Feeding the machine

I have a love-hate relationship with technology.

I once worked in the dishroom of a large cafeteria serving hundreds of the rudest people imaginable. As they left, they would sling their trays in through a window and my job was to [get covered in slop] stack the trays and load them onto the conveyor belt of this large silver cleaning machine. No matter how many trays I stacked and loaded there were always more coming. Stack. Load. Stack. Load. Every day the same thing. Feed the machine. Before long I couldn't tell where the machine left off and I began.

Some devices were built to make our lives easier. They serve us. They're an accessory. This monstrous steam tray cleaner wasn't one of those devices. It was large, clearly in charge, and hungry. I was but a cog in the machine feeding it endlessly. To pass the time I even took to chanting in my head: "Feed the machine. Feed the machine. Feed the machine." I was a module — the human component of a machine designed for the greater goal of clean dishes.

And today?

Today I'm partly a software coder working on Web 2.0 applications. This came about because of an early love of print, old manuscripts, and the power of the written word. I learned a long time ago how to design for and run printing presses, but when the web hit the world I was the first in my little circle of friends take an awestruck gasp. It was amazing how comparatively inexpensive you can put any strange notion you had out there. In the early days, the web was just a digital version of print, a top-down publishing scheme but nonetheless amazing, and truly revolutionary.

Web 2.0 is the natural evolution of that idea. It is the same concept that any crazy idea can be put out there, but now in critical mass. The technology that coders have assembled has reduced the complexity of publishing and collapsed the hierarchy into a horizontal model. That was the idea behind Web 1.0, but it has only just come about in any real sense. Now every crazy idea that is put out there is tagged to other crazy ideas. Links evolved from hyperlinked documents to hyperlinked everything, up to and including people. No crazy idea is a singular phenomena, it is now a part of the collective of a bigger crazy.

That's the love. In all this madness, we are building something completely new. It's something the world has never seen before in any period of history. Unless the Library at Alexandria had some system I'm not aware of for user-generated content that automatically linked the content to everything else related, including the librarians themselves, we have stumbled upon something that is the envy of philosophers, mystics, and Kings alike — no matter what the age. This machine is being constructed by everyone, not just the programmers. You, I, my seventy-something-year-old grandmother, we're building the largest human endeavor ever constructed.

In the Wired article "We Are the Web", Kevin Kelly writes:

And who will write the software that makes this contraption useful and productive? We will. In fact, we're already doing it, each of us, every day. When we post and then tag pictures on the community photo album Flickr, we are teaching the Machine to give names to images. The thickening links between caption and picture form a neural net that can learn. Think of the 100 billion times per day humans click on a Web page as a way of teaching the Machine what we think is important. Each time we forge a link between words, we teach it an idea. Wikipedia encourages its citizen authors to link each fact in an article to a reference citation. Over time, a Wikipedia article becomes totally underlined in blue as ideas are cross-referenced. That massive cross-referencing is how brains think and remember. It is how neural nets answer questions. It is how our global skin of neurons will adapt autonomously and acquire a higher level of knowledge.

It doesn't even matter if people read this crap we post. We are programming the machine itself. It's learning from it's fathers and mothers, ourselves. We are here. We are giving birth to this machine. It's exciting times because when they look back, for good or ill, it all starts right now.

That's the love. It's also what scares the hell out of me.

Maybe it's a narcissistic/nostalgic yearning to remain at the top of the food chain, or a struggle to hold fast to the distinction of a boundary between man and machine. Maybe it's that I fancy myself an artist as well as a programmer and as such I'm duty bound to promote the human condition. Or maybe it's just flashback nightmares of loading trays into the Big Silver Machine. Whatever it is, I cringe at the thought of this massive machine that is more than any of us, ourselves. As father to it, the same as any of you, I wonder if I'm not one of those deadbeat dads that marvel at the birthing but want to skip town on eighteen years committed serving the creation.

One thing is clear. We can rage against the machine all we want. At some point, however, we have to step out of denial and realize the machine is now us. Whatever line there was is blurred.