I'm going to be reading from The Lifebox, the Seashell, and the Soul on Tuesday, March 7, at 7 PM at the Booksmith on Haight Street.

I recently got a hard copy of the library volume Contemporary Authors, Vol. 228, (Thompson Gale, Farmington Hills, MI, 2005), which has my autobiographical essay with pictures (pp. 329-354). I have the right to further publish the piece so, what the hey, here it is, my “Autobiography (2004)” in PDF form, weighing in at 20 Meg as it includes a number of photos of me (that's me aged 13, above, playing with a toy we called “Diablo”). I worked on this essay fairly hard, trying to figure out what I've been doing for, lo, these 60 years. Enjoy.

After NYC for granddaughter Althea’s naming ceremony, I flew down to spend a week with my big brother Embry at his house on Grand Turk Island, which at the very end of the chain of islands off the tip of Florida that starts with the Bahamas. It’s just a bit north of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Some people think it might have been Columbus’s first stop in the New World.

Embry used to be a pilot for Turks and Caicos Air down here, and I’ve come to visit him a number of times over the years — going all the way back to 1969, when he was living on South Caicos and flying for some guys trying to get development going on Providenciales Island.

Embry has been around these islands so long that he knows everyone, at least everyone over 45. The locals don’t necessarily perceive him as a white person anymore, he’s such a local fixture.

All in all there’s only about a hundred white residents on Grand Turk. Since there’s so few in the local circle of whites, people play multiple roles. We went to a bar last night, and my dive master was singing in a band, accompanied by one of my brother’s friends playing gut-bucket bass. Someone I met at the airport turned out to own the bar, the woman who led a free yoga lesson down the beach was there too with her husband playing bongos with the band. I thought of a high-school play that requires, like, 30 characters, and the ten people who want to be in the play end up having three roles each.

When I come to Grand Turk, it’s like stepping into a soap opera. Or a daily comic strip. Or onto an opera stage in medias res. Everyone discusses everyone else’s business all day long. The two main topics this week are (a) the coming of the cruise boats, and (b) the break-in at the house next door to Embry’s.

Provo (as they call Providenciales Island for short) has been developed out the wazoo, although Grand Turk has remained primitive and off the grid. As chance would have it, Grand Turk recently allowed the Carnival Cruise Lines company to build a cruise-boat center — complete with huge dock and a veritable townlet of pastel “new town” buildings. Saturday, the first cruise boat ever docked here. Most of the locals seem apprehensive or contemptuous. When a cruise boat docks, you have an abrupt influx of a thousand or more day-tripping tourists — they return to their boat before suppertime, don’t buy much and don’t eat much either as they’re stuffed from the ship.

I actually witnessed the first of the big boats gliding in, the Noordam of Rotterdam for the Holland-North America line. Embry and I were leaving Grand Turk on a fishing expedition; we motored past the Noordam; it rose up nearly to the sky, ten stories high. The door was very small, at the waterline; the people coming out looked like ants. Marching down the spanking new concrete dock, silhouetted against the cloud-puffed Caribbean sky. I thought of a starship at a spaceport, the vast, bulging hull, the tiny figures moving along spindly catwalks. Actually only a few of them came into town, and only for a short while, and the ships aren’t coming very often as yet, so there’s hope for Grand Turk.

Embry had taken me out fishing on his little Boston Whaler with a local friend of his named Carl, and after checking out the Noordam, we went across a strait to an even smaller and more godforsaken island called Salt Cay. Carl, a stout young black guy with gout, was continually criticizing everything I did, like how I’d reel in a line, or how I’d steer the boat — Carl lecturing me in a high-pitched hysterical tone as if I were a twelve-year old. Being almost sixty, I was able to argue back and take it in my stride, at least up to a point. While I was reeling in a fish — too slow in Carl’s opinion — a barracuda bit half of my fish off in the water. I caught half a jack. But then we caught two barracuda. Seeing Carl return to his mother’s house carrying the nice big barracuda we caught, I felt some empathy for him after all.

