Google's Grace

Googles Grace / Part 1 / SEO Websites optimisation with fun and success
Hello and welcome to "Googles Grace",

the new book "Googles Grace" is to be published exclusively on this site from beginning, chapter by chapter in a biweekly rhythm. And you have the possibility to express your opinion right here, in addition to the themeworld-forum. Copying and sending is permitted, but please always only with copyright information. Thanks.

"Googles Grace" E-Book
http://www.amazon.com/Googles-Grace-Optimization-Success-ebook/dp/B00433U3TS/

And now, a lot of fun while reading!

Semecom felt lonely and deserted. She monitored the brisk goings-on around her, which were frantic even fort he region of lost sites. She was sad, and she averted her look. Her head hanging, she head for the darker areas in the cold Cyberspace. All she wanted was silence. Reaching a pile of outmoded algorithms and program codes, she sat down. Glancing into the distance, she spotted blinking colored diodes and click counters at work. “They never sleep or rest,” she sighed quietly.
Semecom sensed the constant current of air from the large fan, and she wondered why it reached even this remote corner. Before her lay a dull nothingness, reminding her of information her friend Wiki had given her – about a so-called universe, whose infinity had grown proverbial. The big difference to her surroundings was that this universe’s dots of light were said to move, unutterably slowly.
“Oh,” sighed Semecom, “why are these crazy goings-on necessary, what’s all this frantic moving about? I wish we had the universe’s tardiness for ourselves.”
Barely had she expressed that than something underneath her moved. Startled, Semecom jerked. She turned and rummaged through the pile of garbage – and there was nothing! But for a few dull pixels, she found nothing. Then she heard the voice.
“Hello? Who’s that? How did you make it to here?” asked something from underneath the pile. As hard as Semecom tried, she could see nothing. She shrugged and assumed she had discovered a dysfunctional wireless local area network connection.
“Don’t act politeness like that,” replied the Commodore. “I know what I am in the eyes of you chits – an on-screen display, and quite a gritty one, too. But there's something special about me, I’m a single copy of my kind.”
Semecom listened attentively and thought silently, “This dancing pile of pixels seems worse off than I am myself.” And without her having said a word the Commodore continued, “I may be old and I was gray at birth, but my Befesch was a passionate craftsman and added some high-tech elements to me.”
“Oh – well, he hid them well,” was the first answer that sprung to Semecom’s mind, but she decided to keep it friendly and said, “What is a Befesch?”
“What? Well, a Befesch,” stuttered the Commodore, surprised, “that’s who writes the programs, who makes sure we work – the person who writes our commands.”
Semecom didn’t understand what the Commodore was telling her, but she watched a matt screen develop round the dancing pixel bar, dark and finally black. It had not been there before.
“You’re larger than I assumed,” she said.
The pile of pixels hopped up and down, excited.
“Well, thirteen inches are thirteen inches, after all,” they replied proudly. Semecom had to contain herself; she had been about to ask why the corners of the screen were so oddly curved toward the inside. But then the idea sprung to her mind that this may be a virus – and that was no subject she wanted to be talking about with the Commodore.
“What brought you to this remote corner?” he asked. “I usually only see format C garbage and lost data packages?”
Semecom turned sad, and her pixels grew dull in color. Not at all did she feel like sharing her problems with this old coot. Actually, she had been hoping to find some peace.
“Has the cat got your language encoding?” asked the Commodore, and after a brief pause he added, “I’m a good listener.” His words caught Semecom’s attentiveness. “A good listener.” How long ago was it that she had last heard that. Who was willing to listen in this multi-dimensional Cyber World, full of hecticness, and in which everyone had to be the fastest and nobody knew the meaning of the word for standstill. Semecom raised her glance and saw nothing but a blinking pixel on a bent monitor. Te commodore was silent.
“I don’t understand what’s going on in the world,” she sighed.
“Oh, chick, you couldn’t put that in more accurate words, could you?”
“I was created by a higher form of intelligence. Its aim was to address users round the world and admonish them to trust their inner source of energy and their intuition, which would lead them to a more fulfilled and affectionate life than they have now.”
