[The below is cross-posted from my very sparsely-populated other blog.]
I have taken some steps to migrate one of my major geofictions – The Ardisphere – from OGF to my self-hosted OGFish clone, Arhet. The reason for this is that OGF seems increasingly rudderless and destined to eventually crash and burn, and I am emulating the proverbial rat on the sinking ship. I still hugely value the community there. But the backups have become unreliable, the topo layer (of which I was one of the main and most expert users) has been indefinitely disabled, and conceptual space for innovation remains unavailable.
One small problem that I’ve run up against in migrating The Ardisphere to Arhet is that I discovered that Korean characters were not being supported correctly by the main Arhet map render, called arhet-carto. This is a problem because the Ardisphere is a multilingual polity, and Korean (dubbed Gohangukian) is one of the major languages in use, second only to the country’s lingua-franca, Spanish (dubbed Castellanese). I spent nearly two days trying to repair this Korean font problem. I think I have been successful. I had to manually re-install the Google noto set of fonts – noto is notorious (get it?) for being the most exhaustive font collection freely available. I don’t get why the original install failed to get everything – I suspect it’s an Ubuntu (linux) package maintenance problem, rather than anything directly related to the render engine (called renderd, and discussed in other, long-ago entries on this sparsely-edited blog).
Here (below) are before-and-after screenshot details of a specific city name that showed the problem: Villa Constitución (헌법시) is the capital and largest city in The Ardisphere. Ignore the weird border-artifacts behind the name on these map fragments – the city is in limbo, right now, as I was re-creating it and it got stuck in an unfinished state.
Before – you can see the Korean writing (hangul) is “scattered”:
After – now the hangul is properly-composited:
You can see The Ardisphere on Arhet here – and note that within the Arhet webpage you can switch layers to OGF and see it there too. Same country, different planets!
What I’m listening to right now.
Attack Attack! “Brachyura Bombshell”.
ㅁ Dream: full of frustrating anxiety, a teacher's nightmare, you went to the staff room for some last-minute copies for a pop-quiz you were giving, but lo, the copier malfunctioned!
ㅁ The sky returned to its gray: more normal, more informal. The sun's way makes for a bright, rigid day.
ㅁ The raven walked - danced - along the edge, perhaps its talons felt the rust of the sun-cooked trailer's rim. Glancing down, it saw white: a discarded tub made of plastic. It hopped down and pecked. Squawked.
This tree saw some flowers appearing on a blueberry bush.
I resumed some work on the treehouse today, but it was a frustrating day. I kept banging my arms against things, and I had a lot of trouble securing one of the “caps” to the ends of my floor joists. I confirmed that my treehouse deck is definitely not a rectangle, but rather a parallelogram. This is not a fatal problem, but requires a lot of careful work with a tape measure and some extra cuts on my plywood to get the deck to “fit” properly.
[daily log: walking, 3km; hammering and sawing, 5hr]
ㅁ Un-Rhymed Sonnet. A rotated rose is nothing more than Some reconsidered kiss, intractable; Love creeps like cats, like lawn-mowers across The green summery suburbs of my heartbeat, Who tug mercifully passive, all alone To evoke the blood of reptiles beneath The scattered rocks of over-civilized spirit To drain into the corners of my room. Lovelost. Your face as if beyond recall, Memoriam: As if black / cupric seas Did separate two serpent-blue-green isles. Lovelost. Lost love which clings to my conscience While I wait like zoo-monkeys in a cage A hop and step distant from my desire. And Rhymed Sonnet. What's lost? I may die tomorrow-matins While metamorphic metaphors fly blind Through the lonesome corridors of my mind To leap 'gainst these fearsome, scaley satins Which clothe a cowering lust. Somehow your smile Can drag old bears from under winter oaks To shed carelessly their black hair cloaks On the floor: rests a love note all the while Discarded by love-green-romantic fool; With the ruby guts of a lizard-king Spattered on my innards by silver knife, Parabolic precursor to blood-pool, Inward-facing stone, little pebble-thing. The fool must be fool; I must try at life. And prose-poem. Dream: A rose is your cliché – an expression of horizontal love that's no love at all but just like some simple multicolored leaf – pretty but irrelevant to the soul which is more like some dead leaf. A rotated rose is the essence of cut summer grass – moribund like the subjunctive, lovelost. Trees throw leaves down in angry disgust, "you're too beautiful, and look: winter comes!" I want you more than any silly rose because, somewhat as the cupric seas of mythic green, you trace magic on the retina; a residue fluttering downward from your eyes like rusting spring leaves – caught in a late winter drizzling. I guess it's more your face, traceries of sea-foam on the somber, pensive rocks, which danse irreverent of the genius of mother earth. Which, of course, evokes further souls, more, more, than silly, shy, mine. Suppose it's best you ignore this, as an angel properly should, but remember to dream at night about the saintless ocean, glycerine panic, and that muddy path along leaf-strewn, yellow-pink, cavernous cliffs – your name has become my most sacred prayer, and I don't even know you. Calm the injunction now, the heartfelt fool, under post-priori cobalt skies, romancing a ghost within his own imagined kingdom. But you're real, aren't you? Paragraph. Nevermind. Néanmoins. Maybe it's just that you're Parisian in spirit: kind-of-inconclusive. But even dark satan brightens when you blink. Your smile brings only bleeding, ecstatic lesions of joy; romantics turn away and laugh, but only at myself. So what's funnier, this poem or this man-boy? A nasty wasp of something cupid hath stung me. Unsting me or not; ice cream at the beach in July and now the leaves fly, now thinking thoughts about you – because now I've seen more in the wine-blue waves than just cold Aphrodite. And. If in some further time removed, fate could act as sea waves to wash, for one brief mote of singular time, your lips nigh mine, I would fall within that mote as someone from a bridge towards…
– a pair of sonnets and an accompanying prose-poem, written originally in November, 1984, and posted on that date but now also added to these daily poems.
