inochi (n.) life, in all its moving parts
The whole family, on one wall.
- Shared calendar
- Chores & goals
- Meal planning
- Shopping list to
Instacart - Family location
- Concierge
We’re inviting a small group of families to shape Inochi before its wider release.
The wall
A kitchen wall, and a screen on it. The day so far scrolls up it - the school run, a dentist, a permission slip, the dog’s trip to the vet, every one of them already crossed off - until the list arrives at now. Then the school pickup rules itself off in its turn, soccer practice moves up to take its place as the next thing due, and dinner with the Harpers slides into view behind it.
Wren’s home
Wren gets home from school - the kiosk knows without being told, because her phone crossed the geofence around the house. Her chores come up with her: feed the dog, empty the dishwasher, twenty minutes of reading, each ticking itself off as she gets to it.
Dad’s home
Dad gets home first, and his list comes up with him: the laundry swapped, then Wren run over to soccer practice. The kit bag goes off the counter as they leave, and the 4:30 practice rules itself off the schedule behind them. One thing is left on his list - an oil change that needs a phone call.
Mom’s home
Mom gets in to a list that is already down to one line - everything crossed off but the groceries. Behind the list the sky turns, the list closes on a window full of rain, and the kiosk puts up the forecast: it is not letting up before half past six. So the errand becomes an order instead. The shopping list assembles itself, Instacart takes it, and when the list comes back the groceries are crossed off without anyone having gone out in it.
Iggy’s home
Iggy gets in last. Nobody went to fetch him and nobody had to ask where he was - the kiosk saw his phone cross the geofence, and the last empty place in the house filled itself in.
Dinner tonight
Dinner tonight was planned on Sunday. The ingredients check themselves off against what came in the order, "make dinner" closes, and the car’s oil change takes its place on the list.
Concierge AI calls
The sun comes out on the far side of the rain. Dad’s list has one thing left on it that needs a phone call - an oil change - and nobody in the house makes it. Concierge AI finds a shop nearby, rings them, books the slot, and the task is ticked off.
Sunset
The sun goes down on a kitchen where the calendar, the chores, the shopping, the meals and the car all sorted themselves out on one screen.
Night
And then the house goes quiet. The screen dims to its night sky and keeps the day - tomorrow’s calendar, whatever is left on the lists - ready for whoever gets up first.