“Wait! Wait, just a minute!” the Commodore interrupted her energetically. “Give me that a bit simpler. What’s actually the problem?” Semecom lowered her display and said meekly, “My page rank is too low.”
“Your what is low?” replied the Commodore.
“My page rank. I went to such effort but Google just doesn’t seem to like me.”
“What in God’s name is a page rank and who the hell is this Google person? Love, where do you get your expressions from?” The Commodore fought for composure.
“The page rank is an algorithm that informs you about the quality and the quantity of your user traffic. It analyses all information on you, such as your HTML code, your DocType, how many backlinks you get, and the length of your meta description.” The Commodore took a moment to take that in.
“Was your Befesch stoned when he thought that up? Who’s meant to understand any of that?” The Commodore’s words woke Semecom from her lethargy and she realized he had understood not a single word.
“You’ve been around here for a bit longer, haven’t you?”, she said. “Perhaps I ought to show you some things that will help you see all this clearer.”
“Witty metaphor,” replied the Commodore. “You could give me some new datagram’s – if they aren’t too large for me. I’ll process them – provided they aren’t too big for my database – if …”
“Yes, all right. If they aren’t too large, I get it,” she interrupted him. “”You could as well wait and look at it all yourself in a moment. That will be easier, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Be capable before you laugh,” said the Commodore.
“Be capable before you laugh?” asked Semecom. “What does that mean?”
“That was a popular proverb back then. We got it from the old joke with the cookies.”
“Cookies?” asked Semecom. She assumed her expression was enough of a signal as to her need of explanation. The Commodore cleared his throat and said: “The child asks its mother whether it can have some cookies.”
“Sure,” says she, “take some for yourself.”
And the child says: “But they’re up on the wardrobe.”
“Yes,” said its mother. “Take some.”
“But, mom, I don’t have arms.”
And she says: “Well, that’s just tough. No arms, no cookies.”
“That’s tasteless,” said Semecom, interrupting the Commodore’s laughter, “and it isn’t much help, either – what were you trying to tell me through that?”
“Good I’m not that touchy,” replied the Commodore, “or else I’d have found it quite tasteless being told I’m to LOOK at something.” Semecom felt unsettled.
“Does that mean you – you can’t see?”
“You make that sound so pitiful,” wondered the Commodore. He remained silent for a moment and added quietly, “Can you …? No! I’ sure you can’t! I mean, we can’t …? We can’t, can we?”
Semecom felt so sorry for the old Commodore that she fought for composure.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t say that.”
“It’s okay, never mind,” replied the Commodore, his pixel bar dancing wildly up and down. “Are you saying you really ca …?”
“Yes, I can …,” replied Semecom, feeling awkward.
“Wow! Tell me how that works!” The avid Commodore lowered his voice immediately and said, “You must be something special, something unique. Now I get why you said you were made by a higher form of intelligence. I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking you serious right away.” His voice was awestruck. Semecom grinned secretly, despite feeling embarrassed at the old Commodore’s deifying her.
“Tell me, who created you?” he asked.
“A young computer science student.” Semecom was trying to downplay the topic. But she achieved the exact opposite. “A student?” muttered the Commodore.
“Yes. Well, an extremely talented one, of course.”
“A student?” He found it hard to believe. Semecom longed for an exit from this embarrassing situation, but she saw none. Then she remembered her friend Wiki, who had always had some good advice. So she carried out a query as to where she would find help for the old coot. The answer took an unusual amount of time. Semecom was considering an error in transfer when she received a brief piece of information. It was a link, taking her to the museum of computer technology.
“I had better not tell him that right now,” she mused silently and followed the link. She reissued her query and received a small datagram with a symbol in return. Opening the symbol, she broke out in a guffaw.
„Who’s that laughing?“ asked the Commodore, still regaining his composure.
“No one. It was just a joke,” replied Semecom and opened the data program. “Ah, now that looks helpful.” Then she turned back toward the Commodore. “What kind of interface do you use for communication?”
