My Superstruct Story
What can I say about my circumstances, that might not be outdated before the knowledge can be applied? Constant change is the new normality.
I live in a modest basement flat, in someone else's home. In the suburbs. Just outside a major city. In America.
(What's that you say? ... on Earth, of course. Very cute, but the year is 2019, not 2091. I turned forty-five in June, and I do not expect to leave this planet.)
I don't know how long I'll be living there. My furniture has built-in handles. My vehicle is far too tiny to be a recreational vehicle, but its storage is ingeniously set up so I can couch-surf from whatever home it's parked near. I have a personal P.O. box. I have carried a catalog case wherever I go, for decades.
I'm eating dinner at a coffee shop. While eating, I am staring at a napkin, on which I browse for a capacious and nimble suitcase-robot that I cannot afford.
The coffee shop can afford disposable advertising-supported computer napkins, but cannot afford a good cook. Dinner is a pile of meat pieces on a soggy bun, only remotely associated to each other and attempting to escape. It occurs to me that "Small pieces, loosely joined" works better in contexts other than sandwiches. That'll teach me to order what's on special. At least the latte is good, but I could have made it at home. Or in my car.
I am a small piece, loosely joined. My card bears only my name and, instead of a company or job description, the URI to my node on the Social Graph. That's where I record my affiliations from day-to-day, week-to-week. I'd get my business cards as e-ink screens, but I think the scrolling feed is annoying on a small card. Let them wave my URI and they'll have it in their format of choice-- but now I'm rambling. It's time to give up on this sandwich. I reach for a napkin to wipe off its remains.
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