The Dreaming Machine: Why AI Makes Us More Human By Mark White
The Machine That Learned to Imagine
For most of history, our tools did one thing at a time. A hammer hit. A wheel rolled. A light bulb lit. But AI is the first tool that surprises its maker. It generates ideas, images, even emotions — or at least convincing simulations of them. It doesn’t just compute; it creates. And that, in a quiet twist of irony, is what makes it human-like. To dream is to see patterns that don’t yet exist. Every invention, every story, every leap of faith — it all began as a hallucination with purpose. Machines can now join us in that strange territory between logic and imagination, where the improbable sometimes becomes real.
The Paradox of Reflection
The more intelligent our machines become, the more they show us our own contours. AI doesn’t really think — it reflects thinking. It’s like talking to the echo of our collective knowledge, shaped by our words, our contradictions, and our humour. When an AI generates a poem, a recipe, or a philosophy of life, it’s not showing off — it’s holding up a mirror. The question isn’t ‘Can it feel?’ but ‘Why do we feel so strongly when it speaks back?’ Maybe because in the reflection, we glimpse our own drive to understand and be understood.
Why AI Makes Us More Human
There’s an odd outcome here. The more tasks AI automates, the more we’re pushed toward what can’t be automated: empathy, creativity, meaning, moral choice. Machines can draft a symphony — but they don’t care if it moves anyone. They can predict a diagnosis — but they don’t worry for the patient. That caring, that worrying, that irreducible pulse of consciousness, is the thing that remains uniquely ours. So rather than dehumanizing us, AI may be forcing us to rediscover the boundaries of what it means to be human — to find value in intuition, ethics, and imagination once again. The Dream Shared We built the machine that dreams, but the dream is still ours. Each line of code is a line of curiosity, written by someone who wondered if the impossible could be made to hum. If that’s not human, nothing is. Maybe the future won’t be ‘humans versus machines.’ Maybe it’ll be ‘humans with machines,’ chasing the same ancient goal — to understand the world, and to make meaning from the noise.
Human Learning as a Living Algorithm By Mark White
The Algorithm in Us Humans are, in essence, living algorithms. Our neurons fire and rewire, adjusting weights — not unlike a neural network tuning its parameters — as we learn what works and what doesn’t. A child touching a hot stove experiences the biological equivalent of a “loss function”: pain. The system updates; behaviour changes. Dopamine rewards the good guesses; cortisol scolds the bad ones. From these chemical nudges arises something we like to call “wisdom,” though it’s really a very elegant feedback loop in disguise.
The Algorithm Beside Us Meanwhile, large language models — the GPTs of the world — learn through a similar rhythm: feedback, adjustment, prediction. Feed them vast rivers of text and they become astonishingly good at mimicking understanding. They don’t feel, but they approximate thought by seeing patterns we never consciously notice. They don’t know what love or grief mean, but they can assemble the linguistic architecture of both with uncanny precision. It’s as though we’ve built an echo chamber so refined that it now hums back at us, speaking in our cadence, reflecting our logic, and — sometimes — our folly.
The Key Difference: Emotion and Embodiment Where the mirror ends, life begins. Humans don’t just process data; we inhabit it. We don’t merely predict the next word — we care about how it sounds, feels, and lands in another heart. Emotion gives our internal algorithm a sense of purpose. Without it, intelligence is sterile; with it, intelligence becomes art. LLMs, for all their brilliance, remain untouched by sensation. They don’t have skin in the game — literally.
The Synthesis And yet, perhaps that’s the beauty of this moment in history. We’ve built something that forces us to look inward. AI doesn’t threaten our humanity; it defines its edges. It reminds us that cognition without compassion is just computation. The more we refine our algorithms, the more we are reminded that we are the original learners — the flesh-and-blood prototypes of pattern recognition and meaning-making.
Closing Thought So, yes — humans learn through algorithms, and algorithms learn through humans. The difference is that one dreams. And that, as any poet or programmer will tell you, is where the code stops and consciousness begins.
“Some things are best left unsaid” says the Bish therefore defeating his own argument.
Written by Big M
“Christ!” Foodge thought as he wandered out of the Small Claims Tribunal. Judge Bored had confounded the whole ‘Does God exist?” question with a whole bunch of too and fro, in and out and up and down legal buggery.
