Conference: Journalism and the New Media Ecology: Who Will Pay the Messengers:

Yale Law School, Friday-Saturday, November 13-14, 2009. Click for more information.

Robert Darnton and the Future of the Library

Last night I attended a lecture from Robert Darnton, the preeminent historian of 18th century France and Harvard's Library Director. His lecture was titled "Google, Libraries, and the Digital Future" and is only one among the impressive Fall 2009 lineup at Columbia's Heyman Center for Humanities. The lecture came in the wake of Darnton's most recent piece, "Google and the Future of Books," in the New York Review of Books, and more importantly, the groundbreaking open-source Digital Access to Scholarship at Harvard (DASH) initiative led by the new Office for Scholarly Communication. (Note: I am saving his treatment of the Google book settlement for a later post. Here I am mainly interested in taking stock of a refreshing vision of open-source scholarship from a historian I respect highly.) 

Darnton came across to me as an archetypal figure in a new class of open-source advocates: a mixture of established man of letters and one who takes delight in slightly perverse and totally public revolution. A career historian of the history of the book, especially the business history of the book around the French Enlightenment, Darnton has spent his life immersed in the world of books: he unearths, reads, studies, and writes books about books for a living. (The most famous is his wonderful The Great Cat Massacre, a thick description of how young servants found hilarity and political protest in killing the cats of their abusive aristocratic masters.) He gets books: they are not about romantic authorship or royalties. Books are about their readers and eye-opening discoveries. They are most useful when they are read, and many, many books are not read simply because the archives and special collections are not public. A few choice quotes from last night include his calling the 10 million volumes scanned in Google Book Search "the greatest monopoly in the history of this country" as well as two chord progressions straight from the Electronic Frontier Foundation playbook: "digitize and democratize" and "openness is the guiding principle."

Behind the scholarly cautions and curtain of his talk there creeps a romantic notion of the benevolent pirate, a literary Robin Hood redistributing the royalty's wealth to the poor (pardon the pun; the double meaning of royalty does not strike me as entirely innocent). "There is a lot to be said for piracy," he remarked, fondly noting how 18th-century publishers raced to sell the most pirated copies of a bestseller to the waiting (and minuscule) literate public. Later he added "my heart is with the pirates." On the longevity of copyright terms, he stirred applause with the line "the founding fathers got it right; Hollywood got it wrong."

While he remains ambiguous on the details, the broad strokes of his vision of the future of the library are worth noting: the cost of open-source academic publication should be born at the production end, or by the institutions that house the authors themselves. The author's institution pays fees to have their work published in open-source journals, so long as journals wave fees for those authors whose institutions cannot afford to cover the fee. The open-access scholarly subsidy will make it possible, he hopes, to displace the outlandishly expensive current commercial academic journal system with open-access equivalents. (For a civil disobedience response, see Mako Hill's overprice tags.) And the fee waiver, in theory at least, lowers the entrance barrier to scholars in developing countries.

Taken to its unalloyed extreme, the future of Darnton's library takes two forms: one, an omnipresent digital platform for maintaining public access to all current scholarship. Think a full-view Google Book Search without the possibility of corporate "cocaine pricing." (You know, the first hit is free....) Two, a network of physical libraries devoted to accruing and preserving only the archives, special collections, and rare book libraries. On the first, digital scholarship online will fulfill what he calls "The Oberlin Argument": solid schools without substantial libraries could massively benefit by digital access to the world's books. (Had he called it "The Obafemi Awolowo Argument," a university in southwest Nigeria, the global reach of the argument would be clearer.) Here his concern for the public good strike me as being colored by the question of the 18th century French publishers he studies: how does one get pirated materials to a privileged few, to the already academic elite? But never mind in whose name the plan is justified. Having spent his life successfully struggling to access and discover the obscured word (including The Forbidden Best-Sellers of Pre-Revolutionary France), Darnton wants now to reveal both the hidden and forbidden word to the world. His public view shares the promiscuous tone of the professional archivist: we must try to save, store, and share everything within reason. 

"The future strength" of conventional research libraries, he argues, will be "special collections rare books and archives." It is, in many ways I think, the historian's dream: a series of warehouse devoted to only the gray literature which cannot be found elsewhere. He points out that no single library acquisition budget can possibly manage to house an adequate range of available special collections and thus calls for academic libraries to form coalitions, to perfect inter-library loan, and to divide special collections topically among their allies. Columbia's library system, led by Kenneth Crews, among other enlightened copyright moderates, is expected to join the compact on open access publication currently shared between five leading American universities. He argues against the "once hopelessly utopian" vision of the universal library with his own only slightly utopian vision. Yes, he realizes, digitization saps printed material of its lived quality: here he relates a memorable example of his reading Melville's copy of Emerson's "Prudence" in the Rare Books room as a freshman: no digital scan could ever impress him as deeply as hefting the book in his own hands. (Others have pointed out that medical researchers have used smell of vinegar to date cholera epidemics in archival documents: digits can reproduce, with loss, natural oral and literary senses but not yet taste, smell, pain, balance, and touch.)

Still, whatever its limitations, digitization opens the rare book room to the world. Add an affable, squirrely grin to the mix, and one gets Darnton's vision of the future of the library. It is one where digital and printed material are not in competition: digital libraries will not replace the printed book. It may not even displace it. Instead, he sees "a revival of the printed book" in the arrival of Espresso book machines that can print and bind a book on demand in about as many minutes as dollars. (His Espresso book machine is only a moderate version of fascinating developments currently underway in additive manufacturing, especially 3D printing.) In my opinion, his slightly utopian vision is far preferable to both recent and perennial rehearsals of the decline of all things literate (such as this Washington Post article) as well as its opposite, as he put it, the "once hopelessly utopian" dream of the universal library.

Conference: Internet as Playground and Factory

Kudos to Trebor Scholz and others for organizing what promises to be a very fruitful conference on digital labor. Check it out:

Internet as Playground and Factory
Eugene Lang, The New School, NYC, Nov 12-14

Participants (and abstracts) include, among many others I look forward to meeting, Mark Andrejevic, Gabriella Coleman, Alexander Galloway, David Golumbia, Ellen Goodman, James Grimmelman, Orit Halpern, Lilly Irani, Carolyn Lee Kane, M. Christopher Kelty, Robert Mitchell, Nick Montfort, Gina Neff, Frank Pasquale, Ben Peters (me), Dominic Pettman, Hector Postigo, Howard Rheingold, Martin Roberts, Scott Rosenberg, Stephanie Rothenberg, Douglas Rushkoff, Ivan Sigal, Fred Turner, McKenzie Wark, Darren Wershler, as well as a September 29th (very) pre-conference with Andrew Ross, Richard Sennett, and Tiziana Terranova. That's some group!  

Beth Noveck and The Purpose of Negative Feedback

At a recent Personal Democracy Forum, Beth Noveck, Deputy CTO in the Obama Administration, New York Law School prof, and the supremely smart former director of the ISP at Yale asked for thoughts on how web 2.0 tools, or anything else, could help political campaigners "not only get the message out but bring it back in," and in the process to inform and speed political movements. Rasmus Nielsen, my peer in the Communications PhD program at Columbia University, replied that "closing the feedback loop" often creates so much internal discussion it derails real political momentum. He names as example the 2,000 job announcements posted by the Obama administration, which brought 350,000 job applications, a mountain to manage. The high costs of cheap communication, Rasmus astutely notes, go largely unaccounted for. The subtext I read here is that hardy dictum among Democrats: do more, talk less. (Ironic, then, that a dictum has to be said so often to be a dictum.) So do something, and watch the full (2:23) exchange here.

Both Beth and Rasmus mention "feedback loops," an oft used term. Beth asks to bring information back in, closing the loop; Rasmus points out that often generates distracting noise within an organization. I think the term "feedback" has if not a solution then at least analytical clarity to add to the conversation.

What is feedback? Simply, things go out and then some come back. First, political campaigners put out a message, which eventually comes back in an altered form. Then, to become true feedback, the returned message needs to influence future messages. To state it generally: Feedback is a process whereby part of an output of a system becomes an input to that system with the purpose of influencing future output. Other languages help color the term: retroaction in French, Rueckkopplung (back-coupling) in German, obratnaya svyaz’ (return connection) in Russian, and retroalimentación (back feeding) in Spanish.

Consider two types of feedback: positive and negative (not open and closed). The terms positive and negative here refer to an arithmetic multiplier and carry none of the normative sense of when, say, a businessman speaks of receiving “positive feedback” from a client. A positive feedback system amplifies (cf. positive) the next round of output. As Norbert Wiener and two colleagues wrote in their famous six-page 1943 article "Behavior, Purpose, Teleology": “the fraction of the sign of the signal that which reenters the object has the same sign as the original input signal. Positive feed-back adds to the input signals, it does not correct them.” Examples of positive feedback systems include avalanches, snow melting on black mountain soil, malignant cancer, viruses, the nuclear arms race, keeping up with the Joneses, supernovas, and narrative climax: all these behave like positive feedback loops. They build until they burn out. Negative feedback to do the opposite: they check their own growth, they self-regulate. Examples include warm-blooded animals, the proprioceptive balance of the inner ear, steam-engine boilers with release valves, automated thermostats, ecosystems, and, of course, the Madisonian democracy of checks and balances. (Historian and philosopheor of science Otto Mayr finds feedback loops at the heart of liberal systems in his Authority, Liberty, & Automatic Machinery in Early Modern Europe)

If Rasmus fears the positive feedback of a web 2.0-enabled conversation, Beth asks for a negative feedback loop when she requests something "manageable." It's a reasonable request: what could be more manageable than a self-managing conversation after all? So how does one build a negative feedback loop?

The "simple" key, my reading suggests, lies in building a conversation around a common purpose. In fact, according to the same 1943 article, all purposeful, goal-oriented behavior can be found in negative feedback systems. It stands to reason that if purpose is a higher order of negative feedback, then political conversation should be pursue purposes beyond conversation itself. If this seems almost self-evident, it should. Action-oriented groups already have change, not conversation, on the front burner.

Still, conversation framing remains an issue. Consider the difference between these an open-ended and a closed question: "what should we do about X?" and "submit proposals that analyze and address problem X by date Y. Selected proposals will be receive treatment Z." Both questions propose to want answers to problem X but their purposes are very different. The first aims for conversation; the second, for solutions.

If change is the goal, build the question before you build the crowd. If conversation is the goal, best let the crowd build it for you.

In Mild Praise of Retraction

The jury is convening, even though it is still too early to pass judgment on Jytte Klausen's forthcoming The Cartoons That Shook the World due from Yale University Press in November. The Cartoons promises to treat the 2006 Muhammad cartoon controversy and to do so without republishing the cartoons themselves. The first part of that sentence contains the real news: a book that looks to speak on the subject. Klausen, a professor of comparative politics at Brandeis University, had written books on Muslims in Europe before the controversy. If interested, she wrote a Feb 12, 2006 Boston Globe editorial here.

But it is the last part of that sentence--the decision to not publish the cartoons--that has elicited a small spate of recent articles from the New York Times (here), the Boston Chronicle (here), the Chronicle of Higher Education (here), as well as the annotation and comment of (duh) bloggers. Nevermind that the Boston Chronicle reports (again, here) that eleven of the twelve cartoons are copyrighted and held in embargo by the royal library in Copenhagen, and that the artist of the twelfth cartoon (of a man with a bomb in his turban) makes brisk business with it by selling reprints. The majority consensus seems to take this decision as a failure of free speech. Names called include "dhimmitude" (originally from the Arabic for "protected"), "academic cowardice," "self-censorship," "chilling effects," etc. "Plagiarist,"  may be next: after all, Klausen is deliberately not revealing sources she relies on....

Perhaps. The negotiated decision is far from ideal. Let's dispense quickly with the obvious talking points of the other side: conversations that do not ostracize their interlocutors are also those most worth having, tolerance needs as fair a hearing as free speech (or else free speech is not doing its job, eh?), the overriding pragmatism of security concerns, that critics' negative attention will only push book sales for Yale Press and Klausen, etc. But even this back-and-forth misses an overriding point: the very question whether the cartoons should be republished is for naught.

The cartoons already have been republished, many, many times online and offline, and almost anyone who knows how to find reading material on the subject can also find the cartoons themselves (my piece on search engines below develops this). I can think of plenty of compelling political motivations to republish the cartoons but convincing practical reasons escape me so far. Why not simply describe each cartoon in words, point to other sources, and move on?

Because there's a larger issue brewing. Some media attract more concern about free speech than do others. Strangely, the ones that seem best at promoting free flows of information are also the most concentrated with concern. In part, many watchdogs for much treasure explains it. But it also seems like their bark may be worse than the bite. How does the fight for free speech change when so much of what has been spoken (or drawn) is already freely available? I am not sure. Content abundance online (of which a massive majority quickly disappears) surely does not justify censorship. But I am also not sure, to put it gently, that noisily proclaiming the failure of free speech is the best way to advance debate in the face of disagreement. The knee-jerk defense of free speech as a sort of symbol unto itself may detract from (I won't say chill) the very substance of the conversation it is meant to protect. Promoting free speech at the cost of better speech is gratuitous. The more speech asks for more speech, instead of better speech, the less is said in the end.

