In a way, I guess, I was that squiggle man.
Honestly, I am still fairly ambivalent about it all (in this case "it all" represents the idea of making digital carbon copies of my thought and periodically anchoring them to mass of ones and zeros in the intertubes). I am both alive and dead here.
I am Schrodinger's blogger.
I am here, though, and I suppose that's the most important part. What usually brings me here is intangible. A thought, a dream, a concept. This is not the case tonight. That which brought me back is quite concrete, a thing that can be grasped and weighed and looked at with judging eyes.
It is a keyboard.
Start lighting your torches.
It's one of those white Buick-sized monsters that purr when you type. By "purr" I mean click sensuously. It's a holdover from the days when screens were monochromatic, disks were floppy, and Oregon Trail was the pinnacle of computer gaming. Since the mouse became the main way people interfaced with their computer the keyboard has suffered a slow humiliating death. It has been resigned to an afterthought, something to be cheaply produced and used only when absolutely necessary. A keystroke on a modern keyboard gives as much tactile response as pressing down on the back of a young frog. The buckled spring keys have been replaced with a (much cheaper) membrane contact system. Press the key and the two contacts squish together and register a keystroke. Woohoo.
This only really matters to a certain grouping of people. It's actually the cross section of two groups, in the middle of which I nestle myself quite comfortably. This is easiest to show in Venn Diagram:
I have wanted to return to my roots for some time now. Thoughts like "I wish I still had that old 286 computer) were intermingled with internet research. I stumbled across a few off-brand types at various thrift stores and such places. Their heaped forms stand testament that they didn't work (note to self: throw those out . . . no wait. eBay. . ."Slightly used. . . Vintage") To do it right, you need to go with the right one, the original:
IBM.
I was at a Swap-N-Shop (a nice term for "outdoor place for me to sell you my crap and vice versa") and nearly walked past the old lady's stall. Out in front sat a beat-up, dingy keyboard. The gray dust of the gravel sat heavily on it as it had been laid out to display and then packed up at the end of the day on a number of occasions. After many failed attempts I had ceased running my fingers over every keyboard I came across. I had purchased every one that didn't meet my fingers with a sickening squish and not once had one of them worked. Out of some semblance of habit I depress one of the grimy keys.
Click.
It took me a moment to realize the gravity of the situation. Shakingly I asked the old lady (some might call her a bag lady) what her price was. I haggled her down from five dollars to three, though inwardly this felt quite greedy.
I took it home and shelved it. The longer it sat there untested the longer the possibility that it actually worked. This seemed quite impossible, though, given its condition. I found it in my heart to nurse it back to health, bathing it in sweet rubbing alcohol and scrubbing behind its plastic ears with Q-Tips. An hour or so of TLC and it shone like the sun. Well, an old, burly sun with grime still in some crannies.
Long story long, I plugged it in and here we are!
