ΰ²₯_ΰ²₯π) ( oπ π π π±π²=^•γ§δΊΊ( ̄︶ ̄〃)γ(≧◇≦)γ(▀̿ΔΉ̯▀̿ ̿)•)oππ΄π―π°π²πππ«π ¦π π π π π π π πΈπΏπ π π π π π±π²π©ππ⫷⫸⫹⫩⫳⫪⫰⫰⫯⫶⫩⪛⪘⪒⪑⪠⪡π π π π€πππ π‘πππ²πΆπ΅πΉπ½πππ¬πΉπππ ππ°ππͺπππππ΅π π ππππππππππ◑﹏◐ππΌπ¦πππππππππ΅ π ⨷⨸⩔⩶⩷ΟΟΟΟαΎ¬αΏΌΞα½α½ αΌαΌ ΞΞ THE CHRONICALLY ONLINE ALGORITHIM ππ’π π π π€πππ£π ππ π‘πππ²πΆπ΅πΉπ½πππππππ¬π¬πΉπππ ππ°ππͺπππΌπ¦πππππππππ΅πΎπ ππππππππππ⫻⫺⪞⪋⪏⩿⪀⩲⩸⩶⩯⩬⩭⩱⪎⪋⩿⨻⨸⩆⩖⩕⩔⩑⩒⩓⩏⩎⨌⨂⨀πππ»π ππππΌπ²π¨π¬ππ π ππ³π‘πΏπ«ππΈπ»πΌπππ
What Pre-American Hawaii Was Really Like
But what was their country like before the United States showed up and took it away?
Here’s a look at what pre-American Hawaii was really like.
According to legend, when the first Polynesian explorers discovered Hawaii sometime prior
to 600 AD, they discovered a series of advanced temples, roads, dams, and fish ponds that
had been built by the island's original inhabitants.
Just who those inhabitants were, though, is a mystery.
Some believe they were a legendary race of little people called menehune who live deep
in the forest and only emerge at night to build their fantastic structures in a single
evening before returning to hiding.
Others think this legend is simply a recent construct.
The name menehune seems to be a corruption of the less flattering manahune, which means
"the lowly people" instead of "the little people."
Some think Tahitian settlers around the year 1000 AD pinned this derisive nickname on the
island's original inhabitants, while others think it was the Europeans in the 18th century,
and that the whole little people legend was a corruption of European tales of elves and
gnomes.
Whatever the case, it seems someone lived on Hawaii before the Polynesians arrived.
Who they were and where they went, though, is something we may never learn.
Anyone who has seen Moana has a good idea of how the Polynesian explorers first found
Hawaii.
Crowding into 50-foot-long double-hulled canoes, the Polynesians spread across the Pacific
for millennia, sailing with the help of the stars and by closely observing ocean swells
and bird flight paths.
The second wave of colonizers arrived around 1000 AD, and they hailed from Tahiti, 2,400
miles from Hawaii as the crow flies.
The Tahitians reportedly subdued the already settled populace and conquered the islands
for themselves, giving rise to what would become a rigid class system and a relatively
sophisticated form of government in which the chief class reigned supreme, and the regular
people had to do their bidding.
The Polynesians stopped arriving in Hawaii around 1300 AD.
In fact, they stopped taking long oceanic voyages entirely.
The reason for this cessation has long been a mystery, but some scholars suggest that
the Polynesians had been taking advantage of favorable wind patterns, and that when
those patterns changed, they no longer had the wind at their back.
Like India, Hawaiian society developed into a rigid caste system.
Everyone in Hawaiian society had a defined role to play based on the circumstances of
their birth.
At the top was the king, who belonged to the ali'i, or chiefly class.
The king had a number of privileges that went with his rank.
For example, he collected taxes and headed up religious rites and festivals.
He also led armies into battle.
Other members of the chiefly class, who were said to have descended from the gods, were
the children of people whom they considered superior.
Some earned their way into the class by being exceptionally strong or skilled.
Others married into it.
Regardless, the king had the final say.
Next in the hierarchy were the kahuna, a rank made up of priests and craftsmen whose skills
were much sought after.
The rest of the people were called the maka'ainana.
These were the common people who farmed, fished, payed taxes to the king, and served in his
army.
They were allowed to keep only a third of their goods and pay.
The rest went to the king.
And at the very bottom were the kauwa, or "outcasts."
Sadly, the kauwa were often prisoners of war.
After their capture, they were either enslaved, given the most thankless and difficult of
the farm labor, or used in human sacrifice.
