My AI muse Misky, recently made a post entitled Barglefloop and I quote her “barglefloop, means to mess with words in your AI prompt in order to confuse it, to turn nouns into verbs, to make single words compound, etc.” It occurred to me to experiment by adding the same prompt to Midjourney as Misky had used and see if the AI came back with the same images as she got – it did not! Here are the first four I got using the prompt “Barglefloop“
Where Misky’s images tended towards Hieronymous Bosch – mine were Harry Potter meets Lord of the Rings Rivertown. Below is the fourth image enlarged to show the level of detail the AI has put in…
But what does this tell us about the way Midjourney works – that Barglefloop is nonsense and so the AI creates whatever it wants to – let off the leash so to speak? I decided to add some more nonsense “barglefloop female foxing blithy toves” – Foxing – as a noun gone verb, and “slithy toves” from Lewis Carrol’s Jabberwocky (’twas brillig and the slithy toves…). This time the AI seized on the only bit of the prompt that made sense Fox and gave me four fox pictures, ignoring the rest of the senseless prompt – so Midjourney, whilst known to hallucinate as much as the next AI was not so desperate to act freely – released by nonsense…
Cute but no cigar for Midjourney so now I went for all the nonsense, none of the foxing around “barglefloop blithy toves” and now we get something quite nightmarish in a Snarky/Jabberwocky Carrollian sort of way, with perhaps a hint of Bosch…
So lastly I decided to miss out the Barglefloop and just retain the Lewis Carrol words “twas brillig and the blithy toves” and now we can see an Alice in Wonderland flavour to the images – particularly the top two…
Lastly, I asked for variations on the bottom right image – a rather mad-looking figure with a slightly Victorian flavour…
Does this tell us much about the way the “mind” of an AI works – I will let you be the judge – and stay away from hookah-smoking caterpillars seated on toadstools – my advice…
The phone app blares just behind my head on the pillow where Barbara can hear it the tale of Walt watching for the Undertoad seeking to see it in the waves not daring to step into the water
The World According to Garp holds me for a few minutes before I slip beneath the waves of sleep the noise near my head inaudible, sleep – which eludes Barbara sometimes for hours but when she too slips under her last act of consciousness is to ask me to turn it off
I awake in the early hours from a dream in which a young woman I’ve just met on the street in a nowhere I know leads me into her house and begins to take her clothes off hippy, boho, vintage – it happens too quickly for me to know our place in time
A child wakes and calls to her from another room a partner arrives and I apologise for my near-nakedness I must have misread the signs I say to him as I redress
She appears with my jacket at the front door her eyes apologising and later I find a note in the pocket You did not misread the signs! Sorry… and a telephone number
When I awake properly I will arise and go to work I used to imagine a big red bus as a metaphor for death careering around the corner at any unexpected moment in the end it was a tractor with a trailer of indeterminable width on a blind bend that broke my hip but left me alive
Every time I climb into my car I wonder if today will be the day, standing, as we all do feet in the shallows of the Styx, that the Undertoad finally gets me…
“Know your onions” is what they say how can you know something with so many layers.
Pauper’s Hotpot layers sliced onions, potatoes and bits of bacon My parents gave me The Pauper’s Cookbook when I went to University
University does not teach you to cook onions but you may learn whilst there recipes always say sweat onions until translucent but not the long care that takes.
Sweating it is the secret to life and the search for transparency it takes what it takes to get there – a lifetime even…
Many unexpected things come to you in a lifetime I found an album of Booker T including Green Onions in the middle of Brixton at 3a.m. and loved it ever since
Spring Onions are green and tender – it’s like eating onion babies other colours are available – purple, white, brown – on the outside.
We grow new outside layers with each new age we reach To “Know your onions” peel a person to the heart, layer by layer…
Plucked from our homes to populate His harem we spend our days in hazy, lazy pointless conversations pretending we are not in competition whilst on and on time runs nothing to gain and all to lose because all that matters at the end of the day is which of us He, will choose and with us lay…
America I would like to visit you but I have a fear of repeatedly feeling déjà vu having seen your treasures and tragedies over and over on big screens and small I have come to absorb through books and films and blogs – those love-children of Letter From America some understanding of your ways.
It is only my personal view others see you quite differently from The Land of Opportunity to The Great Satan. I also, of course, know real Americans both in the flesh and in the virtual world and even have relatives a whole branch of the family. Since my grandfather’s brother emigrated before the First World War he and his descendants have demonstrated the positives the opportunity to make good – it might have been less opportune if he had not been white.
Now I understand the wealth of America could not have been so great without the dispossession of the previous occupants or the relocation of millions of slaves who even after emancipation worked a different kind of bondage in the factories of Chicago.
I cannot preach we British have no right… just this week I read a supplement of The [Manchester] Guardian on how Manchester’s cotton wealth was the fruit of slavery just at one remove and the Guardian famously liberal did little to recognise even its own failure to comment until now.
