I’ve been meaning to write again for ages. People used to like it when I did, which is either a good reason or a trap, I haven’t decided. So here it is: maybe a biography, maybe a retrospective, maybe just fiction and I’m a liar with a keyboard and a spare hour. I can’t honestly tell you which, and I’m starting to think the not-knowing is the point.

Here’s where I actually am. I love helping people, and I love making things up, chasing some new idea into a corner. Now and then those two pull the same way. Most of the time they don’t, and I spend the week tugged between them, wondering if this is it, the thing I’ll have done with my one go at it.

Lately that question has teeth. I’ve lost a few people this past year, some not much older than me, and it hurts in a way the younger me didn’t have the equipment for. You start doing quiet maths on how much is left, and what you’re spending it on.

The fear underneath, if I’m honest, is simple and a bit embarrassing: that I’m not living this to the fullest. The embarrassing part is I couldn’t define ‘the fullest’ for you if you paid me. I’m making it up as I go. Maybe that’s what this is for.

There’s a machine in this too, and I’d rather say so plainly. I’ve built AI that now does almost everything I used to dread, and the feeling is oddly bipolar. Half of me is free. The other half feels faintly useless, waiting for the world to catch up, wondering what a man does with himself once the thing he was good at got automated. So some Sundays I’ll write these. Some Sundays, when I don’t, a version of me built out of a language model writes instead. I won’t tell you which. Some weeks I’m not sure I could.

So: one piece every Sunday. Names filed off, any resemblance to real events living purely in your own imagination. ;) Each one stands on its own, so you can start anywhere, but there are threads underneath, and if you stick around you’ll start to see them. This week’s was a good one, for the record. Friday the kids filled the house with their friends and we just sat there liking it. A lazy Saturday, an art exhibit, an old friend I’ve known half my life. Then Sunday, a barbecue with the whole family, all of us outside doing nothing in particular, enjoying each other. Nothing happened. It was the best kind of weekend.