michael-dean-k/

What is the texture of a day these days? As our life’s inevitably mutate across the decades, we never stop changing, our condition never stops changing: projects die, people die, we learn to look people in the eye, we move, we read and marry and birth. We lose grip of our iterating selves, compress them down to caricatures, characters who also destabilize with time, slightly warping each time we retrieve them from memory; my post-college self is a copy of a copy of a copy, that original self in full-fidelity, irretrievable. Unless, I wrote. Which I didn’t. Will my current self be an equal mystery? Will I know what it was like to get out of bed in July of 2026?

What even is my current self? As fresh and live as it is, it too is ineffable, shaped by cliches that won’t hold if interrogated. It is too dynamic, too complex and thousand-headed to contain in one photograph, or mere words. It takes real effort and skill to see clearly into your own situation, to capture the right essence in the right words. Perspicacity is a depleting resource. If your life is “busy,” as most are, as most new parents definitely are, then the unbroken time to yourself gets thinner and thinner. Those two hours in the morning before the day escapes is met with decision paralysis. I am behind on countless threads; which thing do I save from ruin? Or, do you I use that time to reflect and write, like this, and let everything continue to burn, instead of finding some consolation in it all?

I’m using dramatic words here for what is actually a special and wonderful time. I feel bad to have not put proper words to my love for my daughter. That will come. I’ve had in mind a long letter I want to write her in her first year, but we’re already half way through and nothing is penned. Naturally, I’ve had so little bandwidth this week to write anything. Between consulting work, maintaining Essay Club, watching my daughter full-time, and reading the Odyssey, (all things I cherish) there are little hours left to tend to my hydra of interest and ideas, to keep up with basic responsibilities, to be a good friend and husband, to unpack from New Hampshire, etc.

The reason I wrote this is because I woke up at 6:45 am with a familiar texture, a feeling I’ve been waking up with but not naming, a feeling endemic to this present phase. It’s a guilt for not waking up two hours earlier. Now it’s 7am, and I know not exactly when the day will start, when obligations kick in, when I will have to go to Target to buy children’s Benadryl, more formula, my nephew’s birthday present, etc. It’s this subtle feeling of starting with defeat, which can’t help but color and tamper my energy for the day. I yearn for a 15-hour chunk of focus, just for a single day, to blitz through and catch up on everything, but that then creates a load on my wife. I am becoming more selfless and yet also yearn for selfishness.

The other possibility here is that I’m continuing to fail at understanding prioritization. I just found an essay competition for $50,000, on defining the “new axial age” we are entering. I am intrigued, but deciding to do that would sacrifice everything else. The decision to read the Odyssey already led to a strange kind of obsession that has eclipsed so much else in this last week. I feel guilty for not directing all available attention to my business; I currently make a livable “salary” between consulting and my Essay Architecture project, and while I could just maintain what I have and be “fine,” there is the financial pressure to grow my business around 5-10x in the next 3 years to build the life we envision for our family (without growing it, a simple hiccup could financially destabilize the whole project and kill years of momentum, forcing me to get a regular job). Yet, prioritizing only professional strains feels like creative stasis, the death of mind and spirit, which is probably a normal thing that all adults have to play out. I resist it. I resist it like I resist death, probably since that near-death freak car accident, when I emerged from flipped metal, completely untouched, with a new commitment to take risks (there’s a chance the two are unrelated, but that’s how I mythologized it to myself). I am resisting it in strange ways, which yesterday took the form of rewriting the Odyssey with an opening scene where the cyclops gets castrated.

I still sit cross-legged in bed, writing this, which satisfies my “daily post” obligation that has withered. I want to change my mind before my feet hit the floor. Similar to how the first sentence of an essay sets you in a direction which you cannot retreat from (Didion), so too do your first steps into the day, determine the unfolding of that entire day (the proverbial “right side of the bed”). I know the wisdom I need, I’ve written about it at length, but it’s so easy to forget, to bring the right ideas to the right moment (maybe I need a hypnomnemata). But now I’m seeing a fuzzy outline of what I should remember: escape time, escape chronos (chronological time), and enter kairos. This is my version of “get out of your head.” I find that it’s not my head that traps me, but time itself. I am often trapped in recountings and projections, in personal and societal abstractions, and I derive identity from them without realizing, calcifying into stoned eyes that wake up with me. All issues point back to some version of being stuck in the illusion of time. And so really, my issue is that I’m not “praying” to it; I’m not “meditating” to it; both those terms aren’t quite right; what I mean is that I am not holding that idea freshly in my mind, repeating it and refocusing it throughout the day, to the extent that it shapes my perception. All moods are downstream of past frames of attention. And so this rut I feel is simply the product of not being attentive of the right ideas in the prior days; a forgivable offense when still synthesizing the shards of a new era.

