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:
   low-relief frieze
Sunday, May 23 2004
I'm still listening mostly to Soma FM's Indy Pop Rocks streamed from the internet, since I can't listen to news while reading or writing. (I can, however, listen to news while programming, painting, or puttering around the house.) At exactly 4pm this afternoon there was an instant during Pono's "Supermarket Bliss" when I allowed myself to believe in magical interrelations between all things, particularly as they apply to my life, and in that instant my world felt full of meaning and promise. Then, like the Red Sea filling back in upon the Egyptian pursuers of the Isrælites, rationality returned and my magical exhilaration disappeared. Other good songs include "You Are Invited" by Dismemberment Plan (emotechno storytelling) and anything by Jets to Brazil.

Gretchen and I took her parents and the Eagles Nest People on a walk around the "Overlook Loop" - the Stick Trail and the scenic Canary Hill Trail. The Eagles Nests brought Bowie, their fourteen year old dog, who suffers from hip dysplasia and has trouble with climbing grades. Gretchen hadn't even noticed the subtle grades on this loop, just the one steep part where the Canary Hill Trail crosses a shallow valley and climbs back up to meet the Stick Trail. She referred to this as "only fourteen steps" - but it's more like 100 feet. Anyway, as the reality of the walk's difficulty unfolded she felt increasingly guilty. But Bowie didn't actually suffer too much. [REDACTED]

For the past week or so I've been working on a quasi-artistic project on the sloping ceiling above my main computer in the laboratory. I've been painting the ceiling with tiny dabs of thick white paint, the same primer white that it had already been painted. But the individual dabs are so thick that they leave a texture behind when they dry. Over time these dabs have added up to an intricate complex of cross hatches, mounds, and other assorted imperfections, exactly the opposite of how most people want their blank walls to look. It's become an abstract low-relief frieze resembling certain forms of ritual scarification.

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