A Thousand Years Hence…

Maybe it was the rolling blackouts.

Maybe it was something no historian will discover.

Looking back 1000 years later, the details have faded but the facts remain.

When more than 50 percent of the people grew to depend upon their symbiotic relationships with technology, the Change began.

At first, it was unnoticeable.

A novelty.

But then, as network technology continued to spread, people’s attitudes shifted.

They no longer expected information to be “out there” somewhere.

They became the information they sought.

They created the instant wisdom they used to imagine belonged to elites.

All because of a single femtocell.

One femtocell split into two, which divided into twos again, and again, and again, until pervasive, cheap technology turned us into our own network, freeing us from the costly, slow infrastructure with tolls and fees that had inhibited the explosion of the Change.

No longer were data centers some remote place that ate up energy like hogs at a trough.

People were walking/talking data centers, thinktanks, supercomputers and network nodes all at the same time.

Thanks to exponential advances in technology.

From the perspective of 1000 years, the Change seemed to happen overnight.

Of course it didn’t.

Years and decades passed while portions of the people sped up and slowed down the socioeconomic trends that led to the Change.

A student of history digs for the details, trying not to invent connections where connections never exists.

The writer of historical fiction has full access to imaginative connections.

Legends, fables and fairy tales live somewhere in-between.

The Change happened — that’s all that matters, despite false rumours and gossip to the contrary that say we came from genetically modified plants, not electromechanical technology.

Focus on getting new customers or keeping the old ones?

The power of the people is in the Internet.

Having worked for a telecommunications equipment designer/manufacturer, I’m familiar with the “secret,” “behind doors” negotiations that define the high-level specifications for internationally-connected technology.

Although, sometimes, the definitions might as well have been written in gibberish, hieroglyphics or undecipherable cryptic code as in so-called plain languages like English, French, German, Spanish, Chinese, Russian, Hindi, Portuguese, Arabic and Japanese.

Many a technology geek, political wonk and freedom lover impatiently wait while committees and subcommittees meet to discuss changes to the ITU Code of Business Ethical Conduct.

In other words, a few select people decide the fate of our social lives, both formal and informal, as it pertains to communicating across a substrate we call the Internet.

Even fewer of them might actually understand the underpinnings — the bits, bytes, frames, error correction and other terminological terms of endearment — that make popular tools like the World Wide Web more useful than gossiping about the latest celebrity scandal.

Do you understand some of the potential consequences?

Information = knowledge = monetary transactions

To be sure, putting up imaginary tollbooths on the information superhighway allows tracking of who passes through the tollbooth, which can be abused by arresting those whose actions are deemed a danger to political entities in power.

BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING!

I agree we should avoid clamping down the freedom that the Internet provides us as a species.

But do you understand another argument for tollbooths?

Capturing income streams that have eluded local governments which have seen their tax revenues drop while virtual marketplaces allow the exchange of goods and services without collecting taxes from local/visiting citizens.

I try to avoid the whole doomsday scenarios that others are hard-selling for their benefits.

I hope I’m a realist as much as a fellow member of our species can be.

I have faith in us and our place in the universe as sets of states of energy with short attention spans and selective memory.

How can we use these virtual tollbooths to police transactions without becoming thought police?

Policy.  Polity.  Politeness.

Look at an Ethernet frame, an IP address, a data packet, headers and footers.

Tell me what you see.

Do you know what a femtocell is?

Can you see a future where the restriction of the Internet as we know it leads to more innovation while temporarily stifling telecommunications as we’ve grown accustomed to over the last couple of decades (or the last few years for some)?

Unintended consequences…sigh…

I just want AT&T to get me, a loyal customer, the latest Android “Jelly Bean” update for my Samsung Galaxy S3 while deploying 4G LTE technology in my area at a reasonable monthly cost for my family.

Wouldn’t I like really-high-speed Internet at much lower costs like some regions of Europe and the rest of the world outside the U.S.?