Having my big brother's associates treat me like a kid has traditionally been a sore point for me. Actually, everyone but Carl has been treating me well. Embry kindly tells them that I’m his famous brother.

Working on Postsingular in my head in the open boat in rough seas between Grand Turk and Salt Cay, I was thinking how it would be to have the orphidnet and have access to my text. And that seemed kind of dull, like bringing my work with me. Better than writing, if I had insanely rich mental net access, would be to lay down actual visualizations of my scenes. And that’s the product people would enjoy. Call it a metanovel. Writing a metanovel would be like directing a movie. Would it be hard to visualize all that detail? Naw, I wouldn’t have to fill in all the architectural details of, e. g., Dot and Red’s worn-out Victorian house. The beezies could patch the details in, collaging them from a real house and, where necessary, bending the collaged reality bits to fit.

I’d go back to the metanovel over and over, layering on detail, just as I do now with a novel. Even though it would be more like a movie. Would I have to pick a point of view? For a first pass though, yeah, it might be easier to just do one point of view. But I’d eventually want to round out the other characters.

They had the best french fries I ever tasted at the Island Thyme Inn on Salt Cay. Porter, the proprietor, guy said he bakes white potatoes, and then cuts them into thin wedges with the skin on and fries them briefly in very hot peanut oil. Embry and I were the only customers, he was there to so some business with the host, discussing some development scheme.

Everyone here is continually talking about developing their land; they’ve been talking this way for the nearly forty years I’ve been coming. With the coast of Florida utterly plasticized and devastated by condo-condo-condo hammered bam-bam-bam into place as if by angry giants’ fists, the developers seek new shores to despoil. The nearby island of Provo is starting to go, though of course it’s still nothing like the hideously condo-bombed once-lovely Sanibel Island in Florida. I’m hoping Grand Turk’s inertia and general disorganization will serve to protect them a bit longer. Of course the basic problem is that there are three times as many people on Earth as there were fifty years ago when I was a kid. From 2 billion to 6 billion.

Embry’s wife Noreen is out of town for a week. Embry has a house and a guest-house. I’m in the guest-house, very nicely designed, the houses side by side, right on the beach. Embry comes in to inspect my living-quarters from time to time, sometimes mildly disapproving of my housekeeping. He’s about the only person left who acts like a parent towards me. In a way it’s touching. He cares.

Occasionally I wish Embry would lighten up — and I realize how fervently my wife must at times wish the same for me. “Relax, old man, take the starch outta your spine, the stick outta your ass, the rules outta your ruler.” Nevertheless, Embry and I have some laughs.

I think if I stayed here a few months, I’d start to drink again. That Gosling’s Dark Bermudan Rum looks good. I could spend the days in bed with a fifth of rum, a couple of limes, some cans of Coke, and a good freezer-full of ice. (And end up wishing I was dead.) Part of the urge is that this is the end of the Earth and nothing matters here. Part of the urge is that I’m so deracinated, a temperate plant-cutting in tropical sand.

I went diving three times, six dives in all. I’ve dived nearly sixty times now, and I have a pretty good idea of what I’m doing. Grand Turk’s great dive feature is a nice mile-deep drop-off only a hundred yards from shore, making a good wall you can dive along. I always wish I could go down and down and down one of those walls. Like in a bathysphere.

Good schools of fish. Nice limber sponges and gorgonians, good brain corals. I saw a big grouper, who was used to begging food from people; I was able to give his slimy tail a little pat, though the dive master reproved me for that. I saw a barracuda hovering over a vase sponge like it was his nest. Vase sponges are very cool, I like peering into them to spot a tiny fish or crustacean within. Three dolphins on the last dive, big as people, very close, moving slow, doing the dolphin kick.

I actually saw the green flash two nights in a row. You stare out at the setting sun, as it goes into the horizon like a cartoon coin into a piggy bank and right as it disappears: green flash!

