2025, 5:01 PM Stephen Guerin <stephen.gue...@simtable.com> > wrote: > <image.png> > Chapter 1: A Boyhood in the High Desert > > This is the story of my relationship with New Mexico—a bond as enduring as > the rugged mesas and boundless skies of the land where I spent my most > formative summers. My childhood was a patchwork of places and experiences, > stitched together by the Navy’s pull on my father and my own restless > curiosity. But no matter where life took me—California, Pennsylvania, or the > Pacific Northwest—New Mexico was the constant. > > Outside the small town of Mountainair, on the edge of the Manzano Mountains, > I spent the summers of my youth with my grandparents. There, I was free in > ways that my life in naval housing never allowed. My grandparents’ home was > both sanctuary and adventure—a place where I could roam for miles on > horseback, rifle in hand, hunting small game and discovering the rhythm of > life in the desert. > > Hunting was as much about self-reliance as it was a rite of passage. My > grandfather would remind me to respect what I killed. A rabbit, cleaned and > cooked by my grandmother, wasn’t just a meal—it was a lesson in gratitude and > consequence. The land taught me patience and awareness, whether I was > following a jackrabbit’s tracks in the sand or watching the still coil of a > rattlesnake on the trail. > > Those summers were a paradox—wild and unstructured, yet deeply grounding. On > the back of a horse, the wind in my face, I felt unshakably connected to the > land and its history. My grandfather, a section foreman for the Santa Fe > Railroad, would tell me stories of the railroad’s role in shaping the state, > while my grandmother wove family history into the fabric of my identity. They > spoke of the Nuevomexicano culture, of resilience and pride in a place where > cultures met and mingled. > > In Mountainair, I learned to see life not in the rush of the cities where my > father’s career often took us, but in the slow unfolding of the desert > itself. Each canyon, arroyo, and sunlit stretch of scrub held a story. Even > as a child, I felt the weight of those stories and began to understand that > they were part of my own. > > Chapter 2: Mountainair Summers > > New Mexico summers had a rhythm all their own. Days began early, with the > rising sun painting the Manzano Mountains in hues of orange and gold. My > grandparents’ house in Scholle, a town that has since all but disappeared, > was quiet in the mornings except for the sound of my grandmother humming as > she prepared breakfast. By the time the rest of the house stirred, I was > usually already outside, drawn to the landscape like a moth to a flame. > > The land around Scholle was untamed and endless, filled with arroyos and > juniper-studded hills. It was a place where a boy could feel completely free. > My days were a mix of exploration and chores, though I hardly saw the latter > as work. Whether I was mending a fence with my grandfather or helping my > grandmother in the garden, the tasks felt like an extension of the land > itself. There was a satisfaction in being part of something so ancient, so > rooted. > > Horses were central to my summers. My grandfather’s ranching background > ensured that I was comfortable in the saddle from a young age. I spent hours > on horseback, the reins in one hand and a .22 rifle in the other, riding > across the desert in search of adventure. Sometimes I’d head toward the ruins > of old pueblos, their crumbling adobe walls a reminder of those who had lived > on this land long before us. Other times, I’d ride just to see where the > trail would take me. > > Hunting was a rite of passage in those days. Rabbits were the most common > game, though quail and dove were plentiful too. My grandfather taught me to > shoot, but more importantly, he taught me respect. “Never kill more than you > need,” he’d say. “And never waste what you take.” His lessons stayed with me, > though they were at odds with the boyish thrill I felt each time I brought > down my target. > > One summer, I had a memorable encounter with a rattlesnake. I had wandered > off the trail to investigate a stand of sagebrush when I heard the telltale > buzz of its rattle. The snake was coiled, its eyes fixed on me. I froze, > heart pounding, as we sized each other up. It wasn’t fear I felt in that > moment, but awe. The snake seemed like a living embodiment of the desert > itself—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly indifferent to me. > > Evenings in Scholle were a time of reflection. After dinner, my grandparents > and I would sit on the porch, watching the sunset give way to a sky filled > with stars. My grandfather often told stories about his time working for the > Santa Fe Railroad, tales of long hours and hard work, but also of camaraderie > and pride. My grandmother, on the other hand, spoke of family history—of > ancestors who had lived and loved and endured in this rugged land. Their > stories wove together to create a tapestry of identity that I would carry > with me long after I left New Mexico. > > Faith was another constant during those summers. My grandparents were devout > Baptists, and Sundays meant dressing up and attending church. The fiery > sermons and spirited hymns were a far cry from the calm Presbyterian services > I was used to back home. As a child, I didn’t understand the theological > differences, but I felt the contrast deeply. Religion in New Mexico seemed > more visceral, more tied to the land and the struggles of its people. > > Those summers in Mountainair and Scholle shaped me in ways I’m still > uncovering. They gave me a sense of place and a respect for the land that > would stay with me throughout my life. More than that, they taught me the > value of hard work, the importance of family, and the quiet beauty of a life > lived close to the earth. > > _________________________________________________________________ > Stephen Guerin > CEO, Founder > https://simtable.com > stephen.gue...@simtable.com > > stephengue...@fas.harvard.edu > Harvard Visualization Research and Teaching Lab > > mobile: (505)577-5828 > > > On Sun, Jan 26, 2025 at 3:57 PM Frank Wimberly <wimber...@gmail.com> wrote: > Compare the result with > > amazon.com/author/frankwimberly > > It took me two weeks to write and contains about 100 pages. > > Frank > > --- > Frank C. Wimberly > 140 Calle Ojo Feliz, > Santa Fe, NM 87505 > > 505 670-9918 > Santa Fe, NM > > On Sun, Jan 26, 2025, 3:40 PM Eric Charles <eric.phillip.char...