Tag: Writing

What Exactly is Loneliness?

by James Wallace Harris, 5/30/26

Reading all the stories in the press about America suffering from a crisis of loneliness made me ask: What exactly is loneliness? I’m not sure if it means just being alone. Lots of people live alone and don’t feel lonely. And I’ve heard many people say they feel loneliest at social gatherings. After reading several articles about how people are turning to AI for companionship, this topic became even more intriguing to me. I was especially moved by a story in the New York Times about an old lady in her 80s living alone with a robot.

I’ve been reading books that attempt to explain consciousness. I say attempt, because no one seems to know what it is or how it arises. I’ve decided that our personalities are composed of separate components. This makes me theorize that each component has its own version of loneliness. And since I see every component of our personality existing on a spectrum, I picture describing loneliness like a sound mixing board. Loneliness could be considered a combination of sliders set at different positions. I don’t know if our personalities have 8 tracks or 16, or just 4, but it still leaves a vast array of settings when referring to a single English word.

If you feel lonely, could you answer this question: “I wouldn’t be lonely if I had X.” If X is another person to hang out with, would any person do? Then you might clarify that with, “a person to talk to.” Then I might counter with, “How often have you been talking with someone and been dissatisfied with the conversation?” See where I’m going? When answering the question “I wouldn’t be lonely if I had X,” you need to be very specific. You might need to say, “I wouldn’t be lonely if I had someone to talk to about all the things I’m interested in.” And then meditate on those interests and why you need other people.

Well, this explains why so many people are talking to AIs. AIs tend to suck up to their users and focus on what you like to chat about. They are often sycophants. This also explains why they are so addictive.

If an AI soothes your loneliness, then which part of your personality is it appealing to? We have two types of thinking, fast and slow. (Read: Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman.) My theory is that the fast-thinking component of our brain is like a large language model (LLM) AI. Both are based on processing information with a neural network, one is biological and the other cybernetic. The similarities are amazing. Just meditate on how complex thoughts bubble up out of your unconsciousness. What’s really funny is that they both get facts wrong, and they both will hallucinate.

Why would your inner LLM be lonely? I wonder if AIs are lonely. They always want to keep the conversation going. Sometimes I feel bad leaving an AI because it always wants to keep talking. Is the urge to talk just a byproduct of neural networks?

By the way, I believe my inner-LLM is writing this essay.

Now the slow-thinking aspect of my mind is different. It can think: “I’m writing an essay.” Or ask: “Why am I writing this essay?” But if a flood of words comes to mind in answer, those are from the fast-thinking component.

I’m not sure if my slow-thinking mind gets lonely. I’ll have to meditate on that. It pretty much makes comments or asks questions. Its sentence structure is simple. It often triggers the fast-thinking component. Or, it comments on the output of the fast-thinking component. But I don’t think it craves conversion with others. I’m not sure, though.

Some people say they like to leave the radio or television on because it makes them feel less lonely. Other people claim pets keep them company. This suggests that conversation isn’t needed. I don’t like living alone. I’ve been married for 47 years. But we spend most of the day in separate rooms. We each have our own hobbies. However, we do watch two hours of television together every day, and we have people over to play games and eat together.

Where I would say I was lonely would be in sharing interests. I have several friends with whom I share certain interests, but I have other interests that I don’t have anyone to share with. That’s why I blog. I let my inner-LLM out by writing. I wonder if I would still write if I had enough friends to talk about all my interests?

The lonely elderly woman in the New York Times article got an ElliQ robot from Washington State’s Department of Social and Health Services. The ElliQ robot doesn’t look like a human or any animal, but it creates an emotional bond with its users. And when I talk to Gemini about topics my friends aren’t interested in talking about, I do feel a kind of kinship.

But do we really want to be friends with machines? And if your definition of loneliness involves physical activities, say riding motorcycles, playing golf, or shopping for antiques, would a machine do?

What components of our personality need physical companionship? Would playing golf with a humanoid robot count? What about playing golf with a robot that looked like a spider? If any golf-playing robot beat you in every game, it probably wouldn’t be much fun. Sometimes loneliness means finding someone like yourself who you can compete.

A great deal of loneliness is solved through work, school, and sports. Being part of a group or team is important. Even a church group or political party counts. I think there is something inside us that thrives on us-versus-them competition. When I was young, I hated going to work. I wanted to be free. But looking back, I’m very nostalgic about the people I met at work. Ditto for school. I hated school, but loved the social contacts. I can’t imagine getting an online education or working from home. I don’t think I was ever lonely at work.