Sure, but like many Americans, I’ve grown used to the fact that the lack of real competition in the marketplace has stifled innovation at the expense of greedy stockholders who demand high monetary return on their investments in exchange for poor service from the companies in which they invest.

The Internet — like physical highway systems — is a mix of freeways and toll roads.

Always has been, always will be.

Would more tollbooths increase or decrease the number of virtual highway robberies on the Internet?

Would they increase the number of jailed/tortured/murdered political objectors?

Can the ITU create a more just global society by tweaking the definition of the Internet?

Let’s hope so, even if they have to keep using complicated jargon.

They say…

Three traveling salesmen were having no luck at selling the last of their wares before the end of the year.

A new edict came from the local Roman client king that merchants could deduct 80 percent of the value of surplus goods they donated to a good cause.

So, the salesmen started asking around.

“Hey, you know any good causes that could use my stuff?”

“Sure,” replied a group of shepherds.  “We had a mass hypnosis dream that told us an infant is the secret son of a line of kings but he was born in the humblest of poor circumstances.”

The salesmen quarreled over the meaning of this statement.

“Well, my moneylender could say this is a charitable cause, could he not?  Gifts for the poor and all that.”

“I don’t know.  I mean, what if this is some kind of ruse?”

“Maybe you’re right.  But all we need is a blank receipt and we can let the accountants work out the details of the deduction.”

So they left the market and humped their camels over to the stockyard where this baby was said to be born, chatting as they went.

“Man, you ever get saddle sores?”

“Yeah.  And I’ve got the solution!  I have an exclusive shipment of talcum powder I’m willing to sell at a special discount, just for you!”

The stockyard owner chased them away, telling them he wanted no more to do with strange tales and late-night visitors.

The salesmen continued on.  Eventually, they arrived at a small house and, like good salemen wearing their best clothes, presented themselves as three wise kings from afar (although, in truth, they were three wise guys looking for any angle to close a sale).

The first spoke.  “I present to you, the parents of this shiny new baby, my gift of gold, which, at 80 percent of market value, is a really good deal!”

The second spoke.  “I humbly bow before this magnificent child and graciously offer my gift of the last lot of frankincense that, in every bazaar of this great city, is worth more than its weight in gold!”

The third spoke.  “My esteemed colleagues are wonderful, aren’t they?  But let’s face fact.  There’s nothing you want for the middle of winter like a fresh box of myrrh, especially, if you’ll pardon my saying so, when the precious gift of a beautiful baby like this one has a little accident after eating and, forgive me for speaking out of turn, leaves a lot to be desired in the odour department.”

After some small talk with the baby’s parents, the salesmen realised they weren’t going to get a blank receipt for their gifts from road-weary parents who were wise to the ways of fly-by-night trinket sellers.

Thus, the salesmen waited until the shepherds stopped by to ensure there were witnesses should an audit of the salesmen’s finances question a deduction for gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the son of an obscure poor couple in Bethlehem, just in case no one believed their story that an angel had spoken to them to follow a star.

After a few sketches by the local papyrus newspaper artist, the crowd began to disperse.

Bowing with apologies, the salesmen rushed back to their hometowns, avoiding any contact with the Roman client king Herod until they could get their travel receipts straightened out.  Tired, hungry and dusty, they arrived safely at home, carefully documenting their sales, ready to see what shipments they had that would sell better on their next trips.

9720304-cartoon-of-the-three-wise-men-with-gold-frankincense-and-myrrh

Sidewalks are a luxury we can ill afford

Walking down the asphalt pathway that serves as a minor vein in the arterial network for motorised vehicles, I observed a dirty old dog sniffing around a rubbish bin, wondering if dog catchers still exist.

Just now, an hour later, I saw the dog catcher drive by.  Bye, bye, dog, someone’s previous pet — you were loved once and now you’re gone, just like that.

Ahh…the convenience of old-fashioned social networking.

Some days, it’s best to let pictures speak for themselves.