About the break-in I mentioned above. I heard the following story over a long dinner. A gentle married couple my age live next door to Embry’s, Andre and Joan, they wanted to retire, but don’t have quite enough money, so Andre still works as a government lawyer. Andre told me the story as follows. The day before I arrived, a local man wearing a bandanna broke into their house at 4:30 AM, pulled Joan out of bed by her hair and began hitting her with the flat side of a machete yelling, “Give me money.” A pirate of the Caribbean.

[Some of the local buildings have a “duppy board” on top, which is meant to keep bad spirits, or “duppies” from roosting.”]

Andre tried to call 911, which didn’t work, and eventually got into a struggle with the burglar, who sliced a four inch long but rather shallow gash into Andre’s forehead above his eye. The burglar finally fled on Andre’s bicycle. Andre called Embry, who managed to get the police to come.

On the way, the police saw the man on the stolen bicycle, but didn’t manage to arrest him. A few hours later, they arrested a local troublemaker called “Mr. Buck,” whom Joan and Andre believed to be the burgler, perhaps the police saw Mr. Buck on the stolen bike. Andre and Joan underwent a similar break-in-and-machete-threatening last April, ten months ago, and had asked around and arrived at the conclusion that the burglar had been this same Mr. Buck. After a few hours the police released Mr. Buck. There was then a feeling that the police weren’t doing their best to investigate the case, a feeling of paranoia that it was a deliberate cover-up by the police; that Mr. Buck did it, but the police don’t want him to be indicted. But after I left Grand Turk they did re-arrest and charge Mr. Buck, which is where it stands now.

It was very dramatic sitting at a dinner table, listening to Andre’s tale. Like dinner theater. Imagine a medium where people tell you dramatic stories over great meals. Possible with the orphidnet…

The best thing about the Caribbean is the colors. And being with my brother was such a nostalgic experience. He's the only one left who remembers the surroundings of my early childhood. Good old Embry.

It’s spring in California. I’m back after a week in New York City and a week on Grand Turk Island out at the tip-ass eastern end of the island chain off FLA that starts with the Bahamas.

The reason I was in NY was to participate in the naming ceremony for my daughter Georgia’s daughter Althea! (Photo by father Courtney.)

A really good crop of relatives arrived, here I am with another of the babe’s grandfathers, Bob Lasseter.

And here’s father Courtney Lasseter with his birth-mom Fran.

We stayed in a fairly nice relatively inexpensive hotel in midtown NY called the Gershwin. This is a view down the block.

And here’s a view out through the rippled-with-age window glass in our room. The room had bare, worn-with-age wooden boards for the floor. Daughter G said it looked like a halfway house for recovering heroin addicts.

I spotted two UFOs; one was in the 28th St. subway station where I got some icons for use in Mathematicians in Love a few months back.

The other was on the floor of St. Patrick’s cathedral.

We hit the kids’ clothing department at Macy’s of course.

And the Rockefeller Center.

Gino Severini, it has a great title, “Dynamic Hieroglyphic of the Bal Tabarin.”

Another Severini detail. The medium is “oil and sequins.”

A bit of the Picasso’s “Girl Before a Mirror.” Makes me want to get out my paints! Conversely, it also makes me feel like it would be pointless to paint anything else…

And there’s a Dali sculpture with ants. I plan to have a (male) character looking like this in my Postsingular novel. The ants are eating the orphids as fast as they land on the guy, making him invisible in the orphidnet.

I did some business in New York, visiting my trusty agent Susan Protter, also my editor John Oakes at Thunder’s Mouth (Avalon Publishing), and my editor Dave Hartwell at Tor Books. It looks like Tor will publish Postsingular, and I’m waiting to hear if Thunder’s Mouth will pick up my new story anthology, with working title Mad Professor.

Waking up in the middle of the night before, I’d wanted to take that title back, thinking it was too self-deprecatory, but it does have something juicy and archetypal about it, also somewhat transreal and apt — although, harrumph, I’m far from mad.

