Been reading a steady stream of laments on AI warnings, disappointments, prophecies of ruin. It leaves me hesitant to say aloud that I love it, at least sometimes. The love feels suspect now. Am I praising the wolf for its beautiful fur while it stands in the pasture? My affection for clever machines is old. Decades ago, I obtained the first Notator version on a blinking Atari they called a Stacy. One click and a song was in another key. A wrong note nudged into place without shame. A restless beat could be slowed. Like I had been given a key to a door that hadn’t existed the day before. The machinery assisted me, it didn’t replace me. Gave me back my ideas with polish.

And other small magics. The grocery store doors parting as I approached, I never lifted a hand. Cruise control agreeing to keep my pace while I squeezed my foot for a second or two. The damn Gods of spell-check guarding my language. Mechanization has always been a kind of artificial intelligence. The machine decides. Save me from the friction of effort. Few people cursed the sliding door vs. the doorman’s unemployment, or accused cruise control of assassinating the driver’s skill. We actually marvel.

Now, one friend calls AI theft, another tells me the future is unreadable, and by the time pages arrive they will already be inked in permanent marker. I don’t doubt them. So the in-between is where I live; part wonder, part wary. AI is capable of beauty and blunder. To love it is to admit we are seduced by the thrill of possibilities unfolding without our lifting more than a finger. To fear it is to remember that every miracle comes with shadow. Perhaps all inventions arrive like this, inviting us to dance to the music without revealing how the music ends. And I can’t help it, the doors slide open, I step through.