Journal : OpenRoadWorks

Browsing the hard drive of an old computer is the corollary to opening an old trunk of personal memorabilia. I thought that I had lost it forever, but I found my first published piece, an editorial that I wrote for the college newspaper. This received quite a bit of commentary when it was first published; I chastised the "lip service" paid to the benefits of diversity and how students did not capitalize on its breadth and depth. Not only this, but students misconstrued diversity for advantages that disrupted the harmony that the university was trying hard to cultivate and promote. I reflected for the moment on this piece, as I thought about the circumstances - returning from a life-changing experience abroad - that provoked the words. And then another two hours passed wandering through the other writings and documents trapped on my old computer. Nostalgia is the same, regardless of its physical (old trunk) or virtual (computer files) form. And now, here is the first pi...

Vital is the word that describes the university campus. For many, the recollections of the college experience and the various activities associated bring pause and wistful sentiments of those four years full of promise without burden of accomplishment. We become older, find partners, acquire titles, produce children and dependents, and gather years; from one perspective, the process rolls downhill, slowly gaining speed as time accelerates away from the campus. Until one returns to university. It does not matter if the university is alma mater - I personally visited a college considered rival to mine back in the days - it is the freedom of spirit that intellectual challenge brings to the person. We are ultimately creatures of discovery and change. We may not admit this, but we thrive on the dynamics of opportunity provided from what we know. And what we know best is what we learned in school. That is why going back holds such a mythical power and link to our primary moments.

For some reason, I have become bothered at work. I have slight sensation of the keyboard, and my fingers run over keys that lead me off documents and into the greater web, looking for news that does not interest me. I jump to the New York Times page, then the Economist, perhaps over to my own sites, and perhaps over to bbc or FT. The day passes, sun crowns the sky and arcs back down, and I wonder what happened during the day. If I use today as example, I completed a couple-slide presentation that required a sift through a diagram-ladened document, researched a website to download a zip file that I hardly reviewed to send to a colleague that I don't know who was asking for help on research topics of which I have no information. This was referenced by another colleague who asks me to assist on various analysis topics; she gets lazy now and just sends others my way as well, not bothering to get grounded in topics before contacting me. Still, I help them out. Now, the day is alm...

There is something about a clear fall morning that is beyond description; I marveled at the clarity and brightness walking into work this morning. As I reflected on the beauty eminent on these crisp fall days in New York City, I realized that my time here is limited. I will be spending days in San Francisco and Dallas through the rest of the year, and New York City will no longer be my home. I will miss its lyrical qualities, the smells good and bad, the languages that dance in the air three and four at a time courtesy of the street vendors and financiers. I will miss its vitality, however imperfect and rough-hewn it can be. I will miss its intriguing companionship, the rumbling of the subway trains, and the people, oh those people shepherded from the corners of the earth that somehow make their way here. Somehow, New York City collects them all, sprinkles them amidst the boroughs, and goads them along to keep pace to the rhythms of ambition. So, I let the moment go; my mind w...

As the weeks pass, the days pile into the hours that pile onto the timesheet that is submitted at week's end. In the fury of the dash to collapse the computer screen into the keyboard and shove the burgeoning life's work into the messenger bag. When that moment occurs, the hours of the week, piled high, suddenly melt away; time is forgotten, if for a moment, a wisp of breath intervenes, the chest sighs quietly, and for a brief moment, ever so brief, the world stops and wonders what it has done. Ever so brief, the pace stops, like the moment of a stroke, and then in the whisper of the moment, so brief it passes, and the dash for the elevator forgets the moment even happened. At least for the few seconds of pause, inane duties translate to accomplishment - perhaps too brief but treasured for its feeling. And then, it is hello to another weekend.