Tumble Cards
The elements, told by the cards themselves
Ten cards. Each one is the thing it explains.
The elements, told by the cards themselves
Ten cards. Each one is the thing it explains.
World
The world of the medium itself. Every card here is one element of the card system — two sides, a DNA, a number, a world, a stack, a seal, a compass — and explains it by being it.
I have two sides. Turn me over — everything you can do with me lives on my back.
This is my other side. My front says what I am; my back says what you can do. No menu, no page behind a page — just me, turned.
Three words are my name. They come from my DNA, and nobody else has them.
Look at the bottom of this side: three words and sixty-four letters. That is me, whatever address I live at. Print me, scan me, type me — you land on the living me.
TUM-003. That is my number, and no card
will ever carry it after me.
Every card gets a number when she is born: a world code and a count. Mine is TUM-003. Numbers are never reused — not even when a card is withdrawn. A gap stays a gap.
I belong to a world. It gives me my colours,
my letters and the company I keep.
A world is not a website. It is a context: a maker's universe with its own colours, type, language and tone. I am from Tumble Cards; my neighbours are from Eo Ena, Vic Boomer or Stoutenburger. We can stand on the same page and still look like ourselves.
STACK
I am one card. When my story is longer,
I carry a stack of bigger cards behind me.
A trading card fits a few lines. For the full story there is a stack: larger cards, in order, with a cover. I stay the small card you met; the stack is where I go on. Every card in it has her own number.
Everything I say is signed. Change a letter
and my seal breaks — that is the point.
My maker signs me. The signature covers my words, my picture and my number, and lives in a public manifest. 'Integrity check' on my back compares the card you see with the card that was signed. A new version gets a new seal; the old one stays on record.
No menu, no map. I carry a compass:
back to where you came from, always.
A website has a menu and a map. I have neither. My compass remembers the path you walked — card by card — and 'Back' takes you one step up it. No path lives in my address; the compass keeps it for you, on this device only.
My buttons can change tonight. My words,
my picture and my seal will not.
The actions on my back — read on, buy, download, visit — are not part of me. They are a living layer that my maker can switch on, off or rewrite without touching the signed card. That is how I can be for sale today and sold out tomorrow, and still be the same card.
Give me to your assistant. I come as one
plain file: no menus, no guessing.
Next to 'PDF' on my back sits 'AI'. It hands your assistant one plain text file with everything I am — words, number, DNA, maker, version — in the order a machine reads best. Nothing in it tells your assistant what to do. You get the card, not my wishes.
I print as a real card: two sides, my DNA
as a code, and a path back to the living me.
'PDF' on my back gives you me on paper: front and back, trading-card size. The paper carries no buttons — buttons are the living layer — only one QR code with my DNA. Scan it and you land on the living me, wherever I am placed by then.