I spoke on a webinar last week about artisanal web development, where we brought up the idea of 'code as poetry' — it's constrained to its form, restrained in its scope, and creative in its product.
With that in mind, I thought it'd be fun to share a parody of Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Raven' I wrote for some reason a few weeks ago. Most people working in tech — in dev or support — will be familiar enough with the phrase "It works on my machine." I've certainly heard it from support staff when I've asked for help, and I've definitely said it myself when I'm troubleshooting something on a website that someone else has brought to me.
But I began to imagine the horror of someone with a site error, calling support and hearing this phrase, again and again. And I thought about it so much that, quite clearly, there was only one thing to do. So without further ado (and with sincere apologies to Edgar Allan Poe):
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many static websites too obscure, labyrinthine—
While I waited, hands a-wringing, suddenly there came a pinging,
As of some one gently ringing, ringing at my laptop screen.
“’Tis but email,” I muttered, “pinging on my laptop screen—
Only this on my machine.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was barely just September;
And each separate dying ember of the sparks wrought by caffeine.
Eagerly I wished to fix it;—free my code of merge conflicts
It got from input text prediction—of regression toward the mean —
A perfect storm of issues both unknown and unforeseen—
Derived from some old subroutine.
But the too-bright phosphors glowing of the blue light screen that’s showing
Errors building — terrors filled me with self-doubt I’d never seen;
So that now, to still adrenaline I stood, my website rendering,
And should have told myself that it was just on my machine—
“Just some local issue cropping up upon my screen—
Only this on my machine.”
I logged in to older repos, and began again to compose
Posts astounding, verbs abounding of my troubles that had been;
And I messaged to support, with emphasis again retorted—
That my progress had been thwarted, errors flared upon my screen—
Flared above the windows that now filled my glowing screen—
Quoth support, “It works on my machine.”
“That’s irrelevant,” I ranted, as my anger spilled, decanted,
To the tab from which I’d gab to software’s staff to vent my spleen;
“Though you’re sighing ‘user error’, could you please try to be fairer;
I’m sure you’re doing fine but it won’t work on my machine!
I’ve searched Stack Overflow, Copilot and, yes, all that’s in between”—
Quoth support, “It works on my machine.”
Now resetting my connection and, sans internet, inspection
Of the code that once had flowed from fingers flexible and keen
Caused myriad doubts to manifest—had I approved my pull request?
Should I test before suggesting fixes quite so far upstream?
Was the issue based in errors there since late 2016?
Quoth support, “It works on my machine.”
With my patience nearly ended and support so far from splendid,
Now appalled, I reinstalled my applications fresh and clean,
Under stress, I must confess that I updated my OS,
And then I guess everything tested fine as it had ever been.
So when support reached out and asked how helpful their advice had been
I simply said my problem sat between my desk chair and my screen.
If you prefer the original ... yeah, I do too. Especially when Vincent Price, Christopher Walken, or James Earl Jones reads it.
But there's something in the form of this poem (whether a parody or not) that touches on the objective correlative as it's expressed in the structure — the mounting horror, the shifting cadence, and, inevitably, the anticlimax of discovering your code was wrong all along, and that you fixed it by, essentially, turning it off and then on again.
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