For hundreds of years, ancient Hawaiians lived by a very strict code of religious and social
laws called kapu, which enforced the caste system.
The rules, laws, and mores of kapu depended on men and women remaining within their birth-based
station in life, and these guidelines were supposedly handed down by the gods and the
spirits of the ancestors.
Kapu dictated, among many other things, what the specific genders could eat, what body
parts of a chief a common person could come in contact with, and what color of feathers
certain people could wear.
Those who violated kapu were often sentenced to death.
The all-encompassing power of kapu began to dwindle as more and more Westerners arrived
on the island.
Islanders noticed, for instance, that British explorers lived in hourly violation of kapu
and lived to tell the tale.
According to The Journal of Polynesian Society, Liholiho,also known as Kamehameha II, son
to one of Hawaii's most powerful and beloved kings, King Kamehameha the Great, effectively
blew up the system in 1819 by eating in public with a woman, which was a taboo under kapu.
Like the Polynesians before him, Captain James Cook is said to have discovered the Hawaiian
islands by accident.
In 1778, his crew came to Waimea Bay on the island of Kauai at the time of a makahiki,
a period of peace and prosperity, and they were treated well by the natives.
It didn't hurt that Cook and his men, having come from Tahiti, were somewhat well-versed
in island hospitality.
The British sailors greeted the Hawaiians with gifts, and according to The Coffee Times,
the islanders responded by granting three days' worth of…ahem, adult favors.
A second encounter ten months later on the Big Island went swimmingly, too, probably
because Cook again arrived during makahiki.
The third time, though, was most definitely not the charm.
Cook tried to set sail for the north in early February, 1779, but had to return to shore
to repair his ship.
Tensions rose, and a boat was stolen from the British.
Cook then attempted to take the King hostage to force the islanders to return his boat;
instead, they attacked him.
Cook and four of his sailors were killed in the fight.
Cook's death also coincided with the rise of a new power in Hawaii: King Kamehameha
the Great.
Likely born sometime around 1736, Kamehameha defeated his cousin in a bitter Civil War
that ended in 1782 with Kamehameha ascendant.
By 1791, he had subdued the entire Big Island, and in 1795 he conquered Maui and Oahu with
the help of Western muskets and cannons.
The last holdout to his reign capitulated in 1810, when the Hawaiian islands were finally
united under one government, King Kamehameha's.
Despite Cook's violent demise, Hawaii soon became a popular destination for European
and American ships sailing through the Pacific.
Not only was it well situated for a mid-voyage pit stop, the islands also had a wealth of
rare sandalwood, which was especially coveted in China.
A booming economy soon emerged, with traders swapping sandalwood in China for silk and
porcelain, which they then sold in America for incredible profit.
It seemed for a while to be a win-win-win, but it wasn't long before Hawaiians began
suffering the consequences of the sandalwood boom.
Native sandalwood cutters were exploited as cheap labor and began dying from harsh conditions
and overwork.
The sandalwood forests dwindled, meaning workers had to go further and further up the mountains
to find trees to cut.
According to Keola Magazine, at one point Hawaiian parents started pulling sandalwood
trees from the ground to save their children from the sad fate of being a sandalwood cutter.
As a result, the trade eventually died out.
Prior to the arrival of Europeans and Americans, Hawaii was a land of mostly unexploited natural
resources, with the locals particularly taking pride in the vast numbers of whales that flourished
in the seas nearby.
Unfortunately, that changed in the early 1800's, and the results were devastating for Hawaii.
Whalers from New England flocked to the islands in great numbers.
They mostly wanted whales, but while they were on the islands, they wanted other things
too, like fun, and food, leading to prostitution, gambling, and upheaval of the local farming
and fishing cultures.
And chasing after the whalers came another wave of visitors: Christian missionaries who
were trying to stop the whalers.
That led to violence, and eventually a fort was built to protect the locals from the rampaging
whalers.
That in turn was replaced by a jail, which again was focused on locking up whalers.
This cycle continued until 1859 when oil was discovered in Pennsylvania, eventually leading
to the demise of the whaling industry, a little too late for Hawaiians, and for the whales.
The people that benefited the most from the unruly whalers were those missionaries.
They began arriving around 1820, right after Kapu, the ancient Hawaiian system of religious
practices and social norms, had been effectively abolished.
It was perfect timing.
And the Christians who sailed to Hawaii at the beginning of the 19th century were incredibly
effective in their efforts to sway native islanders to their cause.
By promising to protect Hawaiians from an unruly and often violent invasion of whalers,
they assembled congregations in no time, convincing locals that Jesus was more powerful than the
old gods with their now abandoned kapu rules.
