Simulating the Mental Image: Just another Mind's Eye? Part 1

Aphantasia is a condition in which individuals are unable to form mental images or visualize scenes in their minds. It is characterized by the absence of a "mind's eye." I know this, because Google's AI just told me this, verbatim.

What is the opposite of aphantasia? Ah.... Could that be a philosophical question in nature? More on this later because I have recently had the thrilling, or perhaps startling, experience tinkering with ChatGTP and the engine's latest image generator skills. In fact, that statement doesn't even feel right for me to write, because I don't do AI for anything. Yet, I have now spent about two hours in total playing around with it -- and I am, well, both excited and scared (aka thrilled) by what this AI can create (or is it 'put together'?) and equally amazed and concerned (startled) by what this new tool could or would do to the still very human world of the creative arts. 

Specifically, I asked ChatGTP to make an image based on a written scene taken from one of my stories. And now that it is done, I want to share those results, share my thrilled and startled/excited and scared reactions, and finally share my philosophical take on this new phenomena of AGBKTIs: Art-Generation-by-Keystroking-the-Internets, or maybe just Art Stroking, for short. Regardless, I am probably the last man on Earth to have learned of AI's potential for greatness: greatness in creativity and greatness in the murdering of human creativity. Or, is AI not great at conjuring nor killing creativity? Or, is AI relevant in our human societies and simply just another form of a mind's eye among us billions of human minds' eyes?

So, the last man on Earth to have learned of AI's potential for greatness begun fiddling around with ChatGTP Image Generator after 20 minutes of being shown what it was, how to access it, and what it was all over again. (I'm a slow learner). A brilliant (and young) MD/PhD student in our research lab was excited when some new update rolled out recently and wanted to show this technodunce (and old) lab manager why he was all abuzz. One of his hobbies is creating graphic art, and he had been working on a couple of scenes that he literally wanted to hang in his room, poster-size. So, while he showed me how to ask the AI to do this and that like color changes and texturing with one of his graphic designs of Lady Liberty in an intimate embrace of Lady Justice (this is not one of my poorly executed ideological scoldings  -- this was his true concept); I was dumbfounded at a) how well AI understood his commands, and b) how fast AI performed the tasks, and c) how my colleague became more and more particular with each rendering and had a difficult time ending his search for perfection. In other words, the brilliant young MD/PhD student did something that he probably shouldn't have done: he encouraged me to try it on one of my stories.

And I did just that!

So, below is my lengthy yet easily travelled excursion through ChatGTP based on a scene from my never-might-ever-be-published Western novel, Burden City, and asked AI to draw the image that I had clearly observed in my mind's eye and, frankly, did not expect AI to interpret well or, dare I say, at all? Thus, this is Part 1 of a two-part blog post, though here's a hint on Part 2: Aphantasia and the HAL 9000 series. Deep stuff, I forewarn ya!

The scene that I took from my story and pasted in ChatGPT takes place in Virginia City, Nevada during the Comstock Lode silver rush circa 1871 and involves the main character, Alastair (30-something Englishman), who takes a routine shortcut to his office that, unfortunately, passes under the balcony of some miserable lodgers. In my mind, I had the alley way a steep decline from one street to the other as is common in Virginia City. I had goats penned in the back of one building as the lodgers were doing their laundry on the second story balcony of their building that butted up near the goat pen. And finally, I had Alastair slightly fearing of being cussed at or even spat on by the beautiful and badly battered Swedish lady arguing with her lover. Did I succeed? Did AI see what I saw? Did I have any right to even look into the electrons and the zeros and ones of AI's brain to find out?

Create an image of the following scene that takes place in Virginia City, Nevada in 1871:

As he passed the goats on three oblique stones serving as steps, Alastair heard familiar voices and looked up to witness yet another scene of what he mentally referred to as ‘The Lodgers’. They had moved in recently and made Alastair’s hidden shortcut a bit dramatic at times. But he preferred the alley, regardless. He didn’t want to take to the nearest cross street just north due to the road’s steepness and monstrous activity. Yet, the truest reason why he didn’t take to it was the embarrassing event that happened there. On his second day of work, he had slipped and, well; stumbled down the street, in broad daylight; and not just stumbled but affected quite a bit of horse clacking as his boot heels worked long and hard to keep him from a direct fall before he eventually lost his battle to gravity entirely. Lots of people came to his rescue he could recall from a sort of oblique memory – pants & boots and dancing dress hems all about him; but no one could save him from his own ego, for it was bruised indefinitely. The Lodgers were a terrible nuisance, but at least their behavior towards themselves, and him, were private and predicable.

