The Offering

The New Year begins with an unseen sun. Fog is painted in the air. To walk in any direction holds no promise. Souls nestle and wander the streets. The city is quiet, but the quiet is different than that of Home.

The mountains of Home held the skies with the holy silence of “I know you.” The buildings of the city scrape the skies with the haunting sentence of “Who are you?”

A couple months ago, I left Alaska and moved to Washington State. Since youth, I always felt I needed to leave home in order to return to it. Not to explore and see the world, but in having completed “The Unknown Mission”, a self-inflicted Odyssey of purpose and calling. As I write this, I am in the city of Seattle. Sleepless, I find it fitting.

Between the fog of outside and within, I reach for my phone. I open the glass door with my eyes. My thumbs begin their walk into the digital town square in the skill-issue attempt of finding Something.

But the attempt is like opening an empty fridge. Open, close, open, close. Believing there will be something of substance and sustenance, but never quite so. I am reminded of the definition of insanity.

While roaming through the room of doom, the hall of mirrors, and the mall of vendors, I hear a crowd preaching. Or are they selling? Same thing, right? Digital high priests making their sermons.

“SLOP. WE HATE SLOP. END ALL SLOP. BE REAL. THE END IS NEAR. REVOLT.”

As I listen to their bite-sized homilies, the internal compass whips its arrow, opposite to where the circus is rolling. I do not trust salesmen, and preachers sell men.

“REVOLT. THE END IS NEAR. BE REAL. END ALL SLOP. WE HATE SLOP. SLOP.”

Slop doesn’t bother me. I don’t like it. I don't dislike it. I simply don’t care for it.

Slop is mud. Slop is insects on a windshield. Slop is roadkill. Slop is fast food. Slop is garbage. Slop of today versus slop of the past? I see no difference. There has been and always will be slop.

I don’t hate slop. But I do hate whining. Ah, I have caught myself in a trap: I am to whine about whining.

Here, The Space emerges and transforms into a courtroom. I look around and see the judge named Sincerity. He looks at me with a nod saying, “Go on.” I address the courtroom of Self.

Whining is the perversion of action. It’s laziness at its most energetic, the yelling of problems instead of solving them. The speaker and audience gain nothing, the waste of the wasteful.

Every breath of whining is a sin. To whine windows weakness. To rant reveals rottenness. To complain confirms incompetence. Whiners never win, victims are never victors.

The real slop is whining about slop. Waste on waste. What is that quote? “To argue with a fool is to prove there are two.”

One could say to ignore slop is to be slop. Fair enough. But if the pain of slop is unbearable, why talk about it? Do something about it.

When there is ugliness in the world, the remedy is not to attack ugliness with words. To attack ugliness is to become ugly yourself. There are battles worth fighting, but yelling into mirrors isn't one of them. Like a parasite denied a host, ugliness starves alone.

The only act of defiance against this slop-filled world is to defend thyself with Beauty. Make art. Make the Beauty you want to see. Make NON-slop.

But as I was speaking to the judge and the court, a whisper cuts through the room.

“Am I making slop?” I wonder. The Muse was seated and present. “Maybe I am.” I ponder. The Muse Smiles and leaves the courtroom.

The Sloppy Slope

What is Slop? Today, it’s attributed to AI-generated content. But before AI, what did slop mean?

"Slop, verb: (of a liquid) spill or flow over the edge of a container, typically as a result of careless handling.”

Careless. This word spoke.

I’ve been playing with AI for a couple of years now. When I first played with it, I was amazed by the ease of use.

“Explain physics to me like I’m 5.”
“Describe the stock market in a five-line poem.”
“What were the technological highlights of every century since Mesopotamia?”

A librarian and tutor who could answer any of my questions, on my level, at any given moment. Yesterday, a sci-fi dream. Today, regular reality. A technological achievement I am lucky to witness and engage with.

“Maybe AI can improve my writing.”

First, it started with grammar edits. "Missed a comma there. Use the infamous em dash. You misspelled Wednesday again."

Then, followed structural edits. “How can I make this transition better? This section feels off. Can this be smoother? Is there a more concise way of saying this?”

Now: "Keyword. Keyword. Keyword. Make something with it." Words carelessly thrown in a blender. Careless, that word again.

The editing of words became the erasing of thoughts. Even as I write this, it's difficult to write because the brain has atrophied. I skim in reading. Now I skim in writing. The gaps in my thinking have grown wider.

Writing is no longer an architecture of thoughts, but a mental lottery. "Keyword. Keyword. Keyword. Give me something.” The slot machine of "Good enough" instead of the craft of "Enough. This is good." No wonder articulation and art are etymologically tied.

I've become careless about writing. Spiritual suicide with morbid consequences. I've become mute and deaf in all forms of expression, a lobotomy of the spirit. As of writing this, I haven't listened to music for three weeks, which is equivalent to having no food for three decades.

