Longhand is more organic than keying. When I type, I participate in a machine, a matrix. I would rather retain my humanity than coalesce with a robotic octopus. I don’t think AI was what Plotinus had in mind for the One. The monitor I bought has beauty, but also tentacles with suckers. To me, the digitizing of our identities subordinates us to a Beast that “slouches off to Bethlehem to be born.” The computer age is the Second Coming, but of a malign one this time. Lately I’ve felt drained as if by vampires. The blood in my vessels went sterile, making me undead. Computers would render me another vampire or the “nightmare Death-in-Life.”
Weave a circle round him thrice
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honeydew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Coleridge issued the warning two hundred years ago. By night the Luddites raided places of production and destroyed machines. What would D.H. Lawrence say of our age? If his was “tragic,” then ours must be a cataclysm. And after the mass hypnosis has marched humans off to slaughter, I might be Mary Shelley’s Last Man.