Free speech deserves praise, and so does the right to retract and redact. How else can conversation be built, except partially and, to quote Kant (not the blog), out of the crooked timber of humanity? Here is two cheers for the right to retract in a world ripe with speech. As for the book, I look forward to postponing judgment until it comes out.

For a few more thoughts from 2006, I wrote an early meditation on the subject, focusing on the role of search engines in the Muhammad cartoon controversy. A proof is available here: (2007) “The Search Engine Democracy: Metaphors and Muhammad,” in The Power of Search Engines /Die Macht der Such-maschinen, edited by Marcel Machill and Markus Beiler, (Leipzig, Germany: Herman von Halem), 228-242. That book chapter builds on ideas I encountered in conversation with John Durham Peters and his Courting the Abyss: Free Speech and the Liberal Tradition (Chicago, 2005). And I should also point to Biella Coleman, whose brand new and award-winning "Code is Speech: Legal Tinkering, Expertise, and Protest among Free and Open Source Software Developers" (Cultural Anthropology, August 2009) has much to offer anyone interested in why, among the poets of code, the force of free speech is so strong.

(Working draft) Media we do not yet know how to talk about: a new media history preface

A (very) working draft of my paper for the ICA Pre-conference, The Future is Prologue, May 21, 2009, is available for download here.

The paper summarizes and expands upon some thoughts I gathered at the splendid Media in Transitions (MiT) 6 conference at MIT, April 24-26, 2009.

(Published Version) And Lead Us Not...

Download here: Peters, Benjamin. "And Lead Us Not into Thinking the New is New: A Bibliographic Case for New Media History," New Media & Society, Vol. 11: nos. 1/2. (2009).

Watch for round two at the forthcoming ICA preconference, The Future is Prologue, May 21, 2009.

Typo correction: The sentence, "Of course, Mumford has been faulted by Harold Innis, Marshall McLuhan and Friedrich Kittler for relying too heavily on the intrinsic logics of technologies, but still the study of ‘stuff ’ persists" originally read in the uncorrected proof, "Of course, Mumford has been faulted together with Harold Innis, Marshall McLuhan and Friedrich Kittler...."

(Working draft) Toward an Analogy in Cyber History: Judeo-Christian Traditions of Transgression in Material Property

For comments and criticism, a working draft of my article "Toward an Analogy in Cyber History: Judeo-Christian Traditions of Transgression in Material Property" can be found here.

Dissertation Update: "Reconstructing Information in Cold War Cybernetics and Social Science"

Abstract: "Reconstructing Information" attempts to internationalize understanding of the emergence of information as a computer-compatible, or cybernetic, keyword before and during the cold war. Chapter studies include complimentary precursors to cybernetic thought in pre-Revolutionary Russian and American philosophy, the Soviet translation of cybernetic vocabulary for at first reforming and then reaffirming structural power in Soviet society, to an examination of why the Soviets failed to build a computer network equivalent to the US ARPANET. These and other cautionary tales help defamiliarize, broaden, and reconstruct a history of a term critical to the modern search for knowledge and social order.

Project Question and Outline: "Reconstructing information" asks, How did information become associated with computers in a cold war context? Whence the modern-day computer-compatible, or cybernetic, visions of social and scientific order? In particular, how can internationalizing the history of the association of information with computers help reconstruct and correct understandings of the philosophy and politics of digital communication in modern society? In effort to address these questions, my project also looks to denaturalize and challenge conventional thought on American triumphalism in the rise of computers.

The history of cybernetics—a variously understood postwar science of control and communication—helps focus and direct the narrative structure for these questions, beginning with the philosophical precursors of cybernetics, to the Sovietization of an initially western cybernetic vocabulary in at first reforming and then reaffirming structural power, to cautionary explanations for why the Soviets failed to develop an equivalent to the ARPANET or what historian of science Slava Gerovitch calls “the Soviet InterNyet.”

The introduction offers a literature review of critical information scholarship and a brief historical backdrop of how especially cybernetics helps capture the connection between the role information plays in cold war visions of the search for knowledge and social order. I hypothesize cybernetics as a particular rich postwar expression of a broader international movement to make analogies scientific and precise. Cybernetics can be understood as a “likening science” in the sense that it—like the English word like—contains three increasingly complex senses of structural analysis between events: analogy (“to be like”), affinity (“to like”), and application (“to liken”). Similarly, cybernetics sought a language with which to identify and bridge across traditions of discrete and continuous logics in mathematics, the leaps and the links implicit in the scientific method, and the digital and analog modes of media. Ever since, the resulting language has been one of information likened unto computers: the history of this often cold war process needs rethinking and reconstruction.

Each chapter in this project takes a different perspective and analytical lens to the problem of the cold war history of information. The first chapter takes a broad philosophical inventory of three overlapping senses of information in modern societies; the second chapter builds and then breaks an analogy between the lives and times of proto-cybernetic philosophers, Josiah Royce and Andrei Bogdanov; the third chapter moves from postwar America to the mid 1950s Sovietization of cybernetics; the fourth chapter parallels the failed Soviet economic network project and the US ARPANET in the 1960s; and the conclusion reviews and reflects on what the past may yet teach the present.

To touch on each chapter briefly: my partial drafting of the first chapter to date proposes three alternative sense of the English term information in modern history: one, information as a process of embodiment of matter and mind with form—an instructive although largely obsolete sense of the word dating from at least the 15th century on; two, information as relevant facts and communicable knowledge—the predominant sense in modern everyday English; and three, a computer-compatible abstraction of symbol. Each of these three senses of information—we could call them “formative,” “knowable,” and “cybernetic” senses—can help rethink contemporary understanding of the keyword.

The by now long-obsolete "formative" sense conceives of information as a process (cf. -"ation") by which some material is given form, and can be found in the verb inform and past participles like “informed consent” or informed voter”. Information gives form and imprint or change quality to consent or the voter, just as Milton thought “sun informs color” and “heat [of a blacksmith’s fire] informs metal.” It acts upon the world.

Knowable information, on the other hand, dates back to at least the Bacon’s empiricist and Kant’s rationalist union of mind and matter. The common phrase “for your information” assumes the transfer of content from one mind to another. We interact through it; it is the stuff of human communication.

A cybernetic or computer-compatible sense of information, however, does not require humans to be communicated. Rather, as abstract data independent of human cognition, algorithms can sort it; unread databases and automated messages can contain it. Humans access and act on cybernetic information, and its (often cold war inspired) systems in turn enacts it further. This chapter’s interpretive prehistory of the science and senses that can help defamiliarize contemporary uses of the term and preface closer case studies of cold war efforts to do the same.

The second chapter examines two primary philosophical precursors to the cybernetic sense of information, Josiah Royce and Alexander Bogdanov. Royce is remembered, when he is remembered at all, for being the last proponent of absolute idealism, a philosophy that engaged and lost in debate to William James’ pragmatism. This chapter revisits Royce’s later life and work as a dissertation adviser to Norbert Wiener and originally reads Royce as an early philosopher of cybernetics’ relationship to feedback. Fresh archival evidence shows that as a teenager doctoral student at Royce’s summer seminars at Harvard between 1910-12, Wiener was exposed to Royce’s vision of the scientific method as a way to conceive of both the natural world and the philosophical world as “self-representative systems” (1899). Royce’s work on maps within maps, causally looped infinite mathematical series, “exact resemblances” as precise analogies, and “self-representative systems” prefigure Wiener’s enriched sense of purposeful negative feedback as a control mechanism in 1943—an idea given shape by collaborative work on neurological behavior in the animal and semi-automatic ballistic studies.

In turn, I look to contrast Royce and Wiener respectively as a philosopher of absolute possibility and an applied poet of probability. At least two points about probability are worth developing: one, probability itself offers a discrete mathematical analogy between representations of the natural and the philosophical world, between a numerator of measurable events and a denominator of total possible events. In this sense, Wiener’s work with probability sustained a strict mathematical analogy between measurable world of his engineer peers and the thinkable world of Josiah Royce. Two, while Royce's philosophy misses the measurable world of information, entropy, and thermodynamics ranging from, say, Austrian chemist Ludwig Boltzmann to Hungarian émigré and Cold War game theorist John von Neumann, Royce’s work on infinite series does importantly resonate with his Russian contemporary Andrei Markov Sr.’s work on stochastic series, work that influenced Turing, Shannon, and Wiener, among other early computer philosopher-engineers. Royce's vocabulary, in short, offers an inspirational alternative to that of early cyberneticians.

The early draft second case study of chapter two explores the lifework of the old Bolshevik revolutionary, writer, economist, and philosopher Alexander Bogdanov (1873-1928) a philosophical precursor to cybernetics he called “tektology” or “a universal organizational science.” Understood as a type of mathematics-less pre-cybernetics, Bogdanov’s tektology illustrates the historical contingency of the scientific analogies: while Bogdanov’s choice analogy between nature and society hints at a strong sense of collectivism, Wiener’s original analogy between animals and machines resonates with a western sense of individualism. The interaction between these analogies can help preface the postwar pacifist and leftist politics of Wiener himself with Leninist-Marxist concerns about social organization and labor expressed in the early science fiction of Bogdanov’s Red Star, the uneasy Bolshevik Evgenii Zamyatin’s 1921 dystopia We, and the Czech writer Karl Chapek’s 1921 play “Rossum’s Universal Robots.”

In brief, the completed third chapter draft, available here, examines how the language of Wiener's cybernetics was translated into the Soviet academic discourse and comments on attending ironies of the pacifist politics and militant applications driving cold war cybernetics.

The working draft fourth chapter asks why the Soviet Union failed to develop a national network project contemporary with the US ARPANET. Several leads in the working chapter include, one, that the first person to conceive of a national computer network for civilian use was the Soviet cyberneticist and Engineer Colonel, Anatolii Kitov; that Soviet economic cybernetics tried repeatedly but could not build this network in part, two, due to the cybernetic-inspired correspondence in the hierarchically decentralized designs of both Soviet networks and Soviet bureaucracies and, in part, three, because the technical support for the network failed to appear due to unregulated competition in the Soviet bureaucracy, while the ARPANET succeed in part due to state subsidies and centralized institutions that supported them. Whatever the shape of the final narrative, the failure of the Soviet networks offer a cautionary tale about thinking with cybernetics across information science and society. Pending a grant to spend the summer in Paris writing and researching under Bruno Latour, the case study of the French Minitel network (with its centralized state support and decentralized design) may add a third dimension to this chapter case study.

The unwritten conclusion will aim to review, analyze, and rethink what such reconstructed shifts in cold war cybernetics may offer and correct in contemporary understandings of information.

Why the Soviet Internet Failed

In a word, decentralization. I had the pleasure of presenting a working paper and my first stab at such an argument at the Harvard-MIT-Yale cyber-scholars working group at the Berkman Center Tuesday, October 21, 2008. The other presentations were stimulating, and all took place leavened by warm food and the smart and generous folk at Berkman. It was a real treat. A paper draft is available for comment at bjpeters@gmail.com and a video of the presentation is available online (here).

Building on the fantastic "InterNyet" article (here) of MIT historian of science Slava Gerovitch, I argued, in brief, that the Soviet attempts to build a non-military nationwide computer network (namely Victor Glushkov's 1964 proposal for a hierarchically-structured information network that could harvest and manage all economic data for the entire Soviet socialist economy) in the 1950s and 1960s need to be understood in the context of decentralized politics, administrative structure, and network design. Decentralized networks are obviously different than centralized networks but what many forget is that they are also importantly different from distributed networks as well (for this distinction, see Paul Baran "On Distributed Communication" 1964). The fact that Soviet state structure was decentralized hierarchically, and that ministries did not share information or funding sources between themselves, offers both an explanation of why no comprehensive computer network design could survive fractured implementation as well as a cautionary tale today for our own largely decentralized world saturated, as it may be at times, with comparable levels of talent, enthusiasm, and vision that too could prove shortsighted. One particular case study, the origins of the Central Economic Mathematical Institute in Moscow and the irony of purposeful funding (both the lack of money and a channeled flood of money can kill a brilliant project), was examined in particular.

Who Made the Watch-Maker? Dewey and Mendeleev on Information Organization

The note below crudely illustrates a distinction in two modes of information organization predating the twentieth-century invention of automated data management: flexible classification models demanded constant care and intelligent intervention from the outside, while stable models precluded human management except in its original design (the watch-maker).

To Mendeleev's periodic table of the elements and Dewey's decimal classification (used in library card catalogs), the first offers a system that is discretely limited but self-contained in its parameters; the second is continuously expandable but bound to some form of external regulation. The first presents a discrete (though theoretically infinite) number of elements arranged by internal characteristics (e.g., atomic weight patterns); the second allows for any number of items to be organized in relationship to each other along a thematically-grouped alpha-numeric line (000 Computer science, 100 Philosophy, etc.).

