The accessibility issues that must be solved when programming involve dealing with every possible human defect. Programming for the intellectually impaired.
Facebook didn't work with Javascript turned off, but Blogger did. This is the simplest yet greatest app on the web.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
rainy day 30
Meeting some guys in an office full of hot girls. What a bizarre way to live a life, talking about jobs, defending personalities. The river looked calm but the air was grey, time moved on and the lift went up.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
private mines
Where's the link? Somebody warmed up London so the sweat started flowing. And then came the rain. And then the talks. Darknet.
But a server of your own to dish stuff out instead of things like Blogger? Curious.
But a server of your own to dish stuff out instead of things like Blogger? Curious.
Friday, 5 February 2010
The mission begins
Boom! The mission is rolling, my photo's on it and it says it all, and when you get down reading that wall you see words that tell it all, they fall and leave the reader in awe, with the double kiss sign-off you know that I'm standing tall, writing this phrase like there's some sort of beat to it, sitting here typing as dull as the streets unite, I stop, delete, rewrite with might.
The spacebar's gone and it's annoying my mind, the thumb has to find a better place, the right hand can't be used, anymore, so I'm training my left hand to do the typing, but it's clear that I'm a right-handed spacebar pusher, because when I try to use my left thumb to hammer out the keys, it feels really strange... It's totally slowed me down and made me concentrate more on where the keys are on the board. I've used computers for so long that I've learned the keyboard well, but playing left handed is a difficult thing to do when you've been used to your right hand all your life. Nevertheless, my spacebar got wrecked when I took my MacBook Air to be repaired. And that is why I must now learn to use my left hand. It's an unpleasant position for the left hand to be in. The thumb is curled to the left, whereas when using the right thumb, it remains straight.
Difficult descriptions are the order of the mission. Hoods up, marching in, grown man on in the mad gymasium rush. It's gonna be a mad one.
The spacebar's gone and it's annoying my mind, the thumb has to find a better place, the right hand can't be used, anymore, so I'm training my left hand to do the typing, but it's clear that I'm a right-handed spacebar pusher, because when I try to use my left thumb to hammer out the keys, it feels really strange... It's totally slowed me down and made me concentrate more on where the keys are on the board. I've used computers for so long that I've learned the keyboard well, but playing left handed is a difficult thing to do when you've been used to your right hand all your life. Nevertheless, my spacebar got wrecked when I took my MacBook Air to be repaired. And that is why I must now learn to use my left hand. It's an unpleasant position for the left hand to be in. The thumb is curled to the left, whereas when using the right thumb, it remains straight.
Difficult descriptions are the order of the mission. Hoods up, marching in, grown man on in the mad gymasium rush. It's gonna be a mad one.
Friday, 1 January 2010
An open box
An open box, colours on the inside of the box? And what else is in the box? I can't see anything else in the box, is it empty or is it full of colours? Are things coming out of the box? How did this box suddenly start creating stuff out of pure possibility? The possibilities are now streaming out of the box and invading the world.
This is the kind of box I like.
This is the kind of box I like.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
2000 and end
With only a couple more days until 2009 comes to a close, I find a head full of ideas and a night empty of sleep. The only way of dealing with a rush of whatdoyoucallit is to open the book and throw down. The ideas soon vanish, leaving just the pained metaphors. Like: 'oh, it's like trying to catch a butterfly, and only managing to grab hold of a wing, which you tear from the butterfly, and then you look at the wing and you've torn the wing, and that really nice thing you were trying to catch has just been destroyed by the act of catching, oh no, oh what a shame, oh dear'.
Just like that.
Like catching a moth because you want to kill it, and the moth turns to dust in your hands. How do they do that?
"I was wondering if you could fix this space bar that you seem to have broken, because it's really starting to annoy me, and I'm trying ever so hard not to get angry." Imagine saying such a thing. But really, imagine trying to write a sentence full of words, and all you end up with is one long word that ends with a full stop? That would get on your nerves. An entire document underlined by a squiggly red line of superiority. The old: "Hey, Mister, I know the rules and I know that you've broken them there."
