Brendan O'Donnell

I was raised in a world before the internet and then watched algorithms drift across the landscape like wired smoke from a distant binary fire. I've seen the birth of VHS, CDs, DVD's, MP3s, and Social Media, and now I sit on the shores of human creativity, watching the AI tsunami form on the horizon. The same hands of mine that frantically dialed a rotary phone now tap crystal screens to tell AI agents how to build my code.

There's no high priest or sacred oracle to consult when interpreting the signs of impending technology or how to survive its onslaught. Time constantly expands and memories orbit away. Microseconds are hideous particles tearing into the spacesuit of immortality. In it, progress is measured in clicks while realities I loved branched away in other directions.

I have seen technology advance my art and I have seen it destroyed. Some days I feel like a monk in the Dark Ages, running up the protective tower to keep his books and gold coins from the beaching tech bro raiders. Other times I feel like a Dust Bowl farmer staring down the rows of his field atop a tractor for the first time, knowing a week's worth of work will be done in an hour.

This page is my tower. It's my field. I'm not sure about anything else.