April 16th, 2009 admin
Following up on my last two posts (here and here), I thought I’d flesh out a little more what I mean by Comparative Ontology — and, at this point, maybe I need a handle for the concept, like CO or “comp-ont.”
First thought: I imagine that a comp-ont vocabulary could be accomplished in two ways: (1) by just using existing vocabulary definition languages (RDFS and OWL) to create a new vocabulary, or (2) by creating a new vocabulary definition language using, say, Rodney Needham’s codification of English Structuralism in Symbolic Classification.
As an example of type 1, one might deploy the implicit ontology of Kautilya’s Arthashastra (with maybe a little of Machiavelli’s Prince thrown in) using OWL to create an “Enemy of an Enemy” (EOAE) vocabulary. This would be a useful vocabulary for describing political agents, linking them through the negative transitive logic of political alliance formation, with the result that you could actually predict or suggest alliances that don’t yet exist. I can imagine this vocabulary describing people (politicians, pundits, etc.), ideas, institutions, etc., and applied to daily news sources.
As an example of type 2, my question would be whether constructs like analogy or metonymy could be constructed on top of set theory (OWL) or if it would require a whole new system (and therefore logic of inference.)
Second thought: It strikes me that one way to bring home the value of comp-ont is to view it in the context of knowledge management (KM). Clearly there is a strong connection between KM and ontology (and the semantic web and linked data). But within KM, it is clear that ontologies can’t just be logical. Ontologies must be practical, and intelligible to the people in an organization who engage in ontology-mediated knowledge transfer. They must serve the purpose of mediating between individual and collective memory. But this is precisely what the great ontological systems from the ethnographic record provide — from Australian totemic systems to Mayan calendars. Viewed from the perspective of social memory, then, it makes a great deal of sense to build KM ontologies on general principles adduced from anthropological examples, and described in terms of structuralism.
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April 14th, 2009 admin
So, I make the claim in my previous post on Comparative Ontology that comparativsim will help us make better ontologies and tools for using them. I realize I did not actually make that case. Let me try to do that now, although, to be honest, I view the claim as an interesting direction to follow (i.e. a hunch), not an established fact.
My argument is pretty simple. The Semantic Web, as everyone knonws, has a big problem — in order for it to succeed, producers of web content have to mark up texts using RDF, with its long URIs and arcane vocabularies. Most folks think this is a deal killer. In addition, many agree with Shirky’s claim that ontology is overrated in the first place. (The meme even makes an appearance in Michael Wesch’s viral “The Machine is Us/Using Us.”)
I hold out hope, though. I think tools can be created to make the data entry part a lot easier–withness Drupal 6. I also think content creators show a remarkable tendency to use tags, enter metadata, and engage in otherwise tedious SEO techniques if they know that they will get something out of it. This tendency is especially strong among digital humanitists, digital librarians, and other creators and curators of digital collections. (Think of the time people have put into TEI!) Right now, they don’t see a lot a ROI from using RDF. But that is changing, and faster than many think.
As is often remarked, it’s a classic chicken and egg argument. But such problems are actually liberating, since you can intervene at any point in the cycle and have an effect. One juncture in the cycle is in the design of vocabularies.
The problem now is that vocabularies and ontologies are just not sticky enough, and I think a big reason for this is that they are written from the perspective of symbolic logic and set theory. These frameworks, though comprehensive, are not human (enough). On the other hand, there is a whole tradition of describing cognitive systems called structuralism, which has the advantage of being empirically grounded in the longstanding comparative study of culture. It stands to reason that if we created vocabularies using more “human” constructs–such as analogy, metonymy, etc.–and vocabularies that recognized the role of verbs in predicates, then we might be able to produce more sticky ontologies.
It also opens a way to harvest the latent ethnographic data contained in folksonomies.
But I’ll leave it at that for now.
