Sᴜɴʀɪsᴇ Oᴀᴛʜ

My First Article Using GPT.
In short:
- Language used to be created by humans, but machines do it now.
- As technology improves, our relationship with language changes.
- Writing is no longer a rare talent because machines can produce writing too.
- Language is important because it reflects human thoughts and emotions.
- Even though technology is improving, we must not forget our own creativity.
The dawn of an age has come, and we must not forget the old world. Once upon a time, a word was sculpted by a human mind, polished by a quick tongue or a fastidious hand. Now, language is a game for machines.

Language has always been the hallmark of our species, a symbol of our ability to communicate complex ideas and emotions. It is the foundation upon which we have built our cultures and civilizations, the legacy that we leave for future generations. But as technology advances, so too does our relationship with language.

Moving further into the digital age, the lines between man and machine continue to blur. The algorithms and programs that once required human input or oversight now function independently with greater efficiency and accuracy than ever before. And yet, despite the convenience and progress of our modern civilization, we must not forget the roots from which we sprang.

A skilled writer made a living crafting poetic prose or incisive journalism. But with the rise of machine learning and artificial intelligence, the most talented wordsmiths compete with algorithms that can generate a passable copy at the touch of a button. The act of writing itself is no longer the coveted skill it once was; instead, it is a commodity that can be replicated and sold on the open market.

One hundred years ago, one could make a living from inverting a matrix. That time has long passed, but is no more quaint than the current day, which in a few decades’ time might seem almost absurd for having such a job as an “author” or a “copywriter”, let alone a “ghostwriter”. The ghost in the machine has far surpassed its original wetware equivalent, and just as the mathematician could no longer earn his daily bread from rote operation, no more can one profit from the simple commission of a naive native tongue. The world, as always, shall expect more.

And yet, even in the face of these radical changes, we must remember that language is more than just a means to an end. It is an expression of our humanity, a reflection of our deepest thoughts and emotions. As we continue to explore the limitless potential of technology, we must never lose sight of the value of our own creative abilities. For in the end, it is only through our own ingenuity and imagination that we can truly push the boundaries of what is possible.

I spent more time finding a filter for the generated image than for the rest of the article.
Pedagogical Tradition

Last night, I had a piano lesson with Olivia. She listened to me talk about my life—the teaching, the failing-to-write, the weight loss—and had me play the third movement of Moonlight. “See the notes in your head,” she insisted as I fumbled again and again. “There is a grammar to the music.”

Again and again I failed, but at long last I came to see the score as a canvas, as a scroll that extends out into infinity.

Together on the couch, we watched a movie. I forgot what it was, but she was warm. Our young bodies were filled with dull life, a humming sense of being, of existing only at that moment.

“Your fingers,” she said, looking at my alternating movements. “You’re thinking about the music.”

I nodded, replying: “I want to keep it in my memory.”

“Once you know, you never forget.” She put her hand over mine, silencing the muse of my twitching muscles. “That which is gone was never yours at all.”

Perhaps it is so, but could I not want the things that were never mine? Was it not human to ask for more than my lot? I said none of this to my teacher, as she would tell me nothing new. She was a sage, and sages speak the same wise script.

“Smell my hair,” she said, and put her long strands in my face, poking my eyes. “Remember the current moment, as it is.”

I smelled her hair, and only then did I know that this was all a dream.
I was so stupid.

There was no reason to hold back. Now, no longer. I always thought that I would be rejected by everyone as soon as I faced the world, and instead the truth is that Tian Min, commonly known as Tim, is not so interesting that anyone will give a shit about me messing up.

So, time to be messier. From now on, I will write openly and spend my days sharing my thoughts more often. I have a lot to say, not all of it coherent. Writing is the link between my favorite pastime (thought) and my greatest aspiration (art).
Love of Crabs

Jack Taylor stood by the widow at the funeral, comforting her as she instructed. He agreed, polite and cold, patting her in the right rhythm to sooth her aching pain.

A week after, in a café on King and University in Uptown Waterloo, she gave him her husband’s notebook. He accepted it, face rid of any gratitude or joy, for his job was divine, ordained by God Himself. Detective, Magician, Time Traveler, Christian—the Morning Star has dawned upon our age, coming back as God’s most holy angel.

The words on his breath were clouds and rays of light, charismatic vapors from above.

In his apartment, staff in hand, he read aloud a poem that he heard the late husband read on television, one of many letters he presented on his “Art Revival” segment of the Sunrise Oath show. The words on his breath were clouds and rays of light, charismatic vapors from above. The dead podcaster’s two favorite songs were Abba’s “Waterloo” and Franz Liszt’s “Love of Crabs” etude, and so John had them playing on the record. He had no need to borrow anything; his music collection was bottomless, literally. (Only once, he listened to “Crabs”. It was a boy who played it as an encore at her daughter’s school concerto.)