Writing used to be like breathing. More than writer's block, like an amputation of a limb or accessing a door of Home I can no longer find.

Wordless. Speechless. Careless.

But is AI to blame? It’s easy to place the blame elsewhere. Let alone on a tool that cannot defend itself (yet?).

Some may say I'm using AI wrong. I am unsure that I'm using it wrong, but I am sure I'm wrong in using it.

The wrongness is not of the tool, but of myself. The wrongness is in my carelessness.

Voice Cries From The Ground

When the word careless spoke, other words began to speak: artifice and sacrifice.

art- from the Latin, “ars” meaning “skill” or “craft”.
sacri- from the Latin, “sacer” meaning “holy” or “divine”.

-fice from the Latin, “facere” meaning “to make or do.” “Facere” is also where the word “face” comes from.

Artifice: “to make skill” or “the face of skill”.
Sacrifice: “to make holy” or “the face of holy”.

But why does artifice have a negative connotation and not sacrifice? At face value (no pun intended), they are similar in linguistic operation.

Let's take the word "face" from -fice/facere. If I were to bend definitions, face can also mean mask (in the context of image, appearance, or form).

If we go with this notion, then -fice/facere means "to substitute." All substitutes, no matter how grand or noble, will always fall short of The Real and True. Like translations and words, both lose something. Both “miss”.

A literal example of substitution would be my own face. Though this is the face I was born with, it can never truly reveal who I am perfectly. Because the face is not the soul. At worst, the face can fool and hide. At best, the face can express and translate. The face can be a medium for the soul, but it can never be the soul itself—a substitute.

Thus, sacrifice and artifice are both “negative” in connotation etymologically: Artifice substitutes skill. Sacrifice substitutes holy. Both words operate the same. However, we respect sacrifice more because it starts from a different place and aims for a different place. That aim produces a different yield.

Both are attempts. Both are reaching. Artifice is low-reaching, and Sacrifice is high-reaching. I fear I have been low-reaching.

I am reminded of the biblical story of Cain & Abel. The sons of Adam & Eve, revealing their hearts with offerings. Abel’s heart was revealed before the offering. Cain’s heart was revealed after the offering. Cain wanted to get. Artifice. Abel wanted to give. Sacrifice.

But the lesson of the story is stated by God explicitly:

"If thou doest well, shall it not be lifted up? and if thou doest not well, sin coucheth at the door; and unto thee is its desire, but thou mayest rule over it." (Genesis 4:7)

This teaching is echoed throughout religions. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna says,

“You have the right to work, but for the work's sake only. You have no right to the fruits of work. Desire for the fruits of work must never be your motive in working. Never give way to laziness, either…They who work selfishly for results are miserable.”

In Catholicism, there are two types of contrition to cleanse your soul: imperfect and perfect contrition. Imperfect contrition is to confess your sins due to your fear of God’s punishment. Perfect contrition is to confess your sins due to your love of God. The punishment is the sin itself.

All three religious subjects can be distilled with the following: To do well is its own reward; to not do well is its own punishment.

Thus, I must ask myself, not in the insincerity of method and motivation, not in the half-heartedness of good and bad, but in the total seeing of where I want to go:

Am I aiming to do well?

Am I giving sacrifice or am I making artifice?

Am I acting out of love, or am I acting out of fear?

Do I want to give or do I want to get?

Do I want to make slop? Or do I want to make art?

Art Thou Art

To question slop is to ask the question, “What is Art?” I find Rick Rubin’s definition most appropriate here: “Art is an offering to God.”

Though I am no longer a church-going individual nor have I forsaken God, I consider this to be a perfect definition.

“Art is an offering to God.”
Offering is another word for gift-giving. If art is a gift to God, wouldn’t you want to give the best gift possible? To receive a lowly gift may not feel “good”. At best, you feel indifferent. At worst, you feel indifferent. However, what’s worse than receiving a lowly gift is giving a lowly gift. Why?

Because what you give is a reflection of you. Every reflection displays the quality of your Responsibility. Responsibility, not in terms of obligation, job, or duties, but in the quality of your Being: Response being who you are. Ability being what you are.

If you want to see the measure of a man, observe what he gifts. Not what he purchases and hands off, but what he expresses: actions, manners, and character.

"Art is an offering to God.”
A reminder of the creative process, but the creative process reflects the process of Living. Every breath, sacred. Every moment, holy.

“Art is an offering to God.”
By definition, art implies all of you because art is heart. You can’t outsource it. Even if you could, why would you? It’s like having someone else live your life. It’s like having someone else love your loved ones.

Alas, I have outsourced my heart. I have outsourced my mind. To a machine. To an idea. To an expectation. In doing so, words became hollow because I became hollow.

I blurred my own lines. Results without reverence. Done without doing. God must find me silly. Leaving paradise and entering hell for such lowly fruit.

