Time Machine

I bought an external something-or-other drive for my computer.  It was about time that I backed up iPhoto and iTunes, having crashed my computer a few times.

There is, of course, an app for this.  Time Machine.  And my external whatever drive has 2 TBs of memory.  That means gigabytes on steroids.  Or so I think that that is what it means.

And I have lots of photographs and days of music.

I had been meaning to get one for a long time, but kept forgetting.  That other memory thing.

Pictures are more important to me now that my generation is the keeper of all the memories of the prior generations. But pictures are not the memories.  They evoke the stories that keep the memories of people, and their insane characters, alive.  And the pictures won’t matter when I don’t recognize the people or remember the stories behind them.

And the eleven days of music in my iTunes library won’t matter unless they evoke the emotions and memories that make the music meaningful to me.

If I stick the USB connector in my ear, will this amp’ed up drive store my memories?  Will it remember the stories behind the pictures or the identities of the faces for which I was too lazy to run the face recognition software?  Will it remind me to cry when I hear Jim Croce’s Photographs and Memories?

So, while I finally remembered to buy the drive, it isn’t all I need.  I need to store my memories.  And, that is what computers cannot do.

Yet. 

I am willing to believe that there will, in fact, be an app for this, some time in the future.  As long as the hook-in site is any orifice above the waist, I am good.

Hurry, please.