This morning I gave myself a hug. It was strangely comforting. Another in the long list of things that I do for myself. Not through choice, but through necessity. I call this pulling myself up by the bootstraps. An absurdly impossible self-starting process. Putting on my face and my façade, gathering some semblance of impetus. It’s a routine. I often actually even picture the boots and lifting the straps, a pair at a time just to stand, cartoonesque yoga, solemn and foolish. Because underneath there is now the overwhelming realisation that this is it. It’s not bad, far from it. But it’s so much less than I had hoped for.
In one of those weird synchronicities, bootstrapping in computing is also a self starting process that supposedly proceeds without external input. But is has a very different etymology. The earliest computers were colossal empty engines of valves and wires until their operating systems were loaded. The British computers used paper cards punched with ones and zeroes to load the core software but the American ones used paper ribbons like ticker tape. Their operators called them bootstraps, because they were like the laces of giant shoes. So one ‘bootstrapped’ an American computer to get it started. And when it crashed, it’s where the term ‘rebooting’ comes from.
It’s January, rebooting the year, and of course there’s a list of New Year resolutions. I’m ticking them off, one by one. Back at the gym – check (personal trainer thank you very much). Repair the outdoor furniture – check. Blogging again – check. But amidst these superficial restarts are a much darker, confrontingly honest set of resolutions that are finally being acted on. At long last, and arguably 20 years to late (though better than never), I am setting up for my independent financial security. Investing, consolidating superannuation, acquiring relevant insurances. It’s been a long time coming. But it’s a very real material step in a realisation that there is no prince arriving on his white charger to save me. I am that prince.
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." So begins Charles Dickens' novel David Copperfield. It’s too early to determine if my role is hero, or something less, and I’m prepared to be optimistic about that. But it’s very clear that almost half a century on, and after ten years of, shall we say, unhelpful casting, the role remains steadfastly unfilled.
I sense that the ones and zeroes are moving on the tape that contains my operating system. So it’s just me. In fact it probably always has been just me. And I guess that, even though it seems a bit less bright from time to time, that’s alright. Thank you Morpheus – apparently I have chosen the red pill. Bear with me while the operating system adjusts – I’m a whole lot more complicated than mere bootlaces.
In one of those weird synchronicities, bootstrapping in computing is also a self starting process that supposedly proceeds without external input. But is has a very different etymology. The earliest computers were colossal empty engines of valves and wires until their operating systems were loaded. The British computers used paper cards punched with ones and zeroes to load the core software but the American ones used paper ribbons like ticker tape. Their operators called them bootstraps, because they were like the laces of giant shoes. So one ‘bootstrapped’ an American computer to get it started. And when it crashed, it’s where the term ‘rebooting’ comes from.
It’s January, rebooting the year, and of course there’s a list of New Year resolutions. I’m ticking them off, one by one. Back at the gym – check (personal trainer thank you very much). Repair the outdoor furniture – check. Blogging again – check. But amidst these superficial restarts are a much darker, confrontingly honest set of resolutions that are finally being acted on. At long last, and arguably 20 years to late (though better than never), I am setting up for my independent financial security. Investing, consolidating superannuation, acquiring relevant insurances. It’s been a long time coming. But it’s a very real material step in a realisation that there is no prince arriving on his white charger to save me. I am that prince.
"Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." So begins Charles Dickens' novel David Copperfield. It’s too early to determine if my role is hero, or something less, and I’m prepared to be optimistic about that. But it’s very clear that almost half a century on, and after ten years of, shall we say, unhelpful casting, the role remains steadfastly unfilled.
I sense that the ones and zeroes are moving on the tape that contains my operating system. So it’s just me. In fact it probably always has been just me. And I guess that, even though it seems a bit less bright from time to time, that’s alright. Thank you Morpheus – apparently I have chosen the red pill. Bear with me while the operating system adjusts – I’m a whole lot more complicated than mere bootlaces.
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