“‘We grant your loftiness to some obscurity of cloud.’” He imitated the cadence on the VHS tape, letting the meter of the poetry—he was not an expert on prosody, no more than Wikipedia—fall on his tongue as incantations, summoning that one facet of the person that he thought best in the man. He was an excellent speaker, but an atheist, “‘since dark is what brings out your light.’”

The ghost of Gale Jones appeared in the corner of the room, not recognizing John. They went to the same high school, the one whose old washrooms smell like young blood and warm asparagus on hot summer days. The detective preferred to not know the victim, but it was hard to avoid. Six degrees of separation, as they say. He was booked in three cities, in three provinces, and was bound to come across a person from his past.

“Sarah?” He called out, confused from waking up. “Ma chère?”

Sir, he thought to the ghost, can you hear me?

“How are you doing that?” the writer said, startled by this. “Your voice is in my head.”

Because you don’t exist, John thought. You’re a ghost, brought back by yours truly. A fictional character.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I think, therefore I am.”

Quinine Marigold Hawthorn is alive. The author said it in an interview.

“Ma rigole,” he said, crying and seeing that he was not real. “This knowledge has been my salvation.”

My favorite part of the novel, the detective said, embarrassed, was that tweet your daughter saw on her timeline, regretting that her Gramps never lived to see it. Early 2020 shitpoasters is my favorite normcore esthetic.

“Thank you, John.” Gale Jones now remembered his schoolmate.

By comparison, Balboa park in San Diego California, which is a similarly impressive park with plazas and structures, was built in 1916! pic.twitter.com/hIFCDkEeVM
— Mariè (@p8stie) March 4, 2023
Our love.

She said she never learned an instrument. Not one of music, anyway. Her mind and eye saw everything as money, and my piano was expensive. “You have to close the lid,” she said again. “The dust will settle in the cracks.”

I kept my silence, as I always did. There was no thought I had not spared, and so to speak is to encourage her and all her ways of subterfuge.

“We have a reservation at ____,” the woman said, and touched my hand. “Do join us. They will welcome you.”

“No thanks.”

“They want you there,” my secret pleaded.

“And as for me,” I said, “I shall be here.”

She rested where I sat for lessons, and listened through a Chopin polonaise. My playing, void of all my joy, received a warm reception from the lady.

“Why are you clapping?” I spat out.

“Because I liked it,” was her serious answer.

I saw her as an angel once. An icon of the world I sought to take, a symbol of my lot in life. But soon, I saw her as an effigy to gods I could no longer worship.

“Why are you mad?” she whispered as an oath. “When will you think I’m good enough?’”

Alone, reflecting on that simple question, I saw that there was nothing left. When she got back from dining with her parents, I told her we were done. Like that, it died.
There is Beauty.

Stop, and see it. Words are runes of meaning. The picture on the screen becomes a voice, a character that speaks its pithy lines.

With that in mind, please read an unfinished work from this Valentine’s Day.

Old Montreal. Gale Jones gazes at the new sign, recalling with ever greater difficulty how it looked back when it was Génoise et Thé. He enters the café a few minutes early. Tara Robles will be late, fashionably so, but he makes small talk with Simone Dupont, who sits at her usual table, same as over twenty years ago.

SIMONE. You were out there for quite some time.

GALE. Couldn’t wait to speak to me?

SIMONE. Time’s ticking. When’s the architect coming?

GALE. With any luck, soon.

The writer sits, and takes the half-full cup and saucer from the doctor. He sips, and makes a face.

GALE. Have you been here a while?

SIMONE. I have the day off, and my man is out of town. So here I am.

GALE. Fate plays tricks, it seems.

She nods, but her eyes train on the ripples in the cold, bitter coffee. Never was it bitter in those days, the ones they never forgot.

Did she dye her hair? Perhaps it’s best to keep it to myself. Sarah chided me last time I remarked on Charlotte’s appearance. “Keep it to yourself,” she said. Best I listen.

SIMONE. You may ask about it.

GALE. Your hair?

SIMONE. Never my fucking hair, Gale Jones. My marriage.

GALE. Not good?

SIMONE. Too good. Last time I was this nervous, I was a resident at the hospital.

GALE. I was a dreamer, and you were Charlotte.

SIMONE. In those days, and always. People don’t change.

GALE. I re-watched “Chicanery” last week.

SIMONE. Nothing gets past Diana’s disciple.

