Words Are Not Facts

Sunday, August 30, 2026

Good morning, Twfw. O/

One nice thing about the Winter is it's easier to see the moon and stars. Summer before sunrise showed that this morning.

Poets swooned over the moon for centuries. The sunrise was due some respect. And so I write first thoughts, a poet's morning thoughts with each dawn.

Thanks for joining me.

There's been a lot of talk lately on machines that can 'write'. But a machine can't make a sentence, it can only extrapolate data.

I'm a poet, one of the jobs Artificial Intelligence is actually awful at emulating. For the sake of what language is actually for, I had to speak up.

Words are not facts. Words are what make facts possible.

Language is the tool we use to paint the story called our life. Every painting looks unique depending on who painted it. Van Gogh and Monet saw very different skies when they looked at the same sky.

Every sentence is a different experience to every reader and writer.

When it comes to all things in The Arts, the only thing AI is helpful with is prudence. Scientific Social Acceptability.

Original Intelligence is the realm of creative thinkers. Its results are the facts AI, and all of us, use to make our dependable choices.

Making language new is how we evolve. Breathing new life into ancient letters is how we survive.

Every time we write or read something we make it new. No two sets of circumstances are ever exactly the same.

Life is not a static thing. Life, and so Language, is alive.

Regardless how controlled the environment, there are always variables. Life doesn't happen in a vacuum; scientific experiments attempt to.

Words weave the experience of one witness at a time of a particular moment of time.

Every sunrise I wake and write whatever happens to be on my mind. Do you see why this exercise is so important to share right now? Why I keep at it?

Sure algorithms ignore me because I don't cater to them, but there's a greater reason I keep going.

Our greatest gift, the thing that makes us human, is in jeopardy of being surrendered to machines.

Somehow, someone, has to show us all that is an impossibility.

As far as poets go and any biographies you may have read, my life is quite dull and predictable. I get more opportunity to work that way. My hair's not on manic fire like the picture history paints of so many of my predecessors. Cool, calm, collected and at your service. O/

I bring it up to make a point: Why are my morning entries so vastly different? What's with the topics? I could literally write about anything.

I write what's on my mind when I wake up as honestly as I can and share it freely.

This journal is the record of a moment in time of its author: a living, breathing, poet.

No Original Intelligence was harmed in its creation... though spellcheck may have been used pre-publication to protect those fussy with grammar to keep them reading.

For the brave and bold free spirits, the original handwritten copy is available at the end of the post... complete with misspellings, and other humane typos.

Congratulations, again, for reading.