Whither the human manager? Whence the human user? Once established, Mendeleev's periodic table is relatively self-regulating and tautologically autonomous: it is so because it says so. To shift the order of elements would require a concomitant shift in the governing principles of the periodic table, which otherwise remains inflexible in its topological order (meaning, no matter what representation one may choose for the elements, they remain in the same relative order); librarians, on the other hand, are free to rearrange the order or place of titles according to their interpretation of the title's content to pre-given topic categories (000 Computer science, 100 Philosophy, etc.), and they can add new titles between preexisting titles without disrupting the information order. Card catalogs work by relying on an external set of commonly held symbols (numbers and letters) and topics allow items to reordered continuously. Yet the freedom of data reshuffling comes at the cost of the system requiring a governing body external to it (e.g. librarians). These distinctions can be applied across modern society (Deweyian accountants and lawyers interpreting Mendeleevian spreadsheets and codebooks).

In a later note, I intend to push thinking how, if at all, automatic information systems (e.g., databases, brains as circuits, and search engine algorithms) breakdown these two caricatured systems for information organization. The search engine algorithm, for instance, is a mixed-system: it provides a relatively flexible (Deweyian) system of information organization but requires relatively (Mendeleevian) minimal intervention in the system.

This note draws on Glenda Claborne's "Linnaeus, Mendeleev, Dewey, and Ranganathan: What can they tell us today about the organization of information?" A presentation at the 2005 ASIS&T-PNC Annual Meeting, May 14, 2005, Seattle, WA. [See options for viewing presentation].

Publishing the Public Domain: Eight Notes toward a Digital Commons

A working draft of this very short paper can be downloaded for comment and review here:
Peters%20Digital%20Commons%20Draft%202007%2007%2031.doc

Betrothal and Betrayal: The Soviet Translation of Norbert Weiner's Early Cybernetics

The full-text .pdf download is available here. And kudos to the Manuel Castell and Larry Gross' International Journal of Communications (IJoC) for setting precedent for the bright future of peer-reviewed, open-source, and smart online scholarly journals.

Peters, Benjamin. "Betrothal and Betrayal: The Soviet Translation of Norbert Weiner's Early Cybernetics." International Journal of Communication, vol. 2., 2008.

Working Draft: "And Lead Us Not into Thinking the New is New: A Bibliographic Case for New Media History"

In the entry interim, I attended an excellent pre-conference to this year's International Communication Association conference in Montreal, The Long History of New Media, organized by the journal New Media & Society, and hosted by the Department of Art History and Communication at McGill University. A draft bibliographic article on new media history can be found here.

Book Review: Thinking with James Carey

Book review: Packer, J. & Robertson, C. (Eds). (2006) Thinking with James Carey: Essays on Communication, Transportation, History. (New York: Peter Lang) in Journal of Communication Inquiry, Oct 2007; vol. 31: pp. 366-370. Download here.

Dissertation Proposal Draft Blurb: When Symbols Have Substance: A Short History of Information from Cybernetics to Cyber Law

This project proposes to explore subtle changes in the idea of information over the twentieth-century, with special emphasis on how Anglophone and Russophone thinkers thought about the relationship between information plays in mediating humans and the physical world. While the symbolic abstraction of information dates back at least to Stone Age tally marks, the twentieth-century rendering of a quantifed language is peculiar for the power of execution it lent to the natural, social, and humanistic sciences colligated under the rubric of information. 

Of particular interest is the claim that information emerged as a symbolic abstraction in self-communicating systems independent of humans--a hypothesis I propose to try through a critical review of field as diverse as electrical engineering, computer science, atomic-, quantum-, and astrophysics, cryptanalysis, molecular genetics; neoclassical economics, psychology, communication research; literary formalism, semiotics, and phonology. Each of these fields struggled in its own way to formalize a system for describing part of the world; and each of these fields based its worldview in part on a common philosophy of human independence from the self-ordering forces of the material world. Key movements in the natural sciences turned to physical laws of electrical, particle, and energy behavior; the social sciences turned to the search for the calculable constants of human behavior (such as profit-seeking, Pavlovian response, and media reception); and the humanities turned to logical frameworks of symbolic interpretation. At the root of these and other intellectual developments on both sides of the Atlantic was a shared affinity with the mathematical turn toward logical, symbolic abstraction--perhaps both the philosophical root and remedy to the state-driven mass tragedies of twentieth-century. 

How has a mathematical turn influenced how we think and regulate questions of the substance of symbols or, in other words, What relationship does information have with the material world that humans inhabit, remains my leading question throughout. 

As proposed, the introduction will critically review scholarly literature on the recent history of information backlit by a discussion of alternative understandings of the topic; chapter one investigates the Faustian bargain of early twentieth-century information scientists (such as Norbert Wiener and Andrei Sakharov, among others) as, on the one hand, brilliant minds who operationalized symbolic abstraction into semi-autonomous systems of tremendous executable power and, on the other, conscientcious citizens well informed of the destructive capacity of their work (politically committed scientists such as John von Neumann and Alexei Kolmogorov may provide important counterbalance to this frame); chapter two addresses Soviet leads in the emergence of the distributed computer network and the possibility of a Soviet Internet project; chapter three explores how the evolving vocabulary of information has come bear on information policies in a digital age, especially copyright, over the escalation of transatlantic political conflict and sudden collapse of the Soviet Union. 

In particular, the contemporary vocabulary of cyber law and copyright reform may be weakened by misunderstandings the Cold War fetishism of freedom has yoked upon political discourse of information freedom, control, and code. The symbolic abstraction of information from meaningful material form justifies neither the hurried and repeated expansion of copyright nor its opponent in the libertarian belief in freedom as trascendent, independent, or emblematic of (especially US) national culture. 

The project in method and content alike looks to argue that we consider the uncertainties of human history, and not its symbolic abstraction into information, as the material base through which to understand and regulate the human imagination of communication. The recent history of information tells us not only something of the ethics of science, the collapse of the Soviet Union, or the substance of symbols like copyright. It also shapes the stories of freedom we tell about ourselves. 

  

Sharing, Sanctioning, and Santri Sandals in Java

Jonathan Zittrain of the Oxford Internet Institute gave his book talk, The Future of the Internet--and How to Stop It, today at Yale Law School in collaboration with Jack Balkin's Information Society Project. Although Zittrain presents the dreamy benefits and dreary downsides of what he calls the generative Internet with equal ease (thus surprising his listener with his quiet middle-way conclusion), I find the more I hear of his work, the more I'm persuaded by his concluding call to self-checking generative communities as the desired social response to the unchecked dangers of libertarian Internet protocols and the few no-goodniks out there willing to hurt many to benefit the few. Groups of people united around generative solutions to security issues will do more good than policy and technological fixes.  

Zittrain's call to organize foremost as people has returned me to the classic of the cultural sociology of sharing, What about private property is cultural? Or perhaps for a shorter answer, what about private property is NOT cultural? Of the many possible examples that may make non-proprietary models of social interaction thinkable, consider the following: the moral education of santri (or students in traditional Muslim schools called pesantren in Indonesia) is intimately tied to the experience of communal property. (And while one may tire as I do of the story about Obama attending both predominantly Muslim and Catholic schools in Indonesia as a child, here's hoping someday he, not the reporters, will tell us what that period of life meant for his development.) 

The passage that makes this point from Ronald Lukens-Bull's fascinating A Peaceful Jihad: Negotiating Identity and Modernity in Muslim Java (Palgrave, 2005, p. 60) is worth quoting in full: 

"In most pesantren, the santri sleep on the floor in a room that may hold up to 80 other students. A room that I would judge to be adequate for one or two students, houses six to eight; the more popular the pesantren, the more crowded the space. The meals are meager: rice and vegetables. Further, although there is an acknowledgement of personal property, in practice, property is communal. Simple things such as sandals are borrowed freely. Other items, if not in use, should be loaned if asked for. The santri who habitually refuses to loan his property will be sanctioned by his peers and sometimes by the pesantren staff. I was expected to follow these guidelines as well and I often found my tape recorder and camera missing. They were always returned later, the camera with all of its film used and with a request to have the film developed. For the santri who does not share, sanctions may include teasing or a stern reminder about Islamic brotherhood and the importance of being ikhlas (selfless)."

It is interesting to note that, like the San people in the Kalahari (see my post here), this communal lifestyle is sustained in a resource-scarce environment. Like the San as well, however, the passing of personal property is not only of necessity but of moral and experiential worth to their community and culture. Students share not only because they will benefit individually if they do, but because the school community makes sure they will be worse off if they don't (e.g. teasing and sanctions) at the same time it prizes the moral virtue of ikhlas (selflessness) as a goal shared by all active members in good standing. The sanctioning mechanism is probably the less important of the two, as the virtues of selflessness and the aesthetic lifestyle take on a positive meaning that persists far beyond the circumstances of individual need. As Lukens-Bull writes "an ascetic lifestyle in the pesantren prepares the students for either prosperity or poverty. In the former, they will be compassionate; in the later (sic), they will be content" (p. 60). Scarce conditions do not seem a prerequisite to this communal property model, but shared values and socially enforceable stigmas do.   

Anna Schwartz and Benkler's Wealth of Networks

With Tom Glaisyer's invitation, I had the pleasure today of responding to the noted monetary economist Anna Schwartz' review of Yochai Benkler's book The Wealth of Networks. (Download any or all of the book here for free.) She delivered a trenchant series of critical points directed against Benkler's work and did so with no notes for over 20 minutes at the age of 93. That's right, 93. Schwartz coauthored with Milton Friedman, perhaps the key neoclassical economic thinker of the last half of the twentieth century, the seminal A Monetary History of the United States (1963); she also reports she is working on a history US state intervention into foreign currency exchange from 1962, which continues her (truly) lifelong interest in money supply. (May I be doing anything, let alone making 27 year-old PhD candidates very nervous, at 93!) I found her charming and wonderfully ferocious.

She reads Benkler as arguing that the (intensive capital-holding, proprietary, market-based) industrial information economy is substantially different from the (low capital-holding, nonproprietary, nonmarket-based) networked information economy in that it allows social production to flourish in a new way that emphasizes individual voluntary choice of the factors of production. In the traditional industrial model, market signals or managers make such decisions; in Benkler's networked model, individuals self-select projects based on their capacity, producing ostensibly a low-cost model of production. Benkler, in her reading, would have the second subsume the first. (This last point is patently wrong: he argues for coexistence of market and nonmarket forces, not the domination of one over the other--and, to prove the point, he does so in the market-friendly terms. An argument for their separation would ostensibly do well to separate vocabularies as well.)

She counters Benkler's points with the assertion that all preexisting models of social production are flawed to date. The totalitarian model has under-performed as a non-voluntary mode of production; and almost all voluntary social production models have relied on charismatic leaders to urge production while requiring conformity and loss of individual freedom. The Kibbutz movement in Israel, among many other semi-religious communities (many in early American history), exemplify how social production can exhaust its founding community after a generation.

She wonders then whether there are sufficient signs of discontent or enthusiasm surrounding the idea of commons-based peer production to test the trajectory of such work; and points to omissions in the work such as an insufficient treatment of the networked model's incapacity to produce hard-material goods for consumers, like cars or barges or highways; that the internet is a tool and all tools can be used for good or ill; and lastly that copyright is only one restriction to information flow and perhaps not the most important subject for reform: rather that the state directly intervenes itself in ways to render unusable any material procured by Freedom of Information Acts requests.

My comments were more youthfully optimistic, uncertain but hopeful. The book's key points in my mind follow: Benkler's book boils down to a lesson we should have learned from Sesame Street, i.e. share nicely. It successfully critiques intellectual property policy as an inefficient way of marketizing non-rivalrous information in the public commons; the fact that the reproduction or distribution costs tend toward zero means property rights no longer need to tax nonproprietary models of production; nonproprietary models rely on altruism and other motivations that do not easily lend themselves to exchange values. They also rely on the 'excess capacity' or time off-the-clock of laborers in fields like education, arts, scientific, and industry research. Even the act of voting can be read as a leisure activity. Benkler's book looks to monetize social production in ways that will benefit all: in Lucas Graves' fine phrase, all ships will rise when the tide comes in.

Despite whatever complaints, the information networked economy produces incredible amounts of use-value. We use it all the time, we even give back sometimes. How use-value becomes exchange-value is not only the central question at hand, it may in fact be the problem. I wonder not only how should we do it, but should we do it at all?

Does employing the language of competition and zero-sum games of law and economics reduce nonmarket social production to a battle with market production logics, which it will surely loose on its own terms? That is, will Benkler's project of benefiting all by translating social production into the language of markets condemn it to the benefit of those most fluent in exploitation and enclosure? Finally, will the attempt to widen the calculus of competition, equilibrium, and efficiency to include previously unaccounted positive and negative externalities of the culture of social production, in the end, (a) monetize those factors into private gain for the well positioned, (b) break upon the corporate logics to the wider dynamics of industry survival (i.e. that everyone can benefit when we share knowledge), (c) both, or (d) something else? Is asking which one wins--nonmarket or market forces--already to have lost; should instead we ask how they can coexist? If so, what language do we have to ask it?

