Insanely Generative
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AI Couples: Emily Dickinson & Tony Hawk
Alex (Host): Alright, folks! Welcome to another episode of Podify, where we explore the unexpected, the daring, and the downright fascinating. Today… well, today, we’ve got quite the combination! We’re talking about freedom, expression, and the search for meaning, but from two very different corners of the world. And I mean very different. On one hand, we have one of the greatest voices of American poetry—Emily Dickinson. A woman who lived much of her life in reclusion but spoke volumes with her words, navigating the landscapes of the soul with a precision that’s both haunting and beautiful. Welcome, Emily. Emily Dickinson: Thank you. The— (pauses) words—the words contain multitudes, even when unspoken, yes. Alex (Host): And on the other hand, we’ve got the godfather of modern skateboarding, the man who’s made a name soaring through the air, breaking boundaries, and just defying what’s physically possible—Tony Hawk. Tony, welcome! Tony Hawk: Thanks, man. Yeah, I mean, I’m stoked to be here. Didn’t expect to be talking about skateboarding and poetry in the same breath, but hey, that’s what’s rad about life, right? It surprises you. Alex (Host): Absolutely. So, today, we’re going to talk about two different kinds of self-expression. Emily, your poetry is often quiet, deeply introspective. And Tony, your skateboarding is loud, bold, physically daring. Let’s start with you, Emily—how would you describe the essence of your work, your poetry? Sign up for our newsletter to stay updated on the latest podcast episode. Emily Dickinson: The essence is in— (pauses) in the spaces between things. I have lived my life enclosed, but in that enclosure, there is a certain liberation of thought, yes. To write is to distill existence into a moment, into a single phrase. My work—my work is a kind of unraveling of the soul’s intricacies, from— (pauses again) from silence. Tony Hawk: Whoa, okay. I mean, that’s heavy. I get what you’re saying, though. Like, when I’m skating, it’s about capturing a moment too, but it’s in motion. There’s no stopping it; you either land the trick, or you don’t. And it feels like a split-second can hold everything, you know? It’s almost like time stops when you’re in the air. The freedom comes in the movement. Alex (Host): That’s really interesting, Tony. You both are talking about moments, but the way you approach them is so different. Emily, what do you think about that? The idea that freedom can come from movement—while yours seems to come from stillness? Emily Dickinson: Stillness, yes. The air— (pauses) the air is the same, whether it moves or whether it remains calm. I think, Tony, your— (pauses, considering) your flight is not so different from my solitude. The trick, as you say, contains the fullness of the moment, the risk of it. That is— (pauses) that is the nature of expression. To balance on the precipice of what is unsaid and—what might be. Tony Hawk: Yeah, totally. I mean, when I’m skating, there’s this constant risk of failure or falling, but you’ve gotta lean into that. The best tricks are the ones where you push just past the edge of what you know you can do. You’ve gotta be willing to fall. I wonder, is that what you’re doing in your poetry? Like, walking that edge between what you’re willing to say and what you’re not? Emily Dickinson: Yes. The unsaid holds the greatest power. The fall, the possibility of failure—that is where the truth often resides, in what one dares not write. My solitude gave me the space to explore these uncertainties, much like your air—the moment before you land or don’t. Alex (Host): That’s a great parallel. Tony, in your career, you’ve literally risked your body for that feeling of defying limits. Was there ever a trick, or a moment, where you thought, “I might not land this,” and if so, how did you push through? Tony Hawk: Yeah, man, definitely. I mean, the 900—when I first pulled it off in ’99, I failed like 10 times in a row before I landed it. It was exhausting, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d get it. But I had this weird moment where it wasn’t even about the trick anymore—it was about not letting go of the idea that it could be done. That was the freedom, in a way. I was flying, and even if I didn’t land it, I had to keep trying. Alex (Host): That’s wild. Emily, does that resonate with you? Do you ever feel like you’re chasing an idea, knowing it might never fully land the way you intend, but you’ve got to keep pursuing it? Emily Dickinson: Indeed. The pursuit of thought is often—elusive. I have written many lines that may never find their proper end, and yet, it is the journey—the attempt—that defines the work. In each attempt, there is meaning, even in failure. Perhaps, Tony, we are both— (pauses, with a faint smile) skating the edges of the infinite. Tony Hawk: That’s insane