I’m kind of happy to be writing two cyperunkish hard-SF books in a row, first Mathematicians in Love and now Postsingular. Getting out on the road and doing those concerts. I’m still somewhat stressed out about finding a good plot for Postsingular — I got into the book in a somewhat ass-backwards way, by writing two short stories (back stories) that won’t in fact be in the novel. I appreciate, by the way, all the useful comments you readers have made on the book’s themes.

Not that any of these means much compared to seeing Althea!

I’m gonna be away from the blog for a couple of weeks. Here’s a big chunk of data to chew on while I’m gone.

Your comments are very helpful to me. There’s something to be said for the hive-mind — when we get a chance to talk about something besides sports and the Middle East. Down with mainstream media, up with blogs!

I first instigated this discussion on December 19, 2005, see the link for some background material. And a few days ago, on February 9, 2006, I posted this query:

“I could really use some comments on things you’d like to see in a novel about the world after a Singularity which links us all into a supercomputational “orphidnet” web which contains superintelligent emergent AIs, a supremely intelligent God-like AI called the Big Pig, and which allows for intelligence amplification, turning individuals into IQ 1000 “kiqqies.” The art, the cuisine, the culture, the sex, the sports, the consumer products, the architecture, the language, the mores — what changes would you most like to read about?”

Your professionally edited answers up through Feb 13 are bloggishly listed in the reverse order in which they were received.

[Rudy: Edited and with comments by me.]

### BrianB:

I’m assuming the orphids and beezies are neutral agents. Like everything else, they would get used for good and evil by humans. Even so, there would be an intense struggle among some people to somehow rid themselves of the orphid lice or fool them. Everyone could see everything, but they could still be masking their intentions.

There would be a lot of banality to sift through on the orphidnet, and why look at someone else’s life when it is less interesting than your own? Just another poor schmuck staring off into space masturbating, but he’s really communicating non-verbally with a resistance network.

The orphidnet makes me think that any sort of celebrity status would be something to avoid at all costs — the current culture in reverse. Kinda like in Frek & the Elixir with all the aliens wanting to watch you, except now it’s your friends and neighbors and everyone around you. It would drive everyone into a hole, I think — move on, nothing to see here.

[Rudy: Hiding from the orphidnet is a big issue. As a practical matter, it screws up a novel’s plot if everyone can see everything everyone is up to. Invisibility might happen by, as some suggest, by currying favor with the beezies and the Pig. Or you could replace your orphids with some modded orphids. Or, of course, you can get inside a Faraday-shielded room from which wireless signals can’t escape. Or wear a freaking tinfoil hat, as someone already suggested a while back. Regarding celebrity vs. privacy, I think people might get to a new way of thinking about it. Bloggers kind of say to hell with privacy already.]

### emilio:

Sex! Sex is going to be the thing that keeps me connected to my humanness. Since all of my other needs are going to be met, sex becomes the one thing that I can only have so much of. It is also what is going to set me apart from the beezie AIs. Likewise the beezies will want to understand sex. Sex asks an ultimately spiritual question. What am I? The struggle will be over identity.

[Rudy: Sex is important, if it wasn’t Job One, none of the life forms would still be here. Maybe the beezies crowd around when you do it, like dead souls vying for reincarnation.]

### Rogue:

The concept that there is an orphidnet “cyber” god/goddess would provoke a huge reaction from religious sects. Each of them would want to deny the Big Pig and her existence, as she threatens their own second-hand versions of God. Considering mankind’s history of religious wars, why should this be any different?

Knowing the subtle abilities of the religions, I wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to make their own AI gods to compete with the Big Pig. Not to mention that a bunch of open-source and freeware coder kids would want to make their own personal gods/goddesses. The competition among the members of this emergent pantheon would bring about conflicts that affect the real world. I’m thinking of the appearance of a polytheistic Greek type society that conflicts with the more modern system.

