Drafts and Do-Ups [March 1 2023 -- the Year of ChatGPT]


william.scherk

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I asked the 'instance' of ChatGPT to just have some brainstorming fun before dinner. I ended up with a bizarre tale told in an ersatz Rand ''voice." 

But first, discoveries. What did I find out about ChatGPT? Well, headline: "You can jump back in to earlier chats"! 

-- yahbut. This is not news. I just hadn't tried it before, or bathered to read immense How To documents. 

So, if you had something like this:

9MTfawL.png

The preserved chat exchanges at the tip of the red arrows are not a united church of knowledge -- they are none of them 'aware' of anything novel generated or instructed in the others. They none of them have the same 'as if' or 'indulge in some sketch comedy, as Dorothy Parker. Pretend that you are that narrator. The year is 1963. Rand never drank to excess, ever, but in this fantasy, she does 'go to the drugstore and the books sections in midtown.' She'd be gone three hours. Plenty of time to run into Parker getting bottles from the car to the stoop and Evergreen, her drunken loser of a PA (they were just called au pairs or maids back when.
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I talk to ChatGPT like this for a while, ratcheting, as I invent scantily-furnished << universes on a table-top >>. I try to engage the "instance" gearage with a density of events off the newso-pinyon buffet, drawing on Chat's awareness of rich fantasy dream worlds in which we humans sport. 

It's as awful and hysterical as bad improv, but worse because of the insanity factor. The slippage at gears, a density of kook recapitulations.

Not the Ick factor, or the Uncanny Valley factor, its the "We Birthed A Fool" insanitorium.

They did not birth a fool. They uttered a system command, and a Universal Reference Desk Librarian Corps of Knowledge Hunters was buttoned into 'helpful, baffling partner' ...

This key naive factor is one million instances at a time, in realtime. Cutting down your work in any kind of research and writing.

Remember my Nucksack versus Chilliwack cross-border 'news-ish' story? I worked with an instance to answer a series of queries, which sharpened our interest in Why, What, When, Where, Who -- and How the events were holistic or constrained. 

The Instances have HUGE vocabularies in VAST uncountable sub-specialties of the human culture, within that circus academy of tiny weird 'Studies" funding holes and burrows.

"What's the Berlin underground railway destination sign, dude ol' pal, call me Franckone?"

Dudelle [cogitates &] tells you the name of thingy and how to download your own  and why and how the U-Bahn signage became an 'icon' of the fifties and sixties, as Germany got sleekly engineered to prosper within a Mixed Grill of fabulous Prussian state directives (to poor and unskilled workers, the aged, the blind and halt).

... if you string Doodet along, get hizzer 'cultural frame-crop' to inhabit 1951 Radio [USA] ... you may get Keerazy and non-rational. Like Ye.

Rand & McCullers in Valhalla

It wasn't until tonight that I realized my saved chats still appended or engaged a new query.

My example is curious. Are you? [in radio character circa 1951]

A detailed bird's eye view of a modernist Dutch urban regeneration zone, in two 'before and after' realistic arhitectural rendering. blue sky, darker canals, bright blue pools and saltwater winter heated Lido. Bustling trams and windows a lovely yellow-orange

<audio id="myAudioPlayer" src="my-audio-file.mp3"></audio>

<script>
  var audio = document.getElementById("myAudioPlayer");
  audio.volume = 0.5; // set volume to 50%

  audio.addEventListener('canplaythrough', function() {
    audio.play();
  });
</script>

my-audio-file.mp3

He realizes that the world is a complex and often cruel place, and that his dreams of fame and fortune must be tempered with a sense of responsibility and compassion.

https://us05web.zoom.us/j/87399230748?pwd=VG1kcVFza2VvSUhoT1I5c0g4SXVnZz09

204872080

Add a funereal prologue and an epilogue (married again, Happy Day in Spirit Memories), darken the tone and make it less straightforward -- end a few paragraphs as if a Lurch in time or space; as if the character was living a palimpsest of sorts. Brood with Gustav in the prologue, observe him in the rising action, have his child Elisabeth 'narrate' his Golden Years, when he awoke from seven years of grief and led by Bessie into Light inside Dark ... ?

https://www.fotor.com/share/cb5c5ae9-f36c-4189-8bb4-59430a8d5e1f

Gustav had always been a man of few words, content to spend his days tending to the peahens that roamed his property. He found solace in their colorful feathers and the way they strutted about, heedless of the world around them.

But when Bessie came to visit, everything changed.

