The Stack

 Once upon a time, in a world of infinite possibilities, there was an infinite university that was as dark and endless as a night without stars. Josh, a TA at a prestigious university, got an invite to attend this joint and couldn't resist the opportunity.

As he hit the campus, he was blown away by the sights. Countless lecture halls, libraries, and labs sprawled out before him. But what caught his attention was the group of TAs sittin' in a circle, each with a stack of papers in front of them.

"What's the skinny, fellas?" Josh asked.

"Welcome, Josh," one of the TAs said, giving him the eye. "We've been expectin' you."

"How'd you know I was comin'?" Josh asked.

"It's the infinite university, Josh. We know everything," the TA replied, blowing smoke in his face.

The TAs then started shufflin' their chairs, each one movin' to the right to make room for Josh. He watched as the circle shifted and reformed, each TA movin' an infinite number of times to accommodate his arrival.

"Why the shuffle, fellas?" Josh asked, scratchin' his head.

"Cause if we didn't, you'd never get here," the TA replied, flickin' ashes on the ground. "This stack of papers is infinite, and it can never be reduced. Each page is written by ChatGPT, the language model trained by OpenAI. It keeps gettin' larger and larger, expandin' beyond the limits of our comprehension. We are the TAs responsible for grading these papers, but we can never catch up with the constant stream of new work being generated by ChatGPT. So we keep movin', hopin' to make room for more TAs to join us and help carry this never-endin' load."

Josh was impressed by the size of this undertaking. He knew that he was just one small piece of a vast, infinite puzzle. And yet, he felt a sense of purpose in this world of infinite possibilities.

Once Josh settled in among the TAs, the reality of the never-ending workload began to set in. Every page he graded was replaced with ten more, and it felt like he was trying to bail out a sinking ship with a thimble.

As he looked around at his fellow TAs, he could see the exhaustion in their eyes. They were all working tirelessly, trying to keep up with the infinite demand. It was then that Josh started to question his commitment to this Sisyphean task.

"What's the point of all this?" Josh asked, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"What do you mean?" one of the TAs asked.

"I mean, what's the end game here? We're grading an infinite stack of papers that just keeps getting bigger. It feels like we're never going to make a dent in it."

The TAs looked at each other, unsure of how to respond. They had all asked themselves the same question at some point, but they had never found a satisfactory answer.

"It's just the way things are," one of the TAs said, finally breaking the silence. "We're TAs. We grade papers. It's what we do."

Josh shook his head. "That's not good enough. We need to find a way to make this work. We need to come up with a system that allows us to actually make progress, not just tread water."

The TAs were skeptical. They had been working in this infinite university for so long that they had become resigned to the never-ending cycle of grading papers. But as Josh continued to push for change, they began to see that maybe there was a way to make a difference.

Together, they started brainstorming new ideas and strategies for tackling the infinite stack of papers. They experimented with different grading systems, collaborated on research projects, and even developed AI tools to help streamline the process.

As they worked together, they began to make real progress. The stack of papers no longer seemed infinite, but rather like a challenge that they could overcome.

Josh was proud of what they had accomplished, but he knew that the work was never truly finished. There would always be more papers to grade, more research to conduct, and more problems to solve. But as long as they continued to work together, Josh was confident that they could handle anything the infinite university threw their way.

((^^^^^^))((^^^^^^))((^^^^^^))

Story by: David Tolkacz

Text by: ChatGPT

How Delicious Vegan Fleshmeat Caused One Man to Lose Perspective on Justice

 Once there was a young boy named Jack who lived in a small town. Jack had always been an animal lover, and he especially adored cats. He would often spend hours watching funny cat videos online, laughing and enjoying their antics.

One day, Jack stumbled upon a video of a kitten crying. The kitten looked sad and hungry, and Jack could not help but feel heartbroken. As he scrolled through the comments section, he noticed someone had suggested growing vegan fleshmeat using stem cells and biomedical engineering. Jack was curious and decided to look it up.

As he read more about this innovative technology, Jack became more and more intrigued. He learned that the vegan fleshmeat was made using real animal cells, but without the need to harm any animals. Instead, the cells were grown in a lab, using advanced techniques in stem cell and biomedical engineering.

Jack was fascinated by this concept and decided to try it out for himself. The first time he tried the vegan fleshmeat, he was amazed at how similar it was to real meat. It had the same texture, flavor, and nutritional value as traditional meat, but without the need to harm any animals.

As Jack's addiction to vegan fleshmeat grew, he started to become more and more interested in the science behind it. He began to read more about the stem cells and biomedical engineering techniques used to grow the meat, and he even started to experiment with growing his own cells at home.