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April 14th, 2009 admin
The Semantic Web has popularized the concept of ontology. The usual definition one sees for the term is Gruber’s “specification of a conceptualization” (Gruber 1993). The definition could use some unpacking. Essentially, it refers to the idea that the terms used by AI agents should be defined by reference to a shared schema which classifies those terms. The shared schema, or specification, simply defines how terms are related to each other in a graph. More than a simple data model, where the relationships between entities or objects are not explicitly defined, an ontology also names the possible relationships between terms. So, instead of just having “address” as a field of the entity “person,” an ontology will explicity assert that a person has an address. So verbs (which are often buried in “predicates”) are an important part of ontologies. In fact, one way to think of an ontology is to call it a data model with verbs. (Sort of.)
Ontologies are useful for programming agents, which are just programs that consume and produce information on their own. (I call them infophages.) So, when you program an agent to respond to a term, you have the agent’s program refer to an ontology to disambiguate the term among synonyms, and to make logical inferences about the term. For example, if the agent encounters the term “Socrates,” it will be found to be specified as a member of the class “Human” and since “Human” will have the property “is Mortal,” the agent can transfer the property to “Socrates” too. (Truth, or validity, is just traceability within a reference graph.)
Or, if the agent encounters the word “Madonna,” and that term is formally specified as part of an ontology (say, by using Tim Berners-Lee’s URI method), the agent will be able to trace its class to either “Pop Singers” or “Religious Figures” or “Christian Iconography” or whatever.
Sometimes–often–ontologies are described as if they provide “meaning” for agents. Even the term Semantic Web implies this. When introduced to novices, the Semantic Web is often introduced as bringing “meaning” to the web. I find this explanation misleading at best. Meaning is much to too important of a word to describe what is going on here, which is simply a layer of classification being added to what would other wise be a list of terms. Ontologies are just systems of classification for terms, a second-order set of terms that (1) increases the probability that an agent can process a term in a way that users will expect, and (2) adds a layer of connectivity, above the raw verbiage on the web, that decreses the average distance, or degress of separation, between any two terms.
So, ontologies have two properties that make them useful and, as I want to argue, usefully viewed from a comparative perspective. First, they introduce verbs into the mix of data modelling. Second, they are just systems of classification–like Australian totemic systems, Mayan calendars, and Western philosophical ontologies such as Aristotle’s and Leibniz’s.
Comparativism will help us create better ontologies, and better systems for using ontologies, in two ways.
First, comparativism can train our attention on the great rabbit warren of words and meanings that lies at the heart of the ostensibly neat world of triples–I refer to the predicates. Although the nouns that comprise the vocabularies for subjects and objects in RDF can be neatly specified as analytic taxonomies of terms, predicates are subject to no such rules, and can contain within themselves whole sentences. Unlike the nouns, predicates mask a great deal of what Kant would call “synthetic judgements.” I propose a sociolinguistic approach to the use of verbs embedded in the predicate systems of linked data vocabularies that will provide a better basis for crafting predicates.
Second, comparativsm can help us move beyond set theory–useful as it is–to consider other totalizing schemes for organizing ideas, such as those described by anthropologists. I mentioned totemic systems, calendars, and Western ontologies. But there are many others to consider. What is more, anthropologists have done a great deal to describe, classify, interpret, and even explain these. Such an approach would be grounded in the following works, all of which define or grow out of the structuralist tradition within anthropology:
- Emile Durkheim and Marcel Mauss, 1903, Primitive Classification.
- Louis Dumont, 1966, Homo Hierarchicus.
- Michel Foucault, 1966, The Order of Things.
- Claude Lévi-Strauss, 1968, The Savage Mind.
- Victor Tutner, 1969, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure.
- Mary Douglas, 1970, Natural Symbols.
- Pierre Bourdieu, 1977 [1972], Outline of a Theory of Practice.
- Alfred Gell, 1975, Metamorphosis of the Cassowaries.
- Rodney Needham, 1975, Polythetic Classification.
- Edmund Leach, 1976, Culture and Communication.
- Marshall Sahlins, 1978, Culture and Practical Reason.
- Jadran Mimica, 1988, Intimations of Infinity.
And so forth.
