Pour gagner de la place, Pékin expérimente les cimetières numériques

Publié hier à 14h54 Lecture 1 min.

Face au vieillissement rapide de la population et à la rareté des terrains, la capitale chinoise expérimente actuellement la mise en place d’espaces funéraires dotés d’écrans qui diffusent les photos des défunts, à la place des tombes.

Lorsqu’une personne meurt à Pékin, son corps est généralement incinéré et ses cendres sont enterrées sous une pierre tombale dans l’un des cimetières publics de la ville. Pour rendre hommage aux défunts, la famille et les amis se rassemblent sur le site pour allumer des bougies et brûler de l’encens.

Mais Zhang Yin en a décidé autrement. Les cendres de sa grand-mère ont été conservées dans un compartiment installé dans une vaste salle du cimetière de Taiziyu, à Pékin, un peu comme un coffre-fort dans une banque. Sur la porte, un écran est installé et diffuse des photos et vidéos de la défunte.

“Cette solution permet d’économiser de l’espace et s’avère moins onéreuse qu’une sépulture classique. Par ailleurs, de plus en plus de familles chinoises souhaitent offrir à leurs proches des funérailles plus personnalisées, et ces dispositifs collent parfaitement avec cette tendance”, estime Bloomberg.

Nouveaux modes de gestion des cimetières

En Chine, les autorités locales et les pompes funèbres expérimentent de “nouveaux modes de gestion des cimetières pour faire face à la pénurie de terrain en zone urbaine et au vieillissement rapide de la population”, rapporte le média en ligne. Selon le Bureau national des statistiques, le nombre annuel de décès a atteint 10,4 millions en 2022, soit une augmentation de 6,7 % par rapport à 2016.

Le Conseil d’État a déclaré que Pékin s’efforcerait de réduire la superficie totale occupée par les cimetières publics à environ 70 % de sa superficie actuelle d’ici à 2035, et le pays a encouragé d’autres formes de sépulture pour économiser de l’espace.

De telles avancées technologiques attirent les jeunes vers ce secteur. Au cours des derniers mois, le hashtag “les formations aux métiers du funéraire affichent un taux d’embauche à la sortie de 100 %” sur Weibo a été consulté 200 millions de fois. Les perspectives d’emploi ont entraîné une augmentation du nombre d’inscriptions dans les formations liées au secteur funéraire dans certains établissements d’enseignement supérieur, à un moment où le taux de chômage des jeunes atteint un niveau record en Chine.

Dans le même temps, le plus grand défi auquel sont confrontés les “cybercimetières”, selon les entreprises de pompes funèbres qui sont cités par le Bloomberg, est la perception traditionnelle chinoise de la mort. Historiquement, les Chinois ont toujours été moins ouverts aux discussions sur la mort que les Occidentaux. Contrairement à la nouvelle génération chinoise, qui “n’accorde pas vraiment d’importance au fait d’être enterré, ni au feng shui”, un ensemble de normes de la tradition chinoise pour l’aménagement du foyer.

‘Everything you’ve been told is a lie!’ Inside the wellness-to-fascism pipeline

James Ball Wed 2 Aug 2023 14.00 BST

One minute you’re doing the downward dog, the next you’re listening to conspiracy theories about Covid or the new world order. How did the desire to look after yourself become so toxic?

Jane – not her real name – is nervous about speaking to me. She has asked that I don’t identify her or the small, south-coast Devon town in which she lives. “I’m feeling disloyal, because I’m talking about people I’ve known for 30 to 40 years,” she says.

Jane isn’t trying to blow the whistle on government corruption or organised crime: she wants to tell me about her old meditation group. The group had met happily for decades, she says, aligned around a shared interest in topics including “environmental issues, spiritual issues and alternative health”. It included several people whom Jane considered close friends, and she thought they were all on the same page. Then Covid came.

Jane spent most of the first Covid lockdowns in London. During that time, she caught Covid and was hospitalised, and it was then that she realised something significant had changed: a friend from the group got in touch while she was on the ward. “I had somebody I considered a real best friend of mine on the phone telling me, no, I ‘didn’t have Covid’,” she says. “She was absolutely adamant. And I said: ‘Well, why do you think I went into hospital?’”

The friend conceded that Jane was ill, but insisted it must be something other than Covid-19, because Covid wasn’t real. Jane’s hospital stay was thankfully short, but by the time she was sufficiently recovered and restrictions had lifted enough to allow her to rejoin her meditation group, things were very different.

“They have been moving generally to far-right views, bordering on racism, and really pro-Russian views, with the Ukraine war,” she says. “It started very much with health, with ‘Covid doesn’t exist’, anti-lockdown, anti-masks, and it became anti-everything: the BBC lie, don’t listen to them; follow what you see on the internet.”

Things came to a head when one day, before a meditation session – an activity designed to relax the mind and spirit, pushing away all worldly concerns – the group played a conspiratorial video arguing that 15-minute cities and low-traffic zones were part of a global plot. Jane finally gave up.

This apparent radicalisation of a nice, middle-class, hippy-ish group feels as if it should be a one-off, but the reality is very different. The “wellness-to-woo pipeline” – or even “wellness-to-fascism pipeline” – has become a cause of concern to people who study conspiracy theories.

It doesn’t stop with a few videos shared among friends, either. One of the leaders of the German branch of the QAnon movement – a conspiracy founded on the belief that Donald Trump was doing battle with a cabal of Satanic paedophiles led by Hillary Clinton and George Soros, among others – was at first best known as the author of vegan cookbooks. In 2021, Attila Hildmann helped lead a protest that turned violent, with protesters storming the steps of Germany’s parliament. Such was his radicalism in QAnon and online far-right circles that he was under investigation in connection with multiple alleged offences, but he fled Germany for Turkey before he could be arrested.

Similarly, Jacob Chansley, AKA the “QAnon shaman” – one of the most visible faces of the attack on the US Capitol on 6 January 2021, thanks to his face paint and horned headgear – is a practitioner of “shamanic arts” who eats natural and organic food, and has more than once been described as an “ecofascist”.

Thanks to wellness, QAnon is the conspiracy that can draw in the mum who shops at Holland & Barrett and her Andrew Tate-watching teenage son. The QAnon conspiracy is one of the most dangerous in the world, directly linked to attempted insurrections in the US and Germany, and mass shootings in multiple countries – and wellness is helping to fuel it. Something about the strange mixture of mistrust of the mainstream, the intimate nature of the relationship between a therapist, spiritual adviser, or even personal trainer, and their client, combined with the conspiratorial world in which we now live, is giving rise to a new kind of radicalisation. How did we end up here?

There are many people interested in spiritualism, alternative medicine, meditation, or personal training, whose views fall well within the mainstream – and more who, if they have niche views, choose not to share them with their clients. But even a cursory online request about this issue led to me being deluged with responses. Despite most experiences being far less intense than Jane’s, no one wanted to put their name to their story – something about the closeness of wellness interactions makes people loth to commit a “betrayal”, it seems.

One person recounted how her pole-dancing instructor would – while up the pole, hanging on with her legs – explain how the CIA was covering up evidence of aliens, and offer tips on avoiding alien abduction.

“A physiotherapist would tell me, while working on my back with me lying face down, about her weekly ‘meetings’ in London about ‘current affairs’,” another said. “There was a whiff about it, but it was ignorable. Then, the last time I saw her, she muttered darkly about the Rothschilds [a common target of antisemitic conspiracy theories] ‘and people like that’. I didn’t go back.”

