I had a great post all written -- smart, insightful, witty. Trouble is, I was writing it in my work email during my lunch hour and the server crashed and it is gone. I can rewrite it, but it's lost the ziji.
When I realized it was gone, my self (the collection of aggregates that believes I write witty, insightful etc blog posts worth saving) cried out (silently) argh! I may have put my head down on the desk. Then the work side of me, my vajra editor, realized that I would be unable to access my email, the workself -- a collection to similar aggregates that believes, along with my bosses, that I must get certain things done -- added its howl of pain.
And then I said, well, what CAN I do? And I did that.
I am perhaps more accustomed than most people to the idea that my work product is ephemeral and I am easily replaced. I work for a daily newspaper, an institution whose future is unclear. I know, every day, the doors may be locked when I show up. But even in good times, even when you wrote the biggest story of the day, week, or month, you knew that the next day it would be lining a cat box and you'd have to find some other words to fill space.
Colleagues, technology, stories, politicians all come and go. Sometimes we mourn, sometimes we (to be honest) celebrate.