The first time I heard about what would become the Khmer Magic Music Bus, I wasn’t even in Cambodia. I was listening to my colleague Steve describe a rest stop on a long drive through the countryside.

There’s a moment every computer person eventually has, usually more than once, where something gets deleted that can’t come back. Working in the command line for years, I’ve been there. It teaches you, more than anything, that the things you can’t take back deserve a different kind of attention than the things you can.

At the moment, my life is in disarray. A record Arctic cold snap has turned normal routines upside down. The water to the upstairs is shut off. We’re going crazy each night to keep the remaining pipes from freezing. An ice dam is causing water to leak into our house. I’ve injured my knee, not through anything cool like snowboarding, but because the cat slept on it wrong. The new web development class I’ve spent months preparing for has turned into a dumpster fire because of incorrect assumptions, snow days, and a fractured schedule.

On December 31st, I finished a ten-year daily journal. Every single day for a decade, I wrote an entry. The format was simple: one page per day, laid out so that when I flipped back through, I could see exactly where I was on any given date ten years prior. It was a satisfying thing to complete.