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April 10th, 2009 admin
“Foundational” Texts in the Digital Humanities&rft.aulast=&rft.aufirst=&rft.subject=digital scholarship&rft.source=The Transducer&rft.date=2009-04-10&rft.type=&rft.format=text&rft.identifier=http://transducer.ontoligent.com/?p=250&rft.language=English">
Recently, Matt Kirschenbaum, English Professor at Maryland, Associate Director of the Maryland Inistitute for Technology in the Humanities, and author of Mechanisms, tweeted a request for “absolutely foundational” articles or chapters for “an introduction to the digital humanities.” The following is my list, in chronological order.
- Vannevar Bush, 1945, “As We May Think.”
- Claude Shannon, 1948, “A Mathematical Theory of Communication.”
- Norbert Wiener, 1954, “Organization is the Message.”
- Claude Lévi-Strauss, 1955, “The Structural Study of Myth.”
- Benjamin Colby, 1966, “Culture Patterns in Narrative.”
- Gregory Bateson, 1967, “Style, Grace, and Information in Primitive Art.”
- Rodney Needham, 1975, “Polythetic Classification.” *
- Jean-François Lyotard, 1979, The Postmdern Condition.
- Ted Nelson, 1980, Literary Machines.
- Walter Ong, 1982, Orality and Literacy.
- Lucy Suchman, 1988, “Representing Practice in Cognitive Science.” *
- Douglas Adams, 1990. Hyperland. *
- Diana Forsythe, 1993, “The Construction of Work in Artificial Intelligence.” *
- Steven Bird and Mark Liberman, 1999, “Annotation graphs as a framework for multidimensional linguistic data analysis.”
- Lev Manovich, 2001, “Database as Symbolic Form.”
- John Unsworth, 2001, “Knowledge Representation in Humanities Computing.”
- Stephen Ramsey, 2005, “In Praise of Pattern.”
- Tim Berners-Lee, 2006, “Linked Data–Design Issues.”
* These were added after the original post. I reserve the write to amend and annotate this list at any time …
Here are a few qualifiers.
Number one, I don’t think there are, strictly speaking, any foundational texts in the digital humanities. Not in the way that physics can claim Newton’s Principia or biology Darwin’s Origin. I am not sure if this situation is due to the (perennial) infancy of the field–if, indeed, it is a field. (I think of it more as a cross-displinary methodology.) Moreover, my saying so certainly isn’t due to any distaste on my part for the concept of a canon. Instead, there are, roughly corresponding to the pre– and post-war era of the previous century, a number of loosely related essays that adumbrate a set of ideas which subsequent generations of people who call themselves digital humanists have been unpacking. The latter have produced a number of essays which the majoritoy of digital humanists will have read, and these may be called foundational, in the sense of a shared discourse. Fair enough. But none of these texts can claim the status of having defined a method or a domain that we can, in retrospect, claim as distinctly concerning the digital humanities. Also–and here I will be controversial–I believe that this particular corpus has had the effect of producing, though the hyercoherence that can affect small “thought collectives” (Fleck), a rather narrow set of concerns which have put the field into a groove from which it would do well to extricate itself.
Number two, since I consider the digital humanities to be at once critical and practical, these texts come from both angles, one set concerned with method, the other with historical context.
Number three, parts of this list are, as you’ll quickly see, pretty specific to me, and my background as an American cultural anthropologist with strong English and French influences. These are texts that have been foundational to my conception of the digital humanities, and which have made a difference to my way of thinking about textuality, digital textuality, and what happens to text when it becomes digital. But it is not entirely idiosyncratic. In its defense, I would argue that the digital humanities is more closely tied with the structuralism of the 1950s and 60s than is usually recognized–and indeed, more than structuralists are prepared to admit. (There is an important chapter of intellectual history that needs to be written here, concerning the close but relatively hidden relationship between structuralism and the “cybernetic moment.”) Moreover, the anthropological angle is always worth pushing, insofar as the discipline, before its reflexive self-implosion in the 1980s and 90s, bequeathed the culture concept on which the realignment of the humanities and itnerpretive social sciences has been constructed. From an anthropologist’s view, the wild success of cultural studies and cultural history has the sad sweetness, the tristes tropiques, that attends the simultaneous death and birth of cultures.