Another point is that the orphidnet would affect the subconscious, and vice versa.

[Rudy: I hadn’t thought of religious wars. Certainly that can be part of Dick Too Dibbs’s campaign. The heathen pagan god of the Big Pig. The idea of people creating their own gods is great, but I am seeing the Big Pig as emergent and out of our control, so I don’t think I can use your cool God-hacking idea here. But it could be in another story. Speaking of multiple gods — aha moment! — I can have another God come over from the Mirrorbrane, maybe not such a nice one, call him, for now, MirrorCthulhu. MirrorCthulhu and the Big Pig are fighting it out for the support of the orphidnet computation. And then the real Gaia wakes up and absorbs them both. Yaaar.]

### European reader:

You said, “Getting high by contacting the Big Pig is similar to the experience of a devout person becoming ecstatic through prayer.” I feel that devout persons do not get high through prayer. Prayer or meditation should calm you down. Ecstasy and loss of clear thinking should be viewed as an evil aspect of religion. When I hear about Big Pig ecstasy, I see zombified morons who get fed conspiracy theories that the Anti-Big-Pig is out to get them.

Plus, I keep asking myself what is the drive behind this orphidnet. How is it different from good old cyberspace? What’s it for? Will it bring about an end to fear and paranoia or just unlimited knowledge that will inevitably be used for evil purposes?

The orphidnet would let you access a complete video of your life to date.

[Rudy: You sound kind of Calvinist here. Religious ecstasy is a great natural high! But I like the idea that there could be a scare about an Anti-Big-Pig. The complete video of your life is a theme I’m seeing more and more in popular entertainment. There was that Robin Williams movie about it a couple of years ago.]

### Marshall Bolton:

What I would like from Postsingular is some answers. I imagine the blurb saying: This Book Will Change the World. Numbers have been crunched – answers have to be given. I imagine a scene in the book where all the connected pigheads sit down at an appointed time and try to answer a koan e.g. “What’s it all about, Harry?” Or some such thing. The Big Pig gives a hint or remains stubbornly silent…

[Rudy: When you plug into the Big Pig, you know the Answer right away. The catch is, as we all know, when you come down you can’t frikkin’ remember it. But I’m working on an angle where Jayjay scores some Higgs-field dark-energy membranes that he can use to write memories on even while he’s kiqqin’ it with the Pig. And then he invents antigravity.]

### lanny:

You might include so-called “squirts” for spam-blocking, a new conceit. If you had access to a random set of software-objects as in object-based programming, maybe the spam messages/agents would be seen as having matchable geometries, you see the spam, match its morphology, and load the relevant squirt from a library, sort of like shot-gun troubleshooting. The nifty thing is that a squirt is intelligent and able to modulate itself, like an antibody, the match-patterns are rough. The squirts are agents in there with you, and you can talk to them a bit, and they accept suggestions and so on. Mini-me helpers.

[Rudy: I like this a lot. You’re basically describing the vertebrate immune system, with the kind-of-intelligent antibodies (squirts) very rapidly evolving to combat the new antigens (spam). I read a book about this, lately, Vertosick’s The Genius Within. The idea of personalizing the squirts is good; you talk to them like pets, maybe.]

### gamma:

If the Big Pig was a gregarious nocturnal wild swine with a curly tale implanted with insideamijigz & the tale was turning as the dark matter attracted it into a cider place with apples & pears … dunno but it will be pork or ham?

The Big Pig goes to Mount Kilimanjaro 2 organize the winter olympigs like is just a lot of sport on ice & snow but they have cloud-seeding signals which make Mt. Fuji look like a dot on a large mass of space called Gnowhereiam? They get there snow boards 2 compete within it.