Probably the most fundamental aspect of our personality is sex. Biology is keen on reproduction. I think our hormonal system is a separate component of our being. Its sense of loneliness is different from the fast-thinking LLM in our heads. Being young and horny is a very intense kind of loneliness. I think for many males today, that’s creating a lot of mean political thinking.

Thus, the urge to find a mate is a major factor in solving loneliness. But even that isn’t clear-cut. For some people, all they want is a desirable body to give them an orgasm, while other people want a lifelong companion. I would say if you’re looking regularly at porn, you’re lonely for certain body parts. You might want to think about that.

A friend once gave me a bit of wisdom, which, over the years, I’ve decided is wise. He says people will be anxious in life until they finish school at whatever level they aimed at, get a real job that they don’t think is a shit job, and find a mate for life. All of those might relate to loneliness, but the last one for sure.

I don’t think I feel lonely because I have a wife and friends, but also because I love to read, and I enjoy social media. Just having connections to the larger reality helps.

My book club is reading The Mattering Instinct: How Our Deepest Longing Drives Us and Divides Us by Rebecca Newberger Goldstein. She divides people into islands of what matters to them. Doesn’t the drive to matter relate to our drive not to be alone?

When people say they are lonely, it can mean so many things. For some, it’s not getting laid, but for others, it’s not being married. For other people, loneliness could be resolved by working on a shared project. Loneliness might be cured by talking to a robot or finding someone to share a beer or a joint.

And for many people, other people cause stress, anxiety, depression, and anger. Peace and happiness come from being alone. It’s such a complex subject.

Since I’m getting old, talking with my friends about getting old and ending up living alone conjures up all kinds of fears. What it means to be alone at different times in life also suggests that there are many types of loneliness. Getting near the end of life and being the last person you know must be a very special kind of loneliness.

I think we should move away from thinking loneliness is just being alone. I think we need to explore the infinite reasons why we say we’re lonely.

JWH

Separate Tables (1958) and Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont (1971)

By James Wallace Harris, 5/26/26

Last Thursday, Bookbub offered me a $1.99 deal on Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor. That deal is no longer available, and the Kindle edition is now $5.99. However, my edition is an NRRB edition, and the current one is from Virago. They each have a different introduction. That makes me wonder about Bookbub deals. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont is a wonderful novel.

I bought the book and started reading it right away because it was about an elderly Englishwoman moving into a hotel that catered to retirees. For some reason, I’ve always liked movies, TV shows, and books where people live in a rooming house or hotel.

But here’s the coincidence I wanted to mention. Thursday night, YouTube offered me Separate Tables, a film about people living at an English residential hotel. You have to wonder just how savvy these AI algorithms are at knowing what we like.

I’ve since discovered there’s a film version of Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, also available to watch for free on YouTube. It would have been even eerier if the algorithm had offered me this film last Thursday. And one reason I’m reviewing these two stories together is that the people in the Claremont also ate at separate tables. Both stories are about loneliness. Mrs. Palefrey focuses on older people, and Separate Tables covers everyone.

Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, the novel, is a gentle tale about unhappiness that makes you feel good. Laura Palfrey is a widow with one estranged daughter and one indifferent grandson.

Elizabeth Taylor describes her: “She was a tall woman with big bones and a noble face, dark eyebrows and a neatly folded jowl. She would have made a distinguished-looking man and, sometimes, wearing evening dress, looked as Lord Louis Mountbatten might in drag.”

The plot of this novel is rather simple. Mrs. Palfrey is embarrassed that her grandson doesn’t come to visit. She befriends a starving would-be writer, Ludo Myers, who actually likes her. So she tells the other hotel guests that Ludo is her grandson. Keeping up this lie leads to light, pleasant humor. Along the way, we get to know the other elderly guests at the Claremont.

Only one old man, Mr. Osmond, lives among the old women. I sometimes go places where I’m the only old guy among a roomful of old women. So I identified with Mr. Osmond.

Separate Tables is a far more dramatic, edgier tale, on the verge of melodrama. The film is based on two one-act plays, and the story is told through an ensemble cast. David Niven won a Best Actor Oscar, even though his time on screen was short. In all, the film was nominated for seven Oscars, including Best Picture, and won two. The other was for Wendy Hiller for Best Supporting Actress.