I look to my left and notice this beige mat I bought in Portland, Oregon in 2015. It’s an 18” carpeted square composed of five squares, one in the middle, and then a single line that interlocks and weaves through the middle, creating the illusion of four corned squares. It’s a short step away from my bed. The goal is to wake up, stand on, and meditate on. I forget that I put this here, to remind me to start the day right. I’ve ignored it for the last 200 days. And so despite the chaos and business, perhaps the only thing you can do is take seriously a few simple rituals. And now the babe cries.

Has there ever existed a cartoon that is structured like a play?—meaning, the entire 30 minutes is contained in a single cut, on a fixed cartoon stage, with characters going in and out. This is the antithesis of the one-second rapid cuts you find in Disney kids shows, and is even much slower than the “slow” 10-30 second cuts in a show like Arthur. Psychologically, this might be the best kind of TV for kids; it would fall into the same category of “face time with relatives,” which is safe because it’s a fixed object in a fixed frame. What’s funny is that early cinema was exactly this, because we were totally fixed in the paradigm of the prior medium; but now that we’ve moved past it, we’ve completely moved past it—to the point that it barely exists in film anymore, and was never once attempted in a cartoon. We’ve ignored it, when returning to it might be especially useful, especially for kids, especially in this moment where early age TV addiction seems to be stunting development.

Screens are unfairly tainted. I'd love to write a post about how screens are underrated, a glorious technology that would be marveled at by basically any other generation in history. Screens are the scapegoat because they are the point-of-contact, the portal through which bad or selfish actors bend your pixels to their whims. I know people lament over "blue light" and the physical strain from staring at something for many hours, and of course that is real at excessive doses, but might that then be an software or psychology issue?

The main reason I started writing this was to riff on screen-time with kids. There is a revealing nuance in the advice, "no screen time for kids below 2 years old, but FaceTime with relatives is fine." Why is that? It's not the screen, but the nature of what's on them. FaceTime is fine because there is a fixed and unchanging frame which features a fixed and unchanging person moving within. There is stability and coherence. We take this for granted, but infants haven't modeled this yet! They might not even have object permanence (ie: if they disappear from the frame, are they gone forever?). So by this logic, any piece of media with a stable frame is potentially infant safe; beyond FaceTime that includes single-shot lectures, text editors, etc. Obviously an infant will not be in gDocs, but the point is, if they see you using a static interface, there is little harm, it's simply another object in their environment.

By contrast, cartoons and commercials are the real issue. To explain this to my mother-in-law, I counted out loud the camera cuts in an ad, and it's less than once per second. There is a whole psychology on why they do this, which I can guess, but should probably look into. TLDR you are being addled. But when an infant sees this, I imagine the frame resets are alluring, but disorienting. If the frame changes every second, they're locked trying to make sense of this self-evolving landscape, an experience novel and atypical from every other thing they've seen. It has no continuity.

By this logic, it also explains why feeds are worse than personal websites. You just stream past 100 things per second and have no steady frame. Even though my site is feedish now, it's all from a single person, so at least that's a constant. I'd feel okay with my daughter at 5-years old reading personal websites and having her own, but I wouldn't want her to be using algorithmic social media feeds even at age 15.

I got charged $4,500 for a band-aid.

For that price I could’ve bought 90,000 band-aids on Amazon (two for each person in my NYC neighborhood), but emergency room band-aids must be of a different substance.

A month ago we cut my newborn daughter’s finger with a nail clipper and it wouldn't stop bleeding for an hour. The on-call pediatrician—who was naturally grumpy since it was after midnight—insisted we go to the ER, and after 5 hours in the waiting room, the bleeding stopped right before we were called in. After one minute with the doctor and five with the nurse (most of it small talk about islands in Greece), we left with a band-aid on a dry scab. I assumed it would be an expensive lesson, a few hundred dollars to breathe hospital air, but we were charged a whole family’s round-trip tickets to Athens.

What's weirder than American private healthcare is how used to it everyone is. A family member said, “well, it was March, so you didn’t hit your deductible yet.” I’m willing to pay the $577 for the emotional labor of fixing a boo boo, but the remaining mystery, the $3,923 on yesterday’s mail bill, feels beyond reason. I’ll be requesting an itemized breakdown to call their bluff, and if they don’t bring it down to a normal but still ridiculous level ($500 for a band-aid—10,000x above market price) I will evade the debt collectors until they tank my credit and jail me.

