Fighting the Machine
My hands shook as they moved toward the box and its tray. The last time I faced it, I came out not only the loser, but disgraced and disillusioned as well. I settled down in front of it, and waited.
“One must practice patience, grasshopper.” The things that goes through my head… “It wasn’t God who made honkee-tonk ane-gels, as you wrote in the werds of yer song…”
Finally, recognizable text covers the box and I feel a slight breeze of comfort, almost as if I knew what I was doing. My confidence grew. I tried to restrain it but prairie fires cannot be stopped. The fire consumes all in its path, just as my confidence pushed all the alarms into silence.
Clickety clack, clickety clack. Click. Click. Then a firm Click, and it was over. I waited for the Machine to accept my petition, to process it and allow me to continue beyond this point.
But no, again I face the fatal error box, taunting me with its kabbalistic cyber-speak.
Maybe I haven’t offered it enough. Maybe it wants more memory or speed or power. Maybe it just wants. I feed it RAM and DRAM and DDR. I gave it heat sinks and cooling fins. I even got a green alien head sticker for the front. I all but worship the altar I have made.
As I sit and stare at the screen, I begin to recite my curses toward its creator, toward its future as a boat anchor. “Curse you Bill Gates! Lorna, go start the truck. We’re goin’ fishin’.”
