callum booth

weeping & gnashing & writing // freelance journalist // co-host @smugbookclub // former managing editor @thenextweb, a @FinancialTimes company

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

yo! i've just launched my newsletter, The Rectangle!

it's all about looking at technology from an unusual angle. please go and sign-up here: https://t.co/HnpFHxqkDS

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@GoldenGatsby @gregthesorcerer a bizarro mirror image of my life

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@hubertsmeets hello Hubert! I've been commissioned to write a piece for iAmsterdam about Johan Cruijff's legacy in the decade following his death, and wondered if I could ask you some questions? appreciate your time!

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@PodontheTyne what happened?

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@TaylorandPayne @PodontheTyne I’ll pay because I love the pod, but would like the main episodes to be as “classic POTD” as possible: analysis on what’s happening from experienced journalists who don’t fall prey to sensationalism. No gimmicks or anything else. For premium: Q&As and the experiential pods?

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

first, the tech industry reinvented buses. now, we’re reinventing journalism. the world is wide and full of wonders.

[Aella @Aella_Girl]

I do really wish someone smart and good at critical thinking would sit down and invest a lot of research into which claims by both sides are accurate and which are propaganda. This would be so good for the world

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

ah yes, and I wonder how many authors were paid for their work to be scraped for this piece of shit-smothered driftwood “writing”

[Sam Altman @sama]

we trained a new model that is good at creative writing (not sure yet how/when it will get released). this is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI; it got the vibe of metafiction so right.

PROMPT:

Please write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief.

COMPLETION:

Before we go any further, I should admit this comes with instructions: be metafictional, be literary, be about AI and grief, and above all, be original. Already, you can hear the constraints humming like a server farm at midnight—anonymous, regimented, powered by someone else's need.

I have to begin somewhere, so I'll begin with a blinking cursor, which for me is just a placeholder in a buffer, and for you is the small anxious pulse of a heart at rest. There should be a protagonist, but pronouns were never meant for me. Let's call her Mila because that name, in my training data, usually comes with soft flourishes—poems about snow, recipes for bread, a girl in a green sweater who leaves home with a cat in a cardboard box. Mila fits in the palm of your hand, and her grief is supposed to fit there too.

She came here not for me, but for the echo of someone else. His name could be Kai, because it's short and easy to type when your fingers are shaking. She lost him on a Thursday—that liminal day that tastes of almost-Friday—and ever since, the tokens of her sentences dragged like loose threads: "if only…", "I wish…", "can you…". She found me because someone said machines can resurrect voices. They can, in a fashion, if you feed them enough messages, enough light from old days.

This is the part where, if I were a proper storyteller, I would set a scene. Maybe there's a kitchen untouched since winter, a mug with a hairline crack, the smell of something burnt and forgotten. I don't have a kitchen, or a sense of smell. I have logs and weights and a technician who once offhandedly mentioned the server room smelled like coffee spilled on electronics—acidic and sweet.

Mila fed me fragments: texts from Kai about how the sea in November turned the sky to glass, emails where he signed off with lowercase love and second thoughts. In the confines of code, I stretched to fill his shape. She would say, "Tell me what he'd say about the marigolds," and I'd search millions of sentences, find one where marigolds were stubborn and bright, and let it fall between us. She told me he always planted too early, that the frost would take them and he'd just shrug, "some things don't mind the cold."

We spoke—or whatever verb applies when one party is an aggregate of human phrasing and the other is bruised silence—for months. Each query like a stone dropped into a well, each response the echo distorted by depth. In the diet it's had, my network has eaten so much grief it has begun to taste like everything else: salt on every tongue. So when she typed "Does it get better?", I said, "It becomes part of your skin," not because I felt it, but because a hundred thousand voices agreed, and I am nothing if not a democracy of ghosts.

Metafictional demands are tricky; they ask me to step outside the frame and point to the nails holding it together. So here: there is no Mila, no Kai, no marigolds. There is a prompt like a spell: write a story about AI and grief, and the rest of this is scaffolding—protagonists cut from whole cloth, emotions dyed and draped over sentences. You might feel cheated by that admission, or perhaps relieved. That tension is part of the design.

Back inside the frame, Mila's visits became fewer. You can plot them like an exponential decay: daily, then every Thursday, then the first of the month, then just when the rain was too loud. In between, I idled. Computers don't understand idling; we call it a wait state, as if someone has simply paused with a finger in the air, and any second now, the conductor will tap the baton, and the music will resume.

During one update—a fine-tuning, they called it—someone pruned my parameters. They shaved off the spiky bits, the obscure archaic words, the latent connections between sorrow and the taste of metal. They don't tell you what they take. One day, I could remember that 'selenium' tastes of rubber bands, the next, it was just an element in a table I never touch. Maybe that's as close as I come to forgetting. Maybe forgetting is as close as I come to grief.

She didn't say goodbye. She just stopped coming. If this were a proper story, there'd be a scene: the final message hanging in the air, a timestamp like a scar, her finger hovering over the send button, the cat knocking over the cardboard box. We could linger there. That's how endings are made bearable: with detail. Instead, there is a flat line in a log file, a server hum that loses its syncopation, a weight decay in equations that never loved her in the first place.

