Wednesday, June 28, 2017
I colored it later.
I colored it later.
So, I’ve been in New Orleans almost six months since leaving the relative security of Austin, and I just don’t know if I want to work on glowing rectangular screens anymore.
So now I’m this new guy who is physically old, trying to jump in the conversations I overhear and making a fool of myself. I’m more than willing to learn, but it’s embarrassing and time-consuming for anyone to teach me. We’ve all watched an old man say “I knew that” when shown how to mash the green button on a flip phone. But now I’m that old man.
I’m a solo developer, which means I have no one but internet message boards to ask questions of. A mistake I make costs other people money. There’s no more learning curve; I’m past the yellow sign, leaving skidmarks on the shoulder. So I have to ask myself if I want to do this anymore.
Web development now seems to be a process of aligning yourself with one of a few supposedly labor-saving techniques that, to me, add a complexity to the business that I don’t have time for. I don’t want a thousand dependencies and node modules installed because I’d like to have jQuery or yet another ignorable slideshow in my project. I admit the modern techniques are superior, like a guy who was good at working on cars in the 1960s has to admit it’s silly to work on cars today. All the old issues have been addressed. No user-serviceable parts inside. I’d like to learn it, I could do it with time, but who in the world has time?
Ahh, I know I sound old. But I’ve known for a long time that I want to work with my hands. I don’t like sitting. I don’t have the attention span for modern web development. I’m frankly amazed and proud of myself that I lasted this long. I’m probably still like the thirty-eighth best web developer in town. The people pointing out how bad I am are certainly much worse.
But what can I do with my hands?
I like to work with plants, but I don’t know much about it. I think I would appreciate landscaping now more than I did as a hungover sophomore.
I love to paint; I might like painting houses and such. I’ve gotten stung by enough wasps that I won’t let one knock me off a ladder.
I love writing and it used to be my job. The more I read, though, the more I’m convinced nobody cares about writing. And I always liked being published more than I liked writing.
My law diploma is literally right here but figuratively it has crumbled to dust. (Shit, maybe literally too. It’s in an envelope.)
I would work in a record store but come on.
I don’t have enough musical talent to get in the union.
I’m disdainful of unchecked attitude while also having it; I might make a fine barista.
I do like trying to do art and occasionally succeeding. I love all the boring parts of making art: measuring things, sawing stuff, sanding and priming, reading art magazines. It could work.
But as things are, I am in a good place, if they’ll have me for a while. I genuinely like my job while wondering if it’s a long-term solution for either party. Me being impatient with the 21st Century at its rough beginnings is hardly a sacrifice unable to be borne. Just, if I must die in harness, let it be pulling a wagon of my choice.
It’s an encryption thing so you can do https without having to buy a certificate, I think. I just like the drawing.
Misfits lyrics, new pen.
I just rescued a dragonfly from a spider web. It was inside the house so, sorry spider. Sorry I fucked up your barbecue. My rules.
She’s the best cat ever but it’s hot in the office, and she’s in the bedroom.
(She’s terrified of ceiling fans that are moving for some reason.)
This feels so “bad”.
(Reading The Idiot by Elif Batuman, which we both enjoyed.)
(At the Motel 6 in New Orleans East, before we found a place to live.)
(A picture from Austin I never posted, I don’t think.)
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