“I have a flabby five-and-a-quarter inch drive,” replied he.
“You’re kidding! I just want to help you,” replied Semecom. “So what do you use for long-distance data transmission?”
“Oh, yes. Data transmission. I used to do that long ago. I used an acoustic coupler for the phone.”
“Seriously now,” said Semecom. She wasn’t so sure whether the Commodore was jesting or not. “I wasn’t expecting a wireless or infrared interface, but I’m sure you have some kind of USB or modem connection, don’t you?”
„You’ve got to explain to me what all those words mean sometime,” said the Commodore. “I have a serial interface with a six pin bush.” It seemed the two spoke utterly different languages. Semecom started another query for the wisecrackers at the museum of computer science and received a brief construction plan for some kind of adapter socket. Finding spare parts for older generations was no difficulty in these regions – you tripped over them on your way. Having found a webcam among the old cables and plugs, Semecom prepared herself and the Commodore for some minor surgery.
“What are you up to?” asked the Commodore.
“Trust me,” replied Semecom concisely and considered the old, gray box. “I’ll install the plugin on you first. Then I’ll connect the webcam to you, and then you’ll see what happens – in the true sense of the word.”
“Thinks she must be God, the little love,” mused the Commodore, but he enjoyed Semecom’s performing handicraft work on him. Then he suddenly felt all dizzy and lost his conscience for a fraction of a second.
“Wow! Now what was that?” he stammered.
“That was the program for the webcam. I set the transmission rate to a minimum, but even that seems to have been a bit much for you, eh?” Amused, Semecom began to connect the webcam.
“Now,” she said a minute later. “How’s that?”
“How’s what?”
“Well, you actually ought to be able to see something.”
“Love, do you suffer from megalomania?” said the Commodore. “You think you can tinker for five minutes and that’ll help me see? Was that really what you assumed?”
“I don’t get it,” muttered Semecom, “I thought it would work that way. Oh, I’ve got to reset you – of course.”
“Not the res …” He got no further than that. The screen darkened, and for a moment nothing happened. Then his drive gave a croak and his screen returned to life. It took an eternal amount of time for the pixel bar to reappear. That very moment, the lamp of the webcam began to glow.
“You silly c …,” he muttered. Then there was a crack, and the old Commodore said nothing. Tiny wads of smoke emerged from his gray housing, and Semecom gave him an appalled look.
“Damn, I killed him,” she hissed. “What a queasy old box.” She considered just leaving him where he was, but then she felt sorry for him as he lay there, giving off clouds of smoke.
She sent out another query to the museum of computer science. It took a while this time, but then she received a tutorial for repair from a special department. The symbol with the laughter accompanied this, too. Leaving it unopened, she concerned herself with operation Commodore right away. She successfully replaced the seared wires and repaired some damage on the main printed circuit board. Then she treated his bios to an ancient upgrade which she had modified herself, after shaking her display at the sight of his antediluvian equipment. A few optimizations later she was finished. Semecom hoped she had saved the Commodore. Rebooting him, she faced a check program. His drive croaked, the screen displayed a first glow and the webcam signaled its function, too. The pixel bar appeared brighter this time. Semecom considered an error in the Commodore’s audio module – he issued not a single noise. The bar on his screen seemed to float. The hectic movements of their first encounter had completely vanished.
“Hello? Commodore?” Semecom tried to approach him. “Do you hear me?”
His answer was brief. “Yes.”
“Do you see me, too?”
“Yes. I see you,” he said slowly, a smile in his voice. Semecom was concerned, for the Commodore seemed to be not quite in his mind.
“Do you know where you are?” she asked him.
“Of course I do,” he replied in a calm, content voice. “I’m in heaven, and you’re an angel.”
“No,” replied Semecom, surprised. “You’re not in heaven. You’re right where you were before your system crashed, and I … well, I’m not … even if I may look like one …”
“Wherever I look,” said the Commodore, turning his display, “I see vastness, similar to the universe. Just that everything moves faster here. I see electric arcs flashing by, and there are waves of color – and I’m sure they don’t really exist. And then I look at you and I’m sure – I MUST BE IN HEAVEN.” He took a deep sigh and a content grin spread all across his thirteen inch screen.