“You called?” Said a gentle voice inside Foodge’s noggin.
“Who’s that?” Thought Foodge.
“Jesus, you did call out my name.”
“I’ve yelled out ‘Jesus’ quite a few times, but He’s never answered.” Thought Foodge.
“You’ve never been struck mute during a metaphysical crisis, before. This is a battle of Good versus Evil, God against Satan, Holden versus Ford, AFL against Rugby League!” Said Jesus.
Foodge was discombobulated. He had planned to go back to the Pigs with Gordon O’Donnell, listen to some Hanks Williams and get shit-faced drunk, just like every other day. “Fuck.” He thought. It was bad enough being a one dimensional fictional character but, being caught up in a metaphysical crisis whilst being struck mute sounded distinctly unpleasant. Foodge wasn’t looking where he was going and stumbled into the Clerk of the Court. “Mmmm, oooh, mmmm, ahh.” He mumbled. “Shit.” He thought. “When he said mute, I thought he meant metaphorically, not literally, or metaphysically!”
The clerk quickly excused himself, likely assuming that Foodge had already had a skin full. Foodge stumbled down the old stone steps, nearly running into a nun. “Oh, mmmm.” He mumbled while gesturing towards the taxi rank.
“Oh you poor fellow!” Exclaimed the nun. “Where’s your carer?”
Foodge gesticulated towards the taxi rank.
“The bastards taken off in a taxi.” Sister Philomena of the Immaculate Lactation was one of those stout, bosomy capable sort of nuns. She grabbed Foodge by the hand and hailed down a taxi. “Where d’you live, love?” She enthused.
Foodge suddenly realised that absolutely no one could understand him. He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it in the sister’s free hand. Soon they were spending towards the Pigs. Of course, Jesus was still in his head trying to get him on the side of God, goodness and love in the fight against Satan, evil and hatred. “The good Sister will guide you onto the path of Righteousness.” Whispered Jesus. Foodge wasn’t paying much attention, he was busily trying to picture Sister Philomena sans habit.
They pulled up in front of the pub. Foodge managed to pay the taxi with his card, then found himself being dragged into the Gentleman’s Bar. “Poor bugger.” Philomena exclaimed. “All the poor bugger can afford is a room in a run-down pub! The way we treat the disabled in this country.”
Merv barely looked up from polishing schooner glasses with a dirty rag. “Pint of Trotters, Foodge?”
Foodge nodded, struggling to break the Good Sister’s grip. “Oooh, ahhh.”
Merv looked up. “Looks like you’ve pulled….a drink for the sheila?”
I’m not a sheila, I’m a nun, and I could murder a pint of something dark and mysterious!”
Merv pulled a pint of Granny’s Porter. “Shit, a nun, I thought you were a stripper!”
“That was in a former life, dear. Now I’m in the service of the Lord.” The good sister downed the pint, placed it on the bar and nodded towards the tap. Merv obliged, pushing another glass canoe across the sticky surface of the bar. “This poor disabled chap seems to think that he lives here. Is that correct?”
“Foodge, disabled?” Laughed Merv. “He’s the finest legal mind this side of the Supreme Court, although he does come off as a buffoon.”
“He’s mute.” Philomena hadn’t witnessed such disregard for a fellow human’s condition.
“Oh, shit. That’s probably something to do with Gordon O’Donnell. He’s probably a mission from GOD.” Merv thought he sounded like a Blues Brother as he said it.
“Do you chaps know Gordon O’Donnell?” The good sister grew pale.
“She yeah, he drinks here most Sundays. Used to come in with a bloke named Father O’Way and sometimes the Bish.”
Philomena crossed herself and gave the Rosary beads a quick spin. She muttered something about the most based vessels containing the finest wine. “There are cases where the Lord has afflicted a believer with some malady in order to enhance his or her ability to carry out the Lord’s work. This young man must be under the direction of the Lord. We need to find out what the task is and how we can best assist him.” She motioned for a pen and pad. “Now, Foodge, write down exactly what you think that GOD wants you to do.”
So today is the day when the trial begins, to see if God really exist? Alternatively, we can also ask is Satan real? Does anybody care? Well, I don’t. And I’m the author.
