Saturday, July 22, 2006
My computer died. It has been sick for a while, coughing, forgetting things, stuttering. Sigh. I had a list of problems saved up for this week when I planned to take him to the doctor (vet?). I just didn't expect the hard-drive to go. That wasn't on the to-break list. I have a 3 year resurrection plan which has me somewhat hopeful. I will have a franken-compy with all the new parts I have to get (hard-drive, fan, battery, etc.) but it should be able to go for a few more years. But the hard-drive. The hard-drive. They are going to try to save the poor fevered brain and all the memories. They said it costs money. I said to myself 4 years of my life is buried in that beast in pictures and work and words. I know a good deal of it is backed up but not the recent bits. Not the short story pieces, not the new poems, not the research for that short story/novella for which inspiration trickles in at random intervals. I did an inventory earlier this week, cleaned organized and ordered in preparation for the back up that was supposed to take place all day today. I know what was (is?) there. In 30 seconds they put a price on 4 years of my work. They undersold me. So I left Barachio Bastardo and all of the memories he contains in the hands of someone I trust very little, signed a contract saying that I trust him very little but it still isn't his fault, and spent the rest of the day wallowing in misery over choices I made in May. I wish I had not decided I could do without a notebook for the few short weeks of summer, that I had kept paper copies of my summer bits like I normally do. But in the interest of mobility I made my library digitized and nonflammable... and it caught on fire anyway.