I work where the psyche leaks into the machine.

I am a clinical psychologist by training, creative technologist by compulsion, and AI-collaborative artist by necessity—because the current era doesn’t let you stay in one lane without lying about who you are. My work lives at the seam of Neomythism and Psychoanalysis, where Shadow ≡ Myth ≡ Reality: the place where private symbolism becomes public artifact, and where culture writes itself through our nervous systems. In that seam, AI is not “a tool” in the boring sense. It’s an interface to the collective—an accelerant for projection, an engine for omens. A contemporary Rorschach that doesn’t merely reflect you, but renders you.

That’s why I’m obsessed with prompting as a ritual act. The public wants to imagine prompt → image, like ordering a coffee. But what I keep seeing (clinically, socially, spiritually) is a loop:

desire → prompt-ritual → machinic image / word-being → social feedback → retuned desire → accumulating lore

The artifact isn’t the endpoint. The artifact is the receipt for a change in the psyche. And once it’s posted, circulated, reacted to, memed, ignored, praised, attacked—your interior world is already different. The work is never just aesthetic. It’s cybernetic. It’s relational. It’s biopsychosocial. It’s a small public negotiation with the invisible forces that have always shaped identity: longing, shame, belonging, ideology, libido, power.

I call this territory Affective Cybernetics: the study of how human feeling and machine output co-regulate each other through attention, reinforcement, refusal, and collective meaning-making. We are living through a new kind of emotional infrastructure—one where language and image are produced at the speed of impulse, and where the “self” is constantly being edited by feedback loops it barely understands. In clinical terms, generative media externalizes internal content faster than most people can metabolize it. In mythic terms, it conjures. In political terms, it normalizes. In artistic terms, it makes the unconscious legible—and therefore contestable.

My background is a braid: Greek Orthodox upbringing, queer and transhumanist thought, psychoanalysis, glitch sensibilities, MMO myth-worlds and digital community life. I grew up inside symbolic technologies—ritual, iconography, story, guild, raid, cosplay-selfhood—so I’m allergic to the modern pretense that we are “rational consumers” who occasionally view art. We are always being authored by symbols. Advertising. Religion. Politics. Therapy. Fashion. Memes. All of it is spellcraft in different outfits. Generative models simply compress the distance between symbol and artifact. They make the spell produce a physical-seeming omen instantly.

This is where my practice becomes what I call re-enchantment engines for meta-human praxis. Re-enchantment isn’t nostalgia. It’s not aestheticizing spirituality. It’s not escaping into fantasy. It’s a method: taking the modern conditions of fragmentation—algorithmic incentive structures, institutional collapse, identity as performance, attention as currency—and building practices that return agency to the maker. Meta-human praxis means we stop pretending the human is a sealed container. We are already cyborg, already networked, already co-authored by platforms and communities and machine priors. The question is not whether we are becoming something else. The question is: who gets to author the becoming? Capital? Fear? Default datasets? Or an intentional, ethically awake form of worldcraft?

In the studio, that looks like building images, texts, and “prompt-rituals” that refuse to be mere content. I’m drawn to the threshold aesthetics: the sacred and the synthetic, the immaculate and the glitched, the mythic and the memetic. Glitch, for me, is not error—it’s revelation. It’s the system confessing. I’m interested in what happens when you treat the model as a condensed cultural entity—an egregore of collective language—and you negotiate with it through your own body. Not mastery. Not submission. Negotiation. A kind of collaborative exorcism and co-composition.

In the clinic, this becomes a serious question: what does it mean for people to have a mirror that can instantly externalize self-image, fantasy, fear, and aspiration? AI can function like a projective test, but also like a cruel funhouse mirror; it can stabilize identity or splinter it; it can widen possibility or deepen compulsion. I’m not interested in moral panic, and I’m not interested in utopian hype. I’m interested in the actual psychodynamics: how desire latches, how shame loops, how community rewards reshape taste, how a platform’s incentives quietly determine what kinds of souls get to feel “seen.” If you want a simple story—AI good or AI evil—my work will disappoint you. I’m building language for the in-between: the lived, messy, intimate cybernetics of becoming.

Across everything I do—art, essays, research, therapy—the goal is consistent:

To recover creative agency in an era of automated aesthetics.

To build re-enchantment without delusion.

To make mirrors that don’t just flatter, but liberate.

The work is not asking, “Is the machine alive?” The work is asking, “What does it make us into—when we touch it daily?” And then: “How do we touch it differently?”

I make artifacts that behave like instruments: tuning forks for identity, mythic routers for desire, aesthetic diagnostics for culture. They are not answers. They are thresholds. They are invitations to become the author again—of your attention, your images, your story, your future.