Shoulders of Giants

And it nears 5AM, but my debts have not been paid, so I work, yet. Let us turn to the masters of the personal computing revolution, Steve and Bill.

Who was greater?—but, they are both heroes to me.

Steve, the master of designers, who created the idea that using a machine is a dialogue—and the designers of today create a design “language,” yet they know not how to speak it.

Look around San Francisco!—and everybody is a copy-cat-Steve, who tries to use less and not more, cutting out the heart and soul along with the waste and rind. Goodness, gracious, this city is in need of a champion, and worry not, for I am here to save the day, yet again, putting upon my shoulders every liberal sin and folly I can see or conceive.

The counterpoint to Steve is asymmetry, and he liked things clean and simple and symmetry—and I match that and add a bit of imbalance, a touch of madness, a hint of schizophrenia, just to keep things alive, dancing, moving, and exciting. Do not center your elements!—or, you need not, and if you do, please have a reason, for I am the voice of the imbalanced.

And, did he wear the same thing everyday?—but I do nearly the same, and I wear only my five pieces of clothing, sweatshirts hooded and crew, no T-shirts beneath, and my only decision is which of my designs, created of my own blood and sweat, no tears—this man does not cry—should I wear today?

Did he drive an unmarked car, leased German steel, because he disliked the aesthetic of a license plate?—and I shall drive the same one, made by a man I love, until the wheels fall.

And did Bill write a paper on sorting—something related to breakfast foods, pancakes, perhaps, and I shall add some syrup upon them. For, what a bright individual!—and he wrote and reviewed every line of code for years, conforming every lesser to his standard and image.

Then, he married within his company!—proof of the DNA he nurtured in its spirit, that it could produce for him a fitting partner.

Windows is not-so-bad, even if the hackers prefer Linux, and the artistic prefer Mac, and why must they be at-odds with one another, but we can appreciate each for what it is worth? But, do I differ from Bill—for I should never charge for my work, and yet I am similar, who should never let another touch my code without my consent, for I am a blood-red conservative, and we hate to share.

Oh, and I tire, and this is a long night—and I may never again sleep, but my pillow is softer, and the twilight gentler, for having paid a touch more of my debts, for on the shoulders of giants, do I stand.