Today:
Self checkout
Smartrip
Museum
Museum
Smartrip
I haven't spoken a word out loud to anyone.
12 years ago
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Incomplete
This backup project will ultimately fall short. I owe it to try.
It has an interesting effect on me. I'm not really living in the present anymore so it makes it hard to pick out the details that will matter.
It has an interesting effect on me. I'm not really living in the present anymore so it makes it hard to pick out the details that will matter.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Impressions
The semi-constant theme of my daydreams has been the mind and consciousness, or the lack there of. To accept that we are tied to these physical bodies forces me to concluded that we are dying every second of every day as whatever it is that makes us "ourselves" gets replaced by something new. This is a satisfying, if somewhat depressing, conclusion.
(Here is where I venture somewhere slightly absurd.)
How about if we think of ourselves as something altogether different from a capsule inside our skulls. Let us take the uncertainty of our physical boundaries to an extreme. In this case a person's personality is a finely woven set of memories and tendencies. In my fantasies a BCI would allow for this fabric to transcribed and replicated elsewhere. But what if this is happening to a certain extent already?
When you meet somebody on the street, a little corner of their fabric brushes up against you and makes an imprint. A nervous tick, an obscure analogy. We save these little impressions up for later use in our own patchwork quilt. Know someone long enough and the patch grows bigger.
In this sense every bit of your fabric that you share with others is backed up for later use on the cloud. When you are gone its still there. You can't be erased without erasing everyone you've interacted with.
Edit: I think what I was trying to get at here but may have ineffectively conveyed is the idea that because our individuality is nothing more than our combined experiences and memories then there are not really any rules that confine it to our body and transfer is already happening.
(Here is where I venture somewhere slightly absurd.)
How about if we think of ourselves as something altogether different from a capsule inside our skulls. Let us take the uncertainty of our physical boundaries to an extreme. In this case a person's personality is a finely woven set of memories and tendencies. In my fantasies a BCI would allow for this fabric to transcribed and replicated elsewhere. But what if this is happening to a certain extent already?
When you meet somebody on the street, a little corner of their fabric brushes up against you and makes an imprint. A nervous tick, an obscure analogy. We save these little impressions up for later use in our own patchwork quilt. Know someone long enough and the patch grows bigger.
In this sense every bit of your fabric that you share with others is backed up for later use on the cloud. When you are gone its still there. You can't be erased without erasing everyone you've interacted with.
Edit: I think what I was trying to get at here but may have ineffectively conveyed is the idea that because our individuality is nothing more than our combined experiences and memories then there are not really any rules that confine it to our body and transfer is already happening.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Part III
Part of the reason that my parents hadn't initially known how often I had been going over to Oma's, was that from a very early age I did what I wanted and did not see any need to tell anyone about it. Also my room was outfitted with some sweet sliding glass windows so I could pretty much come and go as I pleased. And now some unorganized but memorable thoughts from this time period:
Oma had a teenage daughter who babysat me sometimes. She was not quite as fun as Oma but she was still nice. She is now married with a son of her own (much to Oma's delight).
My neighbors on the other side of our house had a dog named stazi who was small and brown and happy and ran in circles most of the time.
Beyond their house there was a boy who was just a little bit older than I was. I used to play with him sometimes, but not that often because his parents didn't really like foreigners, I think. I don't remember his name but he had dark hair and was ever so slightly mean to me. The thing was: he had a tractor. This tractor was The Shit. I could have driven that petal-powered-motherfucker all day long. It was large (relative to a 3 year old boy) and had a functional shovel attached to the front, which was controlled by two levers that allowed for some serious digging and dumping action. Man, I loved that tractor.
My first word was "Traktor", that's the German word for tractor. I loved tractors and all other types of construction equipment (der Kipper, der Bagger, der Kran). When there was a construction site in the area my dad would take me there so I could watch. For my second birthday my mom took me to a tractor convention in a nearby town. It is a fairly normal thing for little boys to think construction equipment is awesome. I don't know if its all that normal for little boys use it for attempted manslaughter.
Oma had a teenage daughter who babysat me sometimes. She was not quite as fun as Oma but she was still nice. She is now married with a son of her own (much to Oma's delight).
My neighbors on the other side of our house had a dog named stazi who was small and brown and happy and ran in circles most of the time.
Beyond their house there was a boy who was just a little bit older than I was. I used to play with him sometimes, but not that often because his parents didn't really like foreigners, I think. I don't remember his name but he had dark hair and was ever so slightly mean to me. The thing was: he had a tractor. This tractor was The Shit. I could have driven that petal-powered-motherfucker all day long. It was large (relative to a 3 year old boy) and had a functional shovel attached to the front, which was controlled by two levers that allowed for some serious digging and dumping action. Man, I loved that tractor.