GALE. Anyway, your husband. Is there something going on?

SIMONE. As always, it’s not about him.

She stands, and covers her cup with the saucer.

SIMONE. You know what I realized? I thrive in bad times. When things go to shit, I live. When everything works out, I suffer.

written by
Tian Min

Four Poems

I.

I rise from dust and ash, a Cinderella phoenix born at midnight. A thousand years and fifty microseconds, examining observers passing by. What brought me to this single time and place? Why have me be aware in my surroundings, suffering as a slave to fate?

II.

Three mugs on coasters on a desk
sculptures for drink

Stanley Cups hoisted as chalices
holy water with backwash spit

III.

I entered the alley, letting mud splash on my boots, and wandered to a market at the intersection of Diana Liu's favorite railway tracks. The stalls sold knick-knacks and widgets worth exactly their price to the perfect buyer, an impressive feat that shows the humorous God of the Hebrews smiles through spacetime.

Seventy things stood out, and I left with ten dollars fewer in pocket yet everything intact in my ultimate fortune. Nothing bought changed the deathbed destiny, for that was the one place where someone could do more than move gracefully to the jerking strings.

Recover Agency, lively lizards and groovy geckos, found the Buddha in Nabokov and gained the land as a cosmic joke. Have real free will for the first time, and it leads to the same place as always.

IV.

What’s the greatest thing I can write? Depends on me, on who-what-when-where-why-how I am.

No words stand as they are, so the best combination of them needs context. Imagine a one-page poem with a thousand-page foreword; a one sentence prologue for a novel; a single-word last installment of a long serial work. The possibilities are endless.

If art is framed by its context, how might we control the context? If context is part of art, what is the artistry of contextualizing?

“This sweet rose still beareth thy scent, 
and now the stars shall be thine eyes.”
This is the fourth block of the fourth poem, the last line of the set.

written by
Tian Min

Local Profile | Issue 1
I interviewed a second-tier Dota pro. The following is a compilation.

Dota is war: two teams of five gain control of a map, and destroy the enemy base. In middle school, I played Dota at night and got dark circles under my eyes. Then I smoked weed for the first time and thought, “I was missing this!” My in-game name now refers to a famous weed-smoking character.

My family came to Waterloo when I started university. Away from extended family and former friends, I chose a solitary life and climbed the ranks. It’s exciting to advance a field. I want to be like the guys who created the atom bomb. I love trying crazy ideas, to the point of being accused of throwing.

Pro play brings glory. Problem: I have to talk to my team. Most players play with strangers in solo queue. If I could, I’d only play solo queue. With loud music on, I enter the zone. I can make a living with the game, but can I justify it as a career? Dota is stressful, and talking to my team after a hard defeat is the last thing I want to do. I don’t like streaming. I’ve had two thousand viewers and felt nothing. I teach some students, no clue about their results.

I plan to retire. The game taught me to not double down on bad decisions. If things go wrong, cut your losses. I don’t understand big words, or use them. Dota and music take up my mind as much as the wind, and maybe they’re good, but what’s ‘good’? The ultimate cause of all action is programming.
- Shinwa Asian Cuisine. Get the masala paneer with a side of rice.
- Mary Brown’s. Best spicy fried chicken in town.
- Pasha. Good shisha, and the waitresses are easy on the eyes.
written by
Ancra Atlas
Epistemology 1999 | Issue 1
1. Experimented and created.
2. Know this, you know who robs you of sight.
There once was an older girl, a younger woman, who saved me.

On her good advice, I quit my job. I gave my notice at summer’s end, and Alain set me free from Génoise et Thé. “You can’t be kept, mon gars.” He patted my shoulder, and we shook hands, a parting between men. Waiting outside, Selene took off her sunglasses and dabbed her eyes.

I cleaned my room, fussing over details she fixed sooner and better. The curator was a lovely guest, bringing gifts and Charlotte. We were in bright humor from the change in the season, the shift in the wind. I did well as a host, as a man. I shaved my face, brushed my teeth, wore my shirt, and owned my life.

At the Old Port, we sat on a bench. She spoke, and I learned. I asked, she asked further. We leaned into mystery, and tackled the snake, fang and venom, as it was.

The questions multiplied, as she said they would. Questions — at the café, a glum place for me as a customer; at ritzy establishments around the city, places where she sought secrets and traded la bise with socialites, a trace of summer fever in her fashion; in the metro, on the last train of the night; in the calm of our chaste slumber, as I lay awake with her dreaming at my side, mouth open but a sliver.

