Within the bounds of our brief transit on this earth, we attempt to make our mark. Leaving a permanent trace of one’s life, in some quarters, is a large part of the purpose of our lives. In our digital lives, we leave traces wherever we go. We generate clouds of data as we surf along the surfaces of the Network. In the name of data portability, we claim the data we generate and assert personal ownership over it. We even leave instructions for how the data should be handled in the event of our death. What were footprints in the sand are now captured in digital amber.
While our most everyday communications have migrated to the Network, some of our most secret communications take a different path. It’s believed that governments have been sending secret messages using Numbers Stations since World War I. Here’s Wikipedia’s definition:
Numbers stations (or number stations) are shortwave radio stations of uncertain origin. They generally broadcast artificially generated voices reading streams of numbers, words, letters (sometimes using a spelling alphabet), tunes or Morse code. They are in a wide variety of languages and the voices are usually female, though sometimes male or children’s voices are used.
“Because [a message] can be broadcast over such an enormous area, you can be transmitting to an agent who may be thousands of miles away,” he says. And, he adds, computer communications almost always leave traces.
“It’s really hard to erase data out of your hard drive or off a memory stick,” he says. “But all you need here is a shortwave radio and pencil and paper.”
By using what’s called a one-time pad, these messages can’t be cracked. Again, here’s Mark Stout:
…because the transmissions use an unbreakable encryption system called a one-time pad: encryption key is completely random and changes with every message.
“You really truly cryptanalytically have no traction getting into a one-time pad system,â€? Stout says. “None at all.”
The use of short wave radio combines the capacity to send messages over great distances with the ability to obscure the origin of the broadcast. By taking down the message using a pencil and paper, the coded message stays off the information grid of the digital Network. Tools that pre-date the digital Network route around the media that makes permanent copies as a part of the process of transmission. While these messages are out there for anyone to listen to, and even record, the endpoints of the communication and the content of the messages remain opaque.
Historically, we’ve always had a medium that would allow us to communicate without leaving a trace. Now a whisper in the ear becomes an SMS message for your eyes only. While there’s much to be gained from our new modes of permanent public social messaging, I wonder if there’s a case to be made for the message without a paper trail, without a digital imprint, without any trace at all. Can we ever embrace the impermanence of a moment that can only be imperfectly replayed in human memory? The Numbers Station is reminder of another mode of speaking in a temporary medium.
As we consider machines that may think, we turn toward our own desires. We’d like a machine that understands what we mean, even what we intend, rather than what we strictly say. We don’t want to have to spell everything out. We’d like the machine to take a vague suggestion, figure out how to carry on, and then return to us with the best set of options to choose from. Or even better, the machine should carry out our orders and not bother us with little ambiguities or inconsistencies along the way. It should work all those things out by itself.
We might look to Shakespeare and The Tempest for a model of this type of relationship. Prospero commands the spirit Ariel to fulfill his wishes; and the sprite cheerfully complies:
ARIEL
Before you can say ‘come’ and ‘go,’
And breathe twice and cry ‘so, so,’
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
But The Tempest also supplies us with a counter-example in the character Caliban, who curses his servitude and his very existence:
CALIBAN
You taught me language; and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
For the most part we no longer look to the spirit world for entities to do our bidding. We now place our hopes for a perfect servant in the realm of the machine. Of course, machines already do a lot for us. But frankly, for a long time now, we’ve thought that they could be a little more intelligent. Artificial intelligence, machines that think, the global brain: we’re clearly under the impression that our lot could be improved by such an advancement in technology. Here we aren’t merely thinking of an augmentation of human capability in the mode of Doug Engelbart, but rather something that stands on its own two feet.