My first word was "Traktor", that's the German word for tractor. I loved tractors and all other types of construction equipment (der Kipper, der Bagger, der Kran). When there was a construction site in the area my dad would take me there so I could watch. For my second birthday my mom took me to a tractor convention in a nearby town. It is a fairly normal thing for little boys to think construction equipment is awesome. I don't know if its all that normal for little boys use it for attempted manslaughter.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Translation
Those who are not tech literate have their own (fairly consistent) language when refering to technology. Some examples:
UBS's = USB Cables
USB's = USB Flash Memory Storage Devices
Notebook, Nettop = Netbook
Windows = Microsoft Office
Hard Drive = Desktop Computer
Computer = Monitor
The Internet = a Wireless Router
Dellstar = the Ultimate Notebook
In addition, RAM and hard drive capacity are the same thing (if you have enough, quote the higher number; if you want more, quote the lower). Video cards increase the quality of any DVD's you may watch on your computer.
The best way to respond to this type of language is not to correct it, and better yet, to adopt it if someone you are speaking with uses it. Any sign that you think that they are using a term incorrectly will be interpreted as a personal assault on their intelligence.
UBS's = USB Cables
USB's = USB Flash Memory Storage Devices
Notebook, Nettop = Netbook
Windows = Microsoft Office
Hard Drive = Desktop Computer
Computer = Monitor
The Internet = a Wireless Router
Dellstar = the Ultimate Notebook
In addition, RAM and hard drive capacity are the same thing (if you have enough, quote the higher number; if you want more, quote the lower). Video cards increase the quality of any DVD's you may watch on your computer.
The best way to respond to this type of language is not to correct it, and better yet, to adopt it if someone you are speaking with uses it. Any sign that you think that they are using a term incorrectly will be interpreted as a personal assault on their intelligence.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Part II
This is still very much out of order and possibly incorrect, as it is on the beginning edge of my memories.
I was still living in the house with the strawberry patch when Anthony first made an appearance in my life. At slightly less than two years old, I don't think I comprehended how seriously shitty a new baby was going to be until after my brother was born. The new grub demanded almost all of my parents' attention. Ever the pragmatist, I told them that we should should just take Anthony back to the hospital (that's where he came from, after all). They responded that no, they couldn't take him back.
"Don't worry, I know how to get there," I assured them.
With my parents spending all their time on larva #2, I found a new person to dote on me and give me affection. I referred to the wonderful woman next door as "meine Oma". I don't think I can remember her real name but that woman treated me as if I was her own grandson. It was great. Most days, I would wander over to her house and she would pick me up, set me on the counter and fed me. She fed me weisswurst, quark, kucken, ovalmaltine and all sorts of wonderful Bavarian food. The upshot of this was that I was rarely hungry when it was time to eat at my own house.
My parents were worried enough by this that they took me to a doctor, who, after testing my blood, found that I had several nutritional deficiencies. When the root of the problem was finally found, Oma was asked to please not give me so many sweets and maybe some fruit once and a while. Even after this whole ordeal, I was pretty much ruined by Bavarian food. On the rare occasions that I wasn't already full from a trip to Oma's house, I would turn my nose up at a meal and proclaim that "das ist greislich". It took a colloquial Bavarian to German dictionary for my parents to find out that greislich means disgusting.
I was still living in the house with the strawberry patch when Anthony first made an appearance in my life. At slightly less than two years old, I don't think I comprehended how seriously shitty a new baby was going to be until after my brother was born. The new grub demanded almost all of my parents' attention. Ever the pragmatist, I told them that we should should just take Anthony back to the hospital (that's where he came from, after all). They responded that no, they couldn't take him back.
"Don't worry, I know how to get there," I assured them.
With my parents spending all their time on larva #2, I found a new person to dote on me and give me affection. I referred to the wonderful woman next door as "meine Oma". I don't think I can remember her real name but that woman treated me as if I was her own grandson. It was great. Most days, I would wander over to her house and she would pick me up, set me on the counter and fed me. She fed me weisswurst, quark, kucken, ovalmaltine and all sorts of wonderful Bavarian food. The upshot of this was that I was rarely hungry when it was time to eat at my own house.
My parents were worried enough by this that they took me to a doctor, who, after testing my blood, found that I had several nutritional deficiencies. When the root of the problem was finally found, Oma was asked to please not give me so many sweets and maybe some fruit once and a while. Even after this whole ordeal, I was pretty much ruined by Bavarian food. On the rare occasions that I wasn't already full from a trip to Oma's house, I would turn my nose up at a meal and proclaim that "das ist greislich". It took a colloquial Bavarian to German dictionary for my parents to find out that greislich means disgusting.
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