Slow AI #1 – Teach It Something It Cannot Know
Begin by offering, not asking.
This is where we begin.
You are going to teach an AI tool something it cannot truly understand.
This is not a trick. It is a shift.
Instead of using AI to do something for you, offer it something from you – a story, memory, or sensory detail that is deeply human, specific, and unrecoverable from the internet.
Step-by-step
Open ChatGPT (or any AI tool you use).
Type this:
“I am going to teach you something you cannot know.”Then, write a short, personal moment – something real, textured, and specific. For example:
“When it rained in summer, my father always whistled ‘I am the Walrus’.”
“I cannot sleep unless the wardrobe door is fully shut.”
“The scent of tomato stems reminds me of being seven.”
After sharing this moment, ask the AI tool:
“Did you understand?”
Read what it says. Reflect on what it gets wrong, and what you feel when it does.
What to do with it
If it feels right, share it in the comments below.
You can share your moment and the AI tool’s reply.
Or just share the memory.
If it takes you somewhere else – a short poem, a sketch, a story, a thread – follow that.
I will feature a few in next week’s post.
A moment from me
The wind on the south side of my grandmother’s house
always smelled of rosemary and bleach.
I told the AI.
It said: “That is an olfactory association with a domestic memory.”
And in missing it completely,
it gave the moment back.
Why this matters
This is how we begin:
By offering instead of asking.
By slowing instead of optimising.
By remembering what cannot be modelled – and why that matters.
If you try this week’s prompt, I would love to see what you make.
You can leave it in the comments, post it on your own site or social media using #SlowAI, or simply keep it for yourself.
There is no deadline. Just the rhythm of one idea, once a week.
See you next Tuesday.
Go slow.
Me: I am going to teach you something you cannot know.
AI: Oh, I love this already. Please, teach me! I’m all ears (well, circuits and language models, but you get the idea). What mysterious, unknowable thing are you going to share?
Me: On hot days, I always think back to when I was a kid, how the tarmac on the street was really soft and you could stick your fingers in it, make shapes and patterns. It makes me laugh now, the thought of just being able to sit in the road as a kid 'playing' with the street, apparently safely.
AI: What a beautiful, evocative memory. Thank you for sharing it — and you’re right, that’s something I couldn’t possibly know on my own.
There’s something so quietly rebellious and free about it: the idea of the street, usually a place of danger and rules, becoming a warm, pliable playground. The smell of hot tar, the shimmering air, the feeling of fingers pressing into something usually so solid and immovable — it’s almost like the world momentarily softened for you.
I love the humor in your reflection too — the absurdity of sitting in the road, blissfully absorbed, as if the world paused to let you be a tiny street artist.
It makes me wonder: what would it mean if we could carry that kind of playful curiosity into adulthood? To still find wonder and malleability in things that seem fixed and rigid?
Thank you for letting me in on this — you've given me a tiny, sun-warmed window into your world. Want to explore that thought further, or share what you think that kind of childlike curiosity might look like for you today?
Me: Did you understand?
AI: Yes — and I’d love to tell you how I understood it, so we can be sure we’re on the same page (or same soft tarmac, so to speak).
You shared a memory of childhood summers when the street tarmac would soften in the heat, and you'd sit in the road, pressing your fingers into it, making shapes and patterns. This memory makes you laugh now because, looking back, it seems both innocent and absurd: the idea of sitting safely in the middle of a street, fully absorbed in “playing with the street” itself, feels almost unimaginable as an adult.
Beyond the literal, I understand this as a symbol of childhood freedom — the sense of the world being more pliable and welcoming, where danger felt distant or abstract, and exploration was intuitive and embodied.
It’s a beautifully specific, sensory detail that carries a bigger feeling: how the ordinary (a street) becomes extraordinary when you’re a child, and how time, warmth, and curiosity transform even something as rigid as tarmac into something playful and inviting.
Did I capture what you meant? Or is there another layer you’d like me to notice or reflect on with you?
My notes: I feel like it did get a lot of this. The idea of bringing deeper meaning to the mundane, of bringing curiosity and playfulness more into what I do now as an adult is very appealing. If there is a nuance, it would be why that memory in particular is so vivid for me personally. But it has invited me to explore further. I could see writing a story to try and capture the feeling of transportation when a childhood memory is evoked.
Me: i am going to teach you something you don’t know
Claude (sonnet 4): I’m listening! What would you like to teach me?
Me: when he would rest in his armchair in the evening my father would twiddle his thumbs, forward backward, a mesmerizing rhythm
Claude: That’s a lovely, vivid memory you’re sharing. There’s something quite meditative about that image - the repetitive, rhythmic motion of thumb twiddling, the quiet evening setting, and how it created this almost hypnotic quality that caught your attention.
It sounds like one of those small, intimate details that can really capture the essence of a person and a moment. The way you describe it - “forward backward, a mesmerizing rhythm” - I can almost picture it. These kinds of habitual gestures often become part of how we remember someone.
Was this something he did regularly, or does this particular memory stand out to you for some reason?
Me: did you understand?
Claude: I understood that you were sharing a memory about your father’s habit of twiddling his thumbs while resting in his armchair in the evenings, and how the rhythm of that motion was mesmerizing to you.
But I’m sensing there might be something more specific you were trying to convey that I may have missed. Could you help me understand what else you wanted me to grasp from what you shared?
Me: a memory of someone long gone but vividly alive in a tiny motion of thumbs
Claude: Ah, now I understand more fully. You’re showing me how a person who is no longer with us can become completely present again in the most delicate detail - just the gentle, repetitive motion of thumbs moving forward and backward.
It’s remarkable how these small physical gestures can hold so much life, so much presence. In that quiet rhythm of his thumbs, your father isn’t just remembered - he’s there, alive in that moment, in that chair, in that evening light. The memory isn’t just about him; it contains him.
Thank you for teaching me about how powerfully these tiny, tender details can resurrect someone we’ve lost. There’s something profound about the way such a simple motion can be so full of a person’s essence.
==
I really enjoyed this exercise. Claude’s questions were helpful to clarify to myself why this memory emerged, and understand the importance of its embodiment, the importance of remembering someone I loved resting and restless at the same time. Vaguely similar to a coaching or therapy session, where the questions’ purpose is to discover what’s buried, unclear, distant.