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Easy-to-Read, Easy-to-Program Automatic Timer!

They say the near vacuum of space shows no favourites.

From the perspective of our species, that is.

Out here, a few protective layers separate me and my crew from the noncruelty of cold death.

We have launched mini-satellites like bread crumbs indicating our path through the pathless mix of gravity waves, comet dust and cosmic rays.

Our corporate goals of continuous learning and continuous improvement drive us toward seeking knowledge not only for knowledge’s sake, in case we encounter a situation that requires reaction faster than we can look up a solution, but also to increase our network connections between neurons, electromechanical interfaces and the Inner Solar System Net that binds us ever closer together.

Allowing us to explore within our assigned tasks, we avoid the aimless wandering of what we were taught were the inefficient aims of an overly permissive society.

Automatic tracking functions inform us when our efforts to learn are incongruous with advancing the state-of-the-art of space travel while en-route to our destination.

Or our destiny, as some of the crew likes to see it.

One or two of the crew members will always have ideas that are not sanctioned for testing against possible implementation on a larger-than-theoretical scale.

For instance, during a five-minute thought break, I was interrupted by Reqdook, whose sole task is to ensure that our seed bank is protected at all costs, even at the expense of the crew, if necessary.

Reqdook has plenty of time to explore our information database and add thought experiments to the database for further expansion by crew members in their idle between-work cycles.

Lately, Reqdook has played with the idea that we are a duplicate crew, analysing communications threads between us and other Nodes.

Reqdook feels like there’s something left unsaid during conference calls, as if we’re told one thing, expected another and left with nothing said about a third.

At three years of age, Reqdook is our youngest and least-experienced crew member so I let Reqdook make up these stories as a way of discovering how the Network gives us room to mature in our own time.

One day, Reqdook will figure out the truth, that all but a tiny portion of our “selves,” self being an artificial concept, runs on automatic functions over which we have little “conscious” control.

Every person, every set of states of energy, has access to a circle of influence that is imaginary.

I know that I do and I don’t control the Network myself because my imagination lets me think and act upon both the “yes” and “no,” the positive and negative aspects of a single entity within a Node controlling the whole Network.

I am the small self here in this chamber of a spaceship and I am the whole known universe that must pass through this set of states of energy that is me, one way or another influencing every state of energy that ever has, ever does and ever will exist.

I, and the other dozens just like me, sent Reqdook back to the drawing board, so to speak, to better understand what duplication really means.

Redundancy is a positive word in my dictionary, key to protecting the Network.

Somewhere, out there, is another Network that is a duplicate of this one, that joins other duplicate Networks as Nodes within a bigger Network that duplicates others, etc.

Reqdook will learn this hidden message that the communication threads imply but do not state.

I cannot tell Reqdook this unspoken fact because it then becomes a theory for Reqdook to record in the information database and others to refute in their supplementary comments about contradictory theories.

Such is the life of a space explorer…

First, Do No More Harm Than Is Absolutely Necessary To Do No Harm

The men sat back in their leather chairs, cigar smoke gathering in layers below the ceiling.

“Boys, this is the way I see it.  We gave the women the right to vote.  A few decades later, we paid some kids to crash planes on 9/11.  From my point of view, we’re right on schedule.  Any objections?”

“Why are you so certain this will work?”

“Why?  Because it always has.  We enfranchise and disenfranchise various portions of the population to keep them off-guard and forever picketing city hall for the same rights they’ve lost and gained so many times they can’t remember.”

“If only this next one happened in my lifetime…”

“Anyone else with a question?”

“Yes.  So let me get this straight.  Your schedule shows us implementing Sharia law in Western countries within 100 years of 9/11/2001, thereby reinstating the role of men as supreme leaders…?”

“Uh-huh…”

“But it doesn’t bother you that our religion is pushed off to the side?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t Sharia law the antithesis of ours?”

“How so?”

