The sky yesterday was leaden, shrouded in heavy clouds that threatened rain. The air was humid and sticky.
It may be that October is the month of Halloween, it may be that the weather of washed-out, duller colors makes me a little more melancholy. The fact is that that slow, grave sound of bells called my attention.
Three chimes, distinctly distinct, of about two minutes each.
Hypnotized by the melody, I approached the facade, climbed the stairs, pushed open the heavy door of the church, and crossed the threshold. I entered and a chill ran down my spine.
The hall was packed with familiar faces, some in attendance, many others following the ceremony in mute, from afar. Each with the distraught, resigned expression of someone who has lost a partner, a colleague, a creative person.
A sad melody, fused with the scent of wood and candles, set the stage for my thoughts. I was there, but I shouldn't have been.
“Today we gather to remember Laura, a communications professional who passed away.”
A moment of confusion, then I finally understood:
I WAS AT MY OWN FUNERAL.
At the exact moment I realized that all those people were there gathered to give me a final farewell, I began to sense something, a noise inside, but especially, outside. Voices, among the pews:
“Technology overwhelmed her,” someone said.
“It struggled but it was inevitable that it would end this way. Artificial Intelligence is faster, sly. It's everywhere.... had no chance. It was only a matter of time,” someone else replied.
“It came in suddenly and.... sbeeem! one clean shot and took her out. Who will be next?” echoed a shadow two rows over.
And then hugs, tears flowing, bitter smiles, and there I was, standing in the doorway, motionless, witnessing a lie, the Eternal Rest of my profession, according to the Creed that creativity is being extinguished at the hands of Generative AI.
The voices kept overlapping, rising in decibels, mingling with the priest's homily. They were talking about me, about the future of people like me, speculating about tomorrow.
How can anyone even think that an algorithm can replace the passion and madness of a creative act and the professionalism of knowing how to govern, justify it?
Suddenly I felt a rush that I could not ignore.
There I was, at my own funeral, in excellent health, still too full of energy to switch off.
On instinct, from my gut, I shouted it out, making my presence obvious. I punctuated every single word of that quotation, Pirandello's line from his Italian masterpiece "Il Fu Mattia Pascal" that, go figure why, I still have crammed in my memory drawer:
“Dead? Worse than dead: I am still alive”!
Then everyone present turned to me, dumbfounded.
“Oh, don't be frightened. I am not here to frighten you, but to free you from this misunderstanding.” I continued, approaching the ambo.
“Gentlemen, colleagues, friends here I beg you to accept the matter. I stand here, before you, in the fullness of my strength, as alive are my professional opportunities.
There must have been a mishap, a wrong trial, an innocent culprit. This condolence, I can understand but not accept.
Because creativity will not die today, nor tomorrow, nor ever.”
In the crowd, someone was whispering. A colleague, with a handkerchief and at the mercy of emotion, was wiping away tears.
“Think of the amanuenses and Guttemberg. Think of the invention of movable type.
Printing, now an established, taken for granted, normal tool for us, made book production much faster and cheaper, leading to a decrease in demand for manuscripts.
Did the amanuenses, who copied texts by hand, die? Quite the opposite! They adapted to the new environment by becoming printers and, having more time to exercise Critical Thinking and Knowledge, actively contributed to the creation of printed works.
Technology, folks, technology is not the enemy, but a companion, worth getting to know, to welcome, worth building relationships with, worth falling in love with. An ally that allows us to overcome barriers and our own limitations to explore the boldest ideas.
My/our death? A metaphor, a necessary step for continued rebirth in this ever-changing world.”
Some of those present murmured approval. One man, however, skeptical, stood up pointing his finger at me and saying, “How can we trust technology? It is taking away our humanity, our employment!”
I then searched my pockets, grabbed my smartphone and typed in the Question of Questions, fearing a 42 for an answer (few people understand this one; for more on the meaning, I encourage reading the novel “The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy” ... but back to the story).
And the answer came, instantly:
Over the crowd at that instant silence fell. Then some stood up, others squeezed into their seats. I did not understand. A reaction dictated by the AI's response or by finding out that I am and will still be here, to their delight, in spite of themselves?
It does not matter. But it was at my funeral that I grasped the collateral beauty and paradox of my time: in a world where AI becomes more and more present, we gain value.
And history, it repeats itself.
“Yet science, I thought; it has the illusion of making even easier and more comfortable Existence! But, admitting that it does indeed make it easier, with all its machines so difficult and complicated, I ask, I: And what worse service to those who are condemned to a vain trouble, than to make it easy and almost mechanical for them?”. (Il Fu Mattia Pascal, L. Pirandello, 1904)
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