AI AND I #2

AI and I: What is Jeûne Genevois? #2

 Carol did tell us it Chatbots sometimes lied, invented facts -- perhaps to flesh out the narrative, pretend it knows, protect its ego and shut you up.

I queried it on the history of the Jeûne Genevois, a (religious) day of fasting (jeûne) on the first Thursday of September.

Well.....apparently it's a kind of SWISS CHEESE!

                                                                                                        

                                                                        WHAT?? 

No one fasts. 

It's like Labor Day with plums.

People bake or buy scrumptious plum tarts, go to

the country, take in a show, meet with friends and enjoy   

Labor Day by the Lake.  

I simply wanted a bit more historic/religious context 

for this special holiday.

Follow-up:

I checked both my search bots and now they have come

to their senses: a religious commemoration of the

Protestant Reformation (thought so) and some

people do fast. I haven't met them.

Bot Motto

"No deep-dive research - just a quick dip for whatever

floats belly-up to the surface.

Politicians can be liars to please the crowd.

Hey........just like a bot!

 

 

AI AND I #1

Witty, Cagey, Elusive, Lying

My first, and so far only investigation of the powers of AI-generated narrative is when Carol, our collective writing coach, challenged us to download ChatBox AI, feed it a storyline and set it free. 

I entered a general plotline and some distinctive characters and a vague narrative arc and set it free. 

The story was shockingly good. It also seemed to reflect my tone of voice. It requested more prompts so it could continue its filibuster. I use the word ‘filibuster’ because it can hold up a session of true personal creativity. It talks and rambles, taking up time and space, hungry for more feeds and then? I could put out a collection of AI fiction – as people probably have already – and ……..

I was so excited I accidentally erased all of it, just as I was contemplating a collection with a major bot-feed element. Surely writers have already done this, but I was an AI virgin (almost) and was ready for a fling. After the story got re-absorbed into the AI bardo I dropped the idea.  

At least for now.

 

 

 

GRILLED MANGO DOWN UNDER

PS for the previous post

I heard from Paula, who lives on the other side of the planet.

A true story, with variations:

"Believe it or not, in Queensland we barbecue mangoes - yep, on the grill. Pineapples too. Quite scrumptious actually. But you might have heard thrilled mangoes and wondered what all the excitement was about. Or spilled mangoes, an obvious result of their slimy character. What about killed mangoes? Of course we take a knife to them and cut off their cheeks - we even score them (score, not scar - adjust your hearing aids with that app!). How about drilled mangoes or filled mangoes..."

Fried Mango Reverie

Coffee time in Ferney-Voltaire 

🍦🍦🍦             🥭

 There are several Friday conversations going on at once: some of us discuss fruit ice cream and sherbet as the young daughter of one of our group lavishes attention on her passion-fruit ice cream in a sugar cone. Orange, lime, raspberry, strawberry, lemon, blackberry, mango, a rainbow of flavours, a reverie of tastes…….. I tune back in a minute later to a discussion about fried mangoes. 

Hmm, sounds exotic, perhaps a tad awkward to pull off. But then of course bananas and plantains are fried, pineapple is flambéed, pears poached, apples caramelised….not so far-fetched. I imagine skilled gourmet chefs. Grappling with the gelatinous mango pulp, flipping a skillet — fruit cuisine requiring skill…. accompanied by a tot of rum? crême fraîche? but then who but a chef would bother with it? 

 Mangoes are delicious au naturel. Hot mango on toast? Hot mango waffles? Hot mango stew? I am off on a mango daydream. Amazing, I say, in all these years of international gastronomy I’ve never encountered…. 

…….when one of my friends giggles and says, er sorry….we’re talking about dried mangoes, have you ever tried dried mangoes? 

 The reverie angles off: fried dried mangoes! I have a vision of sautéed leathery, desiccated mangoes…..in butter perhaps? Would they look like orange kippers? Perhaps as a winning side dish in an exotic brunch? Or maybe pre-soaked but not for too long, plumped up to its original pulpy state. But then you’d be stuck in the same situation: sauteeing squishy mangoes.. ……..worth it? Dried then soaked then fried, well no….. Re-directing my attention to the conversation, the proverbial penny drops as my friend had said “we’re talking about Dried Mangoes” It’s simply Dried Mangoes. Have you ever had Dried Mangoes?  There is no fried.

Life can be so simple and straightforward. But then ADHD has me dreaming up eccentric recipes during this quiet conversation with friends. …….Hmm perhaps a sprinkle of coriander and a flick of nutmeg?……. 

So for the hearing issue, there are hearing aids. Hearing aids are now part of my life, charging up in a box with a USB C slot, le dernier cri in ear technology. Used intermittently, as the spirit takes me: little plastic commas invisibly tucked into the ear with a clear fishing line that’s cradled in the inner curve of my ear (the concha), and a discreet microphone, a dream away one generation ago. 

We control them with our phone, adapt them to music, noisy restaurants, televisions and conversations. When I’m not in a hurry, I remove them  from their silver repository and curl one gently into each ear. Red one for Right and blue one for, well….left—should I accidentally drop them, as sometimes happens.

They are sturdy - the other day I entered a thermal bath wearing them and re-emerged with them faithfully lodged in my ears. No sweat. 

They're my little helpers who occupy small spaces and enhance life, stimulate the brain and fend off cognitive decline. 

 Or so they say. 

 I hear therefore (I think) I am cognizant.

A PS lexicon of the outer ear:  a lesson in anatomy, as well as in Latin and Greek. 

