I never thought I would ever find myself on my hands and knees, poking my head into a dusty, claustrophobic location, while I sorted through an incomprehensive tangle of wires. Wires that had power running through them, no less.
If I could have imagined that, I wouldn’t have ever dreamed that I would know what I was doing as I rooted through those wires.
The climax of the fantasy would have been if I pictured myself crawling into a cramped area on my hands and knees, rooting through a tangled mess of live wires, knowing what I was doing…and actually FIXING a problem.
Well, self, welcome to Fantasy Island.
One of my all-time favorite aspects of the Star Wars Trilogy was Han Solo’s ship, the Millennium Falcon. To me, few things about the series were cooler than that massive structure, with all its mysterious hideaways and corridors—with its fame for speed and maneuverability—and almost best of all, it’s cobbled-together repair work, like layers and layers of paint, built up over many years of seat-of-the-pants emergency fixes. I love that scene in The Empire Strikes Back when Han has his head poked into the side of the Falcon, trying to get the behemoth to work even as the Imperial army closes in on them, necessitating a fast escape.
I had a Millenium Falcon toy as a child, but it didn’t have nearly enough nooks and crannies, and no wires at all. However, as I grew to adulthood, I would think of the Falcon anytime I discovered the need to do anything even remotely technical. As a writer and an artist, those experiences were seldom.
Then my three techno-savvy brothers went away to college, leaving me with the responsibility of caring for our home-built computer.
Welcome to the Falcon.
It’s been a while since I first poked my head into the inner workings of that mini-behemoth. I find myself creating many seat-of-the-pants fixes nowadays…and the thought of the Millenium Falcon was never closer than it was the other day. The left speaker went out on our sound system. It had been blinking in and out for a while, which was frustrating; but usually a little jiggle would get it working again. That day, however, no manner of jiggling would get that speaker to work. Ooh, wire problems, I thought to myself with a wince. That was annoying, because I wanted to listen to some inspiring music while I drew my artwork—and having one speaker just wasn’t cutting it. So, I pulled my chair away from the computer table, got down on my hands and knees, and took a journey to a long time ago and a galaxy far, far away.
I was busy tracing those speaker wires through the impossible tangle of dusty cords under the desk—dusty no matter how frequently I vacuum them, and tangled despite my efforts to organize them—and had just slipped my fingers behind the subwoofer to check the speaker cord, when it came to me that it was just like working on the Falcon! And then, wonder of wonders, I felt the cord I was looking for, gave it a push, and heard the beautiful sound of a speaker coming to life. Rudimentary, to say the least, but it fixed the problem!
And Chewie didn’t even need to hand me the hydrospanners.