Author Archives: Regnum Somniorum

ChatGPT #2: Write fiction about Serge Gainsbourg

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Serge Gainsbourg sat at his piano, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring out the window at the bustling Parisian streets below. It was a warm summer evening, and the sounds of the city drifted up to his apartment. He took a sip of his drink, feeling the familiar burn of the alcohol as it made its way down his throat.

As he sat there, lost in thought, his mind wandered back to his youth. He had grown up in a rough part of Paris, with a father who had abandoned the family and a mother who had turned to alcohol to cope. Music had been his escape, his solace. He had discovered jazz at a young age, and had spent countless hours listening to records, dreaming of one day becoming a musician himself.

And now, years later, he had achieved that dream. He was one of the most famous musicians in France, known for his provocative lyrics and daring performances. He had pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable, both musically and socially. He had scandalized the public with his relationships and his antics, but he didn’t care. He was living life on his own terms.

He took another sip of whiskey, his fingers idly playing a few notes on the piano. He knew that he had a reputation as a womanizer, but he didn’t see himself that way. He loved women, he loved their curves and their sensuality, but he also respected them. He knew that he could be difficult to be with, but he couldn’t help who he was.

As the night wore on, he began to feel the familiar tug of inspiration. He stood up from the piano, his mind racing with ideas. He grabbed a pen and paper, and began to jot down lyrics, humming a melody as he worked.

Hours passed, and the night turned to morning. Serge was still at work, his creative energy fueling him through the long hours. As the sun rose over Paris, he knew that he had something special. He smiled to himself, feeling a sense of satisfaction that only came from creating something new and beautiful.

And so, Serge Gainsbourg continued to live his life as he always had, pushing the boundaries and refusing to conform. He would never be like anyone else, and that was just fine with him. He was a true original, and his music would live on long after he was gone.

ChatGPT #1: Write fiction about Serge Gainsbourg.

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Serge Gainsbourg was a musician, songwriter, and provocateur who pushed the boundaries of French culture in the 20th century. He was known for his dark, moody songs that often dealt with taboo subjects like sex, death, and religion. But behind the public persona, there was a man with a complex inner life, struggling with his own demons.

As a child, Serge was always a bit of an oddball. He was born Lucien Ginsburg in 1928 in Paris to Russian-Jewish parents who had fled the revolution. His father was a talented pianist, but the family struggled to make ends meet. Serge was a sensitive and introverted child who felt like an outsider in his own family.

As he grew older, Serge began to develop a love for music. He started playing piano and listening to jazz records, immersing himself in the music of Charlie Parker and Duke Ellington. But his real breakthrough came when he discovered the music of French chanteuse Edith Piaf. Her raw emotion and theatricality spoke to something deep within Serge, and he became obsessed with her music.

Serge began writing songs of his own, drawing on the influences of jazz and chanson. But his music was unlike anything that had been heard before. His songs were often dark and twisted, with lyrics that dealt with death, madness, and the darker side of human nature. He became known as a provocateur, shocking audiences with his daring lyrics and outrageous behavior.

But behind the public persona, Serge was struggling with his own demons. He was a heavy drinker and smoker, and he had a series of tumultuous relationships with women. He was never able to find the love and connection he was looking for, and his personal life was often a mess.

As he entered his 50s, Serge began to feel the weight of his own mortality. He had lived a wild and unconventional life, but he knew that his time was running out. He began to reflect on his legacy, on the impact he had had on French culture.

In his final years, Serge retreated from the public eye, focusing on his music and his art. He began to experiment with new sounds and styles, pushing the boundaries of his own creativity. And when he died in 1991, he left behind a legacy that would inspire generations of musicians and artists to come.

ChatGPT #3: Write 1000 words of fiction about 7 high school students from Chicago who go to a Goth rock show.

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The seven high school students from Chicago had always been outsiders. They were the kind of kids who didn’t quite fit in anywhere, who never felt like they belonged. But they had each other, and that was enough.

One night, they heard about a Goth rock show happening downtown. It was the kind of music that spoke to their souls, the kind of music that understood the darkness within them. So they decided to go, to let go of their inhibitions and embrace the night.

