From slcpi!govt.shearson.com!mjohnsto@uunet.UU.NET Mon Jan  7 17:30:45 1991
To: wordy@Corp
Subject: chapter-5

MUSIC, MOSFETS, AND SUNSETS



#5 in the second online CAA series



by

Steven K. Roberts, HtN (WORDY)



Bainbridge Island, WA



September 25, 1986



     I suppose this machine really does look strange to people.  I've been

living with it for so long that I usually only see a list of uncompleted

projects ranging from waterproofing to CMOS logic design. But when I ride down

the street, people gape, and the local media are having a field day.  Front

page color in the Seattle Times; PM Magazine this week.  Ah, this life of

high-tech nomadics...



     Of course, I deliberately frolic in that strange region where the

distinctions between technology and magic blur -- where anything you say will

be believed because your looks alone overwhelm the senses. The other day I was

at the Streamliner Diner, immersed happily in a flawless omelette and watching

the crowd around the bike.  A mother walked by with her 4-year-old boy.



     "Hi there, sonny," I said into the handheld transceiver.  Through

low-power 2-meter simplex, my voice was conveyed to the Winnebiko -- where it

crackled from the console speaker.  The kid froze, uncertain. He stared at the

machine, ready to cry if necessary.  "So what do

YOU want for Christmas?" it asked him.



     His eyes widened as his mother scanned the area to find the hidden camera.

 "I want a train, and a bicycle, and..."



     "A bicycle like me?"



     The boy's face lit up in pure wonder.  "Yes."



    "Well, we'll see what we can do about that."  His mother began tugging him

along the sidewalk.  But he resisted long enough to gaze at the machine and

wave solemnly.



     "Bye-bye, Mr. Bicycle."



     Of course, such play is only the beginning.  Since the bottom line of this

venture is FUN, much of my development work centers upon system capabilities

that are not entirely aligned with that steely- eyed business world that

swallows up most otherwise well-intentioned computers.  Today saw the 68HC11

and its custom interface logic spring to life -- not all debugged yet, of

course, but getting there.  The bike can now make comments in its synthesized

voice, from "please do not touch me" when it detects vibration, to "oh no...

here he comes again," when a radioed touch-tone command lets it know that I've

finished lunch and am about to add my body to its 225-pound static load.



     Hey, why not?  Computers *should* be fun, shouldn't they?



     Speaking of fun, life on Bainbridge Island continues to be a mingling of

obsessive design work and pure pleasure.  A few days ago Maggie and I hopped on

a couple of Octo Company's resident mountain bikes -- agile machines with

automatic transmissions, quite unlike the lumbering megacycles we are about to

call home.  Off into the woods we went, into deep green antiquity, whispering

through silence so deep that our clicking freewheels seemed as grating as

chainsaws.  All around us were the projections of past and future:  long-dead

trees sinking into the forest floor below new growth sprouting green and perky

into patches of flickering sunlight.  Yeah, thanks for the reminder... we're

just passing through...



     As a hint of approaching sunset pinked the sky, we emerged from the woods

onto Manzanita Bay and found a spot by the clear water.  A sky show was

beginning, humbling us further, drawing us into a sweet melancholy touched with

awe.  Dancing gold on the watertop, clouds gilt-edged platinum, textures from

the crystalline to the vaporous, moment-to-moment changes too subtle to notice

and too powerful to ignore.  This, folks, was a world-class light show, and I

remember chuckling at the memory of those dancing lights that held me

enraptured night after night, back in the strange 70's.  In this electric sky

there was beauty profound enough to tickle our lachrymal ducts and elicit soft

moans of sensual appreciation.



     And there was more.  We ferried to the City, upstream at rush hour,

smiling our way through a flood of grim commuter faces racing the clock as

always.  We strolled to the Opera House and were suddenly surrounded by the

expert musical caress of Andreas Vollenweider and friends -- jazz harp, flutes,

synthesizers and percussion.  Perfect. The group explored acoustical textures

as grand and delicate as that sunset, raising goosebumps, raising the roof,

raising awareness.  At the last standing ovation, Andreas quietly spoke, "thank

you."



     "No, thank *you*!" someone cried out, and the applause swelled again like

another onslaught of Olympic rain.  This was not ordinary music, this extended

orgasm of sound; this was exquisite proof of Beethoven's insightful observation

that "everything in music must be at once surprising and expected."



     Ah, rhapsody, rhapsody.  As the Road gets closer, I renew my resolve to

spend my life meeting remarkable people, seeking the pleasures of growth and

discovery, and smiling as much as possible. What an odd land this is, where a

bicycle loaded with computer systems can be a ticket to exactly that.  (As a

British lady at Expo observed, while looking at my bike:  "Only in America!")



     See you next week.  We'll be on the island a while longer, and will then

pedal frantically south as winter begins its warning chill. I suppose

everything in my life is surprising and expected, as well...



     -- Steve