In 2002, David Gelernter wrote a book called The Muse in the Machine: Computerizing the Poetry of Human Thought. Gelernter explored the spectrum of human thought from tightly-focused task-driven thought to poetic and dream thoughts. He makes the case that we need both modes, the whole spectrum, to think like a human does. Recently, Gelernter updated his theme in an essay for Edge.org called Dream-Logic, The Internet and Artificial Thought. He returns to the theme that most of the advocates for artificial intelligence have a defective understanding of what makes up human thought:
Many people believe that the thinker and the thought are separate. For many people, “thinking” means (in effect) viewing a stream of thoughts as if it were a PowerPoint presentation: the thinker watches the stream of his thoughts. This idea is important to artificial intelligence and the computationalist view of the mind. If the thinker and his thought-stream are separate, we can replace the human thinker by a computer thinker without stopping the show. The man tiptoes out of the theater. The computer slips into the empty seat. The PowerPoint presentation continues.
But when a person is dreaming, hallucinating — when he is inside a mind-made fantasy landscape — the thinker and his thought-stream
are not separate. They are blended together. The thinker inhabits his thoughts. No computer will be able to think like a man unless it, too, can inhabit its thoughts; can disappear into its own mind.
Gelernter makes the case that thinking must include the whole spectrum of the thought. He extends this idea of the thinker inhabiting his thoughts by saying that when we make memories, we create alternate realities:
Each remembered experience is, potentially, an alternate reality. Remembering such experiences in the ordinary sense — remembering “the beach last summer” — means, in effect, to inspect the memory from outside.  But there is another kind of remembering too: sometimes remembering “the beach last summer” means re-entering the experience, re-experiencing the beach last summer: seeing the water, hearing the waves, feeling the sunlight and sand; making real the potential reality trapped in the memory.
(An analogy: we store potential energy in an object by moving it upwards against gravity. We store potential reality in our minds by creating a memory.)
Just as thinking works differently at the top and bottom of the cognitive spectrum, remembering works differently too. At the high-focus end, remembering means ordinary remembering; “recalling” the beach. At the low-focus end, remembering means re-experiencing the beach. (We can re-experience a memory on purpose, in a limited way: you can imagine the look and fragrance of a red rose. But when focus is low, you have no choice. When you remember something, you must re-experience it.)
On the other side of the ledger, you have the arguments for a technological singularity via recursive self-improvement. One day, a machine is created that is more adept at creating machines than we are. And more importantly, it’s a machine who’s children will exceed the capabilities of the parent. Press fast forward and there’s an exponential growth in machine capability that eventually far outstrips a human’s ability to evolve.
In 2007, Gelernter and Kurzweil debated the point:
When Gelernter brings up the issue of emotions, poetic thought and the re-experiencing of memory as fundamental constituents of human thought, I can’t help but think of the body of the machine. Experience needs a location, a there for its being. Artificial intelligence needs an artificial body. To advance even a step in the direction of artificial intelligence, you have to endorse the mind/body split and think of these elements as replaceable, extensible, and to some extent, arbitrary components. This move begs a number of questions. Would a single artificial intelligence be created or would many versions emerge? Would natural selection cull the herd? Would an artificial intelligence be contained by the body of the machine in which it existed? Would each machine body contain a unique artificial intelligence with memories and emotions that were solely its own? The robot and the android are the machines we think of as having bodies. In Forbidden Planet, the science fiction update of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, we see the sprite Ariel replaced with Robby the Robot.
In Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, the HAL 9000 was an artificial intelligence who’s body was an entire space ship. HAL was programmed to put the mission above all else, which violated Asimov’s three laws of robotics. HAL is a classic example of an artificial intelligence that we believe has gone a step too far. A machine who has crossed a line.
When we desire to create machines that think; we want to create humans who are not fully human. Thoughts that don’t entirely think. Intelligence that isn’t fully intelligent. We want to use certain words to describe our desires, but the words express so much more than we intend. We need to hold some meaning back, the spark that makes humans, thought and intelligence what they are.
Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.
– Ludwig Wittgenstein
Clearly some filters, algorithms and agents will be better than others, but none of them will think, none will have intelligence. If part of thinking is the ability to make new analogies, then we need to think about what we do when we create and use these software machines. It becomes an easier task when we start our thinking with augmentation rather than a separate individual intelligence.