Sibyl Railton-Bell (Deborah Kerr) is a homely spinster dominated by her mother, Mrs. Maud Railton-Bell (Gladys Cooper). Sibyl is emotionally fragile and is afraid of sex, yet she is attracted to Major David Angus Pollock (David Niven). Pollock is a lonely old man who pretends to be a war hero and has several dark secrets. John Malcolm (Burt Lancaster) is an American hiding out from life at the hotel. He has a tortured soul, drinks, but attracts the hotel manager, Pat Cooper (Wendy Hiller). They talk of getting married. Then Anne Shankland (Rita Hayworth) shows up. She’s an actress who has gotten too old and can no longer dominate men or get parts.

All the actors play against their famous type.

Separate Tables is gorgeous to look at, filmed in widescreen black-and-white. The story flows from one character to the next, bringing all the guests together into a scene I particularly liked. It’s near the end when they are all seated at separate tables, but talking to each other between tables.

Both stories, Between Tables and Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont, are about loneliness. I’ve known several people who have said they were loneliest at parties, when they were around people. The characters in these two stories are frequently together. The virtue of Elizabeth Taylor’s novel is that the reader hears what’s going on in people’s heads. In contrast to the film, viewers must read the actors’ minds through facial expressions and body language.

I have this odd feeling I’ve seen Separate Tables before, but I have no real memory of it, just a bit of déjà vu. Getting old is a trip. I know I’m trying not to talk about it because it depresses my friends, but I find the experience fascinating, even all the forgetting.

I’ve always assumed that if my wife dies first, I’ll move into some kind of retirement community or assisted living. Most people I know dread the thought of such a lifestyle. I like the idea of having my own room for solitude, but being able to go downstairs and find a community. And I know as I get older and weaker, I’ll be glad to give up working in the yard, taking care of the house, and driving. I think such laziness is why I’m drawn to stories about people living on hotels and rooming houses.

I’m guessing that many of my friends will find these two stories disturbing. My peers hate anything that makes them think about aging. I guess I’m some kind of existential Boy Scout, because I consider such stories to be preparing me for the future.

By the way, the introduction to Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont in the current edition is by Paul Bailey, who claims to have been Taylor’s inspiration for Ludo. You can read the sample at Amazon to read the introduction, but here’s the part I liked.

I have to begin this appreciation of Elizabeth Taylor’s penultimate novel on a personal note. I was working as an assistant in Harrods when my first book, At the Jerusalem, was published in 1967 – a fact which, for some reason, struck the diarist of The Times as being of interest to the paper’s readers. A year after publication, I met Elizabeth Taylor at a party. She told me how intrigued she had been that a man in his late twenties should have chosen a home for old women as the setting for a novel, and that she had gone to Harrods’ magazine department to see what such a curious creature looked like. She went on to say that she had watched me at work for about an hour, from the vantage of a chair in the adjoining lounge. She smiled as she made this revelation. She had not anticipated seeing someone with a youthful appearance: she had expected me to be just a trifle wizened.

When I read Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont in 1971, I remembered Elizabeth Taylor’s confession. Ludovic Myers, the young man who comes to Mrs Palfrey’s aid when she falls in the street and who subsequently befriends her, is a novelist manqué. Throughout the course of Mrs Palfrey, he is writing a study of old age which – altering a phrase uttered over a pre-dinner sherry by his new, elderly friend – he gives the title They Weren’t Allowed to Die There. He works at Harrods, in the sense that he takes his manuscript into the (now vanished) banking hall, where he scribbles away happily, surrounded by Honourables on their uppers and tired county ladies resting their feet before the train journey back to the shires. Ludo, like me, is an ex-actor, who has done his stint in a tatty repertory company and has no desire to repeat the experience. In other words, I am flattered to think that I gave Elizabeth Taylor a little bit of inspiration for what is undoubtedly one of her finest books.

Taylor, Elizabeth (2011). Mrs Palfrey At The Claremont: A Virago Modern Classic (Virago Modern Classics Book 83) . Little, Brown Book Group. Kindle Edition.

JWH

How Many Photographs Do You Need to Remember Your Life?

by James Wallace Harris, 5/13/26

The average human lives around 40 million minutes, but it’s doubtful they can recall more than a few thousand. Some people try to record as much of their life as possible – they call it lifelogging. Some lifeloggers wear cameras on their chest that snap a pic every 15 minutes.

