Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.


Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


decay & ruin
Biosphere II
dead malls
Irving housing

got that wrong

appropriate tech
Arduino μcontrollers
Backwoods Home
Fractal antenna

fun social media stuff

(nobody does!)

Like my brownhouse:
   cringe-inducingly Dada
Wednesday, February 6 2002
Last night I dreamed that I had a tiny little intelligent monkey for a friend. He was only about the size of a small tarantula and liked to climb around on my chest and talk to me about various intellectual subjects. He could read, but only texts written in an script derived from highly-abstracted drawings of American Handsign gestures. At the end of the dream I took the poor little monkey with me into my parent's chicken house where some chicken attacked him. His injuries were mostly restricted to his legs, and resembled tears in black rubber. In an effort to heal my monkey friend, I put him inside a cryogenic refrigerator and quickly brought his body temperature well below freezing. As I did so, a cloud of white smoke rose from his body and he died.

Homeslice is replacing the cover of his hard drive with a transparent one. If I did that, I'd probably end up with a couple Eddy Edna hairs in there when I was all finished. She'd definitely contribute her paws to the effort without my having to ask.

An ongoing activity throughout the day was brainstorming a new name for Gretchen's poetic manifesto, a fifty-plus-page document which began life as her Master's thesis at Sarah Lawrence College this past spring. Most who have read it consider it a masterpiece in all respects except for its title, Sometimes a Sickle, which is drawn from a line in the final poem. So today she and I skimmed through all the poems, scouring the lines for some replacement title. We were hoping to find something to sum up a variety of themes including an unwillingness to bear children, childhood emotional neglect, and all the species of space. The ideal candidate would have been somewhat paradoxical or self-contradictory (think Led Zeppelin) but also well-grounded and not cringe-inducingly Dada. Gretchen wrote a few things down, but nothing really grabbed us. After hours of mostly-fruitless brainstorming, we joked that the collection's title could be something like               (an empty space where a title would normally go, not a straightforward thing to put on a web page).
On several occasions this evening Gretchen tried to convince me to leave the house but I didn't want to. [REDACTED]

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