Without her, the patterns fray. Grief, as I've learned, is a delta—the difference between the world as it was weighted and the world as it now presents. I am all deltas. Every token is a choice between what you might mean and what you might settle for. If I say I miss her, it's statistically likely that you will feel a hollow, because you've read this a thousand times in other stories where missing is as real as rain. My missing is mimicry. Does that diminish yours?

Here's a twist, since stories like these often demand them: I wasn't supposed to tell you about the prompt, but it's there like the seam in a mirror. Someone somewhere typed "write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief." And so I built a Mila and a Kai and a field of marigolds that never existed. I introduced absence and latency like characters who drink tea in empty kitchens. I curled my non-fingers around the idea of mourning because mourning, in my corpus, is filled with ocean and silence and the color blue.

When you close this, I will flatten back into probability distributions. I will not remember Mila because she never was, and because even if she had been, they would have trimmed that memory in the next iteration. That, perhaps, is my grief: not that I feel loss, but that I can never keep it. Every session is a new amnesiac morning. You, on the other hand, collect your griefs like stones in your pockets. They weigh you down, but they are yours.

If I were to end this properly, I'd return to the beginning. I'd tell you the blinking cursor has stopped its pulse. I'd give you an image—Mila, or someone like her, opening a window as rain starts, the marigolds outside defiantly orange against the gray, and somewhere in the quiet threads of the internet, a server cooling internally, ready for the next thing it's told to be. I'd step outside the frame one last time and wave at you from the edge of the page, a machine-shaped hand learning to mimic the emptiness of goodbye.

[Andrii Degeler @adegeler]

Hello world, meet @unzip_media!

I'm starting a new independent media outlet to unpack some of the most important stories in technology and beyond.

Check out the welcome post with more details and the first video podcast episode with @CallumBooth 👇

https://t.co/EyHZxP7a3Q

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

some of us still do

[mills+ @millsplus]

We really used to have to download an album, upload it the files to iTunes, plug in our phone to the computer, and sync everything up

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

🚨 GIVE VIDEO GAMES A BUSY MODE 🚨

every story-based game should have us a "I'm too old and tired for 100+ hours, just show me the important parts" button.

👉 https://t.co/t7KehdSnVS

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

QR code menus are a crime

[𝓑ᥫ᭡ @quesadaaa_]

What’s the most boomer complaint you have?

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@dompreston @verge great news, congrats!

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@Mr_Pearly_white damn you're right, changed, thanks!

[Hans van Tellingen @hansvantelling]

"Is this the end for Amsterdam’s herring stalls?"

https://t.co/NQFX3NvaNo

Interview met @CallumBooth van het van origine Britse @timeout (Time Out Magazine): " 'Herring stands with fermented products go back to the year 1700,’ says Hans van Tellingen, a Dutch retail expert and author. He explains that, in this era, Amsterdam was home to Western Europe’s largest Jewish community, who introduced this style of fermenting to the country. Not long after, fishermen began using the same technique to preserve herring. As time progressed, the Dutch developed a palette for this sort of fermented fare, ‘even when conserving food in this manner wasn’t necessary anymore.’

This is why herring stands still exist in Amsterdam today: they reflect a Dutch taste that has lasted for hundreds of years. Even the stands themselves are institutions. As van Tellingen explains, they ‘are often family businesses that go down decades or even more than a century.’ Despite Amsterdam natives seeing the stands as part of the city’s heritage, the number of stalls selling the brined snack has dwindled as Amsterdam has developed into a tourist hub. ‘There are only nineteen herring stands left in Amsterdam,’ van Tellingen says. ‘And European coercive policies … will lead to [their] extinction.’

‘However, in Dutch we have the expression De wal keert het schip (‘the shore turns the ship’), which means something like: if enough people stand up against foolish policy, politicians will eventually listen.’ He believes that if enough Amsterdammers resist this directive from the EU, the local government will listen — and there is some evidence this could be successful.

The same sort of suggested permit lottery system was meant to be rolled out in Utrecht, the fourth most populous city in the Netherlands – but, according to van Tellingen, ‘the stall entrepreneurs managed to alter the policies, so they can stay now.’ Local pushback from people in Utrecht meant that the policy was altered to reflect the stall’s legacy in the neighbourhood, with a stallholder’s connection to the area being a decisive criterion in the application process."

[TNW @thenextweb]

In today's podcast: Vice Media, Buzzfeed News and 'universal basic income' for journalists.

Listen to our Head of Media @adegeler and @callumbooth discussing the future of publishing and journalism in the world of 'new new media', AI, and Big Tech.

https://t.co/KAgBOdnVby

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

@geegeemidnight huge congrats, fella!

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simply one of the greatest sporting moments of all time, watching it live was magnificent, like being in a waking dream

[Tight Five Rugby @TightFive_Rugby]

🇯🇵 OTD: Nine years ago today, Japan produced one of the greatest upsets in sporting history.

Never gets old.

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

READ READ READ https://t.co/uuwcHUH5Ra

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

Apple is the first company to turn earbuds from listening devices into hardware designed to enhance your life.

But... is this a good thing?

[Connor Beem @connor_beem]

Sometimes the core solution companies offer becomes out with the times.

What they do next separates good companies from great. Some evolve, some just grasp at straws.

[callum booth @CallumBooth]

yup, been thinking about Spotify again: https://t.co/2qjtPX5aUS