Matigo dot See, eh?

Recently, I ordered a polarising filter for a dashboard camera on Amazon. This was my third attempt to find one compatible with the Vantrue N4 Pro—a filter capable of reducing the glare that distorts image clarity on sunny days. Unfortunately, like the previous two, this one was also much too large. Frustrated but hopeful that I could save others from repeating my mistake, I decided to leave a review, complete with several photos showing that the product does not match its advertised specifications. However, Amazon seems increasingly hesitant to approve negative reviews.

Over the past few months, several of my Amazon reviews have been rejected for allegedly "not meeting community standards." This is perplexing because I don't use inappropriate language, resort to insults, or violate any obvious guidelines. I simply state my case, provide evidence, and move on. Yet, days later, I receive the same rejection notice. Positive reviews? Always approved. Three-star reviews? Sometimes they get through, sometimes they don't. But anything rated one or two stars? Almost universally rejected.

Let me share the exact review in question:

Newer filters are pretty good and I have used them for years with my DSLR cameras. This one was said to fit the Vantrue N4 Pro, but it clearly does not fit. The thread is for something completely different and there is no adapter that makes it work with my dashboard camera. Looking at the box, nothing is said about the N-series cameras. If you have an N4, this is not the filter for you.

I included four images to support my review, including one showing the exact Amazon listing with "N4 Pro" circled for clarity.

So, riddle me this, Amazon: How exactly does this review not meet community standards? When I click on the rejection notice, I’m presented with a long list of potential violations. None of which apply to what I wrote.

This recurring issue makes me wonder: What’s the point of investing time in writing reviews? Customers aren't paid, rewarded with Amazon points, or even given an artificial reputation score. The only motivation is a sense of altruism—helping others avoid the same pitfalls and make informed decisions. Meanwhile, participants in Amazon's Vine program are incentivised to produce glowing reviews, adding another layer of bias to the system.

If Amazon no longer wants honest, critical feedback, what value does their star rating system hold? Without transparency and trust, the entire foundation of their customer review ecosystem is compromised. It’s not just frustrating for reviewers—it calls into question the integrity of every product review on their platform.

At the end of the day, a review system is only as valuable as its willingness to accommodate both positive and negative feedback. If Amazon tilts the scale to suppress critical reviews, the message is clear: Truth is inconvenient, and appearances matter more than transparency.

A young person can find inspiration in anything. A crumpled leaf on a rainy sidewalk becomes the setting for an epic tale. A few stray notes hummed in the shower transform into a song, a fleeting thought becomes a poem, a blank page an adventure. Creativity flows freely, unburdened by expectation or self-judgment.

But time is not always kind to this playful spirit. As we grow older, the world makes demands of us — duties pile up, responsibilities stretch out endlessly, and the once-abundant hours spent tinkering, sketching, or daydreaming are swallowed by obligations. Even in moments of stillness, our minds buzz with tasks left undone, emails unanswered, and bills unpaid. The spark that once leapt eagerly between ideas begins to flicker, until one day we realise it has gone almost entirely dark.

It's a slow process, hardly noticeable at first. We stop doodling in the margins of our notebooks. We put down the guitar and promise ourselves we'll pick it up again next weekend. Ideas come to us, but we dismiss them before they've had a chance to grow roots — "Who has time for that?" or "What's the point?" Slowly, our imagination begins to atrophy, like a muscle long left unused.

It's not that the capacity for creativity disappears — it's simply neglected. Neural pathways that once sparked and danced with connections grow quieter, less travelled. And yet, the ache remains. The desire to create something — anything — sits quietly in the background, waiting for us to notice it again.

There's a unique sadness in realising this has happened, a sense of loss that's difficult to articulate. It's not the loss of a tangible thing, but the loss of a way of being. A way of seeing the world that once made every moment feel ripe with potential. It's the sadness of remembering how effortlessly ideas used to come, and how distant that ease now feels.

And so we sit, perhaps on the sofa with our dog curled at our feet, scrolling through decade-old notes in Evernote or rifling through dusty journals. We look for fragments of ideas — unfinished stories, sketches of inventions, half-written poems. We search for proof that the spark once existed, and perhaps, hope to find embers still glowing faintly in the ashes.

