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Monday, the 30th of April, 2001

The work change I'm about to make has set off a cascade of smaller changes. I suddenly feel more interested in building myself into my apartment. I've been living lightly, barely settled, as though the place is a long-stay hotel room instead of a home. I created a lush office for myself at Real Networks, reasoning that if I was going to spend half of my waking hours there, it might as well be a pleasant place to do the spending in. This now comes home. I've taken my saxophone out of its case and set it in front of the fireplace on a display stand, added some pillows to the heap in the corner, taken the Temer painting off the kitchen counter where it sat and mounted it on the wall, and moved all the paperwork, bills, and miscellaneous junk from off the dining table. If I keep up with this, the place might start to look positively cozy before long.

I'm inspired by Sarah's loft apartment. It's cluttery and weird, full of interesting objects and things to look at. There's nothing conventional about it. I'd have guessed that she lived there for years, not months - "lived in", indeed. She has far more space to work with than I do, but it's the feeling - the sprawling fearlessness of it, not the details - that I'm trying to borrow in my little bits of redecorating.

More adventures in modern living will come with the mobile phone I plan to acquire today. I've enjoyed my uncontactability - I get by fine without watch, phone, or pager, on the principle that schedules are best made in retrospect, and that those who want to find me will know where to look. But it would be rather nice to have the choice: to be able to find or be found. After all, one can always switch the phone off.

The philosophy of the mobile phone appeals to me. It is a personal communication device - why should communication be tied to a socket in a wall? In what way is communicating with people far away linked to the idea of being at home? A wireless phone seems like a natural application of the concept of telephone when unconstrained by technical limits, something closer to the essence of what the device ought to be.

At the VoiceStream store on Friday, midway through the signup procedure the computer demanded some huge deposit in order to give me the phone account. The sales agent decided this was unreasonable, and - ten minutes before closing - decided to call up VoiceStream's customer service line and try to get the deposit waived. She proceeded to spend over thirty minutes arguing with one representative after another, inventing some details and omitting others, trying to get me a phone. It was a little embarassing, since a good deal of what she was saying on my behalf simply wasn't true, and I hadn't asked her to do any of it. She eventually gave up the attempt, but assured me that she'd continue hammering away at them on Monday morning and call me when she'd succeeded.

One expects apathetic, unhelpful customer service from large corporations. It was unnerving to encounter someone so unreservedly helpful - this is not the universe I'm accustomed to living in.

Sunday, the 29th of April, 2001

I've decided to stick with the smooth-shaven face, at least for a while. My reflection no longer jars me. In fact, when I looked at my driver's license picture, the moustache I was wearing at the time actually looked a little odd.

Friday, the 27th of April, 2001

My life has been up in the air this week. Every time I think I've figured out what I'm about to do next, it gets a little more uncertain. Yesterday the cloud of options began collapsing into a smaller number of certainties; I've taken a couple of irreversible steps forward and am anticipating the deluge that comes next.

I've been less than completely happy with the "work" half of my life for a long time now. It's a good enough job, I'm sure, and I've tried hard to convince myself to be satisfied with it. This hasn't worked - I can't shake the knowledge that I can do more, that there are wider frontiers and more interesting projects. I haven't been able to burn out the last traces of optimism - in spite of my belief to the contrary, I can't stop hoping that there is some way I can make a difference, some niche the venture capitalists and big corporations haven't yet found.

An adventure came calling, and I'm going to give it a try. As of next Friday, the 4th of May, I will be leaving my job at Real Networks. I'll remain in Seattle, working over the 'net for the similarly named but completely unrelated company Real Software. I'm going back to development tools: my job is to write a new optimizing crosscompiler for Real's flagship product, RealBasic.

This is one of life's few second chances. Several years ago I was the primary developer on a product called "Object Basic", which was very similar to the system I'll be working on next month. In fact, RealBasic was our primary competitor. Lack of funding and a weak supporting business killed my project; RealBasic has no such deficiencies, and this time around I'll get to focus strictly on the technology.

I've learned a lot in the seven years since I started working on Object Basic, and there will be only the barest hints of similarity between the two programs. This will not be a sequel. At the same time, I have never been able to stop thinking about my dead master-project, relating everything I learn back to compilers, linkers, and aspects of operating system design. This work will be a continuation of the design process that's been going on in my mind ever since. I can't wait to put my ideas into concrete.

