Critique: Móðir, kona, meyja

I recently asked ChatGPT to critique a short memoir I had written a couple of years ago. I did several iterations and the results were similar, but not always the same.

It gave me some pointers and caught a couple of typos (every writer can use a good editor, AI or not) and seemed to grasp the point of the piece (“… graceful and conceptually sound… connection without possession, warmth without permanence.”) while at the same time pushing toward an opposite effect (“… the ending could land even harder… a tactile callback would give it additional heft.”)

To be fair, the AI program didn’t know that this piece was a part of a much longer piece that was about the impressions of my trip to Iceland and not just about my meeting with “K.” The AI bot took a dim view of any levity, and criticized it as having too much biographical detail (detail that I thought essential to give the poor reader some background the story.) ChatGPT also wanted me to insert lines of dialog which, with my imperfect memory, would have been putting words in her mouth.

Overall, ChatGPT's impressions were pretty accurate:

Móðir, kona, meyja is a tender, reflective memoir that succeeds most where it honors duration: the slow accrual of familiarity, care, and asymmetry that defines many online-to-offline friendships. The piece’s greatest strength is its emotional decency. You are consistently attentive to K as a full human being rather than a symbol or muse, and the essay never tips into self-dramatization. The closing metaphor of parallel stars is quietly earned and thematically apt.

But it still insisted on trying to shape it into something more rigid than what this gentle meeting was:

That said, the essay could gain clarity and resonance by tightening its temporal structure, sharpening its thematic spine…

My impression of its suggestions that they were akin to shaving the fuzz off a tennis ball (smoother but missing the point). Assuming that most new internet writing will now be run through this kind of filtration, I’ll be on the lookout for this kind of AI toxic masculinity.

The Boat of Longing

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

“A fine ship, all lit up, faint music coming across the water, the sounds of people laughing and singing, the craft steadily cutting through the still waters…”

Biking down the Rum River trail on a late winter's night, you must forgive me if my mind wanders during the trek. The recent warm weather has caused the river to have a lot of open water, and where the trail skirts the shore the fog sits quietly and creates a fantasy-world. The trail is usually empty after dark, especially in the winter. The feral cats are still active, black forms moving in the shadows, and in a stand of white pine an owl is heard, questioning my trespass.

“He pulled harder on the oars. Up the billow, into the trough…onward…farther onward…nearer and nearer the beautiful castle west in the sea…the castle which lay in the twist of gold, the castle where dwelt his boy. But the billow rolled so chill…”

Dreams come and then vanish, like the fog on the river. Those dreams that stay, that haunt me with an unbearable sadness, are the ones where my boys are young again, five or six years old. Their unselfconscious beauty and joy is lost forever, and for this loss I cannot be consoled.

“And the night closed in. That [he] did not notice. He only saw the castle where lived his boy.”

On a perfect summer’s evening, the kids and I are fishing in a bay. There are deer browsing on the shore, unafraid of the boat and its occupants. The sun touches the tree-tops across the lake, and we raise anchor and head back to the cabin. I blink, and find myself back on the trail, heading home on the narrow black ribbon that snakes between the fields of snow.

“On he rowed, and on, farther and farther into the skyline, out to the Great Ocean itself…“


~ Quotes are from The Boat of Longing (Længselens Baat) by Ole Edvart Rølvaag, 1921

Loring Park Girls

Loring park is Minneapolis’ answer to New York City’s Central park.

Although smaller, it still occupies several square blocks (including a pond) in downtown Minneapolis. In the late 60s it hadn’t yet reached the pinnacle of its notoriety but even then it was a place best be avoided after dark. There was the Salvation Army home for unwed mothers next to it, a funky junior college, and many apartments ringing its perimeter. Its reputation as a gay cruising spot was completely warranted.

At that time there were kids who played there, kids on their own, doing kid stuff like using the swings, playing hopscotch and, like the girls pictured below, even doing a little dress-up. When those of us attending the college used the park for impromptu photo sessions these urchins would sometimes insist on getting in on the action:

The park has made a comeback since then, The Walker Art Center Sculpture garden is connected to it and the once humble “JC” is now a mammoth community college—Loring Park has become its quad.

These girls would now be in their mid 60s, I wonder if they’ve revisited the park lately?

Caribbean Escape

All winter long I’ve been ‘escaping’ the cold and snow and general malaise with peeks at a 24/7 webcam from The Windmill Bar on St. John’s, Virgin Islands.

There is usually action from about 11am to 8pm (island time) with musical acts and diners enjoying the view with beverages and bar food. There is usually a vivid sunset over the bay behind the stage. In the morning crew cleans tables and condiment dispensers and the name of the musical act of the day is written upon a chalkboard, sometimes with a colorful drawing of a palm tree. On Monday and Friday afternoons a steel pan drummer enlivens the proceedings.

At night the view becomes monochrome and the feed becomes a security cam with infrared views of straggling customers leaving. After they are gone there is only an occasional flying insect disturbing the peace:

The story behind the Windmill bar is just as fascinating:



I'll be in Seattle this coming week-end, visiting the boy and his wife and their cats. We’ll probably have a night out too, with our own bar food and beverages and possibly even a view of the sunset over the sound.