Sometimes, we do find them. A line scribbled in haste ten years ago suddenly feels electric again. A half-finished melody begins to hum in our minds. But more often, the search is bittersweet, a reminder of a self that feels out of reach.

Yet, it's in these moments of quiet searching that something becomes clear: the ember is still there. Our brains, despite years of neglect, remain capable of change, growth, and creativity. Neuroplasticity, the brain's remarkable ability to adapt and rewire itself, doesn't vanish with age — it simply requires effort, intention, and, perhaps most importantly, playfulness.

The beauty of the human mind is that it's never truly fixed. We can still reawaken dormant pathways, still coax old sparks back into flame. It requires a willingness to embrace imperfection and to show up, again and again, for our creative selves.

But it also requires courage. Creativity is inherently vulnerable. It asks us to show up in ways that might feel silly or unproductive. It asks us to write bad poems, to draw wonky sketches, to sing songs out of tune. It asks us to play without a guarantee of success.

There's a quote I often return to, attributed to Ursula K. Le Guin: "The creative adult is the child who survived." And isn't that true? The creativity of youth isn't lost entirely — it's simply buried beneath layers of fear, self-criticism, and the dull hum of adult responsibilities.

The path back to creativity doesn't have to be grand. It doesn't have to be a perfectly plotted return to artistic mastery. It can start with something small — a ten-minute sketch in a notebook, a quiet morning spent journaling, or an evening walk where you let your mind wander freely.

If we're lucky, creativity will meet us halfway. The brain, ever-plastic and malleable, will start building new pathways. The act of making something — truly anything — becomes less foreign. Ideas start to visit us again, shy at first, then bold and eager.

And perhaps, in time, we'll remember what it felt like to be swept up in an idea. To lose track of time while writing, painting, or inventing. To feel that heady rush of making.

But even if that full spark never fully returns, the act of trying matters. Because creativity, at its heart, isn't about producing masterpieces — it's about connection. Connection to ourselves, to the world, and to that deeper, quieter part of our minds where ideas wait patiently to be noticed.

So here's my promise to myself: not to create something perfect, nor to measure my worth by the output of my creative efforts. But to show up. To let my imagination stumble and trip and, occasionally, soar. To notice the world again — not just skim across its surface, but really notice it.

Our brains remain capable. The spark can still be rekindled. And while the process might feel slow and uncertain, it's worth every imperfect step. Not because the world demands it, but because something deep within us needs it.

Because the spark, faint though it may be, is still there. Waiting.

For the past few weeks, my X timeline has been inundated with images of lights over cities worldwide, with claims that humanity is on the brink of joining a fabled "Galactic Federation". This coalition supposedly includes "Greys", often depicted as little green men, alongside shape-shifting lizards and entities made of sentient plasma. While there are likely other species in this expansive group, I've never delved deeply into these tales; they've always seemed too fantastical. However, my main skepticism stems from not having personally witnessed anything in the sky I couldn't identify within minutes.

Growing up, I was an avid viewer of every "Star Trek" episode and reader of every related book, harbouring a deep desire to see evidence of extraterrestrial visitors. For over thirty years, I've enjoyed nighttime walks to observe the celestial wonders — stars, planets, satellites, meteors, and human-made debris. I've ventured into remote mountains to escape light pollution, spending hours gazing at the same patch of sky, hoping for discovery through powerful telescopes.

Yet, nothing has appeared genuinely otherworldly. The satellites are unmistakable human creations, the brightest moving lights are typically commercial or passenger jets, and fiery objects descending through our atmosphere are either ancient space rocks or modern metallic debris. My recognition of these phenomena comes from years of studying, sparked by my grandfather's collection of late '80s National Geographic magazines, chronicling the Voyager probes' adventures.

In my youth, I played with model spaceships, dreaming of exploring new life and civilisations. Realising I couldn't become an astronaut due to colour blindness, I turned to software, imagining I could code autonomous probes to explore for us. Life, however, demanded I focus on practicalities like paying bills, but my curiosity about the cosmos never waned. On clear nights, I still make a point to look up, pondering.

What's out there? Is anyone looking back? Could I meet an alien? What could we offer our cosmic neighbours? Will humanity mature enough to responsibly colonise the galaxy? Have we learned from our Earthly mistakes to not repeat them in space?

