For ten years I built and tuned bagpipes. A bag of air that lives to betray you: the pressure drifts, the reed goes sour at the first draught. One method holds: an ear against the wood, a patient hand. In 2020 I put down the gouges for a keyboard. Same beast, different name.
AI agents change their face every month. I leave the shop window to the window-shoppers: I read the papers at the source. Every idea goes into my notebook with where it came from and the day I read it. Fashions pass; the notebook stays.
An idea you've read is only a promise. So I bolt it onto the bench: I measure, I break it, I start over. More than once, a plain script has beaten the agent everyone is scrambling for. I measured it, and I kept the script. Every failure becomes a written rule. The questions that won't give in, I keep digging until they become research topics.
An engine you can't open isn't yours. Mine runs on my own machines. I choose which model works on what, and when it's sensitive, the work never leaves the house. Every decision is written down: who made it, why, and what holds authority. You always know who's at the wheel.
Out of all this came Tuatha. Three old Irish gods at the workbench: Lug orchestrates, Ogma remembers, the Dagda brings the tools. Beside them, a ledger keeps what holds authority. Silenus, Dionysus's old teacher, passed for a drunk and knew more than all of Olympus. My garage takes after him: from afar, a cheerful mess; up close, an engine running like clockwork.
[See Tuatha](https://tuathaai.com/en/ecosysteme)