I’m writing this from the Durham Public Library, where I’m currently that guy—the pretentious one in the corner with the absurdly elaborate mobile workstation. Picture this: Galaxy Fold stretched out like a sci-fi notebook, tiny monitor glowing, wireless mouse, keyboard clacking, and one lukewarm cup of “library café” coffee that may or may not taste like burned ambition.

I could’ve brought my laptop.
But where’s the drama in that?

I had some writing to do today. Actual, important, grown-up writing. You know—the kind with deadlines and purpose. But somewhere between booting up my travel rig and queuing up a Dead/Phish playlist (because obviously this moment called for jam band transcendence), I had a thought.

An idea.

A big one.

And it hit me like a flashback to 1996: This moment feels familiar.

You know the feeling—that tingling behind the eyes, that “something big is happening” electricity. It’s like the internet all over again. Like when we dialed up AOL with screeching modems and dreamed in HTML.

I was 24 when I first fell into that rabbit hole, and let me tell you—I never climbed back out.

Now here I am, decades later, geeking out with my portable command center in a public library, and I swear to you...
I feel it again.

AI Is My Second Brain (And Maybe My First Brain’s Therapist)

AI has already become my co-pilot.
Actually, scratch that. It’s my entire pit crew.

  • My proofreader (because typos are my love language)
  • My editor (who has better grammar and boundaries than I do)
  • My sounding board (when I spiral about paragraph structure at 1am)
  • My graphic design team (that never rolls its eyes or charges $150/hour)

But here’s the kicker: it’s just getting started.

We’re at the paintbrush phase. Not even oils and canvas yet. Just the first finger smudges on the cave wall. And even now? It’s stunning.

Take this moment.
I had an idea for an image.
Just a scribble, really—one of “Jimmy’s awesome scribbles,” the kind that might’ve once ended up in a notebook and gone no further.

But this time, I gave it to AI.

And it bloomed.

Not because it’s replacing artists. (Let’s be clear—it’s not.)
Just like drum machines didn’t end live drummers. Just like rock didn’t replace jazz. Just like Spotify didn’t kill live music.
This is evolution.

AI art isn’t the death of creativity. It’s the remix.

It’s the birth of a new form. One that still needs us—our weird ideas, our human flaws, our spark—to come to life.

The Fire Phase

This tech isn’t just cool. It’s primal.
It’s fire.

And like fire, it’s going to burn some stuff down. But it’s also going to cook our next meal, light our next story, and keep us warm in the middle of the creative unknown.

I can feel myself building something with it—something I’ve been trying to shape for years: my second brain. Not just notes and files and bookmarks. But a real digital extension of myself. A place where my ideas don’t die of neglect but evolve while I’m asleep. It’s the thing I used to sketch on napkins. It’s here now. Or at least, it’s starting.

A Vision from the Blue Ridge

So what’s the goal? Whats the dream?
Honestly?

I want to live in a tiny craftsman-style house nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. No neighbors. Just trees, mountain fog, and a gigabit connection feeding my second brain.

Outwardly? A hermit.
Digitally? A global creator.

Trading stocks. Collaborating with people around the world. Creating art, publishing books, and building interactive experiences for young minds—and older weirdos.
All made possible with AI—not to replace me, but to finish the thoughts I abandon when the coffee goes cold or my brain takes one of its legendary detours.

Back to the Library

Anyway, back to today.

The air feels like a warm summer day from years gone by. I’m listening to “Box of Rain.” I’m writing on a Franken-rig powered by a phone. And I’m excited in a way I haven’t been in years.

I feel like young Jimmy again.
That kid with too many computers, too many ideas, and not nearly enough time to chase them all.

I don’t know where this ride is taking me—heck, I don’t know where it’s going to take humanity—but I know this:

The engine’s running hot.
The road’s wide open.
And the paintbrush?
It’s alive now.

And if you’re reading this while sipping your own cup of lukewarm ambition?

Welcome to the movement.
Grab a brush.

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