Oblomovka

My PC died yesterday, screaming in pain as its brain heated over boiling point. I went out to Central Computer, San Francisco’s local computer store to get it a new fan. I got the wrong one of course, but jury-rigged it in anyway. It didn’t help: I think the CPU cooler may have died too, in the wreckage.

One of the things I’ve been punishing that machine with is Whisper, a speech-to-text ML model that you can cram into a consumer GPU. Peter Thiel likes to say that cryptocurrency is libertarian, and AI is communist (because it requires powerful, locally-connected resources, and might be thrown at the calculation problem). AI certain seems to be generating massive crop surpluses: Whisper was literally a side project for OpenAI so that they could use it to parse and suck down video sources for GPT’s maw. I find this to be just one of the indications of an age of wonder. I’ve spent years worrying that open source was falling behind commercial speech recognition tooling, and OpenAI just chucked one over the transom as favor. Oh, and it also translates, tolerably, and sometimes accidentally.

But my point here is what a pleasure it is to run these tools locally. As Simon, now AI whisperer to the world, notes, there’s a substantial difference from feeding an LLM through a grate in OpenAI’s door, to having it run under your own control, and/or passing around the model among friends and submitting it to the processes of open improvement.

Having it sit with my domain, means that I can do things like record myself all day, and then convert everything I’ve said into text at bedtime. Even though I mostly seem to talk to my cat, just my asides or mutterings are useful to me. I can throw videos or talks at it, I can use it to control my house (ah, the geek dream). I suspect, when GPT or llama gets lopped down enough to comfortably fit on that machine, it’ll be straightforward to wire all of these tools: voice -> text -> GPT -> voice. I imagine this is weeks if not days away. After years of sharing everything with Google, I’ll be able to have a private conversation with my computer again.

I also, in passing, think of that cautionary tale of open science, piracy, and brain uploading, Lena. What strange shapes will these models be stretched in private homes? What does it feel like to stick your hand into these talking machines?

And then, always conscious that it is not conscious, but nonetheless reminded of Dannie Abses’ poem, “In the Theater”, which describes a neurosurgeon, whose mistakes spark broken replies in a patient’s brain, as he tries futilely to remove their tumor.

‘Leave my soul alone, leave my soul alone,’   

that voice so arctic and that cry so odd   

had nowhere else to go—till the antique   

gramophone wound down and the words began

to blur and slow, ‘ … leave … my … soul … alone … ’

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 15th, 2023 at 11:01 pm and is filed under AI, Technology, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS/Atom feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.