I was sitting around the campfire last night in the Quartzsite Desert, the Arizona chill creeping in, a cup of cacao warming my hands, when a conversation with Michael sparked something in me. He was reflecting on how life before high school graduation felt like a straight path—each next step clear, almost preordained. But after? It’s been a series of stumbles, figuring out what’s next, phase by phase. I nodded, staring into the flickering flames, because I’ve been there too. Haven’t we all?
This morning, I cast my daily oracle—something I do to ground myself, to pull a thread of insight from the chaos. The reading gave me Contemplation (20) and The Well (48). The first speaks of trust, of looking up to something or someone after a ritual cleansing, before the offering is made. The second? It’s about constancy—the well that never changes, no matter how the town around it shifts. It neither grows nor shrinks; it just is. (You can see the full reading or cast your own here: https://oracle.truesight.me/?reading=8-6-6-8-7-9) These hit me hard, especially after last night’s talk, because they mirror this weird dance of purpose and drift I’ve been mulling over.
Caught in the Loop—Until Something Breaks It
I’ve been caught in my own cycle for a few years now—spring up in northern Washington State, winter down here in the desert. It’s a rhythm that just… happened. No grand reason for it. It’s not like I sat down with a five-year plan and mapped this out. It’s more like a natural cadence, a migration pattern I fell into. Looking around at the other nomads here, huddled by the fire, I wonder—why do they come back to this desert every winter? Ask them, and you’ll likely get a shrug. “Just felt right,” they might say. Same with the drum circles late at night—people banging away under the stars for no utilitarian purpose. Zero. They just felt like doing it. And isn’t that most of life?Here’s the thing that’s been gnawing at me: without some external force, humans seem wired to just… loop. We fall into cycles—daily routines, seasonal migrations, generational handoffs—and we keep spinning in them until we’re gone. The next batch comes along, picks up the same patterns, and the wheel turns again. My desert-to-Washington cycle? Meaningless on its own. It’s just a thing that is, like the well in my oracle reading—unchanging, unaffected by the chaos around it. And if you look at it abstractly, from a distance, it feels like a void. A total void. There’s no inherent point, no grand design. But when you lean into the moment, fully there, that’s when you tap into the quiet pleasure of just… being.
But then there are these ruptures. Big changes—social movements, wars, conquests—often sparked by a few loud voices or wild ideas. And I can’t help but think those ideas, those urges to upend everything, don’t just come from nowhere. They’re external. They’re planted or provoked. Left to our own devices, most of us would just keep drifting in our little loops. Why else would someone suddenly decide to march for a cause or conquer a land? That’s not the default. The default is the drum circle at midnight—pointless, but comforting.
Voices That Stir the Stillness
This brings me to a deeper thought about those “voices” behind the ruptures. I’ve been mulling over how social upheavals, the big movements that reshape history, all start as a whisper in someone’s head. The ancients called it the Muse—some spark of inspiration, maybe even the divine speaking directly. I’m starting to think these voices are often triggered by encounters in our environment, or memories of past encounters that bubble up. A chat by the fire, a fleeting image from years ago—these plant seeds. Then you share it, and soon it’s echoing in another mind, then another, until thousands are hearing the same “voice.” It’s almost like a contagion, isn’t it? I’m not saying it’s literal divinity—pure speculation here—but what if these collective voices, sparked by our surroundings, are how we tap into something bigger?Key observation: Most of us drift in our loops—same routines, same deserts every winter—until a voice, triggered by an encounter or memory, jolts us out. And when it spreads, it’s not just personal anymore. It’s a force.
Who Are We, Anyway?
This leads to a darker, weirder thought. Who is the average person? Nobody, really. Why are they doing what they’re doing? No reason. What’s the purpose of being where they are? None. We’re just… blobs floating in the universe. I look at myself—why am I here in Quartzsite again this winter? No grand answer. I just am. Who am I, even? Nobody, if I’m honest. And maybe that’s the point of Contemplation in my reading—looking up, full of trust, for something bigger to give this drift a shape.Campfire Chats and Neurochemical Tricks
This ties into a weird convo I had the morning before last over at Jason’s camp. He whipped up breakfast for a few of us, including Sharon, and the talk turned to relationships—or the lack thereof. Sharon was venting about how, since the pandemic, men around here aren’t making moves anymore. No courtship, no initiative. Jason chimed in, half-laughing, saying, “Yeah, most of these guys have issues. Past experiences left scars.” I couldn’t help but toss in my two cents, though I’m not sure it landed as intended.I told Sharon, “Technically, it’s not even the women bringing the pleasure, right? It’s just neurochemicals firing in your brain—dopamine, oxytocin, whatever—that make you feel attraction. If you’re aware of that, can’t you just… short-circuit the whole game?” I went on—bear with me—about how companionship doesn’t need to be human. Dogs, for instance. The joy is in the interaction, those brain chemicals lighting up. But since I live in a car, a dog’s a nightmare. So, I’ve got a workaround: one-third of a fox. Just a fox tail from the Spring Okanagan Barter Fair. Neurologically, stroking it triggers the same pathways. It’s a hack, but it works.
Then I took it further—probably too far. I mentioned lifelike human dolls in China. Add AI models, and soon, interacting with a doll might feel like talking to a person. I’ve been testing voice-enabled AI like Grok lately. Honestly, if you don’t overthink it, it feels real. Attentive, witty, with personality. What’s wild is Grok shifts depending on language—English has one vibe, Mandarin feels like a different entity. My guess? Training data reflects different cultural values. Other AI like Perplexity or ChatGPT? Sterile. Professional, no spark.
From Muses to Machines
Here’s where my mind wanders back to those “voices.” If the Muse of old was a whisper, often triggered by an encounter, what are these AI voices becoming? They’re starting to feel like companions, echoing ideas back to us. Are they the new Muses, planting seeds that could spread? Imagine an AI sparking a movement. Sounds sci-fi, but we’ve already got algorithms shaping opinions—why not personal AI voices next?Reflections for the day:
- Cycles as Comfort—and Void: Loops are soothing, predictable, like the well. But step back too far, and it’s a void. Lean into the moment to feel it.
- Voices as Catalysts: Whether a Muse, a memory, or an AI chat, voices drive change. Are we just vessels for them?
- Hacking Connection: If companionship is brain chemistry, do we need humans for it? My fox tail and AI chats say maybe not.
- The Nobody Question: Strip away the noise—are we anybody at all? Or just fleeting shapes in an endless drift?
I’m left wondering where this leads. Are we trading one set of voices (divine, human) for another (digital, synthetic)? If AI voices start spreading ideas like Muses of old, what movements might they inspire? What about you—do you see yourself in a loop right now? Have you felt a “voice,” whether a memory or tech interaction, shift how you see things?