* * *
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April 5th, 2009 admin
I call this blog the “transducer” in honor of an idea that I want to cultivate and expand into a framework for a philosophical anthropology I have been gestating since my undergraduate days, when I spent most of my cycles trying to process Christianity, capitalism, Darwinism, Marxism, and physics. I now believe the concept of transduction is the, or a, key to understanding the relationship between meaning and causality, mimesis and mutation, the fundamental ontological dualism that philosophical monism can never seem to dispense with except by periodic calls to burn the books of theologians and metaphysicians. (This is an enlightened tradition that includes Hume, Ayers, and now any number of New Humanists who have no time for this sort of nonsense.)
The theory of transduction, as I want to develop it, is a possibility opened up by Shannon’s theory of information (so-called). In focusing on this concept, I am inspired by the at this point undervalued work of Roy Rappaport and by the brilliantly muddled works of Gregory Bateson, to whom everything interesing I read nowadays concerning teaching, learning and technology is more a less a footnote.
Transduction is the transfer of information that attends every transfer of energy. For example, in any mechanical interaction, energy is transferred from one body to another. But information also passes: the amount of energy transferred, the direction of movement, the frequency of the event if it is repeated, the time of the event, etc. Measurable indicators such as velocity and position are part of the information that inheres in the event.
Transduction is most apparent — and useful — when energy is converted from one form to another. A well-known example is the transduction that occurs when mechanical energy is converted into electrical energy through a phonographic needle designed to optimize the attendant transfer of information. The needle is part of a larger system of transduction: sound waves are transduced by a microphone, which are transduced into a recording medium, which is then transduced back into electricity, which transduces the sound through the mechanical vibration of a speaker.
The theory of transduction follows from the hypothesis that everything (and everyone) acts as a needle in a vast economy or ecology of signal transmission. We are all transducers made of countless transducers, and we are probably elements of larger transductivities, such as the economic system and so forth. And we are constantly transmitting and transducing signals which “contain” messages. Here it becomes interesting — where do the messages come from? Do we create messages? If so, how? Are there really messages, or is it signals (traces, différance) all the way down?
Pop quiz: How many needles dance in the head of an angel? (Angels, of course, are God’s messengers, Judeo-Christian versions of Hermes and Mercury. McLuhan had something to say about angels as well.)
The term transduction, of coruse, has been appropriated by genetics, where it refers to a process in which DNA is transferred from one bacterium to another by a virus, or where foreign DNA is introduced into another cell through a virus. This too is transduction in the sense that I mean it — that is, it’s not just a semantic appropriation. But it introduces the notion of mediated transduction by means of an agent — in this case, a virus. In this case, the virus plays the role of the wax record (to keep the analogy simple) in the sequence of transductions I described above.
What is interesting about viral transduction is that it provides an example of how simple, unmediated transduction produces complex, mediated transduction. If, as I posit above, the universe is a vast system of transduction, then, apparently, elements of that system evolve and emerge to play roles in that system. The virus seems a clear case of this, evolving only to perform that transductive work of a cell-based, biological system, which itself emerged through transductive reproduction.
And this is another concept that seems describable in terms of transduction — reproduction. For what is transduction but the reproduction of information? But always an incomplete reproduction, as not all information passes through. As Bateson famously wrote, information is any difference that makes a difference. That is, only information that survives transduction is information. So, transduction is a kind of reproduction, but it is also always a misprision, a creative misreading.
An interesting consequence of the theory of transduction is that you can’t measure transduction without introducing more of it, and therefore becoming subject to Bateson’s law (you only get differences that make a difference). This fact normally doesn’t bother us, but it really comes out in relativity theory, where Einstein shows that time is, in a very real sense, the meausrement of time.