“You had a complete system crash and I treated you to a few updates. That’s all,” Semecom tried to explain to him.
“Yes, of course, sure,” replied the Commodore.
“That’s the way it is,” she tried again. He had averted his glance and was looking curiously into all directions. Semecom turned to her repair tutorial and looked up for mistakes she may have made. In that moment she spotted the Commodore’s data sheet: 0,98 MHz, and an internal memory of 64 KB – no computer memory – and the display knew 16 colors.
“Good God, what did I do?” she exhaled. “How can he actually exist with those values? They don’t even deserve the word exist. No wonder he thinks he’s in heaven.” She pondered on how to explain his situation to him – if he would understand at all. Having returned from his little discovery journey, she faced a deeply satisfied, blissful matt screen. Semecom couldn’t and wouldn’t destroy it, and so she decided to leave the Commodore in his heaven for the time being.

The two strolled along next to each other for quite some time. The Commdore was always a few steps ahead, curious to find out what he would find round the next corner. He could not see enough and turned to consider each datagram, each website and each program robot, whooshing past him at a breathtaking pace. He even tried to greet, but they were too fast for a reply – and he was too slow. He came to a halt at a fiberglass cable and gazed at the mesmerizing play of colors in hypnosis.
“What a spectrum of colors,” he marveled.
“That’s a good sixteen million colors, at a transmission rate of six hundred gigabit per second,” commeted Semecom, bored by the sight.
“Wow!” marveled the Commodore? “If this is heaven, then I like it here.” The grin on his screen would have outlasted his main plug being pulled.
Despite his ebullient euphoria, he realized his new friend’s mood was quite the opposite. And as he had seen a part of what he assumed to be heaven, he returned to Semecom.
“It’s wonderful here, although I did have a slightly different image of it all. I thought I’d understand everything I see in heaven. But this is – it’s wonderful! And yet I still don’t understand it all,” said the Commodore, his look drifting off into the far distance.
“It isn’t heaven,” replied Semecom, a slightly enmerved tone in her voice, and then she quietly added, “I feel like I’m in quite the opposite place.”
“And that’s one of the things I don’t understand. I never heard of bad-mooded angels.”
“I am no …” Semecom didn’t finish her sentence. “It makes no sense, anyway,” she mused silently.
“I don’t understand how anyone like you could possibly be so down,” probed the Commodore. “You have thos glow to you, you’re plain beautiful. And as to your capabilities, I can only guess what they might be.”
“If only you knew,” replied Semecom. “That’s my problem.” The two had arrived near a node. Datagrams and querys were exchanged at a breathtaking pace and density for an invisible hand to direct them further into all directions at the same speed.
“There! Do you see all those queries?” asked Semecom and pointed out the avid hustle and bustle. This is where queries are matched with the corresponding results.”
“That’s another thing I don’t get,” said the Commodore, watching the hectic goings-on with great attention. “Why is everything so swifty in heaven? I thought they must have all the time in the world here.”
“Speed has turned a law,” explained Semecom. “All it’s about is connecting the user’s queries with the corresponding content somewhere in the internet. The search engines’ robots rush across the websites and scan them for their content. They stubbornly look out for what they were programmed to find, what rules they must apply to classify the content. And those rules are set by Google – and THAT is my entire damn problem. Google doesn’t like me.” The Commodore had not understood much, however her last words had been unambiguous. “Ah. Trouble with the boss, eh,” he smiled.
“What?” replied Semecom, slowly recovering from her emotional outburst. “Excuse me, but I think you have not a clue of what or whom I’m going on about.”
“How? You speak in riddles and use expressions from a language I don’t speak!” The Commodore’s words hauled Semecom back down to the earth of HER reality.
“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I wasn’t being fair with you. Well’ go have a look for a quiet place to talk, what do you say?”
Two left the busy goings-on at the node and headed for the draft of the large fan. The course of the copper conductor paths lead them to a part of the green printed circuit board where the microchips carried out their silent work. Semecom and the Commodore picked a place gently tinted by several colorful LED lamps.
