Build God With Me

There are two rivers in Winnipeg, and we like sitting next to the one just down the street from where we both live at the moment. We have to walk up the street, towards what looks like a dead end, but in the face of persistence the branches part just so and coax us towards the riverbed. Over 15 years of friendship we've had more than one conversation about faith, but this night sticks out in my mind because it's the first time I ask you if it would be better if I lied: would I be a better person if I pretended to be Christian, pretended I have the experience of faith, feigned a relationship with something I consider nonexistent? Is that the same thing as belief? We didn't come to any theologically profound conclusions that evening, but I have always been grateful for these strange, honest conversations between two people who love one another and yet cannot quite see eye to eye on something; a love baptised in all its complications and joys.

You, and others, have taught me an immense amount of patience I do not come by naturally. I am assertive, often loudly so, and yet I have had the fortune to be surrounded by people who soften me, bring out some part of me that felt impossible to find on my own. Something about it feels divine.

It must have taken 100 hours to make these giant wings, and we cackle as we walk into the hot July wind, fighting against the drag created by PVC, flimsy plastic and an innumerable amount of feathers, immeasurable love. It's hot and sticky as all the previous summers have been, and as far as we're concerned, as they always will be. We walk through the music festival, angelic in the aesthetic sense, and for me, something approaching the literal. These wings are one in a long line of projects we'll collaborate on over the coming years: costumes, writing, cooking, decorating. A sounding board I can rely on whether I approach you with all the certainty in the world or crushing doubt. It is a love consecrated in creativity and raucous laughter, one I wouldn't give up for the world.

You've taught me a openness and a sincerity I am not sure I could have unearthed were it not for wanting to give you what you've given me: unshakeable trust and approaching everyone's creativity with earnestness. Something about it feels transcendent.

There's a deep delight to be found the sound of dice being rolled in a panic. I hate to admit it, but part of the enjoyment I get out of being a Game Master is being able to taunt my friends, stress them out with rolls that may or may not be important, expressing or feigning surprise at choices that could be important or inconsequential. We congregate, ideally, twice a month but realistically whenever it is that 4 busy, employed adults can manage to find the time. In this specific instance of play, I added 6 lackeys to an encounter last minute, behind the screen, to discourage my three chaotic players from starting a fight I ultimately knew they couldn't win, and shouldn't get into anyways.

The whole session goes well enough, the boys make it where they need to be, meet a terrifying puppet made of mother of pearl, all the normal things that happen in a good DND session. I am lucky enough to work a job I like and the day after play, in our Friday cooldown, my coworker asks how the session went. I'm happy enough to give cursory details; I like my coworkers but I am still at work, after all.

A different coworker jumps in, all messy bun and suburban energy,

"Do you ever use your work Claude subscription to help you with making sessions?"

There's dead air for what can't be more than a few seconds but to me feels like minutes. I want to say:

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Do you really think so little of me?"
"Are you so disengaged from your own life that you need AI to be creative and joyful?"
I want to ask if she's a heathen, a heretic, abandoning the honourable work of being alive, of making, of loving.

But I am at work, alone in my home office but occupying a small digital rectangle among my coworkers and I can't say what I'm thinking. I smile through gritted teeth,

"I think involving a computer would be disrespectful to my friends who are under the impression they're collaboratively telling a story with me, not a data centre."

Much to my horror, the conversation passes the momentary blip. Suddenly, my coworkers who I consider competent are saying, on a work call, causal though it may be, that they have started losing their word recall because they've been using AI so much, that they struggle to form full thoughts and see them through, that they cannot parse what they read anymore. I muted myself for the rest of the call, before waving and forcing a smile as we all said goodbye for the weekend. I cannot imagine selling off my humanity to a computer.

I have built a god of domination and violence, one whose followers use terrorism and cruelty to enact its will. I have built this god for the express purpose of being rebuked, of being rejected and overcome by my players and in turn, by my friends and our shared philosophy of the world, our values of kindness, dignity and love. I have built this god to be deconstructed, to be catharsis. I have built this god to die.

They want to build a digital god, one of real, tangible violence and vengeance, an avatar to play out their juvenile fantasies of retribution against perceived slights. I am disgusted by these men, spiritually, emotionally, intellectually, ontologically. They are hollow proxies of humanity, that seek no love or meaning, only domination. They see power as purpose in and of itself; a childish, foolish and soulless way to move through the world. All that they are, all they force on us, all that they represent must be rejected, wholly and completely. I beseech you, hold onto faith in the depth and complexity of humanity, of yourself.

The time with which I build worlds, tell stories, make art, that I spend with my friends is nothing short of sacred. It is the thing, the point, the core of being alive. I have a life of creativity, a life of love and mutual respect. Perhaps I will never build a god, but every day, I find one, embody something holy. Everyday, I find the ever shifting alter at which I worship and devote myself to all the world has to offer. When I die, a god will be with me when I go.

Thank you for being here, friends. I realise this is only day 3 but I swear I am not going to burn myself out trying to publish too much. But, here we are right now. This is hardly all the thoughts I have on AI, but it feels like a good start, though I may expand on it later on. Whatever it is I write next, I'll see you soon.