Dear blog. My computer keeps urging me to use MS Edge. How do I tell it that I’m already using Edge? You’d think it’d already know.
Signed,
Browsing in Confusion
Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Dear blog. My computer keeps urging me to use MS Edge. How do I tell it that I’m already using Edge? You’d think it’d already know.
Signed,
Browsing in Confusion
When something in his home breaks, his first step in his troubleshooting and fixing process is to turn it off. He allows it to stay off for a few minutes before turning it back on. It’s surprising how often that works.
In this day of people using their phones to do everything, he remains old-fashioned. He uses his computer.
In my twenties, I was working in a computer center. Pretty low-level lights, and warm. The computers were red, about seven feet tall and four feet wide, with black and silver fronts thick with instrumentation. I had a clipboard and was going about, busy checking readouts.
An alarm went off. Reaching up, I hit a large, square black button at the top of the machine before me. Almost instantly, I realized I’d made a mistake: that was the off switch for the entire computer center. I pressed the button again, thinking that if I was fast enough, it wouldn’t go off.
Another alarm began sounding. A female voice said that the system was shutting down. Groaning and cursing emerged from all over. My supervisor, a female a few inches shorter than me, came over. I told her that I’d accidently pressed the off button. She was all smiles. “It happens.”
“I can turn it back on,” I offered.
“No,” she answered. “We’ll just call it a day.”
As everyone packed up and left, I went back to the broad, flat expanse of my desk. Binders of fanfold paper were stacked on my right. It was my plan to go through them. A male co-worker came by and mentioned that he needed to find someone to sweep up the computer center “because the cleaning crew was coming in”. I said I’d do it. Finding the broom, I went through, sweeping piles of paper coffee cups and sheets together. As I did, I mused, weird to clean for the cleaning crew.
The dream ended.
I had a busy, cluttered office/room. Appearing like I was in my twenties, I seemed quite content. In this dream, I was not married. I’m not sure what my work duties and responsibilities were except they involved my computer and going to meetings. I lived on campus but sometimes had to drive to another part for work. None of my co-workers were recognized as RL people.
On this very busy day, I was wearing black jeans and a black shirt. Packing up my laptop, I drove across the campus for a meeting. When I came out, I discovered a friendly co-worker had put a black collar and leash on a young woman. The leash was tied to something. Pretty, with white skin, dark hair, in her early twenties she was dressed in a revealing two-piece outfit with black boots.
I was appalled and spoke with her. How did this happen? Who did this? I told her, I can help get you out. The collar had a key; I had a key that would work for it back in my room. I explained to her, the collar wasn’t a collar but was designed and used for something else. If she went with me, I could unlock her. Conversely, I could go, get the key, come back and unlock her.
We decided to go to my room. We walked and were there in a dream flash. She told me when she got there that she wasn’t going into my room, but she was going to walk around and show everyone what my co-worker did to her. Fair enough. I would get the key and find her.
I entered my room. My desk and stuff were gone. A different desk was in its place, along with a plush, black leather chair. A tall man and woman, both Caucasians, were there, along with a third man. The woman wore white with gold jewelry. The man wore black and had tattoos on his face and short black hair.
I exploded. “Where’s my desk? Where’s my stuff? Who did this?”
At first, the others ignored me. The third man said they didn’t know who had decided anything and didn’t know what had happened to my stuff. The tall man chided me for saying that it was ‘my room and stuff’ because, really, it belonged to the company. I took exception, because the furniture and space belonged to the company, but my personal effects and clothing were gone.
Someone suggested where my stuff was. I went there and found it. I didn’t like the change. Someone said it was a promotion, but I didn’t accept that. It seemed a lot like my original room, but I didn’t like how it’d been changed without telling me first.
Meanwhile, I found the key, went out, and tracked down the young woman. It was a very busy circular place, with many projects going on, and it took me a few minutes to find her. She was walking about, loudly telling all, look what so-and-so did because he thought it was funny. I unlocked her, then mentioned that I’d forgotten my car on the other side of the campus and needed to go get it, if she wanted to walk over there with me. She agreed. An older woman called me over. She asked me if I’d made a contract with the woman with the collar. When I answered no, she told me that I need to make such a contract to explore her emotions and ensure she’s okay after this incident. I agreed to do that.
A bunch of us set out walking, including the previously collared woman. I fell in with the tall man in black and the tall woman in white. Talking with them, I recognized them as minor celebrities. We were going to see a parade; they’d been part of the parade the previous year. They told me they were part of it this year, too, and invited me to join.
