Die Pokémon sind als erste wach. Ein Bisasam sitzt auf meinem Kopfkissen. Ein Tragosso streckt seinen Knochen unter der Bettdecke hervor. Ein Ledyba flattert an der Fensterscheibe. Mein Sohn kommt in mein Schlafzimmer, stempelt auf unserer Bonuskarte die Tagesaufgabe ab und komplettiert damit eine Wochenserie. Zur Belohnung erscheint ein Latias. Wir werden bis nach dem Frühstück brauchen, um ihn zu fangen: Drei Anläufe, insgesamt einundzwanzig Bälle und sieben Beeren.
“Und Du: Du möchtest einen Becher!”, sagte gestern auf der Gala der “Goldenen Blogger” in Berlin eine*r der vier Organisator*innen[1] zu mir. Er drückte mir einen Becher mit dem Abbild der “Goldene Blogger”-Trophäe in die Hand. Die Trophäe zeigt eine Figur unbestimmbaren Geschlechts mit Hermes-Hütchen und passenden Hackenflügelchen und einem Stern in der Hand, die auf einem Bein stehend auf einem Computerbildschirm mit angeschlossener Maus balanciert, auf dem “per aspera ad astra” zu lesen ist.
So, you’re saying you want to go? I hear you – but wait. If you were a person, I’d write you a letter with a real pen, in real ink and on a real piece of paper. And I’d ask you to at least read it through to the end and listen to what I have to say before you go. However, I suspect that you’re not a person,
We live the age of algorithm. They’re the magic sauce which keeps our machines running. Their omnipotence has grown to a point where some see our bodies’ and minds’ inner workings as algorithms[1] – just like former epochs saw the universe or a mechanical turk in every human being. And – like all men-made gods – algorithms, too, are demonized,
This is not a rant about Donald Trump[1]. It’s also not a rant about the internet in general. Those who read my blog more regularly will know that I actually, factually revere the internet in all its momentous sparkling grandeur – as well as in its ability to make us face ourselves as human beings with all our shortcomings[2]. Instead, this is a more specific rant about how that very same digital space has the means to turn us all into petty dictators
“Snapchat is complicated”, has become a mantra among those who tried and then abandoned the app; and, in reaction, instructions on how to use Snapchat have sprung up across the web[1]. Now, this post (as those who regularly read my blog will have guessed already) is neither a rant about how I got confused by attempting to use Snapchat, nor a guide for those who’re aspiring to get into (and find their way through) the maze of snapping.
It started with a tweet[1]. On May 10th, 2015, @raue tweeted: “I should maybe blog again, so someone can praise it enthusiastically, so I can retweet, and you can then fav that”; I replied: “What about the reverse? I fav your tweet so you can retweet it, and then I blog about it?” – and retweet he did[2]. So here I am, stuck with a casual commitment made online. Now I have to deliver – or else: The whole online universe will feel let down, and it’ll be my fault.
“The demands of modern adult life”, wrote Robert Kegan in 1994, “may require a qualitative transformation in the complexity of mind every bit as fundamental as the transformation from magical thinking to concrete thinking required of the school-age child, or the transformation from concrete thinking to abstract thinking required of the adolescent”. Kegan wrote this when the internet was barely learning to crawl[1]: In 1993, only 1 percent of information flowing through two-way telecommunication went through its channels
In the beginning was the web. Today, there are some who claim that it is a relatively recent phenomenon[1]. This is wrong. It was always there: The space where everything is everything, everything is nothing, nothing is everything, and nothing is nothing[2]. Then, there was some curiosity, then some tinkering, and eventually some infrastructure emerged: Ἀκαδημία here, γυμνάσιον there, forum here, þing there, monastery here, market place there, all the way to the legacies of Haussmann, Schumacher, or Speer[3]. And then email, websites, social media, mobile apps.