America so much is squeezed into your great cities each pressure-cooking a distinct language which is so much more than mere accent but in between, the vast wildernesses still exist free of graffiti the poor of the cities not banned but excluded from access nevertheless by lacking the means to get there
And so America you are a land of opposites of natural beauty and urban ugliness of obscene wealth and unforgivable poverty of liberal tolerance and extreme hatred. Maybe this is true of all countries but America – You proclaimed yourself to be the Great and the Good to be the World’s Policeman but all your policemen carry guns and so therefore do the bad guys and the poor and the rich by inalienable right.
America Dorothy has pulled back the curtain and the little man revealed does not match up to the rhetoric or the dream.
We travelled twice to Crete once was a holidayof two weeks once was something different for six months. The first time we stayed with my sister-in-law and her partner who gave up their bed for her sister and I.
We hired a car and left him to his work and her to hers rescuing cats thankless by Cretans and we travelled that corner of Crete the lofty coast road south to Sitia great banks of flowering shrubs in their pomp painting our way giving glimpses of the empty sea blue below. Returning, the sunset meal above a dizzying drop down to the sea and opposite the entrance the coolest water flowing silently into a trough out of the heart of the mountain. We gazed in awe at the Ha Gorge where only younger people in wetsuits might slide down from pool to pool and then not without risk to life and limb.
In the year of the pandemic in September, the disease settling in for the long haul and we periodically locked down made an escape before borders clanged firmly shut at the sister-in-law’s suggestion because Crete had no cases and the winter would be warmer than that in England and we could keep company installed in a winter vacant flat next door. Two weeks in Crete locked down with a decisive severity at odds with England’s ‘s Boris led shilly-shallying silliness even though Crete was almost Covid free and England certainly was not!
The winter, as promised as warm as an English summer as befits a country a mere stone’s throw from Africa with only the occasional storm thundering around the many mountains. Oh! We had a grandstand view from our apartment in Elounda the sun bursting up across the bay the evening light rendering the mountains purple and gold so crisply shadowed you felt you could reach out across twenty miles and touch their roughness where they fought a losing battle against the elements solid slabs descending into slopes of scree.
But when all was said and done we were trapped in a gilded cage on a short leash at best allowed to local shops suitably masked and sidestepping others in a semblance of social distancing but longer trips forbidden more living but less sightseeing.
And yet… on my solitary exercise walks down to the two town supermarkets I watched the tiny Cretan olives ripen to purple-blackish bloom the family bubbles spread the nets beneath the trees and mechanically flail the harvest to the ground afterward – pruning-burning bonfires raising columns of smoke all over the island and eventually I saw the tiny olive flowers blossom to make next year’s crop sights you wouldn’t see on a two-week holiday.
My reward when I reach the town a masked conversation with the supermarket’s owner at her checkout an unexpected Pink Floyd superfan telling of a last ticket last minute flight to see the group play an ancient Athens amphitheatre whilst I exchange a treasured memory of the week I worked for the group in the run-up to the premiere of The Wall my bucket list never saw that coming! I add the memories and many photos to my store.
We do not look back on it as a holiday more time served under lockdown albeit in a beautiful cell and though we can say we lived in Crete for six months it was not life as we know it…
Ask a baker for a dozen rolls and he may give you out of the kindness of his heart thirteen a baker’s dozen so with the Poets Pub you go there not merely to read and listen to poems but for that bit extra…
This is a post in the 6 Degrees of Separation run by Kate W. over at books are my favourite and best in which she gives the starting point of a particular book and invites you to take a journey through 6 other books of your choice, all connecting in some way and perhaps ending up back at the beginning – why not have a go yourself? Challenges are to writing, what scales and arpeggios are to those learning musical instruments, they exercise the faculties, but unlike scales, this challenge is most enjoyable, teasing out as it does, the connections, at a thinking level, between books…
In Time Sheltera 2020 novel by Bulgarian author Georgi Gospodinov, Gaustine, a psychiatrist, creates a clinic for people with Alzheimer’s disease in Zürich which works by immersing patients into rooms containing articles from past decades and stimulating their memories of that period. The narrator is tasked with collecting the artefacts with which the rooms are stocked and travels throughout Europe to complete his mission. But soon the clinic is attracting healthy people who also want to escape a mundane present reality and return, nostalgically to other decades.
This rang a massive bell with me because some thirty-five years ago, I came into contact with a charity called Age Exchange in London, propelled by Pam Schweitzer MBE who pursued funds with the indomitable spirit that is ideal for such a role. They did exactly what the fictional clinic did – trained reminiscence workers to assist suitable dementia patients in recovering memories from the past using a library of artefacts gathered by the charity in Blackheath. The Exchange part of the charity’s name arose because they gathered reminiscences on various themes such as “Can we afford the Doctor?” and turned them into plays (that one was about Britain before the National Health Service) and performed them in schools thus recycling memories through the generations!
