It has been noted through generations how offspring are generally more accustomed to the advancements in the current era in comparison to their parents who preceded the inventions' ingenuity. I had concluded that my generation was one to be particularly fond of personal computers, their programs, management of user defined delegations and perhaps even manipulating system properties to suit their preferences. The other day, I was sad to find this was not as true as I once believed.
During a specific class(which shall remain nameless for the sake of those who
do chance to read my deluded rantings), I was surprised at the difficulty a mac presented to a number of pupils in regards to creating a folder system. The assignment was the first and presumably the most simple in contrast to those in the not-so-distant future. It asked of us to create files in folders, in folders with fellow folders, in a larger folder that grouped with other relevant large folders, in a parent folder, in a directory on a server. If one was to write out the address of the blank file located amongst those 20 or so folders, it would have looked like so:
server\directory\parent folder\general folder\category folder\sub category folder\uranoob.docxI don't know if it was organizing the files inside a cascade of folders or the command C versus file>edit>copy within the controls of a mac, but something perplexed the quite minds of my peers. I do admit that my Jimney Cricket (the guy in my head you met a year and a half ago, for those who have read my older posts) was snickering at their tribulations.
I digress! I shall depart before my own convoluted whims produce a certain disdain towards my skewed opinions; and before torches and pitchforks (wielded by none other than the people in my section) yield me the hunted.
Lest we forget, I shall be famous one day!
Lastingly Yours,
~Chiko!
The puppet master manipulates his characters in a sophisticated fashion, A classic red dress designed to twirl as the strings make the beauty prance. The puppet master pours the total of his efforts into a dead end passion, The stomp of tiny white dress shoes as strings force the prince to dance. The puppet master long ago fathomed his wonderful story would surmount, As wooden marionettes cross the stage in a one, two, one, two silent count. Under the moonlight in the loft of a tower he works through the night, Worn through years of use, do you think you can't imagine anything so lonely?
