2026-01-19

YOU ARE IN ROOM 16
YOU HAVE 5 ARROWS
BATS NEARBY…

Connections started firing.

Late last night I remembered the computer room technician from the mid-80s: Señor Minor. Stubby guy with a mustache, reserved, and the loudest sneeze I have ever known. It could be heard throughout the company, through closed doors.

Neurons fire.
Now I’m thinking of my long-lost uncle, Carlos.
He had the first laptop I ever saw.
Separated from my aunt some thirty-five years ago.
Poof! Disappeared.
Reappeared briefly in 1998. Systems engineer. SAP implementer.

Had a mustache too.

I spent most of this morning trying to track him down.

Common first and last name. No obvious matches. The 1998 Hotmail address doesn’t bounce.

I left my fountain pen in a drawer for a few months after the move.

I’ve picked it up a few times since. Ink on my fingers. On the cap. I can’t tell if it leaked or if I smeared it myself. The ink didn’t dry. That’s usually what happens.

I love fountain pens until they become finicky. After that I never quite get them back. I clean them. I try again. Eventually I replace them.

Using a Pigma Micron 03.

The nanny put her hand to her forehead and sighed.

I asked what was wrong.

Someone offered her money to start a business.

She likes being a nanny. She doesn’t want to quit.

Money waiting.
Time pushing.
Nothing decided.

Stayed up tweaking Emacs config.
Important meeting at 9am.

Ugh.