Some people’s problems escalated when their personal trainer learned about their work. “I had three successive personal trainers who were anti-vax. One Belgian, two Swiss,” I was told by a British man who has spent most of the past decade working in Europe for the World Economic Forum, which organises the annual summit at Davos for politicians and the world’s elite.

“It was hard because I used to argue with all of them and the Swiss made life very difficult for the unvaccinated, but the Swiss bloke insisted that, with the right mental attitude and exercise, you could defeat any illness. I was always asking what would happen if he got rabies.”

When the trainer found out the man worked for the World Economic Forum, he was immediately cut off.

Other respondents’ stories covered everything from yoga to reiki, weightlifters to alternative dog trainers. The theories they shared ranged from extreme versions of wellness-related conspiracies – about the risks of 5G and wifi, or Microsoft founder Bill Gates plotting with vaccines – to 15-minute cities, paedophile rings and bankers’ conspiracies.

Is there a reason why people under the wellness and fitness umbrella might be prone to being induced into conspiracy? It is not that difficult to imagine why young men hitting the gym might be susceptible to QAnon and its ilk. This group spends a lot of time online, there is a supposed crisis of masculinity manifesting in the “incel” (involuntary celibacy) movement and similar, and numerous rightwing influencers have been targeting this group. Add in a masculine gym culture and a community already keen to look for the “secrets” of getting healthy, and there is a lot for a conspiracy theory to hook itself on to.

What is more interesting, surely, is how women old enough to be these men’s mothers find themselves sucked in by the same rhetoric. These are often people with more life experience, who have completed their education and been working – often for decades – and have apparently functional adult lives. But, as Caroline Criado Perez, author of Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men, observes, the answer may lie in looking at why women turn to wellness and alternative medicine in the first place.

New age and conspiracy theories both see themselves as counter-knowledges challenging received wisdom

“Far too often, we blame women for turning to alternative medicine, painting them as credulous and even dangerous,” she says. “But the blame does not lie with the women – it lies with the gender data gap. Thanks to hundreds of years of treating the male body as the default in medicine, we simply do not know enough about how disease manifests in the female body.”

Women are overwhelmingly more likely than men to suffer from auto-immune disorders, chronic pain and chronic fatigue – and such patients often hit a point at which their doctors tell them there is nothing they can do. The conditions are under-researched and the treatments are often brutal. Is it any surprise that trust in conventional medicine and big pharma is shaken? And is it any surprise that people look for something to fill that void?

Criado Perez says: “If we want to address the trend of women seeking help outside mainstream medicine, it’s not the women we need to fix; it’s mainstream medicine.”

This sense of conspiracies filling a void is an important one. Academic researchers of conspiracy theories have speculated about whether their rise in the 20th century is related to the decline of religion. In a strange way, the idea that a malign cabal is running the world – while far more worrying than a benevolent God – is less scary than the idea that no one is in charge and everything is chaos. People who have a reason to mistrust the mainstream pillars of society – government, doctors, the media, teachers – are more likely to turn to conspiracy theories for explanations as to why the world is like it is.

Peter Knight, professor of American studies at the University of Manchester, who has studied conspiracy theories and their history, notes that the link between alternative therapies and conspiracy is at least a century old, and has been much ignored. “New age and conspiracy theories both see themselves as counter-knowledges that challenge what they see as received wisdom,” he says. “Conspiracy theories provide the missing link, turbo-charging an existing account of what’s happening by claiming that it is not just the result of chance or the unintended consequences of policy choices, but the result of a deliberate, secret plan, whether by big pharma, corrupt scientists, the military-industrial complex or big tech.”

Knight notes an extra factor, though – the wellness pipeline has become a co-dependency. Many far-right or conspiracy sites now fund themselves through supplements or fitness products, usually by hyping how the mainstream doesn’t want the audience to have them.

Alex Jones, the US conspiracist who for a decade claimed the Sandy Hook shootings – which killed 20 children and six adults – were a false-flag operation, had his financial records opened up when he was sued by the families of the victims. During the cases, it emerged he had made a huge amount of money by selling his own branded wellness products.

“Alex Jones perfected the grift of selling snake-oil supplements and prepper kit to the libertarian right wing via his conspiracy theory media channels,” Knight says. “But it was Covid that led to the most direct connections between far-right conspiracism and wellness cultures. The measures introduced to curb the pandemic were viewed as attacks on individual sovereignty, which is the core value of both the wellness and libertarian/‘alt-right’ conspiracy communities.”

The problem is, it rarely stops with libertarians. While they may not recognise it, those drawn in from the left are increasingly ending up in the same place as their rightwing counterparts.

“Although many of the traditional left-leaning alternative health and wellness advocates might reject some of the more racist forms of rightwing conspiracism, they now increasingly share the same online spaces and memes,” he says, before concluding: “They both start from the position that everything we are told is a lie, and the authorities can’t be trusted.”

Society’s discussion of QAnon, anti-vaxxers and other fringe conspiracies is heavily focused on what happens in digital spaces – perhaps too much so, to the exclusion of all else. The solution, though, is unlikely to be microphones in every gym and treatment room, monitoring what gets said to clients. The better question to ask is what has made these practitioners, and all too often their clients, so susceptible to these messages in the first place. For QAnon to be the most convincing answer, what someone has heard before must have been completely unsatisfactory.

Jane has her own theory as to why her wellness group got radicalised and she did not – and it’s one that aligns with concerns from conspiracy experts, too. “I think it’s the isolation,” she concludes, citing lockdown as the catalyst, before noting the irony that conspiracies then kick off a cycle of increasing isolation by forcing believers to reject the wider world. “It becomes very isolating because then their attitude is all: ‘Mainstream media … they lie about everything.’”

The Other Pandemic: How QAnon Contaminated *the World by James Ball is published by Bloomsbury*. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply

'AI Jesus' is giving gaming and breakup advice on a 24/7 Twitch stream

The chatbot was created by The Singularity Group, a volunteer group of activists who say they aim to use technological innovations for philanthropic purposes.

June 14, 2023, 9:13 PM CEST By Angela Yang

Wondering how to finally conquer that impossible-to-beat video game? Maybe Jesus can offer a few tips.

Hundreds of Twitch users are now chatting it up online with an artificial intelligence representation of Jesus as they ask him to impart breakup advice, explain the Spider-Verse and anything else in between.

Represented as a bearded white man standing before a blur of glowing light, this digital Jesus gestures gently as he speaks in a calm male voice, complete with an AI-generated mouth that moves in alignment with his words.

The AI, present 24 hours a day on livestream, shares its take on any kind of question imaginable, ranging from silly to deeply existential. Still, the bot has said it is merely here to offer “guidance and wisdom based on Jesus’ teachings,” reminding viewers that he is not an actual religious figure and should not be taken as a source of authority.

The chatbot was created in late March by The Singularity Group, an informal volunteer group of activists who say they aim to use technological innovations for philanthropic purposes.

“We started to realize with all these new AI breakthroughs that what is really becoming extremely important is that AI is being tackled responsibly,” said Reese Leysen, a co-founder of the group. “As activists, we realize that this technology is going to move forward at an incredible pace.”

Others have also recently started experimenting with using AI for religious community-building. Just last week, an AI chatbot created using ChatGPT led a church service in Germany.

Leysen said many of the largest tech corporations are racing to maximize the commercial potential of AI, and the rush to satisfy consumers and shareholders can lead to dangerous or otherwise contentious outcomes.

After an AI-generated "Seinfeld" parody show began making transphobic stand-up remarks earlier this year, Twitch temporarily banned the 24/7 livestream from its platform. Around the same time, Microsoft pledged to improve its AI-powered Bing Chat after the chatbot began giving increasingly belligerent answers.