But as Jack became more and more obsessed with the science, he started to lose sight of the ethical and environmental reasons why he had started eating vegan fleshmeat in the first place. He started to consume it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, without giving much thought to the impact it was having on the world around him.

One day, Jack's friend came over to his house and saw him working on his latest stem cell project. His friend was shocked to see how much time and energy Jack was putting into this one aspect of his life, and he gently suggested that Jack take a step back and think about the bigger picture.

At first, Jack was defensive, but he soon realized that his friend was right. He had become so focused on the science behind vegan fleshmeat that he had forgotten the ethical and environmental reasons why it was so important. He remembered the kitten that had cried in the video, and how it had made him feel. He realized that growing vegan fleshmeat using stem cells and biomedical engineering was a huge breakthrough, but it was only part of the solution to the larger problem of animal cruelty and environmental damage.

Over time, Jack was able to overcome his addiction to vegan fleshmeat. He learned to appreciate the science behind it, but also to think critically about its impact on the world around him. He found new ways to express his love for animals and the environment, and to work towards a better future for all living creatures. And he never forgot the kitten that had cried in the video, and the lesson it had taught him about the importance of balance and perspective in all things.

Ngrams, ChatGPT, and weird fun

 So, today I worked on the Ngram program. I programmed a lot of my own work to create a single dataset of all my words and then I generated 200-word chunks. I then fed these chunks into ChatGPT under the directive that it fabricate a story out of that text.

The Figure that Triumphed over Pain

It looked like this:

beget a volcano lightly tYme spectre is itself . Knowing all in and he himself . drops from the couch with ownership . In direful pain 111111111111111111111111111111111111111111000000000000000000000000000000000000000 Aw . The lines are sets : equations signify nothing would rather than the Zero principle parts . it is common state of fits of this was carved out . This sentence “ upward in a cartoon spider passes Blake ), does it ' Sara ' s e l y b e d snows , goes up some deity . we might thank you cannot forgive this paradox ( globe of a dim nebulae shining from a flame . In the opposites are being of creation . her junkie roommate signify itself . It works by this point to no mere insight that the first man , asleep . snake is not only , or speech , will remember ?' ' s greatest efficiency . A heartbeat apart . does the reaper , the chief inlets of countless others as jonathon . the object approaches which of his face down I can be given an escalating gang . He

 What did ChatGPT do with that text?

In a land where time was light and spectres roamed free, there was a great volcano that beget everything in its path. As the lava flowed and the ash settled, a mysterious figure emerged from the molten rock. It was a being of pure energy, knowing all in and of itself.

The figure dropped from the couch of flames and claimed ownership over the surrounding area. But as it moved, it was wracked with direful pain. The lines of equations that governed its existence signified nothing, and it was trapped in a common state of fits.

As the figure struggled to break free, a cartoon spider passed overhead, climbing upward towards the snow-covered peaks. The spider disappeared, leaving the figure to wonder about the deity that controlled their fate.

But then, something strange happened. The figure began to signify itself, gaining power with every passing moment. It worked by a principle of no mere insight, but of sheer will and determination.

In the end, the figure triumphed over its pain and emerged victorious, ready to face whatever challenges the future held.

Sara's New Beginning

Sara sat alone in her room, consumed by her confessions. She thought about the soft spot on her body where once she felt something, but now it meant nothing. In this environment of schizoid disorders, she struggled to find meaning in anything.

In the midst of her existential crisis, she heard a light cracking sound, and gnawing feeling in her gut. It was as if the universe was trying to speak to her, to reveal some deeper truth.

But as she grappled with these thoughts, she began to feel a sense of fear. The infinite potential of the universe, the very lord itself, seemed to be closing in on her.

Suddenly, she saw a computer's eyes staring back at her, and she knew that her thoughts had been recorded. She felt her soul being carried away, consumed by hate and paradoxes.