Since my new employer is located in Austin and I live in Seattle, I'll no longer be working in an office. I'll be using a laptop, so I don't have to worry about computer-sprawl taking over my living room, but it will still be interesting to see how well I take to work at home after three years of office life.

Has it only been three years? It seems so much longer. Two jobs, two cities, countless travels.

I have always missed the freedom I had as a wandering freelance programmer back in 1996 and 1997. I would drag my laptop out to a park, a cafe, my balcony, somewhere interesting - then write my code, sitting in the midst of whirling oblivious humanity, anywhere in the world at all. I only came back to earth out of necessity. The dreams of liberation burned crazily against that necessity's chafing, and I was miserable. Eventually I learned to live with it, and learned the value of staying in one place for a while. It stopped being a blunted part of my identity, and became one of many choices which simply wasn't available anymore.

This isn't that old dream. But the image of the laptop and the cafe brings back its echoes, and makes me happy.

Monday, the 23rd of April, 2001

I shaved off my mustache and goatee this weekend. It was an impulsive act after weeks of idle curiousity. I haven't seen my naked face in more than three years and the sight was somewhat unnerving. My face doesn't look like my face anymore, but it doesn't look like my previous face either. The sensation is odd - the newly-revealed skin is sensitive from not having been touched in so long, and I keep touching my lips and chin because it feels so strange.

I don't quite like how I look. My nose seems too prominent and my lips too small without the shadow of the mustache in between. I'm going to give it a few days, and if the impression doesn't change I will simply grow it all back.

My father has worn his mustache since age sixteen, and has carried a full beard for what must be close to a decade now. I don't think anyone would recognize him if he took it off.

Saturday, the 21st of April, 2001

That sneaky construction crew - they assembled the crane on a Saturday. I missed the whole thing.

The picnic was fun. I've never been to Volunteer Park, so it was interesting to see a new part of Seattle. The children went straight for the adjacent playground, so there was little annoyment on that front. It was a nice crowd. I knew close to half of the people there; it was odd seeing some of them by daylight. There was an odd mix of food, everything from vegetarian curry to steak straight off the barbecue, but it was all good stuff. I brought French bread and brie, and tore off hunks to eat with cherry tomatoes.

After lunch there was a small pilgrimage to Lakeview Cemetery next door, where those so inclined paid their respects at Bruce & Brandon Lee's graves. It's a nice place, on top of a hill with nice trees and a clear breeze, and its name is not hyperbole. It's as old as a cemetery in the area gets, which isn't very, but it was still interesting to see graves from the mid-late 1800s. There were some prominent old monuments with names reflected on buildings and street signs around the city.

My weekend trip to Oregon fell flat in a hurry when the jeep simply wouldn't start. So much for my carefully planned itinerary.

Apparently I'm going to the picnic this afternoon after all, and maybe clubbing tonight too.

I have no good alternate answer to the Transportation Question, so I'm ignoring it for the day.

Thursday, the 19th of April, 2001

Slight malaise today; many thoughts and few answers breed mental churn. I'm trying to figure out too many things at once. The fact that I'm still trying to come up with answers for these decisions is a clear sign that I don't have enough information and really shouldn't be making the decision yet at all.

Every angle I attack leads me back to overgrand ultimate questions about the meaning of life. There is none, of course, but that's doesn't help me very much. It seems that I have had my fill of tilting at windmills; the question that burns is what on earth is there to do instead?

When I was young I classified all things as "simple" or "impossible". In retrospect, I was simply using hyperbolic terms to categorize things that I did or didn't understand. I seem to be plagued by this distinction even today: every goal I can imagine is either limited and boring, or unrealistic and frustrating.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Wednesday, the 18th of April, 2001

I am fretting about transportation again. I've realized that the decisions are difficult because they're relatively unimportant. If it actually mattered, I'd know what I needed to do - but given my urban life, an automobile is mostly a recreational device. I don't strictly need to drive at all, so the question of what to drive is all about entertainment.

It seems silly to put more money into upgrading my jeep than I spent purchasing it in the first place. No matter how much effort I expend, how many improvements I try to make, it'll always be cheap, noisy, and a bit uncomfortable, so I worry that any improvements will be wasted money. It just seems even more silly to put myself into debt buying a newer, nicer vehicle when it would amount to little more than a toy. And giving it up altogether sounds depressing - what, no more road trips, no more roaming around in the wilderness?

