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re: gopher resiliency
November 15th, 2019
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The illustrious tfurrows recently wrote [0] on the topic of
resiliency of his gopher content. He brings up a familiar topic
and one tangentially related to the recently popular "right to be
forgotten" vs "archival" debates.
(TXT) [0] tfurrows - gopher resiliency
I think I have something to say on the subject, but I started this
reply before I thought everything out. Lets see what comes up as
I go…
When I was a boy I had a cabinet in by bedroom. At some point in
time, for Christmas, I got my very own TV that sat on top of it.
Inside, at a later Christmas, I was able to add my Nintendo
Entertainment System and a few games. A bit later the cabinet
would welcome the introduction of some new controllers and my
first issue of Nintendo Power Magazine. The magazines grew quickly
from one to 10 to 40 until they took up most of the cabinet space.
At some point or another my subscription ended, though I couldn't
say when or why exactly. I grew up, my interests changed. I was on
BBSes and Prodigy all day instead of trying futilely to beat
Battle Toads. The cabinet door closed one day an didn't open again
for a very long time.
When it did open, I was older and with wildly different interests.
The NES still had its charm, so it came out of the cabinet and
journeyed with me to college and beyond. The magazines, though,
stayed on the shelf. Another decade passed and it was time to
empty out the cabinet from my parents' home as they planned their
retirement move. I cracked open the doors and there they were. In
a moment of nostalgia, I flipped through some pages. The air
filled with a familiar smell that transported me back to a time
when these characters, interviews, reviews and comics were vibrant
and new. I was 9 years old again and filled with joy for a moment.
But I wasn't there to take a massive collection of magazines with
me. I was there to empty out the trash, to toss it and let it go.
I put those magazines in an empty box that once held printer
paper, scribbled a label and tossed in in the car. I wasn't going
to keep them, but I wasn't ready for them to disappear just yet
either.
The box sat under my desk in my house for another couple years
totally forgotten until a friend's son developed a magical
infatuation with Mario that can only come with youth. He dressed
as Mario, got every toy Mario imaginable, and even enjoyed playing
the old games on his dad's emulator. One day the little guy got
quite the surprise when a giant box showed up on his table. He
looked inside, pulled out a magazine and started flipping through.
His eyes lit up when he saw that it was filled with Mario and all
the other familiar characters he loved.
He couldn't care less about game strategy guides for a system he
didn't have, but he loved the comic stories and the artwork. We
gave him some scissors and chopped them up to make new artwork.
His mom is an elementary school art teacher, so resources were
readily available. He made some really great stuff from those
dusty pages.
This came to mind as I was thinking about resiliency and I wanted
to share even if I couldn't articulate it perfectly. I guess it's
about the meaning of art in a way. Some argue that an artist (or
writer) has an intention with their work and that is the value.
Their intended sharing of an idea or experience is the art. Others
say that the experience of the viewer or reader is what matters.
I think there's enough value for both to be true.
When I write a phlog post or share some experiment on gopher I get
satisfaction from sharing my thoughts or notes or otherwise
contributing to the little quiet space we have carved out. I also
get joy knowing that you all read it. Over the years I've seen
first-hand how the things I've shared have landed with some of you
in an unintended way. Maybe they've inspired a response, or
reminded you of a long forgotten hobby. Maybe a silly project
I started and gave up on had a clue to something you were
struggling with. But there's more than the immediate effect.
I've run across old gopher content from the 90s detailing
conferences, meet-ups, and stories that are otherwise unknown to
me. I can witness snapshots in time as someone tried to puzzle out
the future of the internet, not knowing what was about to blow up
around them. Their goals of communication have little to do with
the experience I now have in reading. Instead of learning about
possible futures I get a glimpse of human struggle against the
unknown, teamwork and camaraderie. I get to see the problems of
the day in a way that's hard from this vantage. I get to remember
my own early internet days and pick out pieces of history. And
that's just from some gopher history [1]. How much more exciting
is it when I find old code or diaries.
(DIR) [1] gopher history archives
Resiliency conjures up this idea that our writing is somehow
either indelible or written in disappearing ink. Some people will
assuredly make the choice to nuke their archives and skip out on
gopher or the web or whatever. Some will have hardware failures or
platforms will go away. Others will surely continue to archive.
Cameron Kaiser will continue his efforts, or others will rise up
and do the same, and much of this will survive in someone's text
archives. Others will come and go from places like SDF, leaving
behind a few postings and files before forgetting their account
exists. tfurrows has four cosmic posts [2] and five more secret
gopher postings [3] that link up a really cool and interesting
science fiction story. If that story doesn't continue then it
still exists as part of the shared universe. It adds to the vibe
and contributes in itself.
(DIR) [2] Xero Carbon Wells
(DIR) [3] Wells' Carbon Clique
Perhaps one day in the distant future our silly thoughts and ideas
will be gathered together, chopped up, and turned into something
new and unexpected. Maybe we'll all sit in a virtual cabinet for
decades first. Maybe some of it will fade away or be lost, but
I think there's a good chance for resiliency. Our stuff is mostly
text, after all, and that doesn't take up much space.