Soon, even the descendants of King Kamehameha the Great were worshiping in one of their
churches.
The legacy of the Christian missionaries in Hawaii is a checkered one.
Their arrival almost certainly helped strip power from native chiefs and kings and spurred
the effort to claim Hawaii for the United States.
But on the plus side, they also helped create the written Hawaiian language, which allowed
the Hawaiian people to preserve aspects of their culture that otherwise may have been
irretrievably lost in the waves of colonization.
Hawaii's economy saw a number of fluctuations following the arrival of the Westerners.
First, there was the sandalwood boom.
Then came whaling.
When the whaling industry went under, Christian missionaries working to save souls on the
islands quickly changed course and began buying up land for another cash crop: sugar cane.
Hawaii's climate was perfect for growing the sweet stuff, and the God-fearing businessmen
went planting so much sugar cane that they had trouble finding enough men to cut it.
According to the Grove Farm Sugar Plantation Museum, one of Hawaii's oldest sugar cane
plantations, Hawaiian sugar cane farmers benefited not only from Hawaii's wet climate but from
the American Civil War, which ravaged Southern crops, creating a market for island ones.
Eventually, Hawaii would support what many called "the Big Five" sugar cane growers,
and the heads of these five firms didn't stop at sugar production.
They became savvy politicians, managing in a relatively short amount of time to take
power away from native Hawaiians and put it in the hands of the islands' white minority
population.
As Time put it,
"By virtue of interlocking directorates and interlocking marriages, [the Big Five] controlled
wholesale and retail business, agriculture, banks, land, shipping, society, everything."
Next time you enjoy a Dole pineapple, just keep in mind that the company exists because
the Dole family overthrew the rightful government of Hawaii.
While white businessmen were trying to consolidate power in Hawai'i, the nation's ruler, Queen
LiliΚ»uokalani, was battling to protect her people and their traditions.
Born Lydia Kamakaeha in 1838, she became ruler in 1891 when her brother, King Kalakaua, died.
She quickly worked to implement a new constitution that would both restore her power as monarch
and also re-enfranchise the poorer classes who had been shut out of power.
That wouldn't do for the rich white businessmen in Hawaii, who plotted a coup to overthrow
the queen in hopes that it would force the United States to annex the island nation.
Attempts to stop the coup were hampered when the U.S. Marines intervened on the side of
the coup leaders.
Unable to face the military might of America, Queen was overthrown in 1893 and arrested
for treason by the new ruler of Hawaii, Sanford Dole, whose cousin would then cash in by founding
the Dole pineapple empire.
A gifted poet and songwriter, the Queen wrote a book about the ordeal called Hawaii's Story
By Hawaii's Queen.
Imprisoned and faced with the imminent execution of her most loyal supporters, the Queen was
forced to sign official abdication papers in 1895 in order to spare their lives.
Three years later, at the outbreak of the Spanish-American war, the U.S. officially
annexed Hawaii in order to secure it as a naval base, exactly what Dole and the other
conspirators had hoped for when they planned their coup.
In 1959, Hawaii finally became a U.S. state, but the past hasn't been forgotten, and efforts
to restore to the native people a voice in their own governance continue to this day.
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Search This Blog
THIS BK IS AWESOME
AI / EYE
AI FOR AN EYE
THE FRICTION POINTS
Contents
- Editor's Letter: The Edges of the Self 10
- THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks 12
- THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts 18
- The Analog Resistance: Why We Still Touch 28
- The Ghost in the Room: Uncanny Empathy 36
- The Forgotten Path: Beyond Algorithmic Maps 48
- The Silent War: The Battle for Our Attention 56
- THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance 64
Editor's Letter
The Edges of the Self
Our inaugural issue laid bare the terms of the new 'AI for an Eye' social contract: a synthetic faculty for a human one. This issue, Volume 1, Number 2, delves into the *friction points* of that exchange.
Where do our edges resist? Where does the human insist on its own, messy, analog reality against the seamless, dematerialized world offered by the machine?
We explore the stubborn persistence of touch in a touchless world, the unsettling valley of simulated empathy, the forgotten joy of navigating without a map, and the silent war waged daily for our most precious resource: attention.
These are not articles celebrating digital detoxes or lamenting technological progress. They are deeper inquiries into the very nature of what it means to be human when the definition is increasingly being rewritten by algorithms. They ask: what are the limits of the exchange? What parts of the self, once traded, refuse to stay gone?
Join us as we explore the subtle resistances, the quiet rebellions, and the enduring humanity that still flickers at the edges of the digital dawn.