The questions we ask already perform the language we rely upon to answer the questions. If one asks about the utility of social sharing from a purely neoclassical economic point of view, his or her answer will tend to be pessimistic and backed by hard evidence. If one includes terms themselves based on optimism (altruism and other seemingly non-rational forms of generosity), his or her assessment will be more complicated and uncertain. Thank goodness for behavior economists struggling with the incongruities and gaps between human behavior and traditional incentive theory: may that field give economics, law, and the rest of us the language in which to ask better questions.

Benkler's work is both important and weakened because it focuses heavily on the present. However, the timelessness of writing a book on Internet-related case studies and examples quickly dates Benkler's book. A deeper historical perspective on the social production model implicit in human history can only fortify and stabilize the debate for itself. This is not a real critique, however. His one book does too much already, if anything. Future work in this vein should draw upon the past.

As Rasmus Nielsen has pointed out, it may also do very well to account for massive information infrastructure costs, the fiber optic cables, the wifi, and the laptops that the Benkler's optimism depends upon in the international development scene.

In response to Prof. Schwartz' comments, it is worth noting Kibbutz et. al. tend to be very close-knit, intense communities, whereas the virtue of peer production network communities tend to be the very weakness of that community. For the most part it is an interest in work, not a larger vision of relationships and life, that unites these communities. In Mark Granovetter's influential 1973 title, it is "the strength of weak ties" that matters here. Lucas Graves also points out that networked peer production communities are united by, if anything other than the will to work, the very ideology of sharing. Analysis of the incentives driving these communities, then, must include the more complex calculations of human behavior.

Lastly, the optimism of Benkler's book (or, for instance, his live wager against Nicholas Carr) may in fact be a structural component of his very argument. Both the economic logic and the tone it employs are, in a strong sense, faith-based. Faith, I argue, is fine provided one hard condition: that it leads to individual action. Without work, faith in any mode of human interaction is senseless. For those who would entertain Benkler's optimism, we cannot forget the incredible amount of labor implicit in his call to collaboration.

Altruism itself is preconditioned on the applied belief we will (personally, incalculably, and possibly calculably) benefit from helping and sharing nicely with others. It is not surprising its best arguments depend upon the same logic.

Information Discontents and Eastern Europe from Cybernetics to Cyber Law

More of the same, this time distilled into talk notes from my presentation at the Exploring New Media Worlds conference at Texas A&M last weekend, February 29-March 2.

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Every word is, in Wittengenstein's metaphor, an extraordinarily diverse city (Peters, John Durham, "Information: Notes toward a Critical History"); as an Iowan from New York, I feel as if I've stumbled upon a metropolis in my study of the word information. Since at least Plato's dialogues on "form"—the root of information—and its Aristotelian relation to matter, the word has been a standing problem. I mark three key senses of the word:

One, information has a deep and almost forgotten history of meaning that which embodies, infuses, impresses material. (1605, George Chapman, “for love informs them as the sun doth color”; 1674, John Milton, “all alike inform’d/With radiant light, as glowing Iron with fire”) Like the sun makes color and fire forges iron: information gives form to, in-forms matter. This sense remains primarily in phrases like “informed citizens” and other social concerns of civic journalism.

Two, as a noun, the prevailing modern sense of the word is relevant facts, reports received, knowledge communicated (consider the phrase "for your information") it invokes a relevant subject, mental or material, and is necessary preconditioned on a cognitive process, or some sense of human understanding.

Three, I argue information is turning toward a sense of disembodied, distributed, and unprocessed data. Unlike previous usages, the word in popular lingo can be free from necessary relevance to a specific object; information can be ethereal or “out there”, stripped of a signifier, and, like the bit—that hardy phoneme of digitalese—blind to any meaning outside of its other, 0 or 1, incapable of containing anything outside its relationship to itself (OED, “information,” “inform,” “form”).

Even a regular puzzle today like “what does it mean that we gather information exponentially faster than we can understand it” presupposes a disembodied, discontented sense of the term—a dis-content. Such questions would be meaningless were information still inseparable from understanding. We may note too with Joseph Turow and Staffan Ericson how this transition in the word maps onto transitions in the architecture of media companies: the New York Times building is auspicious, the Tonight Show is visible but closed, and Google rents office space unconcerned by place or presentation. The varying ideas of information animating these media companies’ product may bleed into the industrial logic of architecture and corporate design.

At once too much and not enough, this short history of word spells a slide from embodiment to disembodiment, material to immaterial; or in three stages: one, what animates and impacts the mind; two, what the mind receives; three, what the mind could receive, promising only the possibility of meaning. All three senses can coexist usefully but I believe we may be forgetting the first and favoring the third.

The Cold War may important for two reasons: one, it funded and accelerated the information sciences that traded out the second semantic sense of information for the third technical sense of the word that could sustain distributed computer networks; two, it is also a periodization (itself a subject of fierce debate) ripe with human discontent and theorists critical of their surroundings and bipolar politics.

Consider a few working case studies:

1. The textbook story of World War II information sciences: The two shepherds of my third sense, Norbert Wiener's cybernetics and Claude Shannon's information theory gave computing a technical definition of information, stripped of meaning and ready for propositional logic and binary languages.

Too often overlooked, however, are the specific circumstances in which their work and lives took shape. As I write elsewhere, Wiener's cybernetics—"the study of information control and communication" that sought "information homeostasis" his near synonym for world peace—ended up winning support among the Soviets and suspicion from the American military, his original funder. Wiener in caricature was an ex-prodigy, a dark hero, a homeless pacifist, a tragic product of his own Faustian bargain with the military complexes that employed his pacifist science.

Shannon's story is less tragic, although his is also a cautionary tale of the work of controlling information being wrested beyond the creator's control. Shannon insisted to his death the field he became known for "information theory" was actually "a mathematical theory of communication." (As Cold War funders tend to do, his boss and interpreter, Warren Weaver, inflated the title of their famous little book to "the mathematical theory of communication.”) It is possible had Shannon's name stuck, the analytic distinctions and dialectic between the transmission or traffic vision of communication and its alternatives would be less muddled today.

In a strong sense, the story of the reception and extension of post world war II information sciences to the wider world is case study in the work words perform. The act of naming may be the closest equivalent moderns have to magic. It transforms our objects but almost never in the ways we intended. Stigler's law of eponymy holds that he or she who names something almost certainly did not create it. (Wonderfully, Steven Stigler, the historian of statistics, attributes Stigler's law of eponymy to the sociologist Robert Merton.) We are all poor apprentices of the power at the tip of our tongues and transistors.

Case Study Two: a Soviet Internet?

So where did we get the idea of distributed computer network? I imagine three parts of the story, part textbook boilerplate, part revisionist, and part speculative. The textbook history holds the ARPANET project, a nation-wide computer network and the predecessor to the Internet, was designed in response to a military initiative to minimize damage of single-strike Soviet missiles. As Jonah Bossewitch points out, in the attempt to connect computer with computer (not human with human as short-wave or analog wireless did securely nor even human with computer which only a few computer specialists could do at the time), the ARPANET helped ensure mutually ensured destruction policies in the absence of humans, a chilling vision for humans as well as an early empowerment of computers as communicating (and not only calculating) machines.

Part two, Ronda Hauben revises the military explanation behind the network by emphasizing the pioneering openness of the early ARPA research environment under James Killian, ex-MIT President. Killian called for distributed “centers of excellence” to be built, where the subject was basic research—not specialized military projects—and where failure was expected and research positions were long-term and stable. An open research environment may have led to both the need and the inspiration for federated work-based computer network. This is a reassuring revision: ARPA as an eye of intellectual calm in the center of military-state storm.

However, part three, it is also possible the ARPANET owes something to a classified and co-current Soviet Internet project. According to partially declassified CIA documents from 1964, the Soviets were working on a nation-wide computer network project called "Unified Information Network." Unfortunately, further evidence will have to wait this summer's archival work in Moscow and DC, and standing FOIA requests.

May imagination sing out in the meantime: It's possible the Soviets had the idea first, and we took it from them; or that the idea developed in parallel through a series of leaks in military intelligence; or that the idea sprung from the 1959 project to interconnect telephone and electricity grids in Russia; or from an extension of collectivist property and socialist philosophy that, like the ARPANET, nominally distributes participatory power while centralizing authoritarian power.... What—I wonder—did these scientists dream their network work would become: a military weapon, a tool for social empowerment or false consciousness, a bitter joke or utopian hope?

Or, I wonder, would the introduction of a foreign founder help reinvigorate the US Internet narrative? Political theorist Bonnie Honig suggests liberal narratives have long drawn on the symbolic politics of foreignness, and many of them count a foreigner among their founders: the house of David has its Ruth, a Moabite; Oz has its Dorothy of Kansas; Soviet cybernetics, its Norbert Wiener. What would a Soviet tradition do for the American Internet?

It could mean we should reevaluate our intellectual debts internationally; or that this is yet another example of that tired trope of Soviet theory v. American application; that we should rethink the virtues of state secret plagiarism; and that we should rethink perennial and pressing questions about the ethical practices of governments at war.

Even if the lead fails, the story behind the American ARPANET has surprising Eastern European intellectual debts. For example, the American and British invention of packet-switching—itself simultaneously international—owes much to the pre-Soviet mathematician Andrei Markov, and his Markov chains (a probabilistic way of accounting for fixed states and their decision trees, upon which Shannon's information theory also explicitly built). So does queueing theory, which was essential to packet-switching. Queueing theory is basically the mathematical study of waiting in line—both a serious subject of Soviet mathematicians and a way of everyday life in the Soviet Union.

Case Study three: Parallel Failures to Regulate Two Information Frontiers in the 1990s: Post-Soviet Transition and the Internet

The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 and the Internet began its steep climb in 1994. The similarities behind the two stories are surprisingly striking.

First of all, the West proclaimed both frontiers rich with untapped resource and ready for investment. The libertarian deregulatory or anti-regulatory policies to follow sped transition to free market and democratic societies almost overnight in countries like Russia, Ukraine, and East Germany (other countries like Poland have transitioned more slowly and more successfully). For example, Jeffrey Sack’s shock therapy instantly released price and currency controls to disastrous effect.

Similarly, the early and mid 1990s Internet debate was populated by an eager cyber-libertarian belief not to regulate the flow of information online. Stewart Brand line about information wanting to be free (he also said it wants to be valuable) became a misquoted mantra of Internet enthusiasts. It could have well been post-Soviet transition. Both groups have since fallen from influence, although the philosophy lives on.

The irony gets richer still. Two things resulted: policies and rhetoric. Its policies cleared the way for established capitalism-savvy actors to move in, enclose, and privatized resource access—and to do so under the very rhetorical banner of free-market libertarianism meant to optimize and distribute value. Oil oligarchs privatized state industries for pennies and copyright-heavy corporations continue to grab the pipes and distributional channels to the Internet.

For those who know the work of Lawrence Lessig, popularizer of cyber law (the study of information regulation online), the Internet-side of this story should sound familiar. But often overlooked is the fact that Lessig himself taught in Budapest and Moscow in the early 1990s. In a recent conversation, he confirmed that the early 1990s debates over post-Soviet transition explicitly reminded him of the mid and late 1990s debates that sprung up around his Internet work. Eastern European transition is both parallel to and an understudied inspiration for cyber law. I hope to explore this further in interviews with Lessig and cyber thinkers from Eastern Europe, Judge Alex Kozinskii, and legal scholars Eugene and Sasha Volokh.

In short, the patterned ways we think of information in languages of binary opposition matter. It spells folly, for instance, to make the common association that because all digital information is alike in bit form, it is equally free to circulate independent of material, substantial, and cultural-contextual barriers; or to presume information flows naturally to the rigorously calculable equilibria of bit and currency exchange. Consider how the political legitimacy of the Google algorithm, on one hand, depends on its being blind to the content of the sites it ranks, while on the other the company’s economic viability depends on the aggregation of that content into advertisements. Despite the information asymmetry in corporate logic, the distributed data of PageRank’s logic seems best regulated from a universal distance, from the Zen-like abstraction of statistics. But like the first sense of information, even mathematics—the lingua franca of abstraction underlying policies of cyber-libertarian anti-regulation, neoclassical economic theories of market transition, and information sciences alike—does not escape its material base: ten awkward digits (base 12 would have been more convenient; two extra toes, two extra factors: 3, 4).

Mathematics is no opponent. Rather I take issue with political extensions of its technical insights that script freedoms of information (civil, political, economic) into a language deaf to context and content. Consider here the last century's expansions of copyright. Conceived originally and soundly to promote arts and sciences as a way to give royalty incentives to creators in exchange for a temporary monopoly over their material expressions of their work, it, like the idea of information, has since grown in scope and duration to include all creative digital expression for life plus 70 years.

We cannot conceive of freedom and control as opposites like we did of Soviets and Americans. We may believe in freedom more than control in part due to lasting political logics of opposition. The public library is free only in that it is locked, controlled open; the corporate database is freer in a strict sense than are public goods. Debate about individual freedoms need to stand in the dirt of fact—no abstracted sense of freedom will do.

In sum, as we enjoy the heightened degrees of freedom, scope, and speed with which we can organize and circulate the ephemeral stuff we consider information, we would do well to pause to consider ways our shifting terms may be unthinkingly reinforcing pre-existing rhetorical, philosophical, and regulatory means of control. Thank you for your comments.