It would need a clever mnemonic device to memorize this.....

 Concha: The fossa bounded by the tragus, incisura, antitragus, antihelix, inferior crus of the antihelix, and root of the helix, into which opens the external auditory canal. It is usually bisected by the crus helix into the cymba superiorly and cavum inferiorly. 

Now I begin wondering  if part of my ear is bisected by the crus helix......um....does it matter? 

 Now about that ADHD….....

The Seven Ages of Wrinkled

  

It's been more than a year since the Hibiscus blog, so I thought it was about time to weigh in.

Fortunately my blogspot didn't disappear, but it did decide to switch to html mode.  I was confronted by a foreign language--Code Gibberish. When I panicked, a clever friend suggested I google the problem and lo! with a couple of easy manoeuvres all the posts reappeared in unscathed English.

Today, while waiting for my Peugeot to have a couple of old parts replaced at the garage, I thought of autumn outside, and then about time passing, and then with time passing the inexorable fact of ageing. 

Armed with a blank Note on my iphone and a single finger I tapped out

 

                        The Seven Ages of Wrinkled*

 

Baby Wrinkled: occasionally at birth, but inconsequential, and doesn't last. 

Otherwise: plump folds of flesh, usually concealed in gender-designated disposable diapers and cutesy clothes. 

 

Adolescent Wrinkled: Acne City. In fact this is not about wrinkles, it’s about volcanic eruptions ruining your life, self-image compromised. Desire for invisibility often defines this stage. 

 

Early Wrinkled: which, let’s face it, is not wrinkled: simply a gentle fold of thirty-something years, gathering before the onslaught. Here we are talking enhancement rather than pulling, stretching and ironing out wrinkles. It's the age of early corrections: lips plumped, cheeks enhanced, nose bobbed and whatever other obsession ruins your daily meditation.

 

Early Middle-Wrinkled concerns those in the vicinity of 50 years. Promises of wrinkles to come along with a not-so-subtle shift of hormones. You stop smoking, you make health pledges. Some friends have already embarked on the long, repetitive path of surgical and chemical improvement. 

 

Middle Wrinkled (when 65 is the new fifty): seriously considering having work done but not doing anything besides applying outrageously priced cream made from someone's placenta. Plus royal jelly, collagen, hyaluronic acid, retinol, forgotten herbal extracts, et j'en passe.

Asking oneself is it too late to lift?  Is one too lazy to do Botox? Too afraid to inject foreign uplifting substances?

 

Late Middle-Wrinkled (when 78 is the new 77): every wrinkle now has a home: the neck, the cheeks, the forehead, the vertical grooves on sides of mouth.... and one's eyes are sinking back into turtled eyelids-- such indignities! 

And one doesn't immediately recognize the person staring back at you from the morning mirror. 

 

Who? Oh yeah….

 

Late Wrinkled: OK, we're not there yet, so won't try documenting it. 

 

But truth be told I’ll be grateful to get there. 

 

I say fuck the wrinkles!

 

 

 

                  * with apologies to my Shakespeare friends

 

 

LIFE WITH OR WITHOUT HIBISCUS

 

 Harry Hibiscus

It wasn’t that my garden was bare. There were of course the sun-dried grasses and weeds struggling in various phases of growth and death on the ‘lawn’. But in addition there were rudbeckia (known as black-eyed Susans), some survivor sunflowers and some revenant Sweet William. Varieties of aster were leafy but not yet in flower. 

 

Every year I’ve vowed to purchase a hibiscus and plant it lovingly by the hedge, watching it survive hot summers and thrive, just like ones along paths in the south of France – indomitable survivors. And every year, hauling bags of rich ‘or noir’ from the garden center I vowed that next visit would include this plant that seemed to grow everywhere but in my garden. I forgot each time, sidetracked by Canary Island date palms (with untrimmed dried fronds), tempting baby olive trees. I’d buy another hydrangea.

 

This year was different – I brought home a reddish-leaved plant that looked resistant to parching sun, flood or neglect in hard soil. My type of guy.

 

The summer was criminally hot, and his reddish leaves drooped if he was not watered. Sensitive and temperamental he went from bright enthusiastic outreach on cool, watered days to threatening us with his imminent demise on most days. 

 

This guy was not a survivor of Provençal sun, a casual splash of color living out thirty years by an old fence. He was a sensitive soul, grown in some greenhouse in the Département de l’Ain.  Had I not done my homework and read his small print? No, I hadn’t, just as I hadn’t read the small print when I brought my babies home from the hospital. I would wing it as mothers do, realizing that offspring never follow the expected monthly patterns in development laid out in popular books. I would follow instinct.

 

Instinct told me to use organic fertilizer and water him twice daily. He appeared to enjoy this, and his red leaves blushed and thrived.

 

Then one day a flamboyant pink flower emerged. Triumph! Beauty!

 

By the next day it was a memory, collapsed like a dead butterfly on a stem. One iphone photo was the only proof I had of this flash fecundity.

 

*****

For late August vacation I’ve had to give him in garden custody to a gentle but baffled Colombian, who believes that house-cleaning is vastly preferable to working the soil. 

 

I’d like to think that Harry will be cherished, fed and watered by his temporary custodian, his brilliant flowers heralded by passers-by. 

 

 

 

HEAT WAVE August 13th 2022

The soft warmth of the day tides over my sweaty neck,

time is leased for now to a brief tableau,

a masquerade.

Slow as honey that stutters

and stops at the rim of a glass jar

I sleep an instant at peak heat,

my cucumber eyes so cool, so closed