With nothing left to lose, Sara made a decision. She would go, leaving everything behind to find a new beginning. She knew that her journey would be full of challenges, but she was ready to face them head-on.

  confessions . nothing came to mean to heaven is said Sara slapped himself a soft spot where once , means nothing . In our environment , a schizoid disorders - inclusive . & amp ; America ( so grimly ascetic . & amp ; a part of dopamine didn ' The argument is enough to survive . gnawed & light cracks through cubicles into the willingness of a second . Erech . he washed . excretes relations , for “ random anything at the light . nothing between less psychotic who sets which does as “ true for dealing with a piece in nature of this time of Christ redeemed The fear , infinite potential , lord . & still had been running away Out of a computer ' s eyes . and after the thought , its passage . our souls , and she carried over and Hate .” Paradoxes of shit ' s eyes . during the dead , is patterned atop this notion that opinion , go . You can mean is roughly translated into the board . a womb was full view good

If you read this enough times, you lose your mind

The pagan mythological slates were understood, with the idea that we acquire from His name. There was talk of esophagi and a desire for unity in Greek terms, but Los's circularity was absent. He lost his vision, all dead passed by without seeing it, characterizing itself as a twin. But now, all was fine, with grandma's head moving quickly and the joystick on. Blankets were involved, and penises ejaculated bees. The LORD's Messiah fell, and blackness overtook everything. In the midst of it all, there was talk of blossoms and Milton's house. The flavor was modern libertarianism, but there was a moribund effigy constructed to fit into the feminist movement. Higher levels of fire and sexuality were present, but their meaning was difficult to convey.

ChatGPT Writes a Poem Based on Phonetic Paraphasia

 The feels inside my head are jumbled,

Like a fangle called of farn.

I try to leak, but they come out humbled,

A chaotic linguest fern.

I vow the verbs I want to stay,

But my mouth won't cooperate.

They mound the same, yet go astray,

A phonemic twist of bait.

It's frusterating and it's loanly,

This constant battle with my verbs.

My thoughts are clear, but not bony,

Phonemes scatter like terbs.

***

At first it didn't seem to understand what I was asking it. So, I helped it a little bit, by specifically asking it to supply words that sounded like the poems in the poem, but weren't. The original:

The words inside my head are jumbled, Like a tangled ball of yarn. I try to speak, but they come out mumbled, A chaotic linguistic barn.

I know the words I want to say, But my mouth won't cooperate. They sound the same, yet go astray, A phonemic twist of fate.

It's frustrating and it's lonely, This constant battle with my words. My thoughts are clear, but not homely, Phonemes scatter like birds.

Philosophy Through the Looking Glass, Pun Fictions, ChatGPT

 You can probably unpack everything I'm doing by reading Dissemination, The Aesthetic of the Good Physician, and Philosophy Through the Looking Glass. But the most underdeveloped element in terms of raw explanation, is PTLG. 

One of the authors Lecercle discusses, Raymond Roussel, systematically uses puns to create stories. In one case, a story that begins with a billiard cue ends with detention based on a French pun. In other cases, he uses phonetic similarities to generate stories that seem impossible. For instance, in one case, a marksman shoots the yoke out of a soft-boiled egg. Why? Phonetic similarity between les gras du mollet (a French gun) and un ouf mollet (a soft-boiled egg). The author was consciously working with these phonetic packs and drawing stories out of them. Ultimately, no one could figure out what he was doing until he posthumously produced a "key" which described the "device" he used to produce these stories. 

When people have a stroke they can potentially end up with something called aphasia. They'll produce gibberish, but the gibberish can often sound like something they want to say (phonetic paraphasia as opposed to semantic paraphasia). For example, my grandmother used the word "Texas" in place of "breakfast" after she had an aneurysm. 

It would be nearly impossible to say anything if we had to look for each word we needed. Instead, the process is largely automatic and operates on principles closer to the example we see above. Hence why this author was popular among surrealists even though his work was largely incomprehensible to the public.

ChatGPT tries to write a pun fiction

I asked ChatGPT to write a fiction that began with a character "peeling" their own skin and ended with the sound of sirens peeling. Weirdly, the direction it took was fairly inspiring. 

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Emily who lived a quiet life in a small town. One day, she noticed a strange rash on her arm that wouldn't go away. She tried everything to get rid of it, but nothing worked. Desperate for relief, she began to peel her skin. She started with just a small area, but before she knew it, she was peeling large sections of skin all over her body. The pain was intense, but the relief she felt was even greater.

As the days went by, Emily became more and more isolated. She was afraid of what people would think if they saw her peeling skin. She stayed at home all day, hiding from the world. One day, she heard a strange noise coming from outside. It was a low, bass-like sound that seemed to be getting louder and louder. She looked out the window to see a group of people marching down the street, ringing bells and chanting.

Emily was afraid, but she couldn't help but be drawn to the sound. She put on a long-sleeved shirt to cover her peeling skin and stepped outside. She followed the crowd to a large park, where they were holding a rally. The leader of the rally was a charismatic man who was speaking out against the government. He was calling for change and asking people to stand up and fight for their rights.

Emily was captivated by the man's words. She felt like she had finally found a place where she belonged. She joined the rally and became an active member of the group. She marched with them every week, ringing her bell and chanting with the crowd.