Dis-Content-ed Control: Five Posts on Information Mathematicians, Policy Failures, and Vaults

Part one of five. Rough talk notes follow below. Thanks to Chris Anderson, Jonah Bossewitch, Todd Gitlin, Tom Glaisyer, and Andie Tucher for their comments

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The Cold War matters to the history of information at least for the simple fact its state-driven conflict funded, accelerated, and expanded the information sciences--among other forms of knowledge for money relevant to the unilateral promotion of bipolar conflict. Funding meant the atomic energy commission, behemoth dams and public projects, international tours for ballet dancers and jazz musicians, political radio programming like Voice of America, and research investment in fields such as astrophysics, geosciences, computer science, and communication research.

Funding mattered because it made possible the information sciences and institutions that would carry resilient distributed networks into digital technology. With the rise of digital networks, it seems, came a turn toward understanding information as disembodied and distributed. This modern turn, as I argue below, takes the matter out of information. It just stops mattering, if you will, both as a cognitive process of mind and a grounding in matter. This disembodiment, or content-stripping, of information plays into how we go about thinking about and regulating content-less control of human and machine intermediation.

One quick example of the rise of content-less-ness information control: the legitimacy of the Google algorithm depends on being blind to the content of the sites it ranks. Of course, humans game the cracks in totalizing systems of information organization: many countries censor content while search engine “optimizers” pander to the algorithm to get higher search result ranking.

Another example: While physical property organizes social relationships around the control of matter, intellectual property is a form of virtual control, control over imitable, copy-able express form rather than materially scarce stuff. As the second case study hopes to suggest especially, the rise of federated, distributed information environments around and after the Cold War dangerously promise unharnessed freedoms at the same time they enable an expansion of both the definition and control over information include all things regardless of their content. That move, I think, is folly (for reasons I do not fully explain here).

This thesis—that distributed digital communication has expanded means of information control that conceives of information as content-less, disembodied stuff—does not mean to suggest, however, that resilient distributed networks did not exist before digital technologies and the information sciences of the Cold War. As Jonah points out, centuries ago, Persian Kings sent multiple riders out to ensure message delivery, a kind of variable dissemination; University students around Gutenberg copied books in a distributed fashion: one person per page per book. Rather I mean that since about the Cold War (correlation or copresence, not causation!) a disembodied, distributed sense of information has become more pronounced in contradistinction from other ways of thinking about information—and that rise matters for how we rethink the control, circulation, and creative preservation of matter and information.

Information Etymology Notes

(This section draws on John Durham Peters' "Information: Notes toward a Critical History" and Ken Cmiel's "From Knowledge to Information" for word history evidence, however the categories and speculative leaps are mine.)

A common thread in my thinking is the folly that comes to those who isolate one sense and hold it superior to the others. We must recognize the multiplicity of the word information, and the ways its word history lives on today. In Wittengenstein’s metaphor, the word is an extraordinarily diverse city.1 Four primary sense (city districts?) of the word follow below in chronological order (from OED etymology):

One, “embodiment, infusion, impress,”(1605, George Chapman, “for love informs them as the sun doth color”; 1674, John Milton, “all alike inform’d/With radiant light, as glowing Iron with fire”), where information impacts bodies and material objects, fire forges steel. (Information was to in-form, to give form: relationship between matter-matter.)

Two, “illumination and enlightenment,” religious emphasis of illumination shifts to the Enlightenment sense of knowledge. (Kant mind-matter.)

Three, “relevant facts or an item of new knowledge or received reports from,” the predominant and perhaps still most salient definition. Involves. Info has a subject, bound by relevance, a necessary mental process. Relevance too is content, and when encoded is fixed enough to make discussion of target messages reasonable. (Mind-mind.)

Four, “disembodied and distributed.” Unlike previous usages, the word in popular lingo can be free from necessary relevance to a specific object—material, spiritual, or intellectual. Info can be “out there”: unprocessed data. Information here has lost its signifier. (N/A: the promise of the possibility of meaning.)

The only significance of the state of a “bit”—0 or 1, the two phonemes in digitalese—is in its distinction to its opposite. Not much of a signifier or reference. The bit balances on a single point in a material world. (So too can the language of bipolar politics stretch thin one’s connection to reality.) Even to ask, as I hope to, “what does it mean that we gather information exponentially faster than we can understand it” presupposes the fourth sense of the word. I couldn’t ask the question if information were not separate from that which we understand.

These four senses above slide from matter, to body, to mind, to absence. As the 19th century Western fascination with energy entropy, fatigue, and thermodynamic heat-death attests (The Human Motor), energy fills the gaps between the four senses with relevant metaphors: between matter and body, energy is heat. Between body and mind, it is nerve. Between mind and virtual absence, it marks the line between self and other.

This preoccupation with energy and its relationship to information and attending insights into the relationship between heat and entropy, nerves and circuitry, systems with selves and others comes to a head in the post-World War II information sciences, namely cybernetics, information theory, and atomic research—the timely sciences of "information communication and control" (Wiener's term for cybernetics).

Case study one: Information Sciences around Post WWII MIT.

Part two of five.

The MIT cluster around Norbert Wiener and Claude Shannon on cybernetics and information theory respectively gave information to technology into the 1940s and 50s. Their definitions are radical departures from what came before.

Norbert Wiener (1995-1964) began as a boy genius (home schooled and built and almost broken by his brilliant and overbearing father, Leo Wiener, an émigré and founder of Slavic studies at Harvard; Wiener recited classics in the original at 5, entered college at 11, and held a PhD in Philosophy from Harvard at 18). An ex-prodigy set to disappoint, in his twenties, Wiener befriended T.S. Elliot and worked in analytic philosophy and mathematics with Bertrand Russell at Cambridge, England and came to know von Neumann, among others in the mathematical capital of Europe at the time, Goettingen, pre-Nazi Germany. Despite the fact he detested lavish and large states, military projects, his science blossomed on the WWII study of anti-aircraft ground-to-air missiles—which realized that in the heat of battle, bullet, pilot, and plan acted in probabilistically predictable and similar fashions—and later, after a dramatic reversal following the death of Stalin in 1953, the study of the Russian "kibernetika" blossomed and remains to this day a popular field for the study of computers. Thus betrothed to the enemy, with a growing CIA file in America, Wiener's work and politics—not unlike Sakharov or Einstein—crossed purposes.

John von Neumann’s (1903-1957) mathematics and politics did not cross purposes: for von Neumann both were decidedly militant, competitive. Von Neumann grew up in the teens and twenties in Budapest, Hungary. During this period, the tiny Jewish middle-class was trapped between serving the nobility of the crumbling Austro-Hungarian empire and joining the revolutionary lower class movements. Perhaps the product of fierce intellectual competition for opportunities to emigrate, the so-called Hungarian phenomenon produced noted natural scientists such as Dennis Gabor, Eugene Wigner, Leo Szilard, Edward Telle, and chief among them von Neumann, as well as the liberal sociologist and historian Oszkar Jaszi and the communist philosopher George Lukacs. After time at Goettingen, von Neumann emigrated to the US, produced 36 major papers by the age 30, and found himself at home in the political competition of the Cold War.

At the time the marginalized Wiener was meeting with Alexei Kolmogorov in Moscow—possibly the finest Soviet mathematicians who had independently developed the mathematical relationship between information systems and biology—von Neumann was declaring himself a “violent anti-communist,” consulting with the CIA, the US Army, RAND, IBM, and developing strategies of mutually assured destruction, and favoring the preemptive attack.

On the diverging sense of information, to oversimplify, Wiener conceived of information as negative entropy, an integral measure of how much order was in a system, be it mechanical or biological. Information as the basic unit for all organizing systems. The result was his lifelong project: cybernetics, or in his words 'the study of the communication and control of information,' was set to become harbinger of universal "informational homeostasis," Wiener’s near synonym for "world peace."

Shannon, in turn, gave a technical definition to Wiener’s basic unit: information was not noise, (again a binary distinction: significant only for what it is not) stripping both information and communication of any necessary meaning, writing "these semantic aspects of communication are irrelevant to the engineering problem". In fact, Shannon resisted calling his work "information theory," preferring his original subtitle "a mathematical theory of communication." (In good Cold War tradition of exaggerating the success of funded projects, his interpreter, coauthor, and boss, Warren Weaver, expanded the scope of the theory by renaming their seminal book "/The/ mathematical theory of communication." Weaver also wrote in the introduction that the theory could apply "indeed to all of human behavior"—the near exact opposite of the strictly technical sense of information Shannon developed for engineering problems.

A couple years before his death, Shannon wrote “I thought communication is a matter of getting bits from here to here, whether they're part of the Bible or just which way a coins tossed.” Thus, the traffic of irreducible 'bit' (literally, a 'digital binary,' his coworker's term), information become the content of communication; communication became the transmission of signal; and transmission become a traffic problem (cf. queueing theory and packet-switching as theories of waiting in line).

Case Study Two: Parallel Information Frontiers: 1990 Internet and Eastern Europe

Part three of five.

The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 and the Internet in the US grew extensively after 1994. The structural similarities between these two key information frontiers of the 1990s are striking. It could almost be the same story: the parallel failures of utopian visions of the world as purely distributed information environments.

First of all, the West heralded both frontiers as rich stores of untapped resource ready for investment. For the most part, the attending policies in early post-Soviet Russia sang the libertarian tune of “don’t regulate or deregulate information as quickly as possible.” Jeffrey Sack’s shock therapy, or the sudden release of price and currency controls in Russia, has proven more disastrous—but only some—than the sort of eager cyber-libertarian belief not to regulate the flow of information online. The followers of Stewart Brand (Brand himself has a more nuanced sense: see Kevin Kelly, etc.) who wanted to believe that information wants to be free and self-organizing remind us of Shannon’s reduced sense of information: all information is similar in form, thus, all information freedoms must be similar—or similarly unrestricted.

The ironic turn follows that the same libertarian philosophy that excited early visionaries (Jeffrey Sacks or Kevin Kelly's satellites) also forged the rhetorical shield of free-market thought behind which established capitalism-savvy actors could enclose and privatize access to the same resources. Libertarianism meant to optimize and distribute profits yet allowed its seizure and centralization. The banner of free markets and the invincible logic of invisible hands came in defense to both the oil oligarchs that privatized state industries for pennies as well as to the copyright-heavy corporations that grabbed the pipes and distributional channels to the Internet.

Unblinking belief in information freedoms is bad news—or so at least goes this story of Lawrence Lessig, a legal scholar who lived in Budapest and Moscow in the early 1990s and who popularized "cyber law" (or the study of information regulation on the Internet). In a recent conversation, he confirmed that the early 1990s debates in Budapest and Moscow explicitly reminded him of the mid and late 1990s debates that sprung up around his work. Eastern European is an understudied inspiration for his work. Further interview with Lessig, Judge Alex Kozinskii, and legal scholar Eugene Volokh may tell more about the parallel bad bargains in both the Internet and their own Eastern European homelands.

Neoclassical economics sees in the world a distributed information environment, one where information is free flowing and uncontrollable—where information content is alike in form, where a dollar is a dollar, and equilibria are perfectly calculable (to at least a probabilistic rigor). Like digital utopianism of online culture creation, neoclassical economics depends on an invisible bulldozer to level the playing field in which all information is alike in form. Like Shannon’s sense of a bit being a bit, the neoclassical libertarian belief that all information is like in form can make us blind to context and content.

Case Study Three: The Granite Mountain Record Vault

Part four of five.

The Granite Mountain Record Vault in Little Cottonwood Canyon, near Salt Lake City, Utah, which contains the equivalent of some 3 billion pages of genealogical records of the LDS or Mormon Church in microfilm and digital copy, can be read as an explicit and imaginative attempt to save ourselves with content-rich information. Three points follow on the timeliness, timelessness, and content-rich information of the vault.

One, the vault is also an artifact of cold war mentalities: its 14-ton doors were built to withstand a nuclear blast. It's built in granite caverns removed from the neighboring Salt Lake City. It purportedly has places for top church officials to protect themselves in case of nuclear disaster. That is, the vault could literally preserve at least a few humans from nuclear apocalypse. This reminds of iconic media in the air at the time: Kubrick’s classic Dr. Strangelove—where old men in charge volunteered to save themselves underground—was released in 1964, two years before the completion of the vault. Pat Frank's /Alas, Babylon/ a post-apocalyptic novel of small town US was published in 1959, the same year LDS leadership approved the $2 million project—$14 million in 2007.

As a physical structure the vault is an impressive effort to preserve information from entropy. 65 staff members take careful pains to slow the decay of microfilm. The staff makes digital copies of the original as new content floods in daily from microfilm and digital imaging cameras in over 45 countries. From its beginning, it exemplifies the idea of preserving information by hoarding stuff—scarce material—to yourself.

