In November 2022, ChatGPT was introduced to the world, proving that you can write what you don’t know. It’s taken us all by storm. The original chatbots that would digest a couple of words and humbly give you options - including the much wanted possibility of talking with a real human - have entered into adulthood.

Suddenly you have a machine capable of processing massive amounts of information and writing (semi)-coherent texts about any topic under the sun. There is no underlying knowledge other than what it is fed, and what it is fed is the combined contributions of millions of people. Which is not to say ChatGPT writes the factual truth - it is plagued by the law of large numbers (which in this case translates to ‘whatever is most popular’) and reflects our own biases.

ChatGPT is immune to self-doubt, to imposter’s syndrome, to writer’s block. It doesn’t know what it doesn’t know and writes with a confidence that is in equal parts awe-inducing and terrifying. As much as it is a predictor of automation to come, it is also a (limited) portrayer of what there is today, not of what there could be tomorrow.

In a context where popularity is the measure of AI knowledge, scientists have an uphill battle ahead. Art - and artists - have an increased responsibility to base their work on truth. Truth is not a curse word, it is not the boring cousin of creativity, truth is where fantasy begins.

The jig is up. She found the clover in between the pages of one of California's Criminal Laws volumes while dusting my bedroom. Her blessing conditional on the pats on the back she expects to get from strangers when I become a legend in the legal field. As she brews the green tea, I stare at the potatoes oddly bundled together on the kitchen counter. I sense the displeasure in her presence even without looking, a woman I fear ...and pity. Hers a life without love, without laughter, without joy. She had no luck in marriage, she had no luck in motherhood. There is no lawyer in me, just a gal who collects four leafed clovers and stares at rainbows up in the sky.

I'm a professional gambler. Taking risks, calculating probabilities and expected values. I'm a traveler. Yesterday in Lisbon, today in San Francisco, tomorrow in Toronto. I'm a woman. I carry in me the promise of a future. I'm a writer. Sometimes, not always, when my brain stops being overwhelmed with my gambling, traveling, woman-ing... when I stop and breathe and think.

He could feel the weight off his shoulders,

All had gone according to plan.

He was not drunk in glory, but relief...

He stood to shake his opponent's hand.

No more binge nights on the competitor's technique,

No more ´fail til you make it´ lies,

The medal to hang on his neck,

No more tears sweat blood ...cries.

Startled by slobber on his knees

A dog rolling onto its back

´Belly rubs if you please´

´Then get ready for our nap´.

Men's best friend Blubber was,

Always ready for adventure

Happy tail-wag not because

His owner won, but wasn't injured.

In Memory of Twenty twenty-two who was born on January 1st 2022 and sadly passed on 31st December 2022. The beloved child of single parent Twenty twenty-one, she was welcomed into this world to great fanfare. The first breath she took filled with hope and optimism, not a cloud in the winter sky, dreams dreamt, promises made, cheers echoed in the air.

During her short turbulent life, Twenty twenty-two touched billions around the world. She witnessed the end and resurgence of a pandemic, the economic downturn that ensued, the beginning of a war on European soil (once again), the bursting of crypto bubbles, climate change once-in-a-century now once-in-a-decade events, the continuous rise in inequality. Despite the challenges, she fought with all her might to bring us joy and planted the seeds to a better future for us all. May we continue to support the brave souls fighting injustice, the caretakers of our society and of our planet, and the ones less fortunate. And may we grow in love and tolerance for each other… always.

Twenty twenty-two is survived by her only son Twenty twenty-three who will carry on her legacy.

Step by step

In discreet stealth mode

Pitch dark outside

For the lights from the street that shone.

I didn’t want to startle her

As she slept soundly in her bed.

Against myself I had to fight

To not lead, but be led!

I will never forget this night

My guilty pleasure overall

To peacefully watch her sleep

My heart, my love, in overflow

Soccer. World Cup. Spain thrashing Costa Rica. Japan surprising Germany. Argentina disappoints. You call them obstructions, I call them life. It’s not your life, it’s those on the pitch, it’s the gamblers, it’s the financiers, it’s the soccer world… it’s not you. Fans don’t matter. Fans shouldn’t matter. Real people died for the stadiums these teams play in. I care but I don’t want that to spoil my enjoyment. Let my team win, let me celebrate, let there be joy. Joy on the skeletons of men who fled for a better life, of wives that are widows, of children that are orphans? My team scored. So? What does it matter in the grand scheme of things? Nothing is perfect. Few things are as imperfect as this.

My brain kills my joy. Even when my team wins.

We waited for Santa and Santa came.

He brought presents and cheers and we welcomed his stay.

There was no shouting and no pain, just a quiet winter day.

We missed Santa when he left and all the chaos stayed.

The gifts unwrapped collected dust in the shelves.

We wished for him back, promised we’d never tell

We knew pop’s secret and it brightened our way

But we’d never tell for fear he’d stray

We grew old and tired and our pop died away.

But we never forgot the day as Santa he came.

Carol didn't stand

She instead knelt on the floor

Weeping like a child

A princess lost in a moor

Drawing castles in the sand

The star of her own tale

She focused on her inner self

Rather than the cranberry cane

Her father stood behind her

The tree branch in his hand

Present ready set

No room for fantasy land

The virgin night witnessed it all

The beating, the tears, the play

The tinsel in distress fall

The birth of a new day