Artificial Interruption
by Alexander Urbelis (alex@urbel.is)
To My Mother
On July 31, my mother passed away. It was her birthday. And it has been difficult to think deeply about anything but that event. So, with this column, which I dedicate to my mother, I offer my thoughts on her life, her sacrifices, and the uniqueness of raising a hacker in the 1990s.
If you've been reading this column or listening to Off The Hook, you will no doubt have some understanding of my fondness for poetry. One of the most meaningful poems I've read is "The Heart Asks Pleasure First" by Emily Dickinson. At only eight lines of text, that poem is a true transistorization of life itself: with brevity and clarity, the poem describes five distinct stages of life. I've taken each of the stages of Dickinson's poem and added my own words, using them as the framework for expressing my mother's impact on me during that stage of her life and my gratitude for all that she gave.
On account of the power and mystery of words, there are several valid interpretations of this Dickinson poem, but I prefer the theory that each line is an encapsulation of a distinct stage of life as the interpretation with the most power and profundity.
Unpacking those stages looks like this:
The heart asks pleasure - first - Birth and infancy; the pleasure principle applies; the stage of life during which one's personality is beginning to form.
And then - excuse from pain - Adolescence; that time in life when you only want to do things that are fun and getting oneself into trouble seems all too easy.
And then - those little anodynes that deaden suffering - Adulthood; when life has a routine that can grind you down and we look for escapes from diurnal regularities.
And then - to go to sleep - Old age; when most of our work is behind us and we yearn for rest.
And then - if it should be the will of its Inquisitor, the liberty to die - Death; when the machinery of bodies begins to fail and health is flagging; that time that will befall us all when death appears as not something to be avoided, but welcomed.
I have also tried to keep true to Dickinson's overall scansion. Each stanza contains lines of only six syllables, ending with a line consisting of eight syllables. Because of this, it was difficult to express specific memories or concepts and required me to think more abstractly and generally. Astute readers will also notice the last stanza contains a reference to another column of mine (i.e., 41:1).
It is my hope that some or all of these thoughts and feelings will resonate with readers. Anyone who has raised a hacker, our mothers especially, has had to put up with a great deal of nonsense, trouble, and heartache. But there is also mirth; hopefully laughter was as big a part of your upbringing as it was in mine. As the torch of our parents' generation begins to dim, here's to the men and women who made us what we are, and to keeping true to our obligation of passing on that spirit of rebelliousness.
You knew me from within,
Ensconced by your laughter:
A herald of my youth,
You planted the seed of dissent.
And then - excuse from pain -
Knowledge, mischief, the same,
Telephone lines engaged,
Call waiting enraged us;
You alone kept my conscience true.
And then - those little anodynes that deaden suffering -
Your daily work, our bread,
My mouth fed, my wings spread:
You alone sent me forth
With your love, to play, to question.
And then - to go to sleep -
To teach, to laugh, to smile,
These promises we keep;
Your candle burns within;
Tempus fugit, corpus tardat.
And then - if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die -
Proud of your might and fight,
Never once sad, now free;
Your defiance is me,
Watched over by your loving grace.
Written for my mother, Diane Mcentee, July 31, 1952 - July 31, 2024