This is where the magic happens. This is my mixing desk, as I layer words and phrases into works and praises. I dream.
My computer is about 9 years old. Lets call it ‘hp’. It is the first identifiable mark I see when we interface. As we spend so much time together I have been unable to resist an urge to anthropomorphise. It’s a normal response to my environment, I think. How else can I make sense of this machine which occupies so much of my life, my hopes, dreams, ambitions, expressions, emotions…..and so on. At first, perhaps I thought of hp as a she. Habit I guess, like old cars. I could construct an argument for a male or female identity. Nowadays, I realise if I insist on humanising hp, it is, of course, gender neutral. I think of hp as non-binary. Ironic, given the quintessentially binary nature of hp’s being. Mx hp.
Yes hp still works! It was touch and go for a while, taking about five minutes to load despite regular internal scrubbing. Not a problem in itself, I learned to have patience with my old friend, if wearing a bit thin at times. I was considering major surgery. A simple operation I was assured, removing hp’s memory and replacing it with a faster, more efficient unit. A medicalised model of disability you might say. And then came Windows 10!
Windows 10 did wonders for hp. It taught new ways to think. Workarounds for encroaching senility. It worked. Hp continues intact. Still reliable. I wish the same could be said for my Swedish chair. To be fair, it was bought about 4 years ago, and has been consistently sat in. Over the past year it has supported my 17 and half stone frame (that’s 240 pounds, or 108 kilo’s, for the differently measured) for 5-6 hours nearly everyday. It has taken the back-strain as my body mirrored the mental contortions conjured in prose on the back-lit screen. It has suffered, and is now broken, held up by the promise of a new local store being built as I write.
This has been my world for a year. Staring into an electronic field, without depth, limitless. The face of a 1500 year old Qingzhou Buddha stares down at me from an exhibition poster, awakened, enlightened. But it is the illumination of the blue screen which bathes my mind with possibility.
Where do you worship the Word in sacrificial rite? What does your altar look like?