The Thing.

I'm in the subway on the way home when I realize I forgot to bring something to read. Instead, I pull out my trusty moleskin and spend my 20 minute commute brainstorming a list of things that would need to come together for a project that I've been dreaming about to succeed.

By the time I get home, I'm so juiced up on the potential for my career and my life that I haven't even taken my coat off when I launch into my realizations with Chris as an audience. He makes suggestions, points out flaws in the plan, is supportive when need be. We eat dinner and there's a buzz of newness, of possibility in the apartment.

It feels like spring is here early this year.


The funny thing about working in a field that is so divorced from my entire background is that I've constantly felt like a foreigner at work. This, admittedly, has its advantages. I can cry "too technical!" at will and people understand. I cry "too nerdy!" and I slip out of the context again. But I think I'm at a sort of crossroads with regard to software and, more importantly, the Internet.

I think I might love it.

Suddenly I don't envision starting a magazine that's mailed to people once a month; my vision is only available online. This medium speaks to me more clearly. It's a language that I understand. Links are blue and right clicking lets me open one in a new tab. I'm in too far to pretend that I don't understand or that this isn't my world or that I'm not equipped for the job anymore.

Shakespeare and Duras be damned; I'm a techie.


Well, not quite. As much as I now BELONG somehow in this new field which has slowly become my own, I still grasp at everything I was and loved for 26 years before I met software. I grasp at it and I freak out about losing touch with who I was. I like having a non-traditional background to my job. I simultaneously feel a gaping hole of empty Frenchness and an overflowing mountain of Internet inspiration. How do you balance that?

Sometimes, in a perfect moment of all things being right with the world, I am quietly wireframing at my desk while listening to French music, having dashed out to the library at lunch to pick up some more fiction and cookbooks. Or friends buy me birthday presents ranging from writing notecards to books to French cakes to plates made by local artists.

Questions of self-identity quiet themselves and melt into one long Ohm, the sound of someone in their late 20s who has not yet had to complicate themselves with nouns like wife or mother or kidney match. You know exactly who you are. For at least one moment.


I said this earlier to Chris and I do not type these words lightly on this blog: I have something significant in me. It's a project or a book or a community or, hell who knows, a walk-a-thon. Some days, like today, I feel it strong, pulsing through my veins and brain like a steady chant. It's coming. Sometime. The Great Idea. The Life Effort. The Thing.

And holy crap, on days like these, I cannot wait for it to be real.

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