This Is Now
I futzed with the ftp stuff at the office today. I can now move files between my desktop and my web site, but I do this journal at home in the evenings, so although being able to move files back and forth at the office is nice, it isn't altogether necessary. It's the pictures. I want to move the pictures and our new and improved firewall is probably not going to allow it. Unless I get more creative than I should on company time.
The camera is working in the sense I have it pumping pictures to my workstation, but I was right about the firewall. They made some changes the camera can't handle. I'd bring it home, but for what? Take it out on the balcony so the world can watch Wuss sleeping? Assuming he sleeps outside on his chair? After all these months of gut wrenching excitement watching traffic crawl along Broadway? We'll see. Maybe I need to take it another step. Someplace farther out, someplace way out there on the edge that still has Internet access. Mumble.
Rained this morning, the sun coming out this afternoon. Not a good prognosis for the weekend.
Didn't post yesterday. Did the pictures, though. I may go through a period here where I post
less often. I feel good, have things to do, the work is going well, but the urge to write is less urgent for whatever reason and I'm going to have to think about reinventing this journal. I really don't have anything going on in the way of a life to report. No family ups and downs, nothing at the office that I'd really want to talk about even if no one at the office knew about the journal. My fund of knowledge seems to be an endless repetition of what I once did that I don't do anymore and where I went for coffee. Mr. Wuss pees every now and then and I report his visits to the vet. I buy camera stuff. Whoop! Camera stuff. Makes the hit counter go bananas.
This is not a prelude to a 404, although I'm not sure how 404's happen. Suddenly this journal or that journal that's been around forever stops posting and you wonder, well, did they go on to better things or what? Did they marry or divorce or take up another hobby? Did they write a book? Rather like visiting an analyst, this journal writing business. At least for some of us. Once you've written enough you begin to get an idea of the real you, so do you change, hang up your keyboard and ride into the sunset? Don't know. Won't know 'til it happens. I've got the photographs lined up, maybe I'll make some notes over lunch for tomorrow's entry. Something different. Something about Zeppelin races and trapeze artists, really exciting stuff, stuff you'd pay money to read about in a tabloid newspaper with big red headlines across the top. Not a mention of politics, unless it takes place in bed or on a low lying couch pushed back against the wall of a room in the French Quarter. But that's tomorrow, this is now and it's after 9:00. Bedtime.