There are more things in heaven and earth, and surprise, I am becoming part of a startup. Spirit of ’99! says J. A bit of venture capital landed on us (in 2009! someone knew someone!) so I am getting at least a month’s wages and a small new computer out of it, and maybe more. There is a tiny office behind a frosted glass door six stories up from Market Street; the buses and cable cars squeak by out the window and I am in a Bogart film, though it’s not Bogart who has my speaking part. I stay up late with green tea, trying to learn MySQL syntax at age 31 like a displaced person forced abroad. It’s interesting, as most things are interesting, though the moment of final rest with pipe, slippers, fireplace has fallen off the horizon for good.
That I’m still a registered graduate student, and still have a lot of literary criticism left to write, is a weird joke perpetrated by one of those poker-faced Euro directors whose humor you can’t always follow.
Everything is easier than writing fiction. The rock is at the bottom of the hill and I can’t spare a finger to nudge it up. Between functions I pick up a guitar: chords, mere chords, sound better all time.