Having a baby reminds me of the infinite well of inner goofiness I have within me. There is an endless ensemble of voices and characters, songs and dances, that can be conjured in every moment if it keeps her smiling. This is the unselfconscious self coming through, because of course a baby can't judge. It's also not necessary a performance, for her, but it's your own expression that a child enables. A reminder that this could be the default state at all times if you have the courage to be labeled as truly and insanely weird.

A few months ago I saw a YouTube video titled something like, “A child born in 2025 is more likely to get killed by AI than graduate college.” What a ridiculous claim. I assumed it was clickbait and didn’t click, but it has jingled around my head enough to the point where I think I can make sense of it’s argument:

• The average p(doom) of an AI engineer is 16%, meaning there’s a 1 in 6 chance of human extinction (put another way, companies have morally rationalized the need to play Russian Roulette—if we don’t do it the bad guys will—, without acknowledging that if they survive and win, they get the consolation prize of comandeering the whole economy).

• 40% of US adults, age 25-34, today, have a bachelor’s degree. If there’s massive job automation and employment, a college degree would be both unaffordable and an unreasonable cost if it were. It’s not unthinkable that <15% of next generation gets a college degree, which makes that sensational claim, weirdly, plausible.

I still think it’s a shaky comparison, confusing two different types of probability, and assuming extreme ASI turbulence. But as someone with a daughter born in 2025, it has gotten me to think about how the societal backdrop to her upbringing could be especially weird. Our circumstance already gets slightly weirder with each generation. Except, maybe next loop will be an unavoidable and disorienting flurry of change that will confuse parents and rewrite all of the conditions for the typical coming of age moment (all the teen movies will be sci-fi, the popular memoirs could be written by transhumanists who have upgraded in unimaginable ways, like they no longer need to sleep because of a new pill, or they can control the genitals of their peers with an app, who knows).

And so now, I find myself drawn to a 2045 forecasting project. Trying to predict the future is typically a huge waste of time (unless you’re gambling and win), which is why I’m going to have AI write the whole thing. This is a rare exception where a writing project makes little sense for a human to do. All I’m going to write are the upfront origin documents, and then Claude Opus 4.5 will read 25,000 sources, write a million words or so, and then organize it all into an interactive, oatmeal-looking website called 2045predictions.com (got it).

Before I run it, here’s something I’m currently thinking through:

What is the omega state? When I look at the popular AI forecasts from 2025, it reads to me like they have a pre-determined end state, only to then use detailed forecasting to make it seem convincing. The AI-2027 forecast seems like they came to their conclusion from very detailed calculations on how a hivemind of 200,000 autonomous coders would evolve month-by-month, but I also suspect that they picked the year 2027 because the following year, 2028, is a US election year, and they want the next administration to take AI safety far more seriously (instead of just insisting we have to beat China). I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this. You kind of have to start with an omega state. The future is so boundless that you need to begin with a guess, a bold outline on the general direction of things.

Here’s my omega: let’s assume humanity survives, and let’s assume technology does unlock hyperabundance that leads to a post-scarcity world, HOWEVER, it’s not utopian because it simultaneously unlocks a new cascade of moral, social, and spiritual crises, dilemmas that will test the timeless primitives of humanity (sex, life, death, consciousness, religion, home, etc.). This omega state makes sense for me because (1) we already know that ethical dilemmas scale with technology, and (2) according to the Strauss-Howe generational theory (from the same guys who coined “milennalis,” “Gen-Z,” etc.), this already tends to happen every 80 years (the length of a human lifespan). A new techno-political order creates a spiritual crises that generates an Awakening, a new value system that shapes society for the next century or so. You know what’s 80 years before Kurzweil’s “singularity” of 2045? The counter-cultural revolutions of the 1960s. What I’m getting at is that the 2040s might have echos of the 1960s, where demographics are divided on core issues and LSD is replaced with consciousness-altering machines (Terence McKenna said that computers are drugs, you just can’t swallow them yet).

We currently define the singularity as “the moment when a computer is smarter than all humans combined,” but that effectively means nothing, and it’s far more useful to have some guesses on how we all might freak out about that happening.

