Thursday, September 13, 2001
Some people out there (pointing to you hiding behind your computer screens!) cannot believe I'm typing all this myself. They believe it's impossible for a kid of my age to work on a computer all alone. They are right. Ergonomically spoken, computers and furniture are not designed for ultratalented kiddies. The chairs are way-too-low, the keyboards way-too-high-and-large, the mouse way-too-far and the start button way-too-hard-to-push. Everything is way-too-something!
Why is that? Because grownups want us to be dependant! That way, they are sure we won't leave them. You see, from a psychological perspective, we're free, we do not need them at all. We have a powerful mind. You can take our parents away and replace them with another pair of these: no problem! Give us a couple of days to get used to their crazy ways, but they all feed and hug, so they're interchangeble. On the other hand, take us away and they won't do anything but crying to get you back. Man, they're sooooo pathetic!
Take f.e. my dad as an example: here's a picture of me while I'm typing one of my little messages to the world (or maybe I was just doing some nifty webdesign at that time, I don't remember exactly).
One that takes a quick look at the picture might conclude that the Nerd is behind me to support me and lift me high enough so I can touch the keyboard. Intelligent people conclude that the old man behind the higly skilled kid is secretly stealing the kid's experience, so that maybe one day he would be able to use the computer himself (and I don't mean the usual messing things up by that).
Wednesday, September 12, 2001
Today was mom's birthday. To celebrate this, she cleaned the house all day and invited some family this evening, so that she could continue running around during the evening as well. I understand this. I think she does this to forget the past. After all, who wants to remember birth anyway: it's a horrible divorce of a quiet, peaceful life. Nothing special you have to do besides floating around in some weird juice.
In the evening I've been the most silent Feyo ever. I believe there were about 6 000 people in our house (I'm not very good at counting yet, so it might have been more) and some little dogs of grandma. I was too impressed to say anything at all. I just looked around.
I started to get noisy again when most of the people had left the building. The reason was my music ball. That's right, I have a big plastic ball in adorable screaming colors, featuring many different songs. There's a little button to press if you want to hear sound. It then randomly plays one of the encapsulated tunes. I see this as my first instrument of my career in the music business. But that's not all. While the ball plingplangplongs, colored lights flash up rhythmically. Talking about some psychedelic effects, man! I started to flip, wanted to grab the ball with both hands (what worked out well) and put it in my mouth (no can do: the ball is waaaayyy too large for me - it's the size of my head). I have a picture here to show you how this ball looks like from my point of view.
There's another thing going on: I'm still ill and it feels like my saliva takes control over me: it's everywhere and it's rather hard to breathe. Those bacterium thingies seem to have ordered my saliva thingies to multiply. Saliva is not a friend anymore!
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
I'm not really in the mood today to write long Tales From The Kid: I'm ill - I catched a cold. It looks like the bacterium thingies do exist, despite of my doubts. Or perhaps I believe in them enough to let their virtual existence ruin my health. Anyway, by consequence my saliva production tripled and my internal heating system got disrupted. The only thing I can do, is get rid of all saliva as much as possible and wave my arms to get enough cooling under my armpits. I look more like a birdy spreading its wings to capture a tasty worm (but I doubt if birdies produce that much saliva).
Perhaps I got ill because the world is on fire. The madness of terrorism makes me wonder if I want to grow up anyway, since grownups seem to act like there's plenty of growth needed.
Monday, September 10, 2001
Yesterday I was the victim of a major disaster. Meanwhile, dad was at his computer, looking busy and doing nothing (man that thing needs attention!) and mom was busy cleaning the place (yeah, I know it sucks, but this is the way mom and dad divided domestic tasks: dad is responsible for the digital part of the housekeeping - f.e. computer, VCR, hifi, car radio, television - while mom has control over the analog part of the housekeeping - all the rest).
When the disaster happened, I yelled and screamed but nobody reacted. You have to know that something happened to me that maybe 1% of world population ever experiences: my house fell on my head! Perhaps my house is not that big as the collapsing ones in earthquakes, and it's much softer, but it's still heavy for a little guy like me and it prevented me from observing the world.
How did it happen? I was just practicing my motoric abilities in my box the usual way. This means: moving arms and legs in all possible directions in an attempt to grab all objects within my radius of action. With the arms this is simple because they feature those cool grab-o-matics (or hands). For the legs, this can be done by pressing my legs together in a stranglehold round the targeted object. I can do all this without even taking a look at the objects.
Not looking to what I grab is also the weakness of my strategy: grab-o-matics grab - house is above head - grabomatics release - head is under house - Feyo is trapped. When daddy finally managed to leave his computer, I was a fortress of panic, unable to escape, trying to cry the house away. The apatic old man had to laugh out loud first before he helped me out. He found me (or better my head, but it felt like the whole of me) bathing in my own sweat, my hair all curly and he even thought this was cute. Bastard. Revenge is in my mind.
Sunday, September 09, 2001
Bathing Time (part II)
However, mothers don't let you float around all day: she changes the position of my body, so that my butt becomes the supporting platform of the rest of me. In other words, I sit down now at the bottom of the thub. Meanwhile, she puts a transparent frog in front of me (iMac look - you know, the trendy computer with a picture of an eaten apple on it - I never really understood why we should see the inside of the computer; as if it would become possible to notice what goes wrong when the computer crashes - anyway, I hope they won't invent iMac humans in the future: I'm not yearning to see other people's intestines).
(stick to the story) The frog is floating on the water.That's when another part of my complex personality pops up: I Become One With The Frog. All attention is devoted to the syntetic frog. Nothing else matters. My eyes focus at it, my hands reach for it, but lack the ability to grab it. I'm bending, bending more, bending even more... and if my mom wasn't there to keep me up, I would have been drown. So I already had my near-death-experience. Or better, maybe-rather-close-to-near-death-experience: mom was there all the time to support me, so I couldn't actually slip away or anything. Also, no tunnels. No hard light. No angel voices. Only a laughing frog.
Bathing Time (part I)
Lately, I changed my way of having a bath. Earlier, mom first soaped me, then plunged me into the water, then wiped me off. That's it. Nothing more to say. Meanwhile, I just stared at her and let it all happen.
But not any more! I wanted to get rid of this passive attitude and help mom in the daily struggle for hygiene. Oh yeah, Neptune is my friend in the fight against the bacterium-thingies (I changed my point of view about the thingies: you cannot see them, that's correct, but that doesn't mean they are harmless. The most dangerous enemies in life are those you don't see as they approach).
But how? Simple and effective: at the same time mom plunges me into the water, I start to move all arms and legs at a very high speed! This impressive demonstration of kinetic energy causes evenly impressive movement of the water. My bathtub (standing in the kitchen) is already too little for me, so one can imagine most of the water prefers being far from this struggling maniac and emigrates to kitchen floor. By the end of my bathing session the kitchen floor is so wet it becomes a fish' wet dream (some eduction may be necessary here: a wet dream is a dream of a fish of course). Feyo Waterboy!