Two, vault exists only because of an explicit and imaginative theological belief in the translational power of record keeping to preserve and save humans (Doctrine and Covenants Section 128, Revelations 20: 12, Malachi 4:5). Mormons are not unique in their belief that only their religion has the power to save, but the Church does have a peculiar way of getting about the many contradictions involved. (e.g., what of the fact that almost all the people to walk the earth have never even heard of the LDS Church?) It asks its members to do genealogy, or to organize human history by family trees, and then to perform the necessary saving ordinances (e.g. baptism) for deceased family members by proxy. Ordinance work requires two things: one, knowing at least a few of the deceased person's biographical coordinates—name, birth date, birth place, death date, death place—and, two, a person who is willing to stand in their place to be, say, baptized in the deceased person’s name.

There may be no better example than the Mormon temple or its genealogical vaults of content-rich information work. Minutia of the record—a new name or a death place—excite the everyday people who do this everyday work; and the record must be exact, corroborated by multiple witnesses, to be transcendent.

LDS founder, Joseph Smith interprets Revelations 12:20 “whatsoever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven,” with the following: “taking a different view of the translation, whatsoever you record on earth shall be recorded in heaven, and whatsoever you do not record on earth shall not be recorded in heaven (DC 128).” For him, exacting content-rich record keeping is a necessary though insufficient condition to connect humans with the deceased. This may sound strange until you realize it is what historians do this everyday: they keep the dead alive with the content that lies between us and them.

The practices surrounding the vault may be in some ways extremely possessive: i.e., gather all the names of the dead into a mountain and make them Mormons in a temple (i.e. the Salt Lake Temple) cut from the same granite as the vault. But this reading unravels when the opt-out option to the ordinance work is considered. Not only is it true that, on Earth, if don't want your family's names there, your request should be granted, but that holds for yourself in the afterlife as well. LDS ordinance work is, as Phil put it, a bit like an afterlife stock option. The deceased can cash it if they want, or not.

The basic theological vision of Mormon theology then could be read as guiding corrective to the enthusiasm of open-source work. That is, imagine a world in which every person is empowered to help any other person—regardless of their relation to them—by proxy, at a distance, and over time. Mormons and copyright anarchist-collaborators believe this world already exists. In the LDS vision, the original author of the life on Earth can freely accept or refuse edits. The practice of collaboration with the otherworldly is rooted in not only content-rich information but in individual human labor. Enthusiasts online, I think, do not recognize enough how much real labor needs to go into virtual collaboration. No world can be totally virtual: even brain-in-the-vat thought experiments, like the Matrix, identify in its name a material base to reality, that is, a brain and a vat.

Three, with ongoing digitization efforts of the vault’s index and contents, the vault is a bit like a Fort Knox with a satellite dish, an outlet to saving information by sending it away (distributed, disembodied information). Even when all the vault's contents are digitally preserved in the memory caches and Internet archives, the vault will survive on the promise that, even in catastrophe, the granite bowels of the earth and physical labor around the records will preserve its Geist.

In other words, the Mormon Temple, the granite vault, and Fort Knox all exist on the symbolic belief in an underling order. Knox promises hard currency in a market crash while the vault and LDS Temple provide progress in heaven through history on earth that, even in times of catastrophe, matter. Moreover, the underlying order rests on matter in all three cases (gold, granite, or microfilm).

Instead of a Conclusion

Post five of five.

In sum, the Cold War funded a vast amount of information projects. These three case studies touch upon a few of the larger political, legal, cultural, religious terms of a transition toward distributed and disembodied information, and toward the folly of increasing control over content-blind information under the philosophical pretext of furthering freedoms toward an egalitarian ideal of information distribution. Information distribution is a fine goal and a dangerous presumption about the way things are.

One, the Cold War funded information sciences—cybernetics, information theory, nuclear research, queueing theory, packet-switching, etc.—that invested digital technologies with a distributed sense of information.

Two, in the broadest strokes, early 1990s post-Soviet transition and the mid 1990s transition online tell the same story: a tragedy of expanded contentless-control. Let’s expand on Elihu Katz' famous phrase, if it is true that God gave film to the humanities, TV to the social sciences, then how in the world did the lawyers get digital media?

Three, the Granite Mountain Record Vault can be read as an explicit and imaginative attempt to save ourselves with information, the vault exists as an artifact of a Cold War information mentality prevailing in 1960s, save by hoarding; the vault also exists thanks to a belief in the salvational, transcendental power of correct, content-rich information when joined with bodies of matter.

Proposal Musings I

The genre of dissertation proposal is as tricky as it is essential. How one is possibly supposed to write about a topic unburdened by the actual research or analysis to sustain it befuddles me everyday—and still I have got to do it. The worse part of it all is that despite the pain it brings I have to admit that I find proposal writing horribly useful. Simple sentences bear forth their ideas better than complicated ones. Ignorance and intelligence, both, stick out when put simply. And a proposal is something like a simple sentence, a first utterance, a monosyllabic squawk. (Good writing and clear thinking return to a state of simplicity too, only with less squawk.)

With squawking in mind, consider the following five points on why Eastern Europe may bear interesting and useful overlap with the twentieth-century history of the idea of information.

1. The Soviets may have had their own Internet project as early as the American had ARPANET. How and who envisioned the earliest "unified information network," and under what guiding principles and politics could make a fascinating contribution to not only international Internet history but the cross-cultural origins of collectivist online culture.

2. The textbook story of the ARPANET, a distributed computer network, as essentially a defense strategy against single-strike Soviet missile attacks may be importantly wrong. Instead, as Ronda Hauben writes here, what-a-name James Killian, former MIT President and founder of ARPA, may have had a much more open research environment in mind, one with "centers of excellence" where failure was expected, positions were longterm and stable, and exploration of basic questions were encouraged. Here a fuller comparison of the ARPANET and its an open environment at the head of a closed military world could both harmony and dissonance in comparison with the research culture of Soviet society. The freedom to tinker trickled down from the top in both cases.

3. Soviet society, rich in censorship, lets us test the teeth of free speech (counterfactually, I suppose) while considering non-liberal models for the circulation of ideas and information. How people read the official newspaper Pravda, for instance, exemplifies tensions of interpretation latent but nonetheless in play in less censored societies. We all can make meaning out of formulas: when and where and how do formulas say more than their content? As the Russian phrase goes "v Pravda net pravdi, v Isbestii net investii," or "In Pravda [Truth] there is no truth, in Izbestii [News] there is no news." How transmission models fail--whether the propaganda mass media machine at the height of Stalin's terror or the free market economics of Internet libertarianism--fascinates me.

4. The LDS (Mormon) project to gather genealogical and Church records in a granite vault in the Rockies in the cold war 1960s bears the stamps of both timely and timeless conceptions of information preservation--literally, of how we attempt to save ourselves with information. Manned 14-ton, nuclear-blast resistant doors to this day guard the way to the belly of the earth as well as the way to correlate record-keeping with the heavens.

5. The literature review is rich in Eastern European overlap. Many key theorists of information in the West thought about their work in explicitly militarized or pacifist terms. In the hard sciences, there is Norbert Wiener, the pacifist, cyberneticist, and son of first Slavic Professor at Harvard; Kolmogorov, brilliant Soviet mathematician, coworker with Wiener, and educational theorist; Von Neumann, violent anti-communist, Hungarian émigré, and collaborator on the US atomic bomb; Sakharov and Einstein, Soviet and American pacifists and nuclear theorists; or Shannon, whose mathematical theory of communication abounds in pre-Cold War references. In the social sciences, Fritz Machlup, perhaps the first information economist and Austria-American, coined the idea of information society in strict terms of national production and competition; Daniel Bell, the post-industrial sociologist of workers and their information machines, turned neo-conservative by Vietnam; Western Marxian media theorists like Herbert Schiller on information inequality and advanced capitalism, Dallas Smythe on audience commodification, and Kaarle Nordenstreng on cold war media theory in the US, the Soviet Union, and his homeland between, Finland; and network sociologist couple Manuel Castells and émigré Emma Kiselyova on the information-driven collapse of Soviet statism. In the humanities, Roman Jakobson, the émigré linguist, on poetry and signal strength; Jean-Francois Lyotard on post-modern information motion, contradiction, and flux. Each has their own vision of information, each dissented from the society and times that surrounded them, each made change in the working idea of information thinkable.

More squawks to follow.

Kalahari Arrow Exchange and Distributional Ownership

Imagine a mode of ownership based on distributional generosity. If it works in the Kalahari desert, who are we to say it couldn't work in more resource-rich environments?

According to anthropologist Richard B. Lee in The Dobe !Kung (1984, sic), the San people (a group of bushmen hunter and gatherers) of the Kalahari desert in Botswana heed the following rule in distributing meat slain in hunting:

"The owner of the arrow is the owner of the meat."

If your arrow slays the animal, you own the meat. The key to this amazingly simple rule is that for the San people, "ownership" means the right to distribute the meat to the village and beyond--not to do whatever one pleases with it.

But before considering the merits of ownership as the right (and responsibility) to give, first imagine what would happen if this wonderfully simple ownership rule were enacted possessively, in a winner-take-all scenario. Disaster could follow: angry and hungry men carrying loaded weapons would start fighting over whose arrow went in first. Fresh arrows would follow. Clashes over meat ownership could arise: whether it was the first arrow to strike or the deathblow to an animal, and how to assess either. Disputes could be settled rationally but, as reason tends to do, it could become complicated very quickly. In a few generations, the San people may be saddled with some body of property law adolescent to modern-day mass of property law. By the way, according to page 727 of the 2006 Intellectual Property Primary Law Sourcebook, the Director (presumably of a Patent Office: I don't care enough to find out) is bound by law, when not specified otherwise, to charge $ .25 per page photocopied in preparing patents. Our law can be obese in reasonable detail, a testament to the opulence of our society: we graze some of our best analytic minds on fields of minutia.

But things don't get bad in the Kalahari. Instead, the hunters exchange arrows for portions of carcasses slain through trade networks between and within villages. "Give me an arrow," hunters say to one another, "and if I kill something with it, I will give some meat to you." And then--the best part--they do it and they expect one another to follow in kind, despite the many grumbles. They share even when it hurts--giving fresh meat immediately or dried meat months later, as hunting and trade conditions allow--not because of some exotic configuration of soul but because surviving in their subsistence societies demands it of them.

Not only do hunters share meat with other arrow owning hunters, they share all the meat with their families, their villages, and other groups over which they have responsibility. The full balance of the hunt is for sharing. The widespread distribution of arrow sharing also helps level out significant differences in hunter abilities, and here some of my questions about how the San people balance incentives to hunt and to free ride on the efforts of others will have to wait. Oh, on a related point, Lee (p. 48-50) also develops in more detail how the villagers take considerable effort to put down and minimize the success of hunters. "Oh, you made us come all the way out here for that pile of skin and bones," helpers say to a hunter who landed an animal too large to carry home, and without sarcasm. The point: possessive ownership rewards possessive egos; distributional ownership rewards distributional egos, or egos spread flat by their neighbors. Arrogance may be one of our more unfortunate and less considered economic ways of life.

Imagine, for a moment, that the ownership rule for the jungle lush in non-scarce wildlife we call online commerce were "the owner of the source is the owner of the meat." This raises plenty of concerns to think through another night. (Consider distributional royalties across multiple-authors and multiple sources, or the many ways that creative work online isn't like hunting in the Kalahari, despite the trade network similarities.) But until then, at least the law books would be simpler.

The Vault: A Mountain of Granite and Gold

Click on entry title to read the article discussed below ("The Vault: A Mountain of Granite and Gold" by David S. Ouimette in Ancestry Magazine, March/April 2005, Vol. 23/No. 2).

In summary of notes below, the Granite Mountain Record Vault in Little Cottonwood Canyon, Utah, contains massive amounts of genealogical records of the LDS (Mormon) Church. The purpose and history--from first exposure to microfilm cameras in 1937 to the dedication of the vault in 1966, to the present--can be read as a fascinating and significantly understudied case study (see last chapter, Mountain of Names, 1985) in the cultural history of information and twentieth-century cultural life. The story of the vault can be read as an explicit and imaginative attempt to save ourselves with information.

One, the vault itself is an explicit and ambitious project in information storage, maintenance, and preservation. Today it holds an equivalent of a reported 3 billion pages of information, with more flooding in from microfilm and digital imaging cameras in over 45 countries--a tremendous example of information preservation by storing, as well as of information preservation as saving.
Vaults are not networks. With modern distributed digital networks, we tend to save by sending away, instead of gathering to oneself. These two models for information preservation--share or horde, send or bury, ether or ground--diverge, especially in the role of physical matter. In the vault case study, information is embodied; online content is copy and copies of copies--doppelgaengers of an ephemeral original. In the vault information is matter and it matters that it's matter especially to the staff of 65 people take careful pains to slow the onset of entropy and decay of the records.

Online information entropy exists too. The active, usable strength of links linking to other links is subject to distraction and shift over time. Matter decays; links break and activity dissipates. Severing a site suffocates links in the depths of the web, rarely to be crawled and never to be read by humans (see Michael Lesk's unpublished article here). That is, entropy online expresses itself not in the deterioration of material over time (as it is the case of the vault) but in the entropic unraveling of information organization over time. Clusters, not content, go slack.

