Broken memory
Jul. 24th, 2003 07:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI dreamed that Ben died of a heart attack.
I wasn't sad exactly. But it was very odd not having him around. I felt like a dog waiting by the door for master to come home.
Much to write about but yesterday I inadvertently trashed the laptop on which I do all my personal writing. Upset a cup of coffee which somehow missed the desk and went straight into the computer. Motherboards do not like caffeine! Then destroyed another computer -- an ancient duo -- booting up the hard drive to make sure all my data was intact. (It was.) Fortunately I live in a house with twenty computers because much as Ben claims to hate computers (this is his out whenever we fight over why he won't just get the damn Microsoft certification so he can help keep the household financially afloat) he surrounds himself with computers and their broken parts.
Bizarre how fetishistic one becomes about the tools of one's true trade. I really feel as though I can only write on that one particular machine.
I'm doing the compressed air thing with the G3's innards. If it doesn't boot up in another day or so, I'll spring for a factory refurbish with a 20 gigabite hard drive and I'll have them implant the old machine's memories in it.
Gerry Varney's letter disturbed me. "Do you still have the Rolling Stones album I gave you for your birthday in 1965?" he wrote. And I thought: what is going on in this person's mind? Some groovey, Summer of Love reenactment of The Night Porter?
I wasn't sad exactly. But it was very odd not having him around. I felt like a dog waiting by the door for master to come home.
Much to write about but yesterday I inadvertently trashed the laptop on which I do all my personal writing. Upset a cup of coffee which somehow missed the desk and went straight into the computer. Motherboards do not like caffeine! Then destroyed another computer -- an ancient duo -- booting up the hard drive to make sure all my data was intact. (It was.) Fortunately I live in a house with twenty computers because much as Ben claims to hate computers (this is his out whenever we fight over why he won't just get the damn Microsoft certification so he can help keep the household financially afloat) he surrounds himself with computers and their broken parts.
Bizarre how fetishistic one becomes about the tools of one's true trade. I really feel as though I can only write on that one particular machine.
I'm doing the compressed air thing with the G3's innards. If it doesn't boot up in another day or so, I'll spring for a factory refurbish with a 20 gigabite hard drive and I'll have them implant the old machine's memories in it.
Gerry Varney's letter disturbed me. "Do you still have the Rolling Stones album I gave you for your birthday in 1965?" he wrote. And I thought: what is going on in this person's mind? Some groovey, Summer of Love reenactment of The Night Porter?
