Notebook

My bedtime programming hums with the static of insomnia. All the President’s Men. William Gibson. The history of medieval Europe. Cassette tapes of a Buddhist nun. But I’m learning to enjoy the extra time to brood. Acceptance is the answer.

This afternoon I finished migrating this internet station—and eight other websites—from the world’s worst hosting company to a new home. It feels zippier here. Untangling my nameservers, redirects, feeds, forwarders, and security certificates felt much like the jittery fever logic of insomnia: the knotty plumbing below the surface, the systems that work only when they go unnoticed.

Five days until C. and I drive into the desert. Illinois and Indiana look like fangs. I should go to bed.