note to my readers: I wrote this essay twelve years ago. I just re-discovered it. I should tell you that things have worked out okay.:
What made me decide during my teen years that I was going to devote my life to creating “art”? Music, poetry, prose, photography: if it was “art” I was going to do it and no one could stop me. My parents put me in a psychiatric ward for eight weeks. I emerged no less an artist. The medications I should have been taking had been hidden in my lower lip and spit out the window, drifting down five stories to land in a sodden mess of other spat-out medications at the back entrance to the hospital.
I didn’t see any choice in the matter. I was driven. I wouldn’t listen to my father’s imprecations to “find yourself a profession and do “art” on the side”.
What? Do “art” on the side? Jeez, what did he think I was? Some kind of dilettante? I was going to be immersed in music, writing, etc for my life, every day of my life, 24/7/365/80something.
That’s what I’ve done. I’ve arranged everything in my life to be an “artist”.
I use these quotation marks because at this stage of my life the words Art, Artist, Creative, etc have been so devalued that I feel like a complete fool. I can’t explain what I really am. I’m in late middle age and I’m still doing it. I fit the classic model of the “starving artist”, the impractical beatnik hipster free spirit who lives outside the mainstream and survives as a free lance everything.
I’ve had the perfect job for twenty six years. It’s a part time janitorial contract, about fifteen hours a week. When I combine that income with a couple other cleaning jobs, I’m an independent man with a subsistence income. That frees me to be the artist/musician and writer that I am. I really don’t know how to do anything else.
I create. I do the cleaning job on my own time, no one pressures me, it’s physical work and my mind can wander through my artistic universe while I sweep and scrub.
When the property owner died this perfect job died with him. The new management gave me thirty days notice. I got the letter yesterday. The landlord is hiring a slick professional firm of janitorial shysters who hire Latino workers, put them in blue uniforms, pay them minimum wage and pocket the rest.
You know the kind of sickening gut-storm that happens when you find out your lover’s been cheating? You know that feeling?
I feel like that. A nice chunk of income worth $1100 a month has suddenly vanished. It was my largest contract. I don’t know how I’ll pay my rent, care for my wife, keep the internet broadband connected. I still have some work. Just a bit. I’m 64 years old. My feet are in chronic pain. I’ve never worked for anyone else.
I’ve had enough experiences in my life to understand that one of the most basic structures of existence is this: death and resurrection. Getting fired is a death. I await the new blossoming.
I’ve been going through years of heartbreak. I’ll be honest. No one wants to read about my pain; there’s enough pain. Who needs some obscure writer to dump more pain?
I think I’m a special writer but show me a writer who doesn’t think he or she is special. Writing is a landscape of self delusion, fantasy, hope burning, guttering, rejection gathering, courage failing. This is a tough time for writers. There’s a zillion grandiose twenty five year old English Lit and MFA graduates who want to hit the Great Harry Potter Roulette Wheel.
I’m scared shitless. I’m old, I have a lot of unmarketable skills, my wife is disabled and my dogs are neurotic as Alaskan Armadillos. What am I going to do?
Here’s where the leap of faith enters the picture: It Will Come. I’ve been stuck in the most colossal rut for seven or eight years. I’ve been comfortable.
Comfort can be deadly to an artist. I’m going to have to ride it out. Already, I’ve applied for two writing jobs. Wouldn’t that be cool, actually being employed writing? I don’t need to adhere to my strict regime of “my work my work my work.”
I can do other people’s work. I can do it well. I’ve done it before. I was a ghost writer for six years for a celebrity photographer. My ghost written articles appeared in People Magazine, Teen Beat, National Enquirer, a host of tatty rags. I got paid by the hour. My boss was seventy five years old, and he was a tightwad!
I’m going to get less scared as the days pass. I know this has happened and that it will turn out okay. If it doesn’t turn out okay, that’s going to be a drag.
What’s the worst that can happen? I always ask this question when things are rough. The answer: the worst that can happen is that I can suffer horribly for a long time, intimately observe my mind disintegrating, and then die alone in a ditch.
So, if that’s the worst that can happen, what am I worried about?
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Arthur Rosch is a novelist, musician, photographer and poet. His works are funny, memorable and often compelling. One reviewer said “He’s wicked and feisty, but when he gets you by the guts, he never lets go.” Listeners to his music have compared him to Frank Zappa, Tom Waits, Randy Newman or Mose Allison. These comparisons are flattering but deceptive. Rosch is a stylist, a complete original. His material ranges from sly wit to gripping political commentary.
