CompuPhobia

I couldn’t possibly admit this face-to-face, but I’m intimidated by my computer.  It’s a beautiful thing; a generous birthday gift from my Cousin, loaded with programs I can’t begin to comprehend without buying Everything for Dummies.

As explained in previous posts, I’ve not had as much access to computers as the majority of the population between ages 5 and 55.  One Basic class does not a Geek make.  Dismal since those binary days, I now trust my computer to tell me when something is wrong.  It began harmlessly enough: refusing to Send emails, I learned to take another look.  Invariably, some key words have disappeared, or I’ve forgotten the attachments.

But now it’s affecting life choices, and caused the recent propulsion backwards, time-wise, in my psyche.

I was hacked.  I opened my email to find all sorts of messages on a day I hadn’t even turned the computer on.  Sirens rang in my head as I opened notes from people asking, “Did you send this (weight loss program) link?”

Me; after all the bashing I do about mass-links and chain e-mails.  A few wrote their condolences, and that’s when I learned hacking is pretty common.  “It happens,” Cous wrote, accompanied by a smiley-face.  A web designer added the suggestion to change all passwords monthly; some people, he warned, sit in your computer for awhile, watching.  If that’s not enough to give you the willies…

Yes, I felt better, except that in my haste to warn people against my cyber Agent-Orange, I sent emails to people I should have deleted years ago, like Captain Stan (not his real name).  What must the Editors I’m trying to cultivate think?   If the false email didn’t already do it, the follow-up certainly proved me the Virtual-Village Idiot. I pulled out the modem and haven’t been back online since.

Unencumbered by any www’s for a week, I managed to complete three major goals I’d been transferring from list to list for months. They weren’t nearly as difficult or time consuming as imagined, but I sure wasted plenty of it alternately procrastinating and chastising myself.

Imagination started peeking through again.  I became more creative; doing rather than Searching, like the good old days on Ruff Life, when my biggest circuit-based worry was whether I had enough juice in the batteries to play the radio.  I thought about my simpler life back then, and how easily I got roped back into society’s madness.  Sure am glad I found that out before it became too late.

Living in a house is a perfect example of (a lesser known) Peter Principle in action:  you collect Stuff to fill your Space.  I’m already imagining having to downsize back into my 16-foot travel-trailer come March 1^st.  It doesn’t bother me so much; I like my tiny homes, but after my forays to Goodwill , I don’t know where I’ll fit my new wardrobe, so I’m going through ALL my things, tossing, donating, giving to friends, turning into artwork.

Without Internet distractions, I was able to concentrate more on my inner voice (still only one), leading me towards my next path, whatever that is.   My inability to clearly define my wants has me traveling through life like the dotted lines in a Disney cartoon.  I’ll arrive at the same destination, but I suspect not knowing is taking  the long way.

In the back of my mind are the artist’s home-studios I’ve visited in Puerto Rico and in magazines, just along the side of some wandering road.  You find it by accident, and that’s just fine with the artist.  A barn in Pennsylvania?  A small adobe with a view of Painted Hills instead of Painted Ladies? Guam?

Along the western coast of Puerto Rico, there’s a town called Rincon; a popular place on the professional surfing circuit.  It’s filled with ex-Pats and artists; the Captain and I would have enjoyed living there, but the surf was too rough for Ruff Life to be anchored.

Along a windy road heading up into the mountains, a tiny sign at the base of a driveway promised an artist’s studio at the end.  Driving up a seemingly 45-degree incline, we finally made it to this colorfully painted wooden structure.  No other cars; you have that “Are we supposed to be here?” feeling, but it was open.

Galleries on islands are often decorated with branches, seashells, nets, oars…and this was no different.  But there were these sliding glass doors leading to their balcony, and the husband of the artist was taking a snooze in the hammock.  The balcony was enveloped by tropical plants and trees, but you could still clearly see out to sea.  I was jealous of the space, but not the view.  I had my own.

And I’m worried about what my emails will say.