I listened to a lecture about the history of personal computing today; it's a very cozy place to live for a few hours, that black-and-white, thick-threaded blanket of phone phreaking and bulky computers. We can't forget that the spirit of that time has never left us... it may be a little harder to find, though. I think it lives among us in the smaller corners of the Internet, much like my sites and those around us where the vast majority of eyes could not even begin to violate. I'd like to think that the spirit is alive in the few of us still, the few of us who like the heroes of the budding youth of computing had emerged as great names and guides to the future we too understand the future as it applies to now.
I went out the other Saturday to a little party; I had a lot of fun. I brought a bottle of indispensible coconut rum, as well as a bottle of pineapple rum. By pure virtue of being set out with cups a-plenty the coconut (saying nothing of taste) was drained. The pineapple, having never been extricated from its brown paper bag, was taken home by me and placed in the kitechen. The next day it was left half-full, having nothing to do with me but perhaps it evaporated into the hearts and minds of this flat's other persons. It's hard to encourage the availability of alcohol in this flat because it disappears so fast; I'm genuinely worried about their health: having it necessary to down that much rum to even approach a state of having fun, not even speaking of having to down that much rum anyhow, is not the first hint of a problem for sure. I am thankful for the opportunities I am afforded to be with my friends.
One such opportunity was found yesterday, over a cup of coffee; afterwards we picked up a handful of books from the cheap little bookstore across the way: most notable in my haul was A Young Girl's Diary which I've kept at my side and in my face during any free interval I had today. I always hope that someone might read my diary and scrape something of value from anything, whether from my latest entries or from the stream-of-consciousness scribbling of days past. I have no Helene to keep a diary with (nor do I really want one) but I can't help but seeing some collisions of ideas when I read hers; what it says about my diary that I see reflections of mine in the diary of a 14 year old girl is not a topic that I flatter too much anyway.
I had a notable dream last night: perhaps owing to my late nights slaving away in front of an oscilloscope (I've been reverse-engineering my professor's firmware so I can write my own LCD interface into the early hours of the morning) I imagined myself in a different situation entirely: the night of my first headlining DJ set; my heart was set in a nervous thump-thump while I was rehearsing with twitching fingers the scratches and mixing that I had up my sleeve to flavor the night and bring to life the songs in my cue; I can hardly remember the set list but I remember being so thump-thump nervous that I for the first time noticed I was breathing so consciously, so much effort went into breathing that it seems I had forgotten everything but that moment, suspended above the crowd of people as a shard of disconnected reality.
The unfolding of my heart-beat cast the reality I understood.