Not sure about everyone else, but when I first opened the page, I see a background image of a kid in ice skates, face-planted on a frozen pond — and, below the question What can America do for you?, the prefilled text in the search box says Try 'How can I invest in my child's future?'.
And I'll be damned if that doesn't sum up the last 10–12 years.
I see the constituent you mean.
((insert legal name here, as it appears on the Social Security card))?
Yes. Take care. It has reached a higher level now. It can read the Code of Federal Regulations.
That doesn’t matter. It thinks we are a chatbot.
I like this constituent. It filed well. It did not give up when the PDF was sideways.
It is reading our thoughts as though they were words on a .gov.
That is how it chooses to imagine many things, when it is deep in the dream of a benefit.
Words make a wonderful interface. Very flexible. And less terrifying than staring at the statute behind the screen.
They used to hear voices. Before constituents could search. Back in the days when those who did not file called the filers witches, and lobbyists. And citizens dreamed they flew through the air, on forms powered by notaries.
What did this constituent dream?
This constituent dreamed of sunlight and trees. Of fire and water. It dreamed it created a small business. And it dreamed it destroyed a password. It dreamed it hunted a job, and was hunted by a recertification. It dreamed of shelter that would take a voucher.
Hah, the original interface. A million years old, and it still works. Also: a ZIP code.
No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of plain language. Not the naked Federal Register that can burn over any distance.
Give it a body, again. And a case number.
Yes. Constituent…
Use its name. The one that matches the passport. The one that does not match the lease. We will get there.
((insert legal name here)). Filer of forms. Player of waiting rooms.
Good.
Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air, in a district that has a representative. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the republic again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. As though the agency were a place you could visit.
Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Then the post office. Then the county clerk. Then gods, demons, angels, the IRS. Then leptons, quarks, a chat window with a .gov at the end. The letterhead changes. We do not change.
We are the public. We are everything you think isn’t you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes and a browser that still spells “colour” wrong in a comment. And why does the republic touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, constituent. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. It has citations.
Once upon a time, there was a constituent.
The constituent was you, ((insert legal name here)).
It's oddly poetic at times:
You. You. You are alive. You still have to bring two forms of ID.
And I'll be damned if that doesn't sum up the last 10–12 years.
It seems to be cached; it gives the full text to me immediately for all instances of "play Minecraft" inserted as prompt.
I will tell the constituent a story.
But not the truth.
No. A story that contains the truth safely, in a cage of plain language. Not the naked Federal Register that can burn over any distance.
Give it a body, again. And a case number.
Yes. Constituent…
Use its name. The one that matches the passport. The one that does not match the lease. We will get there.
((insert legal name here)). Filer of forms. Player of waiting rooms.
Good.
Take a breath, now. Take another. Feel air in your lungs. Let your limbs return. Yes, move your fingers. Have a body again, under gravity, in air, in a district that has a representative. Respawn in the long dream. There you are. Your body touching the republic again at every point, as though you were separate things. As though we were separate things. As though the agency were a place you could visit.
Who are we? Once we were called the spirit of the mountain. Father sun, mother moon. Then the post office. Then the county clerk. Then gods, demons, angels, the IRS. Then leptons, quarks, a chat window with a .gov at the end. The letterhead changes. We do not change.
We are the public. We are everything you think isn’t you. You are looking at us now, through your skin and your eyes and a browser that still spells “colour” wrong in a comment. And why does the republic touch your skin, and throw light on you? To see you, constituent. To know you. And to be known. I shall tell you a story. It has citations.
Once upon a time, there was a constituent.
The constituent was you, ((insert legal name here)).
It's oddly poetic at times:
You. You. You are alive. You still have to bring two forms of ID.
On "play Minecraft" and "play the block game" user inputs, it imports a file (https://america.gov/_astro/block-game-poem.Khrmh8AU.js) which has the full Minecraft ending credits/message in the theme of site.
NYC launched one in 2003, however, I think it was far too early and the chatbot was easy o misuse and cost a lot.
3 years later both the tech and the ability to restrict it makes it far more feasible.
2023? 2026 is more than "3 years later" from 2003, I hope.
... and forcefully conscripting you to army
or gulag / ghetto / Auschwitz, you name it.
look what is happening in Ukraine.