As the internet matures, it's evident humanity has not. We continue to bicker over trivialities, leading to senseless loss and environmental degradation. Yet, I remain hopeful that an encounter with an alien species might shift our focus.

"When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things." – 1 Corinthians 13:11

When reports of lights in the sky started coming from the Atlantic coast of America, I hoped for a global event. For years, this pattern has appeared in winter, with sightings of orbs and disks often debunked as CGI or misidentified aircraft lights. This year, however, the scope seems broader, with reports from around the world, including China. Living not far from China, I wonder if I might witness these mysterious craft myself.

One theory among UFO enthusiasts is that sightings correlate with nuclear sites. Japan, with its 33 nuclear power plants (only 13 operational), should be a hotspot, yet my visits to Kashiwazaki, Mihama, and Ōi reveal nothing unusual. Even at Omaezaki on the Pacific coast, where Ayumi and I observed from sunset to sunrise, the sky was just as expected.

I want to believe we're being visited. Why can't I see what others claim to see? While it's easy for humans to lie, it's hard to believe all these reports are fabrications for social media clout. Could the focus on New Jersey sightings be due to human-made objects meant to sow confusion? Perhaps extraterrestrials are more interested in nuclear weapons than reactors, or maybe Japan's cultural exports like manga and anime don't pique their interest?

There's no definitive way for me to know, but the absence of unexplainable phenomena in Japan's skies is striking. As someone with the means to drive to these locations, I should have seen something by now. Nightly, I scan the stars, identifying constellations and satellites without aid. Where is my "WTF?" moment?

I keep saying I want to believe. All I ask for is a little evidence.

The other day, I opened yet another box of pens to replace one that had run dry. As often happens, this sparked a series of questions in my mind: How many boxes of pens do I go through in a year? How often do other people replace pens? But the third question lingered, catching my curiosity the most: How much ink do I actually use every year?

Since moving to Japan half a lifetime ago, I’ve settled on using A5-sized paper for nearly all my writing. It’s a convenient size—easy to carry, with a coverage rate that feels more efficient compared to A4. Almost every notepad and journal I use is A5. On a typical day, I fill about 25 pages with ideas, concepts, journal entries, programming notes, to-do lists, and the occasional flow or process review. Weekends often see a higher tally, while Mondays sometimes borrow pages left unfinished from the previous Friday. Each page usually holds between 220 to 300 words, depending on its purpose.

This led me to break out the calculator. Using some rough averages, here’s what the math looks like:

• 25 pages per day x 365 days = 9,125 pages per year
• 9,125 pages at an average of 250 words per page = 2,281,250 characters (not including arrows, lines, or sketches)
• 2,281,250 characters x 0.0005 mL of ink per character = 1.140625 litres of ink annually

Over a litre of ink! Of course, this number could be rounded down by about 10% to account for days when Ayumi and I are out exploring, but it’s still an incredible amount.

One litre of ink every year. Incredible.

For reasons I’ve yet to understand, March always seems to bring pivotal changes to my life. Come March 15th, 2025, I will once again find myself unemployed. Strangely, this doesn’t feel like a setback — it’s an opportunity to reflect on what truly matters and decide where to direct my energy in the years ahead.

As I pondered this during a recent Joe Rogan Podcast episode, a curious question surfaced: "If I were ever invited on his show, what would we even talk about?"

Joe Rogan’s guests are often people with remarkable achievements, individuals who thrive on challenges and bring unique perspectives. I couldn’t help but wonder where I would fit in that mix. Would I have anything compelling to share? The thought leaves me uneasy but also sparks a deeper question: why do I feel this way?

Looking back on my career, I’ve worked hard, contributed to meaningful projects, and learned from incredible colleagues. Yet, as I reflect, a troubling pattern emerges: much of my work feels ephemeral. The systems I’ve built and the projects I’ve delivered served their purpose in the moment but faded into obscurity over time. They rarely extended their impact beyond the companies they were created for.

This isn’t a criticism of the work itself — it served its purpose well. But it highlights a growing desire within me: I want to create something lasting, something that transcends the boundaries of time and utility.

The challenge lies in defining what that could be. Most of the things I’m skilled at are inherently tied to fleeting moments or trends. Online contributions disappear into the vast noise of the internet almost as soon as they’re shared. If I hope to create something of enduring value, it must be untethered from temporal context or adaptable enough to evolve alongside humanity.

