The Inspiration
The first diary I ever kept started in second grade, and even after the class assignment was done, I continued writing in it. All my life, writing has been the only imperative, and I am my own favorite subject. If I understand myself, maybe I can understand the world. I decided to start typing up these diaries for lots of reasons: because I trusted a digital record more than the physical one I had, so I could put my old journals in storage and still remember what I had written, because a part of me believed something I had to say at twelve years old might one day be worth being read by someone else. But in my sixth year of attempting an undergraduate degree in computer science while skipping my homework to write stories and poems, I realized that my diaries are not just stories or records or inspiration, they are data. I'm not a good enough coder to make the computer make any sense of that data, but I hope I'm a good enough poet to make sense of the computer's gibberish.
The Project
I used a Recurrent Neural Network (RNN) to train an AI on my old diary entries using tutorials from https://towardsdatascience.com/stephen-king-text-generation-with-artificial-intelligence-rnn-using-python-e92c735851be and https://www.tensorflow.org/text/tutorials/text_generation. For each diary, I trained an AI model, then provided input based on common words or phrases in those diaries (from https://wordcounter.net/ and also my own knowledge of how I write) to generate text, occasionally taking interesting phrases generated as a new input. I saved any promising looking generated entries and turned them into poems, converting gibberish into similar looking or sounding words, or deleting it entirely.
The Result
Part reflection of the past, part poetic Rorschach test in the present, and part absurd gibberish, here’s a look into whether a poorly trained AI can lend any insights into life.
AI Output
I love l tare. I wor tad bot sot eolly fir somis. Today is Tousdday, Jatu ray 2006. On Sanurday, I went to Manday, I wes lixt be bethat and my salc en the fare to mide serin atlan are toen got the ind the
Poem
I love. I tear. I would, but so early somnis.
Today is Tousdday, Jatu ray 2006. On Sanurday, I went to Manday,
I was betwixt, beneath, and the fare to Erin got behind
AI Output
I just nowat Erinh it ersding tome tiks souk t is le played then ono mo ke ding oo kris ock an Shaureffe tsel ol, I hat me playeush wanliggin, are it my houly. I leve toe anding an Setkrys rier ih re d
Poem
just now, at Erin’s
its ending tome tiks,
soul is played then on the ding
O Christ, tok, at Shelburne Falls, tell all.
I hate me, play us holy.
I leave too, ending a selkie river bend
AI Output
because wond, s eus ean I her to oveeaemer an oem sr ease tl aode lo hoo r aod c mo euth i im, a d era e to bt emerdnge. I vi ’t oathigewr. Iedos’lejustyttl eant. I mtatki l tin hil benti se, sut I ton
Poem
because wonder, because I’m overeager
and some easy accolade of youth
I’m emerging. I visit oaths I just want.
I make this hill beneath summer