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 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.