The square hole in the construction site on Vine Street has been filled with concrete. Embedded in it is a piece of heavy yellow scaffolding that will form the base of the site's crane. I still think it's the right location for an elevator shaft, but that makes sense because they can leave the crane in place while constructing the building around it and not have to go back in to fill holes later.

I suppose my curiousity about this construction project is the five-year-old boy in me coming out. I think it's the ability to watch its beginning that is unusual - by the time I notice a construction site, it's usually half-finished. This time, I can hardly avoid the place, so I've been able to see the process from demolition to foundation-laying. The layers of precision intrigue me: how do they turn these random lumps of earth and crudely poured sheets of concrete into crisp angles and tight seams? How do they cover the gaps? What sort of adjustments do they make to get the doors and windows to fit?

The bit I'm looking forward to is when they put up the crane. They always seem to sprout up on the skyline overnight like some lopsided mushroom. I've never seen one in progress; I have no idea how they get the boom on top of the tower without using another crane. Does the crane pull its own pieces up in the air? How does that work? Unfortunately construction is one of those fields that believes in an early start to the day, so when I come strolling by ready to yawn and stretch and check my email and slowly get to work, the hard hat crew are almost ready for their lunch break. I suspect that walking by the site every day will be no advantage here - they'll probably have it finished by the time I show up.

I walked down Pine Street this morning. It was unusual to see the place by daylight. I had thought I'd check out some of those cute little Capitol Hill furniture/decorating shops before going to work, since they're usually long closed by the time my evening starts. Unfortunately most of the shops I had in mind turn out not to open until eleven or twelve. Being an early bird is apparently not always the right strategy.

I'm not sure what I'd buy, anyway. I could use a couple of chairs, but I have yet to see a suitable pair at a good price. Decorating is fun, but not having potential clutter items is also fun. Everything I buy, I will someday have to dispose of, and sometimes I'd rather skip the intermediate step and just do without. This leaves me little opportunity to indulge my interior-decorator side; maybe I need to convince my friends to let me tear apart THEIR places.

Monday, the 16th of April, 2001

I didn't bring my camera, but it didn't matter.

I took Sarah along - or, rather, she took me, since my car wasn't working and hers was. In spite of the invitation and the public venue, I felt a little like I was crashing the party, so I figured it'd be more fun to do it with company. We picked up picnic supplies at Larry's, then headed for the beach, not quite certain what we'd find.

The sun was low but not yet set. Fires were lit, a loose crowd scattered around them. Music played from a stereo inside one of the big grey Church of Mez school buses. A large inflatable trampoline entertained a handful of bouncing children. I scanned the crowd but saw nobody I knew. We spread out a blanket, munched on our sandwiches, enjoyed the wait and watched the sun slip behind the peaks of the Olympic range across the Sound.

The crowd thickened as night gathered. Flames sprouted as the firedancers invaded the beach. Twirling, glowing, spinning, and occasionally smacking themselves in the face, the atmosphere they lent was equal parts carnival show and mystic ritual. Unusual dress became the usual; as the draping robes, flowing skirts, sequins, hats, goggles, and sashes swept across the beach, my ensemble - somewhat odd in daylight - felt downright mundane. A syncopated drumbeat started up and continued unbroken for hours, participants contributing to the music without owning it.

My pyromaniac inner child had a great time. The bonfires raged all night, but riskier projects flared up as well. One group set off huge fireballs, five or six feet wide, that lit up the entire beach for a fraction of a second before cascading to the ground in shattered sparks. In between the cavorting fire-spinners, random fireworks sprayed out their fountains of blinding colour. Glow-sticks adorned the heads of those less infatuated with the Promethean gift.

It is a small world - standing at random on the beach, watching someone bounce fire off his chest, one of the onlookers turned around and waved hello - it was Dawn, from Monday night pool. Fancy that. I love this town.

In spite of the constant combustion, the air was far colder than I'd expected, and I ended up leaving early. It was an unusual gathering with a happy, decadent spirit.

Saturday, the 14th of April, 2001

It appears that I am going to Burning Man this year, courtesy of Beth who bought me a ticket yesterday. It should be an interesting adventure. I've spent a good amount of time out in the desert, and I've gone camping more times than I can remember, but camping on the playa with thirty thousand other people promises to be an experience unlike any other.

