Or Long Parallax Mapping the Unknown Wink And Nod

12 Oct

loss

Loss is loss...

samplex

Sister forwarded me this untidy question. Wrote back telling her not to worry. Hoax, isn't it, she asked. Sister and husband, hardcore fundamentalists, emphasis on hardcore and fundamentalists. Amazing Mark was worshipping inside RFK Stadium last weekend. Half million strong masculine Promise Keepers rally. Reportage, parallax crew, Channel 9. Didn't hear from Amazing Mark, not even cheap ring, although sister e-mailed that I might if he must. Reside a mere two and one-half blocks away, but floating decimal point crime zone is deterrent to uninitiated. Turns out church crew turned in. Bussed out immediately with zero time for extenuating family wink and nod, driving back to Atlanta overnight to arrive just in time for sunrise Sunday service. Anywaze, proxy hoaxes are enough to sweep this observer back into typewriter and rotary telephone age, given dynamics it took for trinity branch to go wired in first place. Hicks, neither Amazing Mark nor sister attached personal commentary to fast forward hoax interrogatory.

No hoax attached to entry level politeness. Can't recall from memory what mapping she wanted to clarify. Seems data points got lost in shuffle of years and data dump of March 21, 2003. Date will live lifestyle of infamy—for would be same observer's first and only attempt in hacking Terminal, yes, already infamous Bitterzone Terminal, made manifest at 318.63 feet above sea level...

When I realized what had happened, experienced quietly, a surreal moment. No red flags, no anger, no bitterness, no crisis, no panic. You've heard many times of an event so overwhelming, so complete, it knocks breath and anxiety right out of you, like exploding powder into the remaining spill. So was as if great weight lifted, put on shelf life, an established life of average to near genius, recycled, overcooked canned goods which saved a generation. Stunned was this observer this happened right before my own spoiled eyes. They have seen the glory. The coming of the sword. Had to rely on muscles not machines. Pick and shovel, steam shocks and accumulative error.

File recovery utility used to grab bundle of files packed into digital equivalent of file cabinet full of papers and folders dredged from river basin in black scoop of mud and water. This note, evidence of subterranean recovery. My bulging body of correspondence with Steve, Lynn, Richard, Jennifer, Tom, and other fine feathers suffered the most, although my 900 page novel untitled vanished, lost to progress.
Confident, prepared myself for successful hack, MacBible turned to page where one mere line of code seemed simple enough, even for terminal virgin. Need for ginning up guts to enter terminal also simple enough. For weeks voice recognition application squatted desktop fated for trash can. App just couldn't nail my accent. Was doing no harm, but taunting me, for it knew I was known to keep clutter-free desktop. MacBible, aware that rogue icons occasionally refused to go away quietly in early version of OS X software, provided solution in quantum burst of few words and kinetic characters.

Fired up terminal, navigated successfully to proper node, typing in string of code to dispose of rogue icon. Poof, watched little bugger disappear. Then reached with right hand across keyboard to grab tall glass of iced water kept on flat desk environment. Flash message, gone too quick to read. Next. Massive screen flutter. After second or two, screen activity ceases until quarter minute later message appears stating all user's personal data was erased.

No undo possible.

Sigh. Note date. Confirm Sue—chief engineer of die Librahausen—out of town. Impeccably. Always seems to be when I commit colossal zig when should have zagged. Don't think reach across keyboard wrong. But to this day, years later, don't know why ten years of data, emails, artwork, other personal files were zapped. Simply walked away. Massive weight of creative loss transmuted to an unbearable lightness of being not felt in better part of two decades. Would retrieve some restitution from webserver. File recovery utility used to grab bundle of files packed into digital equivalent of file cabinet full of papers and folders dredged from river basin in black scoop of mud and water...

This note, evidence of subterranean recovery.

My bulging body of correspondence with Steve, Lynn, Richard, Jennifer, Tom, and other fine feathers suffered the most, although my 900 page novel untitled vanished, lost to progress. Cared less about that monstrosity than intimate sentiment fellow writers offered...

GT

© 1997 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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