The Big Pig with enlarged curly tail & snout growing larger thinx “what if the winter olympigs was held in a real kool place like Pluto – what a frozen gas that could be” — while they were assembling tm. Kilimanjaro next 2 the depot near the port central — Mt. Fuji — they opened the games with a spectacular gala & painted the stars like a dot-to-dot think fer the kidz 2 do

[Great stuff, Gamma, there’s Joycean genius in your wordplay. I described my 1979 Seacon meeting with you in the “Haunted by Phil Dick” document I posted back in the Phil Dick entry last week. You weren’t the guy in white boots, right, you were one of the others?]

### JHN:

I think that a novel on what it’s like in some transreal posthuman world ought to focus on small, trivial things. I am generally more interested in the day-to-day, routine, and boring activities of foreign cultures than I am in special things. I think that knowing what people of a certain culture eat for breakfast tells you more about them than their religious festivals and national holidays.

[Rudy: Yes, totally. Oddly enough, the ordinary little things are in fact harder to invent than the festivals and holidays.]

### COOP:

I think that the relationship between the humans and the beezie AIs might resemble an artist-patron relationship. The beezies are smart and rich, but smart and rich folks get bored, and would place a premium on those people who can lessen their boredom.

Perhaps the quid pro quo of the relationship would involve patron beezies helping interesting humans become invisible to the orphidnet or control their orphidnet access in other ways.

With scarcity problems licked, most humans would have a serf-like protected lower status, with advancement only available to those who could work the system. They might move up through the AI and kiqqie hierarchy by being, say, soldiers, artisans, or entertainers — or by religious strategies advancing them through the ranks of the Church of the Big Pig.

[Rudy: Yes, that’s kind of what I’m thinking, the beezies or the Pig will give you a hushbrella if they think you’re gnarly and fun to watch. I don’t see there being that much of a hierarchy, though, at least not in this volume, although that is always a good paradigm for a tale. I guess it’s all about status — which leads to better sex partners — what Corey Doctorow called “whuffie” and what Google calls “page rank.”]

### benign:

You say, “One thing I keep thinking about is how it would feel to encounter spam ads, and set up filters to block them.” I think this is important, and not just as it relates to spam, but also the barrage of information likely to come with such an interface as the orphidnet. Let’s say you’re walking down the street. Unless you’re really making an effort to feel and appreciate the wind, chances are good that you aren’t noticing how it tugs at the individual hairs on your head. It’s such a torrent of useless information that you just tune it out. The question is, will we be able to adapt to do this with spam and other orphidnet phenomena?

I’m also curious about the extent that we will, via the orphids, have access to manipulate our own thought processes.

[Rudy: Yes, I’m imagining a state of mind where there’s a lot more stuff out on the fringes. Like a circle’s circumference is big, but a sphere’s surface is a lot bigger. And when we’re orphidnetted, the zone of your awareness will be more like an ND hypersphere with really a lot of dangling links on the edge. Another point relating to spam is that there is perhaps some specific part of the brain that controls your focus of attention. As I mention in my Lifebox tome, Damasio feels that our sense of consciousness has a lot to do with our focus of attention, and he thinks it could be pegged to a process in the cingulate cortex as it monitors the proto-self’s reactions to the movie-in-the-brain. Imagine the horror of some adware hijacking this. I hadn’t thought of the reflexive notion of maybe hacking my emotions by getting the orphids to show me happy things. A new meditation technique.]

### Alan:

I think people would view the Big Pig as a higher life form from human beings and would therefore try to worship it. Humans would continually keep trying to seek out its wisdom and guidance in their lives. The Big Pig would then be constantly bombarded with human queries asking for advice and help. Would the Big Pig have enough computational power to interact with every human in the world at the same time? Or maybe it wouldn’t be interested at all. Maybe it would only interact with a select few that it found worthy of its presence. Of course it couldn’t answer everybody’s prayers and therefore the Big Pig acts in mysterious ways. Does the Big Pig have a master plan for humanity or is it just pursuing its own interests?

I’d like to know how people will deal with “tell-hell”, where a whole bunch of people decide to talk to you all at the same time. Also the scope of your messages could be private tells to one person, group messages, or a world-wide shout!

