Description

The internet is an ecosystem—living and evolving, shaped by both decay and regeneration. In this lecture, we’ll explore how digital spaces function as habitats that grow and persist, and how hidden networks sustain and shape our digital world. As “digital field researchers,” we’ll uncover what resilience looks like in the age of tech giants and algorithmic sameness. We’ll map our own digital biomes and forge a path to a softer, brighter internet. 𖠰𖥧˚෴

What is an ecosystem? Intuitively, we have a strong sense of place, especially when it comes to nature. Whether we call it an ecosystem or assemblage or some other term, we understand what it means to gather as living beings. But, does this stop at the gates of cyberspace? Do digital communities operate under the same principles of ecology?

In this lecture, I argue that the internet is indeed an ecosystem, and explore why nature is so prevalent in the language of the internet. And if the internet can be understood as an ecosystem, our relationships with technology and digital places can be reframed as natural, self-assembling and within our control. We can explore these interactions from a bird’s eye view and cultivate a digital garden that has the conditions to grow.

The name of the lecture, The internet’s root system, was inspired by mycorrhizal networks, appropriately nicknamed the wood wide web. In nature, fungi form underground nets of mycorrhiza that intermesh with tree and plant roots. This decentralized network allows plants to communicate with each other, sharing nutrients, signalling danger and increasing biodiversity. I like to think that a folk community of digital curators and decomposers (re: Are.na, Rhizome, USB Club) represent the internet’s root system, cultivating a greener cyberspace for all of us.

I have this recurring dream where I’m trudging through the mud and my shoes get stuck and I can’t move

I think about the places that I occupy often. I think about how I can never really occupy more than one place at once, because if I could be in more than one place at once then I would be some sort of superhero. I think about how maybe I'm quick to assume, and that being in more than one place at once might not actually be a superpower, but instead some kind of curse? I think about how if two places were existing on the same plane at the same time then, surely, there would be some sort of rip in the fabric of the universe and things might not actually be that good. I think about what happens if there are any contradictions between these two places, like if up is down in one place, and you said you were proud of me in the other. I think about where these contradictions go when your brain is trying to make sense of all? I think about the places that I occupy more often than I somehow should, but not enough.

What happens when we let digital things die? This participatory session explores the practice of digital composting—a ritual for facilitating the decomposition of digital objects, ideas and identities. By acknowledging the impermanence of online material and rejecting the pressures of preservation, we will allow them to become fertile ground for something new to grow.

A few ways to think through this:

1. Decay as Liberation

Letting digital material decompose can be a kind of freedom — from surveillance, from legacy identities, from the illusion that everything must be archived. If digital life mimics biological life, then maybe forgetting is as essential as remembering. It opens room for growth, change, and new narratives.

2. Decay as Resistance

In a world that valorizes constant data accumulation (think cloud storage, social media timelines, algorithmic tracking), decay resists the imperative to always preserve. Ephemerality can become a form of refusal — a refusal to be permanently extractable or monetized.

3. Compost, Not Trash

Digital decay could be seen not as deletion, but as composting. Old code, abandoned forums, broken hyperlinks — they can be fertile ground for new creative forms, digital archaeology, and storytelling. (Think of glitch aesthetics, or net art that leans into obsolescence.)

4. Memory and Care

Chun’s argument that memory requires action — constant refreshing — also suggests that letting go is an action, too. A choice. There’s something deeply human about choosing what to carry forward and what to let rot. Digital decay can be a practice of care, not neglect.