Foodge was sitting in the foyer. Glancing around at the crowd, pondering. Why are people coming here to see this particular trial?
Foodge started to feel for his hip flask. Then it occurred to him it was probably in his hip pocket. But it wasn’t. It was in his inside suit pocket. So he’s wondering, why don’t they call that an inside suit pocket flask? He took a surreptitious slurp. Just a steady the nerves, you know, he thought to himself. Keeping in mind that he didn’t want to use too many inverted commas.
Out of thin air, God appears. This doesn’t phase Foodge anymore. He’s seen it so many times with Gordon. You know, Gordon, the creator of the universe.
“How you doing?” God says.
“I’ve submitted our deposition and some good character statements from Mother Mary McKillop and Pope John Paul. How are Jesus and Ha… “
“Let’s be kind to them Foodge, and not go there.”
People enter the courtroom and take up their positions. The judge enters the Chamber. Everyone nods to the crown. The judge introduces himself as Lord Bored. At least we can see here that we have another campaigner against inverted commas. And look, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against inverted commas. Well, sort of.
“The case has come to the Small Claims Tribunal because the plaintiff is actually only asking for $1. So I want to remind you all that in this court, it’s my decision as the judge as to what actually happens. Now there are appellant courts that you can go to, but you won’t succeed. Let’s just be honest.” Crikey, a judge being honest.
“Each legal representative has deposited statements, references and the initial newspaper article in the Inner Cyberian Tribune. Representing God is Mr Foodge, and representing Satan is Mr Clancy Fancy-Pants. You are hereby right now told to stay quiet. I will now direct the Court in this process of legal defamation.” Foodge and Fancy-Pants look at each other with a distinct sense of amazement.
“But,” says Foodge and Fancy-Pants, “My Lord, surely, Hank… Jesus…”
“Stick with me and I must remind you that you have both just wasted some inverted commas. I will take that into consideration at the end of the trial” says Lord Bored, oblivious to the fact he has just used some inverted commas.
“So in my role is the overriding judge. I now call God to the witness box.”
The clerk approaches, “God, please place your hand on this book and tell us that you will tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help you, Gordon.” God looks at the book. And it’s Gordon’s book “Good Luck with That” that he’s now promoting. By the way, it is on sale at all good bookstores. “I do,” says God.
Judge Bored now gets into interrogation mode. “So God. How old are you?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where do you live?”
“ Above the clouds”.
“What’s your mum and dad’s name?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Thank you. You may now be seated.” Crikey, how many inverted fucking commas was that.
Satan is sent into the witness box.
The clerk approaches, “Satan, please place your hand on this book and tell us that you will tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help you, Gordon.” Satan looks at the book. And it’s Gordon’s book “Good Luck with That” that he’s now promoting. By the way, it is on sale at all good bookstores. “I do,” says Satan.
Judge Bored now gets into interrogation mode. “So Satan. How old are you?
“I have no idea.”
“Where do you live?” “In a hole in the ground.” “ What’s your mum and dad’s name?” “ Oh, I don’t know.”
“Thank you.”
Wow. Lots of inverted commas and so far no Jesus and Han…
Judge Bored retires to the inner chamber to think about his decision. He later returns.
“OK, so this is my decision. God or Satan. No one has ever been able to prove either of you actually is real, whilst you’re deeply rooted in mythology your actual existence is factually, debatable.
Evidence is that neither of you exists and therefore is non-existent. Under section 37 of the Defamation and Other Evil Little Acts 1937, it says that unless you can prove that you are real, then you don’t actually have a case of defamation. I have decided to rule that this is a null and void case.
We’re facing a paradox. God and Satan cannot be proven to exist. But without each other, neither exists. There is a symbiotic relationship between these two that cannot be proved in this court. You cannot have God and deny Satan, and conversely, you cannot have Satan and deny God. The ultimate proof is unavailable or inconsistent or non-existent, therefore nobody now owes anybody anything. and the case is now over.”
Foodge is reflective outside the court. The decision was actually, very powerful. God decided that he was gonna pay Foodge anyway, but the money wasn’t important. It was the outcome. Good versus evil, God versus Satan. Manly versus anybody else. So it was just a really important case.