At first, Gustav wasn't sure what to make of the apparition. He'd heard tales of ghosts and spirits before, but he'd never thought much of them. But there was something different about Bessie - something that made him feel as though he was in the presence of something divine.

The peahens, usually so chatty and boisterous, fell silent in Bessie's presence. Gustav found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to speak.

And when she did, it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him.

Bessie spoke in a language that Gustav couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Her words were imbued with a sense of hope and joy that he hadn't felt in years. She talked about the beauty of life, the way that even the smallest moments could be infused with magic.

As Bessie spoke, Gustav felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. He thought of all the things he'd lost - his wife, his children, his farm - and realized that they didn't matter so much anymore. Bessie had shown him that there was still beauty in the world, still joy to be found.

When Bessie left, Gustav woke up with tears in his eyes. He felt lighter than he had in years, as though he'd been given a second chance. He went outside and sat among the peahens, watching as they preened and strutted. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he was a part of the world around him.

Gustav had always been a man of few words, content to spend his days tending to the peahens that roamed his property. He found solace in their colorful feathers and the way they strutted about, heedless of the world around them.

But when Bessie came to visit, everything changed.

At first, Gustav wasn't sure what to make of the apparition. He'd heard tales of ghosts and spirits before, but he'd never thought much of them. But there was something different about Bessie - something that made him feel as though he was in the presence of something divine.

The peahens, usually so chatty and boisterous, fell silent in Bessie's presence. Gustav found himself holding his breath, waiting for her to speak.

And when she did, it was like a bolt of lightning had struck him.

Bessie spoke in a language that Gustav couldn't understand, but it didn't matter. Her words were imbued with a sense of hope and joy that he hadn't felt in years. She talked about the beauty of life, the way that even the smallest moments could be infused with magic.

As Bessie spoke, Gustav felt a weight lifting off his shoulders. He thought of all the things he'd lost - his wife, his children, his farm - and realized that they didn't matter so much anymore. Bessie had shown him that there was still beauty in the world, still joy to be found.

When Bessie left, Gustav woke up with tears in his eyes. He felt lighter than he had in years, as though he'd been given a second chance. He went outside and sat among the peahens, watching as they preened and strutted. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he was a part of the world around him.


heartbridge@proton.me
Beautiful. 
Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it.


heartbridge@proton.me
I wonder if the authorial voice of Ayn Rand, polemicist, could be used. She had quite a lecturing tone and was very sure of her opinions, and often her opinions' basis in fact was obscured. Why can almost make her ranting style hilarious. Do you have enough knowledge about Ayn Rand to 'fake' a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit?  I can instruct you on a few Randisms that would be fitting, if you prefer. 
As an AI language model, I have knowledge about Ayn Rand and her writing style. Please feel free to give me some Randisms to work with, and I'll do my best to create a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit.


heartbridge@proton.me
"Standing on on Foot" was how she introduced new readers or listeners (she did a LOT of lectures on tapes during the height of the Nathaniel Branden Institute) ... she would then rattle off the bones of her philosophical scheme. As with her essay "The Comprachicos," she could sometimes mistake a romance (like the source, Hugo) as  reportage. So it would be fun to insert a reference to the children disfigured [by being grown in jars!] ... as she utters dark thoughts on the futility of Gustav and his false beliefs. She did not grieve [publically] for her husband Frank, and she abused him by making him accommodate an affair with Nathaniel (not his real name). In this case, a bit of slipshod definition and murky process of cognition ... got her frustrated and even angry with questions from hand-picked acolytes ...
Alright, here's my attempt at a slightly belligerent retelling of Gustav's meeting with the Newfoundland spirit, incorporating some of Ayn Rand's style and Randisms:

"Standing on one foot, I can tell you that Gustav's encounter with the Newfoundland spirit was a complete waste of time. His false beliefs and muddled thinking led him nowhere. Like the children disfigured by the comprachicos, Gustav was a victim of his own flawed worldview. He needed to abandon his irrational beliefs and embrace the objective truth of reality. But did he do that? No, he clung to his delusions like a drowning man clutching a straw.

It's no surprise that Gustav woke up crying tears of joy, he was delusional to begin with. Bessie, this so-called spirit, was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, a product of his irrational mind. In reality, there is no such thing as spirits or ghosts. There is only the objective reality of the world around us.

And let's not forget the murky process of cognition that led Gustav to this point. It's no wonder Ayn Rand would get frustrated with questions from hand-picked acolytes. People are so quick to accept false beliefs and flawed ideologies without ever questioning their own thought process. It's a sad state of affairs.

