11 Februaury 2017

Uncle Phil

by Andrew

Uncle Philip Greenspun, that is, like Snoop Dogg and his cousin Future, and his nephew Silkk the Shocker, Uncle Phil. I've never met him, and likely never will. He's a professor at MIT,—up in that sphere—and a pioneer I would say, one of those dinosaurs of the internet. But like an uncle still, he helped prop me up when my legs were unsteady.

Lucky for me, I'd found Phil's website shortly after I'd found Rudius Media. It kept me grounded,—let's say—reading his site, striving for more, at a fragile time, too, when I could easily have been seduced to less. And I'd decided then, that I'd make my own Rudius Media if anything. And I'd make it like Uncle Phil's website—simple, but powerful, no flash, and let the writing speak for itself. This of course is opposite of popular thinking. Not many really work for anything—true work, their work. We just slip-in most comfortably where we can. And it's either that, or pack that bag and join that stinking mass of transient folk, if you want to be an outcast of society, if you won't get in step—which is growing certainly it seems to me, that mass of transient folk—which is good, revolting in the face of growing dissatisfaction. We are men afterall, all born free. We can say no, if only we will.

I had to work-on that writing first though, there was no doubt about that. What I was reading from myself was bad. And even then my untrained ear was disgusted by the melody of my pen. And I had this idea too, this website, which is computers, science, which is the opposite of art—a distraction.

That I was an artist there was no doubt. It poured-out of me, even then. I had only to choose an instrument and learn to play that rhythm that flowed-out of my fingertips, out the ends of my hairs. Just as easily I suppose I could have picked-up a brush and began painting, the journey down that road. I had drawn quite a bit in my younger years afterall. But it's all the same really. Like a painter, a writer makes little sketches. And like a writer, a painter tells little stories. It's that same vein they're tapping, that mysterious correspondence with Nature. And a carpenter must first master his tools before he goes-about constructing a house.

And just yesterday morning it was, I finished with the comments on this site. No big feat for Phil I'm sure, 10 minutes of coding, if that. Probably he'd just copy and paste a comments program from another site of his actually. Programming does preach simplicity afterall. Or he'd just pay some poor bloke and not even waste his time anymore. But even if he had to write a new program from scratch himself, in 4 minutes I'm sure he could whip-up something much nicer than what took me all this time.

Regardless, I'm done. Regarding computers, certainly there is more to know. But I have what I need now, the meat of it. And for the inspiration, and for the guidence,—and for the css stylesheet—endless thanks I send from here. Even if not a word of this is ever read by other eyes, this site has liberated me—from self-imposed chains even.

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