Today I saw an ad for a safe place to store your digital stuff. It was a small, rectangular device, at least according to the illustration (which was a drawing) connected to two other technical devices. Probably the modem that connects a home to the wide world of the internet, and another device that I am not at all sure about. It was all one chain of cabled ideograms designed to imply computational muscle, mindless storage capacity, and unbelievable security, I guess. At least that was my impression.
I love the “Cloud.” I use Dropbox, OneDrive, Google Photos, Flickr, I even have and use an iCloud email account. But it has such a limited, skimpy storage capacity I never tell anybody the address. I quit using EverNote, it seemed like overkill. I loved the service, and still dream of the days we were together. It just wasn’t meant to be though.
Each has a password, and most times I forget what it is and have to reset it. Fortunately cloud storage providers have made this so simple. Text message, or an email and I am back into the middle of my stuff.
Keeping my data safe is not really something that I had ever worried about too much. For one thing my wife never trusts me with anything important, or monetary, or remotely valuable. She asked me to scan a small, hand written and illustrated, themed party cook book from her single days, the days before me (I like to think of them as her dark ages), and keep the digital copy safe, and I think I know where it is, maybe. Maybe I will just scan it again tonight before she gets home, just to be safe.
There are a lot of pictures, I take a lot of pictures. Pictures of my family, pictures of my walks, pictures of things that at one point seemed interesting, but now seem odd and out of place. A lot of shaky, fuzzy, and indistinct, pictures, my pictures resemble a casual stroll through an earthquake. Maybe I drink too much coffee.
Most of the other stuff is just things I have written, and plan to improve, hone, perfect, or ruin. Blog posts that need a good finish, or a coherent middle, or something. Some of them are so close it makes me ache thinking of the next sentence. There are ideas for my book, lectures for my middle aged manifesto. I don’t really have to worry too much about those, unless an English teacher hacks her way in and leave red marks all over everything. Big failing marks on all my files, maybe that is what the Rolling Stones meant “Hey you, get off of my cloud.” Maybe that wouldn’t bother me so much, we all, bloggers, writers, novelists, poets, all of us who ever dared to dream of writing. Any of us who were ever foolish enough to lay it down, and put it out there do it just for the sheer pleasure of being read.
A bunch of modern Hemingway gypsy dreamers, and I drink to us all. Technology is not a writer’s best friend, but it is a valued ally. Even though we are constantly at odds with each other, I love my cloud storage.