Generations from now this post may exist somewhere in the dark matter of the net: and if you could find it, it would likely look exactly as it does today. However, barring fundamental advances in information ordering, the online card catalog--or search index--you would need to locate this exact post would have to be powerful enough restore, like a time-machine, some approximate of the early link network and infrastructure. It may be as impossible for microfilm to survive indefinitely as it is to create a complete search index of all information online. Both require constant recache-ing, continual physical effort on our part. Hands, mice, and microfiche.

Two, the vault's very existence, too, is predicated on an explicit and ambitious theological belief in the power of record keeping to preserve and save humans (Doctrine and Covenants Section 128, Revelations 20: 12, Malachi 4:5). In practice the LDS vision of global recording gathering has its limits, of course. Posthumous ordinance work (the theological reason for record gathering) is supposed to be an opt-out system. Don't want your family's names there, your request should be granted. Actually, LDS theology holds that the opt-out limitation observed on earth necessarily applies to the afterlife as well. LDS ordinance work for deceased family members, then, is a bit like an afterlife stock option. They can cash it if they want, or not. Or a bit like open-source work: accept or reject the edits; authorship by proxy and at a distance (online collaboration bridges space, LDS work bridges time as well); generosity as an incentive to collaborate. Both stock options and open-source collaboration are distributed models of information work--metaphors meant to favor the expansive theological worldview animating the vault. (Jack Balkin gets credit for sparking whatever is good in this thought.)

Three, the vault is also an artifact of cold war mentalities--the very opposite of an expansive worldview. Its 14-ton doors were built to withstand a nuclear blast. It's built in granite caverns removed from the neighboring Salt Lake City. During the height of tensions with the Soviets, the vault could literally preserve evidence of humanity from nuclear apocalypse--no theological theories about the afterlife involved. (Pat Frank's post-apocalyptic novel of small town US Alas, Babylon was written the same year, 1959, LDS leadership approved the $2 million project--that's $14 million in 2007.)

Four, the vault is evolving. It has plans to make not only index but full content publicly available online. This move to distribute information catches the vault up to recent conventions of saving by sending, almost--except for the fact, that is, that the vault is still an active storage site, still rooted in the bowels of the earth.

By the way, the byline calls the author of the article, David S. Ouimette, an "information architect," a curious and timely term apparently coined in 1976 by the architect and graphic designer Richard Saul Wurman. Modern advances in Richter scales and entropy studies make architects (both informational and landed) adjust to shifting fault lines.

Questions:

1. How did microfilm remain the medium of choice from 1937 to 1962? Were other options considered?

2. Were decision makers aware of the work of Vannevar Bush and memex?

3. Where else can we see information miniaturization (i.e. microfilm and microfiche, the individual pages of microfilm rolls) as a shield against nuclear Apocalypse?

4. How do theological institutions (like the LDS vault) and atheist societies (like Soviet documentaries, surveys, and economic reports) differ, if at all, in information preservation practices and policies?

(Uncorrected proof) Book Review: Turizm

An uncorrected proof of my forthcoming book review (2008) of Turizm: The Russian and East European Tourist Under Capitalism and Socialism (edited by Anne E. Gorsuch and Diane P. Koenker, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 2006) in Russian Journal of Communication, vol. 1, no. 2, is available for review here.

Another note toward a Soviet Internet

Not only did queueing theory—or the mathematical study of waiting in
lines that inspired packet-switching, the heart of Internet-style
distributed digital networks—resemble a Soviet way of life, it built
on the work of the early 20th century Russian mathematician Andrey
Markov (his last name means Carrot by the way). “Markov chains”
deal with stochastic, or probabilistic, processes for organizing event
sequences: they make thinkable instantaneous change across fixed
states in probabilistic systems and they precede Shannon's line "At
any given time either X = 0 or X = 1." Shannon, in turn, cites and
builds directly on Markov chains in his thesis work on electrical
modeling of information processes.

Even if it turns out the US military had the idea for a distributed computer
network first, the intellectual inheritance from and social resonance across
a spectrum of scientific fronts in Eastern Europe (Markov chains in
information theory, queueing theory, packet-switching, Kolmogorov’s
biology in Wiener’s cybernetics) already seems worth a story.  

Round two: Is the Internet a Soviet Idea?

One more detail: according to American intelligence, the Soviet military may have been working on a "unified information network" as early as 1958, several years before the ARPANET project found traction in 1962 and went online in 1969 with the packet-switching computer network that eventually became the internet. I think it likely speculation that the Soviet "unified information network" would not have perfected packet-switching, an invention seemingly of Paul Baran at RAND in 1962, which Donald Davies coined and developed independently in 1965 (Janet Abbate, Inventing the Internet, 2000). Still packet-switching, as I understand it at least, is an outgrowth of queueing theory and Leonard Kleinrock's 1961 work on the mathematical study of waiting in lines. What could be more Soviet than information network built on waiting in lines?

Besides the potential for play here, the suggestion that the Internet was first a Soviet idea is worth more than just a curious correction to the historical record. The suggestion, too, carries rich overtones for cultural historians of the origins of online collectivist culture. Suddenly, it may be more thinkable that Cold War military initiatives in computer networks led to strains of revolutionary West Coast digital utopianism in the 1970s and 1980s. (Actually Fred Turner's work From Counterculture to Cyberculture details that exact history. It's fascinating, not sudden.) The origins of the idea of networked society were never inherent to the American military (nor to Soviet society). The suggestion also complicates the attribution genealogies of the Cold War technology races--we have the enemy to thank and admissions to make about our national security trumping plagiarism concerns (it's unfortunate that the bilateral surveillance of military science had to be competitive, instead of cooperative as many scientists on both sides would have preferred). It may also raise perennial and pressing questions about the ethical practices of governments at war.

Is the Internet a Soviet idea? Did Soviets think of the ARPANET project first?

I cannot answer these questions, yet. A FOIA request and trip to Moscow may help clear up the matter some.

According to partially declassified CIA documents citing material previous to 1962, the Soviets came up with a project to build a "Unified Information Network" (ob''yedinyonnaya informatsionnaya set'?) intended to be a wide-ranging computer network. The ARPANET, care of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, picks up serious momentum to build the exact same thing in 1962 and go online in 1969.

A wild hunch: the Soviet military-industrial complex had the idea for a nation-wide computer network first. The American version got word of the project, got nervous about a Sputnik II, and managed to pull it off before the Soviets. (Thank you packet-switching!) It could be a classic story of Cold War technology competition: Soviet theory vs. American application. Reminds me of stories about brilliant Soviet programmers whose theories were (and still remain) cutting-edge but who had never seen a computer. Many did work on chalk boards.

Bonnie Honig in Democracy and the Foreigner suggests foundational narratives often draw on a foreign founder. The house of David has its Ruth, a Moabite; Oz has its Dorothy of Kansas; and now, perhaps, the Internet has its Soviet roots. As I argue in a recent article in the International Journal of Communication available here, Norbert Wiener became in part the founding foreigner for the Soviet tradition of cybernetics (the Russian kibernetika still embraces a much larger sense of the study of computers today). It is only fitting that the Soviets would return the favor.

More soon, above. (Blogs as chronological scrolls unrolling in reverse: how strange for stringing together topics yet how similar to the forward march of time!)

The Cold War Factor in the Cyber History of the Idea of Information: from Von Neumann to Lessig

Notes toward a Research Statement

My research explores the humanistic imagination for communication in creative social-material complexes of technology, policy, and culture. In it I focus large questions of how humans arrange, control, and create meaning with the historical and international lenses of Eastern Europe. For example, my dissertation looks to locate cyber law—or the contemporary study of Internet regulation—in a longer history of the idea of information and its Cold War intellects and contexts. Below follow a few preliminary project notes and a reflection on the study and stakes of history in cyber scholarship. In my reading, the term cyber history should be understood to encompass more than the history of cyber scholarship or cyber law; the subfield rather ranges across any relevant human attempt to collect, coordinate, and govern (cf. Greek roots of cyber) physical data into meaningful form.

Since at least World War II, scientists, policy makers, and critics have increasingly struggled to stay conceptually afloat the machine-enabled wash of information. What does the transition of the term information from the early twentieth-century sense of “relevant facts” to the early twenty-first century sense of “infinitely amassable data” mean for contemporary attempts to regulate the human use of information? Such attempts often face a paradox at once technical and post-modern: how do we rethink a form of information that can be gathered faster than it can be understood? How can we creatively reform our policies, our social relations, and ourselves? The economic and semantic livelihood of the information society will follow in part our wagers on these, and other, questions.

My work looks to address these questions through a history of the idea of information and its intellects in the “long” history of Cold War, from the World War II early cybernetics of Norbert Wiener to the post-Soviet cyber law of Lawrence Lessig. Key objects of study will include the life, work, and transatlantic relations of key information society scholars ranging from the Hungarian émigré, belligerent anti-Communist, and brilliant WWII mathematician John von Neumann; to the father of cybernetics, son of a Slavic professor, veritable Soviet hero and collaborator, Norbert Wiener; to the Austrian-American economist Fritz Machlup and his Cold War coinage of information society in the early 1960s; to the post-industrial sociologist Daniel Bell and the US foreign policy that turned his liberalism into neo-conservativism; to network theorists Manuel Castells and (his spouse) Emma Kiselyova’s record of their early 1990s explanation of the information-driven collapse of the Soviet state; to the first mouthpiece of cyber law in the late 1990s, constitutionalist, and (a less noted fact) Eastern Europeanist Lawrence Lessig. (As I hope to explore in interview with Lessig, his perspectives on the nature of code, law, and corruption since the late 1990s may or may not coincide with his experience living in early 1990s Budapest and Moscow, where roller coasters of shock therapy and the Russian constitution challenged optimism about unrestrained freedom of information.) Other select figures in cyber law, such as Yochai Benkler on samizdat, or late Soviet émigré legal scholar Eugene Volokh or (less likely) Judge Alex Kuzinski may too be interested to share the thoughts on the relationship between philosophical underpinnings and the complexities of transition information policies.

In addition to close analysis of work and biographical vignette, the project also looks to examine and foreground the causes behind the expansion of information institutions and policies to expand during the Cold War, including, among others, the Cold War as a war fought with information over diverging ideals about the proper information society; the evolution of the Internet itself from ARPANET, the 1960s US military project to reduce single missile strikes by decentralizing intelligence across a nationwide packet-switching network; a comparison of information freedoms in free market and centralized command economies, peer-to-peer and samizdat technologies, advertising and propaganda models of public persuasion, and others; and the tensions exacerbated in the global spread of copyright and the human rights of privacy and free speech. These and other points will fall into place with further research.

Why Cyber History?

I propose here five suggestions to why cyber law needs history: First, it is not, as George Santayana said, that those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it but that those who do history well are condemned to admit its ambiguity. In fact a craft of drafts rewritten every generation, history supplies no assurances about avoiding repeating the past. It may be at best a gauge for how little we know about ourselves.

Two, because revisiting ignored and untold elements of our contingent social genealogy can shake long-held assumptions, contextualize change, and challenge complacencies. Knowing what we do not know is strength, a weapon against sides too convinced of primogeniture and a precedent right to being right. For students of fledgling information environments like the Internet, there may be no richer streambed of insight for challenging centuries of accepted convention than that of new media history. All media, obviously, were once new. Moreover, since each medium was new before it was old, the history of new media actually predates the history of old media. A fuller spread of options for change awaits those who will critically examine the conjectural and constitutive moments in the novel past.

Three, because history occupies a rare kind of intellectual commons—a concern for what came before—shared among otherwise isolated fields. As all academic disciplines must make some claim to identify change or affirm continuity, even the most forward-looking scholarship gestures in form with literature reviews, panel data, or precedent toward satisfying the human curiosity for change. History also offers the best and perhaps only response to the moving-target problem puzzling students of the Internet in its ability to seek order not only in but across data streams of social change. My dissertation, for example, aims to coordinate and plot changes of the idea of information freedom online in a longer related story of information offline.

Not only do most fields employ remnants of historical study, many fields—cyber law among them—have ample space for the development of a historical subfield that, like legal and media history, roots itself in disciplinary substrata (art history, legal history, media history, science history, etc.). In part, then, my dissertation is an early essay in the subfield of “cyber history.”

Four, because history lets us tell stories that set the tone and trajectory for thinking about such subjects in the future. By this we mean not so much that history lets us peer into the future but that it lets us influence the way others in the future will think about us. The stories we tell about others will narrate those told about us. History must exist for its own sake.

Lastly, because history is fun, and those who agree are invited to join company in its cyber variant.

In sum, the stakes of history are many: a sharpened capacity for criticizing certainties, uncovering lost contingencies, pressing change, telling stories, and having fun will help cyber students and scholars address contemporary information problems. The project is as urgent as the history of information is long and understudied. Modern societies simply must do a better job caring for and sharing the rich stores and possibilities of mental work.

A Few Key Works

Bell, Daniel. The Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism. New York: Basic Books, 1976.

Beniger, James. The Control Revolution: Technological and Economic Origins of the

Information Society, 1989.

Boyle, James. Shamans, Software and Spleens: Law and the Construction of the Information

Society. Harvard University Press, 1997.

Castells, Manuel and Emma Kiselyova, The Collapse of Soviet Communism: A View from the

Information Society. UC Berkeley Press, 1995.

