About Me

Curiosity has always been the point.

Neugier war immer der Punkt.

I’m Dennis Hilk. The servers, old computers, and odd experiments here are not trophies. They are the current tools in a much older habit: finding out how things work — and seeing what else they can do.

Dennis Hilk beside a sleeping tabby cat.
At home, with one of the supervisors.

Before the rack. Before Linux. Before the museum. There was a simple question: how does this work?

Memory has a physical form

Before the machines

Borkum has mattered to me since childhood. When my grandmother’s things were sorted after she died, I did not want anything expensive. I wanted the little music box that plays “Happy Birthday,” because I had loved it as a child. Wind it up and Borkum returns immediately.

I go at least once a year. After the ferry, I still stand outside on the Borkumer Kleinbahn whenever I can — rain, snow, heat, it does not matter. That is when the holiday begins. As a child I ate breakfast, disappeared outside, explored paths, dunes and bunkers, and returned hungry in the evening. Some places are not remembered as one event; they are remembered as hundreds of small routes. Some machines store data. Some objects store memories.

Dennis as a child with his grandmother on a dune on Borkum.
With my grandmother on Borkum.

Curiosity came first

Build, listen, look closer

Computers were not the whole childhood: there were bikes, tree houses and a lot of time outside. Bad weather meant tinkering.

Pocket money went to the local electronics shop for components and ideas, or to Raiffeisen for nails, fence material and the very practical parts of a garden playhouse; a camouflage net from an army-surplus shop two villages away completed it.

Early school reports already said I was easily distracted. But biology, physics, natural science and radio/electronics could hold my attention completely. Radio club meant soldering, building and outdoor direction finding; aquarium club meant water, pH values, biology and fish. I was tall and fast enough for athletics, while football and most team sport held little appeal. Textile work, on the other hand, taught me to sew — I still can, own an overlock machine, and once made a cat hammock. If a skill is useful or interesting, why should it belong to one expected category?

I am autistic. A later diagnosis gave useful context to familiar patterns: deep focus on subjects that interest me, too many unrelated things competing for attention, difficult sudden changes, and sometimes needing a short break from loud, high-stimulation rooms. It is not a dramatic explanation for everything; understanding it simply makes life easier for me and the people around me.

A score of my own

The king with two queens

Shooting club suited me better than football: concentrate, shoot, get your own score. In 1997, aged twelve, I became children’s shooting king — followed by a large procession I had not exactly planned. Then I was expected to choose a queen. Two Swedish sisters were staying with their mother at the nearby Eurostrand. I thought both were cute and simply could not decide; nor did I want either one to be sad because I had chosen the other. The youth leader pointed out the obvious: “That’s two.” “I can see that, but I can’t decide and I don’t want one of them to be sad.” So it was two queens. A surprisingly diplomatic solution to a very child-sized problem.

Dennis as children’s shooting king with his two queens in 1997.
Children’s shooting king with two queens, 1997.
The 1997 children’s shooting target hanging above a workbench.
The 1997 shooting target still hangs above the workbench today.
A CRT-era desktop computer setup with monitor, speakers, and old media.
Old technology is also a way back to a feeling.

The first computer

The birthday Amiga

My first computer was a used Amiga 500 bought in Hamburg: monitor, drive, joysticks, accessories, the lot. It was expensive, so my parents hid it in the guest-room cupboard. I had a habit of finding hidden presents. This time I did not merely look: I unpacked the whole system, assembled it and turned it on.

PARENTAL UNIT DETECTED
Time to impact: critical.

I heard my parents returning and repacked everything in panic. On my birthday I acted surprised. Years later, I confessed; they laughed — they had known presents were nearly impossible to hide from me, which is why later ones went to car boots or neighbours’ houses. The Amiga monitor later became a better cartoon screen than my small children’s television. A device was rarely limited to the job it had been sold for.

Monkey Island, Wings, Another World, Eye of the Beholder and Loom are not merely games I remember: I have played every one again this year. Monkey Island still works in retro form and in the newer edition that switches between old and remastered graphics. I still have Wings; I still did not get far in Out of This World — that early worm and the beast in the background stayed unsettling. Some things are preserved not by putting them behind glass, but by using them.

Learning by trying

Open, test, understand

After the Amiga came a Schneider/Euro-PC period, I think, and perhaps an early accelerator with a graphics-card-to-accelerator-to-monitor cable. I do not remember the exact model; hardware of that kind — especially Voodoo cards — later became collectible. Prince of Persia was technically fascinating and gave me a lasting dislike of precision jumping. Quake arrived from a former neighbour on what felt like 21 floppy disks; if disk 17 failed, he went home and came back later with another attempt.

Every bulky-waste collection in Fintel became a bicycle treasure hunt for discarded computers: CPUs, RAM, drives, expansion cards — things other people had thrown away, but I could open, test and understand.

My father, who worked for Hamburg police, occasionally brought home things that had legitimately reached recycling: first Lego, later RAM, hard drives and little bags of ISA cards. I still own some of those parts.