But what could that be? What could I build that would resonate with people decades from now? It’s a question I wrestle with daily, and while I don’t yet have an answer, I’m determined to keep searching. Because even if the efforts of the past feel ephemeral, the potential for something lasting remains — and that’s a future worth striving for.

Last year, while shopping for cars, one model I had seriously considered was the Daihatsu Mira e:S. This small vehicle is a familiar sight across Japan, often praised as a practical choice for young drivers, salespeople, and seniors. What drew me to the Mira e:S was not just its bright yellow option or the nostalgic commercials featuring Bruce Willis but also its practicality. Replacement parts are inexpensive and readily available nationwide, making it a reliable choice for any car owner. At the time, I couldn’t test-drive the car as I was still in the process of obtaining my driver’s license. However, fate recently provided me with an unexpected opportunity to get behind the wheel of this ubiquitous little car.

On Monday morning, I stepped outside to a frustrating sight: a flat tire on my yellow Copen. As any driver might, I went through the standard motions. First, I grabbed the small pump from the trunk, plugged it into the 12V adapter, and began inflating the tire. After twenty minutes, the tire was only half-inflated and stubbornly hissing. Resigned to the situation, I used a puncture-repair canister to create a temporary seal, hoping it would be enough to get me to the dealership.

With a great deal of patience and prayer, I pulled into the Daihatsu service centre one town over and explained the situation at the counter. They asked if I wanted to have the leak properly repaired, but that didn't seem like the most logical solution. In just 14 months I've managed to put almost 36,000 kilometres on the odometer. While the tires still had some tread, they were clearly getting a little thin. I asked how much it would cost to replace all four tires with new ones and was given a price that was painful, but fair. Unfortunately, the dealership did not have a full set in stock, and I was unwilling to drive home with a bum tire. The car would have to stay at the dealership, leaving me without a vehicle for a couple of days. Fortunately, they provided a loaner: a barebones, red Daihatsu Mira e:S.

The dealership staff was courteous as they handed over the keys. The salesman walked me through a few basic expectations: the gas tank should be filled before return, any accidents would need to be covered by my insurance, and pets were not allowed in the car. All fair requests. I thanked him, got into the Mira e:S, and immediately noticed the difference.

After spending a year in my compact Copen Cero, the Mira e:S felt surprisingly spacious. The novelty was hard to miss: there were back seats, the windows seemed enormous, and the stick shift was positioned next to the steering wheel rather than between the seats. Even the ignition required a traditional key—a quaint throwback in today’s age of push-button starts.

Driving home was an experience in contrasts. The familiar route felt almost foreign as I adjusted to the quirks of this car. My left hand, accustomed to resting on the stick shift, found no such comfort with the Mira’s layout. The larger windows all but eliminated blind spots, a stark difference from my Copen. However, acceleration felt sluggish, and the steering seemed overly light, as if the power-assist was trying too hard to compensate. Even turning corners lacked the satisfying precision I’ve come to love. By the time I reached my driveway, the Mira felt less like a car and more like a well-designed toy.

Later reflecting on the drive home raised an immediate question: how different would this past year have been if I had bought a Mira e:S rather than a Copen Cero?

The Mira is very much a domesticated vehicle designed for utility and practicality over fun. It's obvious that I would not drive it the same way as I do my sporty two-seater, but would I drive it long distances at all? Would Ayumi and I have visited Kashiwajima in southern Kōchi prefecture? Would we have camped at all? Would we drive along narrow mountain roads? Would I have participated in car shows? Would I have created videos for YouTube? So many of the fun things that Ayumi and I have done this past year has been a direct consequence of buying a Daihatsu Copen.

At the tail end of 2023 I wrote a blog post that noted how life seemed to follow a domino effect, with every decision relying heavily on those made in the past. It's hard not to see how picking a more practical model of Daihatsu would have contributed to a very different set of circumstances today.

With any luck, my sporty yellow car will be ready for pick-up tomorrow afternoon. While I'm grateful for the luxury of a loaner car, there's no denying that the only vehicle for me right now is a brightly-painted, cramped, two-seat convertible with plenty of pep.