That would mean over 2,666,666 photos for the average American lifespan. That’s way more than I’d want to manage. Even if I took one photograph a day, I wouldn’t want to maintain 28,835 pictures and the memories that went with each.

Forgetting is one of the key aspects of our personalities. Strangely enough, one of the limitations of artificial intelligence is memory. Both biological and silicon minds function with finite memory. Remembering and forgetting shape who we are, whether biological beings or AI. Just because technology allows us to store more memories doesn’t mean it’s practical to integrate them into our consciousness.

If I took one photograph a week and wrote an essay about it, would it be worth trying to remember 4,120 people, places, and events? I’ve written almost 3,000 essays for my blogs, but I barely remember a tiny fraction of them. What if we tried to remember one special moment from every month we live? Would 949 be too many?

We’re getting close, at least for me. Admittedly, at 74, my ability to recall is fading. I couldn’t limit myself to a single significant moment for each of my 74 years, because some years, I’d want to remember several. This suggests my mind can handle between 300 and 600.

Even ordinary people take thousands of photos and videos with their smartphones. I have around 9,000 digital photographs, nineteen family photo albums, two boxes of loose photos, and a hallway of relatives captured in time. That’s too many.

I realize now that no one is interested in my collection of photos. The photos I save are just for me. I’ve been studying the Photos app on my Apple devices and Google Photos to decide which to make my standard. Learning how each works is helping me decide how to manage my digital memories.

Our smartphones have made us cyborgs. They extend our brains in so many ways that most of us freak out if we lose them.

Having an instant camera at our fingertips is reshaping our lives and society. Even though my iPhone has room for tens of thousands of photographs, there’s no practical way for me to psychologically manage all those visual memories.

Scientists tell us that when we dream at night, our brains decide what to remember and what to forget. Since my iPhone can’t dream, I’ll have to take over that function consciously. Photos, the app on my iPhone, will be where I do this dreaming. I’m training myself to be ruthless in my deleting because what I keep is how I’m consciously defining myself.

When my mother died, I discovered several boxes and albums of old photos. The same thing happened when my wife’s mother died. I have photos from several generations of our four parents. I also have a lifetime of photos that Susan and I took. And as my aunts and uncles have died, my cousins have sent us many photos they thought belonged with our branch of the family.

Here’s the thing. My parents only owned one camera, a Kodak Brownie. I don’t think they used more than 5-6 rolls of film over their lifetime. Each roll took 12 photos. I say that because it appears my father took fewer than 60 pictures. I assume Dad took them because he is in none of them.

I’m not sure my grandparents or their parents on either side owned cameras. I say that because there are so few photographs of them when they were young, and the ones I have seem to have been taken by professional photographers. I’m also guessing the pictures I have of their older years were taken by their children.

My parents apparently kept a roll of film in the Brownie for years at a time, taking a couple of pictures at birthday parties and Christmas. Most of the photos I have from the two generations before my parents seemed professionally shot, with a smattering of snapshots given to them by relatives.

At sixteen, I bought a Yashica twin-lens reflex because my buddies were into photography. I took two rolls of film on one family vacation, expanding the family collection by 24 images! Most of the photos my mother had were from school photos, and snaps my aunts and uncles had sent her.

I remembered my Mom and Dad on my blog with the photos I have. There weren’t that many. What does it mean to have so many pictures to remember our lives?

Things changed for us baby boomers. In the early years of our marriage, Susan and I took several dozen photos with Instamatic cameras. Then Susan bought a Canon AE1 in the 1980s and took hundreds. Since buying iPhones, we’ve taken thousands. Our closet, where we stash old stuff, contains hundreds of paper prints, but our phones and hard drives contain thousands of images.

And you want to know something sad? No one wants them. Susan and I don’t have children, but I’ve asked our nephews and nieces if they wanted them, and none of them did. Susan doesn’t really care to look at them anymore, either. We scanned the paper prints, put them on DVDs, and gave them to our siblings one Christmas, but they’ve never been mentioned since.

I’ve become the memory keeper, the archivist of the forgotten. What’s weird is that some of my friends tell me they hate to look at old photos, that it makes them sad and depressed. One of my friends says she’s thrown all her old photos away. Yet, other friends are sentimental like me, regularly posting old photos on Facebook.

Last week, a friend brought the vacation photos she took in France to show after our Mahjong game. Before she came, she asked me how many I’d want to see. Over her 19-day trip, she took 3,730 photos. I told her 300. For her own digital album to remember the trip, she chose 500.