Arthur was born in the heart of Illinois and grew up in the western suburbs of St. Louis. In his teens he discovered his creative potential while hoping to please a girl. Though she left the scene, Arthur’s creativity stayed behind. In his early twenties he moved to San Francisco and took part in the thriving arts scene. His first literary sale was to Playboy Magazine. The piece went on to receive Playboy’s “Best Story of the Year” award. Arthur also has writing credits in Exquisite Corpse, Shutterbug, eDigital, and Cat Fancy Magazine. He has written five novels, a memoir and a large collection of poetry. His autobiographical novel, Confessions Of An Honest Man won the Honorable Mention award from Writer’s Digest in 2016.
Want to be sure not to miss any of Arthur’s “Mind Fields” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress. If you find it interesting or just entertaining, please share.
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This segment of “Mind Fields” is sponsored by the Roberta Writes blog site, where you can find the poetry, photos, videos, and book reviews by Robbie Cheadleand so much more.
“Enter Password”. Okay. I type in that which I remember as my password.
“Password Incorrect”. That’s what it says. Small wonder. I may have used a hundred different passwords this week, just to log into Google. I had a computer wipeout, a big one, and now my browsers have forgotten my cookies: they’ve forgotten my cakes, my donuts, and my fritters. I have to re-up the whole password thing.
“FORGOTTEN PASSWORD?” Click here. OK.…it says it will send a link to my email account.
R..uh R..oh. I need a password to get into my email account. I can’t recover my password until I recover the password to my email account. Is that a Catch-22? Yep, A classic!
I try guessing some of my go-to passwords, things that contained my year of birth. Sometimes I base a password on the Hebrew year. What year is this for Jews? It’s the twenty second of the month of Iyar, in the year 5780.
Yep. I think my password is Jew!5780. I’m a Jew. This is private humor, not chauvinism. Click. Wait a moment. Then: “Password Incorrect”. Passwords used to be simpler. That was before paranoia became normalnoia online.
Without the right password, I can’t do shit. I can’t even get into my email to collect my reset password. I’m screwed. The logical conclusion is that I need to invest in some password management software.
I buy Password Manager.
Enter Password, it says. I know, I’m supposed to invent one. My “master password” it’s called. When I click “enter Master Password” I am asked to fill out three pages of “Profile Information”. Remember when Profile was a bad word? Now you’ve got to have a profile.
I have a lot of folders on my outboard USB drives labeled “Bathwater”. I can’t name password list files as “Password List Files”. I call them “Bathwater1” or “Samurai9” “Let me see what I’ve got here. I’ve learned the hard way to date my entries into this file. I began this file eleven years ago and it’s gotten grotesque. Shit. Two hundred pages of passwords.
I have backup drives. I have USB devices containing mountains of data: tens of thousands of pictures, files of my writing work going back twenty years. I thought that getting a terabyte USB drive would give me space for a long time. Hah! How naïve! I’m looking right now at three USB drives containing ten terabytes of space. Yeah, available storage space, filling up fast.
If you’ve ever had a massive computer wipeout, I hope you’ve got a backup. The struggle you’re about to endure will drive you nuts! It is almost better not to have a backup. Almost.
My computer wouldn’t boot unless I did nutty things. Go into BIOS, re-arrange boot drives, that kind of stuff. This is a sure indication that my computer is a mess. The C: drive needs to be restored.
The backup software I use is called Acronis True Image. But today Acronis doesn’t see my backups. It isn’t True and it has no Image. I have other backups. I take no chances Maybe Windows can see the Windows Image Backup (that is, the WIB) that I made a few months ago. Oh, look! Windows sees it, there it is. The backup to the backup, thank god.
I’m a compulsive ‘backer-upper’. I back up everything to USB drives, discs, the Clouds, I back it up! In theory, I should be able to do a System Restore or recovery without much effort. I suspect that our entire universe is a backup!
I have six Acronis backups spread all across my drives. I found the most recent backup, clicked “Yes” on Acronis and then waited an hour and a half. I left my office for a while. When I returned I saw this message, which I now paraphrase: “Acronis worked its ass off to restore your backup but it couldn’t find ‘such and such’ a file and is unable to complete the restoration.”