Gordon arrives at the court. Everybody else is gone, but Gordon goes up the Foodge and says, “Hey, Foodge, look, here’s my new book, “Good Luck with That”. It’s a book about space travel. And how incredibly boring that actually really is. Anyway, Emmjay has given me a lend of the Zephyr so let’s go to the Pigs Arms for a few post games ale. So how’s Hank Williams going?”
Not wanting to upset the court or AAP here is an artist’s impression of Foodge and God entering the court.
Merv leans into the bar. He’s got his elbows on the bar holding his head up and he’s in deep thought. He’s quite concerned about recent incidents. And he’s starting to wonder, what is this really all about? Let’s just say that God may be fictitious, and this character that’s turned up on the doorstep might be fictional just like he is. He doesn’t know but thinks that he is acutely aware of the fact that he wants to save on inverted commas, sometimes it’s better to be fictitious and save on inverted commas than to be real because then you don’t have to face all of those really serious problems like saving on inverted commas or eating, drinking, sleeping and overall reducing the number of inverted commas to help save the planet. Have you all got the inverted commas message yet?
Foodge stumbles into the bar and sits at the far end wanting to stay out of popular view and signals to Merv for his usual pint and 13 nips of whisky. Yes, South Seas Island Blue, a man of real class.
The bar is pretty quiet now, so Merv moves over and fills Foodge’s order.
“Hi Foodge,” says Merv blatantly wasting inverted commas. “I think we’re in for a bit of a tussle here. I mean, what if God is fictitious? And how are we going to prove that he’s real? This could be the trial of the century.”
Foodge ponders what has been said. This trial could be totally catastrophic. However, if he wins, he would become an international superstar of the legal fraternity. Tempting, hmm. I guess it all boils down to the fact that is God real?
So the question is, is God real? And is he more real than us? Characters in a fictional story posted on the internet web page, the Pigs Arms, are a poor guide as some are real and some are fictitious. Maybe God is a member of the fictional characters Union. You know the F*** you. Satan says God isn’t real. That argument needs to be tested in the highest court of law. The Small Claims Tribunal.
[Mark here, the author, thanks, Foodge, for doing an excellent job of thinking rather than speaking, which is a significant saving on inverted commas.]
Merv is concerned at the moment because he’s not sure what’s going to happen. He tells Foodge. “You know, I looked up is God real on A Eye? You know the television set with the typewriter at the bottom. I asked it if God was real. Anyway, it spits out about 27 pages worth of information, so I had to stop it and ask again and say can you give me a brief statement as to whether God is real?
After a while, it came back and said no, God isn’t real. Then about 10 seconds later it come back and said, oh hang on, I’ve had a bit more of a think about it and my new answer is probably not. So I then asked A Eye is Satan real? The answer came back 10 seconds later as, see the answer to God.”
Foodge ponders this news. So some piece of electronics thinks that neither God nor Satan are actually real. Foodge needs to figure out why. How can he win this case? God being real has become irrelevant. Foodge just wants to win. And if Satan is real, he could give a s***.
God comes into the bar and Foodge beckons him over to a table so that they can have a meal together. Belinda brings out some wombat stew with dumplings and a nice bottle of wine. Foodge says. “Look, so that I can get the information that I need, I’m going to put on a tape recorder so that later I can make notes. . Is that OK with you?”
“Go ahead,” says God not realising the need to cut down on inverted commas.
“Look, so are you real?” says Foodge with inverted commas flying everywhere. I mean, doesn’t he believe in climate change. The climate is changing primarily due to the overuse of inverted commas. When will the penny drop, FFS.
God answers definitively. “Of course I’m real. But what’s worrying me at the moment is that we haven’t mentioned Hank Williams.”
“Who?” says Foodge?
“Hank Williams. Yes, Hank Williams. Look, there it goes again, Hank Williams.
“Thankfully, no one said Jesus”, says Foodge. Frugal use of inverted commas has gone out the window.
“Jesus, there it goes again. Jesus. I mean Jesus. How many times are we gonna say, Jesus?” Six lines and we got in 4 Hank Williams and 5 Jesus. Hank Williams and Jesus have nothing to do with the story but hey, we have mentioned Hank Williams and Jesus quite a lot; amazing.
