As an experiment, I’m switching from the Module pattern of the Entry object to the Prototype pattern (and likewise to the prototype git branch). This humble post is a test. Soon, we shall see if it has worked.

And, by fumbling around with the methods (ie, sending the object this to each fucking one), I have made it work. Cute, eh?

I have arrived to my lonely but satisfactory hotel room from the atrium. It’s more of a dining room than atrium, really, but it serves both purposes, so I shall continue to call it atrium. In the atrium were victuals. I took them in my furry paws and ravenously filled my gaping maw. It was, also, satisfactory. I now sip a glass of red wine.

The pain in my chest has receded. I only thought about possibilities briefly before falling asleep last night. Surely, I could have died yesterday. The vehicle slammed into the jersey barrier at approximately 45 mph. My parents tell me again and again that I should thank the Lord for my survival, for my health, for my lack of mangled limbs. I thank the seat belt and air bag, instead. Yes, very mundane and unspiritual of me. Ah well. I am a cunt.

Furthermore, such experiences are what I’ve read as life changing events. I feel very little has changed besides the fact that I cannot propel myself around in a large blunt object. Perhaps the whole life flashing before one’s eyes and such is a media-made spectacle. Or pseudo-spectacle. Or spectacle-to-be. Something of the sort. I am calm. There is no need to panic.

The sense of displacement has also receded. My life is simply within another transition. My whole life is a transition. Well, I am living within a transition between transitions, then. A meta-transition. Soon (I use that term loosely), I’ll be again in Seminole, where I shall resume routines that always entrench me whilst there. I don’t mind. They spawn creativity. It is a phase of narrow transition. I say narrow because the path of the transition is quite one-dimensional. When one has routines, and usually strict ones, then this is the case. Again, I don’t mind. It is, after all, only a transition.

The next transition, one which is more wide and more full of the unknown, comes afterwards.

I chatted with Christian briefly on google+, outlining my experiences over the last two days. The conclusion was this:

(08:11:34 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: I bought two jars of fresh honey in nashville.

(08:11:40 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: They were in the passengers’ seat.

(08:11:46 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: They survived unscathed.

(08:12:18 PM) christián neumann: hahaha

(08:12:28 PM) christián neumann: this will make it into your novel for sure

(08:12:34 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: Yes.

(08:12:48 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: Though I omitted the honey from my journal entry.

(08:12:53 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: I’ll put them in the next ones.

(08:13:02 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: The fraternal twins that survived.

(08:13:03 PM) christián neumann: you should not leave this detail out!

(08:13:15 PM) christián neumann: as it was your only reason for retuning to theusfuckinga

(08:13:23 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: yes!

(08:13:28 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: This moment!

(08:13:32 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: It was the reason.

(08:13:34 PM) inhortte@gmail.com/A802C6D3: I like it.

(08:13:42 PM) christián neumann: of courrrrrrse

(08:15:18 PM) christián neumann: + the event, + the twin honey…

I have arrived to my lonely but satisfactory hotel room from the atrium. It’s more of a dining room than atrium, really, but it serves both purposes, so I shall continue to call it atrium. In the atrium were victuals. I took them in my furry paws and ravenously filled my gaping maw. It was, also, satisfactory. I now sip a glass of red wine.

The pain in my chest has receded. I only thought about possibilities briefly before falling asleep last night. Surely, I could have died yesterday. The vehicle slammed into the jersey barrier at approximately 45 mph. My parents tell me again and again that I should thank the Lord for my survival, for my health, for my lack of mangled limbs. I thank the seat belt and air bag, instead. Yes, very mundane and unspiritual of me. Ah well. I am a cunt.

Furthermore, such experiences are what I’ve read as life changing events. I feel very little has changed besides the fact that I cannot propel myself around in a large blunt object. Perhaps the whole life flashing before one’s eyes and such is a media-made spectacle. Or pseudo-spectacle. Or spectacle-to-be. Something of the sort. I am calm. There is no need to panic.

The sense of displacement has also receded. My life is simply within another transition. My whole life is a transition. Well, I am living within a transition between transitions, then. A meta-transition. Soon (I use that term loosely), I’ll be again in Seminole, where I shall resume routines that always entrench me whilst there. I don’t mind. They spawn creativity. It is a phase of narrow transition. I say narrow because the path of the transition is quite one-dimensional. When one has routines, and usually strict ones, then this is the case. Again, I don’t mind. It is, after all, only a transition.

