Hey kind of important
Some housekeeping: The URL has changed; it’s about time to retire the ol’ kitty lumpkins name. The name’ll always have a special place in my dumb stupid heart (and in myriad easter eggs, one assumes), but one cannot help but acknowledge the certain lack of, cough, gravitas about the name. So, then, now we have solitonic.co—there is no good reason for this name, except I was thinking about Metal Gear Solid when I registered it. So then.
The old URL will probably work indefinitely, but the RSS feed will certainly break one day unless you update to this new one. I know, I know, this is a huge pain, especially in the wake of the Google Reader apocalypse. But with any luck, the RSS URL won’t change now, even if the underlying RSS provider does. This should be the last time you or I need to do this, hopefully.
Have we ever talked about talked about pens?
I have this thing about pens.
No, I don’t really mean some kind of love affair for pens. I could well have one of those, but that’s not what I’m talking about, specifically, here. Let me put it like this:
Think about running. Not the act of running, but the habit, more like—the exercise, the concept. Every single one of us knows we should go running, and so we do things like read Wikipedia articles about running and pore over running shoe reviews for hours, and eventually we spend too much money on shoes, thinking, “Yes, this is an investment that will pay off. I’ll feel too guilty otherwise!” Then we don’t wear them. We don’t run. And maybe we feel guilty, but only until we find something else to do, which is always.
So, then, me. And pens. And, more to the point, writing.
Needless to say, but I think I owe you all something. Again. Not the first time, definitely. And not the last time, certainly.
Much has been said about Porpentine’s wonderful, wonderful Twine game Howling Dogs in these many months since its release, and I do not believe I can add anything particularly new or novel. I can just start making noise about it. So, done.
I’ve been thinking about bread, and the making thereof. I’ve been known to make a loaf from time to time. Horrible, dense, salty loaves. I’m not very good. But I might get better.
Bread is—not hard, really, but not easy, particularly. Baking is, after all, kind of a science. The recipes are prescribed, and the result is generally predictable. One does not simply go off recipe. But then there are people who go off recipe, because through a combination of work and—more importantly—work, they have become better bakers than (possibly) you or (definitely) I could ever hope to be. For the layman baker, this is as good as sorcery. But this is bread in the abstract. I am trying to talk about bread as a thing.
And this is vital, because bread is fundamentally a thing. Bread is no good if it isn’t firm and graspable. The purpose and innate goodness of bread comes from its tangibility.
Bread can be a means, sure, but it’s also its own end. It is its own end in a way that (say) sales commission software or (say) a multinational consulting company can never be. The latter are a means of living. But they are not what really keeps you alive.
Things haven’t really changed that much since last year. I would probably call it a focusing—like a microscope, the constituent elements seem bigger, but they are still the same constituent elements. Last year I was mildly dissatisfied and uncertain what I was supposed to do next; this year I am largely dissatisfied and uncertain what I’m supposed to do next. Howling still.