A few days ago, Apple sent out notifications across Japan announcing an increase in iCloud subscription prices. This wasn't entirely unexpected—people worldwide have been discussing similar hikes over the past six months. For me, the increase translates into an additional 2,400 yen annually for 2TB of storage shared across several family devices. The last price adjustment was about two years ago, also at 200 yen per month. As with the previous hike, I find myself questioning whether the service is worth the expense.

There's no denying that iCloud simplifies managing multiple devices. I use a phone, tablet, and MacBook, and having data synchronised across these tiny computers automatically — even if sluggishly at times — is convenient. I like being able to open Photos on my Mac and see the images I took days earlier already in the library. I appreciate that complex passwords created on one device are instantly available on all of them. And I enjoy the seamless experience of sending and receiving messages from any device. But is all this convenience worth 18,000 yen¹ per year?

Beyond the basics, am I even using iCloud’s additional features?

The short answer is yes. My primary email is handled through iCloud on my own domain, and Apple’s Private Relay has been an excellent tool for tracking whether companies are selling my contact information. I’d completely forgotten about the HomeKit Secure Video functionality. While my outdoor security cameras store footage locally on SD cards, they also back up to iCloud — a safeguard in case the cameras are tampered with. Clearly, iCloud is doing more for me than I often realise.

Can I save money by reducing storage, then?

Unfortunately, no. Apple’s storage tiers jump from 200GB to 2TB, with no options in between, and I’m already using 1.1TB of storage. Of that, nearly 400GB is taken up by my estranged wife’s data — a legacy of why I signed up for iCloud in the first place.

Years ago, she was constantly running into the 5GB free storage limit, eventually filling up her phone. This caused endless frustrations, and using a self-hosted solution like NextCloud — my preference at the time — wasn’t practical. Self-hosted options require intentional data management, and most people don’t want to deal with that. They want to take pictures, use apps, and send messages without worrying about storage. This is completely understandable. To ease her frustrations, I subscribed to iCloud, adding her account to my family plan. This allowed her massive photo library to offload to Apple’s servers, freeing up space on her phone.

Now, nearly three years into our separation, she remains on my family plan. The idea of litigating this relatively minor expense with my lawyer, who charges more per hour than Apple does for a year of iCloud, feels like a battle not worth fighting.

For now, Apple will collect an extra 200 yen from me every month. I’ve become a captive in their ecosystem, with few viable alternatives. Any attempt to disentangle myself would involve significant upfront costs — and likely lawyers. At some point, I’ll need to make a change. But for now, Apple wins.

1. For context, that’s about $116 USD right now, but given the current Japanese economy, it feels closer to $250.

November 22nd is known as いい夫婦の日 (Good Couple Day) in Japan. But for me, it marks an even more special occasion – Ayumi's birthday! This year, she turned two years old, and we celebrated earlier in the week with a visit to the stunning Korankei Gorge, located on the outskirts of Toyota City.

Korankei Gorge is famous for its picturesque walking paths, shaded by towering, centuries-old trees that come alive with vibrant colors in the autumn. The birthday girl received her fair share of attention from fellow visitors, and while I had anticipated some company on the trails, I hadn’t expected the sheer number of people we encountered.

Judging by the car license plates in the parking lots, visitors had traveled from across Japan – Kyoto, Nagasaki, Shizuoka, Shiga, Fukui, Osaka, Mie, and the local prefectures. Adding to the bustle were several buses carrying international tourists. Among the languages I overheard, Chinese was the most prominent, followed by Vietnamese. There were even a few Korean visitors, though I spotted only one couple. In hindsight, if I had known Korankei would be so busy, Ayumi and I might have chosen a quieter location. Still, despite the crowds, we soaked in the beauty and atmosphere of the area.

Our journey took us along the famous Maple Tunnel, which isn’t really a tunnel but a gorgeous, tree-lined pathway draped in vibrant foliage. We crossed the iconic Koran Bridge and looped back up to the Taigetsu Bridge, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of autumn every step of the way. Along the trail, we met several other dogs, which delighted Ayumi to no end, and managed to snap a few lovely photos to commemorate the day.

At two years old, Ayumi has become quite the cooperative model. She’s learned the value of sitting – or standing – still when a camera is pointed at her. While she doesn’t hold her pose for long, she’s patient enough for me to capture one or two good shots before she’s ready to explore again.