“Well, our religions are not exactly best friends…”

“Abrahamic, Ibrahamic, call it what you will.  At the end of the day, it’s patriarchical and that’s all that matters to us men.  Right, boys?!”

The yellow-orange glow of burning tobacco sticks bobbed up and down.

“Next item on the agenda — determining which families get first dibs on occupying the initial Martian colonies.  Any suggestions?”

“Well, hadn’t we better make sure the women we send with those families are self-sufficient if need be but ultimately dependent on men?”

“Of course, of course.  As you can see from the list I gave you, the men and women from which you will choose the best candidates have been sequestered into isolated subcultures for three generations, allowing us to control their thought patterns, dietary preferences and genetic tendencies with 99.99966 percent accuracy.”

“I don’t know.  Six sigma sure leaves a lot of room for error.  I’d feel a lot more secure if we had a 10-sigma process in place.”

“You get what you pay for.  Gentlemen, anyone want to raise the stakes to ten sigma?”

“I’ll put a wager on seven.”

“Eight for me!”

“Okay, anyone for nine?  No?  Okay, going once, twice, sold!  Eight sigma.  By my calculations we need an additional half a billion dollars for seed money to get this started.”

“I’d still feel more comfortable with ten.”

“And if you can cough up 100 billion dollars, we’ll give you ten sigma.”

“Let me think about it…”

“Sure thing.  We’ll table it until next week’s Committee meeting.  Now, looking at the list, are there any objections to the list of potential candidates?”

Thirty-one years ago…

Tired of turkey and dressing for dinner, my wife and I treated my mother to a supper of pizza a few days ago.

At the table next to us sat a family celebrating a child’s birthday.

After we ate, we spoke to the family and discovered they lived about 20 miles away from my wife and me in north Alabama.

Quite a coincidence, eating at the same restaurant 300 miles from home, it seemed.

Then, the grandmother at the table spoke up and said she recognised my mother who, as it turned out, had taught the 37-year old man with graying beard whose son’s birthday was sung by the pizza restaurant staff a few minutes before.

There we stood, watching a couple with a six-year young boy, recalling when the father was six 31 years before, under the tutelage of my mother.

On the ride home, my mother described what she remembered of the man when he was a boy — smart, skinny, shy — who is now an engineer working for our government’s military.

In our country, a popular phrase called “fiscal cliff” hangs in the air, with hints of government military cutbacks threatening to dampen celebrations of birthdays for little boys who depend on their parents’ government salaries to support local restaurants.

The “trickle down theory” is no longer popular but applies in many different ways, from the effect of a first grade teacher on a boy’s future to the effect of political wrangling on the income of restaurant workers.

The future is in our hands, which are the signs of the effects of the past.

Time is irrelevant.  Action is everything.

Mass Hypnosis as a Hobby

Training microorganisms to travel between hosts was the easy part.

Getting them to work their way into position, waiting for messages that told the little buddies where to act when…well, that was the safety pin in the flypaper ointment remover.

Kathryn stood in front of the mirror, spinning on point, her skirt twirling in the air like a whirling dervish.

“What are you writing?”

“Our manifesto.”

“Better than the last?”

“Yes.”

She continued her dance practice, an imaginary partner held in her arms.

“You know, this would be a lot more fun if you joined me in the dance sphere.”

I looked up at the wall between us, a one-way mirror.

“Indeed. But it’s easier for me to concentrate here on my writing, sitting in a low-gravity field, than in the zero-gravity sphere.”

She sighed.

“I wish we’d’ve paid for the thought concentrator upgrade for you.  Do you know how many of my friends have more fun dancing with their partners, who are working fulltime in their thoughts while preparing for the Inner Solar System Dance-off?”

“Hmm…let me see.  A new dance sphere or a thought upgrade?  Didn’t we agree the sphere was a better investment?”

“Sure.  IF YOU EVER JOINED ME IN HERE!”

Her voice echoed, carried through the wall without need for a sound amplification system.

At first, we programmed microorganisms to attach “naturally,” using atomic interfaces like jigsaw puzzle pieces.