One discarded PC belonged to a self-employed neighbour. Its drive had not been securely erased: family photographs, banking-related data, business and personal documents were still there. When I said, “Your family photos, banking data and documents are still on it,” he visibly went pale. It was an early, concrete privacy lesson: thrown away does not mean erased.

The story ended in trust, not distrust. I became an even more established technical contact; later, when his bank introduced a separate verification device, he trusted me to help set that up too. I still automatically look at bulky-waste piles today. Now that I finally have a large car boot, people rarely put complete computers out anymore.

Lessons learned

Garden extension cable: odd tingling, then the realization that it was still plugged in. Disconnect power before working on electrical wiring. A younger case-modification version of me also saw 5 volts, 12 volts and a missing connector, then reached for scissors. It worked; it would not meet today’s safety standards.

Katharina’s car once started after a brief attempt with speaker cable; the cable also demonstrated why starter cables are thicker. At seven or eight: pin removed, lever pressed, effect confirmed. The fur coat in the neighbour’s hallway was not part of the fire-extinguisher test setup. Curiosity is useful. Care, respect for electricity and hardware, and understanding consequences belong with it.

An archival Linux desktop running Windows XP in VirtualBox.
Linux desktop with Windows XP in a virtual machine, 2013.

Connection, then control

Make the computer mine

Two field telephones from the Lauenbrück street flea market first talked over speaker wire to a friend around the corner. Then two strands of fencing behind the property became the connection — and they still worked. Two devices, two conductors, a signal: a tiny human-made network. I once got a strong shock while handling one. For once, it rang on my side.

My first modem was 56k: beep beep, brrr, zzzz, ding ding. Magazine adverts helped compare providers until someone downstairs said, “I need to make a phone call!” ICQ 166847991 was socially important enough to exchange at discos. Then Deutsche Telekom DSL 1000 arrived. My temporary wire connection under the desk worked, so it stayed for much of the DSL era — until I kicked it and crawled underneath again. Nothing lasts longer than a working temporary solution.

Windows 95, 98, 2000 and XP, OS/2 Warp 4, Debian, Slackware, SUSE and Linux Mint were a pattern, not a list. When one system finally worked perfectly, another often had to be installed. I broke partitions, GRUB, X configuration, audio, graphics drivers and boot processes. Repeating that became understanding. Linux became my primary system gradually: not because it always works, but because when it does not, I want to understand why. And if I break it? Debian gets installed for the 1001st time.

The same instinct opened a birthday keyboard so its sound could reach the PC and the large stereo. It ran Linux on an old Premiere decoder — my parents had a legitimate subscription; bypassing anything was never the point. The question was what else the box could do. A clap switch meant for a lamp controlled the disco ball instead: clap clap → party.

At home, normal antenna outlets could receive my own video channels: DuckTales, talk shows, The Simpsons. The family question was “Why?” The answer: “Because it works.” A PC on the wall shelf behind me, with very long USB cables, also worked — but gaming latency taught me that working and working well are different things.

Today experiments get their own systems, VMs, servers and a second M.2 SSD. Try and error eventually got its own infrastructure. Very recently I watched an hour-long CCC talk about the Toniebox simply because I wanted to know how it works. The objects changed. The question stayed the same: how does this work, and what happens when it does not work as intended?

A deliberately personalized modern desktop computer with blue lighting, visible cooling hardware, and small figures on top.
An archival Hackintosh experiment setup.
Another version of the same question: can this run something it was not meant to run?

Ask Dennis

The person neighbours called

From around age ten, neighbours increasingly asked for help: a television had lost channels, a stereo had stopped, Windows needed reinstalling, a PC needed planning or repair. I built machines from mixed used parts. Sometimes “case” meant a motherboard mounted on a wall, a power supply nearby, cables, and Winamp in autostart. If it booted and played music, system operational. Money was usually less interesting than doing it — occasionally an old radio or technical object was the better payment.

MacGyver and The A-Team were formative television; I can still nearly quote them and own the DVD boxes. The useful lesson was not a trick but a habit: look at the mechanism, available materials, constraints and the actual problem. That helped with practical mechanical problems too — a locked car or house door, a tilted window — without turning me into a locksmith.

Reading the whole system

Security was its own way of looking

Security work, including work in a forensic-psychiatric environment from roughly 2008 to 2011, taught me to read systems and surroundings without turning that into an action story. I notice cameras, exits, staff movement and the way a place fits together. A device may work perfectly while the wider system still has a weak point; later security inspections valued that perspective. On more than one occasion it was specifically requested. In one memorable case, the head of another company went around the usual management chain — past my own boss — and asked me directly whether I would accompany him on a security analysis through the building and grounds. I was not presenting myself as a high-level security consultant; someone else had noticed how I looked at systems and wanted that perspective. It is the same question again: does it work, what happens if it does not, and what did everyone overlook?

