Friday afternoon on the computer

All this is so unfamiliar. This week my actor grandson Marcus Ho who was briefly in Seattle, set me up and showed me what to do. But my age is against me and I don't recall the particulars. I do know that my understanding of the world and how it works is at war with my HP Pavilion Slimline.

Of course, as a writer, I have used a computer for decades, at first like a glorified typewriter, and then for the absolutely necessary email exchanges with my publisher. Those first few computers were my very talented, innovative friends; I talked happily to them while I typed: I felt a serious sense of loss when they had to be replaced: when I moved a large section from one manuscript position to another, copy, post, I gratefully toasted my aides with second cup of coffee and, remembering the typewriter hours required to perform the same function, sincerely wished I might do more to return the favor in kind.

That is no longer the case. Now my computer is a machine. Not my machine, exactly, although I paid cash and it sits on top of my desk. As a temporary guest, out of date, as I understand, the moment it was hooked up, I am not foolish enough to invest HP with personality. My HP has a temporal nature; I understand it won't wear out, it just, after a time, won't play well with other systems. My computer is in disguise and, in reality, possessed by a little squat Hindu god who seems devoted to instructing me on the value of impermanence.