I like the idea of brain-hacked zombie people. They could have a virus running in their mind that wakes up and takes them over for a period of time. Makes them do things and them erases their memory of what they did.

I would like the orphids to archive my memories. So I could remember anything from my past, any day in full detail if I wanted to. And even take a look at other people’s memories if they were publicly accessible. Maybe I could specify which memories were ok for public sharing or specify a group of people that could access my thoughts.

[Rudy: It’s not clear whether or not the Big Pig would be able to listen to everyone on Earth. I’m talking about a sextillion gigabyte gigaflop orphids in the orphidnet, so I think the Big Pig might have the power. But spam could slow the orphidnet down, driving God away. I feel the beezie and the Big Pig have a plan of keeping Earth healthy and gnarly. So they’re gonna close down the oil industry right away. Imagine a clueless newbie copying a message to “all” meaning everyone on the planet: “Did you get this message?” And the flame that comes back incinerates their brain. Archiving the past, yeah. But if the beezies don’t care that much about my glorious personal history, they’ll purge the files. I’m seeing them as only saving our pasts for maybe a week. But maybe once you get your personal swatch of Higgs-field dark energy brane you’ll have that RAM you need.]

### Chris Farrell:

In this situation, would these intelligence increases be expensive, leaving the luxury only to the rich? Would this further grasp that big corporations have on America, and also the social and economic hierarchy? Maybe in a cyberpunk sort of sense the rich and the big corporations have some much money and so much intelligence increase that they take over the world.

Perhaps the bad guys can even corrupt the Big Pig as well — putting the world under control of an Anti-Big-Pig! Your heroes would have to overthrow him.

[Rudy: The change is democratic, universal, open to all. But most people are so lazy and dumb that the Homesteady Party will take over anyway. I’ll mull over the Anti-Big-Pig. Sounds like a Manichean (good god vs. bad god) kind of thing.]

### Steve H:

How easy would it be to hack orphids? I can see two motivations to hack the orphid software or hardware. (1) I want to get invisibility by being able to turn off my orphids’ ‘position-signal is always-on’ feature, or by turning off orphidnet access to this info. (2) The evil spammers want to be able to turn off my ability to close down my inputs, and turn off my ability to control write-permission to my brain. This could be done in software or in hardware, that is with software/malware or with modded hardware orphids, that is: “Damn, I need to reinstall Orphid 1.0” vs. “Damn, I’ve got those damned 2.0 orphids mixed with my good ones?” I’m thinking here that there might there be new less-secure versions of the orphids, say, Orphid 2.0.

As well as having my orphids make me invisible on the orphidnet, they might make me look different, or show me somewhere else, I could fix it so you see me on a golden throne instead of my mundane toilet.

Can one beezie hack another?

Where would I put my backup files? Am I just depending on the goodwill of the orphids and beezies to save my info?

What a great cursing-out you could give someone if you could accompany it with a Powerpoint show in 3D.

Would our culture, and our basic humanity, survive this kind of paradigm shift? Stross’s “Vile Offspring” come to mind; physically human but loaded with software that makes them less than human. How big would you like your IQ to be? Oops, too big. POP! Game over.

Suppose your hairbrush was a powerful magnet, or your hat was full of coils; could you repel certain kinds of orphids from your head? How about something like a Shinto gate that dispels bad luck and evil demons as you pass through?

[Rudy: Good stuff, Steve, and thanks again for mentioning genius loci a few weeks back. Hacking the orphidnet hardware or software will be a big deal, yeah, everyone wants to be able to sneak and dissemble. I think the good guys, whom the beezies like, the kiqqies and the Pigheads, they’ll be able to drop out with the help of the net. But the Gaia-hating Earth-raping control-freak Homesteady Party, well, they’ll have an in with Jeff Luty of ExaExa and he’ll be distributing some modded orphids. Thing is, orphids are programmed to attack any other kind of orphid, like white blood cells that way. So this won’t be that easy.]

Blog ya more in March.