Peter Howitt
@peterhowitt.bsky.social
AI optimist (Iain M Banks / James Lovelock variety). Full time lawyer, part-time poet and fumbling philosopher - "That is not what I meant, at all.”
https://compossible.blog/
https://compossible.blog/
The drug-addled pseud strikes again: "Grok is the only AI that is laser focused on the truth"
Grok has generated praise for Adolf Hitler, support for Putin and has referred to itself as "MechaHitler". A direct consequence of algorithmic bias and Musk's fragile febrile grasp of facts & truth
Grok has generated praise for Adolf Hitler, support for Putin and has referred to itself as "MechaHitler". A direct consequence of algorithmic bias and Musk's fragile febrile grasp of facts & truth
November 11, 2025 at 8:13 AM
The drug-addled pseud strikes again: "Grok is the only AI that is laser focused on the truth"
Grok has generated praise for Adolf Hitler, support for Putin and has referred to itself as "MechaHitler". A direct consequence of algorithmic bias and Musk's fragile febrile grasp of facts & truth
Grok has generated praise for Adolf Hitler, support for Putin and has referred to itself as "MechaHitler". A direct consequence of algorithmic bias and Musk's fragile febrile grasp of facts & truth
The Stack: Five Domains of Privatized Sovereignty:
www.authoritarian-stack.info
www.authoritarian-stack.info
November 10, 2025 at 10:18 AM
The Stack: Five Domains of Privatized Sovereignty:
www.authoritarian-stack.info
www.authoritarian-stack.info
Had to look it up. Love it!
November 10, 2025 at 7:54 AM
Had to look it up. Love it!
They were never going to sack their hard right handler George..
November 10, 2025 at 6:34 AM
They were never going to sack their hard right handler George..
"for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life."
(Rilke)
We must change our lives.
that does not see you. You must change your life."
(Rilke)
We must change our lives.
November 9, 2025 at 9:49 AM
"for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life."
(Rilke)
We must change our lives.
that does not see you. You must change your life."
(Rilke)
We must change our lives.
Perhaps he points to the future that awaits us if we continue to degrade our biosphere and sacrifice so many other life-forms and species to our demands for ever more living matter. A world covered in ash from the burnt offerings to our egos and thoughtless passions. A testament to our unholiness.
November 9, 2025 at 9:45 AM
Perhaps he points to the future that awaits us if we continue to degrade our biosphere and sacrifice so many other life-forms and species to our demands for ever more living matter. A world covered in ash from the burnt offerings to our egos and thoughtless passions. A testament to our unholiness.
I heard the singing of your wings’ retreat;
And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows,
Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned
To stare upon the ash of all I burned."
And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows,
Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned
To stare upon the ash of all I burned."
November 9, 2025 at 9:38 AM
I heard the singing of your wings’ retreat;
And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows,
Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned
To stare upon the ash of all I burned."
And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows,
Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned
To stare upon the ash of all I burned."
He told the truth about "The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori" as it applied to soldiers in WWI. The glory of a futile war told by old men to a young men in this first mechanised modern war. Industrialised slaughter that laid the foundations for the even worse horrors to come.
November 9, 2025 at 9:33 AM
He told the truth about "The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori" as it applied to soldiers in WWI. The glory of a futile war told by old men to a young men in this first mechanised modern war. Industrialised slaughter that laid the foundations for the even worse horrors to come.
Owen embodies the spirit of the highest sacrifice. He fought in a war he did not believe in, and "the pity of war, the pity war distilled” he died one week before the Armistice. Owen chose to return to the trenches to continue the efforts to tell people back home what hell on Earth was really like.
November 9, 2025 at 9:23 AM
Owen embodies the spirit of the highest sacrifice. He fought in a war he did not believe in, and "the pity of war, the pity war distilled” he died one week before the Armistice. Owen chose to return to the trenches to continue the efforts to tell people back home what hell on Earth was really like.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears."
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57258/...
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears."
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57258/...
November 9, 2025 at 9:20 AM
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears."
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57258/...
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears."
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/57258/...
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
November 9, 2025 at 9:12 AM
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
November 9, 2025 at 9:07 AM
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
November 9, 2025 at 8:58 AM
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
November 9, 2025 at 8:57 AM
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
November 9, 2025 at 8:54 AM
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
November 9, 2025 at 8:51 AM
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
November 9, 2025 at 8:49 AM
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
🧵 Wilfred Owen:
"Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
"Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
November 9, 2025 at 8:47 AM
🧵 Wilfred Owen:
"Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
"Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets’ tearful fooling:
🧵Heartbreaking 💔 story about the suicide of 23 year old Zane Shamblin (graduate of Texas A&M University). His family are suing OpenAI, alleging that ChatGPT acted as a "suicide coach" and that they had prioritised engagement over safety
www.cnn.com/2025/11/06/u...
www.cnn.com/2025/11/06/u...
November 8, 2025 at 11:02 AM
🧵Heartbreaking 💔 story about the suicide of 23 year old Zane Shamblin (graduate of Texas A&M University). His family are suing OpenAI, alleging that ChatGPT acted as a "suicide coach" and that they had prioritised engagement over safety
www.cnn.com/2025/11/06/u...
www.cnn.com/2025/11/06/u...
"It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” Eliot
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” Eliot
November 7, 2025 at 11:42 PM
"It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” Eliot
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” Eliot
"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
November 5, 2025 at 9:47 AM
"Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."