The ticket won't be worth much if I can't get to the playa, of course, so this means I need to get my jeep fixed up. I guess I can stop hemming and hawing over whether to replace the engine.

I have wanted to attend Burning Man since I read about it (in Wired, perhaps?) back in 1995 or 1996. It wasn't realistic in '97 or '98, but I could easily have gone in 1999 except for... em... political concerns, which were even more complicated last year. This year is the first real opportunity to attend, and - if you can believe it - I was actually uncertain whether I'd go until Beth settled it.

There's a "beach burn" this afternoon up at Golden Gardens. It's put on by The Church of Mez, a fairly wild crew who attend Burning Man and hold events of their own. Details are somewhat sketchy, but I think that if I show up on the beach tonight with food, drink, and a party mood, something interesting will happen. Perhaps I'll bring my camera - I haven't done any photography in a while.

That was one of the weirdest club nights I've ever experienced.

Friday, the 13th of April, 2001

U2 live at the Tacoma Dome last night - a fun trip and a good show. We arrived five minutes before the concert was due to begin, after a delay getting the rental car, a slow trip down I-5, and a confusing wander through Tacoma trying to find the parking lot. Fortunately the crowd on the floor was not terribly thick and we got good spots a little way in front of the sound board.

A signboard preacher with a megaphone accosted the line wending into general admission with a confusing message about sin, forgiveness, and Mary Magdalen. I wondered about his grasp on reality, but found the irony of his presence at a U2 concert somewhat amusing.

PJ Harvey opened up. While I've heard of her, I'm not really familiar with her music. Everyone who likes her music seems to think I'd like it as well, but I couldn't name any of her songs. Several of the pieces she performed sounded familiar, though, so I guess I've heard her on the radio before.

The sound quality was, unfortunately, rather bad. It was distorted and almost painfully loud. While the drum hits were palpable and the words clearly distinguishable, the mix did felt mechanical and incoherent. The sound techs made several glaring mistakes - leaving the cello completely inaudible during one song, burping a couple seconds of deafening noise into the lines during another - and did not seem to know how to deal with the venue's reverberating acoustics.

The sound improved during U2's part of the performance; whether there were technical glitches to work out or U2 is simply better suited to the arena format I do not know. It was still a touch muddy, but not so distracting as it had been during the opening show.

The band burst right in with "Elevation" kept going with nary a slack moment. Most of the music was from Joshua Tree, War, and their new album "All That You Can't Leave Behind", with one or two from Achtung Baby and Pop. It was clearly a rock show. I was a trifle disappointed not to hear anything from "Zooropa", but I realize that most of the audience wouldn't have shared my appreciation, and it wouldn't quite have fit the format anyway.

After hearing that the band had "gone back to basics" I had expected a fairly simple show, the band standing on a stage with coloured spotlights or something. Compared to the massive spectacle they put on for the "Pop" and "Zoo TV" tours, it was pretty straightforward, but it was still one of the more inventive and visually engaging concerts I've attended. A wall of monitors rose behind the stage during a couple songs, showing streaky video loops; projectors in the sound booth cast rotating, swirling designs over the ceiling of the dome; gauze panels unrolled around the stage and caught strobe-lit sillhouettes of the band members. A runway looped out through the floor, and Bono made good use of it - running laps around the stage, dancing with audience members, showing off and having fun.

I was surprised at my reaction - I was rather strongly moved by the whole thing, in a happy sort of way, and found myself grinning and dancing about. Usually my enjoyment of a concert is a bit more restrained. My typical "that must have been good" response is to become seized with inspiration, overrun with ideas for music of my own. I don't have that feeling today, possibly because I've listened to U2's music enough that the musical inspiration has already been leached out, but I think it is still a concert I will remember for a good while.

Thursday, the 12th of April, 2001

I saw "Memento" on Tuesday. It's excellent, as demonstrated by the fact that it left me wandering around in a daze afterward. It's a sophisticated murder mystery, told back to front, based around the main character's peculiar disability. He suffered a brain injury that left him unable to commit short-term memory to permanent storage; he forgets everything (and everyone) after a few minutes. A system of notes and polaroid snapshots keeps him organized; he trusts his own handwriting for information about his past. The really important things he tattoos onto himself: his mission, to avenge the rape and murder of his wife, is the first.

If you liked "The Usual Suspects" or "LA Confidential" you'll probably like Memento. I recommend it highly.

