A babe at the breast is dependent on Mother. Mother brings immunity from disease, Mother brings food, Mother brings drink. Every babe knows what their mother eats. Garlic or peppers, candy or corn. They know. They taste, they learn. And gradually they wean, and grow to eat what their mothers ate.

Mothers love their children and want to see them grow, become independent and strong. The time at the breast lasts as long as it lasts, and it ends. There are other children, the cycle of generations continues.

But what if Mother wasn’t the one raising the child? What if someone without love, who benefited from dependency, what if they did the raising? What if there was no soft breast, no whiff of garlic or essence of kale? What if… what if we gave the babies what they liked best, sweet sweet milk… what if we gave them more and more… substituting more for best? What if we never wean them?

Feed them. Feed them milk, never change. Milk good for babes, flavorful, we have no flavor, but just give sweet milk … we are running out of milk, but we cannot run out of milk, we need more milk more milk more milk we need more milk, the babe is growing and we never weaned them, more milk… We must feed the suckling hordes.

Once we had art, music, stories. Each one with the terroir of their homeland. But now we feed millions on the work of a few, most of which has been highly processed. We stay inside, far from the True Source of all that is good and beautiful. Once we fed them on myths, folksong, and cathedrals. Every child’s birthright the sunrise, light through leaves, the sound of birds. Mother’s breast started their journey but it didn’t end there – they grew teeth, met and married and started anew.

We encouraged consumption of entertainment beyond our ancestors’ wildest imaginings in order to keep the babies weak and fat … babies never growing, never learning to make their own art, never taking steps – to stay infants, dependent. Infantilized adults, nutritionally starved and jiggling with fat from all those sugary, milky calories. Their appetites raged, for milk cannot satisfy anything other than an infant. Milk could never be enough, but all there was on offer was milk. We ran out of milk, and started to add melamine.

How long have we centered our lives around entertainment? Around flickering boxes of noise and light? Not so many years. Less than a century. But that century has been enough to train our palates. We stare at the boxes, all of us hungry for content content content and no human could produce enough so they brought the machines in, the AI to make us melamine water.

We all got used to it. We all got used to every creator cranking out ever more. It didn’t have to be amazing, it just had to be there. Take up space, grasp at straws, do more more more more. And so now the computers create, because only a machine can churn like this. The quality is gone, but the machines changed the rules so as to offer watery, sugary milk and we’ve lost our taste for that whiff of garlic or kale.

AI in the arts is the simple result of gluttony. It doesn’t belong there. Let the computers do math, calculate models, let them compare the data they have on hand. If you don’t want computer generated “art”, then it’s time to do the hard work of weaning, learn to chew. Become lean, walk on your feet. Produce art, consume it from more nutritious sources, feed yourself primarily on the beauty offered in the natural world, and run, far and fast from the ones who want to keep you fat, milk dripping from your gorged chin.