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Saturday, the 24th of February, 2001

I received an ambiguous compliment last night: "you always look like you just stepped out of a comic book."

I'm not sure what that means, but it was spoken with a smile, so I'll assume that the speaker meant good things by it.

Tuesday, the 20th of February, 2001

My mind bursts with as many ideas as it ever did. I have no lack of creativity. It is the belief that any of my designs are sufficiently practical as to be worthy of effort that I have lost.

What could make a piece of software so valuable that it would be worth diverting free time? What could I possibly accomplish that could rival what already exists? What does it matter whether I know how to write a thing, or how to improve on it, when I lack an army of programmers, testers, and tech writers?

Applications are dead. Every application that needs to exist has already been developed and taken over by some corporate behemoth with more resources than I can dream about.

Operating systems are dead. Linux has everything going for it that one could possibly hope for, and its victory over NT is by no means assured. Who cares whether my design would be any better? It would have no chance of success even if I could muster the staggering level of effort necessary to create it.

The 'net is dead. Big corporations are rapidly taking it over. The frontier is closing down and it's no longer safe to push anything subversive. Even if you could develop something to challenge the status quo, the reality is that the big guys own all the eyeballs, and it doesn't matter what you do anyway.

How can I hope to push the cutting edge when I sit in the background with my outdated tools and archaic values? What improvements can I possibly make on the state of the art when I can't stand the direction it's moving?

I've spent my career working for ever-greater understanding and control over the machine. Now that I've got as much of it as I need, it turns out none of that really matters.

Everything seemed noisier and brighter on the way to work today. I missed my sunglasses and wondered where all the people came from. The air smelled fresh and the ground was dry. I thought about taking off my jacket.

A bag of surplus winter fell off a truck last week. Apparently last night the cleaning crew arrived to scrub it all away.

Tuesday, the 13th of February, 2001

Twice today I found myself energetically pursuing and taking delight in a trivial graphics project where moments before lassitude-mired fingers had difficulty performing real work. Perhaps the inanition is not so universal as I had believed, and I need only a more direct stimulus to the creative impulse in order to once again become productive.

'Tis a pity the graphic arts pay so poorly; having now wedged myself higher on the pay scale, I find it difficult to return.

A nondescript malaise saps my enthusiasm. Work holds no interest, and the sound of approaching deadlines is all that motivates.

Apparently I don't do well with as little sleep as last night offered.

Monday, the 12th of February, 2001

Stevens Pass was nearly gorgeous. Clear, cold air snapped but didn't shiver under skies that, with sufficient determination, might have been blue. The snow underfoot squeaked, dense and dry with no hint of thaw.

The well-organized efficiency of the rental shop put me through the gear-selection process with little wait. The mob at the base of the lift was not quite so organized; the delay as the cloud of gore-tex and polarfleece funneled itself down to four at a time was a good opportunity to make last-minute gear adjustments.

We were on the lift by one-thirty. My companion, an expert skier, wanted to head for the back side of the mountain before its midafternoon closing. I told myself that surely we wouldn't encounter anything too much more difficult than what I'd skied through before and followed right along.

As I jumped off the lift, the usual tiny fear-prickle teased my spine. It grabbed hard and became something more like panic when I looked over the first edge at the near cliff that greeted me. As Joe disappeared into the trees I wondered - what have I gotten myself into? Has my habit of pushing myself into adventures just a bit beyond what I can comfortably do finally taken me in over my head? With a little gulp I pushed off - then came to a completely predictable crashing stop within fifty feet. This was not looking particularly good.

I struggled on down the slope, heading across the mountain to the higher lift which would take us over the ridge. Gradually it came back: pick up the inside foot when you turn, use the pole to pivot, turn often to slow down. Panic causes crashes, not the other way 'round.

By the time I reached the foot of the second lift, the muscles were recovering their memory and my mind some of its composure. Up to the top we rode, where the lift pitched us off onto a wide-open ridge with nothing but mountains in every direction. Ahh, bliss: this is why the wilderness is worth visiting.

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