A Mirror Floating in Water
The Burial of the Dead
by , 10-19-2009 at 01:22 PM (1011 Views)
Well today, after over a year and a half of ownership, with hundreds of thousands of photos from my trip across the country, with one-hundred and twenty three pages of poetry, over fifteen short stories, one and a half plays, the beginings of a novel, and many many other fragments of writing; my laptop has crashed.
Let's put it this way; computers are pieces of crap. Most of them last for up to two years, then we have to buy another one (for laptops that is). I never go on any websites that would cause a secerity risk to my computer. I never download anything unless it is absolutely necissary, and even then, I delete some programs. I have one excellent anti-virus program which installs updates and run a full system scan daily. And yet, on Friday, my computer wouldn't start.
It wouldn't be half the big deal it was if I hadn't had all of my writings and photography on there. I have an extra free laptop I have on loan from the school I go to, so the internet is the last thing on my list of things to worry about. I had started saving the most important of my works to USB devices, but then wore off of doing so once I no longer felt paranoid of a system failure. Now I'm facing the consequeces.
It's a good thing that I have some of my best works posted either on here or on my other blog, because it would be a really sad day for me (extreme understatment) if I didn't have works like "Sleep" or "Stairs and a Midnight Walk". But still, one hundred and twenty three pages of poetry are now lost forever (about ten of those pages are probably already on here). Okay not every one of those pages were perfect, not every poem was beyond mediocre, but each poem is like a memory, stored and locked in a safe, a music box which we can open as the years pass by.
Ugh, it really makes me sick to think of everything that was lost. My ten page analysis of the psychological themes in Scorsese's Raging Bull, an essay on Ophelia's character in Hamlet, an essay concerning the transition from modernism to postmodernism in literature, etc, etc, etc.
Not only that, forget the at least five starting points I had made for a novel. Now probably all except one were dead-ends, but there were one passages of brillance in some of them.
Maybe I'll feel better if I think of all of my work in the past as utterly mediocre and I wipe and new slate clean and start over again. But does every memory need to be judged?
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