0742: I finally sketched Marina, but my video editing skills eluded me. My network files are broken after the disconnects, and the secure tunnel Marina used was linked to a now-closed cloud share on my school account. This closure seemed like a fail-safe for something never meant to be permanent. Neither Marina nor I foresaw my alma mater correcting a vulnerability my colleagues discovered, exposing data in electronic messaging systems. Another school account aims to recover these connections, but the complexity is overwhelming, requiring more than just piecing them together. Duplicating the authentication piece seems impossible in my lifetime. In this era of technological superiority, I try to avoid technical writing. Reflecting on my work through the lens of appreciative readers has shaped my style. I aimed for joviality, recalling how we joked that my kid looked nothing like me, having inherited dominant Nordic features from Marina's family—athletic, symmetrical, and elegant. Marina's passing left me without funeral details; I knew only her desire to relocate here amid storms and natural disasters. I lost contact with her family. Writing helps me offload and recenter, accepting my autism and ADHD, which harmoniously balance each other. Though my running apps stopped updating, I still run. Reestablishing those connections is manual work, but I don't mind. Enjoy your weekend and join me in the sun if you can.
0119: Religion was something my child chose on her own, mirroring my routine. Once, while watching "Troy," I quoted, "I didn't choose to be this way, I was simply born. I simply am." This led us to many unexplainable phenomena in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics. One day, she asked if, being more like her mother, she could still enter heaven. It was a moment reminiscent of Marina discussing relationships with me. I recalled biblical stories of overturned stones and judgment not condemning those seeking refuge but including those seeking renewed life. I shared, "Let the first without sin cast the first stone." Translating the old testament into something new for her, I was heartened by the church's recent acceptance of all walks of life. The requirement of confession for the Eucharist is something I meet daily, through remote conversation and counsel. I have yet to confess locally, wary of the reversal in polarity experienced at a healing mass, fearing the one I confess to might end up confessing to me. To answer your question, kiddo, you were accepted the day you were born and ages before. You were, you are, and you became an angel.
0107: A vivid memory surfaces of how, during conversations, my eyes would wander, distracted. She, noticing this, would lower her voice, compelling me to focus on her words. This gesture, inherited from her mother, formed a sort of verbal kata—a whisper language that gently guided my attention back to her. This delicate interplay felt like a new love language, one defined by timing and attentiveness. Marina's voice, a dream whisper, said, "Hey dad... nothing, just wanted to say hey." My Coast Guard colleague had retrieved old social media accounts of Marina and my ex, uncovering photos long forgotten. Marina’s mother hadn't set up account management for emergencies, listing only her significant other, who was also affected by the same tragedy. However, Marina had included her mother and once, myself. I chose not to save the photos, but my colleague, understanding their value, transferred them anyway—four gigabytes compressed in an encrypted file on an ancient flash drive. Decrypting it would take my fastest machine twenty years, though a modern lambda machine could manage it in minutes. Despite the risk of regression into work-obsessed mania, I appreciated this cautious encryption—a blend of impossibility and precision. I may share some sketches, as a friend remarked on their accuracy. This careful dance of memory and technology speaks to a love language of timing, accuracy, and resilience.