Last Sunday I attended a performance of Richard Wagner’sDie Walküre by the San Francisco Opera. In many respects, it’s a minor miracle that any grand opera is produced at all— given the high cost, the super-specialized talents required and the deep coordination of the music, singing, drama, light, costume and stagecraft. To complicate things further, Die Walküre is the second opera in a cycle of four operas called The Ring of the Nibelung. The Ring Cycle is one of the more ambitious projects an opera company can undertake. The Ring takes years of planning, signing the right talents, finding the right concept and assembling considerable financing. Given the difficulty, one would think it was a rare event. But instead we find ourselves with one Ring after another. This year the Los Angeles Opera presented its science fiction ring. In 2012, the Metropolitan Opera in New York will present a Ring that features integrated computer and video technology designed by Robert Lapage. San Francisco Opera’s offering of Die Walküre is a prelude to their presentation of the full ring cycle in 2011.
The Ring tells the story of the Twilight of the Gods and the beginning of the age of men. It’s been told in many ways over the years. The San Francisco Opera production (a co-production with the Washington National Opera) brings the story to America. The Gods are transformed into the titans of industry, inhabiting the skyscrapers of a giant metropolis; the Valkyries are women aviators parachuting on to the stage, the mythology of the opera is seamlessly fused to the mythology of America.
Director Francesca Zambello has created an American Ring full of raw power, deep psychology and strong resonances with our national story. In Die Walküre, it is the sense of touch that expresses these big themes in terms of personal moments. In the scenes between Hunding and Sieglinde in a rural shack, their entire relationship can be understood by watching their body language and how they touch each other. Zambello manages to infuse the entire dramatic level of the opera with this kind of specificity and emotion. Donald Runnicles, SF Opera’s former music director, is one of the foremost interpreters of Wagner’s music. He recently conducted two full Ring Cycles with the Deutsche Oper Berlin for their 2007/2008 season. His work on Die Walküre is detailed and passionate. The singers, Stemme, Delavan, Westbroek, Ventris, Baechle and Aceto are outstanding in both voice and their dramatic work. From the opening notes, all the way through the four and half hour opera, the audience is riveted. While I’ve seen the opera many times before, I was on the edge of my seat wondering what these characters would do next.
This may be one of the Rings that people talk about years from now. There’s something about the mythology of the Ring, the Twilight of the Gods, and this time in American history that creates very strong connections— where new meanings well up from leitmotifs of the music and the unstinting drama unfolding on the stage. This Ring sheds a great deal of light on the story of America, from the very personal to the highest levels of our politics. Even a God is bound by treaties, contracts and obligations— seemingly unlimited power is always limited by the power of the world. It’s a drama where the Gods are human, all too human.
In a recent post, Clay Shirky talks about The Collapse of Complex Business Models. In essence, the idea is that in the television business, you were able to support a high cost structure and complex production environment through massive distribution of the product through specialized video broadcasting services. While not sufficient, it was necessary to produce a high-quality product to achieve mass distribution, consumption and profit margins. Shirky’s point is that the same itch is now being scratched by non-commercial, low-quality product that also achieves mass-distribution over the Network. The question television executives face is: how do we compete with that?
This is reminiscent of the moment when the Coca-Cola corporation discovered that it wasn’t just competing with the Pepsi-Cola corporation for dominance of the cola-flavored beverage market, or the soda market in general. They were competing against water. Television executives are looking for their version of Coca-Cola’s Dasani— a bottled water product that delivers similar margins to their soft drinks. Although the attempt roll Dasani into the European markets exposed what most people already knew. Water was readily available from their taps as a utility.