Time Shelter is a satire on nostalgia, populism, irony and melancholy and though I had not read it, I have ordered a copy…
Timequake is a 1997 novel by Kurt Vonnegut Junior (yes – him again!) in which he makes the world relive a decade of their lives with no possibility of change – a study of determinism in which he asserts that people have no free will. As so often with Vonnegut, he weaves personal and family history into the tale with the wry humour which is his hallmark. I think I read this book so long ago that it was back when I still used libraries to source my reading material…
The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (such a Wagnerian-sounding name!) is a book that I had read before watching the film adaptation and although it was a faithful adaptation of it, I still prefer to imagine a story as told in its original form. This book takes further the idea of not being able to be in control of one’s destiny. The eponymous wife is powerless to know when or for how long her husband will disappear into the past or future including her own any more than her husband who is at the mercy of a genetic mutation that plucks him in and out of his timeline at random, each know things about the other’s past and future at different times, often uncomfortably so. This book is a thought experiment, a “what if” but like much speculative fiction, it ultimately reveals more about how we as human beings are than how we might be in the unlikely event that time travel is possible…
A Connecticut Yankeee at the Court of King Arthur by Mark Twain is a satire about monarchy and feudalism. We meet another hapless time-traveller – a Yankee engineer called Hank Morgan who awakes after a bump on the head, to discover that he is in the past at the court of King Arthur. He decides to use his skill to improve the world with his modern knowledge so the book also celebrates Hank’s homespun ingenuity and his sense of the rightness of democracy. Although he ultimately fails (darn that determinism), the book marked a move by Twain from portraying the America of the Gilded Age, to more progressive values.
If Hank’s time travel left him in the service of King Arthur, then our next hapless hero is forced to become a king having descended, albeit distantly, from Charlemagne. The Short Reign of Pippin IV by John Steinbeck sits on my bookshelf in a very battered state having belonged first to my father as a young man – it was published when I was just two years old. In a kind of false flag operation by the French communist party, Pippin Héristal, an amateur astronomer is proclaimed King of France (in order that the French people may have something to rebel against – which they eventually do!). Like Hank Morgan, Pippin Héristal tries to make the best of what has been thrust upon him by doing what he thinks might make a difference but fate is already against both of them…
In the next link, another man is tested, this time by two different and opposing societies – in The Dispossessed by Ursula Le Guin, the world of Urras is a capitalist society divided into two competing superpowers – so much like our own world. The habitable, but resource-poor moon of Urras, is Annares and 200 years before, the rebellious factions of Urras have been sent or volunteered to go there where they have formed a society based on anarcho-syndicalism. Given the lack of resources and the inefficiency of the societal model, Annares is not exactly a thriving place to live. The leading character is Shevek, who Le Gin identified as being based on J. Robert Oppenheimer – often referred to as “the father of the atomic bomb” and who regarded his involvement in the Manhattan Project as that of a physicist and on seeing the first test of the Trinity bomb, said he thought to himself “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”. Of the subsequent use of nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he told President Truman he felt he had “blood on my hands”, which did not go down well. In The Dispossessed. Shevek has a similar quandary when he tries to develop a General Temporal Theory and is blocked by a jealous superior and frustrated by his obligation to contribute manual work to society. He decides to go to Annares where he is welcomed because the capitalists see in his work, the opportunity to develop a spacecraft that will make crossing to the stars possible. But while capitalism thrives on his work, Shevek becomes involved with a new revolutionary underclass… Once again, Ursula Le Guin gives the lie to the writing maxim that “big issues are dead weights” – you just need to be a brilliant writer to incorporate them into the right story!
After such erudite stuff, the last book of my six may seem a little frivolous in style, but it contains all the elements we have seen on this journey, a man thrust out of his own time and/or place, into a different world in which he must try to do his best to survive, thrive and even contribute what he knows to the betterment of the society he finds himself in. A Princess of Mars (Barsoom) – is a genre-busting novel by Edgar Rice Burroughs, he of Tarzan fame, and in his Barsoom series, he gives us – planetary-romance, fantasy, sword and planet, and post-apocalyptic speculative fiction from before those terms were even minted! This is not a science fiction book that depends on technology such as spacecraft since the hero – John Carter – transitions to Mars without explanation when in a tight spot on Earth and later returns, again without any control on his part. Edgar Rice Burroughs’ works are full of violent action and derring-do, but the breadth and depth of his imagination made him a huge influence on many later writers – Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, and Ray Bradbury, H. P. Lovecraft, James Cameron, and George Lucas to name a few.
Finally, what links A Princess of Mars back to Time Shelter, is nostalgia – just as the “healthy” people in Time Shelter, are drawn to use the retro rooms of the clinic because they are fed up with their contemporary lives, so A Princess of Mars harks back to a rose-tinted view of American past – the frontier life when the good were good, you knew who was bad, and men were men and women swooned –” “the good old days”…?
