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This page con­tains unsorted fragments of my life in the 1900s that will be merged into other pages.

Most are minor bits of inter­est mostly to archeologists who will study the 20th Century in periods to come.

Details will change as recollections are examined. Memory can be both accurate and fluid. There is nobody, too, to ask about most issues.

610601 Wednesday — Bird that isn't right

610601. Bird that isn't right.

Age 2 or 3.

Bird on the sidewalk. Baby bird. No feathers. It isn't a finished bird. It isn't moving. It's staring, instead. The bird isn't right.

620601 Thursday — Place that doesn't exist

620601. Place that doesn't exist.

Age 3.

A house has a small brick structure attached to it at ground level. Fire must have been in­volved, at some point, but the structure isn't an oven. It's more like an open room. Perhaps 4 feet by 4 feet in size.

The bricks on the inside are black. Not a black that is visible. Nothing can be seen.

It isn't clear that any­thing exists in this space. It doesn't seem to be a place. It's a place that perhaps not only doesn't contain things but might not exist it­self.

I step back from this space.

620602 Friday — Plant that isn't right

620602. Plant that isn't right.

Age 4.

It's late. A dif­fer­ent mode of the uni­verse. I'm standing in the living room.

Nobody is there. It's so quiet.

There is a tall plant on its stand, where it's sup­posed to be. But its leaves and things are gone. No, they're scattered about on the floor.

The leaves and things are sup­posed to be on the plant. But they're not where they're sup­posed to be. Something has hap­pen­ed.

There is no thought of sequence of events. No fear. But the plant isn't right.

811010 Saturday — Naive Young Coder

811010. Naive Young Coder.

Age 20.

It's some­time in my early years of college at U.C. Berkeley. There's a man with a tech bus­i­ness of some type. He's probably in his 30s. I know him casually because Danny, a friend at Berkeley, has work­ed with him.

I can't recall the man's full name. I think that his first name is David.

David has asked me to drive with him to Sacramento to debug problems for one of his cus­tom­ers. I'm not sure that I can be use­ful. But David presses me to go. He offers me a sum of money that is sig­ni­fi­cant for the 1970s. Probably $100.

I agree to go. He drives us to Sacramento and we do what is pos­si­ble. Subsequently, he refuses to pay me.

“You had a pleasant drive on a nice day”, David says. “You should be grate­ful for that!”

“That isn't the point” is my thought. But I doubt that I articulated my re­sponse so clearly. I'm outraged that some­body would make a promise and then sim­ply laugh at it.

I am, or was, such an autistic fool.

I sputter my irritation to Danny. Who is significantly younger than I am and perhaps half the age of David. But he knows how to talk. He says some­thing to David and David forks over the money.

I should have learned mul­ti­ple things from this. But I learned nothing. Not about what normals are or about what it takes to communicate effectively with the creatures.

920101 Wednesday — Ken Kiraly always had a temper

920101. Ken Kiraly always had a temper.

Age 34.

My younger brother Ken Kiraly, later the putative lead designer of the Amazon Kindle, has come to see me at my company, IPT in Palo Alto.

Ken had work­ed there a decade be­fore. In fact, it was his first computing job and one that I'd gotten him.

I can't see now why Ken is visiting me then. But he isn't pleased. He wants me to hurry up and get into his car.

I'm too slow to satisfy him and placate his rage. I get halfway into Ken's car. He slams his foot down on the accelerator and zooms the car for­ward.

I'm dragged along as Ken Kiraly guns the car for­ward. Half inside the car and half out­side.

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