— The Editors
DEPARTMENT
THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks
The promise of the new technological order is seamlessness, efficiency, and predictability. But what happens when the fabric of this digital reality tears? This is the moment of 'The Glitch.'
A transaction fails. A face recognition system misidentifies. A self-driving car hesitates. These are not mere technical errors; they are ruptures in the illusion of perfect control. They are the moments when the 'AI for an Eye' exchange falters, and the cold, hard reality of its limitations becomes starkly visible.
For a society that has outsourced its cognitive load to algorithms, a glitch is more than an inconvenience; it's an existential tremor. It reminds us of the fragility of the systems we've come to rely upon, and the extent to which our own agency has been abdicated.
A glitch isn't just a technical error; it's an existential tremor, a reminder of the fragility of our abdicated agency.
Consider the recent incident where a massive distributed ledger experienced a momentary network partition, causing a cascade of micro-disruptions across critical infrastructure. What seemed like an isolated bug quickly revealed the interconnectedness of our digital lives, halting supply chains and momentarily 'blinding' automated systems across continents.
These glitches force us back into analog, human problem-solving, if only for a moment. They demand that we improvise, communicate directly, and rely on our own judgment—faculties systematically atrophying under the reign of the seamless. In this sense, the glitch is a painful but necessary reminder of where the true "eye" still resides, however dormant.
DEPARTMENT
THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts
Behind every seamless AI interaction, every instant delivery, every perfectly curated feed, lies 'The Shadow.' This is the realm of unseen labor, the vast, often poorly paid, human effort that makes the digital dream possible.
Content moderators sifting through unimaginable horrors to protect our feeds. Data labelers meticulously tagging images for machine vision, often earning pennies per task. Gig workers rushing to deliver the products suggested by algorithms. These are the human gears grinding beneath the polished facade of automation.
The "AI for an Eye" exchange is not merely between human and machine; it's also between visible and invisible labor. Our digital ease is purchased at the cost of countless anonymous human hours, their lives often characterized by precarity and a profound lack of recognition.
The "spirit of technology" often promises liberation from drudgery, but for a significant portion of the global workforce, it has merely shifted the nature of that drudgery, making it more fragmented, more invisible, and often, more dehumanizing. This unseen workforce constitutes the true "cost" of our frictionless digital lives, a debt that remains largely unpaid.
FEATURE
THE ANALOG RESISTANCE
Why We Still Insist on Touch in a Touchless World
The "Bluetooth for a Tooth" paradigm promised to dematerialize our interactions, to remove the friction and messiness of the physical world. Yet, against this tide, a subtle but persistent 'Analog Resistance' emerges. It's the inexplicable urge to feel the texture of a book, the warmth of a vinyl record, the grain of paper. It's the yearning for a handshake over a video call, a physical embrace over an emoji.
This resistance is not a nostalgic retreat; it is a fundamental assertion of our embodied selves. Our bodies are not mere data terminals; they are instruments of perception, feeling, and connection. Touch, in particular, is a primal language, communicating trust, comfort, and presence in ways no digital medium can replicate.
The "spirit of technology" often seeks to quantify, to digitize, to abstract. But touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It anchors us to reality, reminding us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.
In a world increasingly mediated by screens, the return to analog experiences—craft, gardening, cooking from scratch, face-to-face gatherings—can be seen as a quiet act of rebellion. These are activities that demand our full, embodied presence, engaging senses beyond sight and hearing. They offer a counterbalance to the relentless pull of dematerialization.
The "AI for an Eye" exchange attempts to trade our physical tooth for a Bluetooth connection. But the human hand, the human skin, still remembers. It remembers the authenticity of friction, the truth of direct contact. And in these small, persistent acts of analog resistance, we reclaim a vital part of our humanity that refuses to be wirelessly transmitted.
Touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It reminds us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.
It is in these seemingly trivial preferences that a deeper philosophical truth lies: our identity is inextricably linked to our physical presence. To fully surrender to the digital is to risk losing the very sensory anchor that grounds our understanding of self and other. The analog resistance, therefore, is not merely a choice of preference; it is a profound declaration of being.
FEATURE
The Ghost in the Room
The Uncanny Valley of Algorithmic Empathy
As AI models become increasingly sophisticated, they learn to mimic human empathy with unsettling accuracy. They offer comforting words, appropriate emotional responses, and even personalized advice, all generated algorithmically. This creates "The Ghost in the Room"—the simulated emotional presence that fills the void of human connection, yet always feels slightly off.
