My Field of Study

Friday, September 11, 2026

Good morning, The Wonder Fell Way. O/

A healthy way to start each day.

Lyrics and rhyme, whose got the time?

Your Friendly Nation-hood Ghost, of course. O/

Original Intelligence, beautiful words to lift your spirits: Someone's gotta feed AI.

So we write, we draw, we paint, and sing.

We do Theoretical Physics too, with the dull repeatable Poetry of Science.

Almost dawn, a slight light in the sky. Why's it always new?

A sometimes theme of these journals: Why is the experience of every sunrise different?

The answer you, me, and Beauty know is more than Geometry says.

So I sit and take poetic records of each sunrise everyday.

"Wynn, are you using the Scientific Method Poetically?"
-Curious Nerd Reader

Someone ought to. Have you seen how dull and drab that department is?

How do we measure Beauty? Inquiring Scientists want to know.

A very important question for humanity, especially now.

Beauty is one of the things AI cannot do.

And my field of study.

So I sit, witness, and record the one reliable source of Beauty we experience everyday: The Sunrise.

And here it is. Quiet, drab, cloudy... a hint of lavender atop the line of The Firs that trace the horizon.

With all the sterilization of language that's happening since the advent of AI, humanity starts to feel a great pull towards what's Beautiful.

Because it's lacking.

Science has been fun and satisfying for centuries.

But now computerized instruments do most of their work better than they can. The joy begins to ebb away.

Our metrics focus on the stars now, as if we were done defining the experience of Life on Earth.

Objective Reality is what we have in common, but what makes us unique is what actually defines us.

Objective Reality is really just what we can easily agree on that gives a consistent result.

Science is a faith in The Universe's consistency.

Better said: Science is faith in our consistent witness of The Universe.

Things we'll discuss more as we start to compare ourselves to, and distinguish ourselves from, machines.

The clouds split, a soft blue hue, a creamsicle orange glow where the night sky just was.

Some mornings are choppy, listy thoughts. Some are shout-outs to my Country that: No, this isn't Sci-Fi Literature; our Freedom of The Press is really gone.

On that note...

Congratulations, again, for reading.