I sense an interesting paradox of technology.
Let me give you some examples.
I’m a founder, intrapreneur, and former CIO rethinking governance for the one-person business, navigating sole accountability in the age of intelligent machines—informed by plenty of scar tissue. All posts are free, always. Paying supporters keep it that way (and get a full-color PDF of my book Human Robot Agent plus other monthly extras as a thank-you)—for just one café latte per month.
My friends have noticed a significant uptick in my cooking endeavors. I’ve been in a Persian mood these past few months, working through various koresh dishes (Persian stews) and pilafs with tadhig (fluffy rice with a crust at the bottom). The new cookbooks I just ordered will let me travel to Turkish and Syrian cuisine next. There’s a kind of joy I get in the kitchen that I simply cannot experience when I’m working with LLMs. ChatGPT doesn’t smell as good as my homemade bread, for example.
I’ve also gone back to doing maintenance work on our house. During the COVID years, when most of my workshops and events got canceled, I spent months painting rooms, hallways, doors, and cupboards. I discovered a surprising talent I didn’t know I possessed. Something I could do with my hands. It still gives me a thrill to look around the house years later and think, “I did all of that.” And now that AI has killed what was left of my industry, I’ve returned to using my hands. Freshly oiled wood feels better than Claude Cowork.
Another thing I noticed is that I have trouble reading books on my Kindle app. It’s hard to concentrate on a screen these days, and I catch myself skimming pages, clicking next, next, next, while my other hand is repeatedly straying toward my smartphone. Focus has become near-impossible, and I hear I’m not the only one. So I’m switching back to paper books. I’ve always read novels only on paper, and from now on I’ll do the same with nonfiction. Text in a paper book looks better than on Perplexity Computer.
I could keep going with this list. I could tell you about my morning runs, where I stubbornly refuse to wear earplugs or headphones. I see no reason to cram digital information into every available minute of my day. I prefer hearing the birds, the dogs, and my own laboring breath.
Or I could tell you about the drawing table I set up last year, judiciously covered with paper, pens, and pencils—real, physical objects—still waiting for me to continue the artistic experiment I started