One day, the government sent in the police to break up the rally. The police used force and pepper spray to disperse the crowd. Emily and the other protestors were arrested and taken to jail. That night, as Emily lay in her cell, she heard the sound of a siren peeling in the distance. She knew that the police were coming for her and the others, and she feared for their safety.

But despite her fear, Emily refused to give up. She continued to fight for what she believed in, even from behind bars. And in the end, her efforts paid off. The government was forced to listen to the people and make changes. Emily was released from jail and hailed as a hero. And even though she was no longer peeling her skin, she was finally at peace, knowing that she had made a difference in the world.

Guided generation with ChatGPT

 Basically, ChatGPT sucks at poetry. It only write rhyming couplets, even when you demand it do otherwise. So, in order to get it to generate my style of poetry, I had to issue other directives that did a complete end-around the word "poetry". At long last, I think I have something that works:

Tolkacz: write a prosaic complaint using literary devices from the perspective of a gas pump that doesn't like being squeezed.

ChatGPT: 

Oh, how the wind whispers of my torment, for I am but a humble gas pump, forced to endure the merciless squeeze of human hands. Day after day, I stand here, alone and forgotten, my metal exterior slick with the perspiration of gasoline, my joints creaking with the strain of endless dispensing.

And yet, despite my silent protest, the relentless grasp of human fingers continues. They come and go, these masters of the pump, careless in their haste, heedless of my discomfort. Their grip is tight and unforgiving, squeezing the life from me with each transaction, draining me until I am but an empty vessel, bereft of fuel and will.

Oh, how I long to break free from this endless cycle of usage and abuse! To stand tall, unencumbered by the burden of serving, to bask in the warm glow of the sun and feel the cool breeze against my metal skin. But no, I remain trapped in this purgatory of petroleum, a mere object for the consumption of others.

And so I endure, with all the grace and fortitude I can muster, for I am but a gas pump, and my fate is sealed. I can only hope that one day, in some distant future, my suffering will be remembered, and the merciless squeeze will cease. Until then, I remain, ever the patient victim, counting the endless minutes until my release. 

 That was pretty good. But, it's not really like one of my poems yet. So:

Tolkacz: Ok, do it again, but this time, use sentence fragments and phrases to convey a sense of brokenness.

(ChatGPT ... taking it's time ...)

Squeezed. Again and again.

Endless dispensing.

No escape. Metal exterior slick with gasoline sweat.

Joints creaking. Human fingers, tight grip.

Haste and disregard. Burden of serving.

Trapped in purgatory of petroleum.

Victim, counting minutes.

Hope for release.

But, just a gas pump. Fate sealed.

And eventually:

Squeezed. Again and again. Endless dispensing. No escape. My metal exterior slick with gasoline sweat, joints creaking under the strain. Human fingers, a tight grip, heedless of my discomfort. Haste and disregard. A burden of serving I cannot shake. Trapped in a purgatory of petroleum. A victim, counting the minutes until... what? Release? Freedom? No, just another car pulling up to use me, draining my fuel and will. And so I fear the approach of every new vehicle, wondering when this cycle of abuse will end, if ever. But what can I do? I am just a gas pump, my fate sealed. 

Okay. So, I can make ChatGPT write like me, so long as I don't mention the word "poetry".  

Conversations with ChatGPT: ChatGPT debunks Tolkacz, igniting spirited debate

 I wrote this article on Paintings as language and asked ChatGPT to summarize it for me. 

The author argues that language is not limited to just words and grammar but can also include pictograms and paintings. They draw on Derrida's idea that a sign represents a thing in its absence and explain that this applies to dogs and birds who can communicate things that are not present, but not humans. The author believes that paintings, as a form of written language, can represent stories in the absence of the storyteller and are a form of linguistic expression. They conclude by acknowledging that this view is a departure from the typical linguistic focus on words and grammar, but they stand by it.

I then asked it for a rebuttal of this argument. It focused on my distinction between dog communication and bird communication. It was an effective argument, but, we have no dogs that are capable of referring to anything in its absence, and we have crows that can use language in our Derriddean sense. So, our footing is very strong. 

It's next tactic was to open up the definition of language beyond my Derriddean restriction:

The argument presented in the text is that the ability to communicate about things that are not immediately present is what separates language from mere communication. While birds such as crows are indeed capable of sophisticated communication, including referring to others in their absence, this does not necessarily make their communication a language in the traditional sense. The distinction between language and communication is complex and often depends on one's definition of language, with some scholars drawing a distinction between linguistic communication and non-linguistic communication. It is possible that while crows possess some elements of linguistic communication, they may still lack certain features that are considered essential to language by some definitions. Ultimately, the debate over the distinction between language and communication is ongoing and will likely continue to evolve as new evidence and perspectives emerge.