Alastair quickly examined this morning’s show on the balcony. The husband – or whatever he was to the relationship – was peeking out from the back door and yelling as the slackened, reddish-blonde-haired woman working her hands inside a large basket teetering on the railing. She stopped and seemed to listen to the rant momentarily before responding with a backhanded wave and some garbled Dutch. They seemed a miserable couple barely surviving day to day together in their unpainted, second story room of a common lodging house; a hastily built establishment that looked in a better state of condition than that of the couple. She was often smoking a cigar while doing laundry, and he was often popping in and out of the door in fits like a crazed lunatic. This morning was no exception as their biting insults slurred by drink and circumstances all too prevalent among their class were once again on full display without a shred of decency to present to the world, or to each other. Even Mr. Mann’s goats that shared the back court were less dramatic and loud and… civilized?

However, this time around, he witnessed the man’s antics involved pushing her before disappearing into the cavernous room only to return and have another push. Alastair stopped in his tracks. He had never seen such abuse before. Yet, the woman didn’t seem to care – she just set her cigar on the wood railing and went back to hanging laundry. Alastair told himself to continue. Besides, he suspected this happened on occasion as he had noticed before that the skeletal woman had bruises on her otherwise porcelain-white arms. But, now; he was witness to the abuse. He didn’t want to be a witness. He didn’t want to be involved.

Go to the sheriff.

He wasn’t sure. 

No. Not enough evidence to go by.

He knew damn well that he was dithering. Before he could force himself to leave, the woman took notice of his staring up at her; her eyes, no doubt, catching his concern. Alastair wanted badly to take a step forward, but he couldn’t. The Lodger now came over to the railing closest to the alley, snuggled into the railing’s corner, her arms crossed tightly and her face shriveling up in a knot – and staring down at him. 

Good Lord!

He wanted to look away, for most prominent today was her bruised face; her left side looking as if smudged with charcoal. His stomach fell. He didn’t know what to say or do; so he continued on his way with poorly measured steps.

Misery loves company!

There was the evidence he needed. Yet, he chose to escape his new found civic responsibilities. She might say something or do something most unpleasant. His feet failed his wish. And out of nowhere, the man appeared behind her, grabbed some laundry from the basket, wadded it up into two balls, and tossed them over the balcony before he disappeared inside it, too, and slammed the door shut. She seemed to know what he did without even looking behind her. Alastair glanced at the balls of laundry now splattered in the mud of the court yard. Perhaps another unwise move. Should he go collect the laundry? At least do that? 

Damn it!

He turned to go fetch it but stopped in his tracks when he heard the woman laugh heartily. The woman was now leaning over the railing and laughing at him; her cigar now shoved into her mouth and rolling to the side of her mouth. Often, he wondered if the woman would purposely spit on him as he passed under – for, she liked to watch him stumble along and would drop some taunting comments – sometimes so vile, that he wanted to lodge a few like words her way if he could ever shed his formality and civility. He couldn't, so, he would tend to speed up his pace as he neared her balcony as he did so today. Unfortunately, it made no difference. He was about to ask her if she wanted him to retrieve the laundry. He decided to not and began moving down the alleyway.

“Hey Baas. Like how I painted my face this morning?”

He stopped and took in her scraggly red hair that flapped from her skull in the chilly gust, and her bruises appeared darker and more circular and looked like a giant hole in one side of her face; while the other side was quite normal, even beautiful. Odd in his timing, he instantly realized that she must have once been an extraordinarily attractive woman before the vices and the poor choice in men. 

“I’m looking real pretty, huh Baas?”

He tried to look away, yet couldn't do anything but dig his fingers into the siding of the building opposite the lodging house and wish he hadn’t been so sympathetic to her sad, miserable state. 

“Madame? Do you require my assistance?”

I can go to the Sheriff’s if you’d like.

The woman leaned over further and muttered, tongue-swollen and probably some side teeth missing, “Do you require my assistance, Baas?” She then spit towards him, but well off her mark.

Alastair instinctively grabbed his hat and pushed it down and took off down the alleyway. No, Alastair thought as he hurried toward the busy boardwalk of C Street now clearly in view.

No, I do not require your assistance.

Image Created:

Raise the balcony level to the second story and leave everything else untouched.

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Remove the woman at ground level (there should only be one woman that is on the balcony). Make the woman younger and more beautiful on one side of her face and bruised on the other side of her face. Make the man in the hat younger ( around 30 years old).

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Raise the balcony to the 2nd floor.

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Have the man in the hat wear business attire and replace the hat with a bowler hat. Keep everything else the same.

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End of Part 1.