The rules weren't made to be broken: that's just a cliché. Some rules were made so that we could focus on the more important aspects of an environment. And as sure as 2 thousand and 9 years have passed since some date in the past, the importance of aspects has never been greater. I have continued my construction of the most bizarre showroom of new models, and the models have been arriving slowly but surely. "Poetry in motion" a bizarre thing to talk about, because all good poetry is in motion. Static poetry isn't worth the words that have been put there and told to stand still.
But, nonetheless, I'll admit: this was edited. Poetry is always in motion, and so is time. Change changes changes [subject, verb, noun]. And if there's any truth, then it's the confession that will not come until later. For now it's late, and before this gets publish posted for real, something else needs to be ++. Hang tight.
Just like that.
Like catching a moth because you want to kill it, and the moth turns to dust in your hands. How do they do that?
"I was wondering if you could fix this space bar that you seem to have broken, because it's really starting to annoy me, and I'm trying ever so hard not to get angry." Imagine saying such a thing. But really, imagine trying to write a sentence full of words, and all you end up with is one long word that ends with a full stop? That would get on your nerves. An entire document underlined by a squiggly red line of superiority. The old: "Hey, Mister, I know the rules and I know that you've broken them there."
The rules weren't made to be broken: that's just a cliché. Some rules were made so that we could focus on the more important aspects of an environment. And as sure as 2 thousand and 9 years have passed since some date in the past, the importance of aspects has never been greater. I have continued my construction of the most bizarre showroom of new models, and the models have been arriving slowly but surely. "Poetry in motion" a bizarre thing to talk about, because all good poetry is in motion. Static poetry isn't worth the words that have been put there and told to stand still.
But, nonetheless, I'll admit: this was edited. Poetry is always in motion, and so is time. Change changes changes [subject, verb, noun]. And if there's any truth, then it's the confession that will not come until later. For now it's late, and before this gets publish posted for real, something else needs to be ++. Hang tight.
Sunday, 27 December 2009
The illusion of the position of the newspaper on the train
(The tab takes me backwards instead of forwards, but I quite like that for some reason)
On a stationary train in a train station, the relativity of movement to the adjacent train isn't the only illusion likely to play with the imagination of the idle passenger waiting to depart... I looked to my left, and the girl next to me was reading the paper; I looked to my right, and the man sitting next to me was reading the same paper. But the paper to my right was the real copy. It had just been coincidence that the girl too was looking down, perhaps reading something as well (and imagine if she'd been reading the same paper?).
The memory of reality that returned to the point that interested me the most was that, before the newspaper entered the scene, I had no idea if the girl to my left was in fact on the train next to me, or if she was the reflection of a girl sitting elsewhere on my own carriage. The illusion of the position of the girl on the train.
[ ... ]
The train came closer and closer and closer and I didn't know why it was coming so close, it was coming closer and I realised that there must have been a points failure because it was coming closer and it wasn't going to stop and it came straight for me and then it smashed through the window and I realised that it wasn't actually a train but the image of a train that was somewhere else.
[ ... ]
On a stationary train in a train station, the relativity of movement to the adjacent train isn't the only illusion likely to play with the imagination of the idle passenger waiting to depart... I looked to my left, and the girl next to me was reading the paper; I looked to my right, and the man sitting next to me was reading the same paper. But the paper to my right was the real copy. It had just been coincidence that the girl too was looking down, perhaps reading something as well (and imagine if she'd been reading the same paper?).
The memory of reality that returned to the point that interested me the most was that, before the newspaper entered the scene, I had no idea if the girl to my left was in fact on the train next to me, or if she was the reflection of a girl sitting elsewhere on my own carriage. The illusion of the position of the girl on the train.
[ ... ]
The train came closer and closer and closer and I didn't know why it was coming so close, it was coming closer and I realised that there must have been a points failure because it was coming closer and it wasn't going to stop and it came straight for me and then it smashed through the window and I realised that it wasn't actually a train but the image of a train that was somewhere else.
[ ... ]
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