Searching for distraction, re-reading an article from the New York Time's crack Wirecutter product review squad headlined, “Apple’s new AI features? Overhyped.”

For reasons unknown, the odd doggerel pops into mind: 

T’was buzzy in the hypish gloom/All gaseous and glitzy in the raves/All delulu were the AI loons/ Saying, not, “forevermore”/Saying instead, too soon.

Apologies to both Lewis Carroll and Poe for the inelegance of the mashup, but you never know how the mental machinery will connect random dots.

Or maybe it’s the day after All Hallows Eve, and the location where I’m letting my fingers do the babbling; a farmhouse in rural Vermont where the tree-limned hills are doing their best Blair Witch imitation.

Not that we need any more spooky in the air.

Not with everything seemingly poised, knife-edge balanced, over a chasm of deep uncertainty

You know whereof I speak.

There’s another convergence of past, present, future that comes with letting fingers jitter, twitch, and tap  in this particular place.

This farmhouse was the bride-price demanded by the remarkable journalist, Dorothy Thompson, to enter into wedded bliss with Sinclair Lewis, America’s first Nobel Laureate in literature.

She interviewed Adolph Hitler, writing in 1931 that she walked in “convinced I was meeting the future dictator of Germany,” only to radically conclude he’d amount to nothing by the end of the conversation.

By contrast, four years later, her husband wrote “It Can’t Happen Here” a 1935 dystopian novel, full of razor sharp insight, showing how what happened in Germany, could damn well here.

Put it this way: observing the man, she did not see what he could become.

Put it this way: observing the nation, he saw what it might become.  Even if 89 years later..

Next Tuesday can’t come soon enough.

I wish next Tuesday would never come at all.

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