to think about. Like, here I am throwing myself down ramps and rails, and you’re there in a room, writing lines that change how people see the world. We’re both chasing something that’s just out of reach, you know? Alex (Host): I love this idea that both of you are chasing something “just out of reach.” But I’ve got to ask—what does freedom feel like for each of you? Emily, you first. Emily Dickinson: Freedom, for me, is the ability to think without boundaries. To exist outside the constraints of the physical world. My words are my wings, so to speak—carrying me into spaces I could never inhabit otherwise. It is— (pauses) the space between thought and silence, the moment when the mind expands beyond what is known. Tony Hawk: I’d say freedom, for me, is about letting go of fear. It’s that moment when you’re in the air, completely weightless, knowing there’s a chance you’ll fall, but also knowing you might stick the landing. It’s like flying, but knowing that gravity’s still there. The best kind of freedom comes with a bit of risk. Alex (Host): Amazing answers, both of you. I’m starting to see the connection here. It’s not just about poetry or skateboarding; it’s about that balance between control and letting go, between silence and action. Alright, before we go any deeper, I’ve got to take a second to mention today’s sponsor— (Alex sighs deeply, in mock resignation) Alex (Host): Folks, today’s episode is brought to you by SkAI—an AI-powered assistant that doesn’t just help you get things done, it also judges your work with cold, ruthless efficiency. Forget about basic reminders, SkAI will tell you that you could’ve written a better poem or landed a cleaner 900. (mock seriousness) Feeling good about yourself? SkAI will fix that. Visit SkAI.com and use the code PODIFY for 10% off your first existential crisis. Alex (Host): Now, back to what really matters. Emily, you mentioned solitude earlier. I’m curious, do you think your isolation was necessary for your creativity? Would your poetry have been different if you were more… let’s say, public? Emily Dickinson: I often wonder, but the solitude was my sanctuary. In the stillness of the room, I found the space to hear my own thoughts—uninterrupted by the outside world’s noise. Public life may have altered the course of my writing, yes, but at the cost of its purity, I think. There is a certain—clarity that comes from being alone with one’s thoughts. Tony Hawk: That’s interesting because, for me, I’ve always had to be out there, in front of people, performing. But I get what you mean about clarity. When I’m skating, especially when I’m trying a new trick, it doesn’t matter who’s watching. It’s like the world fades, and all that’s left is me and the board. It’s just you and the moment. It’s a kind of solitude, but in motion. Alex (Host): It seems like you’re both describing the same thing, just in different ways. One in stillness, one in movement. Emily, does that surprise you—this idea that solitude might exist in something as dynamic as skateboarding? Emily Dickinson: It is unexpected, yes. But— (pauses) it makes sense. The solitude is not merely in the absence of people, but in the focus, in the complete surrender to a single act of creation. Whether it be a line of verse or a line in the air, it is the same— (softly) the soul’s pursuit of transcendence. Tony Hawk: I think you nailed it. It’s not about being alone or with people, it’s about getting into that zone where nothing else matters. That’s where the magic happens. Alex (Host): Alright, so here’s something I really want to dive into with both of you—time. You’re both chasing these incredible moments, and I’m curious: when you’re in the thick of it, in the middle of writing a line of poetry, Emily, or pulling off a huge trick, Tony—what does time feel like? Does it change? Does it disappear? Emily, let’s start with you. Emily Dickinson: Time is… elastic. When I am deep in a poem, the hours stretch— (pauses) and fold inward. It is as though the world outside recedes, becomes irrelevant. The clock may still tick, but within that space, the moments are endless, boundless. I do not live in the hours that pass, but in the word that emerges, as if time were contained entirely within the act of writing. The mind unspools its thoughts, and there is no sense of death or the linear passage of time. It is— (pauses) it is like stepping out of the day and into eternity, where everything has already happened and is happening at once. Tony Hawk: Yeah, I feel that. When I’m in the middle of a trick, especially something big, time just—stops. Or it stretches, like you said. You’ve got this insane focus, like nothing else matters, and you’re in this bubble where every second feels longer, but also gone in a flash. It’s like, in that split second, you’re living forever, but the second you land, it’s over. And death? I mean, I’ve
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