@gmail.com> > wrote: > Frank, > And think of how much easier it all would have been with AI assist! > > Nick, > Can you ask George to give you the first 20 pages of a memoir of a boy > growing up in New Mexico in <insert appropriate year range>, including the > first few years and every summer until the boy went to university? Be sure to > mention that the boy moved on from his rural beginnings to a much more > worldly and high-tech career. Tell it you would like the tone to be > "comfortingly familiar" for those who might have had similar experiences. > Just for kicks, please also name the boy "Frank" :- ) > > Best, > Eric > > > > On Sat, Jan 25, 2025 at 9:49 PM Frank Wimberly <wimber...@gmail.com> wrote: > I wrote a memoir about my life in New Mexico including the first few years > and every summer until I went to university. People who read it who know me > say they can hear my voice when they read it. LLMs were not available when I > wrote it. > > Frank > > --- > Frank C. Wimberly > 140 Calle Ojo Feliz, > Santa Fe, NM 87505 > > 505 670-9918 > Santa Fe, NM > > On Sat, Jan 25, 2025, 7:24 PM Pieter Steenekamp <piet...@randcontrols.co.za> > wrote: > DaveW, > > Thank you for your reply. I really appreciate what you said. > > For me, the key thing is to keep our human qualities. I like using AI to help > make us better, like when it helps with writing. > > You mentioned that AI can't make writing more eloquent. I agree with this for > people who are already good writers. I've read some autobiographies where the > writing is so beautiful, it's like AI couldn't match that. But there are > others who might need help. AI could make writing easier and better for those > who have good ideas but struggle with words. > > I just want to clarify one point from your message about "voice." When AI > helps with writing, it's important that the words still sound like me, not > like a machine. I saw your point about my writing sounding like ChatGPT > instead of me, which wasn't my goal. I aim for AI to enhance my voice, not > replace it. > > Improving oneself and one's writing is a great goal. We've all had moments > where we wish we could express something as well as someone else. If AI can > help make my writing sound better or clearer, I think that's good to use. > > But I agree with you, AI might not make writing more 'eloquent,' just more > precise or detailed. So, I would use AI tools carefully, making sure they > enhance my own style, not define it. > > Pieter > > Note: I use AI to assist my writing. > > On Sat, 25 Jan 2025 at 17:58, Prof David West <profw...@fastmail.fm> wrote: > Pieter, > > I applaud your use of AI to improve your writing. It is my belief that the > "proper" use of AI, along with computers and computing tools in general, is > to augment human abilities ala Vannevar Bush's "how we may think," Douglas > Englebart's institute, Alan Kay's dynabook, (the fictional Young Ladies > Primer of Stephenson's Diamond Age), and Jobs' "bicycle for the mind." > > This is in direct contrast, it seems, to the sentiments of most on this list > who think that AI should, and inevitably will, replace "inferior" human > intelligence. > > I am curious if you see any question of "voice" in the AI improved text? For > example, I took glen's question as nothing more than an observation that the > "voice" of your post seemed to that of ChatGPT instead of Pieter—definitely > not "augmented-Pieter," as I believe you intended it to be. > > All of us respect Pieter and value his words. If, however, we are confused by > "voice." it raises issues of how much consideration the writing should > receive and how we should respond. > > Improving oneself, and one's writing, is a great goal. And we all have > experienced examples of "I wish I had said that," or "I wish I had expressed > that idea as eloquently as she did." If AI tools provide wordings that you > admire, or feel express your ideas more eloquently, you should adopt them. > > Personally, I do not believe that AI can ever provide more 'eloquent' > writing, only more precise or more complete writing. So I, again, strictly > personally, would eschew using such tools as currently constructed. I would > however, if I had the chance, use Richard Gabriel's tool, Inkwell, which, > BTW, he emphatically states is not an AI, to enhance my writing. But Richard > is primarily a poet and writer, despite his education and career in AI and > computing, and he created Inkwell expressly to be a writer's assistant. I > have tremendous respect for Richard's writing and I know he uses Inkwell to > enhance his intrinsic abilities. > > davew > > > On Fri, Jan 24, 2025, at 10:48 PM, Pieter Steenekamp wrote: >> I was surprised by the comment "I hope I'm wrong. But that text reads like >> it was generated by an LLM" At first, I just thought, 'so what?' But it got >> me thinking about how AI changes how we communicate, which is really >> important to me. >> >> Here's my main point: >> >> I think it's okay to use others, whether they're people or AI, to help me >> communicate better, as long as the ideas are mine and I'm not copying >> someone else's work. If using AI to polish my words bothers someone, we can >> talk about it. >> >> Here's some background on why I think this way: >> >> a) Learning to communicate is one of the best things you can take away from >> school or university. For example if a student is supposed to use her own >> words in an assignment, then using AI or asking someone else to rewrite is >> wrong. >> >> b) In the workplace, we've always had people like personal assistants or >> speech writers. I see using AI in the same way, just a modern tool to help. >> >> c) Writing assistance used to be expensive because you needed people. Now, >> AI can do the job for free, and that doesn't go against what I believe is >> right. >> >> d) Your writing should still sound like you. So, I write something first, >> then ask AI to make it better but keep it simple and in my style, like, >> 'Please make this sound better but keep it easy to understand.' I now >> realise I violated this previously and will adapt. >> >> e) Maybe it's good, depending on the situation, to mention when you've used >> AI in your writing. >> >> f) Here's a funny story: I used AI to help write a message for an AI >> workshop, and someone complimented the writing so much they suggested I >> should be a writer instead! >> >> My bottom line: >> >> I plan to add a note at the end of each message in this group saying I used >> AI to help with my writing. 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