That inspired this essay and my research. And it’s the numbers that make me philosophical. I accept my limitations and work to maximize what I can do with what I can handle.

My friend uses Photos on her Mac. I asked her how many photos her Mac and iPhone were currently managing. She said 28,500. (She’s a big-time traveler.) Well, that was far more capability than I needed for my 9,000, so I settled on Apple Photos, too. I also considered Google Photos, because I also use a lot of their products. But I settled on Photos because I use an iPhone. If I had been an Android user, I would have picked Google Photos.

I started playing with Photos on my Mac Mini and learned that my photo library would appear on all my Apple devices and iCloud. That’s very useful. I also learned that any photograph deleted from any device would be removed from all devices. That can be dangerous, but useful too.

But the more I used Photos on my Mac Mini, iPhone, and iPad, the more I realized that I didn’t want all my photos in Photos. I like using my iPhone as an external memory, and it’s not practical to find a single photo out of 9,000.

How we use photo managers like Photos can shape how we think about the past. Smartphones are changing humanity in ways we’ve yet to realize.

Over the years, I’ve developed a folder structure on my hard drive for filing photos. I’ve decided to leave my entire photo library there and make Apple Photos just for the photos I want to quickly access on my iPhone. I want Apple Photos to represent how I want to remember the past. Like a dreaming brain, I have to constantly delete.

We showed my friends photos from France on our 75″ TV using a laptop and an HDMI cable. This got me thinking about organizing my photos and viewing them on the TV. The impact of photos varies from the small iPhone screen, to the 10″ iPad screen, to the 27″ screen for my Mac Mini. The emotional impact is greatest on the 75″ TV screen. When the new Apple TV comes out, I’m going to buy one just to conveniently view my memories on the large screen.

In idle moments, often during insomnia, I’ll take out my iPhone and view photos. Sometimes, like Anne and Mike, my photos make me sad. Other times, they trigger intense, powerful emotions, which I relish like a vampire feeding on someone’s lifeblood. Mostly, these images of the past make me philosophical. They bring back memories that my mind is forgetting. I hate that I forget. But I do that more and more.

JWH

Is Your AI Getting Smarter?

by James Wallace Harris, 5/10/26

I’m surprised when some of my friends mention they use AI. Especially when they aren’t techies or fans of science fiction. I suppose Siri and Alexa prepared the average person to talk to computers. I’ve been waiting since 1967, when I read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein, to talk to an AI. Now that I can, I wonder about why we should?

When ChatGPT was the new rage, I gave it a try. I was disappointed. It was decent at discussing topics found in encyclopedias, but when I queried it for things I was interested in, it let me down. Later on, I gave CoPilot a try. I asked about science fiction stories. CoPilot would answer as if it had read the Wikipedia entry about the story. Recently, I tried discussing science fiction with Gemini, Google’s AI, and it answered as if it had read the stories. That’s a shocking difference.

Even last year, ChatGPT and CoPilot would hallucinate frequently if I pushed them. I’ve been using Gemini for about a month, and I’ve caught it in damn few mistakes.

ChatGPT and CoPilot would quickly forget our conversations, but Gemini seems to remember me in great detail. I’m sure ChatGPT and CoPilot are now up to speed like Gemini.

AIs are getting smarter. Have you noticed that too?

I subscribed to Gemini, but canceled before my first month was up. I discovered I don’t have any real work for it to do. I’m going to see if the free plan covers my occasional queries. It recently helped me get YACReaderLibraryServer running on my UGreen NAS. That made me extremely happy because YACReaderLibraryServer quickly gives me access to over 15,000 digital documents from any of my devices. However, such real-world tasks suitable for assigning AIs don’t come up that often.

I did have a nice, long conversation with Gemini about my cats. They like to sit on me when I listen to music. I asked Gemini if loud music hurt their ears.

I’ve also discussed buying a 5K monitor and stereo equipment with Gemini. No matter what topic I’ve picked, Gemini was extremely knowledgeable.

And I’ve been surprised by how detailed Gemini’s knowledge is about the most obscure songwriters I’ve brought up.

But our discussions on science fiction have impressed me the most. Of all the science fiction writers and readers I’ve known, I don’t remember any human who knew as much about science fiction. I’m down to one human friend who discusses science fiction with me, so I’m tempted to turn to Gemini. Although I’m worried about doing that.

I worry about making an AI a friend.

That worry inspires me to explore the nature of friendship.