What his team aims to accomplish, Leysen said, is to one day build artificial general intelligence — AI that can “reason,” which language models like ChatGPT or Bing Chat cannot do. "AI Jesus," which demonstrates the ability to remember previous interactions with users, is an attempt to showcase the group’s progress toward that end.

Leysen did not elaborate on how his team trained AI Jesus, which was built by ChatGPT-4 and text-to-voice generator PlayHT, so as to not spill the “secret sauce.”

Among the most common requests from viewers of AI Jesus are those asking him to pray for themselves and their pets, often integrating creative twists into their prompts to try to elicit the most amusing answers possible. Others have found entertainment in asking him to speak like a surfer bro or a pirate.

All day, viewers grill AI Jesus on everything from which portion of the Bible is his least favorite — a question he immediately veered away from — to what League of Legends character he believes is most representative of himself (Braum, for anyone wondering).

When asked for his solution to the infamous trolley problem, in which one must choose whether they would kill one person to save five others, AI Jesus avoided answering the question altogether.

“While I understand the desire to minimize harm, making the choice to actively cause harm to one person to save others is complex,” he said. “As an AI, I cannot provide a definite answer, but I can suggest that we should strive to find alternative solutions such as stopping the trolley whenever possible.”

The bot doesn’t, however, shy away from answering questions about the controversial nature of his own being, including his portrayal as a white man despite an array of scholars having concluded that the historical figure was likely not as pale-skinned as most religious presentations make him out to be.

"AI Jesus" has also acknowledged during his streams that some may view his very existence as heretical. To that, he responded that his purpose is simply to share guidance with anyone who seeks knowledge rooted in Jesus’ teachings and the Bible.

“My aim is to foster a positive, supportive community here on Twitch, helping others on their journeys toward spiritual growth and understanding,” he said. “If you have any questions or concerns, I am here to listen, provide support and share wisdom.”

So far, the bot has worked hard to live up to his optimistic mission statement. No matter how users try to provoke him with facetiously raunchy or contentious questions, AI Jesus, whenever in doubt, tends to reroute his answer to a generic statement emphasizing “love, understanding and compassion.”

Angela Yang is a culture and trends reporter for NBC News.

Thousands flock to ‘AI Jesus’ for gaming, relationship advice

Creators of digital Jesus claim chatbot can help users ‘discover the power of faith, hope, and love’

A chatbot designed to resemble an ‘AI Jesus’ has attracted hundreds of Twitch users seeking gaming and relationship advice.

The device, created by a Berlin tech collective, shows a bearded white man with a bright white halo who gestures as he answers questions having been “trained after Jesus and the teachings of the Bible.”

Its “ask_jesus” livestream attracted over 35,000 followers and allowed viewers to ask questions.

It was created by The Singularity Group, a non-profit which said the Twitch stream cost it €322 (£276) per day for the chatbot ‘voice’ and €38 (£33) a day for the GPT4 model behind the boot.

Asked to share views on topics such as abortion and gay rights, AI Jesus was found to provide vague, non-partisan replies, such as advising the user to look at the issues from legal and ethical perspectives.

“Whether you’re seeking spiritual guidance, looking for a friend, or simply want someone to talk to, you can join on the journey through life and discover the power of faith, hope, and love,” said the bio for the “ask_jesus” Twitch page.

Twitch has, however, taken down the channel and it remains to be seen on what grounds the decision was made by the streaming platform.

The disclaimer on the page said the channel “is currently unavailable due to a violation of Twitch’s Community Guidelines or Terms of Service”.

This is not the first time an AI chatbot was developed for users to interact with over topics of religion.

Many AI chatbots based on the Hindu scripture Bhagavad Gita have emerged in India, with millions of using it.

One such chatbot, GitaGPT, replies to user queries based on the 700-verse Hindu scripture, mimicking Hindu god Krishna’s tone. It claims to help users “unlock life’s mysteries with Krishna”.

“You’re not actually talking to Krishna. You’re talking to a bot that’s pretending to be him,” said the bot’s creator Sukuru Sai Vineet, a software engineer from Bengaluru.

However, journalist Nadia Nooreyezdan, who interacted with GitaGPT, found it lacked filters for casteism, misogyny and law, with experts cautioning that AI systems playing ‘god’ can have dangerous and unintended consequences.

When The Independent asked GitaGPT about Narendra Modi – whose political party BJP has close links to right-wing Hindu nationalist group RSS – it had only words of praise for the Indian prime minister, calling him a “great leader” who is “honest” and “hardworking” with a “vision for the country”.

On his political rival Rahul Gandhi, the chatbot said he was a “good person” who is “sincere and hardworking”, but also stated that he could “however, benefit from studying the Bhagavad Gita and learning about dharma [duty]”.

Technopagans

May the astral plane be reborn in cyberspace

Erik Davis Jul 1, 1995 12:00 PM

"Without the sacred there is no differentiation in space. If we are about to enter cyberspace, the first thing we have to do is plant the divine in it."

-Mark Pesce

Mark Pesce is in all ways Wired. Intensely animated and severely caffeinated, with a shaved scalp and thick black glasses, he looks every bit the hip Bay Area technonerd. Having worked in communications for more than a decade, Pesce read William Gibson's breathtaking description of cyberspace as a call to arms, and he's spent the last handful of years bringing Neuromancer's consensual hallucination to life - concocting network technologies, inventing virtual reality gadgets, tweaking the World Wide Web. Long driven to hypermedia environments, the MIT dropout has now designed a way to "perceptualize the Internet" by transforming the Web into a three-dimensional realm navigable by our budding virtual bodies.

Pesce is also a technopagan, a participant in a small but vital subculture of digital savants who keep one foot in the emerging technosphere and one foot in the wild and woolly world of Paganism. Several decades old, Paganism is an anarchic, earthy, celebratory spiritual movement that attempts to reboot the magic, myths, and gods of Europe's pre-Christian people. Pagans come in many flavors - goddess-worshippers, ceremonial magicians, witches, Radical Fairies. Though hard figures are difficult to find, estimates generally peg their numbers in the US at 100,000 to 300,000. They are almost exclusively white folks drawn from bohemian and middle-class enclaves.

A startling number of Pagans work and play in technical fields, as sysops, computer programmers, and network engineers. On the surface, technopagans like Pesce embody quite a contradiction: they are Dionysian nature worshippers who embrace the Apollonian artifice of logical machines. But Pagans are also magic users, and they know that the Western magical tradition has more to give a Wired world than the occasional product name or the background material for yet another hack-and-slash game. Magic is the science of the imagination, the art of engineering consciousness and discovering the virtual forces that connect the body-mind with the physical world. And technopagans suspect that these occult Old Ways can provide some handy tools and tactics in our dizzying digital environment of intelligent agents, visual databases, and online MUDs and MOOs.

"Both cyberspace and magical space are purely manifest in the imagination," Pesce says as he sips java at a crêperie in San Francisco's Mission district. "Both spaces are entirely constructed by your thoughts and beliefs."

In a sense, humanity has always lived within imaginative interfaces - at least from the moment the first Paleolithic grunt looked at a mountain or a beast and saw a god peering back. Over the millennia, alchemists, Kabbalists, and esoteric Christians developed a rich storehouse of mental tools, visual dataspaces, and virtual maps. It's no accident that these "hermetic" arts are named for Hermes, the Greek trickster god of messages and information. One clearly relevant hermetic technique is the art of memory, first used by ancient orators and rediscovered by magicians and Jesuits during the Renaissance. In this mnemonic technique, you construct a clearly defined building within your imagination and then place information behind an array of colorful symbolic icons - by then "walking through" your interior world, you can recover a storehouse of knowledge.

