Wednesday 1 September 1999
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Pic of the day: And here, to my right, Byte Magazine from November 1988
to January 1992. Untouched by human hands in, on average, around 10
years. You never know when these may prove useful. For instance, the
theme issue about 80386-based portables, or the spectacular launch of
the operating system known as OS/2. (There is also the detail that if I remove the magazines, the shelves above will fall down. They have long ago worked loose from their fastenings.) On this day, I woke to the tune of some war-time radio hit. I think it was called "Lily Marlene" or some such. I have rarely ever heard it at all since my early childhood. At that time, I found the tune to be catchy but the text to be gibberish. So I replaced that with my own lyrics (one of my earlier attempts at poetry). The song faded to obscurity not to long after, and so I still remember this song as "We have all farted". The reason for this song to wake me this morning was, of course, the anniversary of the second world war (not including the one in which Cain killed something like one fourth of the human population). They also played an interview with some Norwegian tourist who accidentally, on September 1st 1939, passed within a few steps from Hitler. The tourist commented on how unhealthy der Fuehrer looked: Skinny, ash grey, eyes ringed from lack of sleep.
Of course, Hitler was not the only one to have a bad day on
September 1st 1939, and in the years to follow. Nor was he
the last madman to rule a country. But to this very day,
Germans - despite their claim to civilization - eat rotting
cabbage and have a very bad taste in clothes. I still think
the German re-union was a bad idea, and that at the very least
we should distibute free contraceptives throughout Germany.
But theoretically, I may be slightly biased.
I've decided to take my vacation with or without SuperGirl. The week after next we get the new computers, and I do not know when things will stabilize again. The training period is supposed to be approximately 2 months, which would put us at the end of November. Of course, if she has decided that I'm not welcome, I will spend the vacation on the grey naked cliffs at the ocean coast, where the rain mixes with the salt spray of the sea and runs down my face like icy cold tears, while I create morbid poetry. Either that, or buy a new 17 inch monitor for the money we should have used buying clothes, and play Daggerfall all day. I've not quite decided yet. Today, I bought a one-liter electric water boiler jug. It was doubly as big as I actually wanted, but it was the only one I found with gold-covered heating spiral. I've already boiled four times to boil out the plastic taste and smell. I guess that should be enough. I've also bought some soup powder and such, which I have stored at the office. OK, it's evening and I finally decided to call SuperGirl. Turns out she is not coming home until Friday, and I'll try to visit her a couple days next week. Ack. We are drifting apart more than I had hoped, though I guess no more than is natural. Humans are so ... flamelike, I'm not sure what the right word is. Changing all the time, like a process more than an object. I keep forgetting that. I have no right to keep her always on my mind. I'm not her father or her brother or her husband or her lover. I'm just some guy, an old friend. And old friendships fade. They always do. They just peter out, like a candle in a small hut of snowballs, shining brightly as you turn to look at it one last time, but sometime during the night it goes out and never comes back. My heart is full of friends who I remember ... not so much their faces as their spirits. I no longer know where they are ... indeed, I no longer know who they are. I guess I have changed too, at least compared to the child I was, who my parents remember. I cannot bring myself to present to them this old man who I have become. I know that in their hearts I am - or at least should be - a child still. They are better off with the memories than with the real me. Perhaps this is how my old friends feel about me - that the past we shared would be lost to the new reality that are they. And so they fade out and I walk on alone. For to me the past cannot be changed. What has been, is forever. The bad things may be forgiven with free will; but nobody can come with force and take away the good memories that I have. I should write a novel about this, you know. Ascribing these feelings to someone appropriate. An immortal, not necessarily even a minor deity but someone slightly outside of time. Like the wandering Jew, or Poul Anderson's small group of ageless mutants in boat of a million years, or Al Schroeder's Millenium Man. I'm certainly not immortal. As proof of my body breaking down, this afternoon the infection under my right eye is flaring up again. Poor baby me. I guess I need these reminders, or I would someday seat myself in God's temple and declare myself God. A legend says that God created us with the need to sleep to remind us of our mortality. And I do too little of that too, most nights. |
Strange behavior this evening: Repeatedly playing "snows of New York" while kneeling on the cold hard floor and regretting my sins. Mainly those of omission. |