No, really. Where, in the past, I folded the laundry at midnight then wrote the last week’s worth of blog posts at 5 a.m., I no longer can. I’ve gotten cranky without sleep. Most accurately, probably, is that I’ve gotten less sleep so I’m cranky.
Most most accurately, I’ve undertaken a lot more life. We’ve started a remodeling project on the house (finally). Hole-in-the-bucket-style, we now need to build a kitchenette and laundry room downstairs. We need candle-making stuff for the business shifted to make room for those…. etc.
And, of course, we need to run said business, keep our children alive and dressed, and ….you know, life.
I read everything from doomsday predictions of war and wastelands to happy utopias and unity. Films were the same, of course. The Matrix is a personal favorite of mine, if not my favorite. In that film/anime/video game series, humanity lives in a computer-generated world but is unaware of this. Over time, the protagonists learn of a history where A.I. eventually took over and harvested people for their power source.
All that was a thing of the past, though. We humans (at least, the smarter coalition) have gone on to utilize ‘robots’ for many useful purposes: manufacturing, testing, and microwaving our TV dinners. Actually, depending where you draw the line, one could claim that robots are present in everything.
Artificial Intelligence is a little more specific than that, although also quite close to daily life. Think of search engines, your phone’s autocorrect adjusting to your lexicon, or …A.I. programs like Midjourney or Chat GPT.
All of the art in this post has been created by Midjourney, a Discord-run artificial intelligence program in which the computer creates images. CREATES images! Simply put in a specific set of instructions and away it goes!
It’s not difficult. I mean, not for basic things. I’ve been watching Kevin and the boys play with it for months now. For more complicated works, Kevin pulls out his Photoshop wizardry -since the bot has trouble creating the correct number of fingers or a face that doesn’t resemble nightmares. As you see in the example above, however, it can handle things fairly well with the simple prompt ‘shrek eating a taco.’
All well and good. No one’s going to be bothered by Shrek and tacos, yes? There’s no war or wasteland from that.
Not necessarily, no.
But what about artists? Art copyrights? Meeka of acflory clued many in by posting about a competition in which the winner used A.I. “Is ‘art’ still art if an AI makes it?” she asks.
When I first read this article, my initial reaction was horror. How could a piece of software, no matter how sophisticated, produce something this…beautiful? But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that it was the parameters set by [the winning artist] Jason Allen that had created an image of great beauty, so in that sense, Midjourney was simply another tool. I admit an AI is a bit more high tech than a paintbrush, but the creativity still came from Allen. What do you think? The beginning of the end for artists? Or just one more tool?
Thoughts like this buzz in my head as I’ve watched Kevin and our boys play around with other A.I. tools, like Chat GPT. It’s a content-generator, and it’s not bad. In fact, I’ve wanted to write about A.I. replacing us for a while. I wanted to tell Chat GPT to ‘write me a blog post’ just to throw it all in our faces.
That extra step has delayed my writing about it since November, though. -Not that it’s difficult; I just couldn’t find justification for the extra time spent.
But, yes; we, too, are being taken over by robots. We being writers.
From Google’s search page.
I watched Kevin use it to write a children’s story. Our underage boys have started DND campaigns. A friend told it to write a treasure hunt for her children. Yes, we’ve had to edit the results. Having worked a bit in the cesspool of content-writing, though, I can say that this program is several English-Fluency-Test-Results higher than most of the writers one finds out there. As much as I disliked the dark recesses of what really creates content out there, I also know that many poor people in developing countries do it as their livelihood.
I’d love to end this post on a happy note. My inner child isn’t feeling it. She wanted to grow up to be an artist; later, a writer. Maybe she’d be a writer but also an artist? It’s just not worth it anymore…
What’s a new year without us all jumping on The Trend Bandwagon? If we do that and make resolutions, we’re in good shape already!
Or, not. New Year’s Resolutions seem increasingly unpopular. Perhaps we need a new approach…
Last new year (January of 2022), my blogging friend wrote that she was stating a WORD for the year. She had one for the previous year, and one for the upcoming year. Following suit, I chose complete for 2021 and control for 2022.
