There Could be Computers Looking for Life on Earth
In this age of science and technology, everything has a formula. Our tasks are defined as specific procedures that we can break down and, to a certain extent, predict. Several months ago, I sat down at my computer and was greeted by a folder icon partially covered by a flashing question mark. A quick online search informed me that this was my computer's artistic way of telling me that the hard drive had failed. Forums gave me precise step-by-step instructions as to how I could remedy the situation. I was given an exact timeline for the recovery process. When I upload files to the internet, install a printer, or upgrade my operating system, I am given up-to-second feedback on the status: 86% complete, 87% complete, 88% complete.
Almost everyday, when my mom came home from a long day at work, she went straight to the kitchen and started preparing what was always an involved meal. Immediately the aroma arrived at my nose and I arrived in the kitchen asking when dinner would be ready. Stimulus - reaction, if you will. Sometimes, though, she would stop in her room to rest before starting the process, a rare act that would throw my brother and me into a state of panic and confusion. "But when are we eating?" we would ask. To which my mom had a one-line statement, like any celebrity or PR manager who has been coached on the exact words that should be utilized when responding to certain questions. "I am not a machine." Ironic, but irrelevant, that the statement was so robotic.
While academic and social pressures of my adolescence helped me to understand the general idea, it was a more recent occurrence that crystallized the sentiment. Weeks ago, I met with a minor sports injury of sorts. Never having experienced anything quite like it, I hung on every word of the doctor and asked enough questions to be at par with that kid in all your classes whose hand is still going up when it's time to leave. My friends and I have an ongoing conversation about when mobile devices will replace computers. We randomly spew out numbers like, "8 years," then continue with our regularly programmed discussion. In asking my doctor questions, I felt that he was playing this guessing game with me. Educated guessing, but guessing nonetheless. He explained the general course of recovery for situations like my own, but I simply wasn't satisfied. "How many days until the swelling goes down?" "How many days until I can't see it anymore?" "How many days..." The doctor had an answer for each question, but more to appease his interrogative patient.
None of the numbers he gave me were exact. And each landmark day that passed, I panicked. But somewhere along the way, I realized that it wasn't because I wasn't recovering or that he was a bad doctor. I am not a machine, I thought to myself. Each person's body recovers (and functions) in different ways and on different timelines. Our unique daily activities influence the general course and there was no way anyone could tell me the exact number of days it would take for each minor step in the process. A doctor could tell me how to best recover, when I should worry, or what to look out for. Not much else.
But at some point, I came to terms with this fact. If every single aspect of life came equipped with a progress bar or Mac forum, life would be lived before we personally experienced it. Elbert Hubbard put it best: One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men. No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.
If a little curiosity and confusion is all it takes to be extraordinary, I'm willing to scrap the metal. Well, at least once in a while.
Almost everyday, when my mom came home from a long day at work, she went straight to the kitchen and started preparing what was always an involved meal. Immediately the aroma arrived at my nose and I arrived in the kitchen asking when dinner would be ready. Stimulus - reaction, if you will. Sometimes, though, she would stop in her room to rest before starting the process, a rare act that would throw my brother and me into a state of panic and confusion. "But when are we eating?" we would ask. To which my mom had a one-line statement, like any celebrity or PR manager who has been coached on the exact words that should be utilized when responding to certain questions. "I am not a machine." Ironic, but irrelevant, that the statement was so robotic.
While academic and social pressures of my adolescence helped me to understand the general idea, it was a more recent occurrence that crystallized the sentiment. Weeks ago, I met with a minor sports injury of sorts. Never having experienced anything quite like it, I hung on every word of the doctor and asked enough questions to be at par with that kid in all your classes whose hand is still going up when it's time to leave. My friends and I have an ongoing conversation about when mobile devices will replace computers. We randomly spew out numbers like, "8 years," then continue with our regularly programmed discussion. In asking my doctor questions, I felt that he was playing this guessing game with me. Educated guessing, but guessing nonetheless. He explained the general course of recovery for situations like my own, but I simply wasn't satisfied. "How many days until the swelling goes down?" "How many days until I can't see it anymore?" "How many days..." The doctor had an answer for each question, but more to appease his interrogative patient.
None of the numbers he gave me were exact. And each landmark day that passed, I panicked. But somewhere along the way, I realized that it wasn't because I wasn't recovering or that he was a bad doctor. I am not a machine, I thought to myself. Each person's body recovers (and functions) in different ways and on different timelines. Our unique daily activities influence the general course and there was no way anyone could tell me the exact number of days it would take for each minor step in the process. A doctor could tell me how to best recover, when I should worry, or what to look out for. Not much else.
But at some point, I came to terms with this fact. If every single aspect of life came equipped with a progress bar or Mac forum, life would be lived before we personally experienced it. Elbert Hubbard put it best: One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men. No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.
If a little curiosity and confusion is all it takes to be extraordinary, I'm willing to scrap the metal. Well, at least once in a while.
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