I'm going to see U2 down in Tacoma tonight. This looks to be a less audacious tour than their previous two, but I've never seen them live, so it'll probably be a treat no matter what they end up doing. I found Bono's stage presence on the ZooTV movie so compelling that for a while he was my standard of Cool. I joked that I wanted to be Bono when I grew up. It'll be interesting to see how he carries it off in person.

My jeep is acting up again. It turns out that it is cheaper to rent a car for a day than to take public transportation. This was an interesting discovery: with the amount of driving I do, it would probably be cheaper to rent a car every time I want to leave town than to actually fix my jeep to the point that it'll stay fixed. Of course, there's no way I'm going to drag a rental Blazer through Evans Creek or Reiter Pit, so that scheme has its limits.

Tuesday, the 10th of April, 2001

The dinosaur pit on Vine Street appears to have reached its lower limit. A large square hole has been excavated in the right spot to form the bottom of the elevator shaft. Its bottom has been carefuly scraped flat and its sides are cleanly marked with stakes and string. The backhoes continue to load excess earth into the never-ending line of dump trucks. A pump on a platform mounted to the southern wall, hooked up to a line of pipes, sucks away water and squirts it into a storm drain.

On the lot's northeast corner, there used to be a concrete building with a basement. Since the hill slopes down to the west, the far end of the basement was completely underground, with a concrete wall holding back the earth. The building was demolished when construction began, but the builders left that one wall intact (so as not to allow the adjacent street to collapse, one assumes). The hole has been dug deep and walled with concrete; soon there'll be a thirty-story condominium there, looking just like all the other new buildings, but right there in its foundation that piece of the building that formerly called this lot home will continue to do its job.

I lost my crystal earring on Sunday. It was a tiny finger of quartz, one end embedded in a brass cap, hung from a hook. It is laying somewhere on the sidewalk on Pine Street. Or perhaps in the cafe where I bought coffee that morning. It was my favourite earring - the one I wore when I wanted to dress up a bit. I bought the crystal at a tiny shop in Reno full of odd antiques, jewellery, and knicknacks, then turned it into an earring myself.

And yet I feel little disappointment. Apparently I wasn't as strongly attached to it as I had thought I was. I suppose this is a good thing, as I like the idea of not being strongly attached to possessions, but for some reason I had expected to be a little more upset.

I didn't like the idea of just replacing it. Crystals are a little too personal for that. But I remembered another crystal, a necklace pendant I've been carrying around in my jewellery-bag since I lived in Eugene and rarely wearing. It's a little bigger than the other crystal, and wrapped in a harness of silver wire. It's a little too small to be a proper necklace, so I hardly ever wear it. But it's just the right size to hang from a hook under my ear, so that's where it'll live.

My drama threshold continues to rise. When I first wore my original crystal earring I felt bold and daring. By the time I lost it I thought of it as fairly unobtrusive.

Monday, the 9th of April, 2001

The photo shoot started late. Logistics difficulties meant the studio was not ready until mid-afternoon, and we didn't end up finishing until nearly eleven. This, combined with a light breakfast and an even lighter lunch, left me tired and a bit hazy by late afternoon, but dinner was eventually ordered in. My outlook on life improved within a matter of minutes. I was tired when it was all over but satisfied and looking forward to doing it again.

There were a total of ten models, though some people left early and others arrived late. The studio was set up in one quarter of the basement, draped in fabric and bombarded by lights. A rack of clothes bursted with hangers, perpetually threatening to leap forth and drape further sections of the floor. Bags, supplies, a computer system, a mirror, chairs, and people waiting to be photographed took up the rest of the space. A refrigerator in the corner supplied jello shots. Few people had the patience to wait for them to gel, so we all "loosened up" with thick, sugary, obnoxiously flavoured vodka.

I wore my new black velvet pants with my burgundy boots throughout. Most of the time I had my chainmail belt on, but for one shot I wore a punky-looking grommet belt. To go with this I borrowed Christelle's studded leather choker. Later I switched to a long-sleeved shirt in silver velvet. For one of the group shots I wore a fishnet shirt with a short-sleeved red sparkly shirt tossed loosely over it. Jewelry was mixed and matched throughout to fit the specific shot.

The photography proceeded at a relaxed pace. The photographer's style surprised me; I would have snapped pictures rapidly, almost constantly, then thrown away all but the good stuff later. She chose to set poses deliberately, taking sample shots with the digital camera, adjusting, and only exposing the film when she was completely satisfied.

