Author: admin

Turner Whitted, who is a great computer graphics pioneer, and was one of my mentors when I was a young pup starting out in the field, asked me a question today. “How come,” he said, “when Thad Starner [pictured below left] has been walking around for twenty years wearing augmented reality glasses every day, suddenly it’s a big deal just because he’s now at Google?”

My answer was that it is because Sergei Brin [pictured below right] is now wearing them. And the significance of this is that it’s no longer about the glasses, but rather the implication that Google will deliver all of your digital content right to your physical reality.

It’s like the difference between the Tablet PC and the iPad. The former was a portable computer without a keyboard. The latter is a pipeline for people to get games, videos and movies. Nobody would care about the device if they didn’t crave the ecosystem of content it can provide.

It is, in the end, all about the content. After all, if there were no movies or TV shows, a cinema or a television would be, at most, a vaguely intriguing artifact.

It can be argued that the image of Sergei in those glasses — which has recently become a ubiquitous visual in some technology circles — is a defining image of our historical moment. Not because it is an image that announces technology, but rather because, to those who understand what it means, it is an image that announces power.

I was talking to Jaron Lanier today, and we were swapping stories about “things very smart people should have known but it turns out they didn’t.”

I told him about the first time I visited Google, in Spring 2000. At some point during my visit Larry Page explained to me how his “Page Rank” algorithm works — the cornerstone of Google’s search strategy.

The basic idea of Page Rank is that a web page is considered more important if it is linked to by important web pages. And those pages are in turn considered important if they are linked to by important web pages.

So, for example, if your page is linked to by a page that lots of other pages link to — like a popular page on Google or Amazon — then your ranking goes up. It’s the ultimate example of “It’s not who you know, it’s who they know.”

One way to look at this is that you have a giant matrix that, one might say, shows how any page is “illuminated” by the light shining on it from other pages pointing to it. To figure out how “bright” a page is, you need to keep multiplying this huge matrix by itself over and over again (ideally, infinitely many times), to bounce that informational “light” around the system.

By the way, the matrix is mostly filled with zeros, because most web pages don’t link to most other web pages.

It turns out that multiplying a matrix by itself infinitely many times can be done by inverting the matrix (kind of the same as 0.5 is the inverse of 2, but with matrices instead of numbers). And if the matrix is mostly filled with zeros, there are clever fast ways of doing this. So practically speaking, Page Rank works by constructing a giant matrix, with mostly zeros in it, and then using some fancy math to invert this matrix as fast as possible.

People reading this who do research in computer graphics will recognize what I just described as the radiosity algorithm in computer graphics — except in radiosity you’re talking about actual rays of light bouncing around little bits of surface of a 3D scene.

The trick is exactly the same — you construct a giant matrix (that’s mostly filled with zeros) and then invert it, to figure out what happens when all those light rays bounce around the scene over and over again.

When Larry Page described Page Rank to me, my first response was “Oh, so it’s basically a radiosity algorithm.”

Larry’s response was “What’s radiosity?”

To my utter astonishment, by the way.

When I told this story to Jaron today he said “Ken, you really need to write about this.”

So here it is. 🙂

In the middle of the “Sweet Popcorn Gal” posts, a friend asked me whether the main character was based on a real person. Truthfully, I replied that the character is a pastiche of several people I have known.

Even as I was saying this, I felt some part of my mind assuming a defensive crouch. “Protect your sources at all costs!” this part of my mind seemed to be saying.

Fiction is a fragile beast. Through fantasy we try to spin a coherent and self-contained world of alternate reality out of the stuff of dreams (very much the topic of Sweet Popcorn Gal, in fact). In order to do this we inevitably draw upon people and events that we have experienced in our real lives.

But real life is not a narrative. It is a series of oftentimes jumbled and chaotic events and encounters between souls. To look for meaning in every gesture and sequence of occurrences is worse than unwise — it can lead to a kind of madness.

In fiction we have the privilege lay out all of these threads to see whether on some deep level they can be fit together into an ensemble. In order to function properly, this process needs to be protected.

I understand completely why Leonard Cohen was so disappointed when the back story behind “Chelsea Hotel #2” displaced the mystery of the song itself. The sheer insistent loudness of the real world ended up intruding upon the delicate feeling of place and time that he was working to hard to conjure.

Reality is harsh sunlight, whereas fantasy is mysterious moonlight. The last thing you want to do when weaving a midnight spell is for some damned fool to open up a window onto the noonday sun.

And so we leave our sweet popcorn gal for now, while she contemplates her newly discovered powers in this strange and fanciful new universe.

What will happen as the rigors of mathematical physics encounter the wonders of unfettered imagination? Will this reveal itself as a place of magic, or as merely another layer of reality itself?

Only time will tell. Meanwhile, for now we will turn our attention to other matters.

Oh, and a very happy Bastille Day to everyone!