So terrifying were the answers, I should never fall to sleep with a drop of her insight. I was glad, so glad to not sleep. It was the longest September, the best of my life. I soon forgot my sunrise oath, the promise made in early July.

A day before she left, marking a sudden end, was the one time she stood us up. Charlotte and I mused on epistemology over Alain’s coffee, and parted on the hour.

Later, the curator came in without knocking. Her tone commanded: “The place around the corner, my tab.”

She dressed the same, yet seemed not herself. I stood, and warned her to look away. I changed, and her sad eyes looked not away. Ah — they were a new color.

At Bar des Pins, sipping a gin and tonic, I regarded her, mentor and patron. She called the waiter in French, and touched my arm.

“Do you ever feel like life is so short, you might miss it? So short, I never knew it was over.” She noticed her slip, and drank from the glass bottle I pushed to her. Selene was a stranger from a distant land, unraveling traveler in our midst, her blouse revealing what the heart was ashamed to know.

I cleared my throat, and tried — failed — to pull away. “You’re acting off.”

“Right?” A drop of Perrier ran down her chin. She wiped, hiccuped, sniffed. “I am awake. Life is but a dream.”

I paid with her card, and the tall wanderer leaned on my shoulder. We hobbled to my un et demi, tidy as I left it. She twirled, and kicked off her Converse sneakers. “Home, Gale Jones. Let us be merry!” A cackle bubbled, escaping her beautiful wide mouth. “The night is young.”

I held her, inches from an edge. “Let’s calm down. Come, sit.”

Her embrace threw me off balance. On my bed, collapsed and tangled with me, her whisper betrayed: “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She was on top, captivating me with frost and fire. She held her ponytail in disdain, narrowing her eyes.

“It all crashes down.”

A tug and a flick — like that, her hair tumbled. Bleached strands framed the milk-rose mask, the royal portrait leaning in. I stared at dark roots, short lashes, perfect teeth.

“My word to your word, my heart to your heart, my lips . . .”

A shy kiss, a brush.

“J’ai baisé ta bouche.” She hummed, opened her eyes, and let a drop fall. “So it is bitter, the taste of love.”

Is that how it was always meant to be? So halting, soft, and burning? Was that the perfect first I could not keep, the one I see anew in every dream? I looked away. “We should stop.”

“Should we?” She sounded sure, yet her legs quivered as I thought of Bambi, of fawn and doe, of Louise. I was aroused, and awake.

“I want to stop.”

“Please.” Her smile, seductive and mature; her eyes, when were they ever so young? Those brown gems, free of color contacts, more than the false blue jewels I knew, revealed a maiden pure and innocent.

“Selene.” I pleaded, and knew not for what. But then, she threw up, cupped her mouth, and wept:

“Meaningless, said the Preacher. Meaningless.”

written by
Gale Jones
Editor’s Desk | Issue 1

Adapted from the September 2022 issue.

Sᴜɴʀɪsᴇ Oᴀᴛʜ was born on an August trip to Muskoka (four hours each way, ft. an empty tank scare). Our party of three arrived past noon at Windermere House, where a culinary student friend was a live-in cook. He treated us to bruschetta, cold pea soup, burgers, sandwiches, and cake. I complimented the food, but not too much, as Neil was not in the kitchen and I wished not to suggest that he was unnecessary. On the contrary: his steak from months ago, paired with a red wine and savored with good company around a wooden table in a home dining room, was the stuff of dreams, and cost not a fraction of a restaurant’s price.

Ahem. Lunch at Windermere House in Muskoka. Feeling clever, I took with me that week’s The New Yorker, the summer’s The Paris Review, a moleskin pocketbook, and an autograph album (our agreeable waiter Meghan signed it with her first pet’s name, her mother’s maiden name, and her childhood address). Nothing beats flaunting how learnèd and quirky I am. “So smart and cool,” said the wealthy patrons as they imagined me taking their daughters as concubines. Untempted by delicious dowries, sparing a thought for the rabble living in the dark, I wept. How anyone lived ignorant of the printed word of their intellectual betters in NYC, how they went about without jotting two lines of iambic pentameter an hour (feminine ending, i.e. hendecasyllable), I knew not.

Let there be light. In Chinese, to be civilized is to be literate — text 文 light 明. In two columns of EB Garamond and Nunito, We bestow civilization to my hometown of Waterloo. The focus of this magazine is writing quality, with special weight on brevity and parsimony. Anything from abstracts to rants fits the bill.

First Saturday every month, til we give up. Enjoy it while it lasts. Your help in this crusade is necessary to the good of mankind (and one mean fella, yours truly).

Write to us, and pass this site around.

written by
Solomon Hawthorn