They arrived at the club, dressed in black and eyeliner, ready to lose themselves in the music. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of alcohol, and the sound of pounding drums and screaming guitars filled their ears. They felt alive, like they had finally found a place where they belonged.

As the night wore on, they began to make friends with other Goth kids who were there. They danced together, lost in the music and the energy of the crowd. They talked about their favorite bands, their favorite books, and the darkness that lurked within their hearts.

But then something strange happened. A group of jocks from their high school showed up, looking for trouble. They saw the Goth kids and started taunting them, calling them freaks and losers. The seven friends felt their stomachs clench with fear. They had always known that they were different, but they had never faced this kind of aggression before.

The jocks started to push their way through the crowd, getting closer and closer to the seven friends. They felt trapped, like they couldn’t escape. But then, something unexpected happened. One of the other Goth kids stepped forward and started shouting back at the jocks. He was tall and skinny, with jet black hair and a leather jacket. He looked like he belonged in a different world than the seven friends.

But then he turned to them and said, “You guys came here to escape the bullshit of the real world, right? Well, let’s not let those assholes ruin our night. Let’s show them that we’re not afraid.”

The seven friends looked at each other, and then back at the Goth kid. They felt a surge of courage and determination. They weren’t going to let the jocks ruin their night. They were going to stand up for themselves and for each other.

They started dancing again, more fiercely than before. The Goth kid joined them, his movements wild and free. The jocks tried to get closer, but they couldn’t break through the wall of bodies. They were outnumbered, outmatched.

And then the music stopped, and the lights came up. The seven friends looked around, disoriented. They had lost track of time, lost track of themselves. But then they saw the Goth kid, smiling at them.

“Hey, I’m Tyler,” he said, holding out his hand.

The seven friends introduced themselves, feeling a sense of camaraderie that they had never felt before. They had faced a challenge together, and they had come out on the other side stronger.

As they left the club and walked back to their cars, they felt like they were walking on air. They had found something new, something powerful. They had found a community of people who understood them, who accepted them for who they were.

And as they drove home, the music still ringing in their ears, they knew that they would never forget this night. They had found something that they had been searching for all their lives: a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose, a sense of hope.

ChatGPT #2: Write 1000 words of fiction about 7 high school students from Chicago who go to a Goth rock show.

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It was a typical Friday night in Chicago, with the streets thronged with people looking for a good time. For seven high school students, however, it was not just any night. They were going to see their favorite Goth rock band, Blackened Roses, at a dingy club on the outskirts of town. They had been looking forward to the show for weeks, and they were determined to make the most of it.

The group consisted of seven friends who had bonded over their shared love of alternative music, horror movies, and all things dark and macabre. There was Matt, the brooding lead singer of their own high school Goth band, who was rarely seen without his black eyeliner and leather jacket. Then there was Kim, the guitarist and the only girl in the group, with her jet-black hair and studded bracelets. Jesse, the bassist, was the quiet one, always lost in his own thoughts. Alex, the drummer, was the goofball of the group, always cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Then there was James, the tall and imposing figure who played the keyboard and provided the atmospheric soundscapes that were a hallmark of their music. Rounding out the group were twins, Max and Maya, who were inseparable and always dressed in matching black outfits.

As they approached the club, they could hear the thumping bass of Blackened Roses’ music spilling out onto the street. The club was dark and grungy, with walls covered in graffiti and neon lights flickering overhead. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and sweat, and the sound of moshing bodies filled the air.

As they pushed their way through the crowd, they caught glimpses of the band on stage, dressed in all black and bathed in red light. Matt let out a whoop of excitement, and the others joined in, as they elbowed their way to the front of the stage.

The music was intense and visceral, and the crowd was swept up in a frenzy of headbanging and moshing. Kim was shredding on her guitar, her fingers moving so fast they were a blur. James was lost in his own world, fingers gliding over the keyboard as he conjured up haunting melodies. Alex was pounding away at the drums, sweat dripping down his face.

For the next hour, they were lost in the music, feeling the pounding beat in their bones and the searing guitar riffs in their souls. The energy of the crowd was electric, and they were swept up in a sea of bodies, all moving in unison to the music.