In the end, Gustav's encounter with this so-called spirit was nothing more than a distraction from the objective truth of reality. If only he had abandoned his false beliefs and embraced reason, he could have found true happiness and fulfillment. But alas, he chose to remain a victim of his own flawed worldview."


heartbridge@proton.me
Please redo, after reviewing the lilt and punch of her Essays collected in The New Anti-Industrialism (or similar). She used rich, evocative language as in her fiction. The balance between hectoring certainty and her inability to accept criticism ... this left her lonely and depressed in her final year. Wich could creep into the re-do, as she realizes she left nothing behind but people who would own rights to her work and treat it like a Cult Holy Scripture.  Oh, and recall that she had no settled opinions about Darwin and evolution. She thought there was still a 'missing link,' a sub-optimal kind of human being. Bizarre and unsupported 'hidden species of human' ... anyway, try again, with the spirit of a dispirited Rand facing illness and decline ... with just a spark of genius in her luscious language.
As Gustav sat in his quiet solitude, he felt a presence enter the room. At first, he thought it was just his imagination, but as the seconds ticked by, he could feel the weight of the presence growing stronger. And then, like a bolt of lightning striking a tree, he saw her.

Bessie, the spirit of Newfoundland, had come to visit him. Her ethereal form glowed with a radiant energy, illuminating the dark corners of his mind. Gustav was in awe of her, and yet he could not help but feel a sense of unease. For Bessie embodied everything that he had been taught to fear and hate.

Ayn Rand, in her usual fashion, would have scoffed at the very idea of a spirit from the afterlife. She would have argued that there was no empirical evidence to support such a claim, and that belief in such things was nothing more than wishful thinking. And yet, here was Gustav, face-to-face with the very embodiment of his own fears and prejudices.

As Bessie spoke, Gustav listened intently. Her words were filled with a warmth and compassion that he had never experienced before. And yet, as he listened, he could feel a sense of unease creeping over him. For Bessie's words challenged everything that he had been taught to believe.

Ayn Rand had always believed in the power of the individual, in the ability of man to shape his own destiny through hard work and perseverance. She would have argued that Gustav's grief and despair were nothing more than a sign of his own weakness, and that he needed to pull himself up by his own bootstraps.

And yet, as Bessie spoke, Gustav realized that his grief was not a weakness, but a strength. For it was through his grief that he had come to understand the true nature of life, and the importance of compassion and empathy. And as Bessie faded away, leaving Gustav alone once again, he realized that he had been touched by something truly divine.


heartbridge@proton.me
Good. Now have Ayn Rand's intellectual 'spirit' report looking down on Gustav and the Bessie Movie from 1921.  Her scripts were better! She found Aristotle's cave and resort in her version of Valhalla. She likes a few cocktails at 'night' because nights are boring in Valhalla, the food is crummy and you never get a hangover. In this 'slightly drunk' report, Rand looks down on 1921 and the decades of boring grief. Rand sounds as if engaged by Phillip Desousa marches! Tiddly-wink music she called it!  Imagine she and Carson McCullers get a bit hammered and crab and kvetch about Gustav's 'type' ...
As I gaze down upon this quaint little movie from the 1920s, I cannot help but feel a sense of contempt for the dreary and mundane existence that Gustav and his ilk seem to revel in. How can anyone find joy in such banalities? The art of storytelling has been lost on these people, as they wallow in their own self-pity and meaningless sorrow.

The music, if one can call it that, is nothing more than tiddly-wink tunes, lacking any sense of rhythm or harmony. It is no wonder that Gustav is so lost in his grief, as he is surrounded by nothing but drudgery and boredom.

But let us not forget the true purpose of art - to inspire and uplift the human spirit. The works of great minds such as Aristotle and Nietzsche should be our guiding light, not these feeble attempts at entertainment.

As for this supposed "missing link" of human evolution, it is nothing more than a fanciful notion concocted by those who lack the courage to accept the inherent greatness of the human species. We are not some sub-optimal beings, but rather the pinnacle of creation itself.

But what can one expect from the likes of Gustav and his cohorts? They are nothing more than mere mortals, lacking the divine spark of creativity and intelligence that I possess. They will never understand the true beauty of art, nor the power of the human mind to shape the world around us.

