Hi. I'm Mita and I've been blogging since 1999. Of course, this gives me no 'net cred as my first blog, Rain Barrel, was done using Frontpage and hosted on Geocities. Yes, I am a librarian. Changing the rules so more can win. My future self is awesome.
Friday, March 04, 2016
G H O S T S T O R I E S
G H O S T S T O R Y 1
It’s funny that I ended up as a librarian because my earliest memories of libraries were not entirely positive.
While the children’s section of the central branch library and the school bookmobile regularly brought me joy (largely in the form of Peanuts Parade volumes), I have distinct memories of being filled with dread every time I had to move through the towering shelves of the grown-up section of the library.
Yes, the main library was largely devoid of the sound and colour and the furious activity of the children’s section, but that wasn’t the entire reason why it gave me the creeps. I distinctly remember that when I was younger I associated all the books on the shelves of the library with the work of dead people. Each book represented a person who was now gone and they had left their books behind and the terrible thing was that, by and large, it looked like most of the books stayed on the shelves, unread.
Now, I didn’t actually think that the library was haunted. And over time the whole library became comfortable to me. Eventually I became a librarian and now I think the library is and can be many, many things to many people.
What if every person who worked at a library was obligated to create and
leave one book that remained in the library as long as it remained.
Imagine the sense of legacy and the sense of connection that could be
established by the shelves of these books. Imagine the ways that those
who made these books would choose to express themselves. Would they
write a history? a biography? poetry? How could these books connect the
people to the place to the time of the library?
“You know, there’s always that fear that an unreasonable person is going to show up.” -- Michael Saba, on his house being The Bermuda Triangle of cell phones.
Strangers keep coming to Mike
and Christina’s house looking for their stolen cell phones. Nobody knows
why. We travel to Atlanta to find out what’s going on, in our thorniest
Super Tech Support yet.
One very literal example of art bringing technology to life is the experimental theatrical show Sleep No More: an interactive modern retelling of Macbeth where you walk around 4 floors of the set to watch and interact with the actors.
For future shows, they’re working together with the MIT media lab on making the set itself more interactive
with embedded programming: mirrors that write messages to you in blood
or typewriters that type out cryptic messages to you if you linger too
long in front of them.
Summary: The world of magic is a
world where inanimate objects come alive; it's as if they had
computational power, sensors, awareness, and connectivity.
By saying that we'll one day be like Harry Potter, I don't
mean that we'll fly around on broomsticks or play three-dimensional
ballgames (though virtual reality will let enthusiasts play Quidditch
matches). What I do mean is that we're about to experience a world where
spirit inhabits formerly inanimate objects.
Much of the Harry Potter books'
charm comes from the quirky magic objects that surround Harry and his
friends. Rather than being solid and static, these objects embody initiative and activity. This is precisely the shift we'll experience as computational power moves beyond the desktop into everyday objects....
G H O S T S T O R Y 5
After reading a book of German ghost stories, somebody suggested they
each write their own. Byron's physician, John Polidori, came up with
the idea for The Vampyre, published in 1819,1
which was the first of the "vampire-as-seducer" novels. Godwin's story
came to her in a dream, during which she saw "the pale student of
unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together."2
Soon after that fateful summer, Godwin and Shelley married, and in
1818, Mary Shelley's horror story was published under the title, Frankenstein, Or, the Modern Prometheus.3
Frankenstein lives on in the popular imagination as a
cautionary tale against technology. We use the monster as an all-purpose
modifier to denote technological crimes against nature. When we fear
genetically modified foods we call them "frankenfoods" and
"frankenfish." It is telling that even as we warn against such hybrids,
we confuse the monster with its creator. We now mostly refer to Dr.
Frankenstein's monster as Frankenstein. And just as we have forgotten
that Frankenstein was the man, not the monster, we have also forgotten
Frankenstein's real sin.
Dr. Frankenstein's crime was not that he invented a creature through
some combination of hubris and high technology, but rather that he abandoned the creature to itself. When Dr. Frankenstein meets his creation on a glacier in the Alps, the monster claims that it was not born a monster, but that it became a criminal only after
being left alone by his horrified creator, who fled the laboratory once
the horrible thing twitched to life. "Remember, I am thy creature," the
monster protests, "I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen
angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed... I was benevolent and
good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be
virtuous."
Written at the dawn of the great technological revolutions that would define the 19th and 20th centuries, Frankenstein
foresees that the gigantic sins that were to be committed would hide a
much greater sin. It is not the case that we have failed to care for
Creation, but that we have failed to care for our technological
creations. We confuse the monster for its creator and blame our sins
against Nature upon our creations. But our sin is not that we created
technologies but that we failed to love and care for them. It is as if
we decided that we were unable to follow through with the education of
our children.4 - Bruno Latour
G H O S T S T O R Y 6 [Confession: the whole point of this post is to encourage you to read this]
The other day, after watching Crimson Peak for the first
time, I woke up with a fully-fleshed idea for a Gothic horror story
about experience design. And while the story would take place in the
past, it would really be about the future. Why? Because the future
itself is Gothic.
First, what is Gothic? Gothic (or “the Gothic” if you’re in academia) is a Romantic mode of literature and art.
It’s a backlash against the Enlightenment obsession with order and
taxonomy. It’s a radical imposition of mystery on an increasingly
mundane landscape. It’s the anticipatory dread of irrational behaviour
in a seemingly rational world. But it’s also a mode that places
significant weight on secrets — which, in an era of diminished privacy and ubiquitous surveillance, resonates ever more strongly....
... Consider the disappearance of the interface.
As our devices become smaller and more intuitive, our need to see how
they work in order to work them goes away. Buttons have transformed into
icons, and icons into gestures. Soon gestures will likely transform
into thoughts, with brainwave-triggers and implants quietly automating
certain functions in the background of our lives. Once upon a time, we
valued big hulking chunks of technology: rockets, cars, huge
brushed-steel hi-fis set in ornate wood cabinets, thrumming computers
whose output could heat an office, even odd little single-purpose
kitchen widgets. Now what we want is to be Beauty in the Beast’s castle:
making our wishes known to the household gods, and watching as the
“automagic” takes care of us. From Siri to Cortana to Alexa, we are
allowing our lives and livelihoods to become haunted by ghosts without
shells.
Now, I’m not at all the only person to notice this particular trend
(or, more accurately, to read the trend through this particular lens).
It’s central to David Rose’s book Enchanted Objects, which you all should read. This is also why FutureEverything’s Haunted Machines symposium exists....
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