This tree saw me perform my monthly maintenance oblations to the GDC (RV).
I took things farther than usual, airing it out, making sure the engine ran well, opening up the canopy. Rain is expected soon, so I’ll leave it open and hopefully let the rain “wash” things off a bit before wrapping the thing back up in its cocoon. I still need to replace the “house” battery – the secondary battery that is connected to the generator. But I’ve decided that’s not a priority – I am able to start the generator by jump-starting it, but the house battery doesn’t hold a charge.
Later, I did some more work in the deck of my treehouse. But I have run out of brackets. I’ll have to go into town on Monday and buy more, I guess.
[daily log: walking, 2.5km; banging and sawing and untarping and such, 6hr]
ㅁ Never consider the reasons for things. Don't even think on the hummingbirds' wings. Doubt all the logic the wide world presents. Let's all go back to sharp stones and skin tents.
This tree witnessed the boat trying to make an abortive attempt to escape the barn.
I got the cable problem under the trolley repaired, and tested the winch to move the boat out of the barn and back in again – I did this at low tide, so I could periodically run down and monitor the new pulley and anchor at the bottom of the boat rail.
Things seem to be working.
There were a lot of dried-out barnacles under the boat. I scraped barnacles for a while.
[daily log: walking, 3.5km; wrenching and banging and scraping, 7hr]
I spent the day working on trying to repair and reinstall the lower two sections of boat rail today. I ended up running into town to find some more parts I decided I needed. The boat rails are in place, but I’m still not sure things will be properly functional, as I can’t test it until I can get the cable properly taut – which it’s not. There’s some problem with it under the boat trolley. I’ll work on that tomorrow.
This tree is near my treehouse – I’m standing at the base of my new stairway for this view.
I had a really hard day at work. I broke a piece of glass which in turn damaged a customer’s artwork (not irrecoverably, but enough that it’s un-hideable and embarrassing).
[daily log: walking, 4km; retailing, 6hr]
This tree faces a future of sticking up through the deck of my treehouse. I’ve decided to keep it and work around it, rather than lop it off.
The non-temporary treehouse deck is beginning to take shape – the lighter-colored plywood at right will be the permanent subfloor.
[daily log: walking, 3km; banging and sawing and lifting and carrying, 6hr]
ㅁ Kiamon thought about stories and songs, struggled to figure out what was her own. Only the ending seemed clear in the least, all was a blur beyond that, she was sure.
Over the last two weeks, I did a few picture frames at the gift shop.
If that last one looks familiar, well… I did the exact same image for another person, before. It’s the original 1922 Craig City townsite plan and survey. I guess there’s a nice, high-quality image available online, and people are getting poster-sized prints and having them framed. It’s the sort thing I could see doing myself. But I guess there’s no need, since others are doing it.
Beside making frames, I was also fairly busy at the gift shop working on making an “inventory of vendors.” It started out with realizing that the filing cabinet used to store vendor information was broken, so… I spent time repairing the filing cabinet first, so I could use it to organize the folders of the vendor information. I’m going to make a spreadsheet, I hope.
ㅁ Kiamon looked at the rocks and the stones scattered about on the slope by the road. Pointlessness dwelt in her frustrated mind: what could she do but attempt to survive?