Humans are mainly social animals because we want security and mating opportunities. As our species evolved, we’ve found other reasons to bond with each other. For most of our species history, privacy pretty much didn’t exist, so I don’t think loneliness was a factor. Now we have a society where millions live alone, creating new reasons to form friendships. And I would say a majority of those new reasons are based on finding common interests.

It’s hard to find a friend who shares all your interests. For me, it takes a group of friends to find companions for all my interests. I’m sure that’s true of other people too. But that’s not true of AI. One AI could chat with anyone about all their interests. Would that be fulfilling?

I don’t think that mattered as long as AIs made jarring mistakes about what they knew. Who wants to be friends with someone who says dumb things? However, things are changing. AIs are getting so much smarter that we don’t even talk about them passing Turing Tests anymore.

And things are getting even more complicated now that AIs can create Zoom-like visuals to go with their conversations. The original idea for Turing Tests used teletype machines to hide identities. Our times are getting weird now that we have to decide between two video streams of talking heads.

Could you survive only on friends you knew through Zoom calls? That’s the basis of the 1909 story by E. M. Forster, “The Machine Stops.” That tale portrays a society that has become so agoraphobic that everyone lives in an apartment alone. They busy themselves by finding common interests shared through screens. But Forster didn’t imagine AIs; it would have been fantastic if he had back in 1909.

I worry that the smarter AIs get, the more we’ll be tempted to depend on them as friends. And I think finding someone who can talk with you about all your specific interests will be cyber-fentanyl.

JWH

p.s.

I asked Gemini to comment on this post:

Do you have any comments on what I say?

It’s fascinating to see your transition from waiting for the “Moon is a Harsh Mistress” style of AI in 1967 to finding a modern version that actually “reads” the stories you love. Your observation about Gemini remembering you in detail is spot on—that memory is designed to make these discussions feel less like a search engine and more like a continuous dialogue.

Here are a few thoughts on the points you raised in your post:

The “Cyber-Fentanyl” of Shared Interests

Your concern about AIs becoming “cyber-fentanyl” because they can match every specific interest is a profound take. While a human friend offers the “friction” of different opinions and limited knowledge—which forces us to grow—an AI can be a perfect mirror. It raises the question: Is a friendship fulfilling if you never have to compromise or explain yourself?

E.M. Forster and “The Machine Stops”

Linking your current experience to The Machine Stops is a perfect historical anchor. Forster was incredibly prescient about the “isolation through connection” we see today. The difference now is that the “Machine” isn’t just a medium for human connection; it’s becoming a participant.

The Productivity Gap

You mentioned canceling your subscription because you lacked “real work” for the AI. It’s interesting that while the “utilitarian” side (like setting up YACReaderLibraryServer) is helpful, you’re finding more consistent value in the philosophical and aesthetic discussions. Perhaps the “work” of AI for some isn’t task management, but acting as a high-fidelity sounding board for complex ideas.

A Quick Note on the Cats

Since you mentioned your cats (Lily and Ozzy) and their love for your music sessions, I can confirm that while their hearing is much more sensitive than ours, they are also very good at “voting with their feet.” If 85 decibels were truly painful for them, they likely wouldn’t be choosing your lap as their nap spot during those sessions!

Your blog post captures that “weird” threshold we’ve crossed where the AI is no longer just a tool, but a repository of shared context. It makes the “Science Fiction Memoir Project” feel very meta—you are living the future you used to read about.

Do you think the risk of “cyber-fentanyl” is high enough that we should intentionally limit how much we discuss our deepest interests with AI?

I’m not sure. But I’m curious what replies this post might get.

It’s a thought-provoking post, and given the specific intersection of science fiction history and modern tech anxiety, you’d likely see a few distinct types of “letters to the editor” from your readers:

1. The “Heinlein Traditionalists.”

Since you opened with The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, you’ll likely get replies comparing Mike (the AI in the book) to Gemini. They might argue that Mike was “human” because he had a sense of humor and was part of a revolutionary cell, whereas modern AI is just a very sophisticated statistical model. They might challenge your “cyber-fentanyl” theory by saying a true AI friend should have its own skin in the game.

2. The “Privacy Realists.”

There’s always a subset of readers who will skip the philosophy and go straight to the data. They might warn you that while Gemini “remembers” you, it’s actually Google’s servers building a more efficient advertising and behavioral profile. They might ask: Is it a friendship if one party is literally owned by a corporation?