Other examples of transduction include walking and leaving footprints, the impression on a wooden surface left by thrown rock, the decaying of carbon 14, settlement patterns left by the inhabitants of population centers, the Van Eck “phreaking” described in Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, biological evolution of genotypes, learning, etc. Yes, evolution and learning, what Bateson wrote about mostly. The concept is recursive in the sense that transductive elements can form transductive systems which are in turn transductive.
Ultimately, if all this is true or coherent, we, as language-using humans, are vastly complex transducers of signals that go way, way, back, picking up cosmic, genetic, cultural, and social signals as we go through life, as wayfarers (to use Walker Percy’s use of Augustine’s image).
And this is how I view blogging . The Internet is probably the first human institution (and it is an institution, more than it is a “technology,” whatever that means) built explicitly on the principles of transduction. We are each transducers of the messages that pass through our “post,” to use Lyotard’s image. It’s a good image, one that recalls Pynchon’s image of the Pony Express in The Crying of Lot 49 and Melville’s image of mail in Bartleby. For, from the perspective of transduction, what worse hell can be imagined than the dead letter office?
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March 20th, 2009 admin
[Note: this is a post from a now defunct blog. I’m republishing it because of this recent article about Google, “Google designer leaves, blaming data-centrism”. It is not a defense of what appears to be Google’s data fetishism (but who can blame them?); it just got me thinkin’ …]
I want to say that the usual practice of beginning with the user interface, as the artifact that guides the conversation between clients and developers, is wrong. It looks good and sounds right: The client will be using the interface, right? The code is a black box that ought to be subject to intense refactoring, right?
True all, but we also know that the stack of application development rests on the database layer, moves into the various layers of code and so-called business logic, and ends with the user interface. The layer that has the most effect on what is possible to code or display downstream is the database layer. That is, what you choose as a database format and model will constrain what you can do on the presentation end, whereas presentation technologies rarely have effects in the opposite direction (a possible exception is Flash before Flex). This stack holds even if you’re not using MVC; it’s more or less encoded in the way our current software tools work. For example, even if you code in pure JavaScript, your stack is going to begin with JSON or XML or the DOM, and end with CSS.
Call this view “data determinism.” As such, it probably suffers from the same criticisms that have been leveled at other forms of determinism, such as historical materialism, which holds that infrastructre (work behaviors, technologies, etc.) determine superstructire (religious beliefs, laws, etc.). I’ll accept that, if you (the critic) accept that the data level at least constrains the other levels, and that the other levels, to have an effect, must be able to modify the data level. Well, then, there’s the rub: once the data model is written, it doesn’t get changed a whole lot. The web designers don’t have a lot to talk to the DBAs about, and the two groups rarely know how to have a conversation. In fact, with enterprise databases, you get the tail-wagging-the-dog effect: “We can’t do that because the database only accepts this kind of data.” So there.
Anyway, I believe that the conversation with clients should begin with the data model, using perhaps simplified E-R diagrams, but ultimately getting at a kind of ontology. What are the salient categories and relations and processes that describe the domain in question? This is a conversation that clients can have with developers, and usually it is a great conversation, and not constrained by an arbitrary visual artifact that can direct conversation along a false groove.
A couple of principles follow from data determinism:
- The requirements process should be preceded (replaced?) by an ontology-discovery process. And the proper method to use here is ethnography.
- The database should be designed with flexibility in mind. I prefer very simple semantic web structures (triples, graphs, etc.) that can be filtered by more specific ontology layers. This process I want to discuss in another post or two.
- After this is in place, then the discussion should move to the level of visual artifacts, such as interfaces. Both the client and developer will have a better idea of what is possible.
This is essentially a codification of the application development process I’ve developed with clients in academia, where I have developed several web-based applications for humanities computing projects.
Looking back at this post, I see that it has significance for two things that currently occupy my mind: Edpunk and the RAW DATA NOW movement (both, interestingly, represented by folks at UMW …)
1. Data determinism provides an under-the-hood rationale for Edupunk: Enterprise apps tend to hide data and the database, reifying it into a natural, immutable condition that interfaces and behaviors have to conform to. Think of Blackboard. Also consider that it was over the data model that they took Desire2learn to court.
