Jenna has been home sick for what seems like 6,000 years. Today I took her to ballet to burn off some asthmatic energy. While she was in her tap class, I watched the baby ballet class, which she was in last year. I found myself crying. Gone. I'll never have it again. Too big. Too tough to absorb. It has to do with being a woman. She grows, I shrink. She voices, I grow weary.
George has the bug too. Finally got him to see the doc, and he has antibiotics.
A sad, depressed bunch of shut ins. And worst of all, I have no time to write. Blog posts fly through my head all day. And then the breathing treatments, and then dinner, and then the medicines, and then the mess, oh yes, and work.
in a word, ugh.
Five minutes ago I had painted in my mind what business will look like in five years. I was going to tell you what I saw, how what we think is bad is actually good, and what we think is good is very bad news indeed, about how if the net has taught us one thing, it has taught us how networks work; I was going to talk about about how small pockets of once-redundant workers are slowly but surely constructing sophisticated roadways among their virtual homes and talents, functioning in many respects like a web across knowledge bases and out to customers--no not an extranet--this is human talent assembling across neighborhoods and buildings, people who owe allegience to no one but themselves (another lesson they've learned); they are practical and organized and nimble and cheap. They are, and this is the good news, unstopable.
but more about that another time--my chicken is burning.