The next transition, one which is more wide and more full of the unknown, comes afterwards.

I chatted with Christian briefly on google+, outlining my experiences over the last two days. The conclusion was this:

(08:11:34 PM) inhortte: I bought two jars of fresh honey in nashville.

(08:11:40 PM) inhortte: They were in the passengers’ seat.

(08:11:46 PM) inhortte: They survived unscathed.

(08:12:18 PM) christián neumann: hahaha

(08:12:28 PM) christián neumann: this will make it into your novel for sure

(08:12:34 PM) inhortte: Yes.

(08:12:48 PM) inhortte: Though I omitted the honey from my journal entry.

(08:12:53 PM) inhortte: I’ll put them in the next ones.

(08:13:02 PM) inhortte: The fraternal twins that survived.

(08:13:03 PM) christián neumann: you should not leave this detail out!

(08:13:15 PM) christián neumann: as it was your only reason for retuning to theusfuckinga

(08:13:23 PM) inhortte: yes!

(08:13:28 PM) inhortte: This moment!

(08:13:32 PM) inhortte: It was the reason.

(08:13:34 PM) inhortte: I like it.

(08:13:42 PM) christián neumann: of courrrrrrse

(08:15:18 PM) christián neumann: + the event, + the twin honey…

I am displaced into Little Rock, Arkansas. My current place of residence is not unpleasant. The pain in my chest is, however.

I left Lisa’s this morning a little before eight. I was eager to get back on the road. The road has always beckoned, be it by air, land (in this case, my truck) or thought (unfortunately the most common case). I enjoyed the drive. It was freedom. I felt alive. I crossed Tenessee and listened to Amarok. I was momentarily brought back to 2006. It always amazes me how, though I don’t know how the piece of music progresses consciously, my unconscious mind always knows beforehand where the music shall lead. It was impressed there long ago, like how the movements on the neck of a cello are impressed on its player.

A program on NPR talked about similar ideas.

I lost control of my truck on a bridge on I-40 outside of Little Rock. That is why I am in this hotel. The front end of the vehicle is smashed. Tomorrow, I shall discover if it can be repaired. The airbag smashed into my chest with a lesser force than the truck smashing into the concrete barrier separating all things speeding over the ice from the railroad tracks below.

Last night, my lethargy broke at some point after 19.00, birthing a bit of creative thought concerning the martenblog and my problem with promises. At first, I believed the solution would be in the View. This turned out, eventually, as I bitterly experienced, to be incorrect, as I still could not access (much less manipulate) the data that arrived from mongo in the form of a PromiseArray. Ie, I still only got a blank array. Many solutions are proposed on stackoverflow, but none worked. I just installed a (questionably) new version of ember-data, so, initially, I’ll see where that goes.

• Understand promises and promise arrays.
• Manipulate pagelist from the client side (ember).
• Filter by topic.
• Make breakfast (with Lisa’s exceedingly expired eggs).
• Don’t die from above task.

I found a tidbit of very useful information just now: PromiseProxyMixin. The page has informed me that promises (and, I suppose, promise arrays) can be pending, settled, rejected and fulfilled. If the raw promise array is returned from the controller to the view, I can test whether it is pending, etc. Now, I must be able to modify the template dynamically when the promise is fulfilled. Oouh, baby.

(PromiseProxyMixin)

And I need to retrieve my laundry.

I discovered that I did not add soap the previous time I did laundry (yesterday), so I am redoing it. Fine, eh?

So, I have managed to access the promise array and create the pagination links on the client side. The next step is to make sure it refreshes every time the page is actually changed. Yes, sir.

Now for a shower.

In no particular order

• Mirror martenblog mongodb on MongoLabs.
• Craigslist ad for my ex-room in fucking Brighton.
• Work on this site, of course.
• Talk to Tiit about the future of the radiotracking site.
• Write Madis.
• Go to the Zoo.

It’s 16.15 now and lethargy suffuses me. I feel hot, sticky and ill. I’m sitting on Lisa’s couch. I’m alone again in her place after seven months of absence. Yeah it is not the same physical place, but inhabits a similar spirit.