Cmiel, Kenneth. “From Knowledge to Information.” Unpublished article, 2005.

Edwards, P. N. The Closed World: Computers and the Politics of Discourse in Cold War

America. MIT Press: Cambridge, 1996.

Lessig, Lawrence. Code, 2000, v. 2.0, 2006.

Machlup, Fritz. The Production and Distribution of Knowledge in the United States. (Princeton:

Princeton University Press, 1962).

Olson, Mancur. Power and Prosperity: Outgrowing Communist and Capitalist Dictatorships,

2000.

Pavlov, I. P. Conditioned Reflexes. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1927.

Peters, Benjamin. “Betrothal and Betrayal: The Soviet Translation of Norbert Weiner’s Early

Cybernetics” in the International Journal of Communication (www.ijoc.org) 2008.

Siegert, Bernhard. Passage des Digitalen: Zeichenpraktiken der neuzeitlichen Wissenschaften,

1500-1900. Brinkmann & Boss: Berlin, 2003

Trogemann, G., A. Y. Nitussov, W. Ernst, eds. Computing in Russia: The History of Computer

Devices and Information Technology Revealed. Alexander Y. Nitussov, trans. Vieweg,

Wiesbaden, 2001.

Turner, Fred. From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the

Rise of Digital Utopianism. U Chicago P, 2006.

Von Neumann, John and Arthur W. Burks. Theory of Self-Reproducing Automata. U of Illinois

P, 1966.

Wiener, Norbert. The Human Use of Human Beings: Cybernetics and Society, 2^nd ed.

Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1954 [orig. published 1950].

An Online Hypothetical: A Published Public Domain

An Online Hypothetical: A Published Public Domain[1]

Creative commons (cc) licenses help defend individual pieces in the public domain from private misappropriation. However, it is not clear how best to stake out or delimit the defensible boundaries of an online global public domain as a whole. There are important suggestions--such as a monthly blanket download license outlined in the final chapter of William Fisher's Promises to Keep--arising as to how to shore up and marshal about the immense value of shared creative work in ways that account for the economic value of network effects. The seven-step thought below may not yet be important: but I'd like to offer it as an early thought toward such a solution in which profit follows cultural value (and not the other way around) and humans reward creative participation, not possession.

A: (Phase 1: Index Creation) Create a index repository of creative commons work[2]—a published public domain—and invite people to commit[3] their creative work to it. Search functions in the index allow contributors to find and use[4] other indexed material simply by linking to both the work and its contributor(s). It’s Google’s tools with the ownership structure of an opt-in, open trust that belongs to no one; a public domain whose resources are actually accessible and public.

B: Tag[5] and link every work to both contributing and resulting sources; display that information publicly, much as a scholarly article has citations (that in this case are also links). Contributors build reputation[6] as their work is used. A reputation economy—built on searchable, indexed public domain work and contributor genealogies—results.

C: (Phase 2: Shifting Value from Private to Public) Calculate and publish the value of all the presently indexed work with algorithms built to account for network effects.[7] That value—the sum total of all indexed work to every contributor—should quickly become immense.

D: When private hands misappropriate the work, public domain lawyers sue them—on behalf of the shareholders trust—for some reasonable proportion[8] of the network effects damages[9] done to the published value of the commons, plus court fees.

E: The public domain lawyers keep the court fees.[10] A lottery[11] distributes damages awards to public domain shareholders: i.e., contributors make money as work is protected in court.[12]

F: At some point, corporations[13] heavy in copyright liability realize they can make more money by defending their resources in a public domain and by increasing their public relations (i.e., the private shadow of a reputation economy) than as a private bundle of sticks.

G: A public production culture evolves where people (1) collaborate on a product, (2) post, index, and distribute the intellectual resource online, publicly, and for free (as in beer). Then, those contributors—as determined by the attribution index—can either (3a) have first rights to produce the material products themselves for private profit; (3b) sell the rights to the production of material goods to already existing producers; or perhaps best of all, (3c) open the resource to any producer contract with the condition that a certain percentage of profits be returned—by lottery—to the public domain.

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[1] This idea kernel sprung from the alchemy of reading Jorge Luis Borges (cf. index, lottery), William Fisher, and Kembrew McLeod late this summer. Credit them for anything good. Thanks to Tim Wu for suggesting Shavell and Ypersele’s article Rewards versus Intellectual Property Rights. I look forward to discovering more with help.

[2] Shareholders own the index as some sort of trust or multi-user contract: that contract is also a creative commons license and stipulates shareholders cannot privatize their ownership.

[3] Shareholders need to commit (by contract?) some specified portion of the work—including past work that is not currently licensed and future work—to the commons index. How exclusive should that commitment be?

[4] As is currently the cc case, shareholders’ access would be limited by conditions the contributor sets.

[5] The tag-link structure functions like genetic code: tags are directly imbedded into each linkable, usable work, so that new pieces of collaborative work automatically express their specific tag genealogy.

[6] Should there be a (A) reputation score or (B) not? If I use your work to build my work, you can find that out as well as possibly (A) have some reputation gauge be credited for my use. In fact, when a third party in turn uses my work, your reputation score could also be credited proportionally as well. This score/index reappears as a central mechanism in step 7. (B) Or, there need not be a “reputation score” necessarily. Genealogies of open use patterns may alone facilitate and streamline person-to-person collaboration.

[7] Total value calculations could be hard: perhaps the value of work could be derived from comparison to private market equivalents, multiplied by the number of public domain users; perhaps from e-Bay or auction equivalents; and when equivalents are absent—as would often be the case, since a public domain should create new products--perhaps from a new pricing structure, where the basic unit carries a very minimal cost affordable to all contributors—regardless their country’s economics—(i.e., 2 cents an article or song) or, as in William Fisher’s work, where total value calculations is entirely a function of the potential revenue of private fees from monthly download licenses.

[8] “Reasonable proportion” could be calculated by previous use histories of the works. If it’s used, it’s valuable.

[9] For example: one $1 song stolen from the public into private, for-profit production costs the public domain $1 x total number of contributors, plus the profit gained by private actors, plus the public domain court fees. It is interesting to note that—because of the network effect—this total value would quickly dwarf even the sum total of all private capital. The “excess capacity” (cf. Benkler) not accounted for in private economy is mammoth, not marginal: the public character of culture must defy private accounting schemes.

[10] Smart lawyers need incentives to work for the public domain as well; otherwise, the pecuniary-minded tend toward the side that does not share. The idea is to let lawyers make money protecting the public.

[11] Three notes on the lottery follow: (A) how to supervise it once in place, (B) different ways it could work, (C) what logic to avoid in building it (i.e., private profit), (D) what logic to encourage in building it (i.e., random profit).

A. The lottery system is locked open-source. The distribution process is subjected to external, third-party watchdog groups whose self-interest it is to find flaws and abuses.

B. How should it work? 100 random shareholder receive equal parts of the damages; a weighting system which favors valuable work contributors; every shareholder receives two cents; or, my favorite, a combination: each contributors starts with a minimal chance at reward, plus use added.

C. A reputation weighting ala Pagerank may invite work value manipulation (cf. search engine optimization). Caveat: structuring the logic of profit by malice into the public domain index would mean homeopathic cannibalization of the public domain to the private tools and thought it by definition resists. It must abstain from some level of private profit logic to sustain itself.

D. Random incentives discourages internal profit manipulation. An index whose total value is predicated on sharing network effects must also reward and recognize all contributors. The network increase in damages awarded helps compensate for the inefficiency of random rewards. And the incentive of random awards likely exceeds traditional copyright royalties incentives. Plus other real, non-monetary rewards of and motivations for sharing.

[12] “When their work is protected” means “when their work is stolen and returned” and some mechanisms would need to be introduced to minimize the perverse incentive of stealing work in order to lose in court. A major gap: How can proponents convince lawyers, law-makers, and judges that the public domain should be so protected at the cost of private industry?

[13] For instance, eventually Disney’s makes its IP public, its public relations improve, and profit streams shift from court cases to producing accessory goods (just as theatres make money on popcorn and services, not the film).

Here's a link to the history workshop on intellectual property and new media that I put together at the 2007 OII summer doctoral programme hosted by the Berkman Center for Internet and Society, including a kernel of a conference proposal I am interested in developing at some point. It is notes all the way down.

Toward a more robust creative commons?

I just sent this out in an email to a legal thinker I really admire, Timothy Wu, and then thought, why not share it with the world (that, like me until a minute ago, doesn't know this blog exists)? Check him out before you do this. http://www.timwu.org/

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I had an idea kernel a few weeks ago that I need to talk through, that I want to do something with. Until I've talked to some smart legal minds, I can only think of it as a thought experiment full of problems but, nevertheless, leaning toward a world in which copyright means the right to copy, and where the public commons can go on the offensive.

Creative commons is a first step but is only that. It gives the commons teeth to defend itself but there is still no incentive to actively stake out, or system to account for, the boundaries of a larger commons. We need a better way to shore up and marshal about the immense value of shared creative work in our present-day marketplace--a way to appreciate and account for the economic value of network effects.

So what about a payment system that does exactly that: rewards creators for simply the act of securing their work in the commons and punishes the misuse and for-profit expropriation of that work by private hands. And while we're at it, is there a way for aggressive lawyers to make a buck defending the commons? (Otherwise, of course, the default for young lawyers with debate is to enlist with the side that doesn't share.)

Create an index of creators who commit (at least a large portion of) their work to the commons, perhaps through a kind of contract, and thus become part shareholders in it. If private actors grab something from the commons, and refuse to return it, why not let commons lawyers take them to court, sue for the damages done to the commons (i.e., the sum value of that cost of that material no longer being available to everyone in the commons, which would not be insubstantial) plus court fees. The lawyers get their fees, and the damages get distributed in a kind of lottery system in which every commons shareholder--every person who has committed their work to everyone else--could receive damage payments. (How this would work--be it 100 random shareholder each receiving 100th of the damages, or a weighting system which incentives those who commit valuable work to the commons, or every shareholder receiving two cents--I cannot yet say. I think weighting would be very problematic.) The workings of the lottery system itself would best be locked open-source and even subjected to scrutiny by external parties, such as a private watch-dog groups, in whose self-interest it is to find flaws and abuses in the distribution of damages.

Imagine, for an unlikely first instance, if Disney decided to eventually become a commons shareholder, they would contribute huge amounts of value to the commons, and make it that much more valuable. They could even make more from damages distribution, to say nothing about the benefits their much more profitable accessory industries would make from public relations--than they do from royalties. The thought is that if damages can be calculated according to the network effects value of the loss of material seized from the public commons, then everyone--even the most pettily pecuniary among us, from private corporations to attack lawyers--would have some incentive to participate in a marketplace, a world, whose core values reward participation, not possession.

There's more holes than anything else, which is why I'm glad as always for any thoughts from those who may know the world of law and economics better than I.

(Uncorrected proof) The Cybernetics of Nabokov's Benefence

An uncorrected proof of my forthcoming article, "The Cybernetics of Nabokov’s ‘Beneficence,’” in Ulbandus: The Slavic Review of Columbia University, edited by Marijeta Bosovic (New York: Columbia, 2007), is now available for comment and review here.

(Uncorrected proof) The Search Engine Democracy: Metaphors and Muhammad

An uncorrected proof of my forthcoming book chapter, "The Search Engine Democracy: Metaphors and Muhammad," in Marcel Machill and Markus Beiler's (eds) Die Macht der Such-maschinen/The Power of Search Engines (Leipzig, Germany: Herman von Halem, 2007) is now available for comment and review here.

Addendum to Nothing

In considering how best to use this blog, I've come to a few observations worth very little themselves but which may be of interest in the context of later entries. The first follows that the blog functions as something of a chronologically reverse scroll and therefore dances with both past and present traditions: the scroll and the cutting-edge. By emphasizing the top as the most recent entry, a premium is placed on the immediate and contemporary which by definition underemphasizes past entries. I hope to counter this in my files saved on our personal computer, where the notes will likely remain entered in the forward scroll fashion common to all standard document programs today. Feel free, I extrapolate into the future, to ask for the notes in full .doc form from me, Ben, at bjpeters@gmail.com. There is also the problem of organizing notes by appropriate class title rather than by the clumsy date of entry.

This makes blog management a little more complicated than I'd initially hoped. I'd like to use the blog as a chronology of thoughts, notes, and questions and as a portal toward openly sharing information with others. However, of course, if I'm to enter all the notes from one class on the day I attend it, the next class period's notes will soon take precedence over the first, diminishing the likelihood that the cumulative momentum that could be gained by reading the entries chronologically will ever fully be enjoyed by the casual reader. Not that the casual reader will ever get the full effect of an idea evolving over a number of entries, but still to start with an idea in embryo would seem the most natural place to find out whether one has interest in following that same idea through its adolescence.

How ironic that, if this blog ever takes shape, very few people will both ever reading this entry, which, though inane and uninspired by itself, sets up a few of my initial concerns with the whole medium. As the Underground Man, I too stammer and stutter that I will never be read but write regardless.

In the beginning...

...there was the blog. And the blog reformed communication online. And, eventually, Ben caught on and started a blog of his own. Here you go. Read on.