2. Data deteminism also helps explain why data, among all the things we call “information,” needs to be free (in spite of the fact that it apparently does not want to be). RAW DATA NOW, as Tim Berners-Lee recently exhorted the auidence at TED. Because if it determines everything, we need to have access to it — raw, and without undue mediation by nice-looking interfaces or toothy EULAs.
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March 19th, 2009 admin
Looking at this bit of the SXSW panel on Edupunk, I have this to say:
It seems that Edupunk really has become about anarchy, just as Gardner feared, at least in the minds of many. Downes’ social club theory of education is just the sort of pointless populist angst that punk exploited, and which differs, I would argue, from the more authentic (in quotes) Clash-like music, where one gets a sense of hope. I’m not sure where it comes from, but it’s there, and it’s also not calling for destruction. I think it’s this: the Clash knew the limits of the medium — rouse but do not prescribe, but also do not proscribe. After all, we’re just a band. Leave social change for others.
I am afraid that Downes comes off as a typical representative of a now commonplace millenarianism among instructional technologists, at least at conferences — where the Las Vegas principle seems to apply (“What happens at ELI stays at ELI”). It’s a cargo cult.
Jim Groom is no millenarian. For him, the essence of Edupunk is not in its anarchism, but in its communitarinism, if I may impose that word upon him — the relocation of decision-making and creativity in the hands of faculty, students, and technologists, and not in the hands of corporate business models that may appear to be logical and necessary from an administrative point of view, but which are in fact neither. This does not at all mean Kill the University, as Downes very clearly argues. It means, Let’s not go down this slippery slope that certain kinds of software seem to be pushing us. That’s pretty much it (which is a lot).
Ironically, Downes’ approach puts education much more in the hands of anonymous centralization, for without the residential campus, there is no mediating institution between Google or the Canadian government and the individual. Downes commits the classic fallacy of radically individualistic political thought — the destruction of supposedly oppressive institutions like colleges, families, etc. only creates the social conditions of anomie and totalitarianism. Good luck with that.
Edupunk, for me, is really all about what Gardner and Jim, like McCartney and Lennon, had going at the very beginning. A discussion about what sort of leadership is appropriate to academic technology, given this new millieux of technology. What do we teach our students and faculty, both critically and practically? We need to recover this thread; from what I can see, the SXSW panel did not achieve this.
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March 17th, 2009 admin
I want to give my two cents on Edupunk, a wildy successful term coined by Jim Groom (Mary Washington) to describe a style of academic technology support that (1) eschews Central IT and its dependency on scalable but clunky and ultimately boring and possibly evil applications, such as Blackboard, and (2) instead favors helping faculty use more open, flexible, elegant, interesting, and available technologies from the open source and Web 2.0 spaces, such as WordPress. In coining the term, Jim gave meaning and focus to a real trend and tension that has been with us for some time, but which remained uncatalyzed for being unnamed. Naming is powerful magic and we would do well to pay attention to it when it succeeds as well as it has in this case.
A lot has already been said about Edupunk and the range of ideas it connotes. In addition to the press that followed the coining of the term (including the New York Times), Jim has produced a playful but serious Battle Royale video series in which Jim and his former colleague Gardner Campbell (now at Baylor) debate the appropriateness and effectiveness of the term to advance goals they both share. (The topic was also the subject of a recent panel at SXSW 2009, but I have not listened to that yet.) After listening to these clips, though, I can’t help but think that the core idea has been weighed down by the considerable semantic load of the term “punk,” for better and for worse. So I thought I would take a stab at rescuing the idea from the word, if that’s at all possible. (I have no idea if this is cool with Jim.) Not that the debate between Gardner and Jim is reducible to mere semantics; they do have important differences of opinion on educational technology that go beyond the debate in question.
