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January 31, 2000
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work Work consumes a lot of our time. So it can be a big part of your social life and your sense of self. I'm not sure how programming reflects oneself. But I have an idea. When you are struggling with the pardigm of a program, wondering where in the world they hid the feature you are looking for, imagine yourself designing the same thing. Of course, now my job is more about presentation of grand ideas, going to meetings. I'm pretty sure a meeting can even be a reflection of the organizer. My approach to meetings is to have very few. And, if I do, to try to have a real clear goal. This attitude is not shared across my company or any other I've encountered. Spent most of the day pondering material for my business trip. Called the bank and ask them to deliver some foreign currency to my branch. Never hurts to be prepared. I like to take a little currency, a few travel checks, some U.S. cash, credit cards. At the end of the day, I was puzzling over something. Decided to sleep on it and then get some help from my colleagues tomorrow. After work SuRu and I walked the dogs. We are bored with our neighborhood. Well, the dogs aren't. There were six cats at one house on cat street. (It's really Lynnwood.) We had two eXtreme dog walking incidents. Chalow went under a bush and around a pole and we couldn't get her undone without disconnecting. (Points off.) Only seconds later Zoey jumped Chalow's line, missed, tangled, kept running and was flipped like a calf being roped. "Zoey, stop!" SuRu yelled. But at the point Zoey was stopped. A lot of times when we walk at night we see something interesting through a window. Not tonight. The most exciting thing was the city digging up a guy's yard. Water main, I guess. Another journal I discovered described the phenomena of walking at night and peering into houses bared by their own lights and lack of window covering. This gal lives in New Orleans. I got her off No Spring Chicken a compendium of people over thirty writing on-line journals. As if over thirty is old? Yeah, right. Forrest wanted me to scan a picture tonight for Jessamin Swearingen. That's her holding the dog in the picture shown here. (Well, actually, it's a different Jessamin. The folks in the picture are some of Forrest's Lockhart relatives. Might be his granddad on the right.) The living Jessamin (the namesake of the stately lady in this picture, circa 1915) is a punk rocker? Well, something old folks don't understand. (I don't understand that page I linked you to.) She wanted to see her namesake's picture, I think, and Forrest got this picture from his mom. My brother-in-law writes that my sister is doing some cooking again. That's good. Had lunch at Brio Vista with one of the Nancy's and SuRu. I had roast chicken with a corn custard. Served on kale, of course, for those of you who have visited Zoot where Brio's current exec. Chef Stewart invented this simple and tasty dish. I also had too much bread and olive oil, continuing my overeating from the weekend.
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"Every man's work, whether it be literature or music or pictures or architecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself, and the more he tries to conceal himself the more clearly will his character appear in spite of him." Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh |
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the Swearingens
one Christmas in Lockhart |