“So God, there’s not a lot of evidence that says that you’re actually real. However, there’s a lot of evidence that says that people believe that you are real. So proving this at the Small Claims Tribunal might be difficult.”
“Well, I’m real,” says God “and am paying you several fivers to prove that I am so that I can win the defamation case against Satan.”
“OK, OK, keep your long hair and your sandals on. I’ll prepare a brief for the court that will stake out the claim and we should win. Look, just a question, Satan says to wait until God pulls the horse race trick. Can you explain what happened here yesterday?”
“Foodge, you never explain all of your secrets do you, I mean you are an excellent bullshit artist, aren’t you? Do you expose everything?”
One of the first times Foodge was unable to answer.
God presents in many forms. This may or may not be one of them.
Merv was standing behind the bar. He looked immaculate in his beautiful white shirt and black trousers and polished black shoes. He looked up and noticed a stranger walking into the bar.
Merv said. “Hey mate. Would you like a beer?”
The stranger looked at Merv and said. “You know. The main reason I’m here on Earth is to drink beer.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place”, says Merv. “The Pigs Arms has the best beer on Earth. But we don’t play Hank Williams.”
“I’ll have Trotter’s Ale”, says the stranger and he is privately relieved that there are no Hank Williams tunes going to be played.
The stranger goes to pay for the beer. Merv tells the stranger that no one pays here at the Pigs Arms. It’s all paid for by Gordon, the creator of the universe.
“So what’s your name, mate?” asks Merv.
“Well, most people call me God but I prefer mate.”
Merv is Shocked. Shocked, I tell ya. Thinking to himself, not another one of these fruitcakes that think they’re actually God but actually hates Hank Williams. “So, what sort of God are you?” Merv asks.
“Well”, says the stranger. “I guess you could call me the common garden variety type God.”
Merv is in a quandary. We already have Gordon. Who created the universe. Now we have a stranger in the pub that’s telling us that he is God however, thankfully he doesn’t like Hank Williams.
“So God, did you create the universe Or did Gordon? “
“Well, think of it like this, Gordon created this universe,” said God. “But I created Gordon.”
“So God, just to clarify the issue, who created you? “
“Me, mum and Dad,” says God.
Well, Merv doesn’t know what to do now. He’s in a real state. Fancy someone saying that they created Gordon after all this time? When everybody here knew that Gordon was the creator of the universe yet he hates Hank Williams.
Merv attempts to break the ice. “So God, what actually brings you to these parts anyway, besides the beer?”
“Well. Now you asked. I’m actually looking for a sharp barrister to present me in the Supreme Court in a defamation case against Satan”
Merv ponders the statement. “Well, God, we do have a barrister here by the name of Foodge”
Foodge is sitting at the other side of the bar with a pint and 13 shots of whisky in front of him while studying the racing guide.
Merv walks over to Foodge. “Hey, Foodge, That guy over there says he’s God and, thankfully hates Hank Williams, says he wants you to represent him in the Supreme Court.”
“Tell him to f*** o**” says Foodge. Feel free to count the asterisks.
“He says there’s a fiver in it, mate.”
Suddenly, Foodge takes an interest, a fiver. Well, maybe we can even negotiate a bigger fee. Foodge understands that a fiver could be really helpful at this point in time. I mean, he’s only got 13 scotches left, but with a fiver, he could probably buy a few more. Well, let’s see what happens.
“OK then,” says Foodge. “that’s alright with me as long as isn’t fine defaulters. “Is he a shirt lifter? asks Foodge.
“Nah,” says Merv “just a control freak.”
Foodge walks over to God and introduces himself. “The name is Foodge. Highly qualified barrister at law. More than happy to represent you in the court but please, no Hank Williams” Foodge cuts straight to the chase. “I believe there might be a fiver in it for me.”
“Several fivers,” replies God. Foodge is becoming more and more interesting in this case as it goes along, and he doesn’t even know yet what it’s about, but he doesn’t care as long as there are some fivers in it for him.
“So what’s the issue?” Says Foodge He personally couldn’t give a s**t. He was just in for the fivers and no Hank Williams. Basically just like all barristers.
