The Clojure is cold, wet. There are parentheses all over me like drops of paint and pieces of clay—remnants of the working day. The Sun is long gone, but I'm focused; and my tool, Emacs, is sharp. The coffee cup is empty. Once veiled, the Lisp now throbs as my fingers move by themselves, drawing Dvorak sexps in the air, realizing forms that barely exist in my mind. In 2K, the DPI of the landscape is just right. A calibrated 27″ IPS panel gently illuminates the full screen
$EDITOR in my favorite dark theme. After decades of desktop GNU/Linux, seeing the hand crafted monospaced font rendered so crisply fills me with gratitude. The silent, unrecognized work of millions flow through the Open Source tapestry alive in front of me. I feel thankful. It's home.
Aware that I'm jacked in, I switch to the
*cider repl* buffer and evaluate a pure function. A
map is returned and pretty printed. I bind
*1 to a symbol, capturing the derived immutable data structure. ⚜ “God”—the recurring thought—comes back, and I drift away, iterating. Around the screen barely perceivable auras of Shiva, of Brahma and Vishnu give way to unnamed, forgotten figures. It's cold in distant mountains, extremely noisy in the Amazon jungle. The hot, dry air of the Caatinga burns in my chest. In intricate calligraphy the Bismillah signs the view and I dance in ecstasy. Swirling around me, an indigenous tribe pounds the earth with bare feet while asynchronously Rumi offers me a sip of the wine of Christ and I see flashes of my grandparents devotion for Mary. I breathe deeply and open my eyes, feeling calm, allowing the light back in. Intertwined with the machine, from the end of a bleeding edge Wireguard tunnel, I resume this stateful organism and witness creation.