It took me six hours of trial and error to reach this point. I wanted Acronis to work; mostly because it cost me seventy dollars when I bought it in 2011. Do I have an assumption? To whit: Windows products aren’t as good as outsourced software. The Windows defraggers, searchers, keepers, sleepers and beepers aren’t as good as software that costs a hundred bucks. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe Windows can get the job done. My “WIB” was waving at me. “Press OK and I’ll do it, FREE!” Windows 10 is waving at me and I’m too much of a snob to let it do its Thing.
I went to sleep without a functioning computer. I am seriously co-dependent with this machine. My sleep was interrupted by binges on chocolate bars. These candies shoved themselves into my mouth. They muted my frustration. In the morning I’ll punish their wrappers.
Here it is: another morning. I’m going to try my WIB, my Windows Image Backup. I think the folders are stored on USB drives “N”, “F” and “K”. I’m going into my files to do a search. “WIB BACKUP”. I enter the terms. Hoping, hoping. Not expecting anything. I’ve had so much failure this week that I’ve become apathetic. Jaded. But…..
Omigod. The search program sees my wib. My WIB! All right. Let’s see if this will do the job that Acronis failed to do. Let’s see.
“Do you want Windows Backup to restore your files?”
Hell yes! I’m desperate. I click “Restore Files” and watch as the dialogue window indicates that some mysterious work is being done. My WIB has been seen and has been pressed into service.
Fifteen minutes later: “Oh my fucking god!” It’s done. My computer has been restored with the humble Windows Image Back The Fuck Up from Windows Ten 64 bit Home Pro Edition and I am so thrilled and surprised. Why should I be surprised? It was that assumption, to whit: Windows software is no good. It’s got to be some hundred dollar hookah from which I puff.
Not so. Not so. Windows Ten took good care of me. If there’s a Windows Eleven or a Windows Twelve, I’ll be there, first in line to buy the damned software.
There’s no escape.
A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good. His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv.
Want to be sure not to miss any of Art’s “Mind Fields” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress. If you find it interesting or just entertaining, please share.
“Mind Fields”: The Big Grief or Computer Wipeout
Posted: June 24, 2020 | Author: artrosch | Filed under: Commentary, Mind Fields, Opinion | Tags: Art Rosch, Arthur Rosch, backups, computercrash, computers, electronics, essay, Fantasy, Humor, Mind Fields, USB, Writing to be Read | 3 CommentsMind Fields
May 2020
“Enter Password”. Okay. I type in that which I remember as my password.
“Password Incorrect”. That’s what it says. Small wonder. I may have used a hundred different passwords this week, just to log into Google. I had a computer wipeout, a big one, and now my browsers have forgotten my cookies: they’ve forgotten my cakes, my donuts, and my fritters. I have to re-up the whole password thing.
“FORGOTTEN PASSWORD?” Click here. OK.…it says it will send a link to my email account.
R..uh R..oh. I need a password to get into my email account. I can’t recover my password until I recover the password to my email account. Is that a Catch-22? Yep, A classic!
I try guessing some of my go-to passwords, things that contained my year of birth. Sometimes I base a password on the Hebrew year. What year is this for Jews? It’s the twenty second of the month of Iyar, in the year 5780.
Yep. I think my password is Jew!5780. I’m a Jew. This is private humor, not chauvinism. Click. Wait a moment. Then: “Password Incorrect”. Passwords used to be simpler. That was before paranoia became normalnoia online.
Without the right password, I can’t do shit. I can’t even get into my email to collect my reset password. I’m screwed. The logical conclusion is that I need to invest in some password management software.
I buy Password Manager.
Enter Password, it says. I know, I’m supposed to invent one. My “master password” it’s called. When I click “enter Master Password” I am asked to fill out three pages of “Profile Information”. Remember when Profile was a bad word? Now you’ve got to have a profile.
I have a lot of folders on my outboard USB drives labeled “Bathwater”. I can’t name password list files as “Password List Files”. I call them “Bathwater1” or “Samurai9” “Let me see what I’ve got here. I’ve learned the hard way to date my entries into this file. I began this file eleven years ago and it’s gotten grotesque. Shit. Two hundred pages of passwords.
