Another Loss in the Family
I have some sad news to report to my blogging readership: The death of something quite close to me: my Epson Stylus 900.
I've not yet been able, in my shock and sadness, to conjure an appropriate eulogy. No matter -- were I able to muster long enough to remember my old friend I'd have no mechanism for commiting such musing to paper.
I think I bought my Epson in 1999. It has printed thousands of photographs and documents. For each murder mystery weekend I threw this individual machine went through no less than 2 reams of paper. We carted it up to Deep Creek, MD countless times. I still remember Saturday nights on those weekends, cramped in some off-limits closet with my Epson 900 printing out certificates, awards, and prizes for our murder mystery guests.
I got a nice laser printer for Christmas, and Linda and I will go out and buy a photo printer next week -- we have pictures to print. At first, the prospect of a new, *modern* printer was quite attractive to me. I wasn't quite sure *why* it was more attractive to me, though. My ol' Epson printed everything I needed it to, with the quality I needed -- no more, no less. It was perfect as is, and yet I was giddy to upgrade.
So many things in our lives have been made so easily replacable that I think we are being sold the idea that the act of replacement is, in and of itself, the act of evolution. It is a disturbing pattern we see in electronics, in relationships, and in our images of ourselves.
I reject that. I'm proud of my Epson 900 (Epsy, for those familiar with her). She gave me 5 years of excellent work and the act of replacing her is, in no uncertain terms, bittersweet.
Why? The tools we use to build our lives become, as we advance, like talismans that help us remember early times. They are the amulets of retrospection and reflection -- firm proof in the psychological law that our memories are state dependent.
Opening the printer's lid, mucking with the insides, my fumbling surgery brought back a flood of creative energy, stories, and times which are far past me now. My memory fading as it is, I see no joy in losing another connection with what has become a previous life. Yet, alas, Linda has nixed my attempts to have my Epson 900 stuffed and placed on the mantle.
So, I suppose this has become a eulogy of sorts. Fair winds, Epson Stylus 900 -- you served your purpose to the end. Lucky are any of us who receive similar acknowledgement.
I've not yet been able, in my shock and sadness, to conjure an appropriate eulogy. No matter -- were I able to muster long enough to remember my old friend I'd have no mechanism for commiting such musing to paper.
I think I bought my Epson in 1999. It has printed thousands of photographs and documents. For each murder mystery weekend I threw this individual machine went through no less than 2 reams of paper. We carted it up to Deep Creek, MD countless times. I still remember Saturday nights on those weekends, cramped in some off-limits closet with my Epson 900 printing out certificates, awards, and prizes for our murder mystery guests.
I got a nice laser printer for Christmas, and Linda and I will go out and buy a photo printer next week -- we have pictures to print. At first, the prospect of a new, *modern* printer was quite attractive to me. I wasn't quite sure *why* it was more attractive to me, though. My ol' Epson printed everything I needed it to, with the quality I needed -- no more, no less. It was perfect as is, and yet I was giddy to upgrade.
So many things in our lives have been made so easily replacable that I think we are being sold the idea that the act of replacement is, in and of itself, the act of evolution. It is a disturbing pattern we see in electronics, in relationships, and in our images of ourselves.
I reject that. I'm proud of my Epson 900 (Epsy, for those familiar with her). She gave me 5 years of excellent work and the act of replacing her is, in no uncertain terms, bittersweet.
Why? The tools we use to build our lives become, as we advance, like talismans that help us remember early times. They are the amulets of retrospection and reflection -- firm proof in the psychological law that our memories are state dependent.
Opening the printer's lid, mucking with the insides, my fumbling surgery brought back a flood of creative energy, stories, and times which are far past me now. My memory fading as it is, I see no joy in losing another connection with what has become a previous life. Yet, alas, Linda has nixed my attempts to have my Epson 900 stuffed and placed on the mantle.
So, I suppose this has become a eulogy of sorts. Fair winds, Epson Stylus 900 -- you served your purpose to the end. Lucky are any of us who receive similar acknowledgement.
posted by Ed at 9:58 PM
1 Comments:
I know you will research the heck out of any new picture printer, but be VERY weary of the ink costs. I have pretty much given up on my Canon photo printer because the ink costs just make it annoying to keep running.
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