I posed by myself, with my saxophone, with Christelle, with Alexis, with Shiloh, with everyone at once, with Anthony, and finally by myself again. Shiloh and I acted sickeningly cute. Anthony and I did a sort of fake band shot, him the singer and me with the sax.

I was surprised at how natural it all was. There was no stage fright and little self-consciousness. It took me a while to figure out what to do; I wasn't sure where to put my arms or legs at first. Once I hit on the idea of moving to the music as though I were dancing at a club it made a lot more sense. When the photographer saw something she liked I'd freeze and she'd tweak things from there.

I felt beautiful. It was nice. That someone would want to take pictures of me was novel and pleasant.

Friday, the 6th of April, 2001

I'm looking forward to the photo shoot tomorrow. I have no idea what I'll wear. I haven't had a proper picture taken of me in years.

There's something delicious about the idea of modelling for a camera, even if it is purely for fun.

Thursday, the 5th of April, 2001

A construction site sits on either side of Vine Street, on the block away from the building where I work. One is a rapidly growing tower of gray concrete and yellow wall panels. I used to look out at a beautiful, expansive view of the Olympic Peninsula as I walked to work in that direction, so now I look at a construction site instead. I notice its details: the creases in the concrete, the beams tack-nailed across the gaping windows, the way the cranes seem to sprout larger overnight. Workers swarm about it, cranes lift things atop it, large trucks supply it. I can't yet tell whether it is an office or a condominium - probably the latter, since there are already a dozen or so residential towers in the area, which in the peculiar logic of the residential development industry means that yet another one is desperately needed.

The other site is a rapidly sinking hole in the ground, lined with concrete. Tractors scrape its floor like dinosaurs grubbing for the larvae of some outsized Cretaceous beetle. Long lines of dump trucks roll by, filling, dumping, and returning. The hole keeps going deeper. Workers line its walls with sloppy grey concrete, like frosting with too much sugar. This morning the totems of the surveyor priesthood made their solemn three-legged appearance, and a large ramp grew up in one corner.

Two months ago the hole was a nice little urban block containing a dentist's office, an art gallery, an event-production company, and the last single-family houses in Belltown (perhaps in all of downtown Seattle, but I'm not sure). Three months ago, the concrete tower was a small orangey-tan three-story concrete factory-office with a sort of art deco clock-tower facade; the sort of disused industrial space I used to fantasize about living in, with walls full of many-paned windows and great pillars supporting the roof.

The area is developing rapidly. There is a pair of condo towers two blocks to the north, almost finished; a tower undergoing exterior detailing (and, one assumes, interior outfitting) a little to the east; and another site a block to the north that will start sprouting cement trucks and scaffolding any day now.

Development marches on. It's hard to be too happy about this, since these boring, cookie-cutter faux-pretty obelisks are replacing ramshackle rows of odd little buildings far more interesting than the condos ever could be. I imagine a future Belltown with nothing but oh-so-charming brand new little shops staring out at broad, neatly swept sidewalks through expanses of plate glass, and I think - how boring. Yet, honestly, there was never much more than theoretical interest in the buildings that are being replaced. They were nice for fantasies about what the place might be like, but in truth there isn't much life this far out of downtown. A few blocks closer in, now - if they started to tear up 2nd Avenue, or knock down some of the old brick places from the earlier half of last century - then I'd be truly upset.

Besides, they're being built because hordes of young adults buoyed up by jet city's flying economy all wanted to live downtown, and - oops - I guess that's me. If I wanted the place to stay less-developed, I should have moved somewhere else...

Wednesday, the 4th of April, 2001

Why do I write code? It all comes down to "the rush" - the brilliant wash of fiery enthusiasm that comes over me when I've got a problem nearly within grasp and can pour out the symbols in a violent, creative burst. The exhilaration is reward enough that I'm willing to struggle through days of drudgery to get it. It's a feeling of power, magic, fire shooting from my fingertips.

I have had this experience twice during the time I've worked at my current job: once last fall, and again last night. A rather pathetic version of it, to be sure, but enough of a taste to remind me what I'm missing. Twice? In a year and a half? No wonder I'm so tired of this.

I am working and accomplishing much. It is not terribly interesting.

I haven't been out in three days. This is unusual.

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