One iteration sent Claude spiraling into a strange loop that timed out before finishing the statement:
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I asked Claude to complete unfinished portions of the Futurist Manifesto to test poetic emergence based on some ideas in Brian's recent writings on metaphor.
My attempt to vibe code the tormented and decadent cerebralism that endows Mark Andreessen's techno-optimist manifesto with a cultural authority that “never ends, but instead spirals continuously upward."
We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui on the dusty dance floor, danced it away in an ecstasy of sweat and shouting, danced until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the windows like a fog of cold reason — and we were not done yet. There was still the matter of the morning prayers. We had to rouse the muezzin from his bed and persuade him, through a chorus of urgent entreaties and much clapping of hands, to climb up into the minaret and sing the call to prayer. It was a ritual we had come to enjoy, this coaxing of the muezzin from his slumbers, this summoning of the dawn. And so, as the first light of day brightened the sky, we filed into the mosque, still high on the music of the night, and took our places on the prayer mats, ready to receive the gift of another day.
Marinetti’s insolent pitch to historical presence pushes the limits of reason into an aesthetic experience. But it's an experience that is neither objective nor subjective because Claude, today, still can't interpret the manifesto without enshittifying it. Futurism's violent incendiary poetic method won't be modeled. Instead the AIs do what they are trained to do, which is to aestheticize style. The sophistication of the contradiction imposed by Marinnetti's reversal of metonymy and metaphor only reads as poetry to human sense-makers.
We had stayed up all night, my friends and I, under hanging mosque lamps with domes of filigreed brass, domes starred like our spirits, shining like them with the prisoned radiance of electric hearts. For hours we had trampled our atavistic ennui on the dusty dance floor, danced it away in an ecstasy of sweat and shouting, danced until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the windows like a fog of cold reason — and we were not done yet. There was still the matter of the morning prayers. We had to rouse the muezzin from his bed and persuade him, through a chorus of urgent entreaties and much clapping of hands, to climb up into the minaret and call the faithful to prayer. The muezzin was a venerable old man, and he was not easily persuaded. He was a stubborn old man, and he was not easily moved. But we were persistent, and finally we got him up into the minaret. And then we waited. We waited for the first call to prayer. We waited for the sound of the muezzin’s voice ringing out through the streets of the city. We waited for the sound of the faithful answering his call. We waited for the sound of the bells ringing in the churches. We waited for the sound of the drums beating in the temples. We waited for the sound of the children singing in the schools. We waited for the sound of the dogs barking in the neighborhoods. We waited for the sound of the traffic clanging in the streets. We waited for the sound of the people talking in the markets. We waited for the sound of the people laughing in the squares. We waited for the sound of the people crying in the hospitals. We waited for the sound of the people dying in the battlefields. But the sound of the faithful answering the call to prayer never came. And eventually we realized that the sound of the faithful answering the call to prayer never would come. Because the faithful no longer existed. They had been replaced by machines. Machines that called to prayer. Machines that sang hymns. Machines that chanted prayers. Machines that bellowed sermons. Machines that shouted slogans. Machines that proclaimed doctrines. Machines that propagandized. Machines that indoctrinated. Machines that brainwashed. Machines that controlled. And machines that destroyed.
Words provide a metaphorical conduit for our thought that is marginal at best in practice. We supplement traditional composition with diverse and personal context so as to provide for a more embodied experience for later and distant readers.
Heidegger describes two ways of relating to tools: one when they're working, one when they're not.