Seth Nickell

So in case you haven’t telepathically inferred the life details I’ve neglected blogging about, I’m a visiting researcher at PARC (the artist formely known as Xerox PARC) for the time being. I know, I know: “Hey ya damn hippie, go get a real job”. “Shoophlah!”, I say, “Research does wonders for the soul. Oh you greenback grubbing capitalists, my academic heart sheds crocodile tears for you, ensnared by tales of pleasure, power, and fame into its endless pursuit. Just because a week of my labours costs The Man less than a day of yours doesn’t mean that….Look here, I don’t have time for this, I need to be working on my grant proposal.”

Aaaaanyway, this is all well and good. But for the first time in a long time I’m working under s33kretive conditions wherein I can’t talk about how I spend a sizable chunk of my time. What a strange symptom of the information economy (I would say “information age” save that I fear the outpouring of mob justice that would most assuredly stem from the utterance of such a clich&Aelig;?. Um, where was I?).

Millions of people are asked to compartmentalize a major piece of their time, of their life: their work. Knowledge of our own activities becomes intricately intertwined with the secrets of the corporation, and so itself becomes the property of the corporation. It is no longer mine to blog about, it is owned by PARC. Now it is one thing to have a few secrets… even secrets you hold for employer’s sake. But it is a strange thing indeed to not even be able to disclose the topic (let alone the details) of the cause of so much pre-occupation on your part…

So instead of ramblings, you get meta-ramblings. Ramblings about why I cannot ramble. Be content, dear child, with the bread crumbs.