Saturday, July 31, 2004

They ( have removed the little icon that links me to my catalog of exported photos. In the "Help" section they describe an elaborate sequence that is meant to instruct me on how to post pictures the new way. I want the little icon. I want "click" and the comfort of all I knew and trusted. Now I am confused and locked out.

I have learned that an effective means of learning computer tricks is to play with the computer. If you play around and explore a bit you are likely to learn a few secrets. William, Alex and Max explore the computer with the ease of children in a toy store. They are learning all the methods and means of programming and trouble shooting. They speak Geek, and practice Geek cultural habits. They move from site to site to site, and from program file to program file, with the confidence of a local resident. I am still a tourist. So long as I stay on the main streets and avoid the tap water, I can manage in the cyber world. But when my precious and tattered guide book becomes outdated, then I am woefully lost. When I attempt to wander and explore I find myself at the same fork in the road, but tired and frustrated.

There is one subject on which I can speak with certain and confirmed authority: Science and health. Though I cannot find the medical reference to back my claim, I am quite sure that I can trace the source of my fog and diminished cerebral clarity. It begins in my uterus. There, in the comfort, safety and mystery of my womb, another human being is taking form. She has developed limbs and ears, eyes and bones. Her muscles are stregthening, as she twirls and kicks in her nightly dance. And she has an appetite. She feeds on olives and cantaloup, chicken tacos, apricots and asparagus. There she is in my uterus, all linked up with her life line, the umbilical cord. And somewhere, in a spot, still undetected, the umbilical cord travels, discreetly and directly to my brain. Yes, like her brothers before her, she has linked up to my own brain and she is draining off whatever remains of my cognitive prowess. No doubt she will finish off the last of my brilliance when I breast feed her for 2 1/2 years.

I need a little nap.

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