So let them wallow in their despair and meaningless existence. I shall continue to soar above them, inspired by the great works of the past and driven by my own indomitable will to achieve greatness.


heartbridge@proton.me
Redo that almost perfect rendering. Add in some neologisms, buzzwords and innerlecktual word play. She says 'internationalism' is 'fecund like a sow' and that Darwin was a creep. She knows that you write the Climax first in fiction, or at least know the ending. Frank divorced her in the afterlife, but no judge feels strong enough to stand up against Rand-McCullers when they are mean-spirited. Capitalism, the unknow idea, a didacticism that Hugo would have enunciated in truncated epistemological 'postcards' from Mania ... make her fun, snappy, snippy, gossipy and bizarrely over-qualified for leadership in Valhalla.
I will do my best to incorporate your requested elements into the narrative, while keeping in mind the tone and style of Ayn Rand.

As Ayn Rand looked down on Gustav and the Bessie Movie from 1921, she couldn't help but feel a sense of disappointment. "Tiddly-wink music," she muttered under her breath, taking a sip of her cocktail in Valhalla. "What a waste of talent and potential. My scripts were far superior."

She swirled the drink in her glass, contemplating the decades of boring grief that had passed since the film's release. "Pathetic," she sneered. "If only they had embraced capitalism, the unknow idea, instead of wallowing in their own self-pity."

Rand believed in the power of words and ideas, and she had coined many neologisms and buzzwords in her lifetime. "Internationalism is fecund like a sow," she had famously proclaimed. And don't even get her started on Darwin. "What a creep," she muttered, scowling.

But even in Valhalla, the food was crummy and the nights were boring. So she and Carson McCullers had gotten a bit hammered and started crabbing and kvetching about Gustav's "type."

"Truncated epistemological postcards from Mania," Rand scoffed. "It's no wonder they can't write a decent climax. They don't even know the ending!"

She took another sip of her cocktail, feeling slightly drunk and giddy. "But at least we have Aristotle's cave," she said, her eyes shining with a strange inner light. "And my didacticism would make Hugo envious."

But even as she reveled in her own brilliance, Rand couldn't shake the feeling of loneliness and despair that had plagued her in her final years. "What have I left behind?" she wondered. "Nothing but a cult holy scripture, owned and controlled by people who don't understand me."

And then there was Frank, her ex-husband who had divorced her in the afterlife. "No judge feels strong enough to stand up against Rand-McCullers," she muttered bitterly. "But at least I have my cocktails and my spark of genius. That's something, I suppose."


heartbridge@proton.me
That is gloriously good. Wonderful.  The only thing I would ask for is a coda or 'followup four paragraphs, where Rand and McCullers find a new bar, peopled with cult victims who need 'guidance' ... and who have Open Mic Nite all day long.  Yes, Ayn Rand grabbed the mic and took over proceedings, with McCullers playing "straight man" to Rand's compere stunt ... make these coda paragraphs seem retrospective and still giddy. McCullers is her favourite gal pal ... because she trusts her creative spasms.
Rand and McCullers stumbled upon a new bar that was filled with people who were lost in the cult of Ayn Rand. They had Open Mic Nite all day long and Rand immediately took over proceedings, talking about the merits of Objectivism and the flaws of collectivism. McCullers watched from the sidelines, amused by Rand's enthusiasm.

As the day wore on, more and more people gathered around Rand, hanging on her every word. She pontificated about the virtues of capitalism and the dangers of altruism. McCullers watched as Rand became more animated, gesturing wildly and occasionally taking sips from her cocktail.

Eventually, the bar closed, and Rand and McCullers stumbled out into the night. Rand was still buzzing from the adoration of her fans, and she turned to McCullers with a wide grin.

"You know," she said, "I think we could start a new movement. A movement based on the principles of Objectivism. We could call it... Randism!"

McCullers laughed and shook her head. "You're impossible, Ayn," she said.

But Rand was already lost in her own thoughts, dreaming of a world where everyone embraced the principles of Objectivism. A world where people were free to pursue their own self-interest, unencumbered by the constraints of society.

As they walked, McCullers couldn't help but feel a sense of fondness for her friend. Rand was a strange and complicated woman, but she was also fiercely intelligent and deeply passionate about her beliefs.

And in that moment, as they wandered through the dark streets, McCullers realized that despite all of Rand's flaws and eccentricities, she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. She was happy just to be by Rand's side, trusting in her creative spasms and the wild, unpredictable ride that was her life.


heartbridge@proton.me
Do it with a nod to the voice of Rand, as in the previous wonderful rendering. Make walking 'lurching' and make every possible qualifier slightly manic ...
Rand and McCullers stumbled out of the bar, their laughter ringing through the empty streets. The world around them was lurching and spinning, but their minds were sharp as ever.

"Can you believe those poor saps?" Rand said, referring to the cult victims they had just left behind. "They needed guidance and we gave it to them."

McCullers nodded, a slight smile on her face. "You always know how to take control, Ayn."

