Tuesday, July 18, 2000

9:08 p.m. Another, more beautiful view of the dirt from yesterday. Everything looks better today. From another angle, it's a big sand pile, caught by the last rays of the setting sun, with stiff gray sea breezes blowing in the background and boy oh boy do I have to get out there and get some new photos in my camera. I'm down to the strange ones.

12:17 a.m. So, I'm not a very resilient person, maybe. I thought I was. In my house, my mother knew how to Make Do. Run out of meat for dinner? Scramble up some peppers and eggs. Throw in some potatoes. You cope. You don't wring your hands and complain -- you roll up your sleeves and start slicing and dicing.

Maybe it was just the sudden termination of my connection to the outside world. Maybe it was because my computer is more to me than a mere machine. It's alive, I tell you. It's alive. Because I can tell you. And you can tell me back.

Suddenly, blackout. Alone. I was a Drone cut off from the Collective and I didn't even have huge pointy breasts to heave. Suddenly there were no more voices coming from my machine. In fact, this cable modem is so wound into my machine, there was practically no more machine.

And there were some sensitive deadlines and some things I had to get done and there were people waiting for stuff and I guess the worst part is just that I'm one of those people who take a lot of mental shortcuts. I have a system here. I've perfected it and it's one of the great and beautiful secrets of life after your kids grow up and move out.

It goes like this: I use my house, my desk, my computer to do most of my thinking work for me. I have ancillary systems. Subsystems. Everything is based on a simple principle: nobody moves anything. Nobody touches anything. Yes, I know I'm describing an amazing luxury that those of you with small children can only dream about -- but one day, this luxury can be yours.

For example. I never have to wonder about what bills need paying because I have a place where I put them. Email to be answered goes into several different folders and I never have to think -- I have only to open and look. I have pens and papers and most precious of all: scissors! here and there about the house and nobody comes in and moves things around.

Thus, I never have to think about process. Even if it's 3:30 a.m. and I can hardly keep my eyes open, at least I don't have to think. I've got the steps arranged for putting these entries up, changing all the today and tomorrow links, snip snap done.

But if you go and switch machines all of a sudden -- or modems, or monitors -- you guessed it: I have to think about each and every little thing and I really come to a grinding halt. Because the modem was completely broken and had to be replaced, it turns out that I had a lot of time between Friday and today to rethink my nonthinking setup.

There's just something risky about these long and wonderful days. This mild and lovely temperature. These blooming pots of flowers. I'm pretending it will always be like this. Preparing for the worst always seems so surly in the face of such goodness. Backup systems? A nice idea, but then they get all dusty.

Eat the juicy tomatoes or freeze them for the winter? Actually, some nice tomatoes would be just the thing to go with the peppers and eggs. What was I thinking?