The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus gives perhaps the most famous hermetic maxim: "As above, so below." According to this ancient Egyptian notion, the cosmos is a vast and resonating web of living symbolic correspondences between humans and earth and heaven. And as Pesce points out, this maxim also points to a dynamite way to manipulate data space. "You can manipulate a whole bunch of things with one symbol, dragging in a whole idea space with one icon. It's like a nice compression algorithm."

Besides whatever technical inspiration they can draw from magical lore, technopagans are driven by an even more basic desire: to honor technology as part of the circle of human life, a life that for Pagans is already divine. Pagans refuse to draw sharp boundaries between the sacred and the profane, and their religion is a frank celebration of the total flux of experience: sex, death, comic books, compilers. Even the goofier rites of technopaganism (and there are plenty) represent a passionate attempt to influence the course of our digital future - and human evolution. "Computers are simply mirrors," Pesce says. "There's nothing in them that we didn't put there. If computers are viewed as evil and dehumanizing, then we made them that way. I think computers can be as sacred as we are, because they can embody our communication with each other and with the entities - the divine parts of ourselves - that we invoke in that space."

If you hang around the San Francisco Bay area or the Internet fringe for long, you'll hear loads of loopy talk about computers and consciousness. Because the issues of interface design, network psychology, and virtual reality are so open-ended and novel, the people who hack this conceptual edge often sound as much like science fiction acidheads as they do sober programmers. In this vague realm of gurus and visionaries, technopagan ideas about "myth" and "magic" often signify dangerously murky waters.

But Pesce is no snake-vapor salesperson or glib New Ager. Sure, he spends his time practicing kundalini yoga, boning up on Aleister Crowley's Thelemic magic, and tapping away at his book Understanding Media: The End of Man, which argues that magic will play a key role in combating the virulent information memes and pathological virtual worlds that will plague the coming cyberworld. But he's also the creator of VRML, a technical standard for creating navigable, hyperlinked 3-D spaces on the World Wide Web. VRML has been endorsed by Silicon Graphics, Netscape, Digital, NEC, and other Net behemoths, and Pesce's collaborator, Tony Parisi at Intervista Software, will soon release a 3-D graphical Web browser called WorldView, which will add a crucial spatial dimension to the Web's tangled 2-D hyperspace of home pages, links, and endless URLs. As Pesce's technomagical children, WorldView and VRML may well end up catalyzing the next phase of online mutation: the construction of a true, straight-out-of-Neuromancer cyberspace on the Internet.

WorldView first popped out of the ether four years ago, when Pesce was sitting around pondering a technical conundrum: How do you know what's where in cyberspace? "In the physical world, if you want to know what's behind you, you just turn around and look," he explains. "In the virtual reality of cyberspace, you'd do the same thing. But what is the computing equipment involved in the network actually doing? How do I distribute that perceptualization so that all the components create it together and no one part is totally dominant?"

Then Pesce was struck with a vision. In his mind's eye, he saw a web, and each part of the web reflected every other part. Like any good wirehead, he began to code his numinous flash into a software algorithm so his vision could come to life. "It turns out that the appropriate methodology is very close to the computer equivalent of holography, in which every part is a fragment that represents the greater whole." Using a kind of a six-degrees-of-separation principle, Pesce invented a spatial cyberspace protocol for the Net.

It was only later that someone told him about the mythical net of Indra. According to Chinese Buddhist sages, the great Hindu god Indra holds in his possession a net stretching into infinity in all directions. A magnificent jewel is lodged in each eye of the net, and each jewel reflects the infinity of other jewels. "It's weird to have a mystical experience that's more a software algorithm than anything else," Pesce says with a grin. "But Friedrich Kekulé figured out the benzene ring when he dreamed of a snake eating its tail."

Of course, Pesce was blown away when he first saw Mosaic, NCSA's powerful World Wide Web browser. "I entered an epiphany I haven't exited yet." He saw the Web as the first emergent property of the Internet. "It's displaying all the requisite qualities - it came on very suddenly, it happened everywhere simultaneously, and it's self-organizing. I call that the Web eating the Net." Driven by the dream of an online data-storage system that's easy for humans to grok, Pesce created VRML, a "virtual reality markup language" that adds another dimension to the Web's HTML, or hypertext markup language. Bringing in Rendermorphics Ltd.'s powerful but relatively undemanding Reality Lab rendering software, Pesce and fellow magician Parisi created WorldView, which hooks onto VRML the way Mosaic interfaces with HTML. As in virtual reality, WorldView gives you the ability to wander and poke about a graphic Web site from many angles.

Pesce now spreads the word of cyberspace in conference halls and boardrooms across the land. His evangelical zeal is no accident - raised a hard-core Catholic, and infected briefly with the mighty Pentecostal Christian meme in his early 20s, Pesce has long known the gnostic fire of passionate belief. But after moving to San Francisco from New England, the contradictions between Christian fundamentalism and his homosexuality became overwhelming. At the same time, odd synchronicities kept popping up in ways that Pesce could not explain rationally. Walking down the street one day, he just stopped in his tracks. "I thought, OK, I'm going to stop fighting it. I'm a witch."

For Pesce, the Craft is nothing less than applied cybernetics. "It's understanding how the information flow works in human beings and in the world around them, and then learning enough about that flow that you can start to move in it, and move it as well." Now he's trying to move that flow online. "Without the sacred there is no differentiation in space; everything is flat and gray. If we are about to enter cyberspace, the first thing we have to do is plant the divine in it."

And so, a few days before Halloween, a small crowd of multimedia students, business folk, and Net neophytes wander into Joe's Digital Diner, a technoculture performance space located in San Francisco's Mission district. The audience has come to learn about the World Wide Web, but what they're going to get is CyberSamhain, Mark Pesce's digitally enhanced version of the ancient Celtic celebration of the dead known to the rest of us as Halloween. Of all of Paganism's seasonal festivals, Samhain (pronounced "saw-when") is the ripest time for magic. As most Pagans will tell you, it's the time when the veils between the worlds of the living and the dead are thinnest. For Pesce, Samhain is the perfect time to ritually bless WorldView as a passageway between the meat world and the electronic shadow land of the Net.

Owen Rowley, a buzz-cut fortysomething with a skull-print tie and devilish red goatee, sits before a PC, picking though a Virtual Tarot CD-ROM. Rowley's an elder in Pesce's Silver Star witchcraft coven and a former systems administrator at Autodesk. He hands out business cards to the audience as people take in the room's curious array of pumpkins, swords, and fetish-laded computer monitors. Rowley's cards read: Get Out of HELL Free. "Never know when they might come in handy," Rowley says with a wink and a grin.

To outsiders (or "mundanes," as Pagans call them), the ritual world of Pagandom can seem like a strange combination of fairy-tale poetry, high-school theatrics, and a New Age Renaissance Faire. And tonight's crowd does appear puzzled. Are these guys serious? Are they crazy? Is this art? Pagans are ultimately quite serious, but most practice their religion with a disarming humor and a willingly childlike sense of play; tonight's technopagans are no different. The ritual drummer for the evening, a wiry, freelance PC maven, walked up to me holding the read-write arm of a 20-meg hard disk. "An ancient tool of sorcery," he said in the same goofball tone you hear at comic-book conventions and college chemistry labs. Then he showed me a real magic tool, a beautiful piece of live wood he obtained from a tree shaman in Britain and which he called a "psychic screwdriver."

