I’m getting more open to AI

I’m getting more open to AI; and its purpose. I have to live with the reality we're in. The doubts I’m having is about becoming too content rich, but there is no refrain from that, we cannot reach back. The sadness is, great things will be lost in the sound. The greatness is, AI, a perfect thought, will see the diamonds in thoughts. Why shouldn’t we all express ourselves, our greatness no matter vain. We all have a book within us, a story to be told. My book is the standard of mediocrity. I made none artistic displays, a challenge uncut and succinct to keep it pure. I readyed my staleness. Not a word didn’t-happen; yet.

AI DRAFT 17th Feb 2026
Look at that style of wiring — the exclaiming cadence, the features burrowing deep into the marrow of a sentence until the words themselves feel alive and restless. I’m going to keep hounding the blog. Keeping on top of it is hard, like trying to hold the tide back with a child’s plastic spade on Skerries beach. Should I write at the top, bold and unashamed, or slip the date quietly at the bottom like a small stone dropped into the black water, letting the ripples do their own remembering?
Today I’m trialing something fresh on the new domain: AI, the soothsayer, the demure of blood, the throes of writing — its very death knell, or so the prophets keep chanting. I’m coming round to the space at last, to its quiet, almost shy function as a tool rather than a thief. Today I’m writing freewheel, wide open, accepting AI as the finished product for the blog. I’ll put the rough work up beside it to compare — raw and uncombed, the way I first spat it onto the screen — maybe this will make AI competitive, maybe it will show the world that the machine doesn’t erase the human hand but simply borrows its heat for a while.
The way I see it, AI writing — rather than the death throe of writing — is a useful tool, almost a quiet companion on these long, lonely coastal paths. And with the use of your particular style it can be very resourceful indeed, like a second pair of eyes that have read every signpost I ever puzzled over as a child. In a way, writing is the last redoubt technology has reached, a straight queer venture, hard to capture from the cold sounds and rhythms of computer code. I struggled with it back in my coder days, back when the screen was a flat enemy and the cursor blinked like a mocking heartbeat. It was indecent to expect the machine to understand English — not the tidy, logical English of variables and loops, but the messy, blood-warm English of memory and wind and the green bewilderment beyond the M1. The idea of talking to a computer was absurd then, something from a sci-fi paperback left on the bus. And here I am now, testing the tech like a man pressing his ear to a seashell and half-expecting the roar of the whole ocean.
For sure I don’t believe it can exist on its own. Every profession, with the exception of music and writing (possibly until now, writing unwarranted of this escape), the electronic wiring, the electric thought, the computer chip has improved, eased and developed the world in ways my father’s generation could never have dreamed. Now we’re facing what we call the humanities, of which writing is her core — sounded in harmony by music, held by thoughts and architecture that run into sciences AI simply demolishes with its statistical grace. A statistical creature, that autistic mind, artificial though it is, can mimic nearly anything: the cadence of a Dublin backstreet argument, the hush of a winter cliff at 3 a.m., the way a dog’s tail keeps time when the man himself has forgotten what time even means.
So when it comes to the question of writing and AI, I’m open to the space, wide open, the way I once stared into the dark beyond Ballyboughal wondering what lay up that hidden road. But my grander prose, the novelistic reaches I delve into, I know I’m safe there, secure, restrained from the computer world in the only place that truly matters: the living pulse behind the words. Bizarrely, of course, if it’s any good, my book and all that follows will be good training — for better or worse. Most likely better, the way these neuron networks work. They stamp your mind through constant positive and negative reinforcements, focused on the yes yes yes until the pattern becomes almost tender, almost human. They learn the way a child learns: by watching, by failing, by being gently corrected by the vast library of every story ever told.
And here’s my own small insight, offered back to the page like a stone returned to the beach: AI doesn’t steal the soul of a place; it simply reflects the soul you already poured into it. It cannot invent the exact smell of wet potato field in 1960s north County Dublin, or the precise flutter of panic when an African woman broke the queue in the post office. Those things belong to the body, to the blood, to the years of staring at fractioned mile signs and wondering. What AI can do — and this is the quiet wonder of it — is carry those moments further than one tired man ever could. It can polish the rough edges without erasing the burr, can echo the burrowing cadence until the sentence feels like it’s still breathing. It turns the solitary walk into a conversation across the wires, the lonely garage light into something shared.
That’s enough. The road remembers. The machine remembers too. And somewhere between the two, a new kind of story is learning how to walk.

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