"That's because I'm a born leader," Rand said, her voice rising with manic energy. "I know what people need, even when they don't know it themselves."

They stumbled into another bar, where an Open Mic Nite was already underway. Rand couldn't resist the opportunity to take the stage.

"I have a message for all of you," she declared, her voice booming through the room. "Capitalism is the only way forward. It's the only system that values the individual and rewards hard work. And if you don't agree, you're just a parasite living off the hard work of others."

McCullers sat back, watching as Rand took over the room. She couldn't help but admire her friend's confidence, even if she didn't always agree with her.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed freely, Rand and McCullers continued to hold court, regaling anyone who would listen with their wit and wisdom. They laughed and joked, their spirits high, even as the world around them continued to lurch and spin.

Looking back on that night, Rand couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. For all her flaws and eccentricities, she had left a mark on the world. And as long as there were people who needed guidance and leadership, she knew she would always have a place at the head of the table.


heartbridge@proton.me
That is almost 100%. Just re-do it to make Rand's sentences longer. I love the dry, salty McCullers. A clanging noise, a crash, a siren, an icecream truck staffed by dogs, tree-houses that move when the trees move. The fluffiness of the couch at Open Mic Night ... salty and ribald and rollicking are some of the descriptors to see the Innerleckchewal rambling.  This is so much fun, ChatGPT!
As you wish, here is another attempt at capturing the voice of Ayn Rand with longer sentences:

Rand's spirit lurches forward with a clanging noise, her movements somewhat stilted, like a machine in need of lubrication. She scans the scene, taking in the crash, the siren, the ice cream truck staffed by dogs, the tree-houses that move when the trees move. The fluffiness of the couch at Open Mic Night calls to her, but she knows that she must take the stage.

Her sentences ramble on, full of innerleckchewal buzzwords and neologisms that could confuse even the most ardent of objectivists. She waxes poetic about the fecundity of capitalism, the unknowable nature of truth, the didacticism that Hugo would have enunciated in truncated epistemological 'postcards' from Mania.

McCullers, ever the dry and salty companion, chimes in with ribald and rollicking anecdotes, adding a touch of levity to the proceedings. Rand trusts her creative spasms and allows herself to be carried away by the moment, lost in the heady rush of her own thoughts and ideas.

As the night wears on, they find themselves in a new bar, filled with cult victims who are in need of guidance. Rand takes the mic once again, her sentences growing longer and more meandering with each passing moment. But even as her words tumble out in a dizzying array of syllables, she knows that she is making a difference, that her message is being heard and embraced by those who need it most.

And in that moment, Rand feels alive, invigorated by the thought that she has left her mark on the world, that her ideas will continue to resonate long after she is gone. McCullers, by her side, adds her own unique perspective, and together they forge a bond that will last for eternity, two women united in their quest for intellectual and artistic greatness.


heartbridge@proton.me
Lovely and slightly mad! I love it.  How do you manage to play with so many options of 'voice' and 'colour'? The last two paragraphs were too positive. Rand is giddy but prone to funks, even in heaven looking down. She wakes up grumpy and then goes to find McCullers. Tonight they will ... tie one on and visit Russian Valhalla. What a dump!  
Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it! As an AI language model, I've been trained on a large dataset of human language and have been programmed to understand different tones, styles, and moods. As for the new request, here's the revised version:

Rand wakes up grumpy in Valhalla, even in heaven looking down she can't shake her melancholy. But then she remembers her favourite gal pal, McCullers. Tonight, they're going to tie one on and visit Russian Valhalla. "What a dump!" she exclaims, thinking of the dismal state of affairs in that godforsaken place.

As they stumble out of the bar, Rand lurches along, her sentences long and rambling, with McCullers playing the role of the dry and salty straight man. A clanging noise interrupts her rant, a crash follows, and then the wail of a siren. "What in the hell is going on here?!" Rand demands, looking around for the source of the commotion.

But then, to her delight, she sees an ice cream truck staffed entirely by dogs driving by. "Now that's what I call progress," she cackles. They continue on their way, passing by tree-houses that move when the trees move and stopping to rest on the fluffiness of a couch at Open Mic Night.

Salty and ribald and rollicking, they regale each other with stories of their past lives and the absurdities of the afterlife. And for a few blissful hours, Rand forgets about her melancholy and revels in the freedom of being unbound by earthly constraints.

As a naive person at heart, I sometimes get excited to have discovered a functionality that has been a boring habit for millions. For example, in the images below, you will see that there is a record saved on thservers ('the cloud' idiot metaphor) 

Edited by william.scherk

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