Commentary by Mark Wahl, CISA
Organizing principles for identity systems:
"My" Story: biography in social networking services (20070810)
Pamela Dingle (who blogs at Adventures of an Eternal Optimist) writes in "The Dating Mashup (or my Facebook Adventure)"
...I see that a photo has been 'tagged' as being of me....When my friend posted that picture, only those in his network saw it - generally speaking, those that were interested were all a member of one of my circles of acquaintance. No problem - until I join Facebook, and link all of my various circles TOGETHER. Suddenly, a photo & conversation intended for one circle is accessible to another. Yes, I can 'limit' what people see - but would I have the foresight, tools, and memory to figure out all the ways in which I really don’t want past circles to intersect in the future? What about current circles? What about friends who span the circles? I am suddenly the hub, and all my different spheres are the spokes, and those spokes are suddenly connected through me in a tangible, interesting, and researchable way. You may not need to be a direct friend; sharing a friend, a group, or a network may suffice as well (depending on whose account 'houses' what discussion, and who you and your friends open your accounts up to).
Paul Madsen (who blogs at ConnectID) writes in "Eclectic Avenue" on someone whose profile he was reading on LinkedIn:
For instance, if the user's play list showed they listened to Bjork's Greatest Hits, followed by Debussy, I might start to believe that their taste was indeed eclectic. Bad, but eclectic nevertheless.
This seems an unfair characterization, given the portrayal of identity management in at least one of the Greatest Hits:
The Icelandic poet Sjón wrote the lyrics for the song "Bachelorette" for Björk Guðmundsdóttir. An excerpt of the story in the song:
"One day I happened upon a big book buried deep in the ground. I had been walking through the forest, searching for mandrake and the rare mushroom of everlasting love. Few books find their way to my part of the world so I picked it up and dusted the earth of its massive cover. From beneath the dirt appeared a faded photograph of a young woman. The young woman was I.
Despite the alarming fact that my own image was on the cover, I clung to the hope that the book contained a tale of a knight in shining armour and a fair lady waiting to be rescued from a blackhearted ogre. I tried to picture myself on a dark winter's night, sitting in front of the fire, immersed in an ancient adventure. I opened the book, trembling with fear and excitement. The pages were blank.
I was about to cry out in a mixture of disappointment and relief when my gaze touched the paper where one would expect to find the first paragraph. To my surprise the book had started writing itself - as if by magick:
One day when I was walking through the forest, searching for mandrake and the rare mushroom of everlasting love, I happened upon a big book buried deep in the ground.What it wrote was what I was doing there and then. It seemed to follow my every move.
Well,I thought,it's an automatic diary. I guess that means it's up to me to create the story as I go on living.Deep down the thought saddened me. Who would ever want to go through page after page about someone like me? My life was so simple it would never make for a good read. But then a new sentence appeared:I had to leave the forest.And another one:
I realised the book was not merely recounting what I did, it was telling me what I should do. It was time I left my house and started exploring the world.I did exactly what the book told me to and the forest opened up to me like never before. It put on a great show of colours, movement and sounds - as if it wished to make sure it stayed rooted in my memory in all its dazzling beauty. Now, I was ready to leave."
Once in the city, the book "My Story" sends her to a publisher;
| the book is published and becomes a bestseller; | it's turned into a performance, | 
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| but the media frenzy (captured in the text itself) | causes the story to unravel. |
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