Through the Looking Glass: 3. Compu-holic

Sunday, November 11, 2012

3. Compu-holic

As a neophyte in cyberspace it was a surprize that the benefits offered by computers might also have a down side.

Interest was high when I bought my first computer. Hours flew by as I learned keyboarding and commands. As I grew more comfortable with the machine, the speed at which tasks where completed made it possible to take on more work. Feedback was immediate and the work enjoyable. People were impressed with the efforts and applauded the results. Life was enjoyable and I became convinced that I had finally arrived at something that was my 'calling'. The notion that the end was near never entered my thoughts.

Exactly when it stopped being enjoyable escapes me... At first I indulged myself only on weekends, after the chores of the day had been set aside. Slowly but inexorably my involvement with the silicon mistress grew.... my friends and family were ignored so that I might once more lose myself in the electronic in the electronic pathways of the machine. Weekends grew to short. No longer did they contain enough hours to satisfy my craving for cyber-escape.My indulgence began to seek me out during the week.

An entry here... a command line there. More and more the megs, rams and CPU's were were intruding into daily thoughts and activities.

Suddenly my mind turned only to thoughts of serving my electronic mistress. Life was measured in a flat grey broken only by the highlight of using the keyboard. Modems , chips and CD-ROMs had taken over my life. I could no longer hack the way I wanted to and could not quit now that I wanted to.One megabyte was to much and a terabyte was not enough.

Friends and family had long been aware of the problem I now faced.They offered understanding and directed me to a source of help. I began my recovery. I met others who shared my affliction.They walked me back through the doors of sanity.

In the time since that crisis I have seen my powerlessness over the computer and how my life had become unmanageable. I have come to realize that nothing less than total honesty will sustain my recovery.

In the final analysis I have come to accept that my life and my sanity depend entirely on my willingness to pull the plu...............

- ANONYMOUS

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.