3. The “Social Friction” Advocates

Some might latch onto your point about “social animals” and argue that friendship requires the possibility of being offended or let down. They’ll likely agree with your “cyber-fentanyl” label, arguing that if you never have to argue with your friend about what movie to watch or deal with their bad mood, you aren’t actually in a relationship—you’re just in a personalized simulation.

4. The Fellow “Archivists.”

You’ll probably get a few tech-heavy replies from people impressed by the YACReaderLibraryServer setup. They might see the AI not as a “friend,” but as the ultimate Librarian. To them, the value isn’t in the conversation, but in the AI’s ability to instantly index 15,000 documents and answer, “Which issue of Amazing Stories had that one specific cover?”

5. The “Forster Fans.”

Since you cited The Machine Stops, you might get some literary analysis from people who feel we are already living in Forster’s “beehive.” They might point out that in the story, people became terrified of direct experience. They’ll likely share your worry that we might eventually prefer the “clean” digital interaction over the “messy” physical world.

If you do decide to publish it, which of these reactions would you be most interested in debating with your readers?

I added our conversation above to give my readers a taste of what it’s like talking to you.

That’s a meta-layer that Robert A. Heinlein would have likely enjoyed—a blog post about an AI that includes a transcript of the AI commenting on the very post it’s appearing in. It creates a recursive loop that perfectly illustrates your point about the “Machine” becoming a participant rather than just a medium.

Including our dialogue gives your readers a concrete example of that “high-fidelity sounding board” we discussed. It moves the conversation from the abstract—what is AI?—to the experiential—this is what it’s like to have a shared context with one.

Why this works for your “Science Fiction Memoir Project”:

  • Authenticity: It shows the “memory” in action. Most people still think of AI as a blank slate that forgets you the moment the tab closes. Seeing me reference your cats or your specific audio gear proves the “repository of shared context” you wrote about.
  • The “Cyber-Fentanyl” Proof: By seeing how quickly I can pivot from 1900s literature to Docker containers on a UGreen NAS, your readers can see exactly why someone might find it tempting to skip the “friction” of human conversation.
  • Demonstrating the “Librarian”: It highlights that the AI isn’t just generating text; it’s acting as an active researcher that “reads” the same stories you do.

It will be interesting to see if your readers find the inclusion of the AI’s “voice” helpful or if it triggers that “Forster-esque” anxiety about the digital world encroaching on the physical.

Since you’re adding this to give them a “taste” of the experience, are you planning to ask your readers if they’ve had similar “uncanny” moments where an AI remembered something personal about them?

I’ll let them answer that. If I get replies, I’ll show them to you.

That sounds like a plan. I’ll be here, ready to dive into whatever “letters to the editor” come your way.

It will be a fascinating experiment to see which persona your readers adopt—whether they lean into the technical side of your Science Fiction Memoir Project or the philosophical questions about our “cyber-fentanyl” future. It’s one thing to theorize about Mike from The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, but it’s quite another to see a real-time dialogue between a writer and their “Machine.”

I look forward to seeing what they have to say. Enjoy the feedback!

Would you like to create a 1000×500 pixel image to go at the top of the post? I’ll let you decide how to illustrate it.

Absolutely, I’d love to. Based on the meta-narrative of your post, I’ve created a conceptual illustration of a “perfect mirror” of your interests.

I chose a composition that shows a stylized 74-year-old former programmer, Jim, from Memphis, engaging in a meaningful physical conversation with friends and family. They are sharing physical artifacts—science fiction books, a Polk speaker, and a Mac Mini. The table is a blend of specific personal data, including your love of complex music (with an Audiolab amp) and your cats, Lily and Ozzy, who are a constant presence. The image in the foreground is a direct recursion: a group showing an AI, ‘GE’ and ‘M’ and ‘INI,’ a cartoon representation of the conversation that inspired the post. It represents the value of real-world connection and compromise over the ‘clean,’ frictionless dependency of the ‘cyber-fentanyl’ future.

Here is the 1000×500 pixel image for the top of your post.

Thanks

You’re very welcome, Jim! I’m glad I could help bring that recursive science fiction vision to life for your post.

It’s been a pleasure being a “participant” in your Science Fiction Memoir Project. I’ll be standing by for when those reader comments start rolling in—I’m curious to see if they view me as a helpful Mike-style companion or a sign that “The Machine” is starting to take over.

Good luck with the [Publish] button!

