My dad's first car was a second generation Toyota Celica. He bought it from Bel-Air Toyota in Latrobe (where he worked) when he was eighteen. I can only imagine the feelings of joy and independence it brought him. I'm not sure if his dad impressed this upon him, or if he learned it himself over the years, but my dad takes notoriously good care of his vehicles. He understands and has taught me the important relationship between a man and his possessions: if you take care of them, they will take care of you. My first car, by the way, was a Scion TC -- spiritual successor to the Toyota Celica. But that's not what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about another piece of hardware that brings me the kind of joy and independence you can only imagine.
I want to talk about my gaming computer.
Writing desk. Workbench. Battlestation. Portal to the Internet. This machine has been with me for six years, through thick and thin, and is still the strongest machine I've ever habitually used. I've kept its drives and registers clean and running smoothly. Every few months, I'll pop the case and sweep the dust out of the components. During thunderstorms, I'll always disconnect the power to keep it safe from surges.
I will admit; sometimes I do take this old beast for granted. On two separate occasions, I almost destroyed it by spilling liquid into the case. The first time, about three years ago, I didn't realize that the glass of water I knocked over was dripping into the open grate on top of the tower. It kept running for a few minutes before finally shooting out. The processor and motherboard were toast. Nothing makes you appreciate something you value quite like nearly losing it. Thankfully, my friend Nathan (who built it in the first place) was able to isolate the broken parts from what could be saved, and helped me install replacements. Silver lining: I got an upgrade out of the whole ordeal. The second incident was just this past week. During a game of League of Legends, I knocked over a can of root beer. Luckily, I had some papers stacked up on top of the tower this time. My keyboard, desk, and those papers got the worst of it. I had to drain my graphics card, blow dry it with a fan, and wipe the board down with rubbing alcohol, but I saved it. Nothing was damaged. It's still running fine as we speak, happily humming away beneath my desk where no spill can reach.
I dread the day when this computer and I finally have to part. I've had computers before this one, and I'm sure I'll have others afterward. But so far, none of them come close to the investment I've put into this one machine. If I didn't maintain it, repair it, and responsibly use it the way I do, I probably wouldn't care for it as I do. Since Nathan first built it, I've replaced the motherboard, the processor, one of the hard drives, the graphics card, and the power supply, not to mention the 8GB of RAM I've added. Like a daily driver, I plan to maintain this monster until I can maintain it no longer.
It reminds me of the Ship of Theseus thought experiment. If, over the course of its lifetime, the Ship has every single part replaced, is it still the same Ship? What about if you built another ship with all the old parts whenever you replaced them? Now which one is the real Ship of Theseus? Some have even extended the question to human beings. It's estimated that the molecules that make up our bodies are totally recycled every few years, so how can we claim to be the same person?
I believe, for humans and ships and computers and cars, continuity is maintained in memory. I remember myself as I was in the past, and that memory outlives the particles and arrangements that comprise it. I remember all the fun I've had with this computer, and all the work I've put into it. Even if all of its parts are replaced one day, I'll still refer to it as "the computer I built in 2010." As long as every part isn't destroyed at once, the survivors will be able to relate the memory of the old parts to the new.
Even though my dad and I have different objects that we maintain, he's taught me the same way to love and take care of the things we value. I could never repay all the love and care that he and my mom have invested in me, so instead, I'll have to pay it forward. When some parts are retired and replaced, those that remain carry on their memory to the new arrivals. That through-line makes us who we are.
I love you, mom and dad.