“The internet,” began Semecom, “has developed to a huge data racing track. It started out in the seventies as an attempt to connect two computer systems with one another, belonging to the Department of Defense of the United States. During the eighties, new program software turned the internet into what it is today. It’s no comparison to what it used to be. Development and progress in data transmission, the rise of available capacity in general were phenomenal. The development of modern, more intelligent and faster hard- and software is constantly moving forward.” Semecom made a break. She turned toward the Commodore. “Considering what happened during the last thirty years, it’s no wonder at all someone like you believes it to be heaven. Just imagine what someone would feel like who used to work with a C64 or a or something of the kind, like a personal computer called Atari, and who would suddenly be confronted with a modern-day iPhone. A computer with an interactive touch screen display, 32 gigabyte computer memory and 256 megabyte working storage, capable of an internet connection from anywhere and with a fast UMTS connection, a GPS receiver, a three megapixel camera, and an accumulator lifespan of up to eight hours – and that with it weighing 135 grams. Oh, and you can carry out phone calls with it, too.”
The Commodore grew pale round his screen at her enumeration, but he continued listening.
“The thought behind the gadget with all those high tech attributes may be questionable, but it’s a good example of what is possible today, in comparison to the first PCs in use. Those cell phones can use the internet, or specially modified notebooks. It’s perfectly normal today. The statically constructed internet had turned mobile – it’s used round the world, at all times of day and night. The mass of data transmitted daily via the internet will have exceeded an amount of fourhundred petabyte within a few years from now. That’s the amount of data of all books ever written worldwide, in all languages, multiplied by a thousand.”

Silence.

Even Semecom herself had turned pensive by her own words and their meaning – and the Commodore’s main printed circuit board was close to emitting wads of smoke.
“Stop telling me about all this technical stuff, or else I’ll be getting an inferiority complex. Tell me something about Google.”
“Google and his web crawlers follows links on the internet and inserts them into his search index. Two years ago, it exceeded the milestone of a trillion of internet addresses. His web rooters help Google filter all those sites and sort them according to relevance. He uses a secret method for that.”
“I don’t understand why that’s so crucial,” interrupted the Commodore.
“The internet has grown so copious that nobody would find their way by themselves. There are trillions of websites worldwide, and they have thousands of subsites. About two billion internet users can view them. Google has incredible amounts of data and details on these users and the content of about eighty percent of all internet pages. Google connects internet users with the content they’re searching for on the internet – Google knows everything.”
“Is Google God?” asked the Commodore after a brief pause. Semecom laughed.
“Not bad, the comparison. You could call it that when talking of the internet.”
“And why doesn’t Google like you?” Semecom’s expression turned stern again.
“If only I knew that,” she replied sadly. “My content is relevant to all internet users – very relevant, actually. My message is meant for each of them. Each user could profit enormously from what I present them with in letters and words. And I’m not that bad optically, either, am I?”
“As I told you already,” said the Commodore. “You look like an angel to me, and your voice goes with it.”
“I read out my contents to the visitor, if they wish, in several different voices. Click on one of the rocks in my menu, and they’ll move an make noises. Each of these details was made using intricate manual work. Even the burning candles are animated – nobody really sees, but they are. And then there’s my meditation design tool for each user to create his own meditation and download it. That’s unique to the entire internet.” Her display went from gleaming white to an ashen gray.
“But if Google goes for relevance for users, then he must like you.”
“I tried everything for Google to like me,” replied Semecom meekly. The Commodore felt sorry for her.
“Come on,” he tried to console her. “Don’t drown yourself in self-pity. What do you say to this – we just go and ask him.”
“Ask who?”
“This Google of yours. We’ll go and search him and then we’ll ask why he dislikes you.”
“You can’t just go find Google and ask him something.”
“Why not? Let’s give it a try,” said the Commodore, enthusiasm rising in him. “You haven’t got anything better to do, anyway – and what am I to say? Hey, I’m in heaven!”