I have backup drives. I have USB devices containing mountains of data: tens of thousands of pictures, files of my writing work going back twenty years. I thought that getting a terabyte USB drive would give me space for a long time. Hah! How naïve! I’m looking right now at three USB drives containing ten terabytes of space. Yeah, available storage space, filling up fast.
If you’ve ever had a massive computer wipeout, I hope you’ve got a backup. The struggle you’re about to endure will drive you nuts! It is almost better not to have a backup. Almost.
My computer wouldn’t boot unless I did nutty things. Go into BIOS, re-arrange boot drives, that kind of stuff. This is a sure indication that my computer is a mess. The C: drive needs to be restored.
The backup software I use is called Acronis True Image. But today Acronis doesn’t see my backups. It isn’t True and it has no Image. I have other backups. I take no chances Maybe Windows can see the Windows Image Backup (that is, the WIB) that I made a few months ago. Oh, look! Windows sees it, there it is. The backup to the backup, thank god.
I’m a compulsive ‘backer-upper’. I back up everything to USB drives, discs, the Clouds, I back it up! In theory, I should be able to do a System Restore or recovery without much effort. I suspect that our entire universe is a backup!
I have six Acronis backups spread all across my drives. I found the most recent backup, clicked “Yes” on Acronis and then waited an hour and a half. I left my office for a while. When I returned I saw this message, which I now paraphrase: “Acronis worked its ass off to restore your backup but it couldn’t find ‘such and such’ a file and is unable to complete the restoration.”
It took me six hours of trial and error to reach this point. I wanted Acronis to work; mostly because it cost me seventy dollars when I bought it in 2011. Do I have an assumption? To whit: Windows products aren’t as good as outsourced software. The Windows defraggers, searchers, keepers, sleepers and beepers aren’t as good as software that costs a hundred bucks. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe Windows can get the job done. My “WIB” was waving at me. “Press OK and I’ll do it, FREE!” Windows 10 is waving at me and I’m too much of a snob to let it do its Thing.
I went to sleep without a functioning computer. I am seriously co-dependent with this machine. My sleep was interrupted by binges on chocolate bars. These candies shoved themselves into my mouth. They muted my frustration. In the morning I’ll punish their wrappers.
Here it is: another morning. I’m going to try my WIB, my Windows Image Backup. I think the folders are stored on USB drives “N”, “F” and “K”. I’m going into my files to do a search. “WIB BACKUP”. I enter the terms. Hoping, hoping. Not expecting anything. I’ve had so much failure this week that I’ve become apathetic. Jaded. But…..
Omigod. The search program sees my wib. My WIB! All right. Let’s see if this will do the job that Acronis failed to do. Let’s see.
“Do you want Windows Backup to restore your files?”
Hell yes! I’m desperate. I click “Restore Files” and watch as the dialogue window indicates that some mysterious work is being done. My WIB has been seen and has been pressed into service.
Fifteen minutes later: “Oh my fucking god!” It’s done. My computer has been restored with the humble Windows Image Back The Fuck Up from Windows Ten 64 bit Home Pro Edition and I am so thrilled and surprised. Why should I be surprised? It was that assumption, to whit: Windows software is no good. It’s got to be some hundred dollar hookah from which I puff.
Not so. Not so. Windows Ten took good care of me. If there’s a Windows Eleven or a Windows Twelve, I’ll be there, first in line to buy the damned software.
There’s no escape.
A Midwesterner by birth, Arthur Rosch migrated to the West Coast just in time to be a hippie but discovered that he was more connected to the Beatnik generation. He harkened back to an Old School world of jazz, poetry, painting and photography. In the Eighties he received Playboy Magazine’s Best Short Story Award for a comic view of a planet where there are six genders. The timing was not good. His life was falling apart as he struggled with addiction and depression. He experienced the reality of the streets for more than a decade. Putting himself back together was the defining experience of his life. It wasn’t easy. It did, however, nurture his literary soul. He has a passion for astronomy, photography, history, psychology and the weird puzzle of human experience. He is currently a certified Seniors Peer Counselor in Sonoma County, California. Come visit his blogs and photo sites. www.artrosch.com and http://bit.ly/2uyxZbv.
Want to be sure not to miss any of Art’s “Mind Fields” segments? Subscribe to Writing to be Read for e-mail notifications whenever new content is posted or follow WtbR on WordPress. If you find it interesting or just entertaining, please share.
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