Mysteries of the personal computers we're born with

     My personal computer works overtime, especially at night, bringing to life past incidents in full color and sound, even with distinct odors, such as soft coal's gaseous emissions in the center of a cold army barrack, or my friend Elton Steven's wheezing asthma attacks in first grade, and my sadness when he moved away.
     I'm convinced everyone's personal computer, the one we're born with, records every conversation, wish, regret, disappointment, joy, passion, fear, embarrassment, chagrin, achievement and moment of sublime faith we've ever experienced. It's all there, but we don't know how to access the file.
      Dreams seem to free old events with clarity and no inhibition.  At least they do for me.  I relive episodes of my life in striking detail, hear my father's voice, my mother whistling Cole Porter tunes, my brother Bob's laugh at family gatherings before he died too young, and feel anew the exhilaration of my first solo flight at age 17.
     Oh, embarrassments surface as well, awakening me uncomfortably to confront things I wish I hadn't said or done; people I should have thanked, others I might have encouraged.
     Day dreams are different, and have always been part of my life.  Teachers reminded me of that quite often.  Putting oneself in a diferent place mentally can relieve the burden of illness or loneliness.  Recalling friends and colleagues who've helped one along the way can help one smile through a tough day.
     But one has to consciously reach for those memories.  On the other hand, our personal computer pops them up indiscriminately, good and bad, joyful and shameful, with no effort on our part, sometimes during the day, but more often after we've put our head on a pillow.
     When my Dell computer argues with me I have only to call computer expert Rita Hill to set things right.  I don't understand my Dell either.  But I can operate it with reasonable efficiency.  But I can't control the one that's always worked overtime in my cranium and shows no sign of slowing down in my 86th year.  Perhaps that's just as well.  If it were organized like a library, with neat categories from which I could pick and choose, and thus avoid negative events, it would be less fun and surely less informative.
     Still, this always fascinating adventure with the past does not conform to good advice my father gave me: don't play, "what if?"  He never wanted to discuss what he'd done the previous week, but was eager to tell me what he'd planned for the week ahead.
     "Always have something important to do tomorrow morning," he would say, "and don't worry about yesterday; you can't change it."
     Well, dad, I'm still trying, really.  But my personal computer has a mind of its own.

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Carlton E. Spitzer