At a later interview, someone noticed a gap in my CV from roughly 2008 to 2011 and asked, essentially, “And where were you during that time?” I answered: “Three years in forensic psychiatry.” For a moment, the expression opposite me looked remarkably helpless — in retrospect, as if he had just noticed that the door was behind me. Only then did I realise the essential detail I had left out: “…working there.” A short pause. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

A different machine to learn

From security to civil engineering

After security work, I interviewed for civil underground construction. “Do you know anything about it?” “No — but I’m not stupid, and I like learning new things.” “Okay. Start tomorrow for a week.”

That week became almost three years.

As a construction helper in Tiefbau, excavators, wheel loaders, temporary traffic-light systems and site workflows were another kind of machine to understand. It was not a step on a planned career ladder; I wanted to learn something completely different and see how its machines and systems worked.

After that, the path led into youth services. What the next chapter looks like is still open.

The interior of a former lime-sand-brickworks.
A former lime-sand-brickworks: systems remain even when their purpose has gone quiet.

Places keep traces too

The story behind an empty place

With my father, I explored Borkum’s old bunkers as a child. Later that became an interest in abandoned and historic places: former military and industrial sites, a lime-sand-brickworks, houses and farms in East Frisia, machinery, control systems, and ordinary traces of lives. The question was never simply whether ruins looked cool. It was: what was this place, how did it work, who used it, and what story can still be reconstructed?

My first dedicated camera for this was, I think, a Canon EOS 400D. Naturally, the first reaction was not only to take photographs but to ask what else a camera could do; that led to experiments with alternative capabilities where compatible.

I published photographs and videos on my site, Facebook and YouTube. Local newspapers found the work through that trail and through the connection to Fintel and the Rotenburg area. The point was never fame: personal curiosity became documentation, and documentation found an audience.

That work is documentary: observe, photograph, research, respect places and preserve their traces. Old technology and empty structures become interesting for the same reason once you stop seeing obsolete objects and start seeing the people, systems, ideas and stories behind them.

Computers were never the whole person. The same curiosity appeared with motorcycles and enduro, working on cars, cooking, building things, photography and even festival bungee jumping. The terminal matters. It is not the entire person.

An old industrial control installation in an abandoned building.
Even an old control panel asks how the parts once worked together.
A home server rack with network switch, servers, and storage.
A home laboratory that keeps changing.

A laboratory, not a monument

From one computer to a homelab

The homelab did not begin with enterprise architecture. There was an O2 HomeSpot, an HP 1810G-24 switch given by an acquaintance, a chance to collect a server rack, and a patch panel that was partly useful and partly just looked right. Then the rack looked too empty. At one point a wonderfully excessive, loud dual-Xeon server with 256 GB RAM existed for Proxmox experiments.

Roles change constantly: firewall today, Jellyfin tomorrow, a recipe service later, a test system next week. If everything works, the next question is what else it could do. The same went for an RTL-SDR stick that arrived before its discone antenna: waiting was not an option, so an improvised wire between window and shed did surprisingly well at certain early-morning times. Proper equipment came later. From 56k to DSL 1000, a difficult rural O2 HomeSpot and now dramatically faster Starlink, the meaning of “connected” has changed completely.

Making physical things

Bender, unfinished on purpose

3D printing fascinates me for the same reason as the earlier experiments: a machine turns a model into an object. Filament printing, resin printing and curing are another way to ask the old question with my hands. One early memorable print was Bender: white, unpainted, still wearing his small outfit. Painting is pending because hyperfocus had already moved on. That is not failure; it is part of the story. A broken plastic switch no longer always means hunting for a replacement. Sometimes: “I’ll print it.”

An unfinished white 3D-printed Bender figure.
Painting status: pending.

Why the projects exist

Make it visible. Keep how it worked.

World Observer continues the old pull toward signals, water, weather, nature and measurable systems: something is happening — can I measure it, verify it, understand it, make it visible?

The Computer Museum comes from the other half. The Windows 98 setup, retro hardware, ICQ-compatible experiments and historic interfaces are not trophy objects; they preserve how systems worked and how computing felt. Like the music box, the shooting target, games that are still played and places documented before they disappear, they stay understandable, usable and connected to a story. Preservation is not always putting something behind glass.

A final check

The tools changed.
The curiosity didn’t.

If I could show that child everything here today, he probably would not ask about the rack first. He would pick up Bender and ask: “How was this made?” That is still a very good question.

Production versus dinner

Katharina said dinner was ready. I was sitting at my Gentoo/XMonad desktop, connected by SSH in a terminal to the production website server. Out of habit, I typed sudo shutdown now, stood up, and wondered why my own PC was still running. Then it hit me: “Oh shit — that was the server in Braunschweig.” Browser open, hosting panel, production website back online. Before typing shutdown ahead of dinner, it helps to check which machine you are actually on.

Two cats resting together at home.
Local administration. Change approval: denied. Reason: sleeping.