Last time I wrote here about stepping back from Flickr, I said the part worth carrying forward wasn’t the app, it was a practice: license generously, credit properly, treat a photo as something meant to be shared rather than hoarded. I left an obvious question sitting there, unanswered on purpose: shared with whom, and for what. “Everyone who takes photos” isn’t a real audience, and I don’t want to spend a small, community-funded project’s limited attention building for one that doesn’t exist.

So here’s an honest attempt at an answer, and it starts by naming who I’m deliberately not building for.

I’ve had a Flickr account since 2008. My own photostream sits past 4,800 photos now, and for a long stretch of that history it wasn’t just a place I put my own pictures. In February 2009 I wrote a HOWTO on this blog about posting straight from a Nokia S60 phone to Flickr, because, as I put it at the time, “a lot of my clients in the educational sector are starting to use Flickr as part of their online teaching.” I wasn’t a bystander watching open education discover Flickr. I was helping build the on-ramp for it, in a professional life spent almost entirely in EdTech, first at DETAFE, then building learning management systems at Brightcookie for over a decade.

Then, in 2011, I wrote a different kind of post on this blog, “Facebook - good riddance!”, deleting my account and declaring myself done with a company I’d never trusted. I illustrated it with a Creative Commons photo pulled straight off Flickr, credited to a photographer going by cogdogblog. That habit, reaching for a CC-licensed Flickr image whenever this blog needs one, has held for 15 years since, and it’s still the workflow described in this site’s own editorial instructions today.

This isn’t that kind of post. I’m not celebrating anything.

When I wrote LPWAN Meshes: Reticulum, Where I Landed earlier this year, I covered Reticulum as Mark Qvist’s reference Python implementation: rnsd, Sideband, NomadNet, all built on RNS. That was accurate at the time, and it undersold what was already starting to happen underneath it. Reticulum was never meant to be a Python project. It is a protocol, and a protocol with only one implementation isn’t decentralised yet, it’s just a single point of failure with good branding.

Earlier this year, in The Hidden World of Corporate IoT Spying, I looked at how consumer gadgets quietly turn personal spaces into corporate data collection nodes: robot vacuums mapping living rooms for foreign servers, smart TVs cataloguing every frame you watch, and Eufy security cameras quietly beaming unencrypted thumbnails and facial identifiers to the cloud despite marketing slogans promising “local storage for your eyes only.”

Seven months later, that trajectory has only accelerated. The news cycle around domestic cameras and automated surveillance has moved from occasional security quirks to systemic betrayal.

Farmers are accustomed to operating under pressure from both ends of their business. Upstream, four companies, Bayer, Corteva, Syngenta, and BASF, collectively control more than half of global commercial seed sales. Downstream, in Australia, Coles and Woolworths alone account for around 67% of grocery retail volume. The farmer sits in the middle, bearing the operational and climatic risks while having almost zero bargaining power at either end of the transaction. The Treadmill Nobody Chose covered this squeeze in detail. This piece is about the third pressure point layered on top of it.

I upgraded to Ubuntu 26.04 LTS recently, the first jump I’d made since 24.04, sticking to LTS releases the way I always have. Within days I was fighting AppArmor denials in my logs, snaps behaving differently to their .deb equivalents for no obvious reason, and the general low-grade friction of debugging the packaging layer instead of the software I actually wanted to run. I’d already documented one of these fights in public: getting Zoom’s camera working again on Wayland meant ripping the Snap out entirely and installing Mozilla’s own .deb instead, because the sandbox was standing between the app and the hardware and no amount of granted permissions fixed it.

A three-part series on licensing and the economics of digital sovereignty was planned: how the commons got built, how Europe is choosing to defend it, how the AI stack could be governed as one. Then Martin Owens, an Inkscape developer and member of its project leadership committee, replied to part one on Mastodon, in two posts stitched together by the character limit, and pointed straight at something the series had missed entirely.

€264 billion. That is how much European organisations spend annually on digital technology from non-European companies. And that number increases by roughly 10% every year, not because the products are getting better at the same rate, but because licence agreements are structured that way, and because the switching costs are designed to make leaving expensive. Some vendors have raised prices tenfold. The organisations paying them have, in most cases, no meaningful governance over the systems they depend on.

In 1976, Bill Gates wrote an open letter to hobbyists accusing them of stealing. What they were actually doing was sharing software they had written for each other (modifications, tools, documentation), the way people had shared knowledge since the first person showed another how to do something useful. Gates reframed mutual aid as intellectual property theft. It was not a philosophical claim. It was a property claim, backed by lawyers, Congress, and eventually the World Trade Organization.

Six months ago I pulled a local language model onto my laptop. Took about 12 minutes with Ollama. No account, no API key, no data leaving the machine. It felt like a small act of sovereignty, exactly the kind of local-first approach I’d been arguing for.

Then I started using it. And I noticed something.

The model’s cultural centre of gravity was somewhere around San Francisco, circa 2022. Ask it about food systems and it defaulted to commodity agriculture and supermarket supply chains. Ask it about community governance and it reached for American municipal frameworks. Ask it about traditional land management and it gave me a careful, earnest summary that read like it had been assembled from university anthropology papers, not from anyone who had actually grown anything, or sat with the country long enough to know it.

Every few months, Australia’s business press discovers a new emergency. Right now it’s the capital gains tax. According to the usual commentators, founders, VCs, and their aligned media, Labor’s move to replace the 50% CGT discount with inflation-adjusted indexation is an act of vandalism against Australian ingenuity. Entrepreneurs will flee. Talent will dry up. The unicorns won’t come.

I’ve been working in and around Australian agtech and startups for the better part of two decades. I’ve watched the same arguments recycled through every policy debate: the R&D tax credit, the ESVCLP scheme, the startup visa. The answer is always the same: give us more upside, or we’ll take our toys elsewhere.

A few days ago I was listening to an episode of It Could Happen Here, Cooper Quintin and Colonel Panic from the EFF walking through the American surveillance state. Flock cameras on every corner. Cell site simulators at protests. Facial recognition with no accountability, built on databases scraped from your social media without asking. PenLink buying location data harvested from your phone’s apps and selling it to law enforcement, no warrant required, because it came from advertising networks instead of a phone carrier.