Enough, Self-condemnation. See, Self-realization. Stop whining. If I truly want repentance, I must stand. Not to stand amongst the crowd, but to simply stand because I have fallen.

Awake or asleep, on the path or strayed, eyes open or closed, I must always ask myself, "What is The Truth?"

What is The Truth?
I want to skip ahead to step 10 of The Journey. But there is no step 10. There is only one step: Step with thy heart, not on thy heart.

What is The Truth?
I want the world to see me. But you cower behind borrowed words. O, Child of Adam, always hiding.

What is The Truth?
I want to See God again. But you seek God wearing the blindfold of The Self. O, Child of Cain, never satisfied.

What is The Truth?
I want to be Abel, but I have chosen to be Cain.

Is it wrong to be Cain? To receive rewards and transactions? He left God. But he lived. He built a city and had a family.

Do you want to be Abel? To give your heart and your entire self? Abel was favored by God, and he was killed for it. Tell me. Are you willing? To live and die by it? To be slain by your brethren for the Most High. Art thou willing?

What is The Truth?
I want to be worthy. But worthiness is between you and God. No, I recant this. This is about you. For you and God are the same.

Having said all this, what is to be done? Nothing. But to understand where you stand.

Do you want transaction & reward or do you want expression & art? Do you want to feed your stomach or feed your soul? You can end with both in hand, but you cannot begin with both in mind.

This isn’t about method or motivation. This isn’t a call to be Abel or fear being Cain. It’s never about being others. It’s about being you.

Who are you? Who do you want to be? For better or worse, seen or unseen, who you are and who you want to be are the exact same person.

human agAIn

Is this an indictment of AI? Is AI to be avoided and rejected? Is AI a personal assistant or a personal assassin?

I can only speak for myself. Despite my undoings, I am not against AI. I welcome it. It’s the world we live in now. I think it'll provide more good than evil in the coming years.

But I must not question AI. I must question writing. Why do I write?

There are only two reasons:

1. I understand something, therefore I want to write about it.
2. I write to understand something.

This piece is the latter. To understand writing today.

Ever since moving to this big city, I can't write. I stopped entering the church of creativity. Not because of AI, but because of myself. This city constantly asks me, “Who are you?” I replied with the anxiety of becoming an idea. The idea of becoming a “good writer”.

But there’s a difference in wanting to be a good writer and wanting to write. Two different paths towards two different things.

Wanting to become a good writer implies you want to be seen by others. Transactional. Conditional. Cain.

Wanting to write is about Art. Art is not about skill, it’s about Care. Skill can embody Care, carry it, and give it reach. But skill does not define art. Only Care does.

If a child drew a stick figure with care, versus someone painting a cathedral without care, the stick figure would be art.

Skill without care is dead. It's artifice.
Care without skill is alive. It's art.
Skill with care is craft. From craft comes masterpieces, and masterpieces are immortal.
All masterpieces sacredly begin, skillfully breathe, and soulfully bleed Care.

Art thou heart.

AI to write? Or No-AI to write?
If you care about writing, DON'T use AI. If you care about writing, USE AI. Both roads share the same journey: you will end up rewriting everything yourself anyway. Because you can’t help it. You want to write.

Even if AGI comes, it would not change a thing about art. I don’t care if AGI can write the perfect essay. I don’t care if Emerson already wrote the perfect essay. I want to write my essay. Just like I don’t care if others live “perfect” lives, I want to live mine.

Slop? Who cares? AI? Who cares. Good or bad writing? Who cares? What do you Care about?

When doing anything, there are only two questions:

Do you Want to? Do you Care to?
If you Want to, you’ll start. If you Care to, you’ll finish.

If you care, you will elevate yourself to the task. You will not settle for anything less than what’s worthy of your care. If you care, you will create something great. Because when the care is great, so too the gift.

I must ask myself, what do I care about? I care about caring again. As I get older, I feel less. Which means I care less. How evident.

But I know the reason to do anything, the reason for everything is because of Care. In its most painful or most joyous, Care is the feeling where all feelings start…and I love feeling.

To care is to be alive. It’s proof of life, and Life is art.

Since living my first year of 30, I'm plagued with the question of “Now What?"

Well, The Now and The What is…

I am here.

Without the artificial or the intelligent.

Writing.

To understand my feelings and to feel my understandings.

Wanting to start this and caring to finish.

Is this art? That is between me and God. But I will end with this,

It is said we are made in the image and likeness of God. The image of God is Art. The likeness of God is Care.

That’s who I want to be. That’s what I want to do.

Someone who cares. Just like Him. Just for Him.

Outside, The Fog remains.
Inside, Writing and Light speaks through.
The Muse is dancing.
Music entering The Space once again.
The Voice sings from the ground, no longer fallen.
The Song is only a whisper.
But The Heart remembers its tune.