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:
   gene-encoded concern
Tuesday, July 17 2007
There was some van a full of fresh air kids from Kingston at the Secret Spot this morning when I showed up with the dogs. They were fishing and delightedly screaming as their lungs gradually became accustomed to the freshness of the air. "He don't bite, do he?" one of the adults in their contingent asked, regarding Eleanor.
I ended up at Fording Place, where I gathered twenty five gallons of surprisingly pure sand from its east bank (this meant I had to wade across the Esopus with the buckets, as there was no way I was going to attempt to ford it in a Honda Civic hatchback. I had no immediate plans for the sand I collected, but I'm sure I'll develop some soon.

Meanwhile Gretchen had been gone for two and a half weeks at a writers' retreat in Vermont. She'd been getting a lot of writing done, but hadn't really clicked with the other people there, who delighted in their carnivorous ways and ordered the killing of mice in their cabins. So today Gretchen found a way to leave a few days early. She made it home before sunset and had a chance to marvel at the lushness of the garden.
Later we had a celebratory dinner at Northern Spy in High Falls. There was a car there with a bumpersticker reading, "There are two ways to breastfeed: the right way and left way." I think it was driven by the woman who later freaked out when Eleanor, whom Gretchen had set free to run around after dinner, dove into her car. "I'm holding a seven week old baby!" she screamed, as if to rhetorically ask, "Will no one think of the children?" I suppose if your body is flooded with hormones out of gene-encoded concern you'll wind up devouring the product of your loins, you have a good excuse for your obsession. Still, this doesn't keep it from being nauseating. And it gets worse. Check out this baby-obsessed messageboard, which I was terrorizing a few days ago.

Sally in the yard.

The garden.

The garden. Click to enlarge.

The garden. Note the scavenged firewood in the garage. Click to enlarge.

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