So, the core meaning of the term Edupunk derives from a rather straighforward analogy Jim draws between this style of academic technology and the late 1970s punk movement in music associated with groups like the Clash (his example). Just as the Clash had a raw freshness and energy in contrast to the bloated, formulaic, and empty music of Billboard 100 bands at the time, apps like WordPress and Drupal stand in contrast to the bloated and mind-numbing software that we often (but not always) get from the corporate sector, at least in the case of educational technology. The analogy works at a literal level since the success of bands like the Clash had a lot to do with their avoidance of Big Music production studios and producers in favor of cheaper technologies in available spaces like garages and basements. [Update: garage music is an example of the long tail of production being enabled by the commodification of the means of music production that took place in the 1970s.]
When you look at the analogy in this way, the term garage band, or some variant of it, turns out to be a better analogy than punk proper for what Jim is getting at. As a Clash song goes, they were a “garage band” from “garage land.” The image of a garage band — and think of early Devo or the Modern Lovers here — evokes the DIY ethos Jim refers to while avoiding analogies to bands like the Sex Pistols, who were cynically manufactured and marketed from the start. I have a hard time thinking of Drupal, for example, in the same space as the Sex Pistols. I have a less hard time comparing the software to the sound of, say, Joy Division. There is an elegant simplicity to both that, presumably, derives from their being developed without the encumbrances of a beauracracy and Big Leadership.
The analogy to the garage band music rather than punk per se avoids Gardner Campbell’s apt criticism about punk in the strict sense, that it was a divisive and cyncial movement without any real concern for change (one thinks of the Ramone’s I’m Against It or Richard Hell and the Voidoid’s Blank Generation), and therefore serves as a bad model for the hard work of crafting a transformational academic technology practice. But I suppose the norman “garage” does not lend itself to phrase coining the way the saxon-sounding “punk” does.
And the word “punk” does have an important connection to the open source software culture that Jim valorizes: there is a direct bloodline of descent that goes from punk (music) to cyberpunk (literature) to the hackerdom (technology) that produced Perl, Linux, and PHP. It’s a connection that is evident from the aesthetics of open source software before it became successful and co-opted (not necessarily for worse) by the web-inflated software industry. Just look at the covers ot 2600 and The Perl Journal from 1990s.
So, although I think Gardner is correct about not wanting to salute this particular flag because of its guilt by association with the Johnny Rotten school of anti-leadership, I think Jim was (is) onto something very important that needs further unpacking, even after the hype curve subsides. Ironically, I think the set of issues he catalyzed with the term have precisely to do with leadership and its connection to teaching and technology, where Gardner rightly shifts the debate. But more on that later.
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February 18th, 2009 admin
With the demise of Google Notebook, I’ve been looking for a replacement. There are many suitors, but none fit the bill — not that GN did either. I need something that enables the following workflow:
1. Capture and tag elements of web pages into notes, complete with source metadata.
2. Organize notes into collections (e.g. notebooks) with sections.
3. Move notes around, within and between notebooks and sections.
4. Add more notes, not linked to web pages, during this process.
5. Export notebooks into other media, such as a web page or a Google Doc for publication or further editing.
Basically, the app needs to follow the workflow of doing research on the web and creating documents from the collected notes.
Google Notebook had most of this, but was cluunky. Zoho Notebook doesn’t let you move notes from one notebook to another, or even between sections of a notebook. It also has very limited export options and behaves more like a slide show tool than a note taking app. Diigo doesn’t organize collected notes into notebooks; they are just associated with the source web page. Evernote looks like it is designed to replace sticky notes as memory aids, not index cards as research tools. Zotero behaves too much like a reference manager.
As far as I know, there’s nothing like what I need or want. So I will have to make it at some point.
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February 5th, 2009 admin
One of the things I like to do when designing a course is to view the syllabus as a kind of plot or outline of a story. The story may end up as the basis of a book, but mainly it provides structure to the experience of the students taking the course. Structure at this level is important because it provides a cognitive scaffolding for students when they are trying to ingest the content of the course as a whole.