Korankei’s natural beauty and the joy of celebrating Ayumi’s special day made for a memorable outing. Here’s to many more birthdays and adventures with my best girl!

This evening after work, I hopped in the car and took an extended drive to allow some time to think more about a complex question: how can a society responsibly integrate AI-based systems into governance and public life while preserving the core qualities that make us human? It’s a question that, like so many others, I keep revisiting, especially as AI tools and algorithms become more intertwined with daily life.

In some ways, this tension between innovation and responsibility is nothing new. Humanity has wrestled with the double-edged nature of technology since the invention of the wheel. Yet, there’s something uniquely profound — and perhaps unsettling — about the systems that we consider "AI". It’s the first tool that doesn’t simply extend human capabilities but has the potential to replace certain human functions, including judgment. This changes the conversation from a simple issue of efficiency to one that strikes at the core of societal values and personal responsibility. In terms of government, can a machine truly replace our noisy and fallible politicians to bring about nations of problem solvers?

One of the primary arguments in favour of AI-driven governance is its capacity for objectivity. Algorithms can process mountains of data in seconds, provide recommendations without the sway of personal bias, and analyse trends free from emotion or vested interest. This “Vulcan” approach to decision-making is incredibly appealing given how chaotic western political systems have appeared recently. In a world riddled with scandals and mistrust, the promise of an impartial, data-driven decision-maker sounds like a relief!

But the promise of objectivity is only as good as the data that feeds the algorithm. AI, after all, learns from us — our history, our actions, our patterns, and, inevitably, our biases. Suppose we hand over key decision-making processes to an AI and fail to ensure that it is trained on diverse, representative data. We would risk embedding these biases even deeper into society, possibly with less oversight than we currently have. And bias, once baked into a system, can become incredibly challenging to undo.

History has taught us that human judgment, while flawed, is essential for moral governance. There’s an element of compassion, empathy, and cultural sensitivity that software, despite all its sophistication, struggles to replicate. It’s the difference between an algorithm recommending a sentence in a courtroom and a judge considering the human circumstances behind a case. This idea reminded me of something I heard on a podcast many years ago: governance is as much an art as it is a science.

The art of governance, of course, is fraught with human imperfection. We’re prone to our own biases, and our decisions can be influenced by personal experiences or even transient emotions. But that’s precisely why human oversight matters — because governance isn’t a math problem with a single correct answer. Different societies and cultures have unique values and beliefs, and what might be an “optimal” decision in one context could be inappropriate or even harmful in another.

One concept that has always resonated with me is the idea of AI as an “advisor” rather than a “decider.” Imagine if AI could assist decision-makers by providing clear, evidence-based recommendations while humans retain the final say. Such a setup would allow AI to do what it does best — crunch numbers, analyse data, and identify patterns — without fully relinquishing our responsibility as stewards of society. The goal wouldn’t be to replace human judgment but to enhance it with deeper insights.

Imagine a council of AIs, each programmed to focus on different perspectives or values, analysing a complex issue and debating among themselves before offering suggestions. This “panel of perspectives” could simulate a debate between different schools of thought, each represented by a different AI. The role of society would then be to listen to these perspectives and make a judgment call, incorporating both data and the human touch that governance so often requires. A newspaper that dedicated ink to each dispassionate panel member's perspective would be a fascinating thing to read and passionately discuss over coffee.

It’s tempting to think we could create such a perfect system — a self-regulating, fully objective AI model that would save us from egregious human error. But history reminds us that progress without caution can have dire consequences. While we may not be able to stop technological advancements, we do have a responsibility to steer them with caution and respect for their impacts on society.

For instance, I’ve noticed how some governments and organisations are adopting more rigorous standards for AI oversight and transparency. One approach that seems promising is “cross-testing,” where AIs developed by one organisation are independently tested by another to ensure accountability and ethical standards. In theory, this would prevent any single organisation from having total control over its AI’s training and outputs, reducing the risk of bias or misuse.

However, cross-testing is only part of the solution. No amount of external testing can replace the ethical responsibility we hold as a society. We must be vigilant about how we develop and implement AI technologies, especially in domains that impact human rights, privacy, and autonomy. To do otherwise would be to abdicate our moral responsibilities, outsourcing them to a machine that, no matter how advanced, lacks true understanding.