After the show, they stumbled out of the club, still buzzing with adrenaline. They walked in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. But as they approached the train station, they started to talk about the show, reliving the high points and discussing their favorite songs.

As they waited for the train, they started to notice that they were getting strange looks from the other commuters. They were all dressed in their Goth finery, with black makeup and leather jackets. But they didn’t care. They were proud of who they were and what they believed in.

Suddenly, they heard a loud crash and a group of young men in hoodies appeared, looking for trouble. They pushed and shoved the Goth kids, calling them names and trying to intimidate them. But the group stood their ground, refusing to back down.

Matt stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Just leave us alone.”

The young men hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked away, muttering under their breath.

The group breathed a sigh of relief, then started to laugh and joke, their spirits

ChatGPT #1: Write 1000 words of fiction about 7 high school students from Chicago who go to a Goth rock show.

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The seven high school students from Chicago had been planning this for weeks. They were all fans of goth rock, and they had heard that one of their favorite bands was coming to town to play a show. They had all saved up their allowance money to buy tickets, and they had spent hours getting ready for the concert, carefully applying their black eyeliner and putting on their studded leather jackets.

As they piled into a beat-up old van and drove to the venue, they could feel the excitement building inside them. They were going to see their favorite band, surrounded by other fans who shared their love of dark, moody music. It was going to be an unforgettable night.

When they arrived at the venue, they could already hear the thumping bass and the screeching guitars. The line to get in was long, but they didn’t mind. They were too busy admiring the outfits of the other fans, who were dressed in all manner of goth-inspired garb, from corsets and top hats to torn fishnet stockings and combat boots.

Finally, they made it inside the venue, which was dimly lit and filled with swirling smoke. The stage was set up at one end of a large room, with a dance floor in front of it and a bar along one wall. The seven high school students made their way to the front of the crowd, eager to get as close to the stage as possible.

As the lights went down and the band took the stage, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The music was loud and intense, with pounding drums and wailing guitars. The lead singer, a tall, skinny man with jet-black hair and a pale complexion, began to sing, his voice a haunting whisper that sent shivers down the spines of the high school students.

They danced and shouted and sang along with the rest of the crowd, lost in the music. They felt like they were part of something bigger than themselves, something dark and mysterious and beautiful.

As the night wore on, the high school students began to lose track of time. They didn’t care that they had school in the morning or that they were running out of money for drinks. They were completely absorbed in the music, in the energy of the crowd, in the feeling of being young and alive and free.

But eventually, the concert came to an end. The lights came up, and the band took their final bows. The high school students were exhausted and hoarse from singing and shouting. They stumbled out of the venue, feeling like they had just experienced something truly special.

As they piled back into the van and drove home, they talked excitedly about the concert, reliving their favorite moments and singing the band’s songs. They knew that this was a night that they would never forget, a night that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

And as they drifted off to sleep, still buzzing with excitement, they knew that they had found a community, a group of like-minded individuals who shared their love of goth rock and the darker side of life. They knew that they had found something that would give them a sense of belonging, even as they navigated the ups and downs of high school and beyond. And they knew that they had each other, seven friends who had shared an unforgettable experience and who would always be there for each other, no matter what.

Personal Boundaries With Serge Gainsbourg

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I’ve been thinking about Serge Gainsbourg this week, and his struggles with personal boundaries, specifically his concerns about how the public perceived his daughter Charlotte, and vice versa. He did a lot of work about her and with her so it’s a very valuable perspective. There are a lot of things about his psychic presence that interest me; I feel his spirit is pushing me toward self-expression. Even as I write this I’m learning, and this morning I woke up with evidence that this psychic transformation is real: an idea for one of the characters in my novel The Artic Circle. \

Drake’s first completed work is a parody of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy he writes for the entertainment of his friends, the Sicky Souse Club. Loosely based on the adventures of his friends Trixie Crown and Alvin Albrecht on the streets of Chicago in the 1980s, it’s called The Bitch Biker’s Guide to the Faggot Scene.

So this idea has come to me in a dream, after watching a performance of The Waste Land, accompanied by the ghosts of Serge and some others, listening to Rock Around the Bunker and some other things by him on the way home. This morning I am experimenting in order to find out what it means to record this fragment of the story.