Why am I devoid of energy? The freshness of the morning has waned in waves over the last few hours. Now there is naught.

Sakra.

I feel I have used the word bleary much too often in my life. Fuck it, I shall use it again. I am bleary. International travel does that even to a small, skilled pine marten. I sit in a bar blearily at the moment in Montreal. The aeroport. So sexy. My memories of the last time passing through Canada on the way to the grand ol’ USA bids me calm to this time. I was detained for endless hours. Endless? Well, hyperbole is a perfect matter for this moment. Ugg. Anyhow, I skated unfaltering through this time.

Displacement has not really occured to me recently, but I am feeling a shadow of it now. There is the attractive woman in a custom hat sitting at the bar, now leaving to join an insecure American boy. Five television screen blare different greetings in two languages without restraint. I down a litre of beer. Not now, but during this whole process. I am utterly convinced that I dislike people.

Many exceptions flood my mind. They are of late. Boston brought a few, but they have grown stale and faded. Perhaps that is not true for Jeremy. We shall see. Madis and Asun (as well as Maribel) will linger for the rest of my days, I am happy (afraid) to say. The personality of people slink around me. The guests at bars, pretentious, ordering the driest wine in the house and then asking for Chardonnay. Hm. I’m not an expert, but I know she is not versed in this trade.

The extrovert at the table to my left has a voice which cuts through all others around him. His companions are speaking the same volume of words that he is, but I can only understand his. The angle of his mouth to my ear is not even very significant. I shy away from thinking of James. I don’t want to think of James. I want to like James.

Possibly the topic for this entry should be replacement instead of displacement since I am going back, for a short time, to Boston. I’m not sure what this weekend shall bring, but I find myself not caring. By this time next week, I shall be in Texas. Or, at least, with (or without?) Lisa in Nashville. Change is upon me and Logrono will find me very soon. I look forward to it. I shall do my best to encourage Christian to visit, though I should not hold my breath. He only visits friends when it is to his advantage. I suppose that is up to his extroverted personality. So it goes. DIE THE FLAME DEATH.

Cleaning personell swoop around, most thriving on irritation. This may just be an illusion. There is one available socket in the departure lounge (before the gates, of course, since it is far too early for me to go through) to power my shittypie. It is now powering my shittypie. I lay down on a bench earlier, but the swooping human on a cleaning machine made multiple elliptic passes. I may have imagined the grin on his face. Well, I may not have.

Three hours have passed since my arrival from San Sebastian via bus. Sure, I could have left later, but I was out of items to pursue. Regardless, I wasted a bit over sixteen euros on four pintxos and two sidras before deciding to clamber to my ex-hostel, grab my suitcase, and make my way to the bus station. Signs comment that from the area of my ex-hostel, the bus station is a thirty minute journey. I am quite sure I made it in less.

I grabbed a ticket and boarded the 18.00 bus all within the twelve or so minutes I had. The bus ride was uneventful sans multiple messages with the smaller one. I also read Quiet.

I finished Quiet at the bar that stubbornly shut down its serving facilities at 21.00.

So I sit adjacent the vending machines. I’ll watch this or that (you may be able to guess) to pass the time. To pass the circa seven hours of time.

I believe this bar is where I sat with some haggard cunt before traipsing across a street full of traffic, billowing wind and pattering rain to see Radiohead. The only comment I’ll make on the haggard cunt is that my current location elicits only disgust for her. All else here is fantastic, but no memory combining her and San Sebastian is pleasant.

So I sit at a table sipping Cafe con Leche. A pintxo of bageta + jamon serrano sit before me waiting to be consumed. If I did not feel I have a slight fever and my bowels are constantly threatening to explode forth gauts of prujem, I’d say it’s a fantastically pleasant morning.

I attempted to skirt Urgull in hopes of standing beneath one of the monstrous yet sublime sculptures by the Basque artist whose name I forget. A type of undisclosed mountain destruction thwarted me. I did get within a hundred metres of the thing, however, before turning back and clambering among cobblestones around a higher layer of the perimeter of the mount in order to get back to Parte Viejo. I found a souvenier shop to fulfill my part of my friendship with Michal then. Yup, a shot glass from San Sebastian.

