Welcome to the Creator page of Curacao Exposed.  Having no-one but myself to blame for this limited simulcra of life on a rock in a vast salt sea, I’ll take all the credit for faults, foibles, and faux pas, along with anything you might deem refreshing.  In my role as Creator, I will be satisfied if a very few of you, you the anonymous reader or readers curious about this island – island, proper, as opposed to the touristic fringes which are little different from tropic resort facilities ringing islands all about the earth’s middle parts – find yourself or your -elves inspired to visit Curacao for an immersion in a place, and a culture, not your own and not owned by any corporation set on dulling every island down to a “blissful tropical holiday.”  There’s so much more to see here, in addition to the glorious drifts of shade, shifting beneath wind-blustered palms, which spot the immaculately conceived white-sand beaches.  If I find myself on those beaches, I’m either off them swimming at the edge of the deep (maybe even diving over the edge of the reef into the depths beyond Playa Daaibooi), or clinging to shade, hobbling always into its depths, all the better to read, as that shade tilts ever farther from where I’ve first sunk my chair in the sand.

In my former life, I used a picture of typewriter for my image on the Founder’s page of my workaday commercial website.  Here, at least for the time being, I’ll beg your indulgence and your craft.  Imagine yourself to be more creative than any AI bot, and stitch together, in the manner of some Antillean Mister Doctor Frankenstein, a rendering from this prompt: biological male, Caucasian but sun-browned, past fifty years of age, balding, gray bearded, fit from hiking and swimming yet paunchy from rum cocktails, wearing cargo shorts, flipflops, and a gaudy Tiki shirt, carrying a Canon.

Full Credit:  This image was created by my prompt, entered at https://creator.nightcafe.studio.  Not me, but not bad, except for those insufficiently separated fingers, and that Canon, which appears to be a blunder busted cannon, incised and barrel-burst and wilted to boot.  My wife walked in, knowing that I was playing with AI, and asked: is that what you’re supposed to look like in ten years?  She’s kind.

Here’s another of NightCafe’s renderings, this time featuring something more camera-like upon the sand, an esque of broad lens and that thin liminal body staged between the inflowing world and its capture on cards, plus some other technological marvel, largely obscured by the conjoined fingers of an insufficiently tutored intelligence. And then there are those Escherian legs, starting, ground up, from where they cannot end…no wonder I’m sitting down. The modified prompt for this image was: biological male on tropical shore, Caucasian but sun-browned, past fifty years of age, balding, gray bearded, fit from hiking and swimming yet paunchy from rum cocktails, wearing khaki cargo shorts, a gaudy Tiki shirt, and holding a camera.

Point being: AI is becoming frighteningly functional, but you can do better.

Thanks for wandering through the site!

-Russ