Shirky’s focus is on the moment when complexity, and adding more complexity/quality to the mix, no longer delivers a positive revenue margin over expenses. And unlike the banks that make up our financial system, the big media corporations are not perceived as too big to fail. As the business models of the media giants are hollowed out, change will come. At the end of his post, Shirky makes some predictions:
When ecosystems change and inflexible institutions collapse, their members disperse, abandoning old beliefs, trying new things, making their living in different ways than they used to. It’s easy to see the ways in which collapse to simplicity wrecks the glories of old. But there is one compensating advantage for the people who escape the old system: when the ecosystem stops rewarding complexity, it is the people who figure out how to work simply in the present, rather than the people who mastered the complexities of the past, who get to say what happens in the future.
While measuring the value of complexity in the equation of a business model may be one signal of an institution’s chances in the ongoing transformation of the media ecosystem, there’s an older Shirky post that should be brought into this context. The post is called “Gin, Television and Social Surplus.” In this post, he contemplates the 200 billion hours spent watching television each year in the United States. Should that energy be refocused in another direction, what might it unleash?
And television watching? Two hundred billion hours, in the U.S. alone, every year. Put another way, now that we have a unit, that’s 2,000 Wikipedia projects a year spent watching television. Or put still another way, in the U.S., we spend 100 million hours every weekend, just watching the ads. This is a pretty big surplus. People asking, “Where do they find the time?” when they’re looking at things like Wikipedia don’t understand how tiny that entire project is, as a carve-out of this asset that’s finally being dragged into what Tim calls an architecture of participation.
Now, the interesting thing about a surplus like that is that society doesn’t know what to do with it at first–hence the gin, hence the sitcoms. Because if people knew what to do with a surplus with reference to the existing social institutions, then it wouldn’t be a surplus, would it? It’s precisely when no one has any idea how to deploy something that people have to start experimenting with it, in order for the surplus to get integrated, and the course of that integration can transform society.
When I linked these two ideas together, a changing media/technology ecosystem and a large cognitive surplus, and third pattern emerged that provided a distressing context. It’s interesting that when speaking of media and business models, we look blithely on at the destruction and upheaval occurring. We zero in on the inflexibility of institutions, the fact that they can’t adapt to change as the sad, but predictable, cause of their extinction. When Shirky adds together a socialized Network and a large cognitive surplus he comes up with experiments that ultimately are integrated into society and transform it. There’s a beautiful optimism implied there, one that imagines peaceful progress mimicking the periodic updates of web-based software over the Network.
The distressing context that emerged was that the contours of what Shirky describes begins to resemble the historical period before World War I. We’re living through an era of accelerating change in technology, communications, media, manufacturing and politics. The ecosystem of the dominant broadcast media is evolving into something else, and potentially unleashing billions of hours of human energy. In the forward to her book “The Proud Tower,” Barbara Tuchman writes:
The period of this book was above all the culmination of a century of the most accelerated rate of change in man’s record. Since the last explosion of a generalized belligerent will in the Napoleonic wars, the industrial and scientific revolutions had transformed the world. Man had entered the Nineteenth Century using only his own and animal power, supplemented by that of wind and water, much as he had entered the Thirteenth, or, for that matter, the First. He entered the Twentieth with his capacities in transportation, communication, production, manufacture and weaponry multiplied a thousandfold by the energy of machines. Industrial society gave man new powers and new scope while at the same time building up new pressures in  prosperity and poverty, in growth of population and crowding in cities, in antagonisms of classes and groups, in separation from nature and from satisfaction in individual work.
and a little later:
…society at the turn of the century was not so much decaying as bursting with the new tensions and accumulated energies. Stefan Zweig who was thirty-three in 1914 believed that the outbreak of the war “had nothing to do with ideas and hardly even with frontiers. I cannot explain it otherwise than by this surplus force, a tragic consequence of the internal dynamism that had accumulated in forty years of peace and now sought violent release.”
While it’s unlikely that there will be a note-for-note replay of the fin de siècle era, there is a significant risk that what was multiplied a thousandfold by the energy of machines, will be multiplied by orders of magnitude and distributed to millions of nodes across the Network. The question we might ask is whether we have a strong enough central agreement about morality and civilization to curb our darker instincts. Can the center hold?