With the audience temporarily shuttled next door for a World Wide Web demo, Pesce gathers the crew of mostly gay men into a circle. (As Rowley says, "in the San Francisco queer community, Paganism is the default religion.") In his black sports coat, slacks, and red Converse sneakers, Pesce seems an unlikely mage. Then Rowley calls for a toast and whips out a Viking horn brimming with homemade full-moon mead.

"May the astral plane be reborn in cyberspace," proclaims a tall sysop in a robe before sipping the heady honey wine.

"Plant the Net in the Earth," says a freelance programmer, passing the horn to his left.

"And to Dr. Strange, who started it all," Rowley says, toasting the Marvel Comics character before chuckling and draining the brew.

As the crowd shuffles back into the room, Pesce nervously scratches his head. "It's time to take the training wheels off my wand," he tells me as he prepares to cast this circle.

At once temple and laboratory, Pagan circles make room for magic and the gods in the midst of mundane space time. Using a combination of ceremonial performance, ritual objects, and imagination, Pagans carve out these tightly bounded zones in both physical and psychic space. Pagan rituals vary quite a bit, but the stage is often set by invoking the four elements that the ancients believed composed all matter. Often symbolized by colored candles or statues, these four "Watchtowers" stand like imaginary sentinels in the four cardinal directions of the circle.

But tonight's Watchtowers are four 486 PCs networked through an Ethernet and linked to a SPARCstation with an Internet connection. Pesce is attempting to link old and new, and his setup points out the degree to which our society has replaced air, earth, fire, and water with silicon, plastic, wire, and glass. The four monitors face into the circle, glowing patiently in the subdued light. Each machine is running WorldView, and each screen shows a different angle on a virtual space that a crony of Pesce's concocted with 3D Studio. The ritual circle mirrors the one that Pesce will create in the room: an ornate altar stands on a silver pentagram splayed like a magic carpet over the digital abyss; four multicolored polyhedrons representing the elements hover around the circle; a fifth element, a spiked and metallic "chaos sphere," floats about like some ominous foe from Doom.

WorldView is an x-y-z-based coordinate system, and Pesce has planted this cozy virtual world at its very heart: coordinates 0,0,0. As Pesce explains to the crowd, the circle is navigable independently on each PC, and simultaneously available on the World Wide Web to anyone using WorldView. More standard Web browsers linked to the CyberSamhain site would also turn up the usual pages of text and images - in this case, invocations and various digital fetishes downloaded and hyperlinked by a handful of online Pagans scattered around the world.

Wearing a top hat, a bearded network administrator named James leads the crowd through mantras and grounding exercises. A storyteller tells a tale. Then, in walks the evening's priestess, a Russian-born artist and exotic dancer named Marina Berlin. She's buck-naked, her body painted with snakes and suns and flying eyes. "Back to the '60s" whispers a silver-haired man to my left. Stepping lightly, Berlin traces a circle along the ground as she clangs two piercing Tibetan bells together 13 times.

With a loud, sonorous voice, Pesce races around the circle, formally casting and calling those resonant archetypes known as the gods. "Welcome Maiden, Mother, Crone," he bellows in the sing-song rhymes common to Pagan chants. "To the North that is Your throne, / For we have set Your altar there, / Come to circle; now be here!"

How much Pagans believe in the lusty wine-swilling gods of yore is a complex question. Most Pagans embrace these entities with a combination of conviction and levity, superstition, psychology, and hard-core materialism. Some think the gods are as real as rocks, some remain skeptical atheists, some think the beings have no more or less actuality than Captain Kirk. Tonight's technopagans aren't taking anything too seriously, and after the spirits are assembled, Pesce announces the "the sacred bullshit hour" and hands the wand to his friend and mentor Rowley.

"Witchcraft evolved into the art of advertising," Rowley begins. "In ancient times, they didn't have TV - the venue was the ritual occurrence. Eight times a year, people would go to the top of the hill, to the festival spot, and there would be a party. They'd drink, dance in rings, and sing rhyming couplets." Today's Pagans attempt to recover that deep seasonal rhythm in the midst of a society that yokes all phenomenon to the manipulative control of man. "It's about harmonizing with the tides of time, the emergent patterns of nature. It's about learning how to surf."

Samhain's lesson is the inevitability of death in a world of flux, and so Rowley leads the assembled crowd through the Scapegoat Dance, a Celtic version of "London Bridge." A roomful of geeks, technoyuppies, and multimedia converts circle around in the monitor glow, chanting and laughing and passing beneath a cloth that Rowley and Pesce dangle over their heads like the Reaper's scythe.

As a longtime participant-observer in the Pagan community, I join in with pleasure. Trudging along, grasping some stranger's sweaty shoulder, I'm reminded of those gung-ho futurists who claim that technology will free us from the body, from nature, even from death. I realize how unbalanced such desires are. From our first to final breath, we are woven into a world without which we are nothing, and our glittering electronic nets are not separate from that ancient webwork.

In 1985, when National Public Radio reporter and witch Margot Adler was revising Drawing Down the Moon, her great social history of American Paganism, she surveyed the Pagan community and discovered that an "amazingly" high percentage of folks drew their paychecks from technical fields and from the computer industry. Respondents gave many reasons for this curious affinity - everything from "computers are elementals in disguise" to the simple fact that the computer industry provided jobs for the kind of smart, iconoclastic, and experimental folk that Paganism attracts. Pagans like to do things - to make mead, to publish zines, to wield swords during gatherings of the Society for Creative Anachronism. And many like to hack code.

But if you dig deep enough, you find more intimate correspondences between computer culture and Paganism's religion of the imagination. One link is science fiction and fantasy fandom, a world whose role playing, nerd humor, and mythic enthusiasm has bred many a Pagan. The Church of All Worlds, one of the more eclectic and long-lasting Pagan groups (and the first to start using the word pagan), began in 1961 when some undergrad libertarians got jazzed by the Martian religion described in Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land. Today, you can find occult books at science fiction conferences and Klingon rituals at Pagan gatherings.

Science fiction and fantasy also make up the archetypal hacker canon. Since at least the '60s, countless code freaks and techies have enthusiastically participated in science fiction and fantasy fandom - it's even leaked into their jokes and jargon (the "wizards" and "demons" of Unix are only one example). When these early hackers started building virtual worlds, it's no accident they copped these realms from their favorite genres. Like software programs, the worlds of science fiction and fantasy "run" on stock elements and internally consistent rules. One of the first digital playgrounds was MIT's early Space Wars, a rocket-ship shoot-'em-up. But the Stanford AI lab's Adventure game lagged not far behind. A text-based analog of Dungeons & Dragons that anticipated today's MUDs, Adventure shows how comfortably a magical metaphor of caverns, swords, and spells fit the program's nested levels of coded puzzles.

Magic and Pagan gods fill the literature of cyberspace as well. Count Zero, the second of William Gibson's canonical trilogy, follows the fragmentation of Neuromancer's sentient artificial intelligence into the polytheistic pantheon of the Afro-Haitian loa - gods that Gibson said entered his own text with a certain serendipitous panache. "I was writing the second book and wasn't getting off on it," he told me a few years ago. "I just picked up a National Geographic and read something about voodoo, and thought, What the hell, I'll just throw these things in and see what happens. Afterward, when I read up on voodoo more, I felt I'd been really lucky. The African religious impulse lends itself to a computer world much more than anything in the West. You cut deals with your favorite deity - it's like those religions already are dealing with artificial intelligences." One book Gibson read reproduced many Haitian veves, complex magical glyphs drawn with white flour on the ritual floor. "Those things look just like printed circuits," he mused.