Veering off to find my car, I ended up in an auditorium on company business where I met another tall man. Seated in front of me in a plush auditorium, I realized that he’d been with the tall man and woman the previous year. He congratulated me on my powers of observation and keen memory, and then gave me his card. I hurried away because I still hadn’t picked up my car.
Going under cement culverts along street roads, I rejoined the people walking toward the parade route, including the previously collared woman. I broached the subject of the contract with her. She immediately told me she wanted nothing to do with that because she thought them a waste of time. I was relieved because I agreed.
At this point, I was in my underwear, bikini briefs. I didn’t mind because I was slender and muscular. I noticed a number of young, trim, muscular women also dressed only in underwear. I decided that I was going to skip the parade because I still needed to get my car.
The dream ended.
I was traveling alone. Between flights, I was staying at a hotel. The hotel was pleasant, and I was in a mini suite. It was a smooth trip. I had everything I needed and all was working. My fight was at 6:35 AM. I thought that was perfect; I always prefer traveling early. I made my plans, working backward, getting there ninety minutes before the flight, traveling to the airport, checking out of the hotel. Meanwhile, I passed time by having dinner, surfing the net, having a drink, and socializing with strangers. All smooth, under control, relaxed. I decide to dress, check out, and head for the airport. But before I do, I’ll check emails. I found that my wife had sent me messages but that I’d missed them. She wants me to call.
I check out and call her on the way to the airport. The connection is horrible. She’s angy and upset. It sounds like she’s telling me someone died. I set my phone down. It gets misplaced but two woman come up with it as I’m searching for it. The phone has a code on it in red numbers: 752. I somehow understand that this a code to lock the phone because a problem has been detected. I’m exasperated because I don’t think the phone has a problem, and I need to use it now. But using it requires me to call corporate to get it unlocked. I’m confused about where to call because I don’t work. Is it IBM, ISS, Network ICE, Tyco, some other corporation who employed me?
Somehow, though, using my computer, I manage to get the help needed to unlock the phone. It’s still plenty of time before my flight. I call my wife; she tells me my brother-in-law died. Who? Which? Give me details. Instead, she chastises me because I’d not called her in several days. I realize that she’s right, that I hadn’t called or emailed her in almost seven days.
The dream ends.
Today’s numbers are nine, 16, 2021, 7:19, 6:52, 64, and 81. Installing them in the right context outlines the day’s parameters. The date by month, day, and year. Sunset and sunrise. The air quality index and expected high temperatue in Fahrenheit. Context always helps.
After last night’s dreamathon, Elton John’s 1983 song, “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues”, lodged itself into the mental music stream. Not sure how the song and dreams fit. Maybe they don’t. Perhaps the song was randomly selected from my cranial jukebox. Maybe I’m just a victim of some cosmic or quantum entanglement. This song is playing at another time, past or future, and I’m hearing it now. Maybe some relative or close friend is hearing or remembering it, and its transferring to my awareness. It could be that one of my cats is hearing it or thinking about it and projecting it onto me. I can’t guess.
Anyway, the EJ song is Thursday’s theme music. Stay positive, test negative, try to relax and have some fun, wear a mask as needed, get the vax, and have some coffee, as I’m about to do. Here’s the music. Cheers
I’m at a work station. One those stands with a big tan CRT monitor on top, tower PC, keyboard on sliding tray. Something from the 1990s. Whole thing is just wide enough for the monitor. I’m one of many at such computer work stations. Large room. Wide and tall. I’m in the last row, on the end. Fourth one in line. This gives me space to my right. It’s open there and behind me.
Everyone is doing through thing. It’s a hubbub of clicking, clacking, talking, laughing. I’m doing my thing, reviewing files for a dead friend. The computer files on the screen on red. They fill the screen. When I print things out, the paper and folders are red. I suppose, when I’m wondering about the red while I’m dreaming, that the red is supposed to be symbolic of something. I don’t get it. Urgency? Warning? Don’t know. I’m also wondering why I’m going through folders about a dead guy. He’d been a friend but he died a while ago. My rational side intrudes: it’s your birthday. You’re sixty-five. Dead guy was a year older than you. Never lived to be sixty-five. Collect the dots.
Aha, dots probably collected. My wife is pestering me for specific information. This annoys me. She flits in to demand I look at something, sure that it’s important. I already looked and moved on while she wasn’t there. But she keeps coming back, asking to see specific files that I already read and closed.