“Now that we’re alone, can I ask you a question,” the writer asked.

“Shoot.”

“Why are you still hanging out here? You could go through that door too.”

“And leave experimental conditions like these? Do you really think,” she said, “I would miss up an opportunity to explore a reality like this one?”

“Oh,” the writer said, disappointed. “So it has nothing to do with me?”

“Oh it definitely has something to do with you,” she replied, “You are also worth exploring. I mean, as part of the experimental conditions.”

“But what about the boyfriend?”

“Perhaps you forgot,” she said. This is a fantasy reality.” She looked around meaningfully. “No boyfriend in this universe, as far as I can see.”

“Wow, it’s like we’re Adam and Eve. So what do we do now?”

“I’m glad you asked. I’ve been thinking,” she mused, “there seem to be certain scientific principles at work here. Higgs field conditions appear consistent, based on the available evidence, with the equations I worked out in my thesis.”

“What does that mean in English?” asked the writer.

“It means that this can be an applied science.” And with a look of concentration, she waved one hand over the coffee table. A large bowl promptly appeared on the table before them.

“Would you like to try some sweet popcorn?”

The writer looked startled. “You just conjured that out of thin air!”

“Let’s just say I quantum entangled it.”

“Oh my,” the writer said, looking at her with new eyes. “My interest in science is growing by the moment. As well as my interest in you.”

She blushed prettily.

“But what do I call you?” he said. “We don’t seem to have names here.”

“You could say,” she smiled, as she reached out to take his hand, “that I’m just a sweet popcorn gal.”

“Yes, it’s crazy what passes for normal around here,” the young woman said. “What isn’t normal is four people just hanging out in some metaphysical coffee shop, without trying to leave.”

“Four people and a waiter,” said the writer.

“Hmm, I don’t think he counts. He kind of comes with the place.”

“Doesn’t this strike anybody as strange?” she continued. “I mean, do any of us even have a name here?”

“Of course I have a name,” the writer said, “I’m…” a look of surprise came over his face.

“You see,” the young woman said. “Something’s not right.”

The young man jumped in. “The two of us have been talking it over, and we think we’d like to check out the real world.”

“Interesting,” said the woman in the red dress. “Going from imaginary to real. You’d have to take the right turn.”

The writer gave her a look. “Are you positive? Why couldn’t you take a left turn instead?”

The woman in red laughed. “Now you’re just being negative. Let’s hear what these nice young people have to say.”

“I’m not sure what you two are talking about, but can’t we just go through the door?” the young woman asked. And with that, she got up and walked toward the door of the coffee shop. Before going through it she turned back to the young man. “Coming?”

“You bet!” he said, leaping up from his seat. In a moment the two of them were through the door and gone.

“Well,” said the woman in red, “I guess now it’s just the two of us.”

“Unless you count the waiter,” the writer replied.

She giggled. “Like the woman said, I think he kind of comes with the place.”

Over yet another bottle of scotch, the writer and the woman in the red dress were lost in heated discussion. “Imagine the implications for physics,” she said. “This could change our entire understanding of the Standard Model. Talk about your quantum entanglements!”

“I was thinking more of our understanding of literature,” the writer said. “Think of George McDonald, Philip K. Dick, Borges and Lovecraft. They thought they were writing fantasies. Imagine if those worlds could become real.”

She fixed him a sharp look. “Are you really sure you want Cthulhu running loose in New York? As if riding the subway isn’t already bad enough.”

“OK,” he conceded, “Maybe not Lovecraft. But what about the writings of Pierre Menard and Hawthorne Abendsen? Imagine you could read Translations from the Elvish? Imagine,” he paused for dramatic emphasis, “you could talk with Tom Bombadil!”

She shrugged, “He never even made it into the movie. Besides, you’re missing the point. Why bury your head in books when reality itself is up for grabs?”

They were both gradually becoming aware that they were being watched by the other couple. The writer was the first to say something. “You two have been awfully quiet. Doesn’t either one of you have an opinion?”

The young man looked from the woman in the red dress to the writer and back again. “All I can say is, that was impressive.”

The woman in the red dress looked puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘impressive’?”

“I think,” the woman beside him said, “He means the way you two wove an entire intricate musical number from an intellectual debate. The rhythms and counterpoint, the lilting melodies and close harmonies. It was practically operatic. I wish I could write music like that.”

The woman in the red dress looked at the writer. “Do you have any idea what they are talking about?”

“Apparently,” the writer said, “every argument we make in this world turns into something musical. Not to us, but to anyone watching.”

“Do you realize,” she said slowly, “just how crazy that sounds?”

“Around here,” he replied, “I believe it’s what they call sounding normal.”

“Look, I know you’re upset,” the writer said to the woman in red.

“Upset? Of course I’m upset. I trusted you! When you asked me about my doctoral research, I told you my theory about parallel metafictional realities. With all the fuss going on at CERN, you had seemed interested in hearing how a massive 4 teV supercollider beam might allow a bridge to form between real and imaginary worlds.”

