Sunday, May 04, 2008

giving myself a break

Way back, I ended a post by saying, in part: "OK: If The Silence lasts more than a couple of months, I'm dead."

So, maybe that iteration (as this posting) is reassuring to someone—or else The Afterlife (Ha!) gives one material access to the Internet.

Actually, The Afterlife is one's trace of being remembered among survivors, which now may mean those anonymous readers of Web pages that never disappear from the Internet's kluge archive (thanks to Googlish designs), our current era's version of surviving The Library.

It's not news anymore that all netweaves are meshing into one planetary archive, where afterlife becomes a function of searchlist height, made of algorithmic light relative to the legacy of The Draw—being ordinarily short-lived, a fainting trace (after Those 15 Minutes), like so many headstones digested by lichens (or the countless cremations marked
by obituary textlines scattered wherever, forgotten); or like neverfound fossils.

But no degree of Internet completeness "makes sense" without the intelligent selection (so far now from natural selection—but which has become the leading "nature" of selectivity) making themes selective, projects selective, databases of kindreds, financial rolladexes, Webrings of organizations, n-dimensions of highly-distributed privacies composing the planetary hive to which all material commons become relative
(like geographic regions struggling across The Digital Divide, late
to the final consolidation of The Financial Game, circa the turn
of the millennium).

Anyway, the more that one understands complexity,
the less there is to say briefly about whatever's beyond daily
life. (And those who know, don't talk—which is to say: I know nothing.)

In other news: Relative to the elusive "logos" of the regulatory genome (the biochemically-"computational" gradiant dynamics of epigenesis), any talk of "ontology" is just trope-ical metapsychology of s/he who talks.

Lately, I'm trying to understand neurogenesis, but I'm feeling so incapable (though not alone).

Someone recently writes of the "political brain," but hasn't the faintest idea of how the brain works to make a mind (because no one knows, yet).

Talk of the Internet as some burgeoning "global brain" begs questions of the mind of such a Thing, relative to the Internet—mind of the Internet:
a widely-distributed community of real wetware, staying safely tacit among weaves of institutional auspices?