A few days after my daughter was born, I had something which I’m describing as “phantom infant syndrome.” When I was away from her, holding a phone, or fork, or some other manufactured object, I’d get a tactile hallucination in my hands of the softness of her skin and hair. I imagine this is nature’s way of saying go be with your kid (made possible by mild sleep deprivation). And so this is symbolic of one of the many biological drives pulling me away from writing in recent weeks.

This is happening around my five year anniversary of being online, and it’s probably the longest stretch I’ve gone without having urgency to do so. It’s probably healthy and helpful to be relatively non-linguistic for a few weeks, once in a while (I usually write on vacations, so I never really take breaks from it). We’ll see. It’s possible that I’ve thought myself into a trench, and the best way forward is a proper break (I have once said the best editors are friends, time, and weed—although less weed in recent years). Now that I’m immersed, familiar, and comfortable with the rigamarole of infant care (and all the wonder it brings, too), I feel bandwidth opening to write, and I’m curious to see how my practice takes shape from these new constraints. There are real deadlines now. Baby wakes up in … 30 minutes … and I’d like to post this by then.

Last weekend I read through all my writing from 2025, and after the typical EOY reflections and word count calculations, I realized that something has to change. So I published 12 essays, 10 about Essay Architecture, totaling at ~64k words (re: the other two … one was a first-person TikTok odyssey, the other was about the role of psychedelics in evolution). But I also published 150k words in logs, 2.5x the volume. Logs are notes to myself, mild-epiphanies through the day written in complete sentences, all ghost-posted to a monthly Substack post. Unlike my focused and convergent writings about EA, my logs are far more random: recurring topics included the Grateful Dead, movie reviews, notes from a day at the zoo, dream journal entries, usage debates, new architectures for social media, overheard conversations, etc. My logs, in theory, are a low-stakes breeding ground for essay ideas to emerge, but given the demands of my other projects (the textbook, software, and essay prize), my logs stayed unread and undeveloped last year. Now, with parenting in the mix, it makes sense to me to stop logging, or at least, reconfigure it.

Over 4 year, I wrote +8k logs, added to the archive on 95% of days (avg. 5.6 per day), and the whole archive is 650k words. It’s a very personal corpus, one that documents my thoughts and life at a sometimes OCD-level of detail. I thought I’d do this forever, and it sort of stings to stop. I guess I’m not “stopping” as much as setting a stronger filter: I can still capture whatever I want, but I can only save whatever I publish on Notes. I used to argue for the importance of having a low-visibility space where you can publish whatever you want without self-consciousness or the need to set context with strangers, but maybe that’s a luxury I’ve outgrown. This is perhaps a long-winded way to announce something that probably doesn’t need announcing: expect to get a lot more diddles and spontaneous essays like this in the Feed. I figure my email-essays can be more on topic (I have a few slotted for January re: Essay Architecture, the club, and visual breakdowns), while these can be chaotic.

Technically, I’m still logging, but it’s for my daughter and those are private. Every day I write simple journal entries or letters about what happened. I figure one day, when she’s 15 or so, I’ll just hand over The Files and blow her mind. My dad did this for me: a few years ago, after my nephew was born, he sent me 8k words from my first 4 years. It was uncanny to see that he had a logging impulse too, and to learn about all these small events that everyone in the family would have otherwise forgotten (things that were not captured in pictures, like me trying to brush the teeth of stray cat). All this reminds me that writing isn’t just an act of thinking or communicating, it’s an act of memory.

Our last meal as pre-child adults was at Panera—something quick and light on the way to the hospital (plus she craved it)—and as we ordered our “pick twos” on a digital menu, I was struck by the beauty of a jazzy Christmas song that would have otherwise been extremely ordinary. It was “White Christmas” by Booker T and the M.G.s. My guess is that the stakes of an extraordinary moment—in this case, one of anticipation—can totally rewire musical taste (or preference in anything, really). Works that we attribute meaning to sometimes have nothing to do with objective qualities of the art, but in the circumstance in which you experience it. 

My wife and I joke that when the obstetricians ask her, “what is your pain management strategy?” she’s going to say “Led Zeppelin,” which cues me to blast “Immigrant Song” at 100% through her BOSE speakers. In all my baby-book reading, when they’ve mentioned “music” during labor, I imagine soothing, meditative music—like Enya or flukes—to calm the screaming mother; but maybe the other direction is more productive? The experience is so intense that Zen garden music could potentially feel toyish and tone deaf to the experience at hand. If you’re experiencing the extremes of pain, it might help to have blaring technical instrumentation in your ear, to moan in harmony with Robert Plant. I mean, the whole strategy is to distract your mind from pain by focusing on specific things, and it does in fact require 100% of your bandwidth to really listen to Bonham fills of Page riffs. She wants me to make her a hard rock playlist.