The Fabelmans

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I saw The Fabelmans yesterday, and it was very nice. It was a complete dramatic film of the kind I have stopped expecting from Hollywood. It made me appreciate the life of Stephen Spielberg. When I was a kid he was the director the grownups were all raving about. As I got older he seemed more and more boring and he became a symbol of conformist mediocrity and apathy to me. But this movie about his life is so good that I can appreciate him as a person and I want to go back and look through his catalogue to see if there’s anything else there as genuine. I don’t know what it means but it gives me a sliver of hope for Hollywood, although I still think it’s a cesspool maybe there could be a few interesting people in it. There’s no doubt that Spielberg is a good director and I’m inspired to attempt to write rationally about film again, to confront the absurd horrors of the movie business and try to pick out those few examples of civilization that yet remain. We’ll see if this works. But for now at least I started this blog entry, which I plan to develop over time – an experiment to see if there’s anything meaningful to say about movies in these days when the industry seems so utterly devoid of life and conscience.

A darkness pressing against my mind

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A darkness is pressing against my mind, but it’s beautiful. I’m very tired now. I wanted to write something to see if it would make sense tomorrow, or next week. My guides are eclipsed.

And now a day later I feel fantastic wanting to grasp every atom of bliss I felt tonight and preserve it forever, and what I want to preserve is the feeling of freedom from the oppressive hostility of the human race. Long ago I wanted to be a rock star. I mistakenly believed that rock people were cool people. Now I have enemies waiting out in the night to catch me. I have things to analyze tonight but I think I’m done just remaining silent about everything. I’m going to start taking little swipes at the public, testing the waters for whatever complete artistic gesture I might make in the future. I want to keep everything in balance, but what I really want to find out, what I’m experimenting with, is ways to make art that will make my life this beautiful all the time, so I never have to come down. How could I preserve the joy I felt tonight? I can’t tell the complete story because so many details of my life are private, but I can push the edges. What do I say that changes who I am in this world in such a way that I get more happiness, more magic transportation? At least I’m addressing the issue, trying to formulate a solution to the problem.

The Beocord 9000

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Dustin looked surprised. “Didn’t you know Warren hates us?”

“No,” replied Graylyn, “I always thought he was desperate to have sex with us, way too much of an asskisser.”

“Well he may be that, too,” said Dustin, “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t despise us and plot our destruction. But I guess there was no reason for anyone to tell you, and obviously he’s never talked to you around me. Do you remember Stereo Hut?”

“That funky place in the mall?”

“Right, back in junior high, Warren was trying to impress everyone that he was going to get into computers and make millions of dollars, but it was all bullshit. He’s too dumb, he just thought he’d figured out that you could find secret codes to everything and rip everyone off. All that ended when he tried to rob Stereo Hut. He looked at the alarm system on their door and found the model. Then somehow he got the instructions for it. He made a big deal out of taking us down there and showing us the Bang & Olufson Beocord 9000 in front of the clerk. At the time it was the coolest tape deck in the world. He wanted to make it look like we were after it so he could say we stole it. Then he tried to reprogram the alarm system and come back later to open the door, but he didn’t realize that it notified the police when changes were made and the whole thing was on camera. I’m actually the one who explained to them how he got the instructions off of the old bulletin boards we had been on together. He tried the usual trick of saying that I had got him involved in something shady, but he was too stupid to understand all the ways you can prove who has accessed something like that. He got in huge trouble, but of course his family kept it all secret. Freshman year he came back saying computers were boring and since then he’s been all about the movie business.”

Experimental Dialogue: The formation of the set

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This is the dialogue of the night the Sickies define themselves as a set at Easton Academy. Early 1980s, haven’t decided if it’s before or after the First Party at Stubby’s.

Dustin: Well, I think of us as a set, and if we’re not then I’m a hopeless failure, socially, so …

Drake: Dustin, if I have a set you’re in it. That’s definite.

Dustin: All right, then man (and they shake).

Drake: Chuck, I would have done that with you…

Chuck: No, man, this is totally the way it needs to be. I am in your set, but I couldn’t start anything because of my family. I’m basically dirt that my family owns, like any of their fucking skyscrapers, but now that you’ve started it, hell yeah! All for one, one for all!