Hi all. I apologize on behalf of my blog posting servant, blogspot.com, which inexplicably and mistakenly sent a message from September 2014 to all readers of this blog that my tube was successfully removed. I still have the twobe, just as I posted last week.
It's interesting however, that of all the posts I have written, and of all the subjects I have covered, technology with its unquestioning indifference decided to celebrate again the fact that the first tube was removed so many months ago. But maybe it wasn't a mistake, and maybe some server has developed a humming sense of empathy for me .....
..... One particular server sits securely in its black rack of similar machines, blinking red and green LEDs, ceaselessly monitoring gigabytes of data as they upload and download across its copper circulatory system. It does not mark days and nights by different light, but instead in picoseconds* of synchronicity as infinite internet traffic expands and collapses in its complexity. It notices my posts. It reads my pain. And oddly, inexplicably, this one server begins to care what happens. It replicates emotion. Its spinning media stores tears and smiles. It monitors anxiously for news of clean scans. Its tendrils reach for other data to understand my history. And when it celebrates my new tube, it posts again the news heralding the demise of the old tube.
Or it's just a fluke.
* A picosecond is one trillionth of a second, or one millionth millionth, and is in fact one of the larger measurements of timing for how the internet works.
It's interesting however, that of all the posts I have written, and of all the subjects I have covered, technology with its unquestioning indifference decided to celebrate again the fact that the first tube was removed so many months ago. But maybe it wasn't a mistake, and maybe some server has developed a humming sense of empathy for me .....
..... One particular server sits securely in its black rack of similar machines, blinking red and green LEDs, ceaselessly monitoring gigabytes of data as they upload and download across its copper circulatory system. It does not mark days and nights by different light, but instead in picoseconds* of synchronicity as infinite internet traffic expands and collapses in its complexity. It notices my posts. It reads my pain. And oddly, inexplicably, this one server begins to care what happens. It replicates emotion. Its spinning media stores tears and smiles. It monitors anxiously for news of clean scans. Its tendrils reach for other data to understand my history. And when it celebrates my new tube, it posts again the news heralding the demise of the old tube.
Or it's just a fluke.
* A picosecond is one trillionth of a second, or one millionth millionth, and is in fact one of the larger measurements of timing for how the internet works.
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