Ultimately, the question isn’t whether we should use AI-based tools in governance but how we use them. The real risk lies not in the technology itself but in our tendency to view it as an infallible oracle. However, AI should really be limited to helping us make better choices, not to make those choices for us. As Benjamin Gadsden said in 1775: "Don't tread on me."

As my long drive home reached its end, the answer to my question seemed clearer than ever. The path forward isn’t about eliminating fallible human judgment or relying solely on machines; it’s about combining the strengths of both, recognising the limitations of each, and respecting the nuances. We must ensure that while AI continues to evolve and become part of the fabric of society, we don’t lose sight of the values that make us human; responsibility, empathy, and wisdom.

In the end, the real power of AI might not be in replacing our minds but in reminding us to use them to their fullest. The journey toward a balanced integration of AI and human oversight is not just a technological challenge; it’s an ethical journey. And it’s one we must tread carefully, with both courage and humility.

For a little over two weeks I have found myself with a whole lot of time on my hands. There have been no meetings. No messages asking about the status of various projects. No deadlines. Nothing. It has been an incredibly quiet period allowing me to unwind for the first time in months. During this time I've watched a lot of baseball, brought Ayumi to parks in six different prefectures, driven almost 3,000km, and attended several job interviews. However, what has surprised me the most during this time has been a resurgence of creative energy.

For the better part of a year I have been seriously considering leaving the world of tech as a personal form of protest against the disappointing ways humanity uses its power. When I started writing software in 1994 the future was so bright and limitless that I foolishly assumed that humanity would overcome so many of the challenges that has held it back with regards to education, information, communication, and productivity. However, the old adage times change but people do not has proven itself again and again. We use good things as weapons against each other, and corporate software is just as much a force for punishment as it is a tool for efficiency. As such, my desire to invest thinking power into solving problems that needn't exist in the first place has dwindled to the point where I didn't see any point to writing code, working with databases, or analysing problems; arguably the only things I'm mildly capable of on this planet.

That has changed over the past week or so, though, as I get my hands into the code that powers 10Centuries. The current platform was released six years ago. While there have been four attempts to get back into its development over the years, none have gotten out of the data design stage. I would bury myself in the minutia of database table design, API development, format compatibility, and the like. But nothing ever came out of it. The current version of the 10C platform is terribly out of date for how I currently write code, but at least it still works. Heck, one of the things I'm most grateful for is how low-maintenance the current version of the software is. I've been able to focus on so many other things.

But this is just as much a curse as it has been a blessing. Looking at my old code, I can see so many loose ends where I had planned on going back to refine and finish functionality. It's an embarrassing assemblage of half-finished ideas.

So to see that a new blogging theme has been completely written from scratch, along with some refinements to the underlying API, is encouraging. This new theme is designed to optimise reading of long-form posts in a left-to-right fashion. Rather than present a long page of text, the new layout will go very wide with as many columns as necessary. This is a design I've wanted to have for years, but could never set aside the time to figure out how to make it work … until recently.

Other nice features include the ability to set a dark theme, change the font, as well as the size of the text. These preferences are stored in the browser, so readers who regularly visit a site using this theme will not need to re-apply their changes … unless they're using the private browsing mode or clear their browser cache, of course. The contact form has been updated so that it properly works¹, and the archives page is close to being what I want to see. As always, there's more to be done.

Work has also started on an updated layout for Nice.Social, which has been using the half-baked Murasaki theme for the last four years. The plan for this newer layout is to give people more personal preference options as well as a single place to manage all of their account settings. And, when not working on that, there is also a new administration page that is being built which will give people an overview of all their sites, their account, their personas, and anything they may need to customise 10C the way it was originally intended way back in v2².

All in all, this return of creativity has been a wonderful thing. I find myself asking more questions, seeking more information, and building more things every day. When Ayumi and I are out driving, I use the time to seek inspiration. With any luck, this positive energy will continue and lead to some interesting outcomes.

1. Thanks for reminding me about this, Jeff.

2. 10Cv2 had a lot of customisation and 3rd-party integrations. It was not coded very well, but it was flexible and dependable as heck.