Just outside the front of this bar/cafe, I see the sprawl of the Atlantic Ocean. Just out of sight to the left is Kursaal, where Radiohead played. It is a beautifully unsightly structure. Eleven fucking years ago, I used to sit on the contrete outcropping that marks the beginning of the Surf Beach (Zurriola) drinking cheap wine from a Lidl that no longer exists. Oh, and also smoking cigarettes. During the month of September, 2002, I performed this task innumerable times. My mind conjures up a gypsy like figure (he was surely not) who stopped by on his bicycle many times as I sat, contemplating the ocean and my drink. I’d always share wine with him. He’d either put a swig in the cap of the bottle or pour from the bottle into this maw without actually touching his lips with it. This is clear. At least, my mind thinks it is clear. For all I know, it is an illusion from a dream sometime during the interim. I hope not, though.

Bundled peasants (tourists?) pass by on the pavement beyond the glass which protects my shittypie from the elements. A jogger trots a weaving path across the street. Shittypie should be as resillient to the elements as the Basque folk.

Firstly, I shall return to the hostel (ex-hostel?) to retrieve the Harvard shot glass from my black bag. I want to mail both to Michal from here. And speaking of Michal, I enjoyed very much when he and Christian called the other night when I was still in Cihuri. Both were intoxicated. I don’t recall talking to Sing, but surely I said at least tergiversation to her.

I’m reading Quiet. Yes - I’ve been reading this book sporadically since April. I do love it. That is not an issue. My scattered thought patters and erratic behaviour is the cause. But I’m not particularly concerned about these causes or symptoms at the moment. See… I’m reading Quiet and I am on a muted train bound from Miranda de Ebro to San Sebastian. The mustelid brain is trusting of the future.

I quote Quiet.

The papers turned out to be chock-full of irregularities. If I’d been in the bankers’ shoes, this would have made me nervous, very nervous. But when our legal team summarized the risks in a caution-filled conference call, the bankers seemed utterly untroubled. They saw the potential profits of buying those loans at a discount, and they wanted to go ahead with the deal. Yet it was just this kind of risk-reward miscalculation that contributed to the failure of many banks during the Great Recession of 2008.

The topic is risk-reward. Well, no, the topics are Stonecrop, Quiet, Hedonism and Introversion, as anyone reading the top of this entry can clearly see.

I made the Stonecrop connection whilst reading this section of the book. The parallel is clear. It is unmuddled. Doug and Steve and Poggi are acting exactly like the bankers describe in the above quote. They are obsessed with immediate risk-reward. Any reward which is delayed, no matter quality of results, is not as important. Jeremy says they have hired an additional four Rails programmers. I suppose that brings it to five, including Fred. Jeremy continued to muse about them all buzzing (my word - not his) in the increasingly cramped office but never moving forward. I suspect he means never moving forward to my satisfaction, but the idea still holds.

I was brought on in May. This risk-reward seeking seemed evident from the first. Steve, especially, the epitome of extrovert, pushed. Undoubtedly, he was being psychologically kicked around by Doug. As Jeremy always claimed, Steve was led on by the golden carrot in front of his nose. I have no doubt that Jeremy was/is right.

Jeremy and I, both introverts, longed to create something over the long term which was quality, expandible and modular. This brought us nothing but misery. Ok - it wasn’t exactly misery, but close.

On our drive back to Cihuri from Logroño, I brought up that I had listened to two albums by the Beatles the night before. The two albums were Abbey Road and Revolver, in that order. I’d wanted to listen to the White Album, but Soulseek does not seem to work from here. IE, I have no copy of it. Our tired conversation drifted from one genre of music to another. Madis talked about Estonian folk. He named bands. I acknowledged knowing some. I named bands. He didn’t know many. I didn’t mention Anna Maasik. I am not sure why.

Then he started talking about ballads. There’s this guy who does an album of ballads. Something like that. He told me that Sidorovich drove around the fields of Belarus listening to it. The answer was Roger Waters. The album? Well, what else might apply? Which would entice a biologist (a disillusioned one, at that?)? Amused to Death.

It will take quite a bit to get this image from my mind. Possible, this is because I love it.

I just began listening to the album. It has been a while.

Can’t you see? It all makes perfect sense Expressed in dollars in cents Pounds, shillings and pence. Can’t you see? It all makes perfect sense.