Now, in general, there are two cognitive models one may use to present material to students in a way that maximizes the ability of the students to retain the information: the historical and the logical (or perhaps “structural”). The sciences, of course, tend to be logical, for obvious reasons — ideas build on themselves in a way that requires going from the simple to the complex. (Sometimes this order matches historical development, but not necessarily; often the work of simplification occurs late in the stage of the development of a theory.) The humanities, on the other hand, tend to be historical, or some variant thereof (such as reverse chronological order.) The human sciences tend to be somewhere in the middle, which raises the point of this blog entry.
In a course I am designing now — the Anthropology of the Information Society — I found myself being unable to decide between the two. An historical approach would be easy, and in fact I have used it in the past. But I think it is a bit plodding: begin with the Cybernetic moment, in both the commercial and academic spheres, and march one’s way through to the current posthumanist era of the web and commercialized cyberspace. Additionally, one easily falls into the traps of teleology and the ever-dreaded metanarrative (the fear of which is itself part of what we are studying). On the other hand, a purely structural approach — say, along the lines of a traditional ethnography, where various institutions are studied in succession (religion, politics, economics, kinship and the family, etc.) has it’s problems too: such divisions, although not as artificial as some may argue, nonetheless they prevent an organic understanding of their relations — in anthropology especially, one wants to talk about religion, politics and economics at the same time.
My solution has been to adopt a rhetorical device that seems to combine the historical (that is, the sequential) with the structural into what might be thought of as a temporal structure: the figure of chiasmus. We know this as the familiar pattern A B B’ A’, as in the following:
“Love is the irresistible desire to be desired irresistibly .”
Rhetoricians and poets have though the ages used this device to structure units of discourse from simple one or two-liners (like this example) to entire poems and stories, such as Chretien de Troye’s Lancelot. The subtitle of The Hobbit expresses this logic: “There and Back Again.”
Chiasmus at the larger units of discourse (such as a course) is useful, I think, because it provides a temporal, historical frame that is easy to follow, but which, by the doubling back that defines its character, exposes structure as well. I think this is best presented by example.
In my course, I expect to discuss the role of the computer as both a symbol and artifact that both structures and is structured by the social institutions in which it is embedded. The major institutions in play are the political and the economic, along with a more diffuse and pervasive one I call ideology, which includes religious and ontological beliefs of all kinds (following the thinking of many anthropologists, such as Mary Douglas and Louis Dumont). Now to present this, I could, as I mention above, proceed historically or structurally. Historically, I could begin with the diffusion of the computer, or computerization, as ideology in the 1950s, where the ideas of information, communication and control dominate the human and biological sciences, and even anthropology itself. I could then move onto the 1960s and 1970s and the rise of information-driven economies and economic organizations (such as, notably, international corporations). Finally, I could conclude with the effects on the political sphere (rights, privacy, community) with the emergence of the blogosphere and the rise of yet another model of the surveillance state.
The problem with this approach, though, is that it doesn’t provide an opportunity to show the effects of each phase on the previously discussed levels — what happens to the symbolics of the computer as it becomes more overtly enmeshed in the dynamics of political communication? Also, the succession of ideology, economics, and politics, which I had not noticed upon first teaching the course, raises the larger question of how these social dimensions are related. I do not want to imply a simple causal hierarchy in which ideas influence infrastructure which in turn constrains politics. At the largest level, there is a structural point to be made about these dimensions, which argues for discussing them in isolation from their historical sequence.
This is where chiasmus comes in: I plan to organize the course in the following manner:
- Introduction
- Ideology
- Economics
- Politics
- Politics
- Economics
- Ideology
- Conclusion
WIth this structure, I can march my way through history, and then double back and make the structural points that are really the point of the course, linking economics, politics and ideology together as a conflicted yet organic whole. And notice how each dimension is structurally privileged: Ideology encompasses, whereas the political is at the center; and economics mediates and bridges.
Anyway, the structure has already proved useful in organizing my thoughts and materials, regardless of the merits of my arguments for it
[Note: this is a republishing of an entry I wrote for Dickinson’s local blog on teaching and learning.]
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