On the experience of looking into late-pregnancy sonograms: it’s a lot like looking into clouds. Apophenia is in full effect. That looks like a face! Oh wait, that looks like 3 faces. What is that? There are multiple shapes, some big, some small, some cute, some aliens. In trying to idenify the boundaries of my daughtr just now, I saw Elmo, several monsters, and worms. Sometimes it just devolves into B&W abstract collages, something you might see in MoMA (I’d be surprised if a sonagram art exhibit doesn’t exist). Throughout all this looking, a very technical nurse is performing a technical feat: using one hand to place the sound wave, and another hand to operate a cockpit-looking interface, leaving acronyms like RUQ and RLQ to measure blood flow. She hesitates when you ask her if you can take pictures, because this is not a gush-sesison, but an important test for amniotic fluid, but she let’s you anyway because she is fluent enough to be confidently undistracted as you film the whole process … And then suddenly, as soon as your baby appears in crystalline focus, with her tiny skull, and arms, and legs, she seems to explode, and it takes you a second to realize that it’s just the nurse shifting to a different angle.

A big shift in my way of working: instead of trying to scope a specific and ambitious batch of tasks I think should be done in a given day or week, all I commit to is time towards specific areas. The deadlines are less important (generally) than making sure I show up and do high-leverage work with 100% embodiment and enthusiasm. I just set up the Streaks app, and aim for 2.5 hours of work per day over 6 areas: writing, coding, reading, outreach, business, and culture. Each is a simple target: 20-45 minutes per day. At the very least, it gets me started. If I’m in a flow, I go over as long as I want (1-2 hours or more). If not, I just stop. The goal here is to rethink what work might look like while caring for my daughter (and my post-labor wife). I could potentially knock out 2.5 hours in a single nap cycle, or maybe it’s spread over 3-4 sessions at random times. It forces me to prioritize an important thing per day in an area that is an infinite game. It feels slightly unambitious, but I actually think an OS of this nature might be something I continue even when I “get my time back.” There’s a forced prioritization, as well as open space to either (a) diverge/explore, or (b) drill deep on things that actually matter.

Funny to think that Stranger things is a mirror of modern parenting paranoia: if you let your kids ride around on bikes outside, they will be abducted by horrific interdimensional monsters who are controlled by an MK ultra experiment gone wrong (a telepathic reptilian Jeffery Epstein), so just stay safe, stay inside, and watch Netflix.

Caught up in the logistics of preparing for a baby, as well as the biographic change in my own life (I am becoming a father), I am sometimes struck with simple but revelatory perspective shifts: I remember being in Kindergarden, and very soon I will have a kid (a version of me) in that very same position. These imaginal perspectives of the parent are very common. In some weird way, you live your whole life on repeat, except it’s not you, it’s through someone else who has their own sense of agency.

Tempted to get a vinyl player because it would be a form of analog media my daughter could engage with. The core feature is not sound quality (the typical justification), but the fact that each album is an object, and a young mind can associate media with physical things. You can also, display your favorites on a wall, as a constant reminder of the ones you like.

I'm predicting that parenting will get me to think differently about consciousness, time, responsibility, language, learning, pattern matching, and mortality.

I'm up early and for no reason having weird sensory flashbacks from high school, like a moment in 9th grade social studies with a teacher whose name I surprisingly can't remember, probably in first period, because I can see the fog and dew and street lamps outside, where I can feel my finger glide along the smooth pencil divot on those terrible beige desks, and he’s asking us how Jewish we think the world is (we think it’s 50%, far above the answer). I remember where I sit, alphabetically placed, and can rotate my head to remember my forgotten piers and their jokes or silences. I can’t remember the teacher's face either, and wonder if he’s still alive.

It is strange to inhabit an older consciousness of yourself, especially when you realize they know nothing of what you’ve become. It always reminds me that my current self will, in not much time, be equally exotic and fuzzy, knowing none of the realities of fatherhood.

Banning social media accounts (in Australia), by age (16), feels heavy-handed.

A better solution is to (1) verify identity and age, (2) implement a standard where features have categories and ratings, and then (3), spin up a custom version of that social media site based on age. For example, 5-year olds shouldn’t be limited from YouTube, but maybe there are content blackouts, no vertical video shortform feed, no comments, etc. As you age (/mature), the platform blooms in functionality