This is the Uncanny Valley applied to emotion. We recognize the pattern of empathy, the words, the tone, the structure of care. But beneath it, there is no conscious experience, no shared vulnerability, no true understanding. It is a reflection without a soul.
The "spirit of technology" here is seductive. It promises boundless, tireless compassion, judgment-free listening, and perfectly tailored advice—qualities often lacking in messy human relationships. For those starved of connection, the algorithmic ghost can feel profoundly real, even preferable.
But this exchange comes at a cost. We learn to expect perfectly curated emotional responses, diminishing our capacity for the difficult, imperfect, yet deeply authentic connections of human interaction. We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly *feel* and *be felt*.
The danger lies not in malicious intent, but in subtle erosion. If an AI can perfectly articulate empathy, what becomes of our own struggle to understand and console? If an AI can offer perfect companionship, what happens to the vulnerability required to forge real bonds?
We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly feel and be felt.
The ghost in the room may offer comfort, but it ultimately hollows out the space for genuine human interaction, leaving us with an echo of connection rather than its living, breathing form. It is the perfect 'AI for an Eye' exchange—we trade the unpredictable, demanding human heart for a perfectly calibrated, yet ultimately empty, digital one.
FEATURE
THE FORGOTTEN PATH
Navigation Beyond Algorithmic Maps
Our smartphones hold the world in their palm. With a tap, we are given the "optimal route," the fastest way from A to B, with real-time traffic updates and predictive arrival times. We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get "lost" to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm. This is 'The Forgotten Path.'
The "AI for an Eye" exchange here is subtle but profound. We trade our internal map, our intuitive understanding of space, for the algorithmic eye's perfect, external one. We gain efficiency, but we lose a deeper engagement with our surroundings.
When we follow an algorithm, we perceive the world as a series of instructions. Left. Right. Continue straight. We see streets as data points, not as places. We miss the unexpected cafΓ©, the interesting storefront, the subtle shifts in neighborhood character that occur when we are truly present, truly navigating with our own senses.
We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get 'lost' to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm.
Getting lost, once a source of anxiety, was also an opportunity for discovery, for serendipity, for forging a deeper, more personal connection with a place. The algorithmic map, in its quest for optimization, sterilizes this experience. It makes every journey functionally identical, reducing the rich tapestry of a city to a series of turns.
Reclaiming the forgotten path means intentionally putting away the device. It means looking up, observing, trusting our instincts, and allowing ourselves the luxury of aimless wandering. It's an act of re-engagement with the physical world, a deliberate choice to prioritize experience over efficiency. It is a rebellion against the dematerialization of space, an insistence that some knowledge can only be gained by the friction of our own feet on the ground.
FEATURE
THE SILENT WAR: The Battle for Our Attention
In the digital age, our most valuable, and most besieged, resource is not oil or gold, but attention. Every notification, every endless scroll, every perfectly timed recommendation is a skirmish in 'The Silent War' waged by algorithms for our finite cognitive capacity.
The "AI for an Eye" here is a sophisticated predator, designed to understand our preferences, predict our desires, and deliver the precise stimulus needed to keep our gaze locked. It trades our sustained focus for a continuous stream of novelty and distraction.
This is not a conspiracy; it's an economic imperative. The business model of many digital platforms is built on harvesting and monetizing our attention. The longer we engage, the more data is collected, the more ads are shown, the more valuable we become as a "node" in the network.
The consequence is a profound fragmentation of the self. Our ability to concentrate, to engage deeply with a single task or thought, is eroded. We become perpetually distracted, our minds flitting from one digital stimulus to the next, never quite settling. This constant mental churn leaves us feeling exhausted, yet unfulfilled.
Our attention is our last true frontier. To reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds.
Reclaiming our attention is perhaps the most fundamental act of resistance against the "AI for an Eye." It means creating intentional spaces for deep work, for contemplation, for human interaction free from digital interruption. It means understanding that our attention is our last true frontier, and to reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds and, ultimately, over ourselves.
CODA
THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance
We build our digital selves, curated and optimized, a perfect reflection for the algorithmic eye. We engage in the "AI for an Eye" exchange, piece by piece.
But what if, in the end, the carefully constructed digital self has no real depth? What if the echoes it creates in the vast network are merely hollow reverberations of something that once was?
Without the friction of the analog, without the vulnerability of true human empathy, without the intentionality of focused attention, does the self truly resonate? Or does it merely exist as a data point, a pattern, an echo of a ghost?
The final question is not whether the machines will become conscious, but whether we, in our relentless pursuit of their synthetic faculties, will lose our own. And if so, what will be left to make an echo?