But we wanted a more advanced method of rewiring neural pathways, a means of largescale reconfiguration.

An amateur scientist, working in collaboration with several online amateurs, made the discovery that we bought before it hit the lowlevel interests of bored dilettantes looking for the latest gizmos to brag they had invented but hadn’t introduced to the public yet.

We should have seen it ourselves but, if you can’t outinvent ’em, then outbid the competition!

We can send a batch of microorganisms into a crowd, direct the little buddies toward specific people to “infect” and, like precise surgery, remotely move the microorganisms into place for later activation, completely avoiding overt, obvious, subliminal messaging that can be recorded and analysed by our enemies.

“Darling, is this another one of those manifestos that’s meant to divert the attention of our opponents?”

“Yes, dear.  I figure if I can fill up the thoughts of the other dance teams, they won’t be able to concentrate on their dancing, despite their latest, upgraded versions of thought concentrators.  There’s more than one way to skin a cat in freefall!”

What separates a living muse from a dead one?

The Ruralite Revolution is moving faster than we anticipated.

We put out a silent mental call for volunteers earlier this week, people willing to die for our cause.

Over the past few days, we have put those volunteers to use.

Over-the-road tractor-trailer (i.e., lorry) drivers whose hearts were worn out and unable to pass a blood clot.

Overworked traveling sales people who were constantly attached to their mobile phones either in conversation or texting, or both, evidently distracted while driving.

Over and over, we made a mental connection to them to crash, causing major smashups, strategically block roadways and prove our ability to shut down the national highway system whenever we choose.

Next, we will use these virtual roadblocks as checkpoints, verifying one’s residency.

If one is a Ruralite, one may pass.

If one is an Urbanski, one must register oneself, with the intended travel destination stamped on a temporary rural visa; in addition, the Urbanski will be read Ruralite Rule No. YTV8(a),  “every subsequent visit to or travel through a rural area requires a Urbanski passport and an official escort provided and/or approved by the Ruralite Committee for the Protection of Ruralite Citizens Against the Corrupting Influence of Urbanskis.”

Checkpoint operators are given full authority to arrest and provide immediate judgement (acquit or convict, subsequently incarcerating or eliminating any violators immediately), fulfilling the Ruralite Promise No. 31, “every citizen will not be delayed in receiving justice at the scene of the crime.”

At this time, the Ruralites do not plan a fully coordinated shutdown of the national highway network.

However, if Urbanskis do not cooperate in recognising the sovereignty of the Ruralite nation and continue to violate Ruralite travel laws, the Ruralites will find more volunteers to not only shut down highways, but also train tracks, airports, sea/river ports and any other transportation methods that connect the Urbanski terrorities which depend on the generous food, fuel, military and transportation protection of the Ruralites.

Some on the Ruralite Committee for the Herding of Urbanskis wish to use the approaching winter to implement an Urbanski territory-wide rationing of food and fuel.  For now, we’ve asked them to table that wish unless matters get desperate.

More as it develops…

Abandoned Ship

Rumour has it, based on the blood pouring from my scrotum, that the flooding of Venice released an ancient terror.  I am almost too tired to continue writing.

My wife and I included the city of canals on our tour of Italy.

We were there when the latest floods hit.

Being avid swimmers, we decided to join other tourists who dived into the waters of a local plaza and jumped out of a gondola into the floodwaters.

Several days later, we all feel a little sick.

I sit here, soaking up blood that I can’t stop.

Most of us have wounds that won’t heal.

One tourist reported that the doctor he brought with him reported seeing unusually large multicellular organisms in his bloodstream that seem to like eating through skin and blood vessels.

We are weak.

I don’t know if I can write another blog entry.

The priest in our hotel offered us last rites, saying, apologetically, that we looked like hell.

With the countrywide strikes in progress, I don’t think we’ll be able to get out of here alive.

…if you can call what’s been happening to us, the last few days, living!