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Last updated November 25, 2020.
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I don’t know what to tell you today.
The boring stability of a “first-world” “developed” country is invaluable.
This feels like a threat to that.
Christmas was good! Is good!
It’s still going on, you know, especially all the relaxing bits.
Sometimes I feel oddly hesitant to write things on here. Not here the journal–here the whole site. It’s silly because I’ve really set the thing up in a very failure-friendly kind of way. No one knows when I add a page if I don’t add it to the top level lists, so I have all the freedom in the world to poke things up and change my mind about them.
midnight.pub changed from its idiosyncratic threading message board style to… well, to what looks like more of an ordinary gemini site. It’s harder for me to get a grip on what’s special about the place now. Not that my grip is what matters.
I'm feeling a certain trepidation about Christmas
; perhaps it’s really the conjunction and I’ll get over it.
One feels so restless with lockdown! I have realized I’m fully ready to start going dancing one night a week once we’re allowed. (Will she? won’t she?)
Today I moved all the important things off the dying machine. It’s funny to be doing web stuff as a hobby when I’m sure my friends who do it professionally would sooner have teeth pulled.
I miss singing. How does one learn to do that kind of folk song over a drone that you hear sometimes? Somewhere someone has done an acapella imitation of pipes with just, like, a bodhran, and I would like to hear it.
You know how in old books about people rich enough to have servants, the gentry spent a long-ass time every day dealing with their correspondence?
This, much like playing piano for functional entertainment, is yet another reason I am wasted on my class and century. I would have killed at this. (This is a joke because I would be far more wasted by blah blah historical sexism blah blah, but also not a joke in that I have spent most of the day hand-lettering Christmas cards)
It turns out that you have to start including crates even to just use regexes in Rust, so That’s Begun. I think I may get to day 10 or so by the time we hit Christmas.
I decided to try [advent of code](https://adventofcode.com/) in Rust this year.
Last year I was doing it in Go, and Someone was doing it in Rust, and of course one finishes faster in Go than in Rust, because, you know, garbage collection, and this was frustrating enough that Someone decided we should stop. This year I’m on my own and entertaining myself by doing it in an extremely haphazard manner.
.collect()… I am More Than A Little missing
sscanf, but I’m also allergic to going beyond a standard library, so we’ll see how long it takes me to start implementing
FromStr–not that it saves one from the awkwardness of the string methods…
Actually, maybe I just want capturing regular expressions. I like regex. It can be trusted.
Too much code! What’s in life? Well, not much. Invited to go snowshoeing–I am not even fractionally enough in shape to not embarrass myself horribly, so I’m going to have to figure out how to attack that.
I wonder if there are enough people out in the park in the evening to try and charge the old flaneur batteries.
How am I going to paginate this?
I decided there was something I liked about the idea of not having this all as a separate post type, of having it live all within this little window, but it does raise some questions about adding new material. Ooh, let’s see if the CSS kicks in for a good ol’
Anyway. Just got done with some Black Friday shopping, a bit of letter writing… I should fill out some more on the pens page about fountain pens since I’m fussing with mine lately.
The latest cocktail requires some adjustment before it’s documented – a bit of cranberry sauce, a splash of apple juice, a sprig of rosemary, ice, and scotch. I think I’m going to try it again with a bit more cranberry and maybe a glug of seltzer? There’s only enough scotch left for one iteration, though; I haven’t bought scotch in literally years.
Going to have to figure out if I want to bother with pseudonyms here. Obviously I myself have discarded anonymity but it’s always a bit awkward how to figure out how to talk about your own life without impacting the privacy of the people who know you. (Well, there’s the all-too-common way of just writing as someone completely self-obsessed…)
Is there still room on the Internet for longer-form personal blogging?
It’s clear that if I were to package my life up in bon mots or square photos, Twitter or Instagram would make the thing acceptable.
I’d like to write more, like to journal more, but it seems strange and undesirable to motivate that using the idea that people might read about my life.
Reading that last sentence, I think I might be holding myself to a higher standard of purity than a professional. One expects a professional writer to write for money and to advance her own reputation. It doesn’t follow, however, that just because I don’t need to do either of those things (what reputation do I have?) that I must only write with the end of… Fine artistic creation? Spiritual expression?
This is all attaining something of the painful self-consciousness I had as a child. Maybe it’s the Windows 98.
Do you know how hens sound when they’re all clucking together? Well, groups of women aren’t like that and humans aren’t animals and I mean this only in the most respectful way, but sometimes groups of women feel like that from the inside, and I miss it terribly. If it’s the worst thing COVID takes from me – and temporarily, at that! – I shall be very blessed.
Is there a short way of saying that? Sounds like the kind of thing there’d be Latin for:
fuerit et pessimus, ero felix.
Looks like it needs something like a “hoc” in it somewhere, and I’m not entirely sure it doesn’t need a “tamquam” as well, but one can only sift through so much of the protases and the apodoses in Allen and Greenough’s Latin Grammar before you lose the spirit of the thing.
I’m lying, I love that there are all these words I do not know, I mourn that there is no cause for me to learn them save my own pretentions.