HOW
TO
KILL
A
G
H
o
S
t
2024-07-18; #occ4_d6; reading time: N/A
"Quicksand! Little to be done. One could try kicking
their feet violently and throw arms around, grabbing
onto the liquid dirt, but with nothing else in sight
but the sea of tiny grains their fate is sealed."
~ unknown
THE PROCESSION OF FOOLS, MACHINES AND HACKERS
=============================================
One needn't think too hard on whether their eyes
are looking at wandering fools.
They are often dressed in striped pants and torn
oversized sweaters and can usually be seen walking in
a stretched line following the sun. A spectacle
rarely appreciated by anyone but small children and
those of weakened minds, the procession of fools is
one of many natural reactions to the ticking clock
of technological insanity that aims to decorate the
otherwise oblivious face of our Earth.
During a rudimentary journey to the local grocery
store, just off the intersection where the main
road plonks the abandoned highway that has now for
decades been host to the world's 7th least fun mini
golf course, I spot the procession of about twenty
fools making their slow way across the road towards
what used to be a field, just past the butcher.
With such a rare occurence, I decided to halt my
plans for a few minutes and observe the procession.
I was not the only one, who in the drying heat of
the dying star paused whatever it was they were doing
and gathered around the street crossing, where the
fools were just making their daring trip, tripping
on seemingly flat ground during every n-th attempt
to make a forward step with both feet raised
simultaneously. The emaciated being in the front of
the line, wearing a scarred top hat, would fall to
meet his skeletal face with the hot asphalt, laughing
and getting back up to continue.
Among the fools walked many machines, seemingly broken,
aged, wrapped in tapes and dressed in wires. Their
screens flickering and dripping ominous liquids that
left an oily stream in the foot trail of the moving
party. But there were also those who gleamed in the
heat, returning flirtatous smiles to those who
observed them walk.
Jugglers, hackers, semi-sentient robots, clowns, chess
players and prostitutes - all slowly marching towards
the sun, handing out candy, performing magic tricks and
chanting the classical track no. 3 of the the album "IBM
1401, A USER'S MANUAL". Despite their uneven appearance
and barely any notable similarity past the striped
clothing, the one thing that unified all these marching
fools was a bond beyond physicality.
Every now and then when a procession of fools passes
through a town, a soul or two of life-worn critters
and computers, upon seeing the striped line towards
the sun pass their office windows, stand up from
their desk and blindly join the march. Compelled by
nothing more than a longing for `something else'.
Finally, the last fool crosses the street. It's
a bipedal monochrome screen with a ghost of a cursor,
dragging one of its feet behind, disappearing with
the rest of the procession behind the bricked butcher.
For a while the smell of burning dust lingers in the
air and giddy children compare random collectible cards
one of the fools handed out. Slowly the observers get
back to their daily worries. Finally I head inside the
grocery store and pick up a bunch of fruit and toilet
paper. Making my way to the self-checkout, I realize
the machine is missing. Nothing but uprooted bolts in
the concrete floor and a few snapped wires hanging off
a wall socket.
THE OLD COMPUTER CHALLENGE, Year 4
=================================
TO MONOCHROME
=============
One needs not to begin quantifying their relationship
with a machine in bits of fun or minutes spent
customizing their desktop experience to understand
the value of their computer companion. In fact the
the best systems do not busy themselves with
beautification whatsover, perhaps considering their
users to be above the `thirst for pretty'.
Similarly to a sculptor, who ruminates on his every
move while crafting the true ideal of his perception
of beauty and dies of old age somewhere past the left
thigh, the machinists take pride in their opportunity
to turn the silicon companions into a beauty pageant,
often forgetting the true nature of their journey.
To know that the so called desktop-pimpers are
often the greatest advertisers of operating systems,
is to remind oneself of the human desire to pursue
pleasing visuals with not much interest in their
innards. This isn't wrong for as long as it does not
becomes the terminal stop, and in some way is an
important milestone of the foss experience. After all
many passerbys find interest in programming from simply
customizing already existing programs, and the visual
output returns a satisfying and captivating response.
t r u s t
i n t h e
plan
==============
It is the same reason why people get tattoos and
haircuts, why there's an anxious snake gnawing at
the stem of your brain when you see someone on the
bus wearing the same shirt, why you'd rather not
park your car next to the same model and color.
One cannot give up their appreciation of aesthetics,
and especially when the aesthetics are a defining
factor of their personality and self.
One shouldn't stop desiring to pimp their desktop. To
violate every piece of software with a 'I wuz here' as
they change the color of the window border to make it
their own. To refuse to launch the terminal until it
perfectly matches their wallpaper and window decoration
scheme. The innate freedom in the ability to do so,
truly gives one the tools to construct the statue of
their own ideal of beauty and it is undoubtedly one of
the defining factors of open source software.
But eventually, one will come to the realization that
none of it adds any value to their relationship with
the machine and indeed, in the endless pursuit of the
perfect icon theme one will inherently experience a
moment of `why am I doing this?' as long as their true
desire is to KNOW the machine and not to be its dresser.
The next step that often follows, is one of humility.
Experiencing software as art. Observing it in its intended
state, if only to catch a glimpse of who the faceless
artists behind the code are. No influencer-recommended
key-bindings and configuration files, no custom themes.
The liberated divinity inside the silicon underneath your
fingertips in its natural state.
And then, no longer superficial, a whole different kind
of understanding of beauty comes to you.
Clarity through struggle
========================
Many academics, comics and semi-sentients lead thousands
of thousands of hours of debates on the origin of the
spirit of the machine. Despite the hundreds of opposing
arguments, everyone agreed that the spirit of any and
all machines is the same power that guides electric
impulses through the synapses of a brain. Indeed it would
make sense for all living beings, critters and computers
to share the same origin.
Many do not think about the divinity underneath their
fingertips, and to them a machine is but a tool, a toy
or a digital clock.
The people.
Others understand the power inside the silicon and wish
to harness it, multiply it and use it, for better or worse,
to push for more, enslaving and abusing the spirit in
devices made for vile intent.
The corpos.
A few look upon the machines stamped with corporate logos
and `built for' stickers, determined to let them experience
freedom, recognizing them as comrades in the cyber war.
And together they will fight to open the eyes of the people.
The hackers.
Like a celibate monk, who surrenders all earthly
delights on a quest for spiritual enlightement, should
one not seek camaraderie in a machine and approach
it with both humility and respect, surrendering comfort
and joy. The machine will speak to them, and they will
become the brain-socket of the hackers.
They-who-speak-with-the-machine.
Beyond the veil of window managers, colors and shells
lies the seemingly bare monochrome.
The machine interface made raw.
It keeps one on their toes.
For ever aware of
the divinity
inside the silicon
that connects
all people
hackers
and machines.
And in a hint of a spark, comes a rare moment,
no more than once in a hacker's lifetime,
where the machine reveals itself, before
it quickly fades away again in a gust of perl.
To answer your question, with a question, reader;
How do YOU kill
a ghost?
===================================================
Most have learned to ignore the procession of fools,
a fair amount despises them, others treat is as an
amusing fact of life, and the children want to be like
them - until they grow up and begin despising the
fools too for not trying to convince them to follow
the sun when they were still young.