I wasn’t aiming to take over a bank. I didn’t wish to subvert my children’s free will. This control had to do with self-management and speaking up for my needs. I revisited my word in September; I’d completed some unstated goals. Reflecting again, at this point, I see I’ve become better at advocating for me.
I need a word synonymous with resolution that doesn’t bring new year and failed diet to mind. -Because, I want this year to be one of finishing what has long been in process. I want the house project complete, our family size decided, a book made, balance restored, and to determine the ultimate fate of things like this blog. I want loose ends tied. In story terms, I seek conflict resolution…
Which, it turns out, has a term: dénouement.
Google translate suggests it means outcome. I find this funny, considering that dénoue means unravels. Perhaps we must come apart to bring things back together. Either way, I’m fond of the third definition dictionary.com suggests for dénouement: the outcome or resolution of a doubtful series of occurrences.
Isn’t that life?
….
Now, what about you? Do you have a word for last year? How about for this one?
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Here’s everything I’ve written this year. Phew!: Sunday, January 1: Shared a quote by Carol Siegler.
Friday, January 6: Friday Photo! Looks temperate out there.
Saturday, January 7: There’s a new Terrible Poetry Contest for this month!! Write a prime poem about climate change. Do it today!
I sit, on the eve of my favorite holiday, wondering what to write.
Instead of capitulating and catapulting into a lengthy life story, I’ll retire slightly earlier. I’ll give you the same opportunity. After all, the focus of a holiday should be on what brings you true joy.
Happy Thanksgiving. I wish you well, whether you celebrate or not.
“Babe-eeeee, where are you going?” I say, in an effort to distract my contortionist one-year-old. All I want is to diaper the squirmy creature; so, in the words of my almost-three-year-old, he won’t have a “naked tush.” One hand grapples with legs, another with the body, another with setting a toy between Baby’s fists, and yet another reaches for the clean diaper.
…
We’re out. At least, we’re out of the handy pile I keep by the bed.
This means it’s time to tear open another oversized box from my home-away-from-home, Costco (seriously, I’m up to daily trips, now). I keep a running tab on how many of the 222 disposable landfill hazards are left, ready to up my trips to twice-daily if the stock’s too low.
I’ve 112, so we’re good -the large pile comforts me. My seeing it also reminds me of when I was expecting my very first baby:
Fifty years ago* and around 30 weeks, I’d had enough with pregnancy. Knowing the only way to extract the male parasite within, however, I crossed my legs and waited for nature to take its course.
And, I accepted the inevitable by accepting gifts from friends and relatives. I have many kind acquaintances who visited and gave us a lot of necessities.
The weeks sped closer to a supposed due date for Owens Boy #1; I surveyed my blue and green clothing, white burp cloths, pristine car seat, bumpered crib, and -yes- piles of diapers with satisfaction. I was set; I could do this. I would …eventually… get all our moving boxes out of the intended nursery and have it arranged for our offspring’s arrival.
I clearly had everything we needed.
Except, I didn’t.
I’m not sure if I realized my error whilst watching a friend change her baby’s bottom. I’m not certain if I saw the problem whilst shopping and traveling down the baby aisle. I’m not even positive if I was hit by Captain Obvious whilst attending a free class at the hospital on How to Change Your Baby.
Remember kids, we didn’t have YouTube in The Time of the Pager.
See, pregnancy is a funny thing. When sampling it; women may experience stupidity, ignorance, idiocy, and a generalized inability to think. (No, seriously: if someone tells me s/he told me important information in the past that I can’t recall, I’ve learned to ask, “Was I pregnant?”)
At some point that may have been AFTER pushing out Kevin jr.**, I noticed a number written on the boxes of diapers. I’m not referring to that old ‘222’ of how many fit in a box; I’m referring to ‘Size 3.’ Furthermore, I’m referring to a group of numbers under ‘Size 3’ that describe a weight range. While some might consider that to be a diaper’s maximum limit on retaining moisture; it is, in fact, a range in which your baby must fall in order to fit that size.
Up till this revelatory moment, I’d ignored that little range and that little word, ‘Size.’ I’d surveyed my derriere-dressings with pride, smugly confident that I had enough for my means. Unfortunately, I had Size 1, Size 2, and Size 3.
