I've been thinking about edges lately -- about the places where dissimilar domains
meet and interact. You know how every now and then you come up with a new view on
things? A new model to try to fit the facts into, a new lens to use to examine the world,
a new pattern that you haven't noticed before but that suddenly seems pervasive? Edges
are like that right now for me. It seems that everywhere I look I see edges, and the edge
always seems to be where the action is.
I think it started in January, when I was called for jury duty. I was promptly selected
to serve on a long, complex, and sordid criminal trial. I've been called for jury duty
only once before, and that time the experience was short and dull. I did serve on two
juries, but neither trial lasted more than a couple of days, and they were both very
mundane. This time was decidedly different. There were 4 defendants, 53 separate
counts to decide, 3 different crime scenes, dozens of spent bullet casings and slugs and
shotgun waddings to keep track of, something like 14 police witnesses and 6 or 8
civilian witnesses, a two-inch thick stack of 8 by 10 color glossies, and lots more. The
whole adventure took nine weeks to play out. Yow.
The atmosphere in the courtroom spanned the full range of intensities. There was
plenty of plodding boredom: day after somnolent day of slow, thorough, painstaking
ballistics testimony, matching bullets to guns and mapping where they were found.
There was high drama: the tapes of the police transmissions during the chase and as the
final shootout began were filled with panic, screaming. There was humor: Helen in
chair 5 often started to fall asleep in the afternoons. The court reporter would see her
dropping off, make a little hissing noise, and Wes in chair 4 would surreptitiously
nudge Helen back to consciousness. We'd all grin.
But no matter what was happening at the moment, I found theprocess absolutely
riveting, from beginning to end. Here were the great and mighty wheels of justice in
America, slowly and ponderously turning, grinding away at the facts like so much dry
corn under a millstone. The courtroom is a place where politics actually collides
directly with people's lives, through the strange intervening filter called law. It's an
edge, an active boundary separating two domains, where work actually gets done.
I'm constantly drawn to active boundaries like that, places where two dynamic systems
collide and affect each other. Interfaces. Precipices. Limits. Edges. And they are
everywhere. In a previous column I pointed out an edge in the realm of language:
semantics, where a language's structure collides with meaning and where the real
work of the language -- creating meaning from abstract symbols -- gets done. In
biology, there are edges all over the place. An obvious and important one is the
semi-permeable membrane. It's the structure that allows life to create and control its
own environment, and it's arguably the single most important structure enabling
complex multicellular life to exist. Biologically active molecules are active because of
theirshape , their boundaries; proteins and enzymes work because they fit together
with complementary molecules. In philosophy there is the edge between self and
not-self, and teetering along this edge, hopping back and forth across it and trying to
look at it from all angles, is how the work of philosophy gets done. In physics, often the
edges are where the truly interesting -- and, not coincidentally, mathematically
intractable -- stuff happens. (In engineering school, an all-too-common phrase was
"ignore edge effects.")
All the exciting stuff seems to happen at edges. Large systems that incorporate feedback
often exhibit a behavior known as "self-organized criticality" in which they evolve
toward a critical state, an edge, and forevermore exist there, teetering on the
crumbling lip of stability. A great example is a conical pile of sand on a circular plate,
with grains being added to the top one at a time. Over time the overall shape of the pile
will change very little, but if you turn up the magnification and look closely at the side
of the pile, there are constant avalanches of all sizes, all extremely unpredictable and
chaotic. This is an interesting dual behavior: at one scale there is incredible
robustness; the overall shape of the pile is very stable and will always recover itself,
even if disturbed. But on a smaller scale, the scale of an individual grain on the side of
the pile, the dynamics are wildly unpredictable and incrediblyun stable. The pile is
poised at a limit, a dynamic balance between growth and decay.
An interesting thing is how many different varieties of dynamic systems seem to
exhibit this kind of behavior. The locations and magnitudes of earthquakes, fluctuations
in traffic flow, the rise and fall of economic markets, the rhythmic variations in a
heartbeat, the varying current through a resistor, and the population changes in an
ecosystem all exhibit dynamic characteristics similar to the sand pile, and this is not
an exhaustive list by any means. That state, pushed up against the edge of stability,
seems to be a natural one. Life itself appears to be delicately poised on the boundary
between order and chaos.
In computers (you knew I was going to get around to this eventually, didn't you?), as
in any complex system, there are lots of interesting edges and boundaries if you look
for them. Internally, there's the place where the software collides with the hardware;
sparks really fly down there, all right. Object- oriented programming is all about
repackaging the boundaries between and among data and functions. (A large part of good
object design is minimizing the "surface area" of your objects.) And then there's the
edge of the computer itself. And I don't mean the plastic or metal surface of the box, but
theexperiential boundary, the true edge between the machine and the user, the
interface. Here the animal collides with the machine, and the boundary between them
is infinitely convoluted, elastic, dynamic, and interesting.
For software designers, perhaps the most important lesson to be learned from the
edge-centric view is this: the shape of a boundary defines the shape of things onboth
sides of the boundary simultaneously. The boundary of my dog Natty defines not only
her own shape, but that of a Natty- shaped hole in the air as well. The edge between two
interlocking tiles in an Escher drawing defines the shape of both tiles at once. If the
edge in question is one we have control over, this can be very important.
By programming a computer we're not only shaping the machine; we're also shaping
the humans who use it. This is often overlooked, but is crucial to designing good
software; it needs tofit . Humans are incredibly adaptable, and will contort
themselves grotesquely to use awkward tools, if necessary. Like kids with their faces
squashed against the toy store window, computer users smash themselves up against
the interface -- even though it might hurt -- to get at what's inside.
But because of the chameleon-like nature of the computer, we have more or less total
control over the interface. So in principle we have the power to shape the computer to
the user, rather than the other way around. We should be able to make a truly
human-shaped dent in the computer, a dent people can slip into effortlessly and
comfortably, like slipping into a fuzzy slipper. It's incredibly hard work, shaping the
computer to the human, all that snipping and tucking and smoothing. It requires
constant readjustment, painstaking attention to detail, and massive amounts of
brute-force trial and error. But it'sgood work, some would say the work that humans
are best at: the shaping of tools.
So now here I am, seeing edges everywhere. Sigh. Last year it was basins of attraction,
this year it's edges, next year maybe it'll be networks of interconnections. But there's
one thing I can count on: every time I get tired of looking through one particular glass,
there will be another within reach. Humans have this uncanny ability to apply order
to everything they see, to perceive structure in everything around them. Our minds
seem to operate by forming and then reforming meaning, establishing and then
reestablishing context, constantly slipping and adjusting to accommodate the relentless
stream of input. Hmm. Just like that pile of sand.
DAVE JOHNSON likes to try to slip new words he's learned into casual conversations
without anyone really noticing. Two years ago he learned the word enantiomorph . As
you might imagine, he's still waiting for the right opening. *
Thanks to Jeff Barbose, Michael Clark, Michael Greenspon, Brian Hamlin, Mark
("The Red") Harlan, Bo3b Johnson, Lisa Jongewaard, and Ned van Alstyne for their
always enlightening review comments.*
Dave welcomes feedback on his musings. He can be reached at JOHNSON.DK on
AppleLink, dkj@apple.com on the Internet, or 75300,715 on CompuServe.*