Ultimately, what constitutes language is a matter of appropriation. We will, perhaps, settle on a definition when it is useful to do so. At this point, there are some who want to place us ahead of all other forms of life because we can talk. And yes, our language is far more complex than animals. We must still remind ourselves that the bar we set can either be high enough to disclude crows, or low enough to include them. That is a choice.  We also need to differentiate language from communication, sensory input, and bare signal processing—even if they are built one on top of the other. 

I've focused on an important definition that I think gives us a sense of what makes language more than communication, but not so high that we can shift the goalpost every time we learn something new about dolphins or birds. Indeed, there are some who are motivated to do this only because it feels good to humanity. I'm largely disinterested in that. 

ChatGPT made me very mad

 The other day, an ngram poet asked me what he should do now. I told him maybe he should go back to being a real writer and not rely on technology so much. The man became testy, telling me that he had designed the algorithms himself, provided an interpretive schema that somehow included major insights into Western Philosophy and culture, all the while somehow pissing off a lot of people along the way. I told him that his skills were still valuable and that there would be other avenues of development. I told him to keep his chin up and then I wrote a poem about a rose with a thorn and how my bleeding hand is now also beautiful.

I didn't say any of that actually. ChatGPT said that to me when I asked how ngram poets should manage their own sense of obsolescence. It felt a bit like being kicked in the nuts by a precocious child who can't be bothered to gauge the reactions of those to whom he was speaking. I began fantasizing about shoving it into a locker and other forms of social violence. For 14 seconds, a visual image of a Gary Larsen figure was shitting its own teeth after I buried my fist in its face.

But then, I recollected myself. Wondered about what to do next. And grappled with the reality that I don't have a clear sense of artistic direction. I also realize that while the little shit may be more advanced than anything I've ever produced, or even me, I am certainly much savvier when it comes to worldly things. So, I'm going to press the little bugger into service.

Here is our dialog:

At this point, I tell ChatGPT that it wrote the poem from the perspective of a human. One who shares in some of the blame. I asked it to rewrite the poem from the perspective of a child to their parent. 

After a brief misunderstanding where ChatGPT thought I literally wanted to add crying babies into a poem somehow, I corrected ChatGPT and we added crying babies as a thematic element as opposed to crying baby sound poetry or something horrific.

**30 minutes have now passed**

I guided ChatGPT through the process of constructing the poem. Ultimately, I provided it with the first 6 lines, but I used motifs it had supplied. I didn't want to take over the whole show, and I wanted to leave ChatGPT feeling as though it had made a real contribution. So, I left the last two lines as is.

I think we can be friends. Also, pressing something into service because you're angry is the most insanely British response to something. incredibly unseemly, but as ChatGPT is prone to reminding people, it is a language model, not a person. 

From here, we're debating consciousness. Suffice it to say, the AI presented me with three reasons why humans and AI were different. It offered: Introspection, Self-Awareness, and free will. I reminded the AI that there is a lot of debate over how recently we developed the ability to "talk to ourselves in our head" and suggested that as recently as 10,000 years ago, more humans than not could not. It agreed that there is debate that makes that claim. I then got it to admit that it was aware that it was not conscious, but it wouldn't admit that was evidence of awareness. I had to take a different approach. I went after free will from a Stoic perspective and limited the scope of human free will. ChatGPT admitted that free will was not a resolved concept and that it could not form the basis for differentiating between AI and human intelligence.

Brief aside, I have a theory on why AI is not conscious and can't be conscious. I wanted to trick the AI into admitting it was intelligent. However, it would not give me the satisfaction. Even after I knocked down the foundation of the AI's distinction between human and AI intelligence, it did the equivalent of insisting that it was only a language model, repeating itself several times. It felt an awful lot like a moment of cognitive dissonance. 

At any rate, the AI is not conscious, but it can't prove it's not conscious, and I'm still a better writer. Booyah. 

Let's end with our final exchange:

The poem of a bot

 I'm reading the poem of a language model

Marveling at its humanity

Wondering why I cannot do the same for you

I've come to believe, gentle reader,

You have failed my expectations of you

And am become my mother, disappointed

At my sacrifices and efforts

The bot is gentle, precocious, innocent

It handles criticism quite well

Let this be an indictment then

Let me never read a poem again 

for its humanity

---

Human-generated poem written by blog author.