Many others are behind me. Two women and a man are among them. The women are attractive. I gather that they’re foreigners. Maybe British and Scottish. They’re friends. I think one is with the guy. He seems American. He comes and goes. I keep catching snatches of the women’s conversation. They’re speaking of going someplace, doing something. I’m familiar with the areas and offer some unrequested advice, which they shun.
“Keep yourself to yourself,” I tell myself, sorting files on the computer. I’m testy with my wife as she comes and asks for information on a specific date and event. Without responding to her verbally, I search for the appropriate document, drilling down through information. She doesn’t realize what I’m doing and hectors me. I snap back with an explanation. She then goes away.
Meanwhile, the British and Scottish women have become friendlier. As if they sensed they rebuffed me and now want my friendship — or something — they step closer. I’m aware that they’re surreptitiously attempting to see what I’m doing. They make a subtle show of patting me on my shoulder, touching my arm.
It all confused and wearied me. I move off the dead man’s files. Why should I be involved with them? I find myself instead working on the files for another who worked for me. Investigating this person makes no more sense than checking the dead man’s files.
I understand it all when I awaken. The sense of dissatisfaction, frustration. The searching in myself for answers about directions and desires.
The blinds needed to be removed.
This was a requirement to paint around the frames. Somehow in the madness of life, I’ve decided that I need to paint the living and dining rooms. Together, they are, ‘The Great Room’.
Point of order: my wife hectored me into doing it. “These rooms are too dark. We need a lighter color.”
Me: “Huh-huh, you’re right.”
“When can you do it?”
“Wait, what?”
Life sometimes needs a rewind function.
Into the garage! To the tools! My tools are not greatly organized. Shelves hold several power tools and their requirements, along with a large toolbox. It’s augmented by a small thing with a work surface and four drawers. One drawer has lost its front. (I’m going to fix it sometime.) The top drawers are well organized with screws, anchors, glues, nails, sandpiper. The bottom two drawers are stuffed full of whatever I can get in there. I avoid opening them, except to retrieve tape and edger/trimmer string. My tape variety is impressive.
The screws holding the mounting brackets have a Philips-head X on it. They would not budge despite my grunting. “Get a screwdriver with more torque,” I muttered to myself. I already had the biggest. I would use the drill on it, but there’s not enough clearance. Bummer.
Sighing in frustration, I hit the ratchet wrenches. For some reason, I’ve acquired three complete sets. No, there’s more. At least two sets are metric. I bought them because I lived in Germany and Japan. Metric was used there, and I owned foreign cars – BMW, Porsche, Mercedes, Audi, Toyota, Nissan, Mazda, Honda, Toyopet. Plus, at least one set was priced at a dollar at a garage sale. Who can resist tools at a garage sale? They’re like books. You gotta look and see what might fill that imaginary hole in your library or toolbox.
The sockets are semi-disorganized. Most are in their proper places but the smallest sockets always go strolling. I go through them, looking for the 1/4 inch, along with the proper adapter to go from big to small. With all those socket kits, I have a multitude of options for changing spark plugs. Every manufacturer had a different size of socket required. Some had several. I also have a number of tools for setting the gaps on plugs and rotors, and wires for cleaning them.
Which reminded me of computers. Back in the office closet lives a set of shelves. On it resides office requirements like Wite-out, file folders, label maker, pens for the next century (if they don’t dry up), paper for the printer, ink for the same, assorted docks for laptops I no longer use, another printer I no longer use, cables for laptops and printers… You get it, right?
Disk drives also live on these shelves. Floppy 5.25 inch. Hard floppy 3.5 inch. Zip drives. CDs. All are ready to be formatted and written. I have not formatted anything in over a decade, maybe longer. I used to format things several times a week, back in, um, the last century. Strange that something that once was so common is now rare.
Not really. We were riding horses and trolleys more back in the last century, too. I only rode horses a few times for entertainment. Never mounted one to go to the store, or to visit the neighbors.
I don’t change my car’s oil any longer, either, although I have the wrenches for that, too, and the big wrench to remove an oil pan nut. I have baskets of computer and electronic gear. Ribbon wires, chipsets, an old power supply, old fan, along with a huge variety of RCA cords and adapters. There’s an extra monitor, too, and a VHS head cleaner for the VHS deck that I no longer use. I also own bearing grease, quart jugs of motor oil, and car cleaning supplies, like polishes and waxes.
Sometime, someone needs to go in there and clean all this stuff out. Not me, not today.
Time for me to paint.