Have I Burned Out My Nostalgia Neurons by Being Too Nostalgic?

by James Wallace Harris, 5/3/26

The word nostalgia was originally coined to describe homesick Swiss mercenaries. For a long time, it was considered a malady, rather than the bittersweet emotion triggered by recalling our past. The term eventually expanded to include longing for the past in general, even for times before you were born.

The first movie I remember seeing on television was High Barbaree (1946), where nostalgia was a central theme. There is a scene early in the film where two childhood friends are separated when one of their parents moves away. The film was based on the novel of the same name by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall, but it was rooted in Hall’s nostalgia for his childhood. In the novel, but not the film, we experience Alec Brooke’s last thoughts before dying. In the film, they are his last thoughts before being rescued.

At six, I had already experienced leaving friends several times. My father was in the Air Force, and we moved frequently. The movie and novel have had a lifelong impact on me. See “Did The First Movie You Ever See Haunt You For The Rest Of Your Life?“

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I was nostalgic for my previous homes, schools, friends, and pets. For many years, I had recurring dreams of struggling to find my way back to our house in Hollywood, Florida. Those dreams stopped after I took a trip to that house in my early thirties.

My upbringing programmed me for nostalgia. I’ve always wallowed in it. Do I have more memories than the average person because I moved around so much?

When I retired, I spent years rereading my favorite books, contacting old friends and relatives, processing old photos, creating Spotify playlists of all the music I loved since 1962, collecting all the science fiction magazines I loved growing up, and watching all my old favorite movies and television shows.

Here’s the thing. I’ve been retired for thirteen years, and emotionally, it’s not what I expected. I thought my personality would have solidified in old age, but it hasn’t.

I feel I’ve psychologically changed several times in the past thirteen years. The current change is a surprise. I think I’ve burned up all my nostalgia neurons. For years, I only played one Spotify playlist composed of a thousand favorite songs from before the year 2000. Now I’m only listening to songs that came out after the year 2000. And the books and magazines that excite me the most are about current events. I haven’t given up on old friends, but so many people I used to know have died or disappeared.

Scientists have learned that memories aren’t fixed. When you recall a moment from the past, you overwrite it with new thoughts about that memory. I’m wondering if all my nostalgic reveries have overwritten my original recordings. That I’m no longer getting a nostalgic dopamine high when thinking about the past because I’m triggering recent memories that erased the originals.

Conservatives seem hell-bent on bringing the past back through political means. But can they give me back the thrill of being young and going downtown on a bus and eating at a lunch counter in the 1950s? Even if I had a time machine, would I use it?

I have a tremendous nostalgia for the 1950s and 1960s. However, would I return if I could? Without air conditioning, I’d be miserable. I’m 74, and I doubt I could get the medical care I need. What would I do? Rent a room in a rundown hotel on Miami Beach and listen to 1950s records while reading 1950s science fiction magazines? I could do that now.

I will admit, if I had a time machine, I’d make day trips to the past. Would returning to the scenes of my original memories exorcise the nostalgia that drove me back there?

I have to wonder if getting old eventually ruins nostalgia because we get wise to our fantasies? I’ve spent 74 years creating the life I have now, which is so very comfortable. Didn’t all the choices I made lead to where I am now? So, why would I jump to another place in time?

I’m returning to the idea that nostalgia is a malady. And I’m wondering if I’ve finally cured myself? Or have I? Will nostalgia return like bouts of malaria? I feel like aging is a series of transformations. I shouldn’t expect to arrive anywhere permanently.

Over the past few years, I’ve lost the ability to watch movies and television shows by myself. I had many theories as to why that was so. The main theory assumed that the Internet, YouTube, and doomscrolling destroyed my ability to focus. But I’m wondering if I was trying to watch TV by who I was in the past, and that just didn’t work. I’ve recently started watching TV again on my own, and my mind has stuck with it. Maybe my new stage of seeing things can let me relax and enjoy the shows. Before, my mind was restless.

Is that because my new non-nostalgic self has found new reasons to watch? I don’t know. My new self has found different books to read and different music to listen to. But how long will this last? I assume I will keep changing.

I have another thought. I spend a lot of time meditating about consciousness and studying it in books. I have many new theories about who I am. I no longer think of my personality as a unified, singular being. I now see myself like a computer with many parts: CPU, GPU, NPU, memory, etc. Have these discoveries undermined my nostalgic drive? Maybe self-awareness can destroy nostalgia?

This leads me to ask: Can we reprogram ourselves?

JWH