PC Crankiness

"The universe is transformation; life is opinion."
- Marcus Aurelius

I am rested and at peace. I know this to be true because this morning my main computer (the new one with the dual video cards) refused to boot up. 'Tis brain damaged, I know this, in fact I am the cause. As a PC gamer I am well aware of the havoc that game code can cause, and since I am constantly tweaking code and over-clocking it is my own fault. "Can't do it," he said in grating harddrive vibrato, "my machine code is scrambled and I need maintenance. You forgot to defrag in September, and in October have ignored my cries for reformatting. So, now I will make you suffer. No games for you today."

The difference is that today I did not scream, cry or pound on anything or anyone. I just smiled and flipped the port switch, allowing the sound and robust Alien brother on the left to do the job. Tomorrow I will drag out the system disk and give the brain-fried Alien brother the jolt he needs. For now he sits in glaring silence on my right, disapproval evident on his silky Martian Red face. Perhaps I shall make him wait until Monday for his fix.

The storms rage, sending horizontal rain across the windows and setting off the 'high wind' alarm on the weather station. In most places 75+ mile an hour winds are considered 'hurricane force' - here it is just another blustery day. The seas are so fearsome they have breached Lake Garrison and put the boathouse at the westerly end more than halfway underwater. The highway is out on the southern end of town. Three hundred-fifty feet of the southbound lane of Highway 101 took the plunge to the beach near Rocky Point. To the north all of the east/west roads have been closed intermittently, not a bad thing unless you were away from home for the holidays and stranded beyond the magick of Port Orford. I love this time of year, when we are nestled in our little town and the outside world cannot reach us. Of course, come spring, the highways will reopen and the tourists and summer people will return, but until then, it is just the 612 of us who winter here.

I think I will go put a log on the fire and dream of winged men and tattooed women, along with the magick of 'Whistler' the ancient sea creature who controls the fishes with his song.