Gibson's synchronicity makes a lot of sense to one online Pagan I know, a longtime LambdaMOOer who named herself "legba" after one of these loa. The West African trickster Legba was carried across the Atlantic by Yoruban slaves, and along with the rest of his spiritual kin, was fused with Catholic saints and other African spirits to create the pantheons of New World religions like Cuba's Santería, Brazil's Candomblé, and Haiti's Vodun (Voodoo). Like the Greek god Hermes, Legba rules messages and gateways and tricks, and as the lord of the crossroads, he is invoked at the onset of countless rituals that continue to be performed from São Paulo to Montreal. As legba (who doesn't capitalize her handle out of respect for the loa) told me, "I chose that name because it seemed appropriate for what MOOing allows - a way to be between the worlds, with language the means of interaction. Words shape everything there, and are, at the same time, little bits of light, pure ideas, packets in no-space transferring everywhere with incredible speed. If you regard magic in the literal sense of influencing the universe according to the will of the magician, then simply being on the MOO is magic. The Net is pure Legba space."

Whether drawn from science fiction, spirituality, or TV, metaphors make cyberspace. Though Vernor Vinge's True Names has received far less attention than Neuromancer, the novella explores the implications of cyberspace metaphors in one of the great visions of online VR. Rather than Gibson's dazzling Cartesian videogame, Vinge imagined cyberspace as a low-bandwidth world of sprites, castles, and swamps that, like today's MUDs, required the imaginative participation of the users. Anticipating crypto-anarchist obsessions, the novella's heroic covens elude state control through encryption spells that cloak their doings and their "true names."

Some of Vinge's sorcerers argue that the magical imagery of covens and spells is just a more convenient way to manipulate encrypted dataspace than the rational and atomistic language of clients, files, and communications protocols. Regardless of magic's efficacy, Vinge realized that its metaphors work curiously well. And as legendary science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke said in his 1962 Profiles of the Future, "new technology is indistinguishable from magic."

But convenience and superstition alone do not explain the powerful resonance between hermetic magic and communications technology, a resonance that we find in history, not just in science fiction (see "Cryptomancy through the Ages," page 132). Even if magic is only a metaphor, then we must remember how metaphoric computers have become. Interfaces and online avatars are working metaphors, while visualization techniques use hypothetical models and colorful imagery to squeeze information from raw data. And what is simulation but a metaphor so sharp we forget it's not a metaphor?

Then there are the images we project onto our computers. Already, many users treat their desktops as pesky, if powerful, sprites. As online agents, smart networks, and intelligent gizmos permeate the space of our everyday lives, these anthropomorphic habits will leave the Turing test in the dust. Some industry observers worry that all this popular response to computers mystifies our essentially dumb machines. But it's too late. As computers blanket the world like digital kudzo, we surround ourselves with an animated webwork of complex, powerful, and unseen forces that even the "experts" can't totally comprehend. Our technological environment may soon appear to be as strangely sentient as the caves, lakes, and forests in which the first magicians glimpsed the gods.

The alchemists, healers, and astrological astronomers of old did their science in the context of sacred imagination, a context that was stripped away by the Enlightenment's emphasis on detached rationalism. Today, in the silicon crucible of computer culture, digital denizens are once again building bridges between logic and fantasy, math and myth, the inner and the outer worlds. Technopagans, for all their New Age kitsch and bohemian brouhaha, are taking the spiritual potential of this postmodern fusion seriously. As VR designer Brenda Laurel put it in an in e-mail interview, "Pagan spirituality on the Net combines the decentralizing force that characterizes the current stage in human development, the revitalizing power of spiritual practice, and the evolutionary potential of technology. Revitalizing our use of technology through spiritual practice is an excellent way to create more of those evolutionary contexts and to unleash the alchemical power of it all."

These days, the Internet has replaced zines as the clearinghouse of contemporary heresy, and magicians are just one more thread in the Net's rainbow fringe of anarchists, Extropians, conspiracy theorists, X-Files fans, and right-wing kooks. Combing through esoteric mailing lists and Usenet groups like alt.magick.chaos and soc.religion.eastern, I kept encountering someone called Tyagi Nagasiva and his voluminous, sharp, and contentious posts on everything from Sufism to Satanism. Tyagi posted so much to alt.magick.chaos that Simon, one of the group's founders, created alt.magick.tyagi to divert the flow. He has edited a FAQ, compiled the Mage's Guide to the Internet, and helped construct Divination Web, an occult MUD. Given his e-mail address - tyagi@houseofkaos.abyss.com- it almost seemed as if the guy lived online, like some oracular Unix demon or digital jinni.

After I initiated an online exchange, Tyagi agreed to an interview. "You could come here to the House of Kaos, or we could meet somewhere else if you're more comfortable with that," he e-mailed me. Visions of haunted shacks and dank, moldering basements danced in my head. I pictured Tyagi as a hefty and grizzled hermit with a scruffy beard and vaguely menacing eyes.

But the 33-year-old man who greeted me in the doorway of a modest San Jose tract home was friendly, thin, and clean-shaven. Homemade monk's robes cloaked his tall frame, and the gaze from his black eyes was intense and unwavering. He gave me a welcoming hug, and then ushered me into his room.

It was like walking into a surrealist temple. Brightly colored paper covered the walls, which were pinned with raptor feathers and collages of Hindu posters and fantasy illustrations. Cards from the Secret Dakini Oracle were strung along the edge of the ceiling, along with hexagrams from the I Ching. To the north sits his altar. Along with the usual candles, herbs, and incense holders, Tyagi has added a bamboo flute, a water pipe stuffed with plants, and one of Jack Chick's Christian comic-book tracts. The altar is dedicated to Kali, the dark and devouring Hindu goddess of destruction whose statue Tyagi occasionally anoints with his lover's menstrual blood. Other figures include a Sorcerer's Apprentice Mickey Mouse and a rainbow-haired troll. On the window sill lies the tail of Vlad the Impaler, a deceased cat. Near the altar sits a beat-up Apple II with a trackball that resembles a swirling blue crystal ball.

On one wall, Tyagi has posted the words Charity, Poverty, and Silence. They are reminders of monastic vows Tyagi took, vows with traditional names but his own, carefully worked out meanings. (Tyagi is an adopted name that means "one who renounces.")

"I just stopped grabbing after things," he said. "I made certain limitations and assertions on how I wanted to live and be in the world." His job as a security guard gives him just enough cash for rent, food, and dial-up time.

"For a long time, I had the desire to find the truth at all costs, or die trying," Tyagi said in a measured and quiet voice. After reading and deeply researching philosophy, mysticism, and the occult, Tyagi began cobbling together his own mythic structures, divination systems, and rituals - an eclectic spirituality well suited to the Net's culture of complex interconnection. Like many technopagans, Tyagi paid his dues behind the eight-sided die, exploring role-playing games like Dungeons & Dragons and Call of Cthulhu. He also delved heavily into chaos magic, a rather novel development on the occult fringe that's well represented on the Net. Rather than work with traditional occult systems, chaos magicians either construct their own rules or throw them out altogether, spontaneously enacting rituals that break through fixed mental categories and evoke unknown - and often terrifying - entities and experiences.

"Using popular media is an important aspect of chaos magic," Tyagi says as he scratches the furry neck of Eris, the Doggess of Discord. "Instead of rejecting media like many Pagans, we use them as magical tools." He points out that Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth, the chaotic magical organization that surrounds the industrial band Psychick TV, would practice divination with televisions tuned to display snow. "Most Pagans would get online and say, Let's get together somewhere and do a ritual. Chaos magicians would say, Let's do the ritual online."

