I am sitting where I normally sit to write: at my desk, which faces the neighboring apartment and its lattice fence, over which tumble bunches of white jasmine flowers and their pink buds and spiky dark green leaves, beyond which is MacArthur Avenue and farther, Lake Merritt, and farther still, the East Bay Hills. I am, in other words, in Oakland. I am also on my computer, which means, on the internet, which feels, more and more these days—the internet mediated increasingly by all manner of invisible intelligent assistants—like nowhere and everywhere at once.
But the internet, and its artificial intelligence, is a place.
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