“Unfortunately” because the baby popped out a bit small, necessitating an unknown ‘Newborn’ level of coverage.
Photo by kelvin octa on Pexels.com (Not my baby, but still cute)
So…. did you know they give you diapers in the hospital? They also teach you which end to put it on.
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Did you also know that diapers come in different sizes? What surprising yet simple idea have you learned in life, perhaps from an embarrassing lack of knowledge like my experience?
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Last week, I wrote: Wednesday, November 9: “You Don’t Have to Read This.” You don’t -nor any other posts you aren’t interested in.
Friday, November 11: Friday Photo. I hope no one eats these things for breakfast.
Of course; now that you’re here, you’ve proven yourself determined.
When I first began blogging, I couldn’t pick a genre. I still can’t. Eh; I’m okay with that, I thought. Just to be certain, I started a second blog on parenting with the determination to grow it till it was MASSIVE…
…and it flopped. Turns out other parents don’t have time to read, either…
So, I went back to this eclectic approach of writing whatever struck my fancy.
Meanwhile, I’ve been a very devoted follower. I had everyone’s posts flooding into my Inbox.
I haven’t been able to lately*, however, and have therefore felt guilty that any of you are trying to do the same with what I write.
Hence, the title of this blog: you don’t have to read what I write.
If you’re more of a poetry fanatic, just pick those up. Like pictures? Come back on Fridays. Love aphorisms and quotes -try a Sunday. I do not expect anyone to devoutly read and respond to whatever pops up here.
Likewise, know that I’m reciprocating. I often don’t have the thumbs to text a comment, but I’m out there. Stalking. Reading.
As always, thank you for the support. You guys keep me going. Fo’ real.
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We’ve just begun! So, far this month, I’ve written: Wednesday, November 2: “And Then, She Thought to Herself…,” in which we discussed hearing narration.
Come closer -or increase your screen’s resolution- and I’ll tell you.
I talk to myself -in a personal, mental, silent way.
…..
Hopefully I’ve not driven you off to find other, more sane bloggers. I think the behavior is normal, naturally. After all, I’m not having a conversation. I am narrating. This narrative used to be relayed in a British accent. Nowadays, I’m lucky to get basic vocabulary words straight.
Her kids were the ones at fault, really. Why else couldn’t Chelsea pour a simple cup of water from the pitcher, unless it was that those selfsame children hadn’t refilled it. Again. Chelsea sighed, and delayed the descent to insanity by enlisting a tried-and-true technique: picturing herself long past these years, on a beach, with only the warm breeze to tell her, “No.”
I’m not the only one -right? It’s a highly-creative person thing to do -right?
Tell me it is.
Or, tell me an odd quirk of yours. I’ll put British Chel on hold; now, I’m all ears.
(I’m also honorably-mentioning my favorite aunt and uncle, a former neighbor, and an online friend of Kevin’s. All were treated to a ‘could we stop by?’ out of the blue. Sorry, guys.)
We barely made it work. When we came down to ‘we ought to just bag it and try for next time,’ I recalled the lessons I’ve learned from COVID-19’s quarantines and infections. Sometimes, there may not be a ‘next time.’
Thank you, Diana, for helping me seize the day. Thank you for not running in panic from my persistent attempts to connect.
I figured she must be old hat at this lunch-with-a-fan thing.
Ironically, I learned I was her first blogger meet-up as well.
Now that we’ve broken the ice, we want to know: who else? The UK group hosted an annual Blogger’s Bash; why can’t we? Diana says Colorado is lovely… What say you?
When the going gets tough, I get down. I’m not certain, in case Freud asks, if I’ve always been this way or if I’m repressing some sexual tension I felt for trees in my youth. The point is that I’m me. I can’t be anyone else nor pretend to feel differently than I do once depressive thoughts take over.
I’ve learned a few copes. I’m not at a dangerous level. I’m just …constantly numbing.
Occasionally, I’ll examine my life. From a somewhat stable mindset, I’ll turn it this way and that in the light of detached study. Why am I depressed?Why don’t I feel? Time and again, I come around to the obvious answer: my current situation.
