geminispaceport holodeck

    , ______________
 , . |   )      (   |`.
.  . |__(________)__| . `.
.  . |   )      (   | .  .
.  . |__(________)__| .  .
.  . |   )      (   | .  .
.  . |__(________)__| .  .
.  ./________________\.  .
.  /__________________\  .
. /____________________\ .

Welcome to the geminispaceport Holodeck! Here we offer a selection of memory programs, submitted by the sole corporeal member of the spaceport via a subjective memory-to-text conversion process. They are currently organized by decade.

Corporeal Member's Note:

Heya, it's me, Jaron. These memories have been converted to text during a global pandemic, and are offered as a way for you to experience small moments from a different time and life, from within geminispace, as we all stay safe at home.

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c. '19 \\ the david lynch arby's

you are sitting at a table in the rectangular bay window of the david lynch arby's. it is night. the restaurant's neon sign buzzes almost directly overhead and casts a glow throughout. it is not quite orange, pink, or red, but rather a sickly sort of sherbert instead. your tiny table-for-two is snugly surrounded by one of many artificial garden beds, which are each bordered by pink metal tubes, and have spherical golden posts at every corner. it reminds you of a buffet inside of a las vegas casino. the combination of decor and neon glow is how the david lynch arby's received its name. it is not a fictional cinematic location, nor is it owned by david lynch (to your knowledge). it is a very real place.

it has become an odd comfort. periodically a bus from the evening green line passes by the window, with its orange hazard lights blinking a contribution to the neon sherbert. sometimes you stop here in between bus routes on the way home, to avoid a cold layover. to make the most of it. sometimes it's a manic escape from the apartment. sometimes you really just crave the meats. you're well aware that there is no good reason to eat here. it is overpriced and is in no way contributing to the community of local eateries. you can't tip the workers. there is a bell by the entrance that you can ring on your way out if you feel you've had "exceptional service". the workers are obligated to say thank you in response.

but there is the las vegas casino buffet decor. and the glow.


c. '03

you are a junior in high school, and you are putting away your belongings at the end of engineering period in the tall industrial-warehouse classroom. you've arranged an illicit transaction with a classmate who sells bootleg dvds of movies that haven't been released yet. you exchange a few days' worth of lunch money for a copy of napoleon dynamite. it even has a color label printed on the burned dvd-r.

you go on to nervously watch it with your mom. she is unaware it is a bootleg. it becomes one of her favorites. you watch it on her birthday well over a decade later. that bootleg dvd-r is the only copy your parents own for a pretty long time.


c. '99

you are sitting on the carpet in your dad's study with a gray sony playstation in front of you, hooked up to a bulging black crt television nestled in a small woodgrain media cabinet. you have rented metal gear solid for the first time, after repeatedly playing the intro of the game on a demo disc that you got from a pizza hut, or a magazine, or both. you rented the game from a small cage at the local grocery store that also offers vhs tapes in discolored plastic cases.

your dad is awed by the graphics and the cinematic approach to storytelling and has joined you on the floor. you are both disturbed by the fate of the darpa chief. it seems you have barely made it past the intro portion that you are so familiar with, entering unknown territory, when your commanding officer, the colonel, tells you to contact his niece in order to proceed. he says that her communicator frequency is 'on the back of the cd case'. you have some sort of disk in your inventory, but you are unable to interact with it. you're both stumped for what feels like hours, retracing your steps in-game for any potential items you may have missed. you do not yet own a playstation memory card, so you're unable to save the game and quit, but you are both heavily invested in the story at this point. finally, your dad has a revelation, out loud:

"the *cd* case!?"

he's referring to the physical real-world case that the playstation game is shipped in.

your game rental is a generic box, with no graphics on it. it is not the cd case.

your dad turns to his computer and consults something called the internet. he either finds an image of the back of the physical game case, or finds a guide that reveals meryl's codec frequency. you both sit in stunned silence - confounded, frustrated, euphoric and impressed by the solution to this puzzle.

later that day, as the playstation remains powered on, you take a trip to the local best buy, and you pick up a memory card.