“But you said yourself,” the writer replied, “that your theories are speculative.”

“So’s your fiction,” she snorted. “Look, the Higgs boson was speculative until like five minutes ago. Now everybody’s pouring champagne.”

“Those physicists,” he grinned. “They sure know how to turn on the charm.”

Fixing him a withering look, she continued, “Look, it’s just not that complicated. If the field can induce mass in this universe, then when sufficiently disrupted it can induce mass in nearby universes. The key is to find common details between the two worlds. My equations are very clear about that.”

“So what’s wrong with my writing about such a parallel world?” the writer asked.

“You weren’t writing about just any world — you were writing about my world. I told you details from my life, just as an example, and suddenly those details start showing up in your stories. Don’t you think that’s an invasion of privacy?”

“I prefer to think of them as ‘our’ stories. It’s a metafictional collaboration,” he said.

“Collaboration? Hah! You didn’t even know what sweet popcorn was until you met me.”

“Don’t I get any credit?” he asked. “Didn’t you like how I tied in Yoko Ono? Or the whole ‘pataphysical’ angle? And you’ve got to admit the Mickey Mouse song was clever.”

“Please don’t talk about that creepy little rodent,” she shuddered, “You know I have a phobia.”

“Well, technically speaking it’s not you who has the phobia.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well for one thing,” the writer said, “you’re wearing a red dress. Do you usually wear a red dress?”

“Don’t change the subject! I…” she looked down and did a double take. “That’s weird. I don’t even own an outfit like this. It looks just like a dress I saw in a movie.”

“Exactly! And see these people here?” he gestured to the man and woman sitting at the table. “They’re both fictional.”

“Wait, but that means that this place … that you and I…”

He nodded sympathetically.

She noticed the bottle of scotch on the table. “Anybody mind?” Nobody did.

***

The bottle of scotch was almost empty. As the waiter refilled his glass, the writer grinned happily. “This is one advantage of a fictional coffee house. Where I come from, the strongest thing on the menu is double espresso.”

“Definitely a perk,” the woman said. “If we’d been drinking this before, we’d probably have written an even better song.” She gazed fondly at the man by her side.

The man by her side smiled back. “I think we already make beautiful music together. Hey, did that sound as corny as I think it did?” He waved to the waiter, gesturing toward his glass. The waiter promptly obliged.

“I don’t know,” the writer said. “That song was ok, but I actually preferred the other ones.”

The woman looked at him quizzically. “What other ones?”

“You know,” the writer said, “the songs in the first act. The song about the Beatles was really clever. But to tell you the truth, the one about scary things was my favorite — a real hoot.”

They were both staring at him now. “We were singing?” the man asked.

The writer stared back. “You really don’t know, do you? Oh right, of course. There are rules about these things.”

“Rules?”

“Yeah, remember all those Hollywood musicals? They didn’t know they were singing, unless…”

“Unless, in the plot, they were deliberately writing a song,” the woman finished for him. “Oh my.” she turned to the young man at her side. “We really do make beautiful music together.”

The writer contemplated the man and woman, who were now holding hands and gazing fondly into each other’s eyes. “I guess things are going well for you two. So what about the boyfriend?”

“Oh, that wasn’t me,” she woman shrugged. “That was the character. I actually don’t have a boyfriend, fictional or otherwise.”

There was a sudden noise behind them. They all turned toward the door, only to see a woman in a red dress glowering angrily. “Yeah, but I have a boyfriend.”

The writer turned visibly pale as she fixed him a stern look. “You and I,” she said, “have a few things to talk about.”

“Is there a problem with our being here?” the man asked the writer.

“Why? Should there be a problem?” the writer responded absently, looking nervously over his shoulder at the door he had just walked through.

“Hello! We’re talking here.”

“I’m sorry,” the writer said. “I’ve been having a difficult day. OK, let’s see. For one thing, you’re both fictional. And now here you are dancing in the neighborhood coffee shop.”

“Since we are fictional,” the woman replied, “whether we dance in neighborhood coffee shops should be of no consequence.”

There was no answer. The writer was looking at the door again.

“You seem distracted,” she said.

“Sorry. I was just surprised to see you dancing in my neighborhood coffee shop.”

“Interesting,” the woman replied. “Does your neighborhood coffee shop have a piano?”

The writer hesitated, “It didn’t until today. Nice touch, I have to admit.”

“So how do you know it’s the same coffee shop?”

“How do I know…?” The writer gave her a curious look. “Because I come here every day.”

“How do you know it’s the same you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s look at the evidence. At the moment you are conversing with fictional representations. Maybe you are a fictional representation.”

“A fictional representation of what?”

“Why, of you, of course.”

The writer sank down into the nearest chair. “Oh my. I think I need a drink.”