We won’t be sporting shorts and Hawaiian shirts, however:

Giraffe Sandwches

Twenty Years Ago on FITK

To create the perfect giraffe sandwich, be sure to start with the best ingredients. When you are at the grocery, be sure to pick out a nice, fresh giraffe. Make sure that it doesn't contain any foreign objects, like Hawaiian shirts or fishing hats or tourists. Once you have your perfect giraffe, get the proper bread. It should be at least 6 x 8 feet in size, (you can let the legs hang out) and fairly substantial to avoid ripping the bread when you pick it up to eat it. As far a toppings go, the sky is the limit: ketchup, mayo, mustard (French, Yellow, Coarse, Colonel), or anything else your heart desires…

This giraffe thinks a Batty sandwich would be tasty as well…

Needed ingredients:

• Giraffe
• bread
• mayo
• condiments
  
• sand

Prepare as follows:

1. slice bread
2. spread with mayo
3. place giraffe on bread
4. garnish with condiments
5. it just isn't a sandwich without the sand
   
6. enjoy

For more fine recipes consult The Flippist Gourmet, available at fine bookstores everywhere.

Santa Fe Domiciles

A look back at various places in Santa Fe where I have stayed over the last 12 years:

Elena Street (2025) was a nice pseudo-adobe that was artfully decorated yet fully furnished. Someone had definitely lived here, the layout of everything made sense, and it was situated in a real residential area. An unmitigated joy, a best-case realization of the Airbnb concept:

East Alameda Street (2023) was over-the-top in its decor, but well-furnished. Another ‘real’ adobe, its open-plan layout wasn't exactly cozy, but its only real drawback was a furnace that sounded like a jet engine:

It was run by a management company, not by an owner who had lived there. It was just off Canyon Road, not really a residential area, but it had an inviting courtyard, a bit chilly in the winter, however:

We were the last people to stay at this adobe house on Sanchez Street, just before Covid hit in 2020, after which the owner removed its listing. It was the home/studio of an artist, and an absolute delight:

It even featured a Buddhist shrine in the back:

I sent a follow up note to the owner when Covid hit, it was a sad situation for both of us.

Our first stay in Santa Fe was at Dunshee’s in 2015, a private rental. It had a ‘designer interior’ that wasn’t very homey but it did have several antiques in the ‘distressed desert’ style:

The owner had mentioned that she wa near retiring and its listing disappeared soon after we had stayed there. Its shady patio would have been nice in warmer temps:

There are numerous offerings of lodging in Santa Fe: some, if not most, are run by management firms and offer a generic experience, like a chain hotel room decorated with a few southwestern-themed furnishings. That is fine, especially if you are the type of tourist who is always on the go and only need a place to sleep. But if you desire a sense of place there are still opportunities to be found there if you look between the lines.

Flower Pots of Reykjavík

One of the more welcome additions to the Reykjavík street scene is the proliferations of numerous planters in the city center.

Regardless if these are exceptionally hearty plants or they are heated by hot water coils in the sidewalk, they thrive into November.

There had been a heavy snowfall a week prior, but this foliage showed no signs of trauma.

Ahead to the Past, at Last

20 Years Ago on FITK

Continuing the saga of our week-end escape, the Weaver and I ended up in Red Wing, Minnesota at this 19th century octagon house:

An eight-sided house has, by definition almost, quirks and ours was no exception. Spiral staircases, a cupola and surrounding porches and vistas from the roof-top (note to self: return in the summer!) and rooms with an occasional 135° angle where the walls met all added to the charm of this historic dwelling. The topper for me, (satisfying my peculiar fascination with antique plumbing), was a porcelain “foot bath”- a small tub about 2'x2'x2' with its own special fittings- intended for podiatric hygiene. Civilized…

We were hosted by Penny Stapleton, who regaled us with vivid stories about the house over canapés and wine. We slept in luxury. Most Civilized, indeed.

Red Wing itself, one of the first cities in Minnesota, is certainly worth a visit. Because many of the founding families lived there for generations many of the fine older homes and buildings have been preserved so that a walking excursion in the downtown and nearby residential areas brings many pleasant examples of architecture into view. With its proud history of manufacturing (Red Wing™ shoes, Red Wing™ pottery) there is plenty of well-preserved local color worth at least a week-end of exploration.

Hólavallagarður

Another of Rekjavík’s quiet charms is Hólavallagarður, the old cemetery on Suðurgata:

Mid-day sun casts a warm glow:

The low angle of the sun’s rays turn it into a cubist stage set:

Names on the tombstones in these images have been obscured to protect privacy.

Börger?

Hagavaginn, Vesturbær, Reykjavik, 2025:

Tommi’s Burger Joint, Austurhöfn, Reykjavík, 2025:

Kröst, Hlemmur, Reykjavík, 2025:

Hamburgers are popular in Iceland but expensive. No cattle ranching is done in Iceland, although I suspect that the older dairy cows eventually end up in this supply chain. One burger joint that I did eat at in 2004, American Style, wasn’t the best. Tommi’s has a béarnaise sauce that is supposed to be fabulous and the lamb-burger I had at Kröst in 2022 was worth it. I have walked by Hagavaginn dozens of times, but its greasy-spoon vibe (even the building’s siding looks greasy) has always put me off.

NOTE: All restaurant prices in Iceland have jumped in the last couple of years: a burger, fries and can of pop will run at least 25 USD. When I first went to Iceland in 2000 there were still McDonalds but the last one closed in the wake of the 2009 Kreppa. The last meal sold at that one still exists, under glass.