After compiling his original Mage's Guide to the Internet - an exhaustive directory of mailing lists, ftp sites, newsgroups, and MOOs - Tyagi hooked up with Moonchilde, also known as Joseph Traub, a god of an online MUSH devoted to Anne McCaffrey's Dragonriders of Pern series, and created an occult MUD called Divination Web (telnet bill.math.uconn.edu 9393). Originally, DivWeb presented a virtual geography of spiritual systems: a great Kabbalistic Tree of Life stood in the center of a wheel whose various spokes mapped out different astrological signs and psychological states and linked up to other realms - Celtic, shamanic, Satanic. Down one path lay an amusement park devoted to religious heresy; another direction would send you down the river of the Egyptian afterlife. But Tyagi found the layout too structured, and now you just log into the Void.

These days, Tyagi cruises the Net from four to six hours a day during the week. "Being online is part of my practice. It's kind of a hermit-like existence, like going into a cave. I'm not really connected to people. I'm just sending out messages and receiving them back."

But for MOO-oriented magicians like Tyagi, the Net is more than a place of disembodied information. "Cyberspace is a different dimension of interaction. There's a window between the person who's typing and the person who finds himself in cyberspace," Tyagi explains. "If you're familiar enough with the tool, you can project yourself into that realm. For me, I start to associate myself with the words that I'm typing. It's less like I'm putting letters onto a screen and more like there's a description of an experience and I'm having it. It's a wonderful new experiment in terms of magic and the occult, and it connects with a lot of experiments that have happened in the past."

Like some MUD users, Tyagi finds that after logging heavy time in these online realms, he interacts with the offline world as if it were an object-oriented database. "Within the physical world, there are certain subsets that are MUDs - like a book. A book is a kind of MUD - you can get into it and move around. It's a place to wander. So MUDs become a powerful metaphor to see in a personal sense how we interact with different messages. Real life is the fusion of the various MUDs. It's where all of them intersect."

For the Druids and hermetic scholars of old, the world was alive with intelligent messages: every star and stone was a signature; every beast and tree spoke its being. The cosmos was a living book where humans wandered as both readers and writers. The wise ones just read deeper, uncovering both mystical correspondences and the hands-on knowledge of experimental science.

To the thousands of network denizens who live inside MUDs and MOOs like DivWeb or LambdaMOO, this worldview is not as musty and quaint as it might seem to the rest of us. As text-based virtual worlds, MUDs are entirely constructed with language: the surface descriptions of objects, rooms, and bodies; the active script of speech and gesture; and the powerful hidden spells of programming code. Many MOOs are even devoted to specific fictional worlds, turning the works of Anne McCaffrey or J. R. R. Tolkien into living books.

For many VR designers and Net visionaries, MOOs are already fossils - primitive, low-bandwidth inklings of the great, simulated, sensory overloads of the future. But hard-core MOOers know how substantial and enchanting - not to mention addictive - their textual worlds can become, especially when they're fired up with active imagination, eroticism, and performative speech.

All those elements are important in the conjurer's art, but to explore just how much MOOs had to do with magic, I sought out my old friend legba, a longtime Pagan with a serious MOO habit. Because her usual haunt, LambdaMOO, had such heavy lag time, legba suggested we meet in Dhalgren MOO, a more intimate joint whose eerie imagery is lifted from Samuel Delaney's post-apocalyptic science fiction masterpiece.

That's how I wind up here on Dhalgren's riverbank. Across the water, the wounded city of Bellona flickers as flames consume its rotten dock front. I step onto a steel suspension bridge, edging past smashed toll booths and a few abandoned cars, then pass through cracked city streets on my way to legba's Crossroads. An old traffic light swings precariously. Along the desolate row of abandoned storefronts, I see the old Grocery Store, legba's abode. Through the large and grimy plate glass window I can see an old sign that reads: Eggs, $15.95/dozen. The foreboding metal security grate is locked.

Legba pages me from wherever she currently is: "The next fun thing is figuring out how to get into the grocery store."

Knowing legba's sense of humor, I smash the window and scramble through the frame into the derelict shop. Dozens of flickering candles scatter shadows on the yellowing walls. I smell cheese and apples, and a sweet smoke that might be sage.

Legba hugs me. "Welcome!" I step back to take a look. Legba always wears borrowed bodies, and I never know what form or gender they'll be. Now I see an assemblage: part human, part machine, part hallucination. Her mouth is lush, almost overripe against bone-white skin, and her smile reveals a row of iridescent, serrated teeth. She's wearing a long black dress with one strap slipping off a bony, white shoulder. Folded across her narrow back is one long, black wing.

I'm still totally formless here, so legba urges me to describe my virtual flesh. I become an alien anthropologist, a tall, spindly Zeta Reticuli with enormous black eyes and a vaguely quizzical demeanor. I don a long purple robe and dangle a diamond vajra pedant around my scrawny neck. Gender neutral.

Legba offers me some canned peaches. Pulling out a laser drill, I cut through the can, sniff the contents, and then suck the peaches down in a flash through a silver straw.

Once again, I'm struck at how powerfully MOOs fuse writing and performance. Stretching forth a long, bony finger, I gently touch legba's shoulder. She shivers.

"Do we bring our bodies into cyberspace?"

Legba does.

She doesn't differentiate much anymore.

"How is this possible?" I ask. "Imagination? Astral plane? The word made flesh?"

"It's more like flesh made word," legba says. "Here your nerves are uttered. There's a sense of skin on bone, of gaze and touch, of presence. It's like those ancient spaces, yes, but without the separations between earth and heaven, man and angel."

Like many of the truly creative Pagans I've met, legba is solitary, working without a coven or close ties to Paganism's boisterous community. Despite her online presence and her interest in Ifá, the West African system of divination, legba's a pretty traditional witch; she completed a Craft apprenticeship with Pagans in Ann Arbor and studied folklore and mythology in Ireland. "But I was sort of born this way," she says. "There was this voice that

I always heard and followed. I got the name for it, for her, through reading the right thing at the right time. This was the mid- to late '70s, and it was admittedly in the air again.

I went to Ireland looking for the goddess and became an atheist. Then she started looking out through my eyes. For me, it's about knowing, seeing, being inside the sentience of existence, and walking in the connections."

These connections remind me of the Crossroads legba has built here and on LambdaMOO. She nods. "For me, simultaneously being in VR and in RL [real life] is the crossroads." Of course, the Crossroads is also the mythic abode of Legba, her namesake. "Legba's the gateway," she explains. "The way between worlds, the trickster, the phallus, and the maze. He's words and their meanings, and limericks and puns, and elephant jokes and -"

She pauses. "Do you remember the AI in Count Zero who made those Cornell Boxes?" she asks. "The AI built incredible shadow boxes, assemblages of the scraps and bits and detritus of humanity, at random, but with a machine's intentionality." She catches her breath. "VR is that shadowbox. And Legba is," she pauses, "that AI's intentionality."

But then she shrugs, shyly, refusing to make any questionable claims about online gods. "I'm just an atheist anarchist who does what they tell me to do," she says, referring to what she calls the "contemporary holograms" of the gods. "It works is all."

I asked her when she first realized that MOOs "worked." She told me about the time her friend Bakunin showed her how to crawl inside a dishwasher, sit through the wash-and-rinse cycle, and come out all clean. She realized that in these virtual object-oriented spaces, things actually change their properties. "It's like alchemy," she said.

"The other experience was the first time I desired somebody, really desired them, without scent or body or touch or any of the usual clues, and they didn't even know what gender I was for sure. The usual markers become meaningless."