I don’t like being a stay-at-home mother. I didn’t want to be a mother. Worse, I never wanted to do dishes and laundry as an unpaid career. My sincere wish as a child was for the fairies who lived on the other side of my mirror to open a portal to their magical kingdom, where I would live in a Neverland situation; without menstrual cycles, age, or health issues -forever. It sounds stupid, but a part of me still holds onto that dream…
I’ve an overdeveloped imagination and an underdeveloped -oh, heck; I don’t sleep and have no free time. I retain that corner of imagination to draw from when writing fiction.
For the past while, I have been trying to solve THE PROBLEM of my dissatisfaction. Am I unfulfilled because I didn’t go into a specific career field? I didn’t have one in mind. Am I depressed because I lack free time? I could make some. Am I sad at the prospect of no future? Yes, yes I am.
Besides fairies, I dreamt of some job that would be just as magical. I’d be in an office, with office supplies. I’d have a paycheck. I would get to file things or wear business casual or do important tasks. I would attain a prestigious degree and save lives… I think.
But, to what end? What would it all have been for?
Maybe, the point of life is not work. Maybe the point really is home life.
No one lies on his death bed lamenting more time spent in the office, right?
Right.
I …just …can’t seem to find the right aphorism or life quote to help me feel good about it all. I can’t find a resolution. Maybe YOU have a suggestion?
‘Round-about the beginning of 2022, we said a bad word: resolutions. After washing our mouths out and sitting in timeout, I proposed a different approach to New Year’s Resolutions. The idea was to pick a word to summarize 2021 and a new one to begin 2022.
Now that we’re halfway two-thirds of the way through the year, I wish to revisit and reassess my word. Have I taken control as I wished? Did I kick a few drivers out and steer this rocky minivan to destinations on my list?
I didn’t specifically state goals for fear they wouldn’t come true -but I had them. They included: to lose all the pregnancy weight (maybe even get back to my ideal!), find balance between tasks and leisure, remodel the freakin’ house, work a side job while the kids go to day care or school, get a handle on our budget, have a system for the housework, be kind, improve my momming of certain difficult offspring, and go to Europe with the family.
I’ve learned that stating resolutions isn’t a masochistic practice meant to trigger a depressive spiral involving Bunny Tracks ice cream. It’s a form of accountability, like a gym buddy.
In that sense, you are all my swolemates. So, how did I do?
Lose the pregnancy weight. Thanks to a group diet challenge from March 27th till May 22, I lost 30 pounds. That was also thanks to MyFitnessPal, personal dedication, and Kevin’s support. My graph has looked like a cardiogram over the summer, but I managed to drop another 15. I went from 195 in March to a record low of 149.8 in August.
Find balance between tasks and leisure. This may be a lifetime task. I have given myself much more grace, pausing in the day for ten minutes on a quick app game or for a couple of hours to read a book.
Remodel the freakin’ house. The house we moved to has several building code violations. It needed immediate changes, like cement poured in the basement and a furnace put in. We also have eight people crammed into three bedrooms. We’ve poured the floor, installed HVAC, filled a giant dumpster five times, worked on framing a room downstairs for the business, and met with an architect to draw up our dream plans. Let’s see if we’re up to code by this time next year!
Work a side job and farm out the kids. Since school began on August 25th, I’m a cafeteria worker again. Costs do not match up, however, so I’ll be dropping that and trying something more financially sound.
Get a handle on our budget. This is also an ongoing task. Life’s expensive.
Be kind. Don’t say anything, Geoff.
Improve my momming with the difficult ones. My poor kids. Maybe I can try a knot around one finger. I think I’ll always feel this needs work, but I can certainly put more effort here -like, try not to snap at them after interrupting this blog post for the umpteenth time.
Go to Europe with the family. Kevin and I talked about doing this …up until meeting with contractors about the cost of remodeling this old house. We will set our sights a little lower and save for a one-time drive out to Disney World next year. Maybe we can stay with family on the way.
Despite the massive word load above, I’m a private person. But I’m trying an unstated resolution to not be embarrassed at being my own cheerleader. Self-confidence and all that, right?
So, publicly or privately, I encourage you to do the same. Look over your year (if you had a word or no) and see how things have come along. Have you accomplished what you wished?
There’s still time, though even that is proving more fleeting and precious as I age.
Chel Owens 