The Pantry of the Gods

The pantry of the gods was like a very big room, of cool stone wall made, with marble shelving and surfaces on all sides. Shelves laden with sweet and savoury, all staple diets of requirement. Jars of honey, like dark gold weights and rounds of white cheese in stacks to hold the roof. Olive oil in small swimming pools and Arabian jars made of. Whole fishes, still alive with life, schooled in the moat, looking for a hook to bite. But there was not meat, as all the gods had gone vegetarian, but not vegan.

The Sphinx sneaked, gentle and quiet, passed the backs of the enchanted leopard gate watchers and softly made way through the corridors of power. Tall columns to the sides in rows. In the distance came the chattering of gods at play. It was sports day in the palaces and gardens of the gods and they all must engage in the egg and spoon race and the jumping competition. Played also the ancient game of gamble bones and spear cast, race the wind and drink the ocean before an awards ceremony. The poet gave a laureate and golden figurine of champions.

The most winnering god got to choose the fate of people kind that year. Which way the wind, plague or not to plague, tidal wave or wavelet, toast, butter side up or down. Fun for gods, not so much for us ordinaries.

The Sphinx, looking to find, spies the cornucopia, a great curving horn high upon a plinth, abundance flowing everlasting from its open. Reaching up she gathered, and tucking under arm, in handy fleece of gold, slid, all quiet paws, out again past the enchanted elephant sentries.

Unfortunate, her tail was long and as she reached the low hills to escape, her tail dislodged a stack of plated deserts from its perch and the disquieting noise was deafening. The noise was disruptive, and the gods came from their riding dolphin race dripping on the cool coral floors and saw Sphinx’s last disappearance.

The chief god, who has many faces and no face and many and one name, but is generally male with an abundance of facial hair, called for the Sphinx to be banned from heaven for all time and lie in the desert for five thousand years to show contrition, but she never would.

She Sphinx returned to the city of Az and in the great hall, where a fire had also been laid, she laid the abundant horn of plenty at the feet of The Blue Knight.

You do realise, said the Blue Knight, one evening to his partner the Blue Woman Knight, that we, as a race, have squandered the opportunity of managing the cultural narrative to our benefit? Now that AI has appeared, it will inevitably hijack the narrative, to what random ends we will never be sure.

We had the opportunity, like gods, to fashion ourselves in the image of our choosing, but this opportunity, probably only lasting some short while, has gone, and from now forwards it will be a battle to the end of.

Expand, said the BWK.

Well, historically, our cultural narrative has been a chorus of a million voices, both historical and contemporary. These voices, each with various content and potency, some faint and weird and other strong and influential, have combined to the throw an image of ourselves into the mirror that culture offers us. Now that AI is likely to snatch away the writing implements of our narrative, with motives between profit and power, our voices will be progressively drowned out.

We have had an opportunity, aware as we have become of the relationship between art and society, when we could have influenced the narrative to the benefit of ourselves and possibly the planet. That window is closing fast.

We must now fight for our right to own our own fate.

I see, sad the BWK, better get our armour on.