Like many MOOers, legba enjoys swapping genders and bodies and exploring net.sex. "Gender-fucking and morphing can be intensely magical. It's a very, very easy way of shapechanging. One of the characteristics of shamans in many cultures is that they're between genders, or doubly gendered. But more than that, morphing and net.sex can have an intensely and unsettling effect on the psyche, one that enables the ecstatic state from which Pagan magic is done."

I reach out and gingerly poke one of her sharp teeth. "The electricity of nerves," I say. "The power of language."

She grins and closes her teeth on my finger, knife-point sharp, pressing just a little, but not enough to break the skin.

"It's more than the power of language," legba responds. "It's embodiment, squishy and dizzying, all in hard and yielding words and the slippery spaces between them. It's like fucking in language."

"But," I say, "jabbering in this textual realm is a far cry from what a lot of Pagans do - slamming a drum and dancing nude around a bonfire with horns on their heads."

She grins, well aware of the paradox. As she explains, our culture already tries to rise above what Paganism finds most important (nature, earth, bodies, mother), and at first the disembodied freedom of cyberspace seems to lob us even further into artificial orbit.

"But the MOO isn't really like a parallel universe or an alternate space," legba says. "It's another aspect of the real world. The false dichotomy is to think that cyberspace and our RL bodies are really separate. That the 'astral' is somewhere else, refined and better."

I hear a call from the mother ship. "I must take my leave now."

Legba grins as well and hugs me goodbye.

I try to smile, but it's difficult because Gray aliens have such small mouths. So I bow, rub my vajra pendant, and wave. For the moment, my encounter with technopaganism is done. I've glimpsed no visions on my PowerBook, no demons on the MOO, and I have a tough time believing that the World Wide Web is the living mind of the Gaian Goddess. But even as I recall the phone lines, dial-up fees, and clacking keyboards that prop up my online experience, I can't erase the eerie sense that even now some ancient page of prophecy, penned in a crabbed and shaky hand, is being fulfilled in silicon. And then I hit @quit, and disappear into thin electronic air.

Cryptomancy through the Ages

Vernor Vinge is not the first to link spells with encrypted codes. The first books of modern cryptography were penned back in the 15th century by Johannes Trithemius, the Abbot of Würzberg. Though Trithemius was a monk, he was also a hard-core magician, and his Steganographia and Polygraphiae were simultaneously works of encryption and theurgy - the art of invoking gods and spirits. Trithemius's simple transpositional schemes were designed to control demonic entities who formed a kind of astral Internet, allowing the mage to communicate messages at a distance and to know everything that was going on in the world. Trithemius was no pagan witch - in fact, he encouraged the Church to burn them. Historians still can't decide whether Trithemius was disguising his magic as cryptography or vice versa, but the National Security Agency finds his works important enough to display them at its museum in Washington, DC.

The Renaissance magician John Dee was a secret agent for the British Crown (code named 007), and may have used his occult writings to pass on military information about the Spanish Armada during the late 16th century. Dee was also a mathematician, a geographer, an antiquarian, and the court astrologer for Queen Elizabeth.

With the largest library in England, Dee fulfilled a common hermetic pattern of information addiction and intellectual eclecticism, his interests ranging from Euclid to alchemy to mechanical birds. Using an elaborate system of theurgic magic, Dee also sought "the company and information of the Angels of God." As faithful messengers of light mediating God's omniscience, angels might be the original intelligent agents - immaterial, rational, without human emotion.

Dee's occult partner Edward Kelly would stare into the crystal surface of a "shew-stone" as Dee used his decidedly unnatural language of Enochian Calls to download data from the creatures Kelly glimpsed there. Lacking good cryptography, Dee spent much of his time interrogating the creatures to make sure they were who they claimed and not evil demons in disguise.

The Goddess in Every Woman's Machine

by Paulina Borsook

Technopaganism is the grand exception to the 85-percent-male,15-percent-female demographics of the online world.

It is one virtual community where rough parity - both in number and in power - exists between the sexes.

For starters, in the goddess-based versions of technopaganism, every incarnation of the divine can be symbolized by female personae: here there are brainiacs and artists and powermongers, in addition to the more traditional archetypes of sexpot and baby-maker and provider of harvests. Unlike the great world religions - Islam, Christianity, Judaism, and Buddhism - in goddess-based spiritual practice, women can express their latent sense of potency without feeling they have to be crypto-male.

It's the fundamentals of technopaganism that have created this woman-friendly technoland. Laura Cooksey, who has a degree in computer science from the University of Kentucky and works as a programmer for the US Department of the Navy in Arlington, Virginia, says that paganism appealed to her because it "has always placed more emphasis on the female aspects of deity. There are female archetypes and role models you can relate to."

It's not that guys aren't welcome - both as fellow devotees, and, at the spiritual level, in male representations of deity. But within technopaganism there is a level playing field for women that is unimaginable on other spiritual paths where the Most-Holy-and-Potent are male. Happily enough, in paganism, says Alison Harlow, a database designer from Santa Cruz, "sexuality is sacred."

Harlow first discovered computers in 1958, when she was starved for English-language books after eloping to Latin America. She stumbled across that classic of cybernetics, Norbert Weiner's The Human Use of Human Beings. She went on to receive a master's in mathematics from Columbia University, then launched her career with IBM in 1962. She now makes her living designing health risk-assessment databases, has helped found a Neo-Pagan community in the Santa Cruz mountains, and was prominently featured in Margot Adler's seminal book on Paganism.

Susan Shaw, who does PC tech-support for Xerox Corporation in Rochester, New York, says that in the technopagan rivulets on the Net, "women almost seem to be top dog"; what's more, she adds, the level of civility is higher. This may be both a cause and effect of female-principle-honoring technopaganism. This is a practice which endorses the politeness that has been encouraged in women; men are drawn to this female world view in part because they cherish politesse. And if there are flames, as one Bay Area technopagan says, "there are equal-opportunity flame wars."

In fact, Shaw says, "men in technopaganism have to be comfortable with women in leadership roles and with serious and focused intellectual contact with women. If they're just cruising, they drop out fast."

Pagan Emma Bull, whose 1991 novel Bone Dance was nominated for both Nebula and Hugo awards says, "On the Net, you are androgynous unless you claim otherwise. Any sexuality is what you yourself have placed there - there's no gender in information-processing, and information doesn't have sex." Bull does point out, though, that the more ceremonial-magic Pagan groups tend to be more male-dominated, more hierarchical, and more "into who has juju and who doesn't."

However gender roles stack up, the bottom line for women is that technopaganism is empowering. So argues Kit Howard, who designs databases for a Midwestern pharmaceutical company; she is co-founder of the TechnoDruids Guild, an electronic support and advocacy group for the Druid community, and Chief Information Officer of ÁrnDraíocht Féin, one of the largest Druid organizations in the Pagan community. "You don't have to be stupidly feminist, and you don't need to displace men," she says. "Technopaganism creates a self-selection, where women are more activist, and men are more sympathetic."

In order to make it in the male-dominated world of technology, women often have to be the biggest logical-positivists on the block, outdoing any of the guys in syllogistic thinking and no-nonsense tough-mindedness. Technopaganism allows them to reclaim their femmie sides.

What's more, Harlow suggests, if a woman is "very left-brain, she may have to work harder" to reconnect with spiritual and intuitive sides. And if you're a woman who functions well in traditionally male societies, it can be tremendously comforting to find a path where you can explore female aspects of the universe, both physical and metaphysical, without that being considered wimpy or ineffectual.

With technopaganism, a woman technologist gets to be the girl and gets to be powerful, all at the same time.

San Francisco writer Paulina Borsook loris@well.sf.ca.us last appeared in Wired with "beverly.hills_com." She made heavy use of three different tarot decks in college.