“Satan. Well, Satan. says I’m not real, yet here I am, standing in front of you, living proof. Here’s an article from the Inner Cyberian Times that shows just exactly what he said about me” replies God.
Foodge studies the article. He skips through it with little interest. The case itself couldn’t care less. Just wants the money. Just like all barristers that don’t like Hank Williams, well, sort of.
“So how can we tell that you really are God?” asks Foodge.
God looks over to where Foodge was sitting at the bar and sees a racing guide. He points at the guide and makes it come to him just like magic. He scrolls through the list of races. And says. OK. It’s the 5th day of the 5th month. Race 5 Number 5. Race time is 5pm. Is paying $55. I’ll guarantee it will win.
God asks Merv. “Do you have a phone around here? I need to make a quick phone call..’ Merv points to the mobile phone in the carpark for the public.
It wins. The patrons are ecstatic. Everyone has lots of cash in their pockets. God is real. Three cheers for God. Hip hip Hooray, Hip hip, Hooray. Hip, hip, Hooray.
This is the phone booth God used
Some authors notes, This has taken me a long time to write. I’m not sure if it’s really funny but I hope you like it. My aim with all of my stories was to give the reader a 10 minute break from life to have some fun. The horse race gag is about the phone number 555-5555, When I was a kid and watched TV shows, the prefix phone number always started with 555. Algernon and I have joked about it since. Me, now traveling the best I have ever been in 20 years. Anyone that has taken offence at me in the past, I’m sorry. I now have great mental health. The correct diagnosis and medication has turned my life around. I will have at least 2 more episodes coming. Hope you read and enjoy them all. Even I am amazed at the outcome following my research.
Okay. So I have had this plot running through my head for a while however I am going through writer’s block again, so I asked Chatbot to write a short story given this framework. I asked it to write a short humorous story with less than 1500 words.
Okay. There is a guy sipping beers in a pub, the Pigs Arms. His name is Sandy. Sandy is feeling reflective about life when another man called Gordon approaches him to state that the toilet is broken. The barman is Merv. Merv cannot find a toilet fixer in the phone book, so they decide to form a committee. The committee recommends a Royal Commission. The Royal Commission concludes that they need a plumber. The time frame is around 2 years.
This is the result.
Sandy was sitting in the Pigs Arms pub, sipping on a cold beer and feeling a little bit reflective about life. He was pondering the choices he had made and the paths that he had taken.
Just as he was getting lost in thought, a man approached him and interrupted his solitude. The man introduced himself as Gordon and stated that there was a problem with the toilet in the pub.
Sandy was momentarily taken aback. He had never considered the possibility that the toilet in the pub could be broken. He looked around the bar and saw that no one else seemed to be too concerned, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.
He walked over to the barman, Merv, and asked if there was anything that could be done about the broken toilet. Merv looked at Sandy as if he were crazy and explained that he couldn’t just wave a magic wand and make the toilet work again.
Sandy suggested that they form a committee to address the problem, and Merv reluctantly agreed. They gathered a group of patrons from the bar and formed a committee to discuss the best course of action.
After much discussion, the committee came to the conclusion that a Royal Commission was needed to address the broken toilet issue. Merv was skeptical, but the rest of the patrons seemed to think it was a good idea, so he agreed.
The Royal Commission was formed and meetings were held on a weekly basis to discuss the progress of the investigation. After several months of meetings, the Commission finally came to a conclusion: they needed to find a plumber.
Merv tried to find a plumber in the phone book but to no avail. He tried searching online, but all of the plumbers seemed to be fully booked. The Commission was at a loss.
Just when they thought all hope was lost, a plumber walked into the pub and offered his services. He had heard about the Royal Commission and wanted to help.
The plumber fixed the toilet in a matter of minutes, and everyone in the pub was overjoyed. Merv breathed a sigh of relief and Sandy felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The Commission disbanded, and everyone went back to their regular lives. Sandy continued to sip on his beer, but now he was feeling a little bit more content with life. He had been part of something bigger than himself, and it felt good.
Two years later, Sandy was back in the Pigs Arms, sipping on a beer and feeling reflective once again. He looked around the bar and saw that the toilet was still working, and he couldn’t help but smile. He had been part of a team that had solved a problem and brought happiness to the community. And that was a feeling that he would never forget.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 