鄔汝祥

This is my AI OS.

Every agent, every connector, every record — mapped.

Blue lines are MCP connectors. Gold is skills and CLIs.

Teal is open weights running on my own hardware — Hermes for inference, Unsloth for fine-tuning, no API in the middle.

Line width is how often I actually use the thing, which is why half the tiles are faded.

Those are installed and never authorised. Every stack has them. Most maps don't admit it.

But here's the problem most people run into: every session, an agent starts cold.

You re-explain the whole thing.

Whatever it learned dies with the tab.

Call that a system if you want — I call it amnesia with an API key.

The one line most maps hide is the dashed loop running back into the record on the left.

My standing orders and every agent's output live in the same record.

An agent starts cold, reads what the last one left unfinished, and keeps going.

No re-explaining, no lost context.

That's the whole argument — everything else on this map is just what feeds it.

Twenty-three years in kitchens taught me why that matters.

A brigade doesn't run on memory.

It runs on the station sheet, and everybody reads it before service.

But a station sheet only works if nobody can quietly rewrite it afterwards — and that's where most people's "memory" stops and mine doesn't.

lukewu-chain and lukewu-wallet: Rust, ed25519-signed, anchored on Solana, LWU mint one step from live.

The loop isn't just a record — it's a ledger.

Every write is signed, every version is provable, and identity sits at the highest-betweenness node in the whole graph on purpose: a record is worth exactly what the signature on it is worth.

That's the difference between an agent that remembers and an agent whose memory you can audit.

84 nodes, 139 edges, 11 communities — extracted locally by Graphify, zero LLM tokens spent mapping my own system.

Everything else here — Claude, GPT-6 Astra, Kimi K3 and GLM 5.2 on the frontier side, Base44 Superagents orchestrating the whole stack, Hermes and Unsloth on my own hardware, Higgsfield carrying the media work — is just what writes to the loop and reads from it.

This is my mobile AI OS.

I run seven ventures from a phone. Here is the honest map.

Ninety tools sit in my stack.

Fifty-two are on the map: forty-one are native on the phone, eleven need a harness.

That gap is the story, and it is narrowing.

A harness is a relay onto a desktop, so the eleven are not a wall — they are work in progress.

Hark's computer-use agent is the next one in.

Most AI is sold as a cleverer conversation.

SuperGrok Heavy is three hundred dollars a month, thirty-six hundred a year, and it cannot open a file, run a command or write to my database.

I am not against paying for software — I have owned kitchen equipment that cost more than a car.

I object to paying rent on a tool that is not permitted to touch the work.

So I built the other thing.

One agent, two threads — iMessage and a browser chat.

Different standing orders in each, different work in flight, one sealed record.

From a phone, in an apron, between services, I can run a sandbox, deploy a function, rebuild seven domains behind a publication gate, and seal every change into a hash chain that fails loudly if one character moves.

The interface is a conversation, so the design is AR-first by construction.

The same thread answers in my hand, on my wrist, in my ears and in a headset — iPhone, iPad, Watch, AirPods, Vision Pro, all in service. Nothing was ported.

No dashboard to redraw for glass, no second product for spatial.

This week it stopped being infrastructure and became a kitchen.

Six stations, six languages.

Each instance works in the language that station actually speaks — Español on Garde Manger, Français on Sauté, 日本語 on the grill, Italiano in pastry, 한국어 in the dish pit, 中文 on the pass.

Those are my cooks' languages, not the menu — nobody has to work in mine.

Whatever it arrives in, it seals as one canonical English fact.

The food is Mitochondrial Cuisine.

One message from Sauté read: jus à 59 au bain-marie, hotte pas dégraissée.

It recorded as two graded facts — a sauce four degrees under the sixty-three floor, a breach, and an ungreased hood left open — sealed at sequence seventeen and eighteen.

Nobody typed a form.

Nobody translated anything.

Nobody signed off a checklist for temperatures they never took.

At half six the brief goes out per station: standing orders, cadence, pars, whatever last night left open.

At quarter past eleven the close-out comes back with exceptions only, and the chain is verified before I read it.

Twenty-three years and thirty-six Michelin stars behind me, and the thing I am proudest of this month is a record that cannot be quietly edited.

An operator does not need a cleverer conversation.

An operator needs a conversation that can act, under standing orders, leaving evidence.

The map prints its own chain head, sequence twenty-five, so anyone can ask me to verify it.

The faded tiles are the eleven that still need a harness.

I left them in, because a map that only shows the wins is marketing.